By Chance (Courtland Chronicles) Page 3

  “You mean, how’d the hick farm boy get into an Ivy League university?” Eric’s breath hitched at the sudden edge in Nick’s tone, until a lopsided twist of his lips told Eric he was joking. “One word—football.”

  Of course. Why hadn’t it occurred to him sooner? “You must either really love or really hate the game to play for this lousy team.”

  “I got scouted by Berkeley, Northwestern, and here. Columbia’s the only one that offered me enough financial aid to make college even possible.” Nick slouched back in his chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t really like playing that much anymore. At least during spring semester I can concentrate on my studies, but in the fall when the season’s going full swing, it’s like having two full-time jobs.”

  “I take it you’re not interested in going pro?” Oh, great. Now he couldn’t get the image of Nick—grimy, sweaty, with black grease paint under his eyes—in a New York Jets jersey out of his head.

  “No way. I’ll play for another year till I graduate, and that’s it. I’m ready to move on.”

  “To what, exactly?” He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the sudden tightness in his jeans. “I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to your friend Ally about Stevenson’s twentieth-century history class. That’s one of the hardest courses in the department. Are you majoring in history?”

  “English, with a minor in history.”

  “What’re you planning to do with a background in sports and liberal arts?”

  “I could get a teaching credential, I guess. But what I’d really love is to stay here and go to journalism school, if I can figure out a way to finance it.”

  This breakfast had become quite the eye-opener. Eric had assumed at first glance that Nick was a stereotypical dumb jock, but upon scratching the surface, he’d discovered a serious student cloaked in gridiron drag. How did his judgment get so profoundly out of whack?

  “Why, Nick Thompson,” he drawled, “you have unsuspected depth.”

  Nick laughed nervously, glancing down into his bowl, cheeks going pink again. Could he get any more adorable? “What about you? Columbia’s a great school, but with your money and connections, I can’t believe it was your first choice.”

  That was a can of worms Eric would’ve rather left unopened. But Nick had already shared so much about himself, it seemed rude not to reciprocate, no matter how much the memories stung.

  “No, it wasn’t. But my mother’s been having some health issues. I wanted to stay close to home.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  And he would have to sound so damn sincere about it too. “Thanks.” Eric cleared his throat, then blurted, “My father was none too pleased with my decision. He was pushing for me to go to Harvard. When I told him I was coming here instead, he cut me off.”

  “Oh.” Nick’s apparent surprise mirrored Eric’s. What was it about him that made Eric want to spill all his secrets? “Then how do you pay your tuition?”

  “My mother’s the trustee of my trust fund. She pays all my expenses and gives me an allowance. I gain control of it when I turn twenty-one next year.”

  Nick let out a long, slow whistle. “Must be nice.”

  “Believe me, there’ve been plenty of days when I wished I could’ve been a regular kid growing up on a farm.”

  “That’s the first time anybody’s ever told me they envied my life.”

  Eric just smiled and changed the subject.

  * * *

  Eric got up at five on Saturday morning to catch the train upstate. He’d brought along his economics textbook to keep him occupied on the long trip, but instead found himself sitting in the semi-deserted car staring dully out the window, watching miles of snow-covered scenery zip by.

  The train pulled into Rochester a few minutes before noon. Eric rented a car and drove the remaining thirty-seven miles to Geneva. Relief mixed with apprehension washed over him as he pulled through the front gate onto the freshly plowed and salted private road, then pulled up in front of the house, right next to his mother’s sleek black Mercedes sedan.

  He let himself in through the kitchen door, the spicy aromas of garlic, sweet basil and standing rib roast tickling his nostrils. “Hey,” he said, giving Estellita a wave and a smile.

  The housekeeper gave a tiny jump, then shook her head, hands planted on her hips in mock consternation. “As usual, she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “She probably forgot. She was pretty of out of it when I talked to her the other night.”

