As he neared his destination he began looking for a driveway or a mailbox but saw neither. Then the female voice of the GPS began to insist that he make a U-turn. He did so and retraced his track until the U-turn message came again. This time he slowed down to ten miles per hour, but he still nearly missed an overgrown, gravel track: no street number, no mailbox. He turned into the track and proceeded slowly, branches on either side scraping against the car. After a quarter of a mile or so the little road widened and became paved with granite cobblestones, winding through a corridor of old oak trees until he passed through a high, wrought-iron gate and into a forecourt before a large brick house of the Federal style — three stories, the corners and windows trimmed in limestone. The place practically gleamed with good care and fresh paint.
As he came to a halt the front door opened and an Asian man in a white jacket, black trousers, and black bow tie trotted down the front walk to the car.
“Good morning. Mr. Willard?”
“I am,” Bruce replied.
“May I take your luggage?”
“There’s just the duffel in the backseat.”
“I am Manolo,” the man said. “I take care of Mr. Hills. Please follow me.”
Bruce trailed him up the walk and into the house and a broad foyer containing a Georgian table so beautiful that he had to resist stroking it, upon which rested a heavy silver bowl filled with fresh flowers.
“The living room is to the left,” Manolo said, pointing, “and the library to the right. Your room is upstairs.” He trotted up the broad staircase and opened the first door down the hallway to the right. “This is the Elm Room,” Manolo said. “Mr. Hills hopes you will be comfortable here.”
Bruce surveyed the room — the canopied bed, the comfortable chairs before an Adam fireplace, the good pictures, the fine fabrics. “I’m sure I will be,” he said.
Manolo opened the door to a dressing room. “Would you like me to unpack for you?”
“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”
“Mr. Hills expects you for lunch in half an hour,” the man said. “He will meet you in the library.”
“How are we dressing?” Bruce asked. He was wearing a blue suit and a necktie, since he did not know if he would have time or a place to change before the funeral.
“You are perfectly dressed, sir. Is there anything else I may do for you?”
“Thank you, no, Manolo. I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”
Manolo left, closing the heavy mahogany door softly behind him. Bruce took his toiletry items into the big marble bathroom, splashed some water on his face, then took off his jacket and sat in a comfortable chair for a few minutes, still numb.
At the appointed hour Bruce put his jacket on again, adjusted his necktie, and walked downstairs to the library. A man was sitting at a desk, wielding a magnifying glass, examining an album of stamps. He looked up and stood. “Good afternoon, Mr. Willard,” he said.
Bruce thought he looked exactly as Evan would have looked in thirty years: slim, beautifully tailored, with thick white hair.
Elton Hills came around the desk and offered his hand, then directed Bruce to a wing chair before the large fireplace, where a fire burned brightly. “Would you like a glass of sherry before lunch?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes.” He sat down, and a moment later Manolo appeared with a silver tray bearing a black bottle and two glasses. He poured the wine and handed it to Bruce and Mr. Hills, then left.
“It’s a fino, nicely chilled,” Hills said. “It won’t get you drunk before lunch.”
Bruce tasted it. “Excellent,” he said.
“Have you ever visited Spain?” Hills asked.
“Yes, in fact I once attended the sherry harvest festival in Jerez de la Frontera, as the guest of one of the houses there.”
“And did you enjoy the experience?”
“It was a week of relentless debauchery,” Bruce replied. “Every time I turned around there was someone with a bottle of sherry, refilling my glass. There was a bullfight, a fiera, and in the wee hours, after dinner, much flamenco dancing, much of it by members of my host firm and their domestic staff.”
Hills smiled. “I did that once, too — once was enough.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Tell me, Mr. Willard, was my son a queer?”
“Yes,” Bruce replied, “as am I, though these days we prefer ‘gay.’ We were lovers as well as friends.”
Hills winced noticeably. “I was afraid of that.”
“Mr. Hills, if you are uncomfortable in my company, I can leave now.”
Hills made a placating motion with his hands. “No, please. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m an old man, unaccustomed to today’s ways, and there are many things I don’t understand.”
“Are you of a religious nature, Mr. Hills?”
“I am.”
“Well then, all I can say to you on the subject is that God made us all, and he made us as we are. Evan and I no more chose our sexual orientation than you chose yours.”
“You’re quite right, I suppose. I didn’t choose to be heterosexual, I just was.”
“And there you have it in a nutshell.”
Manolo entered the room and called them to lunch. They did not speak again about sexuality.
40
They dined on butternut squash soup and perfectly cooked lamb chops and shared half a bottle of a French wine. The plates were taken away, and while they awaited dessert, Elton Hills began to speak quietly.
“I suppose I could be considered by some as a recluse,” he said. “My wife died nearly twenty years ago, and, without really thinking about it, I began to leave this house less and less.”
“It’s a beautiful house, beautifully kept,” Bruce replied.
“Thank you. It was built by my great-great-grandfather, after the American Revolution, and my grandfather and father made judicious additions. I have contented myself with preservation.” He took a sip of his wine. “It is my great regret that I secluded myself not only from the outside world, but from my only remaining son. My firstborn, Elton Junior, in a burst of patriotism of which I heartily approved, joined the army and became a platoon leader in Special Forces. He gave his life for his country.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Bruce said.
“How did you come to be in the military?”
“I was born in a small town in Georgia called Delano,” Bruce replied. “As I approached college age, my only alternative was a branch of the state university, but my father had gone to high school with our congressman, and he secured an appointment to West Point for me. I did well there and made my career in the army. I was executive officer of a Special Forces unit when, leading a patrol, I stepped on a land mine. After a year at Walter Reed, I retired. I had saved most of my pay, and I used that to open my shop in Washington.”
“I like an entrepreneur,” Hills said.
“I’m very impressed with the quality of your pieces in this house,” Bruce said. “I would like to specialize in American furniture, but the prices have risen so much that I haven’t had the capital to invest. As you know, Evan was very kind to me in his will, and I’ve thought of funding a furniture operation with some of that.”
“What a good idea,” Hills said. “You know, once Evan was out of law school, he wouldn’t take anything from me. His mother left him a modest bequest, and I was very glad to see that he had grown his estate so much during his life. Now I have no heirs, only a foundation.”
Bruce didn’t know what to say about that, so he only nodded.
Dessert was served, and Elton Hills changed the subject. “This Mr. Barrington sent me copies of a story about Evan that appears in today’s New York Times,” he said. “Did you know about all that?”