Chapter 14

Thursday, November 14

Two Weeks Until Thanksgiving

“Mike? You okay?”

Mike gave himself a shake. “Sorry. Must’ve zoned out for a sec.”

Sam smirked. “Zoning out while perched on top of a ladder is not recommended.” He glanced at the room, emptied of furniture and covered in canvas drop cloths, and sighed. “This is going to take forever, you know that, right?”

The others had helped out, but even so, Sam was correct.

We don’t have enough pairs of hands.

That wasn’t what had distracted Mike, however. They hadn’t collected the bathroom supplies yet, and they wouldn’t be able to do that until they had sufficient funds to pay for them.

And God knows when we’ll be able to do that.

The club had re-opened the previous Friday, and while it had been a hot, sweaty success, it hadn’t generated a fraction of what they needed. The sale of Nick’s costume jewelry and the pearl earrings had swelled the coffers, and it all helped.

It still wasn’t enough.

“It’ll work out,” Sam said in a quiet voice. “You’ll see. We’ll get the money.”

“I wish I had your faith.” Mike loved that Sam could be so confident.

He has enough for both of us. Which was good, because Mike felt sadly lacking in that department.

“You’ve got more important things to think about right now.” Sam dipped his brush into the can of paint and carefully filled in the gap where wall met baseboard.

He blinked. “Such as?”

Sam pointed to the wall. “You missed a bit. Sort it out, or no more kisses.”

It was an opening not to be ignored.

“I meant to talk to you about that.” Mike focused on his task. “I know we haven’t kissed that many times since Herring Cove, and—”

“Four and a half times,” Sam interjected. Mike jerked his head to look at him, and Sam smiled. “I counted.”

“Excuse me? I made it five,” he exclaimed in mock indignation.

“Er, no. We were just getting into it when Jim walked in and didn’t leave, so that doesn’t quite count, but it was nice, so I’m giving it partial credit.”

Mike blinked. “I thought it was nice too. Although I was a little puzzled at the time. Is there anything wrong with Jim seeing us kiss?”

Sam guffawed. “Are you kidding? We’d never hear the last of it. No, he can learn what’s going on when something actually is going on.” He smiled. “Last night was a step in the right direction, though.”

Mike felt a rush of warmth as he recalled sitting in his room drinking hot chocolate with Sam, everyone else in bed. It could have been the perfect scenario for getting a little physical, but Mike had applied the brakes after they’d shared a lingering kiss that had gotten him all hot and bothered.

Not yet.

Saying goodnight to Sam and watching him cross the walkway to his own room had been tough, but Mike didn’t want to fuck it up.

Not when things looked so promising.

Sam gave Mike an amused glance. “You were saying you want to talk to me?”

“I wanted to share with you why there hadn’t been… anything else.”

Sam chuckled. “Funny. I was planning on talking to you about that very thing.” He balanced his brush on top of the can of paint, and came over to where Mike stood on the ladder. He gazed up at Mike. “Look, you remember I said I had my share of scars?”

Mike nodded.

“Well, as a result, I’ve developed my own safety mechanisms. And one of those is not leaping into bed the minute I meet a guy.” He flushed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had my fair share of hook-ups too—”

“Haven’t we all?” Mike murmured.

Sam chuckled. “And yes, there are times when all you really need is a one-night stand. But…” He paused. “Sometimes I meet someone, and I get the sense that he could be… important. And when that happens, I like to take things slow.” His eyes sparkled. “I call it the Ten Kisses rule.” Sam snickered. “And before you ask, no, they can’t all occur in one night.”

“The idea being that by the time you get to kiss number ten, you usually know if it’s going to work out?”

Sam nodded.

“That means judging by the time scale so far, we should reach number ten by next week?”

“You got it.” Sam cocked his head to one side. “What were you going to say?”

“That I like to take my time. I just wanted you to know I am interested in taking things further. But now that I know, I’m prepared to wait.” Mike smiled. “So you think I could be important?”

“Oh, you picked up on that, did you?” Sam grinned. “Duh.”

Mike tilted Sam’s face toward his. “And in case I didn’t make it obvious, I think you could be important too.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Good to know.” Then he grinned once more. “By the way, you have paint on your nose.”

Mike frowned. “I do? Where?” He bent down toward Sam. “Show me.”

Sam reached up and touched him. “There.” He smirked again.

Mike gave him a mock glare. “You just put paint there, didn’t you?”

He gazed at Mike with an innocent air. “Me? I would never.” He smirked. “Okay, maybe a little.” Sam straightened. “Back to work. This is me cracking the whip.” He moved along the wall, then stretched out to grab his paintbrush. Sam frowned. “Okay, that’s weird.”

“What is?”

“I went to move the paint can closer, but it was already close by.” He shrugged. “I guess I moved it without thinking.”

“Either that, or we’ve got a helpful ghost around the place,” Mike suggested with a grin. “Hey, we could get the ghost to do all the painting.”

Elliott poked his head around the door. “Mike, you’ve got a visitor.” He chuckled. “You might wanna wash your face first.”

