Truth to Tell
Part 3
Beginning with a call to the garage concerning the car, Saturday morning passed in a whirl of chores. Robin, under strong protest and close supervision, sorted through the stacks of post, magazines and various sundry papers covering the table beside the front door. It had been at least a week since Tristan had seen its top. Resisting every step of the way, Robin argued the merits of each item as if it were the Rosetta stone.
"Darling, we've read the articles and set aside the bills. We simply don't have room for everything in the Robin Duncan Archives," Tristan pronounced over grumbled protests.
The grumbles subsided during a trip to the shops to buy enough food to last the weekend and into Monday. The size of the refrigerator did not allow any more than that. Robin hurried up and down the aisles, thoroughly at home in a way Tristan had never been despite three years of shopping there.
Depositing their purchases at home, they walked to the garage and picked up the now running car. According to the mechanic, one of the wires had worked loose from its connection, but he had soldered it firmly into place. He swore the repair would last longer than the rest of the engine.
Getting into the car, Tristan turned away from home, following the streets out of the city and into the countryside. Beside him, Robin slid down in his seat, his eyes on the passing landscape as he hummed along with the radio. Tristan laced his fingers through Robin's where they rested on his thigh. Turning his hand over, Robin clasped his hand and smiled at him — the bright, sweet smile that lit his face and Tristan's heart.
After an hour of driving, Tristan pulled into the car park of a small inn. There were few cars at this hour when lunch was over and dinner was hours away.
"Have you been here before?" Robin asked as they walked in.
"No, I've passed by and always wanted to stop." He smiled at the older woman who came out of the dining room. "Are you still serving?"
"Yes, sir. Market day is busy, but you've missed most of the luncheon crowd." She picked up two menus. "Now, would you like to eat in the dining room or on the terrace?"
Tristan glanced at Robin who nodded. "The terrace, I think."
"It's a beautiful day for it. First good Saturday we've had this spring." She led them through the bar and outside. Five tables were set along a low stone wall, and only one was occupied. "Is this all right?" she asked, showing them to a table at the far end.
"Yes, this is fine."
She seated them, handing them both menus before taking their drinks order and leaving them alone.
"All right?" Tristan asked when Robin did not seem inclined to comment.
Lifting his eyes from the river rushing by below with the last of the winter run-off, Robin nodded. "Oh, yes! Thank you for thinking of this."
When the waitress returned with their glasses of wine, Robin still had not found anything on the menu. Tristan watched his attention flit between that, the waitress as she read off the day's specials, and a flight of birds overhead. His foot had not stopped tapping since they had sat down.
"And what will you have, dear?" the waitress asked him after Tristan had chosen the trout. "The chef's grill is popular today."
Robin closed his menu, clearly relieved to have the responsibility taken out of his hands. "I'll have that, please."
Tristan held up one hand to stay the waitress from writing it down. "Are you sure, Robbie? I didn't think you cared for lamb."
A blush flooded Robin's fair skin with colour. "Oh, I didn't know it was lamb." Reopening the menu, he scanned it again, but Tristan knew he was not taking it in.
"You mentioned beef, I think," Tristan said to the waitress.
She flipped over her order pad and read, "Medallions of beef in a burgundy-wine sauce."
Shaking his head slightly, Robin continued reading. "Umm..."
"The chef does a lovely salad with warm duck," she tried. "Just right for an afternoon like this."
"That's it. I'll have that."
The waitress spared Tristan a glance before writing it down. Collecting the menus, she hurried off to put in their order.
Robin fidgeted with his silverware, aligning each piece with the next until Tristan thought he would go mad with the precision of it. When the cutlery would have passed inspection in every branch of the military, he rearranged the breadbasket. Tristan slid the butter pats out of harm's way, reducing Robin to drumming his fingers lightly on the table.
Finally having had enough, Tristan covered Robin's hand with his own. "Enough! Settle down, young man."
Startled out of his thoughts, eyes that were more blue than grey today focused on him. "What?"