  With a sympathetic nod, Estellita held her arms out to him, and Eric sank gratefully into her warm, well-padded embrace.

  “How’s everything going?” he prompted at last.

  “I poured out all the bottles I could find, and flushed the pills,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “But you know she always gets more. The next time she goes back up to the city, that doctor will write her another prescription.”

  He sighed. “We’ll deal with it when it happens, I guess. Thanks for taking care of her.”

  “She hasn’t been feeling quite so grateful these past few days. I keep dodging slippers every time I bring up her meals—not that she’s eaten enough to fill up a thimble all week.” She pushed back a lock of gray-streaked hair with a resigned smile. “Ah, well. I’m used to it.”

  He headed up the short stairway into the main part of the house, his footsteps tapping eerily down empty halls. He stopped to spare an admiring glance for his favorite Monet seascape in the foyer before climbing another flight to the house’s second floor, then paused outside his mother’s room before knocking. “It’s me,” he said, opening the door slowly.

  She was reclining in the window seat, a down blanket tucked around her legs, book open on her lap. Her face lit up the moment she saw him. “Sweetheart! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  He almost reminded her of their phone conversation last weekend, but stopped himself just in time. There was no point. She’d get confused and defensive, and he’d spend the next half hour trying to smooth it over. Instead, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and sat down next to her.

  She was wearing her favorite robe, a deep green shantung silk that brought out the darker hues in her hazel eyes. The harsh winter glare flooding the room only served to highlight how pale and delicate she looked. Her hair was brushed back into its usual chic shoulder-length bob, though there were a few gray strands woven in with the golden blond that Eric hadn’t noticed before. Fresh lines pulled at the corners of her mouth, the purplish circles under her eyes livid as bruises. Only forty-eight, but she could have easily passed for a decade older.

  He cast a quick look around the room, alarmed at the messy bedcovers spilling onto the floor, half-empty coffee cups and a bottle of aspirin littering the bedside table. The air smelled stale and sour. If he squinted, he could still see the spot on the carpet where she’d vomited last weekend.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and take a walk outside with me?” he asked softly, giving her hand a tiny squeeze. “Give Estellita a chance to clean up the room.”

  “Oh, I don’t know… It looks terribly cold.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty mild today. At least we’re not knee-deep in snow like we usually are this time of year. Let’s take advantage of it while we can.” He smiled the widest smile he could muster. “I could use a little fresh air myself after a whole week cooped up in stuffy classrooms.”

  She thought it over a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “All right. I’ll throw something on and meet you in the foyer.”

  He stopped in his room two doors down to deposit his backpack. It looked exactly as he’d left it last weekend, books and CDs lining the shelves on either side of his desk in perfectly even rows, the bed neatly made, every visible surface pristine and free of clutter.

  Usually he found such order comforting, but today he couldn’t suppress a twitch of irritation. Looked like no one had set foot in here in ages. Ironic, since he’d spen
t most of his childhood in this room, when he wasn’t hiding out in the kitchen with Estellita.

  On the other hand, he mused as he slipped his gloves back on and headed downstairs, maybe he was just getting used to Nick leaving his mess everywhere.

  His mother joined him a few minutes later, dressed now in a cable-knit turtleneck sweater the color of blackberries and black wool slacks tucked into knee-high snow boots. An artful application of makeup had concealed the dark circles and given her a touch of healthy color. Eric smiled softly. No matter how much of a mess she was otherwise, she never left her room without looking absolutely stunning.

  Eric got her black sable coat from the foyer closet and helped her on with it, draping a cashmere scarf over her hair before ushering her out the door into the frozen January afternoon.

  “Mom,” he said quietly, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

  She looked at him as if she had no idea what he meant, but he knew better. “Darling, we’re having such a nice time. Why do you want to—”

  “This has been preying on my mind for a while. I can’t let it go any longer.” He glanced down at the wet pavement, then sucked in a breath and forged ahead. “How many times have you overdosed now? Five? Six? Even I’ve lost count.”

