The Missing Ingredient Page 17

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  After a long pause, during which Tom’s brows repeatedly scrunched together and his eyes brimmed wetly, he finally uttered one word, one single word.

  “Anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll give you anything. Anything you want. If you can just love me. What I did was unforgivable, I know, pushing you away again. Yet here I am asking for a forgiveness that I don’t really deserve. But I’m prepared to do anything you want to bring you back.”

  Diners at two of the tables had stopped talking and were watching them with interest.

  “Tom, we can take this out back.”

  “No,” he said firmly, still unmoving. “I don’t care if people hear. I want them to. I don’t care anymore. I love you. And I hurt you. But I meant every word I said on the radio. I need you, Marcus. You’re my soul mate. I’m nothing without you. But I can’t move forward until you tell me—”

  But Tom couldn’t get the words out and broke down, bowing his head. Marcus strode forward and pulled Tom’s head onto his shoulder, barely hearing the round of applause that went up from the tables. When Marcus cupped Tom’s chin in his hand and raised Tom’s head, he brought their lips together and tasted salty tears. Slowly, Tom’s dangling arms came to life and wrapped snugly around Marcus’s waist.

  “Of course I forgive you, you pillock,” said Marcus, kissing the soft skin of Tom’s neck that he had always loved. By now he had forgotten the audience. “Hey, who’s looking after the girls?”

  “Jeanette. I’ve made my peace with her too. You were right on all counts.”

  “What if Katie has another episode?”

  “All taken care of,” said Tom, smoothing his cheek against Marcus’s chin. “With the help of the hospital, we’ve bought a portable device that helps clear the lungs in an emergency, and I’ve put simple instructions how to use it up on the fridge door for anyone to read.”

  “Even me?”

  “Yes, even you,” said Tom, a hint of a smile rubbing against Marcus’s cheek. “See? Your message finally got through my thick skull. I also came clean to Jeanette about us. Only fair, really. And she’s been a star. So anyway, I told her what I needed to do tonight, and she said she’d stay until we got home.”

  “We?”

  Tom pulled his face away from Marcus and stared deep into his eyes.

  “I want you to come home with me, Marcus. Tonight, if possible. But only if you want to. And if you do, I want you in my bed tonight. I want to wake up in the morning with you next to me and let the girls see us together. I’ll even take the day off tomorrow so that we can take them to school. Together. And later on we can go see Mum and Dad. Tell them about us. Not everyone’s going to understand or be happy—especially my football friends and work buddies. But that’s their problem. I can deal with anything. As long as I have you by my side. As long as I have your forgiveness.”

  “I’ve already said you have that. But we need to communicate better in the future, Tom.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell each other things, especially feelings, and not leave each other to guess. I’m here for the long haul, a permanent fixture not just for the girls, but for you. To organize the house, meet the teachers, put up Christmas decorations, cook for you without you feeling as though it’s a chore for me. Someone you can trust never to simply up and disappear when times get tough. That’s not me.”

  “I know,” said Tom, smiling gently. “I really do. But there’s only one thing I need right now.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You.”

  Marcus took a moment while he held Tom’s gaze.

  “You’ve always had me.”

  Epilogue

  “OVER my dead body,” said Moira, the disgust plain on her face.

  “Mother, it’s my choice—”

  “It’s not a choice,” she cried. “It’s an abomination.”

  “Mum—”

  “No, Tom. Absolutely not. I will not allow it.”

  “Even if it’s what I want?” pleaded Tom. Although Marcus was pleased to see Tom keep his temper under control, he wanted to wade in. Instead, he stood in the background, unspeaking, lending solidarity but not interfering—as explicitly instructed.

  “What about what I want?” said Moira, her voice almost cracking. “What about what our relatives will say, let alone the neighbors and the ladies of the conservative club? It’s disgusting. You have my support on most things, Thomas Jonathan Bradford, but not this. As for you, Marcus, I’m shocked and disappointed. Surely you of all people can see how wrong this is. Can’t you talk some sense into my son?”

  “Actually, Moira—”

  “Marcus,” said Tom, gently but firmly, “we agreed. This is my decision to make. Let me deal with my mother.”

  “What have the girls said?”