"Would you please sit still for a few minutes? Enjoy the view, listen to the water or try making conversation."
"Sorry."
Continuing to hold onto his hand, he ran his thumb over Robin's knuckles. "Do you know why we came here?"
"To make sure the car runs properly?"
"Besides that."
Robin started to shake his head, but Tristan gripped his hand tighter and murmured, "Yes, you do, love."
The answer was barely above a whisper. "So we can talk."
"Almost. You're going to talk, and I'm going to listen to everything you say."
"But you already know everything — all the important parts, at least," Robin protested.
"We're going to discuss it one last time with no secrets between us, all right?"
"I don't want you to be angry with me."
"Love, I'm not angry with you. I wasn't yesterday, and I'm not now. Puzzled, yes; angry, no."
"But I'd be angry if you —"
Tristan shook his head, letting go of Robin's hand as he saw their waitress appear in the distance. "No, you wouldn't be. I know you, and you wouldn't be. Now we're going to enjoy our lunch, then we'll take a walk along the river."
"I don't think I can eat," Robin whispered.
"None of that," Tristan warned him. "We're going to enjoy this, and you're not going to fret away this beautiful day.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Far too soon for Robin's tastes, the waitress cleared away their dishes. Tristan refused a viewing of the sweets trolley as he paid the amount they owed, but promised to return after they had taken a walk.
The footpath meandered through the dried-out weeds and tall grasses along the edge of the river. A few wood benches, grey-white with age, sat back from the path at irregular intervals. They strolled in silence, Tristan occasionally pointing out something of interest, seemingly without care. Robin could barely reply over the dread that filled him.
When they were well out of sight of the restaurant, Tristan left the path and headed for a hillock affording views of the water rushing by and the path in both directions. Robin trailed along behind, his hands playing with a small stick he had picked up. As Tristan made himself comfortable, Robin tried — as he had for the last twenty-four hours — to come up with something to say.
"Whenever you're ready, Robbie."
"Where should I start?" Robin asked, wishing desperately for a cigarette for the first time in weeks. Tristan had nearly had apoplexy when he had admitted to three bouts of bronchitis in the previous year. Somewhere in the midst of a stinging lecture on the importance of taking care of one's health, he had forbidden him from even so much as thinking of ever taking another drag.
"Wherever you're comfortable. At the beginning if that helps." Tristan leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs at the ankle, then watched a paddling of ducks swim by.
Picking at the bark on the stick with his fingernail, Robin tried to comply. It was amazing how utterly devoid of thought his mind could be upon occasion. Odd for someone who lived in his mind the way writers do. Any second now he would be able to hear echoes. There was that one time while he was still at school, and --
"Robin?"
He jumped a foot in the air, almost dropping the stick. "I don't know what to say, Tris," he complained.
Tristan weighed his words, then leaned forward and offered his hand. "How do you do? I'm Tristan Averill, and you are...?"
"Rob — Elliott Robert Duncan." At Tristan's nod, he took a breath and continued. "Since my father is called Robert, they called me Robin." His fingers worried off more bark. "To tell us apart, you know?"
He darted a quick glance up at Tristan as he plunged on. "I don't know him terribly well — my father, that is. When I was at school, we would have dinner when he stopped through on his way somewhere. Most of the time, though, he was away, reporting the latest political coup or war in some country I'd never heard of."
A couple appeared on the path escorted by two children and a small terrier, and Robin watched them until he was certain they were out of earshot. Rocking back on his heels, he tried to remember exactly what he'd been saying. Perplexed, he looked at Tristan for guidance.
"He must be proud of your success," Tristan interjected. "Father and son both well-known writers."
Robin focused all his attention on the stick. "He isn't. There he is interviewing world leaders or documenting crimes against humanity while his son wastes his time and the modicum of talent he possesses writing fairy stories." Throwing the stick away, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Before I had even left school, he contacted a colleague at one of the news magazines and found me a position at the international desk. That's where he started, and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, you see. When I told him I'd already taken a position as research assistant for one of my professors, he was beyond furious with me. He called from Singapore and read me a lecture on filial responsibility and my effrontery in ignoring his legacy. After two hours, he slammed the phone down when he finished and hasn't spoken to me since."
