A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael's romance with Frances proceeded along fairly unconventional lines, at least as far as he was concerned. Michael had "come out" in high school during the AIDS scare, and had managed to work through the wild-oats-sowing stage of his late teens in the safest manner possible, always being careful to use condoms and to keep away from high-risk lovers. During that stage he played the field – almost anyone would do, really – and in his self-assured belief that everyone was equal, everyone treated him equally as well, so that any special qualities he believed he possessed were squashed and stunted by the repeated relationship failures. By the time he'd gone to college he'd grown out of such hedonism and begun instead an earnest search for The One. He was sure that The One was out there – after all, people were like shoes; everyone had a mate, right? So he set out into the gay dating scene, confident his mate was out there – someone to coddle and care for him, someone strong, someone dominant, someone beautiful. Unfortunately he had a disturbing predilection for attracting Alpha Males, despite his desire for permanence and security; it was strange, but psychologically consistent perhaps, that he constantly pursued men like his father. His old therapist had told him this was normal and to be expected and there was nothing wrong with it; however his sister Pauline finally put hoot oot down, and told him his therapist was only feeding his crises and making things worse, and as she usually knew better than he he'd ditched the therapist and tried to muddle on through his life on his own.

It wasn't that bad, really; he was fairly cautious abhis his peccadilloes and remained disease-free into his twenties. When he graduated college with a degree in Interior Design (much to his father's disgust, who had wanted him to go Pre-Law), he took a job at a home decorating store in the mall in downtown San Diego and proceeded to build up his clientele, make friends with his coworkers, and bungle every relationship he entered.

Every time Michael dated someone he looked for the same thing: Love. Every man he dated wanted the same thing: Sex. Well, his dates got what they wanted (though not in the frequency they desired, which was why they broke away so quickly), but Michael never got what he wanted – not until Mr. Steward, wandering through the store looking for a new sofa, came face to face with Michael and was struck dumb.

It had been gratifying to see this tall handsome man, pale eyes filled with a sort of agonized astonishment, stammer out his request for help with his living roomchaechael, blushing becomingly, had put a demure face over his growing excitement and soon the two were discussing color and texture and placement and tone quite calmly, though the tension shivered behind every phrase and surreptitious glance. The sofa was duly ordered and the man left, looking backwards over his shoulder at Michael as he did so; after all, who could blame him? Michael was a beautiful young man, as he well knew; pale-skinned and fair-haired and blue-eyed, and his efforts to stay beautiful – hairdressers, toiletries, a membership at a gym – paid off in spades. So when the sofa came in and Michael called Mr. Steward to arrange delivery, it was only natural Mr. Steward would if if Michael could be there to oversee its placement, and to advise him on any further decorating work to be done in his condo, and only natural for Michael to capitulate with mounting enthusiasm. When he'd put down the phone he'd given a squeal of delight, and his coworker Cindy had asked what was up; Michael had responded, "I've got another Alpha Male!" She'd rolled her eyes, knowing what that would mean – months of Michael's gushing accolades, followed by heartbreak and reddened eyes and weak assertions of future celibacy.

But this had been subtly different. For starters, Mr. Steward (who immediately asked if Michael would call him Frances) did not initiate any sexual activity at all. Michael had gone to his home, paced thems ams and made suggestions, which Frances had dutifully noted; they put their heads together and made a Plan, then arranged a time to get together to pick out colors and fabrics and accessories. And then – nothing. No suggestion they go out to a club, no innuendo, not even an offered beverage; for twenty-four hours Michael assumed he'd been mistaken, and Frances wasn't interested after all. He was crushed – this particular Alpha had been so handsome, so dark and mysterious and controlled and quiet; he was so compelling – Cindy's eyes got a rolling-workout the next day – but when Frances came in to look over the fabric books he'd asked Michael, diffidently, stiffly, as though he were afraid of rejection, if Michael wouldn't mind having dinner with him that night.

Of course Michael accepted, because he could just Feel Frances was Different; he wouldn't be like all the others, he'd be The One. So after a hurried shower and toiletry jamboree in the bathroom of his tiny apartment, he packed extra condoms and lube packets in his wallet and took a cab down to the Soho Café to meet his doom.

