He lifted the carton to his mouth and took several long swallows. The cool juice hit the back of his throat and washed away the taste of panic in his mouth. He raised his gaze from the end of the carton to a wooden duck resting on top of the refrigerator. The brass plate identified the duck as an American wigeon. A Carolina wood duck and northern pintail rested above the fireplace in the living room. There were various wooden birds about the house, and Sebastian wondered when the old man had become so fascinated with ducks. He lowered the juice and glanced at his father, who was watching him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Do you need help with anything?” Sebastian asked.

“If you have a moment, you could give me a hand moving something for Mrs. Wingate. But I hate to interrupt you when you’re hard at work.”

He would give his left nut to be hard at work instead of writing and deleting the lead paragraph over and over. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and returned the carton to the refrigerator. “What does she want moved?” he asked, and shut the door.

“A sideboard.”

He didn’t know what the hell a sideboard was, but it sounded heavy. Like something to take his mind off his looming deadline and his inability to string together three cohesive sentences.

He moved across the small kitchen and followed his father out the door. Old elm and oak trees shaded the grounds and white iron furniture in deep shadowy patches. Sebastian walked beside his father across the yard shoulder-to-shoulder. A perfect picture of father and son, but the picture was far from perfect.

“It’s going to be nice today,” Sebastian said as they passed a silver Lexus parked next to Sebastian’s Land Cruiser.

“The weatherman said in the low nineties,” Leo replied.

Then they fell into an uncomfortable silence that seemed to blanket most attempts at conversation. Sebastian didn’t know why he was having such a difficult time talking to the old man. He’d interviewed heads of state, mass killers as well as religious and military leaders, yet he couldn’t think of one damn thing to say to his own father beyond making a perfunctory comment on the weather or having a superficial conversation about dinner. Obviously, his father found it just as difficult to talk to him.

Together they walked toward the back of the main house. For some reason Sebastian couldn’t explain, he tucked the ends of his gray Molson T-shirt into his Levi’s and finger-combed his hair. Looking up at all that limestone, he felt like he was heading into church, and suppressed the urge to cross himself. As if he felt it too, Leo reached for his hat and pulled it from his head.

The hinges on the back door squeaked as Leo held open the door, and the sound of their boot heels filled the silence as the two of them continued up a set of stone steps and into the kitchen. It was too late for them. His father was just as uncomfortable being around him as he was being around his father. He should just leave, he thought. Put them both out of their misery. He didn’t know why he’d come, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have anything else to do besides sit around and not communicate with his father. There was a lot waiting for him in Washington State. He had to get his mother’s house ready to put on the market, and he had to get on with his life. He’d been here three days now. Enough time to open a dialogue. Only it wasn’t happening. He’d help his father move the sideboard and then go pack his things.

A huge butcher’s block dominated the middle of the kitchen, and Leo tossed his hat on the scarred top as he passed. White cabinets lined the walls from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling, and late-morning sunlight spilled through the windows and shined off of stainless steel appliances. The heels of Sebastian’s Gortex hiking boots thudded across the old black and white tiles as he and his father walked through the kitchen and headed into a formal dining room. A huge vase of fresh-cut flowers sat in the center of a twenty-foot table covered in red damask cloth. The furniture, the windows and drapes, all reminded him of something he’d see in a museum. Polished and well-tended. It smelled like a museum too. Cold and a little musty.

A thick area rug muffled their footsteps as he and his father made their way toward an ornately carved piece of furniture on one wall. It had long spindly legs and a few fancy drawers. “I take it this is a sideboard.”

“Yes. It’s French and very old. It’s been in Mrs. Wingate’s family for more than a hundred years,” Leo said as he removed a big silver tea service from the sideboard and set it on the table.

Sebastian had figured it was an antique and was not at all surprised that it was French. He preferred clean modern lines and comfort over old and fussy. “Where are we moving it?”

Leo pointed to a wall next to the doorway, and each of them grabbed an end of the sideboard. The piece wasn’t heavy, and the two of them moved it easily. As they set it down in its new place, Joyce Wingate’s raised voice carried from the next room. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” a second voice Sebastian recognized answered. “I was in shock,” Clare added. “And I just left the house and went to Lucy’s wedding.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. How does a man just go gay? Out of the blue?”