"You lived in his house all winter," Tristan offered quietly.
"He wasn't there, and I don't think he bothered knowing I was."
"Oh, Robbie..."
"No, it's all right. I've spent most of my life with only the smallest amount of parental involvement. I barely see the difference."
"You said your mother died when you were young."
"When I was three. My father remarried two years later. I loved Eleanor, but she divorced him after a couple of years. I think she was fed up with always coming second to his work. Five years after that, he married Daphne. She was his assistant at the time. Mutually convenient for both. He got a full-time, live-in secretary. She got a famous husband with an impressive income."
"And now?"
"When he decided he was tired of living out of a suitcase, Daphne decided they simply had to live in Paris. Not so she could be with him, you understand, but so she could be in Paris." Struggling with the rush of anger he felt rising, Robin began pacing. "She told me I'd have to get out two days before she left. She was bringing in the builders and the decorators, and didn't want me 'underfoot'." He looked at Tristan then, his eyes bright with anger. "It wasn't fair! I hadn't any warning, no chance to prepare. Just get your things together, and get out."
"You couldn't have stayed there by yourself? You're more than old enough."
Robin shook his head. "There wasn't any discussion. There never is. When Daphne makes a decision, everyone abides by it."
"But surely if you'd spoken to your father —"
"My father found out a long time ago that his life is a great deal more pleasant when he allows her to have her way. I don't blame him. She's a bitch and worse when she's crossed."
"Robin!"
"Sorry, but she is." He chewed on his lower lip before continuing. "Anyway, she's why I stayed with Jamie. He let me sleep on his sofa for a few nights until his roommate complained."
"And then?"
Robin forced the words out. "Edward suggested I use his spare room."
"Did you think of staying in a hotel?"
"I was ill, Tris! I couldn't think clearly. My head ached, and it hurt so much to breathe. I know I should have been more careful, but I'd met him through a friend of Jamie's, and he seemed harmless enough." He left out Jamie's protests when he had told him his plans and his own assurances that he could easily handle the situation.
"And when did you find out he wasn't all that harmless?"
Feeling the heat rise in his face, Robin returned his gaze to the ground. "The third day I was there, he came into my room and said he, ah, wanted to...take p-pictures of me."
"And you said?" Tristan prompted him.
"No, of course not!"
"Just making certain. Go on, love."
"He told me I was an ungrateful bastard and slapped me. I shoved him away and ran for it."
Tristan pulled on their joined hands until Robin knelt between his legs then wrapped his arms around him. "Darling, do you realise how that could have turned out? How lucky you were?" he asked. "My blood runs cold when I think of your going back alone to get your things."
Cold was not the temperature which immediately sprang to mind when Robin recalled the spanking that had accompanied his homecoming. "But he was at work, honestly he was! I was in and out in ten minutes!"
"Suppose you had run into him. He was angry with you for refusing, imagine how furious he must have been after the police arrested him for disturbing the peace. He could have hurt you very, very badly."
"I know it was stupid —"
"If you ever consider doing something that foolish again, I promise you that you won't sit down for a week." He shook Robin. "Do you understand me, young man?"
Afraid Tristan would choose to give him a demonstration, Robin nodded rapidly. "I swear I won't."
"Now finish your story."
Robin blinked. He had covered everything he thought important.
"Your writing?"
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that."
"I didn't lie when I told you I'd taken time off to research a book. When Professor Dunn told me last September that she was taking a year's sabbatical at the end of term, I decided I would as well. I had the advance from the first book to live on, and I was living at home so, if I were careful, I could afford it. And I've worked almost every day on the new story. I'll show you my notes and things when we get home."
"Wherever did the first one come from?"
