Monarch Season

Prologue

Sometime Last Summer

Devin Santos nodded at the reporter’s question, but he wasn’t really paying attention. It had been a long time since the business of making magazines had caused him this kind of anxiety. He pulled the cotton cardigan around himself for what seemed like the millionth time. Why was he so cold? Why were his hands so clammy? Why was he so unnerved by this kid waltzing around his living room like he owned the place?

I don’t really think the photographs are that important, Devin said in an arid voice.

But don’t you? asked the kid. They are so—what’s the word? Strident. So maximalist. And in this space, which is pretty traditional, to tell you the truth.

I wouldn’t call it traditional.

Really? But all the millwork? The wing chair? The whitewashed floorboards?

The whitewashed floorboards are actually pickled and cerused, rift and quartered French oak. In this context, not traditional at all.

Eclectic then.

Mentally, Devin rolled his eyes. That’s one of those shelter magazine words. Hasn’t Marin talked to you yet about shelter magazine words?

The kid set down his half-empty glass of Diet Coke. On a first edition of Play It As It Lays.

Well, what about the photographs, then? he said, scribbling on a spiral-bound legal pad.

I am not, said Devin as he picked up the glass of Diet Coke, going to tell you how much they cost. He set the glass down on the weathered wood of the library table.

How long, Devin wondered, would it take the kid to realize he could get the info off the Internet without having to ask anyone’s permission?

They stood in awkward silence, listening to the sound of the strobe flash going off and recharging in the kitchen. Beyond the pantry door, Emma and the photographer murmured about the angle of the next shot. Their assistants twittered in the background.

This is not what Devin had expected. When he agreed to have the beach house published, this was not how he thought it would play out. Why hadn’t she sent Camilla or Andrew or even Philip? Had the house belonged to anyone else, Marin would have sent an actual writer. Not some junior staffer on training wheels. Had Devin ever been this green? This obvious? This clumsy?

Can we see the master bedroom? asked the kid finally.

As they walked down the hallway, the kid tried to make conversation.

So how long have you known Marin?

Long enough to have known her when she wasn’t editor-in-chief.

"Wow. How old are you?"

It entered Devin’s head then that for all his clumsiness, the kid’s gee-whiz-I’m-a-reporter act might not be totally sincere. There was something about the tone of his voice that made Devin want to smack him.

I’m thirty-one, said Devin. Only when you’re twenty-three, he thought, does anything beyond twenty-three seem ancient. But you know, he continued, you really shouldn’t—

Whoa, interrupted the kid as they arrived at the bedroom. That’s an extraordinary view.

Devin watched the kid closely as he faced the floor-to-ceiling windows and took in the glistening bay beyond. It was the extraordinary part that sounded rehearsed. Again, Devin heard a slight undercurrent. Again, Devin felt mocked.

Yes, was all that Devin could think to say as they stood above the rippling body of water, the room filled with its reflected white light. It’s lovely.

Devin’s spine went icy as the kid slithered from the windows to the walk-in behind Charlie’s side of the bed. May I? he asked. But he didn’t wait for permission.

Devin found him inside, moving his hand along the cedar shelf that held Charlie’s running shoes.

These are custom? asked the kid, referring to the shelves.

They’re not photographing the closets, said Devin, ignoring the question and pointing toward the door.

The kid made no motion to leave. The kid fondled a sleeve on one of Charlie’s sweaters.

I have never, said Devin, in all my years of reporting house stories, ever walked into a room unbidden.

"‘Unbidden,’ mimicked the kid. Is that a shelter magazine word?"

Having been in the kid’s position more times than he cared to count—notebook and pen in hand, parsing details from uncooperative parties—Devin knew better than to make the exchange overtly adversarial.

At the end of the day, it was the kid who would get to paint the picture. By the time Devin would be able to puzzle it together from the vague questions the fact checker would ask, the story would be going to press—too late to correct anything but the worst offenses. And even then, only if he pitched a fit. Which, considering that Marin had recently made him a contributor and ensured he got regular assignments, he was in no position to do.

But all afternoon he had been at odds with the kid, about the photographs, about the vases, about the exact tone of white on the kitchen walls. And now, even though he knew better, even though it would be the kid who would determine how he and his boyfriend and their beach house appeared in print, Devin truly felt like he was about to smack him.

And then Emma appeared in the doorway.

Dollface, we’re about ready to set up the shot in the living room, she said to Devin, bringing with her the green scent of Quelque Fleurs, the sound of her enameled bracelets tinkling like bells. Would you like a look at the angle?

It was a perfect save and Devin was grateful. He nodded and followed her back out to the living room.

