The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic 0)(68)

“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.”

They both laughed.

“Well, so are you,” Vincent said.

“He taught me what to be and what not to be and I’m grateful that I live in this time, now, with you. It’s far from perfect but it’s not what my father went through. He was the one that was usually out rowing, if you really want to know, not me, and sometimes I feared he wouldn’t come back. That he’d just keep going until he reached a place where he could be happy. Or happier. He took on the worst cases, murder, rape, because he wanted to change the world in his own way, but also because he needed to fight, and he couldn’t fight for himself. That’s one of the attributes that first attracted me to you. You’re a fighter.”

“Am I?” Vincent said.

“You’ll see. When the time comes. You’ll fight for the life you want.”

After walking for a while, they stopped by a tide pool, and took off their shoes, and then, as if having the same thought at the same time, they undressed and raced into the water, whooping, for it was cold as ice. Vincent was alive, more alive than he’d ever imagined he’d be. He dove into the water and everything was green. His mind was clear and cold. His heart pounded in his chest. He was caught up in the water, but he knew he couldn’t drown. All the same, William reached for him and steadied him, then pulled him out of the tide.

“You’re mad,” William said. “There’s a current.”

“It doesn’t matter to us.”

Vincent threw his arms around William. He dared to think that at last he was truly happy. He looked out to Shelter Island. He had the urge to swim for it, to try something impossible, for everything he’d done up to this time seemed selfish and small.

“You matter more than anything to me,” William said.

Vincent shook his head. “You think too highly of me.”

“I know exactly who you are,” William responded. “Just as I always knew who my father was. And I loved him, not despite it, but because of it, the way that I love you because of who you are.”