A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [38]
My childhood friend did well for himself, I noted. His lavish home indicated the extreme wealth compiled from centuries of well-bred familial ties. He must have inherited some, or perhaps his parents did, or some sort of trickle-down effect occurred, I reasoned, for no single man could amass such fortune in a single life-time. The age of the house, the weathering of the stonework and wall, the rich antique décor within—all spoke of money layered in dust rather than fresh-mint.
I led myself to the parlor, where river stones as large as my head stacked into a weighty fireplace piling through the high, coffered ceiling, its broad mouth yawning to expose a roaring, crackling fire, rife with embers and billowing heat into the elegant chamber. Rich, oxblood leather wing-back chairs flanked a mahogany table, a Tiffany-glass lamp and a decanter of honey-colored alcohol beside a set of deep brandy snifters. A throw blanket lay across the back of each chair, in ready reach of visitors on chill autumn evenings. Bookcases lined the walls, a brass rail with sliding ladder for reaching high, obscure volumes forgotten in a distant corner, shrouded by the dancing shadows and flickering firelight. A reading desk splayed under a high, narrow window, tall and pointed, that reached into the dim coffers above.
The clap of a hand on my shoulder gave me a deep and profound start, and nothing short of all my willpower prevented me from shrieking. I turned, and the broad smile of my childhood friend greeted me.
For a moment, something peculiar flashed over his visage. A subtle, almost subliminal wave rippled beneath the flesh, the piercing dark eyes, the shimmer of the flames reflected on his tears, his moist lips, his teeth … something I could not pinpoint. A shudder twisted through my frame before my own smile curled my mouth and I extended my hand to him.
His smiled deepened and broadened, the maturity lines in his face black against the fire’s glow, and ignored my hand in favor of throwing his arms about my neck and embracing me, warm and welcoming. In an instant I returned the brotherly gesture and when we broke, he shook his shoulder-length hair out over the lapels of his smoking jacket and waved a hand at the leather chairs.
He sailed his lithe frame into one and tossed one ankle over his knee in a prim and deliberate maneuver, and cocked his head to me in quick, bird-like stutter. His smile never fluctuated.
“My friend, how are you?” His sultry, smooth voice, like warm tea, soothed and comforted.
“It’s been so long, I’m happy to see you.” My eyes locked with his, unable to wander from his gaze, and a dancing, swirling light came into them from somewhere … perhaps a trick of the firelight, but something so intoxicating seemed to keep me there. I felt my muscles, jarred and vibrated into near-numbness from the journey, melt into pools of jelly within me.
“And I am happy to see you again. It has been so very long, has it not? And after all this time, you’ve finally come to see my country home.”
“My circumstances … I never thought to need your charity, your kindness. I’m sorry to be a burden.”
He chuckled and dismissed my embarrassment with a wave of his elegant hand, clad with rings that flashed as reflected fire passed over the facets of the jewels. His head turned aside and I at last managed to blink.
“You are never a burden. You’ve been my friend from my youth. What friend would not offer comfort to a man in crisis, to a person in need? No burden. You are welcome here. Wanted here, in fact.” He gave a little giggle, rather reminiscent of our time as school boys. It