But as he exited the closet, Devin caught a smirking, knowing look on the kid’s face, and it was he who felt smacked by something that was suddenly plain.

Had Devin looked back a second or two later he would have missed it: the slant of the kid’s hips, his palm resting on Charlie’s dresser top, his Cheshire cat grin. The utter comfort with which he inhabited the space where Charlie dressed and undressed and left his sopping bathing suits puddled on the floor.

It was a cold, sharp little thing, and Devin knew it for truth the moment it struck him. The kid had been here before. The kid knew his house. The kid knew Charlie’s side of the walk-in closet. That was not the first time he’d fondled a sleeve on one of Charlie’s sweaters.

Devin trailed Emma down the long hallway while he processed this and tried to keep it together, watching tendrils of her spun-gold hair drizzle from a bun at the top of her head. Scenes from the last few months were locking into place in ways that now made perfect sense.

It was no wonder he felt cold, no wonder his hands were clammy. It was as if his body had subconsciously recognized the invasion of a deadly virus and had reacted with dread.

Devin could hear the assistants in the living room, joking about the peonies, talking sweetly to his dog. It sounded like it was happening in another realm. Was this really his house? Was this really his life? His head was spinning, his stomach churning, his legs felt like rubber bands.

He rounded the corner and the living room came into focus: the reflectors, the strobe flash, the camera on its tripod, pointed at the magenta blooms and the Belgian-linen-covered sofas. All of it already being documented. Already being published. To be disseminated to everyone who read the magazine, which was pretty much everyone he knew.

In other words, it was too late. The case was closed. Elvis has left the building.

Dev, said Emma with concern. Are you feeling OK? You’re as white as a sheet.

Steadying himself with the edge of the library table, Devin stood as straight as he could.

Am I? he asked, trying to sound calm. Fault lines were branching beneath him; the earth had gone wobbly underfoot. But this was neither the time nor the place for theatrics. I feel completely fine, he heard himself say. He could not deal with this now. He ran his fingers along the edge of the table and took a deep breath.

He might not ever be able to deal with it.

He forced a smile. Let’s see the shot, he said.

He walked to where Emma and the photographer stood with the camera, and glanced at the view within the frame. The angle caught the afternoon light as it spilled across the cocktail table and the sofa. Between two tight stacks of glossy books, an intricately etched silver tray held a glass cylinder bursting with scarlet peonies. The stamens at their centers were a bright ochre that contrasted brilliantly with the frilled petals.

He had spent a good part of the morning preparing the flowers: soaking the stems in warm water so the buds would fully bloom, culling only the fullest, brightest blossoms, arranging them tightly within the vase. Now, above the navy lacquer of the cocktail table, against the white linen of the sofa, beneath the riot of color in the large photograph on the wall, they practically shimmered with Technicolor radiance. He could see that every moment spent had been well worth the effort. The shot could make the cover.

I just e-mailed it to Marin, said Emma, reading his mind. She wants us to try for a cover.

Onto an image of the shot on a laptop nearby, the photographer positioned a crinkling transparency emblazoned with the magazine’s logo. It gave the photo the look of a finished copy, ready for the newsstand.

I’d grab it off the shelf, said the photographer.

Devin nodded. If Charlie was dead-set on exposing their private life in the pages of a magazine, then they may as well have the cover. If one is obliged to do a thing, without hope of evasion or escape, then one ought to do it right.

It’s fantastic, he said to Emma and he moved aside. He watched as the photographer directed the assistant with the reflector, and he squinted as the camera began to click and the strobe flash started pulsing.

He took a seat on an ottoman, quietly reeling. With every click and every flash, Emma and the photographer were documenting whole histories hidden in the weight of objects, microcosms of laughter and light, of chores and larks, and the ruthless passing of time.

The intricately etched silver tray: Sidi Bou Saïd and that whitewashed villa. Jasmine and orange blossoms and the sound of water in a fountain. The shadows of louvers falling on rumpled sheets. Charlie’s tanned hand, his own bare knee. The crisp October sky against the deep cerulean sea.

The lacquer cocktail table: a cold and rainy New York Saturday. Hot coffee in a cab, a blue-and-white deli cup. The smell of damp wool mingling with the smell of Charlie's cologne, an abyss of backseat vinyl between them. The quirky antiques shop, a sought-after appointment. Waiting for the downpour to let up while the shop owner wraps the table. Charlie looking bored in a corner and then stepping away to peck at his Blackberry with sudden glee.