"Two years ago, my stepsister Catherine told me she and her husband were expecting a baby. She's twelve years older than I am, and she and David have always been very kind to me — inviting me for holidays, sending gifts on my birthday, and driving up to school to take me out on Saturdays. I thought I might repay some of their kindness by writing a story for the baby. Professor Dunn read the final draft and liked it. She introduced me to an editor from Sherbourne Press at a dinner party she gave. Chris was amazing! We talked for a long time after everyone had left, and I ended up sending him a copy of the manuscript. A month later, he called and said they wanted to publish it."
"And that's where Robin Elliott came in."
"When Sherbourne decided they were interested, I realised it wouldn't do to use my own name. My father is well known, and I knew he wouldn't appreciate my riding his coat tails after I'd refused his help. So, when Chris suggested using my first name as my last, I agreed."
"And the secrecy?"
"Beyond the Hedgerow is the story of a hedgehog and a field mouse. Hardly the auspicious start to the literary career I envisioned. I thought it might sell a few copies before it disappeared off the shelves. If people I knew saw it at all, very few of them would connect the author with me. I could return to serious writing, and they would be none the wiser."
"But that's not what happened."
"No, people seemed to like the story, and it began to sell. The more it sold and the more attention it garnered, the more important it became to prevent anyone from finding out I was Robin Elliott. Even when Sherbourne contracted another story, I was determined that this was a one-off thing, that I would get back to real writing." He turned around so he could lean his head back against Tristan's shoulder. "As I've worked, I've come to realise I'll never write a complex, cerebral novel. I don't have it in me. I think it's rather like playing an instrument and finding out you'll always be second chair, never the virtuoso."
Tristan shifted position on the hard ground. "'The public seemed to like' it? Robin, last Christmas people queued up around bookstores, trying to find a copy. I know because I was one of them, trying to find it for my niece. I had Sarah calling all over, and no one had it. It was the end of January before it was on the shelves again."
"The first printing was small," Robin explained. "They're always careful with a first book, especially one for children."
Tristan sighed beside his ear, and he wondered if he had missed the point. "I don't think you'll be able to keep this quiet much longer, Robbie."
"I want it to last as long as possible. There are only a handful of people who know — ten now with you and that private investigator, so I suppose that's more than a handful."
"Your publisher must want you to do book tours and interviews and the like."
"They want the manuscript I'm working on more so they've agreed to say I'm unavailable as I'm busy writing — which is true," he carefully pointed out. "For print interviews, they email questions to me. I've never once spoken with a reporter."
When he finished talking, Robin leaned back into Tristan's solid frame, drained. He closed his eyes, revelling in the warmth of the sun on his face.
"Is that everything now?" Tristan asked after another moment.
Robin nodded. "Everything." He turned to peer into Tristan's face. "Are we all right?"
"Perfectly. Robbie, do you see how easy this was?"
For the life of him, Robin did not but he forbore to mention it.
"I wish you'd told me this at the start. It would have been so much easier on both of us. In the future, I expect total honesty from you. Nothing held back waiting until the right moment presents itself." He gave Robin a quick kiss. "Do we understand each other?"
"Completely."
"Come then, let's go find dessert."
Robin scrambled to his feet and held out a hand to pull Tristan to his feet. Glancing in both directions, he threw himself into Tristan's arms and savaged his mouth with kisses until they were both breathless.
Pulling away, Tristan held off a second onslaught by holding Robin at arm's length with a hand against his chest. "No more or I won't be held accountable for my actions," he gasped.
Trying to duck around the hand blocking his way, Robin shook his head. "Tell them I took advantage of you."
"I fully plan on doing just that when we get home."
Robin spun and started back to the path. "Let's go then."
Catching up to him a few long strides, Tristan grabbed his hand. "Hey, what's the hurry? The sweets will keep a bit longer," he teased.
"They might, but I won't. Hurry up, Tris!"
Dragged along behind him, Tristan inquired, "Are you saying no to profiteroles, Robin? That's unheard of for you."