Sebastian looked at his father, who moved to the tea service and got busy arranging the silver sugar bowl and creamer.

“A man doesn’t ‘go gay,’ Mother. In hindsight, the signs were all there.”

“What signs? I didn’t see any signs.”

“Looking back, he had an unnatural fondness for antique ramekins.”

Ramekins? What the hell was a ramekin? Sebastian’s gaze returned to the empty doorway. Unlike the old man, he wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. This was juicy stuff.

“Lots of men love a beautiful ramekin.”

And these two women didn’t know the guy was gay?

“Name one man who loves ramekins,” Clare demanded.

“That chef on television. I don’t recall his name.” There was a pause, and Joyce asked, “You’re sure it’s over, then?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a shame. Lonny had such beautiful manners. I’ll miss his tomato aspic.”

“Mother, I found him with another man. Having sex. In my closet. For God’s sake, screw the aspic!”

Leo carried the tea service to the sideboard and for a fraction his gaze met Sebastian’s. For the first time since he’d arrived, he saw a spark of laughter in the older man’s green eyes.

“Claresta, watch your language. There’s no need to yell profanities. We can discuss this without yelling.”

“Can we? You’re acting as if I should have stayed with Lonny because he uses the right fork and chews with his mouth closed.”

There was another pause, and then Joyce said, “Well, I suppose it was necessary to call off the wedding.”

“You suppose? I knew you wouldn’t understand, and I debated about whether to even tell you. I only decided to tell you since I figured you’d notice him missing when he didn’t show up for Thanksgiving dinner.” Clare’s voice became more clear as she walked into the large open entryway. “I realize he was the perfect man for you mother, but he turned out not to be the perfect man for me.”

Her hair was pulled back into one of those inside out ponytails, all sleek and polished like the mahogany sideboard. She wore a white suit with big lapels, a deep blue blouse, and a long string of pearls. The skirt hit her just above the knee, and she had on a pair of white shoes that covered the front of her feet. The heels of the shoes looked like silver balls. She was spit polished and buttoned up tighter than a nun. Quite a change from the last time he had seen her, with her back pressed against a motel room door, falling out of that silly pink dress, black smudges beneath her eyes, and hangover hair.

Just outside the dining room door she turned back to the room she’d exited. “I need a man who not only knows where his pickle fork is located, but wants to put it to use more than once on holidays.”

There was a shocked gasp followed by, “That’s vulgar. You sound like a floozy.”

Clare placed a hand on her chest. “Me? A floozy? I’ve been living with a gay man. I haven’t had sex in so long, I’m practically a virgin.”

Sebastian laughed. He couldn’t help it. The memory of her stripping off her clothes didn’t quite square with the woman claiming to be “practically a virgin.” Clare turned at the sound and her gaze met Sebastian’s. For a few unguarded seconds confusion wrinkled the smooth skin between her brows, as if she’d discovered something where it wasn’t supposed to be. Like the sideboard on the wrong wall or the gardener’s son in the dining room. A faint pink blush spread across her cheeks and the wrinkle between her brow deepened. Then, as had happened the other morning when she’d turned around and seen him standing behind her wearing nothing but a hotel towel and a few drops of water, she recovered quickly and remembered her manners. She pulled at the cuffs of her jacket and entered the dining room.

“Hello, Sebastian. Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” Her voice was pleasant enough, but he didn’t believe she meant a word of what she said. She pushed up the corners of her lush mouth, and he didn’t believe she meant that either. Maybe because that perfect smile didn’t quite reach her blue eyes. “Your father must be thrilled.” She held out her hand and he took it. Her fingers were a little cold, but he could almost feel her palm sweat. “How long do you plan to be in town?” she asked, all polished politeness.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, and looked into her eyes. He couldn’t say how “thrilled” his father felt about his visit, but he could practically read Clare’s mind. She was wondering if he was going to spill the beans about the other night. He smiled and let her worry.