  “I wanted to get your blessing first of all.”

  “Katie will disown you.”

  “Ooh, come on, Mrs. B,” hissed Marcus. “That’s a bit strong.”

  “Marcus. Please stay out of this.”

  “I’m not backing down, Thomas. No son of mine—” began Moira.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, woman,” interrupted John sternly, wheeling in from the living room. He had clearly been trying to read the newspaper sitting open in his lap and been disturbed by the constant bickering. “It’s his life. Let him do what makes him happy.”

  “What about my happiness? What about our respectability?”

  An uneasy calm fell between the four of them. Eventually Marcus took a huge sigh and decided to step into the fray to break the stalemate.

  “Look, I know nobody’s asked my opinion. But on this occasion, I actually agree with Moira. Every step of the way.”

  Both John and Tom turned on Marcus then. Tom was the first to speak.

  “You… what? What do you mean?”

  “Powder blue with white trim is simply not your color, Tom. I’ve never seen such an awful-looking tux in my life. And are the white patent leather shoes for real? Even with the navy cummerbund and bow tie, which, I admit, add a teaspoonful of class, it’s the epitome of Tack-A-Rama. Like a 1970s game show host or someone who’s stepped off the set of the original Ocean’s Eleven movie.”

  “Thank you, Marcus,” said Moira, folding her arms. “I’m glad one of you has some sense of decency.”

  “I loved that movie,” muttered John.

  “Hang on,” said Tom. “You said it was fabulous? In the charity shop?”

  Marcus came over then, put his arm around Tom’s waist, and lightly kissed him on the cheek. Even after four years, with Marcus doing his damnedest to suggest fashion choices for Tom, the man still showed up in some absolute doozies.

  “It was fabulous in the charity shop. But that’s where it should have stayed. There’s a good reason it was there in the first place. Anyway, Mum’s right. You should wear your black tux to the party. With the simple white wingtip and black bow tie.”

  “Boring.”

  “You still have no idea, do you? Quite how incredibly hot—I mean, handsome—you look in that combination. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “What? And I don’t look incredibly hot and handsome in this? Come on, Dad. What do you think?”

  “Okay, son. Marcus has a point. It is a bit gay.”

  “John!”

  “Dad!”

  Moira and Tom spoke in horrified unison, while Marcus collapsed into fits of laughter. Eventually everyone followed suit, bringing Katie into the room to find out what all the fuss was about. At twelve now, she had grown all too quickly.

  “What are you all—? Oh my God, Dad. What are you wearing?”

  Behind her, Charlotte burst into loud, uncontrollable fits of giggles, starting the whole room off again—until the front doorbell rang.

  “Heavens,” said Moira, checking her watch
. “Is that the time already? For goodness’ sake, go up and change, Tom. I’ll let the guests in.”

  Marcus had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly the Bradfords had come around to their son’s feelings for Marcus. Moira had been a tough sell at first, but having had Marcus in their lives for so long made things that much easier. Three months after the announcement, Moira had quietly spoken to Marcus as she turned up at his apartment to collect the girls.

  “I’m not going to say that I understand. But my granddaughters adore you and my son has been the happiest he’s ever been since his wife died. So. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  Case closed.

  Both girls had been overjoyed, but for the first couple of months, even though Marcus had spent most nights in Tom’s bed, they had been careful. Sunday mornings especially, they’d been regularly invaded by the girls jumping up and down on their mattress and scaring Marcus awake. But that was a small price to pay. When Marcus went to pick Charlotte up from school one day and overheard her referring to him as “…my other dad. He’s famous, you know?”, he felt such a sense of pride—he texted Tom as soon as they’d gotten home.

  Marcus suspected that Tom felt the brunt more than he. At one point Tom had almost given up on going down to the pub with his football chums, until Marcus had persuaded him that he had every right to be there. Perry, whose wife, Julia, and kids had been close to Tom’s family, had been the hardest cold shoulder to take. When Tom announced the news, Perry became distant, purposely avoiding talking to Tom. Whenever they did, usually just a few words, they’d talk about the kids or football—nothing too emotive. Maybe time and patience would help, but on more than one occasion, Tom stated openly that he had gained more than he had lost.