  “I, I can’t help it, sweetheart. Sometimes I forget how many tranquilizers I’ve taken. You know I need them when my back gives me trouble.”

  He’d known this wouldn’t be easy. Denial had become her default setting. But it’d taken him all week to screw up enough courage to broach the subject. He wasn’t about to back down now. “Maybe the first time was an accident, but not the rest. We can’t keep on pretending nothing’s wrong. You need help, Mom. Professional help.”

  She stared at him. “A psychiatrist, you mean?”

  “That, or maybe even rehab.”

  Her chin quivered. “No. I’ve been in enough hospitals to last me the rest of my life.”

  “Then we’ll find you a good therapist. Somebody who’ll help you get off the pills and the liquor for good.”

  “We’re private people, Eric. Your father’s an important man. He wouldn’t approve of me sharing the intimate details of our lives with some stranger.”

  He’d tried to be patient, but this was beyond the fucking pale. “Oh, for God’s sake, what do you care what he thinks? He’s got no right telling you what to do. You haven’t even lived together in five years!”

  “Stop it!” She tried to back away, nearly losing her footing on a slippery patch, until Eric darted forward and caught her by the elbow. “Why are you saying these things to me?”

  “Because someone has to. I can’t stand watching you destroy yourself over him.”

  “Your father has nothing to do with my problems.”

  “He has everything to do with them.” He had to summon up his last ounce of willpower to keep from shaking her. “I don’t understand how you can still defend him after the way he’s treated you. Why didn’t you divorce him the first time you caught him cheating?”

  “You just don’t understand love, Eric,” she replied, with all the firmness and certainty of the completely deluded.

  “If this farce is what you call love, I don’t want to understand it!”

  She studied him for a long moment, eyes brimming with pain. “I’ll think about it,” she said at last. “I was planning to spend next month in the city anyway. I’ve got a board meeting to attend at the Metropolitan, and…well, one of my friends sees a therapist. Maybe she can give me a referral.”

  They walked back to the house and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the living room talking. She grew genuinely animated as she told him about her charity work, which Eric found incredibly dull, although he was pleased she had something to keep her busy. Hard to believe this was the same woman he’d had to sweet-talk out of her own bedroom a couple hours ago.

  Estellita called them in to dinner at six. The long train trip, combined with no lunch and their stressful conversation earlier that afternoon, had left Eric ravenous. To his relief, his mother’s appetite had apparently revived. She finished half her entrée, followed by a small bowl of Estellita’s fruit compote. Usually it was all Eric could to do to cajole her into a few listless bites before she pushed her plate away.

  They went back to the living room for coffee and more conversation. Around nine, she reached over to clasp his hand. “It’s been lovely visiting with you, dear, but I’d best get to bed.”

  Eric kissed her good night, then grabbed a book off a nearby shelf and tried to read, but within a few minutes his eyelids started to droop. Sighing, he rose and headed upstairs.

  A sliver of light seeped out from under his mother’s bedroom door. He was about poke his head in to check on her when he heard her voice, low-pitched yet urgent.

  “Yes, Edward, I have the papers right here, the courier brought them yesterday, but I don’t—there’s no need to take that tone. I’ll review them when I have a spare moment—Eric is here, if you must know. No, of course I haven’t told him. We’ve been visiting, but I don’t see any reason to—I will not be told what I can and cannot say to my own son!”

  Christ, not again. Even at long distance, his father kept poisoning her life. He didn’t want to hear this, but he couldn’t help it. He pressed his ear to the door, hands tightening into fists.

  “For the last time, no! You don’t need my proxy until the quarterly meeting in March, so stop trying to rush me!” She slammed down the receiver with such force, Eric gave a start and bumped his head on the door.