Mike pointed at Sam. “It’s his fault.”

Elliott rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than kids. Now hurry up. Don’t keep her waiting.” He hurried away before Mike could ask who her was.

He climbed down from the ladder and put his brush in the can. Mike glanced at Sam. “You’d better wash up too. You’ve got paint on your face.”

“Where?” Sam demanded.

“There,” Mike said, smearing his paint-covered thumb down Sam’s cheek, before making a run for it, Sam giving chase, promising retribution.

Only five more kisses.

Mike was going to make sure every one of those kisses curled Sam’s toes and sent his thermostat climbing.

By the time he’d made sure his face was free from paint, Elliott and Jim were sitting in the lobby, talking to a woman with long silver hair. Someone had made tea. Jim stood as Mike and Sam approached.

“Mike, this is Ellen Sanderson, the president of the Provincetown Artists’ Association.”

Ellen rose to greet him. “Mr. O’Neill. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I knew your uncle.” She nodded in Sam’s direction.

Mike chuckled. “I hear that a lot.” He took a seat on the couch facing her. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. I had to take care of something.”

Elliott smirked.

“I know you’re busy at the moment, with all your plans, but I’ve been talking with Stephan Yeager and Gabe Driscoll, and I think we might be in a position to help each other.”

Mike poured tea for himself and Sam. “Really?”

“I know Stephan uses the theater space for his art classes. Well, I’d like to use it too. The Association puts on exhibitions of our members’ work about four or five times a year, and I thought we could have them here. We would pay for the space, of course.” She smiled. “Thus far, we’ve had shows in several bars and in the lobby of the Boatslip.” The skin around her eyes crinkled. “Which isn’t always ideal, especially during the summer. Far too many people.”

Jim chuckled. “That’s tea dance for ya. Not enough room to swing the proverbial cat.” He grinned. “Then again, that could probably account for a lot of sales too.”

“That is true,” Ellen admitted.

Mike offered her a warm smile. “I think we can do business, Ms. Sanderson.”

“Call me Ellen.”

“Then I’m Mike.”

She beamed. “Okay—Mike. And that’s wonderful news. I’ll email you with the schedule, and we can work out some dates for next year.” She glanced lower, then bit back a smile. “I think you missed a bit.”

Mike followed her gaze, and spied a splodge of paint on his jeans. “Oops. I knew I should’ve worn coveralls or something.” He sighed. “We’re painting the rooms.”

“I see.” Ellen gazed at the three men sitting with him. “All of you?”

He frowned. “Well, whoever isn’t occupied with something else.”

Ellen coughed. “In that case, I have a suggestion. A rather unusual one, so please, hear me out.”

“Color me intrigued.” Mike chuckled. “If you’re offering to help us paint, I think you’ll need bigger brushes than the ones you’re used to.”

She burst into a peal of laughter. “Not me, dear boy. Let me explain. My grandchildren are visiting me this weekend.”

“Do you have many?”

“I have five, aged between ten and seventeen years of age. They come with their parents, which is great for them in the summer—they’re always on the beach—but not so great at this time of year. The older ones usually sit around, glued to their phones, and the younger ones are bored witless, which is usually when they get under my feet and something gets broken. Her eyes gleamed. “But you’ve given me an idea. Why don’t I bring them here, and you can give them a paintbrush and put them to work?”

Mike stared at her. “Seriously?”

“Why not? They’d love it. And I’m not the only grandparent in the Association who could put some extra hands your way. You might end up with as many as twenty children.” She chuckled. “And you’d be helping to preserve our sanity.”

Before Mike could decline the unusual offer, Sam got in first. “We could find extra brushes and rollers. Extra drop sheets. Provide pizza and sodas.” He beamed. “Think how much we could accomplish in one weekend.”

Mike wasn’t convinced. “I can’t see kids wanting to paint walls.”

Elliott snorted. “Are you kidding? I loved helping my dad decorate when I was a kid. Of course, I ended up with more paint on me than on the walls, but that’s half the fun. We’d cover everything, right?”

“And we could maybe put a movie on for the younger ones who might get bored,” Sam suggested. “Hey, we could get in some popcorn.”

Mike had to laugh. “I think it’s the most outlandish thing I’ve ever heard.” He grinned. “I love it.”

“Excellent. I’ll be here bright and early Saturday morning, and I’ll spread the word.” Ellen stood. “Thank you for the tea. I’ll be in touch about the exhibitions.” Her eyes twinkled. “And thank you for agreeing to let my grandchildren help out. I’m certain they’ll find it more entertaining than spending hours on their phones.”

Mike wasn’t too sure about that part.

“And to sweeten the deal, I’ll bring my homemade cookies.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Have I mentioned how much I really like you, Ellen?”

She laughed. “Maybe I’d better make a double batch.”

After Ellen had left, Mike turned to the others. “What on earth have I just agreed to? I must be out of my mind. Letting a bunch of kids loose in here?”

