Enchanted August by Brenda Bowen Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brenda Bowen
purple flowers in the window boxes,â she said. âI wonder if you have them at
your
cottage.â
He went up the wide staircase to the front door.
âThis
is
my cottage. And Iâm color-blind,â he said, and walked in.
Caroline looked up at Lottie and Rose and smiled. âI think youâll find Beverly Fisher most surprising,â she said.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
Beverly had heard the clomping up the stairs and had at first ignored it. Then he thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was to be disturbed. He craved peace and quiet and utter aloneness after all he had been through. But he could only tolerate aloneness if there were people around.
To keep the others at a fair distance, he had come to the island a day early, imagining, correctly, that the owner or previous tenants would have vacated it by the time he arrived and that he would not need to use the backup bed-and-breakfast heâd booked. That way he would have the pick of rooms and would be able to set himself up exactly as he wished.
Unfortunately, another one of them had had the same idea, but mercifully the Dester woman was as uncommunicative as he was.
The other two he could hear clattering in the kitchen and chattering in the hallways. He did not care for the sound of their voices. While they were safely downstairs he silently slid the small dresser on its bit of old rug in front of the door to the hallway. Now there would be access only from the porch, which had an outdoor staircase to the ground floor. He could come and go just as he chose, and any visitors would have to make a point of being admitted. His room was en suite, as Gorsch used to say, so perhaps he would never see the others at all.
Beverly did not care much for views, being color-blind, but this one seemed to be decent. Friends had often suggested that he and Gorsch visit Maine. âBut of course the love of your life keeps you at home,â Gorsch would say to him. Not just about Maine, but about everywhere.
Beverly had known Gorsch would predecease him, and heâd been prepared for it. They had buried a lot of dead, back in the eighties. Gorsch had âlived positive,â as they put it so commercially, for a very long time. (Beverly hadnât even known about the HIV diagnosis for the first year. Gorsch was a sly one.)
By the time Gorsch died, he was ready. All his papers were in order. They were able to say good-bye in a hospice, as Gorsch had desired. All very dignified, like saying good-bye to a cousin heâd see again. It was not actually Gorschâs death that had undone him.
It was Possumâs.
Beverly couldnât even conjure the name without leaking tears. Possum had been with him through everything. Or almost everything. He had missed the years when Beverly was himself a kitten, in his Beautiful Boy moment. Back when heâd done drugs with a young Tom Ford and danced with an old Andy Warhol. Possum wasnât even there when Beverly was the toast of the high life of the early nineties, when there were so many menâit was raining men! Possum arrived as a kitten, when Beverly reencountered Gorsch and they mated for life.
They had met as teenagersâboys, reallyâin the club that was founded by Beverlyâs great-grandfather. The names of three generations of Fisher men were on the golf tournament plaques and Beverly was to be the fourth. Then a band led by a young Sammy Gorsch took the stage for the month of July and Beverly knew his future would not be what his father had planned.
Beverly flashed on his fatherâs open hand slapping his face over and over and over. His nose bleeding on the shirt and tie he had put on for the Midsummer Dance. A pink shirt and a purple tie that Beverly thought were tan and brown. His mother stood helpless in the background, weeping and begging her husband to stop. But he would not stop.
Gorsch had not been allowed into the country club in New Cotswold,
your
cottage.â
He went up the wide staircase to the front door.
âThis
is
my cottage. And Iâm color-blind,â he said, and walked in.
Caroline looked up at Lottie and Rose and smiled. âI think youâll find Beverly Fisher most surprising,â she said.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
Beverly had heard the clomping up the stairs and had at first ignored it. Then he thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was to be disturbed. He craved peace and quiet and utter aloneness after all he had been through. But he could only tolerate aloneness if there were people around.
To keep the others at a fair distance, he had come to the island a day early, imagining, correctly, that the owner or previous tenants would have vacated it by the time he arrived and that he would not need to use the backup bed-and-breakfast heâd booked. That way he would have the pick of rooms and would be able to set himself up exactly as he wished.
Unfortunately, another one of them had had the same idea, but mercifully the Dester woman was as uncommunicative as he was.
The other two he could hear clattering in the kitchen and chattering in the hallways. He did not care for the sound of their voices. While they were safely downstairs he silently slid the small dresser on its bit of old rug in front of the door to the hallway. Now there would be access only from the porch, which had an outdoor staircase to the ground floor. He could come and go just as he chose, and any visitors would have to make a point of being admitted. His room was en suite, as Gorsch used to say, so perhaps he would never see the others at all.
Beverly did not care much for views, being color-blind, but this one seemed to be decent. Friends had often suggested that he and Gorsch visit Maine. âBut of course the love of your life keeps you at home,â Gorsch would say to him. Not just about Maine, but about everywhere.
Beverly had known Gorsch would predecease him, and heâd been prepared for it. They had buried a lot of dead, back in the eighties. Gorsch had âlived positive,â as they put it so commercially, for a very long time. (Beverly hadnât even known about the HIV diagnosis for the first year. Gorsch was a sly one.)
By the time Gorsch died, he was ready. All his papers were in order. They were able to say good-bye in a hospice, as Gorsch had desired. All very dignified, like saying good-bye to a cousin heâd see again. It was not actually Gorschâs death that had undone him.
It was Possumâs.
Beverly couldnât even conjure the name without leaking tears. Possum had been with him through everything. Or almost everything. He had missed the years when Beverly was himself a kitten, in his Beautiful Boy moment. Back when heâd done drugs with a young Tom Ford and danced with an old Andy Warhol. Possum wasnât even there when Beverly was the toast of the high life of the early nineties, when there were so many menâit was raining men! Possum arrived as a kitten, when Beverly reencountered Gorsch and they mated for life.
They had met as teenagersâboys, reallyâin the club that was founded by Beverlyâs great-grandfather. The names of three generations of Fisher men were on the golf tournament plaques and Beverly was to be the fourth. Then a band led by a young Sammy Gorsch took the stage for the month of July and Beverly knew his future would not be what his father had planned.
Beverly flashed on his fatherâs open hand slapping his face over and over and over. His nose bleeding on the shirt and tie he had put on for the Midsummer Dance. A pink shirt and a purple tie that Beverly thought were tan and brown. His mother stood helpless in the background, weeping and begging her husband to stop. But he would not stop.
Gorsch had not been allowed into the country club in New Cotswold,