The Belgian linen on the sofa: the endless swatches, the endless squabbles. Charlie dipping a corner of a swatch into his goblet of wine at the dinner table. The white fabric soaking up the wine like a sponge, the stain spreading like blood from a wound. The scrap tossed onto the table between them, limp and wet like a discarded bandage. You want to waste my hard-earned money, Charlie spitting as he leaves the table, you go right ahead.

Devin looked down to examine his index finger. On its outside edge, a smooth, pale callus had developed from the gardening shears. Another battle scar. This one clearly visible.

The heart, he thought, breaks in stages. In cracks and chips and scratches worn slowly by waves and tides and whipping, biting wind. You think you have a statue, but you turn to find a fragment.

Devin swallowed hard.

Yes. This was his house. Yes. This was his life.

He settled deeper into the ottoman and then he closed his eyes so he could not see the camera clicking and could not see the strobe flash pulsing.

He had to forget the kid. He had to forget the sneering, knowing look he had seen on the kid’s face.

Because it was true. He could not deal with it now. He could not deal with it ever.

He had too much to lose.

MAY

Chapter 1

Frank Duma craned his head, straining to take in the information that scrolled across the train board. His expression, floating amid the gloom of Penn Station, displayed confusion against a backdrop of confusion. The grimy space in which he stood puzzling over trains to Patchogue or Jamaica, Bay Shore or Babylon on the Friday before Memorial Day was a pell-mell of bouncing, battering, clamoring bodies. The din and the press of people, along with the cryptic timetable Frank was desperate to decipher, had sent creases across a normally carefree face.

Farmingdale, Pinelawn, Wyandach…, the baritone voice over the loudspeaker droned, and Frank’s struggle to understand the actual information contained in this message crinkled the skin around his jadeite eyes. He could see clearly—SAYVILLE 4:21—emblazoned on the massive screen floating above him, but when he turned to regard the smaller board to his right, where the track assignments were actually posted, the name of the town where he was supposed to catch the boat was curiously missing.

He had no idea where to go.

His housemate George had given him typically oblique instructions—Penn, Sayville, cab, ferry—and he had assumed that since thousands of people did it every weekend, every summer, the vagaries of the Long Island Rail Road and its connection to the byways of Fire Island would be excessively easy to navigate.

Obviously he was wrong.

It was now 4:10. The line to the help window snaked five breadths of the winding, nylon-strap-strung path. Clearly, he should have driven with George and fucked his welding sculpture class to all hell.

Jude Dunbar stared at the hunky forlorn het from a safe distance of a couple paces and contemplated heaven. The man was taller than he normally preferred, and slightly dorky in his polo and running shoes, but he was bang-your-head-against-the-wall adorable, from the blunt perfection of his arrowhead nose to the pillowy peak of his khaki-clad ass.

Here was the face of a surgeon, a fireman, policeman, the divorce lawyer a desperate woman turned to for the destruction of her good-for-nothing husband. Here was the coach that would have convinced you to go out for football; the algebra teacher to charm you into mulling the quadratic equation; the doctor you prayed would walk through the examination room door, the one finally worthy of the refused paper gown, for whom you would gladly perform the most enthusiastic coughing fit of your life.

Here was the jock in frustratingly baggy basketball shorts, who ignored you on the weight floor, but sidled up right across from you in the shower stall facing.

Here was the fiancé on his first trip out to Long Island, who let you blow him in the bathroom of the last car before he disembarked in Bethpage for a holiday weekend of golf playing with his future father-in-law.

It was the hottest possible outcome and Jude was long overdue for a hot possible outcome. He thanked the gods of illicit, anonymous sex, who gave gay boys with lingering daddy complexes such life-affirming gifts. And he counted his blessings for having begged off the funeral cortège of a ride in the Range Rover with Devin, et al, experiencing only the slightest pang of guilt for poor Hoss, his usual seatmate. The dog would have to suffer the bumper-to-bumper madness all by himself, with the ice queens blowing frost from the front of the car and only the dull blather of NPR for company.

When he’d explained the jackpot he’d just sprung, the mutt would surely understand.

You have to go by the time, offered Jude.

Still clinging to the worried edges of the Montauk Branch timetable, Frank Duma looked up to find a bright-eyed blonde staring at him with a liquid smile.

Huh?

The time, explained Jude. The track board only shows the major stations, see? He pointed. Unless you’re going to one of those hubs, you need to match the time of your destination here, he pointed back to the large main board with its exhaustive list of Long Island towns, and match it with the time you see there. He pointed back at the smaller track assignment board.

Frank Duma looked from board to board, but returned his gaze to Jude, his whole face a question.

Fucking adorable.

Where are you going, baby? cooed Jude, advancing his pawn.