The condoms had not been necessary, much to Michael's combined disappointment and curiosity; Frances was obviously attracted to him, but was exercising extreme caution to the point of hesitation. At times Michael would surprise a look of raw yearning in his companion's eyes, but as soon as Michael's face would light up with recognition the shutters of Frances' soul would close, and the cool, aloof man would turn away. This went on for several months – visits to the store to check on orders or to choose accessories or colors; lunches at the cheaper restaurants in the mall (though Frances always refused to go dutch), dinners at extremely expensive restaurants downtown or at the waterfront (Michael could not possibly have afforded even the appetizers but Frances insisted upon paying for everything), but that was all – no clubbing, no lingering kisses at the door when Frances dropped him off in his Lexus at Michael's apartment and walked hi; an; and surprisingly enough, no sex. At last Michael came to a startling realization: Frances wasn't "dating" him – he was being courted! This was a new concept for him and he puzzled over it for a while, not sure whether to be disappointed or flattered; at last he realized he was both, and when he talked to Pauline about it she told him he might actually have hit the jackpot, and to take it slow.

So Michael, being Michael, after sincerely promising himself he'd take it slow, kissed Frances on the mouth at the end of their next date, and to his gratification Frances kissed him back. It was a hard, insistent, dominating kiss, with strong hands holding his head still and an adamant questing tongue invading his mouth; feeling a thrill of excitement Michael had responded, pressing his smaller body against the other man's and hoping Tonight Was The Night. But after several minutes of hoarse breathing and clashing teeth Frances withdrew, gray eyes dark with desire but clouded with doubt and fear; he had apologized curtly to Michael and walked quickly away, leaving Michael panting and frustrated.

Two days went by in which he didn't see or hear from Frances at all, and Michael spent hours in agonized self-recrimination for his weakness. But then to his delight Frances came in, and after a few moments of casual conversation took Michael by the hand, fixed him with that intense regard and asked if he would have dinner with him that night … at his condo.

It was at that point the relationship seemed to change, to darken and deepen. Dinner followed aperitifs, dessert followed dinner, digestifs followed dessert and the inevitable ended the evening. Frances turned out to be a skilled and passionate lover on top of being a splendid cook and obsessive neat-freak, and when Michael attempted after a polite interval to get out of bed to go home, the strong brown arm held him firmly down onto the mattress, and the Alpha Male kissed the objections of hif him and went for another round. After that Michael was rather disinclined to leave and went to work the next day in his dirty rumpled suit, still shimmering from their early-morning exertions.

All of Michael's friends – and Michael himself – were braced for several months of Wonderfulness followed by the inescapable Break Up, but it didn't happen. The sex was wonderful, the gifts were wonderful, the conversations were stilted but wonderful – Michael was discovering Frances didn't open up no matter how long they were together; he was very mysterious and reticent, brushing off veiled questions and bluntly refusing to answer forthright ones – soon Frances rather shortly suggested Michael move in with him, it being more convenient for them both, as most of his clothes were in Frances' closet anyway. Relishing the thought of some permanence and stability at last – as well as the opportunity to save some money, which he could never do while paying rent – Michael delightedly agreed, and soon they were officially Together.

Everything was perfect – until they ran into that old don after the Mozart Musicale at the Bower House.

Frances had brought him, polite and attentive as usual, dressed immaculately in his dark expensive suit, his black hair slicked back, his red tie subtle and elegant. Michael had discovered early on that Frances was a perfectionist, from his food to his clothes to his lovemaking; he had purchased a new suit for his young lover, custom made at Neiman-Marcus, and horribly expensive; it was more sub-fusc than the clothing Michael was accustomed to wear but Frances would brook no refusal, and as he paid the bills Michael meekly acquiesced. That was the way the relationship worked, after all: Frances was the Alpha Male, and Michael his mate. At times Michael in an excess of frustration over his boyfriend's anal-retentiveness would call Pauline and dump his dissatisfaction on her; wise woman that she was, she would remind him that he liked being cared for, he was the Sensitive, he, he was the Yang to Frances' Ying, the submissive half of a balanced relationship, and Michael would sigh and agree. After all, he couldn't deny it was very nice to be so well taken care of – and the suit fit like a dream, and made him look so refined and chic and expensive; there was a guiltily thrilling stigma to being arm-candy after all. He could put up with Frances' cool dark moodiness so long as he knew his lover would more than make up for it in the bedroom.