  And now here they were, four years later, Tom at forty-five, Marcus at thirty-five, about to celebrate their combined eightieth birthday party together. Had she been alive, Raine would have wanted this.

  Fitting over a hundred people into the back garden of their new semidetached house turned out to be easier than either of them imagined. Fortunately Marcus and Tom’s new neighbors had all accepted the invitation to their garden party, so they could at least continue into the early July evening while daylight remained. More importantly, they had woken to cloudless blue skies and a beautiful summer temperature, although weather reports hinted at showers. To prepare for all possibilities, Tina had gotten Joel, her latest assistant, to call her events contacts and book a large marquee, which they had erected at one end of their spacious garden. Even rain could not have stopped the event. As it turned out, John, Moira, and Marcus’s parents, Colin and Debs, who turned up later, appreciated being able to sit in the shade.

  Since Tom, Marcus, and the girls had moved into the house two roads away from John and Moira, life had settled into a comfortable rhythm.

  Late in the afternoon of the party, with Tom uncharacteristically insisting on providing the speech to all gathered—despite Marcus’s offer to take over—Marcus stood at the sink of their kitchen, the window open, enjoying the aroma from his small window-ledge herb garden. After sending the girls off to collect used plates, cups, cutlery, and glasses from around the garden, Marcus washed while Moira wiped.

  “Even when Lorraine was alive, I was always going to be in their lives, Moira. That much hasn’t changed,” said Marcus, rinsing tumblers one by one, then handing them absently to Moira. “You know. Background checks on the girls’ dates when the princesses grew old and serious enough to go on them, even if that entailed hiring private detectives. Or a personal stakeout outside their respective houses.”

  Beside him, Moira clucked her tongue the way she did when John had said something politically incorrect. And there across the garden lawn, the man himself—John—sat holding court as usual, laughing with a cluster of relatives and friends, all enjoying the afternoon and the company. Behind him, Lincoln Prescott used his hands to talk animatedly about something with an out-of-uniform Daniel Mosborough and Ken Villers, Damian Stone’s widower. Beneath their cherry tree, Marcus’s bookkeeper, Trevor, who had recently had a difficult split from his long-term partner, stood in complete awe with a towering Kim Kendrick, their New York investor. Marcus always had a warm feeling when everything felt right with the world, when different friends or associates of his found common ground.

  “And now I’ll have Tom by my side through good times and bad. And I honestly can’t think of anything more wonderful. A couple of curly straws, sharing a can of Special Brew in the old folks’ home together while we watch Chelsea version 255 with players whose names neither of us can remember. Or sitting on the front pew at St. Mark’s with you and other members of the family while Tom walks one of his beauties down the aisle. Or being there to hug the man and stuff a cigar in his mouth when one of them produces a grandson or granddaughter.”

  Absently, he twisted his head around and for the first time in his life saw Moira had turned away from him. For a moment he wondered what was happening, thought she might have turned away to sneeze, until he noticed a small movement, the gentle rise and fall of her back. She was sobbing. Unsure what to do, he dried his hands quickly and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry, Moira,” he said, mortified. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Oh, don’t mind me, dear,” she said, pulling away, embarrassed at herself, wiping her eyes with the tea towel. Straightening up, she patted him on the forearm, back to her old starchy self. “Just getting a little soppy in my old age. Shush, anyway. Tom’s about to give his speech.”

  Instantly Marcus strolled out through the kitchen door to join the crowd and watch the love of his life standing alone on the small stage. In that moment, his stomach curdled. He knew how nervous Tom was at speaking publicly. Tom had tried to memorize the speech over and over. And now the time had come.

  “Family and friends, neighbors and—and—guests. Welcome to our garden party to celebrate our combined eightieth birthday. I’m not going to let on to our individual ages, but just let you guess. However, please remember that Marcus has misleadingly young genes. Today is also a time to commemorate someone who has meant such a lot to many of us gathered. My late wife once planned to have a joint birthday party for me and her best friend, something she never lived to see. So a big part of today is fulfilling her wish.”

  Tom stopped for a moment, overcome, and Marcus put the tea towel down, ready to go and help him. But then he rallied.