  Seized by panic, Eric turned and bolted for his room. He perched on the edge of his bed clutching a pillow until his pulse steadied and his breathing returned to normal. He’d thought he was done with this—with running away, cowering like a frightened rabbit every time his parents had another fight. Thought he’d learned to be more detached and self-reliant.

  At school, he could maintain the illusion of being distant, detached, an island unto himself. No one there had ever seen him like this. No one there knew how weak he really was.

  And if he had his way, no one ever would.

  * * *

  Eric spent most of the night tossing and turning, punching his pillow. Around four a.m. he switched on the light and sat up reading until sunlight poked through the curtains. Gritty-eyed yet restless, he pulled on his sweats and sneakers and went downstairs to the exercise room. He hopped on the treadmill, jogging until his sweats were soaked, an eerie sense of exhausted calm settling in his bones.

  He went back to his room for a shower and dialed the water up to near-scalding, breath hissing sharply through his teeth as the pins-and-needles spray slammed into him.

  He took his time soaping up, savoring the slippery sensuality of it, the smooth feel of his own skin beneath his fingers. School had been kicking his ass this year, but if a little exercise could make him feel this good, he’d have to clear some time in his schedule for it.

  He wondered what Nick did to stay in shape during the off-season. Did he run? Hit the campus fitness center? Eric made a mental note to ask him. Exercising was a lot more productive, not to mention safer, with a partner. He wasn’t about to take off jogging down the streets of Manhattan by himself.

  His hand drifted down to grasp his semihard cock, bringing it to full erectness with a few strokes. He hadn’t had much time for this lately either. Every morning this week he’d had to rush through his shower because Nick’s alarm always went off first, and once his roommate got in the bathroom, nothing short of an atomic blast could dislodge him.

  Head lolling back against the cool tiles, Eric breathed deep and spread his legs wider, one finger circling his hole before pushing inside. An image took form in his mind—dark wavy curls coupled with a dazzling smile, broad shoulders tapering down into well-muscled abs and powerful thighs, a thick, meaty cock rising to meet Eric’s own greedy lips, salty precome bursting onto his tongue as Nick let loose with a full-throated growl, grabbing him by the back of t
he head to thrust in all the way—

  Orgasm crashed into him like a runaway train, wrecking and unraveling him. He slumped against the slick tile, his vision blurring for a moment before the world righted itself at last. Fingers still trembling, he dialed the water temperature down to cool and let it rain down on him until the blood stopped roaring between his ears.

  He climbed out, dried off quickly and shaved, taking care to avoid his own gaze in the mirror. So this was what a month of not getting laid had apparently reduced him to—a sleazy soft-focus porno-loop fantasy about his roommate. An exceedingly hot fantasy, even if it left him feeling…weird. Rattled, in more ways than one.

  The kicker was, if he’d met Nick in another place or time, he would’ve jumped his bones in a second. But now they were…well, not close enough to be called friends, but definitely friendly acquaintances. They had to share space, see each other every day. Despite that inauspicious first day, they’d learned to get along fairly well. He didn’t want to jeopardize that.

  He liked Nick. He liked him too much, and certainly in the wrong way. But nothing would ever happen. He wouldn’t let it. He didn’t fuck people he knew, and especially not people he liked.

  And if there was a more pathetic commentary on the state of his life, he couldn’t think of one.

  * * *

  Eric deposited his bag and jacket in the foyer when he went downstairs for breakfast, surprised to discover his mother already in the dining room, sipping coffee and thumbing through the Sunday Times.

  He got himself some coffee, toast and fresh fruit from the sideboard, then sat down and reached for the financial page. A quick glance at his mother told him she’d had a restless night as well, no doubt for the same reason.

  Might as well bring it up now and get it over with. “I overheard you on the phone with Dad last night.”

  “Did you?” Her tone was cool, though the lines around her mouth grew tighter. “I should remind you that eavesdropping’s a very rude habit, but at this point I suppose it’s irrelevant.”

  “I heard you say something about signing some proxy papers. What does he want with them?”