Page 51 of Something Like Winter

“Until you find the right girl,” Tim whispered. “The one who can give you that family. Just be with me until then.”

Travis tried to say something, his voice coming out a squeak, but he nodded against his shoulder. Tim hurt inside as much as he felt happy. This was progress, right? Once Travis had pulled himself together, they got back in the car and kept driving. This time Tim stayed quiet, not wanting to push his luck.

“A Plymouth Road Runner,” Travis said eventually. “That’s what you should get.”

Tim fought down a smile. “Do they even make those anymore?”

“Nope. They’re classic. Especially if you can get one from ’68 or ’69 before they updated the body. If we shop around, get a fixer-upper, you might end up with left-over cash.”

Tim doubted that. He was a latest-and-greatest kind of guy when it came to cars. But hell, if it brought Travis around, maybe he would sell his car for an old junker. Travis sang the praises of a Road Runner for a while, Tim’s focus split between where they were going and Travis’s need for a normal life. Once Tim had yearned for the same thing, but he knew now that it was impossible. He could pretend, and would probably have to his entire life, but nothing would ever be normal for him again.

Tim turned his attention to their surroundings before he became even more disoriented. Most of the houses were set back in the trees, with only the driveways and spindly mailboxes indicating where the residences were. Tim slowed next to each, reading the number before driving farther along as the curving roads rose with the hills.

“Are we lost?” Travis asked.

“Quentin smirked when he mentioned this guy,” Tim said. “Probably because he knew his house would be so damn hard to find. Left or right?” he asked at a fork in the road.

“Right.”

Travis’s guess was lucky because they found the correct address just two properties down. Tim pulled into the driveway and parked in front of a separate garage that looked outdated rather than ritzy. The rest of the house was pure money, if not from sheer size then from the complexity of the design. The owner must have gotten the architect high before showing him a bunch of Picasso’s cubist paintings. Wood, iron, stone, wire—it seemed any material possible was integrated to create the right lines and definitions. Viewed from afar, Tim had no doubt the house was a work of art. Up close, it appeared confused at best, the white cube buildings arranged together awkwardly. Then again, the design was gutsy and wholly original.

“Whoever lives here must be crazy,” Travis said.

“Eccentric,” Tim corrected. “The rich are eccentric.”

“What’s this guy called?”

Tim checked the list again. “Eric Conroy. Let’s go say hello.”

They took their time walking to the front door, scoping out the whole thing. When Tim rang the doorbell, he expected to hear a bizarre noise, maybe a baaing sheep, but the chime sounded as normal as could be. Nor was there anything unusual about the man who opened the door. He was older, his hair charcoal gray and his build small. His clothing didn’t seem expensive, the navy blue shirt and gray slacks appearing comfortable and worn. He arched a brow and waited for them to address him.

“Eric Conroy?”

“Yes. Let me guess. Alpha Theta Sigma.”

Tim grinned. “How did you know?”

“Oh, something about your appearance.” Eric winked and motioned them in.

Most large houses have a huge entryway built to impress or a staircase curving up to the second floor. This house had neither. Beyond the front door was a comfortable sitting room, almost like a hotel lobby. Practical, since Eric was able to offer them a seat without leading them through his home. Four couches embroidered with gold thread faced each other. A mini-bar in one corner stood near an unlit fireplace. Tim could see a guest bathroom through one door and a glimpse of the rest of the house beyond another. He and Travis took a seat next to each other, Eric sitting across from them.

“Something to drink?” he offered.

“I’m fine. Travis?”

“No. Thank you, sir.”

“How polite,” Eric said. “Travis, is it? And you are?”

“Tim.” He half-stood to offer his hand, which Eric rose to take without a firm grip or a hearty shake—like holding hands for the briefest of moments. Then the process was repeated with Travis, who pumped Eric’s arm up and down like a proper country boy.

“It’s always good to meet a brother,” Travis said with an appealing grin.

Tim wished fleetingly that he could get Travis to smile at him like that before turning his full attention to Eric. “This is a beautiful home,” he said. “Are you the original owner?”

“Yes,” Eric said. “I had it built some years ago, before you were even born, I’d wager.”

“Did you design it yourself?”