  “I know it’s me giving the speech today when Marcus could probably do this with his eyes closed. But I wanted to prove to him—and to myself—that I can do this. Sometimes we all need to take a step outside our comfort zone, to appreciate what others do for us and also to help us become stronger. That is something Marcus taught me, and I am so grateful to him for that as well as a host of other things. I am also grateful for my parents being close at hand, for my darling Katie, who is growing up so fast and, more importantly, has settled into her studies and is doing her dad and Marcus proud at grammar school. To Charlie, who used to dance like an angel and now dances like—”

  “Beyoncé!”

  The crowd laughed, which seemed to relax Tom even more.

  “I was going to say Madonna, but Beyoncé will do.”

  “Dad!” shouted Charlotte from somewhere in the crowd, followed by the muttered “so embarrassing.”

  “But who has always, somehow, been able to put a smile onto anyone’s lips. Especially grumpy old Granddad’s.”

  Tom continued on thanking family, his people at work for being supportive, and his friends for turning out that day, even giving a special mention to Marcus’s parents, who had traveled a long way to join them. Eventually, having fluffed a few lines—nothing serious—he reached the toast.

  “So finally, I would like to toast a propose—” said Tom, then quickly clammed up. Many of those gathered chuckled at Tom’s faux pas.

  Marcus willed Tom to keep going, his heart going out to Tom. “Come on, love,” Marcu
s muttered to himself. “You can do this. You would like to propose a toast to all those gathered here on our joint eightieth birthday party.”

  “Wait, no,” said Tom, an uncomfortable feedback screech coming from the personal address system. “This is coming out all wrong.”

  Marcus stared above the heads of the crowd, willing Tom to say what he needed.

  “I would like to—”

  Once again Tom stuttered to a halt. Marcus quickly wiped his hands and began to stride toward Tom. All those gathered parted as Marcus headed for the small stage.

  “Shit, where’s Marcus?” said Tom.

  “Don’t worry,” called Marcus. “The cavalry’s here. Hold your horses.”

  “Should have done this years ago,” said Tom, still speaking into the microphone. “I would like to propose, Marcus.”

  “I know,” said Marcus, reaching the stage. “You’d like to propose a toast to all those gathered here today on our combined eightieth birthday.”

  “No,” said Tom, a self-assured smile Marcus had rarely seen spreading across his face. And just like that, Tom dropped onto one knee. “I would like to propose. To you. Will you, Marcus Edward Vine, marry me?”

  With that, Tom revealed the small velvet box he had been holding. Marcus barely heard the cheer that went up around the garden, followed by a huge round of applause. With tears in his eyes, he stared bleary-eyed into Tom’s happy face.

  And with that, a drop fell onto Marcus’s hand. Oddly, the spot felt cold, not the warm teardrop he had expected. And then, speck by speck, more cold spots touched his arm, his forehead, his nose, his lips—until finally he realized what was happening.

  Rain.

  BRIAN LANCASTER is an author of gay romantic fiction in multiple genres, including contemporary, paranormal, fantasy, crime, mystery, and anything else his muse provides. Born in the sleepy South of England, the setting of many of his stories, he moved to Southeast Asia in 1998, where he shares a home with his longtime partner and two of the laziest cats on the planet. Brian Lancaster once believed that writing gay romantic fiction would be easy and cathartic. He also believed in Santa Claus and the Jolly Green Giant. At least he still has fantasies about those two. Born in the rural South of England in a town with its own clock tower and cricket pitch, he moved to Hong Kong in 1998. Life went from calm and curious to fast and furious. On the upside, the people he has since met provide inspiration for a whole new cast of characters in his stories. He also has his long-term, long-suffering partner and two cats to keep him grounded. After winning two short story competitions in 2006 and being published in a compendium, he decided to dive into writing full-length novels. Diving proved to be easy; the challenge has been in treading water and trying to remain afloat. Cynical enough to be classed a curable romantic, he is not seeking an antidote. When not working or writing, he enjoys acting in community theater productions, composing music, hosting pub quizzes, and any socializing that involves Chardonnay. And for the record, he would like to remind all those self-righteous white wine drinkers that White Burgundy, Chablis, and Champagne are still essentially Chardonnays.