Michael had always averred he disliked Classical music but Frances dragged him to all the concerts he could, and disdained the clubs; Michael went along with it, complaining good-naturedly and teasing Frances into tolerably good humor; in place of the flashing lights and obvious bump-and-grind of the nightclubs were the subtly groping fingers, the knees pressed together, the light kisses on fingertips in the forgiving dark, while the aching dulcet music pulsed around them; after a while Michael grew to love it, especially the more he learned about the composers and their lives; besides it was a pleasure just being with Frances, looking up at his dark profile beside him, pale eyes hooded and reflective, normally severe face relaxed; he was beautiful, Michael thought; sober and quiet and conscientious and always a little sad. He would slip his fingers into Frances' strong brown hand, and Frances would squeeze them, and glance down at him, eyes softening, lips curving into a crooked smile.

The reception after the concert was fairly typical of its kind; there were the musicians (all volunteers), and the conductor (on loan from one of the local Arts colleges), and the patrons (dressed in garish finery and talking loudly about cars and horses and endowm), a), and the staff (members of the Historical Society, handing round champagne), and the audience members – benefactors, professors, music teachers, sponsors, music-lovers, bored teenagers and their parents, bohemians, and the occasional homosexual couple interested in the Arts, like Michael and Frances. Frances was carrying on an impassioned discussion with one of the patrons about the pipe organ in the hall, and Michael, who wasn't interested in organs of that particular type, was letting his mind and his eyes wander; he was looking at the clothes, and admiring the Bower House's refurbishing, and wishing he could meet some of the architects that had been involved in it, when he felt eyes on him, and he turned around, looking for whoever was staring at him.

The old man was respectably but untidily dressed, with his disheveled hair anard ard and rumpled and stained suit; he had a pipe in one hand, from which a wisp of blue smoke drifted lazily out; he was leaning against the massive marble mantle and looking directly at Michael, his black eyes twinkling, as though he and Michael shared a joke that no one else understood. He looked jolly, grandfatherly, wise; Michael smiled back, and the old man jerked his head, indicating Michael should join him. Excusing himself to Frances and the patron, who hadn't even noticed the old man, Michael wound his way through the crush, careful not to spill his champagne, until he too was at the fireplace, smiling up at his companion.

"Kind of crowded in here, isn't it?" he said, to start the conversation.

"Rather," said the old man, taking a puff on his pipe and letting his eyes wander over the assembly. "All these people who want to look intellectual and refined, and haven't the slightest idea the implications of what they have just heard, or where they are standing. All they care about is who sees them." His voice was ironic, yet not cruelly so, and immediately reminded Michael of old episodes of Masterpiece Theater – the accent was so similar to what he'd heard on that program. "He's English," thought Michael, pleased; he collected Interesting People, and this old man looked like a prime sample of the species.

"Honestly I don't understand what I heard either," he admitted with his disarming frankness, "though I appreciate the Bower House – it's marvelous, isn't it, the way they've restored it so perfectly? I saw the blueprints and the original photos – it was such a shame what that other family had done to it, I'm sure the house is ever so much happier now it's been returned to its original state."

"Do you think so?" asked the old man, pursing his lips and blowing out a smoke ring absently. "I rather think it would like the change, but then I'm reflecting further back, when it was a tavern and not a residence."

"Oh, that wouldn't work at ALL," said Michael, waving his hand dismissively. "After all the renovative work in the nineteenth century? You'd destroy half the building that way. No, this was much, MUCH better."

"A suitable compromise, you mean? Tawdry age gives way to blushing youth – yes, I can see that would appeal to you." He sucked on his pipe again, making a little popping noise. Michael colored.

"I didn't mean THAT," he said. "I only meant the beauty of the original change – from the tavern to the residence – it was an improvement, don't you think? After all it gave a family somewhere to live and love and have a home."

"Yes, but think of all e poe poor lost drunkards wanting their whiskey."

Michael was shocked, but then the old man winked, and he laughed.

"I didn't think of it like that," he admitted, taking a sip of his champagne. He paused, recognizing the pattern of the conversation; now it was time for the old man to either change the subject or introduce himself.

"So you didn't like the music? Pity."

