Sultry Sunset Read Free

“That’s awesome.”
    I pointed to the health and beauty aids. “Now you go get what you need, the bathroom’s in the back, and—”
    “How do I know what to get?”
    She asked me like I should have known, and by all rights, I shouldn’t have, but I did because I had sisters. All three of them were older, and I’d spent my entire childhood with them in every nook and cranny of my life, prying and oversharing, dragging me places, dressing me, smothering me with love and devotion. That had made coming out a nonevent in my house, and yes, I knew about times of the month. My sisters had informed my life. They explained the birds and the bees and sat with me, all three of them, when I told my parents I was gay. And they hugged my parents, just as hard as I did, when Mom and Dad said, yes, fine, whatever, gay was great, as long as I was happy, and did I know about protection? God. Of course I knew—I had sisters.
    “Hutch?”
    “Sorry,” I said softly, feeling suddenly sentimental. “I need to call my family.”
    “Right now?”
    “No, not right now.”
    “So, then, will you come with me?” she asked in a small voice.
    “Of course.”
    We went down an aisle I was truthfully never on, and I grabbed what I thought was best. She had questions and I answered, and then I sent her off to the bathroom while I waited at one of the tables in the café. Benny sat politely beside me, tail thwapping the floor, happy to see everyone walking by.
    My employees started wandering over one by one, and I greeted them, smiled, laughed, and finally my assistant manager, Mike Rojas, came swaggering up and flopped down in front of me, giving me the blinding grin he’d just started showing off lately.
    When I first hired him a year ago, he was quiet, reserved, and sullen. He’d lost his wife in a car accident two years before while he was out of town on business. He never got to say good-bye. It haunted him, and he left his job as a day trader in San Francisco, sold his home in Pacific Heights, packed up his life, and drove around from place to place—crisscrossing the United States—and finally ended up in Florida. I met him when he was sitting on the back deck of Blue Days. I’d gone to take my friend Takeo, who owned that particular bed-and-breakfast, a case of snail egg caviar he’d ordered from me. Takeo shoved me out the back door to the patio and told me his newest guest needed a job.
    Mike was stunning, drop-dead gorgeous, but that wasn’t what I noticed first—instead it was the pain etched on every part of his face.
    “Hi,” I blurted.
    He scowled.
    “I’m in need of an assistant manager at my grocery store, and Takeo seems to think that you want to stay here in Mangrove. Any experience in retail?”
    I could tell he was going to thank me and say no, but I crossed my arms at that exact moment and squinted, waiting.
    “I don’t want to waste your time,” he said softly.
    “Then don’t,” I said flatly. “Just tell me what you can do.”
    He had to think.
    “Is there anything?”
    “I’m not sure,” he answered honestly, his voice cracking.
    “Start at the beginning.”
    So he did.
    And I sat.
    We talked the afternoon away. Takeo fed us, and I had no idea why, but every time I said he didn’t have to, he hushed me, patted my shoulder, and left.
    “He’s a weird guy,” Mike—never Michael, because that was who he’d been to his wife—said, watching Takeo retreat into the house. “I feel like he’s trying to read my mind.”
    “He probably is,” I agreed, “and has. He tries to take care of everyone.”
    “My wife, Janey, was just like that.”
    He went on and told me his whole life story. He needed to tell it and I wanted to hear it. About midnight, when Dwyer, Takeo’s husband, came out to tell us he was taking the help to bed and that we had to be quiet and get our own damn coffee from then on—Takeo had never brought out any alcohol—I turned and offered Mike a job.
    He promptly accepted.