Page 59 of The Rules of Magic

Vincent got up, leaving Haylin to the line of patients waiting for him. “You want to be smart?” Vincent said before he went to check out. “Don’t waste time when there’s someone you love.”

When Vincent came home, Franny made him lie in bed with an ice pack on his skull.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Vincent explained, but the night had done something to him, and, in fact, he no longer felt as alone in this life. He was part of something bigger than himself. All the same, he wanted to protect William. “Do not call him,” he told Franny. “He’s out at Sag Harbor with his family. I don’t want him to worry.”

But William had the sight, and knew something was amiss. When he turned on the news the riots were on every channel. He came the next morning, driving his father’s old Jeep, parking illegally, pounding at the door. Franny let him in and he paced in the parlor while she told him what had happened. He was already damning himself for not being a part of it.

He went upstairs and knocked at Vincent’s door. When there was no reply he said, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Vincent came to the door, his appearance shocking. William embraced him, then stepped back to take a better look. “We’re getting out of the city,” he said.

He found Vincent’s suitcase and began packing.

“Why go?” Vincent said. “We can’t escape from who we are.”

“Of course not. Why would we want to do that?”

Vincent laughed, for he agreed. “We wouldn’t.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Vincent. Because I certainly don’t wish to be anyone other than who I am and I don’t wish to deny it. I’m taking you to see someone who had to do that all his life.”

“Who’s that?” Vincent asked.

William opened the bedroom door. It was time for them to leave.

“My father.”

They went to the town of Sag Harbor, where William’s family had a home dating back hundreds of years. The house had been a summer place, a ramshackle wood-shingled building with huge porches that overlooked the glassy sea and the shoreline of Shelter Island. But it had been insulated and a heating system had been put in. Now William’s father lived there year-round. He was tall and Vincent saw that William resembled him in many ways, not just in his appearance, but also in his calm demeanor, which belied a passionate heart.

“William used to row out to the island in storms just to see if he could. He went in a hurricane once, despite my warning. He wasn’t one to ever back down.” William’s father had been waiting for them at the far end of a great green lawn. He embraced William, and then embraced Vincent as well, extremely happy for their company. “My son has always been brave and he reveals that to all who know him. I’ve always envied him this quality, for it escaped me completely.”

They cut across the lawn, then walked down a lane past a small cemetery, where the Grants had always been buried, the first being Everett Rejoice Grant, who had died in 1695. Family mattered to the Grants. William had been an only child, but that had been made up for by scores of cousins and friends. William’s mother had an apartment in New York, and stayed there year-round, but she came out to celebrate Thanksgiving with the family, despite having a separate life from her husband.

It was a clear, bright, beautiful day, the air tinged with salt, the climbing roses blooming. The graveyard was filled with sunlight.

Retired now, Alan Grant had been at the district attorney’s office in Manhattan for nearly thirty years. All the while William was growing up, his father didn’t come home until late, sometimes not until nine or ten, and then he would sit up even later, files spread out over the dining room table. He got lost in his work, and often forgot his family. Those days, however, were long gone. Today he had set out lunch for his guests on a porch that overlooked the sea. There were oysters and a salad and white wine. There were roses in a milky vase in the center of the table on a white lace cloth that had belonged to William’s great-grandmother.

“I hear you were there at the riots,” Mr. Grant said. “My darling son has always thought he could win over everything nature set before him, and I admire his attitude. We must fight against bigotry in all its forms, for it is prejudice that ruins a society.”

“So says the DA,” William said, clearly proud of his father.

“I’m proud of you, too,” Mr. Grant said, toasting Vincent.

Vincent was abashed. “Me? I did nothing. I just stumbled into it and managed to get myself beat up.”

“It’s more than that. I’m proud you can be honest about who you are.”

“Well, it’s recent, believe me.”

“I have every cause to believe you, especially because you are with my son. He knows truth when he sees it.”

After lunch, Vincent and William walked down to the shoreline. The beach was rocky, covered with small mossy stones at low tide. Out in the water there was a blue heron that looked like Edgar, the stuffed bird in the shop. Herons mate for life, and Vincent thought this was a good sign, and an even better sign that Mr. Grant had seemed to like him.

“My father felt he had to hide the fact that he was homosexual. My mother knew, of course, and they had their arrangement, but at work and in the larger world, he couldn’t have anyone know. It would have likely meant his job and would have left him open to blackmail, which he paid off once or twice. It was not a way to live, and it took a toll. On all of us, but especially on him. We loved him, but he despised himself, so it made for rocky going sometimes.”

Vincent recounted the story his aunt had told about their cousin Maggie, who, having denied who she was, was turned into a rabbit. “That clearly didn’t happen to your father.”

“No. In spite of all of us, he managed to have quite a life of his own. He’s no rabbit. He’s a fox.”