Robin changed direction back toward the restaurant. "We'll get them as takeaway," he announced over his shoulder.
The sound of Tristan's laughter followed him up the path.
Tristan and Robin
"Darling, we've read the articles and set aside the bills. We simply don't have room for everything in the Robin Duncan Archives," Tristan pronounced over grumbled protests.
The grumbles subsided during a trip to the shops to buy enough food to last the weekend and into Monday. The size of the refrigerator did not allow any more than that. Robin hurried up and down the aisles, thoroughly at home in a way Tristan had never been despite three years of shopping there.
Depositing their purchases at home, they walked to the garage and picked up the now running car. According to the mechanic, one of the wires had worked loose from its connection, but he had soldered it firmly into place. He swore the repair would last longer than the rest of the engine.
Getting into the car, Tristan turned away from home, following the streets out of the city and into the countryside. Beside him, Robin slid down in his seat, his eyes on the passing landscape as he hummed along with the radio. Tristan laced his fingers through Robin's where they rested on his thigh. Turning his hand over, Robin clasped his hand and smiled at him — the bright, sweet smile that lit his face and Tristan's heart.
After an hour of driving, Tristan pulled into the car park of a small inn. There were few cars at this hour when lunch was over and dinner was hours away.
"Have you been here before?" Robin asked as they walked in.
"No, I've passed by and always wanted to stop." He smiled at the older woman who came out of the dining room. "Are you still serving?"
"Yes, sir. Market day is busy, but you've missed most of the luncheon crowd." She picked up two menus. "Now, would you like to eat in the dining room or on the terrace?"
Tristan glanced at Robin who nodded. "The terrace, I think."
"It's a beautiful day for it. First good Saturday we've had this spring." She led them through the bar and outside. Five tables were set along a low stone wall, and only one was occupied. "Is this all right?" she asked, showing them to a table at the far end.
"Yes, this is fine."
She seated them, handing them both menus before taking their drinks order and leaving them alone.
"All right?" Tristan asked when Robin did not seem inclined to comment.
Lifting his eyes from the river rushing by below with the last of the winter run-off, Robin nodded. "Oh, yes! Thank you for thinking of this."
When the waitress returned with their glasses of wine, Robin still had not found anything on the menu. Tristan watched his attention flit between that, the waitress as she read off the day's specials, and a flight of birds overhead. His foot had not stopped tapping since they had sat down.
"And what will you have, dear?" the waitress asked him after Tristan had chosen the trout. "The chef's grill is popular today."
Robin closed his menu, clearly relieved to have the responsibility taken out of his hands. "I'll have that, please."
Tristan held up one hand to stay the waitress from writing it down. "Are you sure, Robbie? I didn't think you cared for lamb."
A blush flooded Robin's fair skin with colour. "Oh, I didn't know it was lamb." Reopening the menu, he scanned it again, but Tristan knew he was not taking it in.
"You mentioned beef, I think," Tristan said to the waitress.
She flipped over her order pad and read, "Medallions of beef in a burgundy-wine sauce."
Shaking his head slightly, Robin continued reading. "Umm..."
"The chef does a lovely salad with warm duck," she tried. "Just right for an afternoon like this."
"That's it. I'll have that."
The waitress spared Tristan a glance before writing it down. Collecting the menus, she hurried off to put in their order.
Robin fidgeted with his silverware, aligning each piece with the next until Tristan thought he would go mad with the precision of it. When the cutlery would have passed inspection in every branch of the military, he rearranged the breadbasket. Tristan slid the butter pats out of harm's way, reducing Robin to drumming his fingers lightly on the table.
Finally having had enough, Tristan covered Robin's hand with his own. "Enough! Settle down, young man."
Startled out of his thoughts, eyes that were more blue than grey today focused on him. "What?"
"Would you please sit still for a few minutes? Enjoy the view, listen to the water or try making conversation."
"Sorry."
Continuing to hold onto his hand, he ran his thumb over Robin's knuckles. "Do you know why we came here?"