“We’ll keep an eye on them,” Jim told him. “And we delegate. Put one older kid in with some younger ones.”

“Never mind feeding them pizza— bribe them with it,” Elliott suggested. “Tell them it’s their reward for doing a good job.”

“It might be an idea to add candy to the list of bribes,” Sam commented. “But only when they’ve finished. We don’t want chocolate fingerprints all over the place.” He met Mike’s gaze. “But one thing’s for certain. We’ll get a lot more done than we would if it was just us.”

Mike shook his head. “I can’t get over this town. People have been so generous.”

“You need to remember one thing.” Jim smiled. “Nick had a lot of friends around here.”

One way or another, once the hotel was reopened, Mike would find a way to thank everyone.

Anthony stood in the wings behind the velvet curtains, smiling as he listened to the rapturous calls of “Encore!” He’d gotten up from the piano bench where he’d sat for the past two hours, turning the pages as Phil played, to leave Phil free to accept the accolades and take a bow.

Damn, that man can play.

He was a good-looking dude too, his black hair peppered with silver, his beard still dark but for the silvery bit covering his chin. Phil had brown, soulful eyes and lips Anthony would bet were soft and warm.

And what would I give to taste ’em?

Except that was just a dream, and Anthony knew it. A dream that had begun one night four years ago when he’d gone to the Crown & Anchor for dinner, and had stayed until the bartender tapped his watch and pointed to the clock.

It was official. Anthony was hooked. He’d been carried along on a musical wave, caught up in the beautiful melodies, entranced by the view of the handsome piano player who poured his heart and soul into his performance.

And Phil was oblivious to the fact he’d gained an admirer.

Elliott preferred the term stalker, not that Anthony paid him any mind.

As soon as the others had started coming up with ideas for the hotel, Anthony knew exactly what he was going to propose. And when Phil agreed, then spent time with him choosing the music, Anthony wanted to dance his way back to the Velvet House.

They’d decided on a mix of classical and popular music, with more than a sprinkling of show tunes, and each new piece had been received with enthusiasm. Anthony had fought hard to resist the urge to sing along to some of the songs.

They came to listen to the man, not me.

At last the applause died away, and one by one, the audience filed out, until only Anthony was left.

Phil placed all the sheet music in his messenger bag, and closed the key lid, stroking the dark glossy wood. “This is a lovely instrument.” He glanced at Anthony. “Thank you. It’s always a pleasure to work with someone who doesn’t need nudging all the time.” He cocked his head toward the piano. “Do you play?”

Anthony shook his head. “The only instrument I’ve got is my voice.”

Phil stilled. “Wait a minute. I’ve seen your act about a million times, and I’ve never heard you sing.”

He blinked. Blinked again. “A million times?”

Phil flushed. “Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration.”

“You don’t say.”

“How about, every time you were performing and I wasn’t, I’d be there in the audience, cheering and whooping until I lost my voice?” He smiled. “I even sent you flowers once.”

Anthony frowned. “I’d have remembered getting flowers from you.”

He coughed. “No, you wouldn’t, because I signed the card, From An Admirer .”

He stilled. “ Red roses, for a green lady ? Those were from you?”

Phil’s flush deepened. “To this day, I don’t know why I did that. I guess you made me nervous. But let’s forget about me, and go back to the fact that you lip sync like the others do. Why do that if you can sing?”

Anthony chuckled. “Because I don’t have the confidence to sing in front of anyone, apart from the other queens. Oh, and Mike, but that’s because he feels like family.”

Phil sat on the piano bench. “How about singing for someone who’s been a fan for years? Who would consider it an honor to play along with you?”

He shook his head.

Phil sighed. “Oh well. I tried.”

He looked so crestfallen, it pained Anthony to see his disappointment.

Then it hit him.

Anthony lurched to his feet. “Wait right there!” He hurried off the stage and over to where he’d left his man bag. He delved into its depths, letting out a triumphant squeal when he found his prey. A glance at his compact, a drag of color over his lips, and that was all it took.

Miss Dixx was in the room.

She sauntered over to the piano and leaned against it. “Play something I can sing along to, honey,” she drawled.

Phil’s breathing hitched. “Oh. Oh . Okay.” He thought about it for maybe a couple of seconds, and a moment later, Miss Dixx recognized the opening notes of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” .

She smiled. “Perfect.” She closed her eyes and launched into the lyrics she knew so well. By the time she got to the last line, she’d left behind all trace of nerves.

The final notes rang out, and when they died away, she opened her eyes.

Phil gazed at her with an awed expression. “These shows you’re going to put on for Christmas. Please, consider doing one number. Just one. You’d slay ’em.”

She grinned. “I already do that.”

“At least say you’ll think about it.”

Miss Dixx arched her eyebrows. “You’re not gonna let this go, are ya, sugar?”

It was Phil’s turn to grin. “You know it. I’ll wear you down— sugar .”

She chuckled. “That sounds like fun. You’re welcome to try.” She walked behind him, trailing a hand across his shoulders, feeling the shiver that ran through him.

There are a few things I might try too.