"I didn't say I didn’t LIKE it," said Michael pertly, "only that I didn't understand it. Frankly I wouldn't be here at ALL if Frances didn't insist. I'm more the night clubbing type."

"With your appreciation of aesthetics and home life? I'm surprised."

"Well, obviously this music is BETTER," Michael conceded, rolling his eyes. "But I've never been exposed to it before. This is all so new to me. Frances is marvelous, he takes such good care of me, and he's so clever." He giggled; the champagne was making him a little tiddly. The old man smiled around his pipe.

"Yes … Frances. That would be Frances Steward over there, correct?" He took the pipe out of his mouth and gestured towards Frances' slim elegant back with it. Michael nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Isn't he gorgeous? I just love that tall dark and handsome type. I could gaze at him for HOURS."

The old man didn't reply, but smiled, his eyes thoughtful, staring at Frances' back. Michael watched him, suddenly curious. The shabby tweed coat was covered in a fine haze of pipe ash, the shirt wrinkled and tie crooked, but the tie pin looked like a large ruby set in gold, and there was an ornate ruby ring on his wrinkled, tobacco-stained fingers. Whatever this odd old man was, he was anything but poor, and by his conversa he' he'd also shown himself to be astute and amusing as well.

"How do you know Frances?" he asked after a minute.

"When you're as old as I you become acquainted with a lot of people," said the old man vaguely, knocking the ashes out of his pipe into the hearth. "I need to speak with him. Do you mind?"

"No, of course, not," said Michael, his curiosity afire. "How long have you known him?"

"Since he was a boy," said the old man. He pushed himself off the mantle and started to make his way through the crowd. Michael noticed he didn't move like an old man; his steps were sure and his back straight; he looked very strong and wiry. Perhaps he wasn't as old as he appeared – he wasn't even using his cane, just swinging it beside him negligently. When they approached Frances Michael stepped up his pace; he wanted to get to Frances' side before the old man, just in case – though the gentleman didn't look to be That Type; you never knew sometimes. He sidled up to Frances, who looked as though he had just concluded his conversation, and gave him a quick, surreptitious kiss on the rough wool shoulder; Frances didn't like public displays of affection, and had asked Michael on many occasions to control himself; it was difficult but Michael tried, just to please him.

"Hello, Beautiful," he whispered up into Frances' ear; Frances turned to him with a warm smile, his eyes soft; then he saw the old man and he stiffeneHis His face seemed to clench, and his eyes became wary; Michael could see the echo of alarm and something else – shame? – cloud over his face, and Michael felt the first twinge of apprehension as the old man walked up, smiling benignly, hand outstretched.

"Dr. Steward," he said.

"Professor White," replied Frances politely; he hesitated, then shook the old man's hand. Michael blinked in surprise – DOCTOR Steward? But Frances was a computer programmer! Frances glanced down at Michael, cleared his throat and said with studied care: "You've met Michael?"

Michael opened his mouth to say "no" but the old man, Professor White, just smiled again and said, "Yes. Charming fellow." He looked at Michael, black eyes twinkling mischievously. "Living together, aren't you? In that condo on Mimosa Street?'' He looked back at Frances, who had gone pale; though he was obviously struggling to keep his face expressionless, a little fear seeped out, like oil round a faulty seal. Michael looked at Professor White; his face wtilltill cheerful, but it lacked a little of its open friendliness he'd seen before, in their conversation by the mantle. Did he disapprove of Frances living with Michael? Why? He opened his mouth to ask but Frances nudged him with his elbow; recognizing the warning he snapped his mouth shut.

"Yes," said Frances shortly. He watched Professor White, who watched him right back; there seemed to be some sort of challenge in the old black eyes; after a moment Frances' gaze faltered, and he glanced away, across the room. "I'd forgotten you liked Mozart."

Professor White smiled, the benevolent expression firmly fixed. "Yes. Splendid. Jolly good show." There was an awkward silence between those three; Michael noticed that Frances wouldn't meet the Professor's eye, but stared determinedly at some spot on the floor. "Well, then," said the old man after a moment, straightening his shabby tweed coat and smiling warmly at Michael. "Be seeing you … Faramir." He waved casually with one hand, and disappeared into the crowd; Michael saw the top of his untidy white head bobbing and dodging folk, then he was gone.