"To make sure the car runs properly?"
"Besides that."
Robin started to shake his head, but Tristan gripped his hand tighter and murmured, "Yes, you do, love."
The answer was barely above a whisper. "So we can talk."
"Almost. You're going to talk, and I'm going to listen to everything you say."
"But you already know everything — all the important parts, at least," Robin protested.
"We're going to discuss it one last time with no secrets between us, all right?"
"I don't want you to be angry with me."
"Love, I'm not angry with you. I wasn't yesterday, and I'm not now. Puzzled, yes; angry, no."
"But I'd be angry if you —"
Tristan shook his head, letting go of Robin's hand as he saw their waitress appear in the distance. "No, you wouldn't be. I know you, and you wouldn't be. Now we're going to enjoy our lunch, then we'll take a walk along the river."
"I don't think I can eat," Robin whispered.
"None of that," Tristan warned him. "We're going to enjoy this, and you're not going to fret away this beautiful day.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Far too soon for Robin's tastes, the waitress cleared away their dishes. Tristan refused a viewing of the sweets trolley as he paid the amount they owed, but promised to return after they had taken a walk.
The footpath meandered through the dried-out weeds and tall grasses along the edge of the river. A few wood benches, grey-white with age, sat back from the path at irregular intervals. They strolled in silence, Tristan occasionally pointing out something of interest, seemingly without care. Robin could barely reply over the dread that filled him.
When they were well out of sight of the restaurant, Tristan left the path and headed for a hillock affording views of the water rushing by and the path in both directions. Robin trailed along behind, his hands playing with a small stick he had picked up. As Tristan made himself comfortable, Robin tried — as he had for the last twenty-four hours — to come up with something to say.
"Whenever you're ready, Robbie."
"Where should I start?" Robin asked, wishing desperately for a cigarette for the first time in weeks. Tristan had nearly had apoplexy when he had admitted to three bouts of bronchitis in the previous year. Somewhere in the midst of a stinging lecture on the importance of taking care of one's health, he had forbidden him from even so much as thinking of ever taking another drag.
"Wherever you're comfortable. At the beginning if that helps." Tristan leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs at the ankle, then watched a paddling of ducks swim by.
Picking at the bark on the stick with his fingernail, Robin tried to comply. It was amazing how utterly devoid of thought his mind could be upon occasion. Odd for someone who lived in his mind the way writers do. Any second now he would be able to hear echoes. There was that one time while he was still at school, and --
"Robin?"
He jumped a foot in the air, almost dropping the stick. "I don't know what to say, Tris," he complained.
Tristan weighed his words, then leaned forward and offered his hand. "How do you do? I'm Tristan Averill, and you are...?"
"Rob — Elliott Robert Duncan." At Tristan's nod, he took a breath and continued. "Since my father is called Robert, they called me Robin." His fingers worried off more bark. "To tell us apart, you know?"
He darted a quick glance up at Tristan as he plunged on. "I don't know him terribly well — my father, that is. When I was at school, we would have dinner when he stopped through on his way somewhere. Most of the time, though, he was away, reporting the latest political coup or war in some country I'd never heard of."
A couple appeared on the path escorted by two children and a small terrier, and Robin watched them until he was certain they were out of earshot. Rocking back on his heels, he tried to remember exactly what he'd been saying. Perplexed, he looked at Tristan for guidance.
"He must be proud of your success," Tristan interjected. "Father and son both well-known writers."
Robin focused all his attention on the stick. "He isn't. There he is interviewing world leaders or documenting crimes against humanity while his son wastes his time and the modicum of talent he possesses writing fairy stories." Throwing the stick away, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Before I had even left school, he contacted a colleague at one of the news magazines and found me a position at the international desk. That's where he started, and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, you see. When I told him I'd already taken a position as research assistant for one of my professors, he was beyond furious with me. He called from Singapore and read me a lecture on filial responsibility and my effrontery in ignoring his legacy. After two hours, he slammed the phone down when he finished and hasn't spoken to me since."
