The Friends We Keep(51)
His exterior didn’t match his interior, that was for certain. Handsome and now buff, he looked as if he were ready to take on the world, but inside he still felt numb, still felt, ever since Larry died, that his own life wasn’t over, exactly, but that he would never be as happy or fulfilled again. Topher was thirty; even though logic told him he had a whole life ahead of him, he still spent much of his time living in the past. It was easier than living in the present. Two years on he had learned to live with the grief, and a few close friends helped, the most unexpected of whom was Benedict, whom Topher was meeting for lunch today.
Topher had first met Benedict soon after he moved to New York. He had been invited out to a wealthy writer’s Hamptons beach house. (Oh, the irony! The writer, while published and successful, was in fact a trust-fund baby who would never have been able to afford his lifestyle on writing alone.) Topher was then a young pretty boy new to the scene, eye candy for the older gay couples that mixed in this wealthy circle, moving from Upper East Side apartments to the Hamptons in summer, and Palm Beach in winter.
Topher took the jitney out to the Hamptons, his bag packed with shorts, polo shirts, and a copy of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, the more gruesome scenes of which he had to read with his eyes half-covered, skimming paragraphs so the images wouldn’t lodge themselves into his mind forever.
He had taken a cab out to what he thought would be a simple beach house, but that turned out to be a beautiful old shingle estate, with immaculately clipped high privet hedges and a heavy wooden gate that opened automatically for the beat-up taxi.
A crowd of men were already sunning themselves by the pool, steaks and freshly picked corn from the farm down the road starting to sizzle on the grill when Topher arrived. He greeted his host, George, waved at the crowd of men, noting that the vast majority were quite a bit older, a few twinks his age scattered among them, before he went upstairs to change.
His bedroom was in the attic, undoubtedly one of the more modest rooms in the house given that he peeked into a giant bedroom on the second floor. The attic bedroom was small, under the eaves, with whitewashed floors and a woven cotton blue and white rug, a pretty blue and white quilt on the double bed, and a selection of excellent beach reads on the old wooden nightstand. Topher adored the room immediately, far preferring it to the grand chintzy bedroom he had glimpsed downstairs. He put his clothes away, neatly folded, pulled on a pair of swimming trunks, and looked out the window to where the glimmering water of the pool beckoned.
Groups of men were standing chatting, gales of laughter shimmying up to Topher’s attic window. They were standing around the barbecue, a couple sitting on the edge of the pool, cooling off with their feet in the water. On the far side of the pool was an older man, very tan, in bathing shorts and a loose white shirt. He had a tumbler of something like a gin and tonic on the table next to him, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he was buried in what looked like—Topher recognized the cover—a biography of Sarah Bernhardt. He looks interesting, thought Topher, who skipped down the stairs and stood on the edge of the pool, aware that he was young and trim and quite probably invited because of his pretty looks, before climbing onto the diving board and executing a perfect swan dive.
He didn’t look at the older man in the white shirt, but hoped that he had made a splash, in more ways than one. Topher swam underwater until he reached the other side, knowing he would emerge at the feet of the man who might, if luck was on his side, have unglued himself from his book to watch Topher.
Topher emerged from the water, running his hands over his hair so it sat sleekly on his head like a seal, flashing a wet grin at the man, who was indeed now looking.
“Well,” said the man, revealing a handsome smile. “This day suddenly got an awful lot brighter. I’m Benedict. Who are you?”
Benedict claimed Topher as his for the weekend. They went to bed together that night, and a handful of times afterward, but the chemistry between them was less sexual than platonic (as it so often was for Topher), and as the sexual part of their relationship fizzled out, they quickly became close friends, with Benedict taking an almost paternal, mentor-like role in Topher’s life. He was a theater producer, part of an elegant old-world New York, with a glorious Upper East Side apartment filled with heavy, swagged silk curtains and round tables, layered with chintz tablecloths edged with tiny silk pom-poms, the grand piano covered with silver-framed photographs of Benedict with every famous actor and director imaginable.
Topher was an excellent companion for Benedict, who he quickly started calling Dickie, the only one who was allowed to call him such a frivolous nickname. They saw each other regularly, until Topher met Larry, at which point he saw Benedict less, largely because he was busy learning to be in a proper relationship, and because Larry wasn’t comfortable in Benedict’s sophisticated world. Topher still saw Dickie from time to time, during the day if he had a day off, when Larry would be at the gym.
When Larry died, Benedict showed up at the funeral, and came back to the apartment for the service. When everyone left, Topher was desperate for them to stay, desperate not to be left on his own with his memories and his grief, and Benedict stayed. He didn’t ask if he was wanted, he just cleaned up quietly and then pulled out the sofa bed, telling Topher that he was staying and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
That weekend, Benedict picked Topher up and drove him up to his country house in Litchfield, Connecticut. It was a gracious old house on North Street, with a large wraparound porch that held a swing and a deep wicker sofa. Dickie sat Topher on the sofa, made fresh lemonade, tucked a blanket around his legs when it became chilly, and sat, quietly, saying nothing as Topher sobbed.