Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
It wasn’t the fastest route, but we weren’t in a hurry. I’d taken care of the morning’s entertainment with my favorite drag-queen podcast and a lovingly curated playlist of my top fifty road-trip jams. I’d also packed fruit and croissants and mapped out two possible rest stops, knowing there was no way in hell I’d last six hours on the road without a bathroom break.
After one brief stop at a public restroom in Pismo Beach, we continued our journey and arrived in Carmel around noon. The skies were gray and the marine layer was thick as pea soup as we followed the GPS to our destination down a narrow road lined with ginormous eucalyptus and pine trees. Tall hedges blocked our view, but the address on the white mailbox at the end of the lane matched the one Mr. Gowan had given us.
“This must be it,” Pierce said.
I continued along a driveway marked private and stopped my BMW in front of a charming one-story yellow bungalow. The red geraniums planted in flower boxes under the windows should have clashed with the paint job, but somehow, they worked. So did the old-fashioned birdbath and the faded welcome mat. I couldn’t help noticing that the porch was swept, the lawn was mowed, and there wasn’t so much as one tiny cobweb under the eaves.
Nonetheless, I stepped behind Pierce when he unlocked the door. If there were any vermin hiding in the shadows, he could take care of business. Or…at least warn me, so I could hightail it into town to find us a cute B and B.
“Well? How is it?” I asked, gnawing my bottom lip on the porch.
“Nice.”
I stepped inside and wow…it was nice, albeit an extreme departure from Mr. Gowan’s elegant Beverly Hills home. This place was cottage chic, circa 1989.
The paneled walls in the living area and adjoining dining room were painted white, faded rugs floated under the khaki-colored slipcovered sofa and a generous armchair with a checked ottoman. Washed-out floral throw pillows were liberally strewn about, and a giant seascape oil painting hung above the brick fireplace. The built-in bookshelves were overflowing with paperbacks and picture frames.
I dropped my bag to the floor and crossed the room to investigate while Pierce propped the groceries on the cooler and carried them into the kitchen.
“Oh, my God.”
Pierce rejoined me in the living room. “What is it?”
I picked up the silver picture frame and pointed at the distinguished-looking gentleman standing next to a much younger Mr. Gowan. Based on fashion style alone, I’d guess it was taken in the eighties. Mr. Gowan would have been in his late forties or early fifties. His hair was darker, his skin was sun-kissed, and his posture was straight as an arrow. He looked healthy, happy, and very much in love.
The other man was tall and handsome with a slender build and a killer smile. His hand rested casually on Mr. Gowan’s shoulder. They could have been two buddies hanging out at a weekend barbecue, but there was something in the way they leaned into each other that told a bigger story.
This had to be David.
I ran my finger between the two men and swallowed hard. “Mr. Gowan was right. You do look like him.”
Pierce furrowed his brow intently. He studied the photo for a long moment before moving on to view the rest. There were dozens displayed in a medley of frame sizes spanning five decades.
There was a black-and-white one that probably dated to the midsixties. They sat on a stoop next to each other, but not touching. Another one of them smoking on the boardwalk, wearing tragically hip sunglasses and flared jeans. Early seventies, for sure. And the one of two white-haired old men, Mr. G in his signature cravat and David wearing a beautifully tailored navy sport coat.
It was a treasure trove, and I had a feeling this was the tip of the iceberg.
“It’s so…”
“Amazing,” I supplied, turning to Pierce with a manic grin.
“Or creepy. I mean, he’s older than me in this one, but…yeah. Eerie.”
“This is a cool slice of your history. A queer cousin’s life revealed in lovingly framed photos. When he was a young adult, a man in his prime, a silver fox…”
“No perving over a dead man, weirdo,” he admonished, returning a frame to the shelf. “C’mon, let’s put the groceries away and check out the rest of the place. We can poke through pictures later.”
The kitchen was bright and airy with white-tiled countertops, well-preserved cabinets, and a large window overlooking a massive backyard with a wood deck. We put the groceries away and moved on to tour the rest of the house. It didn’t take long. There were two small bedrooms, one bathroom, and a closet in the hallway.
The bedrooms were about the same size, but we put our bags in the one with fewer photos ’cause it had more of a guest-room vibe.