"You lived in his house all winter," Tristan offered quietly.
"He wasn't there, and I don't think he bothered knowing I was."
"Oh, Robbie..."
"No, it's all right. I've spent most of my life with only the smallest amount of parental involvement. I barely see the difference."
"You said your mother died when you were young."
"When I was three. My father remarried two years later. I loved Eleanor, but she divorced him after a couple of years. I think she was fed up with always coming second to his work. Five years after that, he married Daphne. She was his assistant at the time. Mutually convenient for both. He got a full-time, live-in secretary. She got a famous husband with an impressive income."
"And now?"
"When he decided he was tired of living out of a suitcase, Daphne decided they simply had to live in Paris. Not so she could be with him, you understand, but so she could be in Paris." Struggling with the rush of anger he felt rising, Robin began pacing. "She told me I'd have to get out two days before she left. She was bringing in the builders and the decorators, and didn't want me 'underfoot'." He looked at Tristan then, his eyes bright with anger. "It wasn't fair! I hadn't any warning, no chance to prepare. Just get your things together, and get out."
"You couldn't have stayed there by yourself? You're more than old enough."
Robin shook his head. "There wasn't any discussion. There never is. When Daphne makes a decision, everyone abides by it."
"But surely if you'd spoken to your father —"
"My father found out a long time ago that his life is a great deal more pleasant when he allows her to have her way. I don't blame him. She's a bitch and worse when she's crossed."
"Robin!"
"Sorry, but she is." He chewed on his lower lip before continuing. "Anyway, she's why I stayed with Jamie. He let me sleep on his sofa for a few nights until his roommate complained."
"And then?"
Robin forced the words out. "Edward suggested I use his spare room."
"Did you think of staying in a hotel?"
"I was ill, Tris! I couldn't think clearly. My head ached, and it hurt so much to breathe. I know I should have been more careful, but I'd met him through a friend of Jamie's, and he seemed harmless enough." He left out Jamie's protests when he had told him his plans and his own assurances that he could easily handle the situation.
"And when did you find out he wasn't all that harmless?"
Feeling the heat rise in his face, Robin returned his gaze to the ground. "The third day I was there, he came into my room and said he, ah, wanted to...take p-pictures of me."
"And you said?" Tristan prompted him.
"No, of course not!"
"Just making certain. Go on, love."
"He told me I was an ungrateful bastard and slapped me. I shoved him away and ran for it."
Tristan pulled on their joined hands until Robin knelt between his legs then wrapped his arms around him. "Darling, do you realise how that could have turned out? How lucky you were?" he asked. "My blood runs cold when I think of your going back alone to get your things."
Cold was not the temperature which immediately sprang to mind when Robin recalled the spanking that had accompanied his homecoming. "But he was at work, honestly he was! I was in and out in ten minutes!"
"Suppose you had run into him. He was angry with you for refusing, imagine how furious he must have been after the police arrested him for disturbing the peace. He could have hurt you very, very badly."
"I know it was stupid —"
"If you ever consider doing something that foolish again, I promise you that you won't sit down for a week." He shook Robin. "Do you understand me, young man?"
Afraid Tristan would choose to give him a demonstration, Robin nodded rapidly. "I swear I won't."
"Now finish your story."
Robin blinked. He had covered everything he thought important.
"Your writing?"
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that."
"I didn't lie when I told you I'd taken time off to research a book. When Professor Dunn told me last September that she was taking a year's sabbatical at the end of term, I decided I would as well. I had the advance from the first book to live on, and I was living at home so, if I were careful, I could afford it. And I've worked almost every day on the new story. I'll show you my notes and things when we get home."
"Wherever did the first one come from?"
"Two years ago, my stepsister Catherine told me she and her husband were expecting a baby. She's twelve years older than I am, and she and David have always been very kind to me — inviting me for holidays, sending gifts on my birthday, and driving up to school to take me out on Saturdays. I thought I might repay some of their kindness by writing a story for the baby. Professor Dunn read the final draft and liked it. She introduced me to an editor from Sherbourne Press at a dinner party she gave. Chris was amazing! We talked for a long time after everyone had left, and I ended up sending him a copy of the manuscript. A month later, he called and said they wanted to publish it."
"And that's where Robin Elliott came in."
"When Sherbourne decided they were interested, I realised it wouldn't do to use my own name. My father is well known, and I knew he wouldn't appreciate my riding his coat tails after I'd refused his help. So, when Chris suggested using my first name as my last, I agreed."
"And the secrecy?"
"Beyond the Hedgerow is the story of a hedgehog and a field mouse. Hardly the auspicious start to the literary career I envisioned. I thought it might sell a few copies before it disappeared off the shelves. If people I knew saw it at all, very few of them would connect the author with me. I could return to serious writing, and they would be none the wiser."
"But that's not what happened."
"No, people seemed to like the story, and it began to sell. The more it sold and the more attention it garnered, the more important it became to prevent anyone from finding out I was Robin Elliott. Even when Sherbourne contracted another story, I was determined that this was a one-off thing, that I would get back to real writing." He turned around so he could lean his head back against Tristan's shoulder. "As I've worked, I've come to realise I'll never write a complex, cerebral novel. I don't have it in me. I think it's rather like playing an instrument and finding out you'll always be second chair, never the virtuoso."
Tristan shifted position on the hard ground. "'The public seemed to like' it? Robin, last Christmas people queued up around bookstores, trying to find a copy. I know because I was one of them, trying to find it for my niece. I had Sarah calling all over, and no one had it. It was the end of January before it was on the shelves again."
"The first printing was small," Robin explained. "They're always careful with a first book, especially one for children."
Tristan sighed beside his ear, and he wondered if he had missed the point. "I don't think you'll be able to keep this quiet much longer, Robbie."
"I want it to last as long as possible. There are only a handful of people who know — ten now with you and that private investigator, so I suppose that's more than a handful."
"Your publisher must want you to do book tours and interviews and the like."
"They want the manuscript I'm working on more so they've agreed to say I'm unavailable as I'm busy writing — which is true," he carefully pointed out. "For print interviews, they email questions to me. I've never once spoken with a reporter."
When he finished talking, Robin leaned back into Tristan's solid frame, drained. He closed his eyes, revelling in the warmth of the sun on his face.
"Is that everything now?" Tristan asked after another moment.
Robin nodded. "Everything." He turned to peer into Tristan's face. "Are we all right?"
"Perfectly. Robbie, do you see how easy this was?"
For the life of him, Robin did not but he forbore to mention it.
"I wish you'd told me this at the start. It would have been so much easier on both of us. In the future, I expect total honesty from you. Nothing held back waiting until the right moment presents itself." He gave Robin a quick kiss. "Do we understand each other?"
"Completely."
"Come then, let's go find dessert."
Robin scrambled to his feet and held out a hand to pull Tristan to his feet. Glancing in both directions, he threw himself into Tristan's arms and savaged his mouth with kisses until they were both breathless.
Pulling away, Tristan held off a second onslaught by holding Robin at arm's length with a hand against his chest. "No more or I won't be held accountable for my actions," he gasped.
Trying to duck around the hand blocking his way, Robin shook his head. "Tell them I took advantage of you."
"I fully plan on doing just that when we get home."
Robin spun and started back to the path. "Let's go then."
Catching up to him a few long strides, Tristan grabbed his hand. "Hey, what's the hurry? The sweets will keep a bit longer," he teased.
"They might, but I won't. Hurry up, Tris!"
Dragged along behind him, Tristan inquired, "Are you saying no to profiteroles, Robin? That's unheard of for you."
Robin changed direction back toward the restaurant. "We'll get them as takeaway," he announced over his shoulder.
The sound of Tristan's laughter followed him up the path.
Tristan and Robin