It was Frank who smiled now, recognizing a fellow homo in the caressive cadence.

Sayville, he answered, relieved.

The blonde’s eyes glittered. Well, why didn’t you just say so! he said, throwing his hands up. Follow me, he commanded.

Then he bent to sling a duffel strap over his shoulder, hoisted the satchel up, and wove into the crowd.

Chapter 2

The hottest possible outcome turned out to be a woeful failure of imagination on Jude’s part.

The beautiful specimen whose bricklayer left arm bulged into his shoulder from the adjoining seat on the train was either a total figment of his imagination, or the Most Perfect Man Who Ever Lived.

Since he had not, as yet, partaken of any mind-altering substances, Jude was inclined to believe the latter.

Some highlights that Jude, ever inquisitive, was able to glean, related later:

The man was named Frank Duma.

The name was Czech.

Frank Duma was Slavo-Italian.

Frank Duma had, in fact, until two years ago this June, been engaged to a woman, an individual with whom he maintained a lasting friendship.

When asked for proof of said friendship, he revealed that he’d recently been an usher at the woman’s wedding. She’d married a college buddy with whom he’d set her up.

Per a request, he substantiated the claim with a credit-card size snapshot he pulled from his wallet—a plain, finely grained calfskin that Jude had been able to ascertain, by straining to glimpse its lining, was manufactured by Gucci.

His former fiancé was model hot.

He had come out to the fiancé—and his close-knit family—after he became enamored of a young man he met at his health club.

He was maddeningly vague when pressed on details of the young man and the health club, but finally admitted, after a persistent harangue while waiting to transfer on the platform in Babylon, to a lifetime of surreptitious wank offs with anonymous men in health club shower, steam, and locker rooms.

Yes. Yes he did still enjoy the occasional wank off with anonymous men in health club shower, steam, and locker rooms, but only when he was in between boyfriends, a circumstance that, actually, had become chronic for him lately.

A CIRCUMSTANCE THAT, ACTUALLY, HAD BECOME CHRONIC FOR HIM LATELY.

Frank Duma wanted just what everyone wanted—a lasting loving relationship with an honest man he could share the rest of his life with.

Frank Duma didn’t have a type. Except he was not hung up on all these faux-bros who saluted with a ‘sup, and wore backwards caps with the kind of fake athletic gear that in his estimation, was as fetishistic as black leather chaps and dog collars. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

A direct quote: What’s more masculine than taking it in the poop chute like a champ? I actually think a femmy guy is kind of cute.

I ACTUALLY THINK A FEMMY GUY IS KIND OF CUTE.

Frank Duma had been heartbroken by the young man he met at the health club when he returned to his West Village townhouse—where he had generously welcomed the young man from the health club as a cohabitant—early one afternoon to find the young man from the health club in flagrante delicto with his masseur.

WEST VILLAGE TOWNHOUSE.

The young man from the health club had a standing weekly appointment with his masseur. Whom Frank Duma paid.

Of course Frank Duma paid for the young man from the health club’s standing weekly appointments with the masseur. The young man from the health club had a herniated disc and no insurance.

Craigslist.

Duh. Of course he knew a masseur commissioned via Craigslist was synonymous with male prostitute.

Now. Now he knew that.

Frank Duma does not appreciate an excessive amount of eye rolling.

The young man from the health club’s idiot name is Wally.

Frank Duma does not appreciate an excessive amount of eye rolling.

Frank Duma agreed, from this point forward, to remove the term health club from his vernacular and replace it with the far less dorky gym.

He had returned early to his West Village townhouse that day because his ceramics class had been cancelled. The kiln blew up.

It had been around 2 P.M. on a Tuesday.

Frank Duma didn’t have a job.

Frank Duma didn’t have a job because he was retired.

Frank Duma was thirty-seven.

The last job Frank Duma held was CFO of his cousin Gary’s company, Zoom.com.

Yes. THAT Zoom.com.

The year was 2000.

Frank Duma and cousin Gary had a falling out.

Because if they continued the rate of expenditure that Gary preferred they would have burned through their IPO in nine months. They had gone through their venture capital in six.

Initial Public Offering.

An Initial Public Offering is just what it sounds like: an initial sale of stock.

Venture capital is private equity that’s pooled from a fund of third-party investors and provided to fledging companies with a good potential for high returns in a model that mitigates the risk for the third party investors.

Venture capital is private equity that’s pooled from a fund of third party investors and provided to fledg—

A lot of money from very rich people.

Cousin Gary wanted to take the whole company on a week-long trip to Jamaica to celebrate Zoom.com’s first annual Roaring Rasta Rockout.

Cousin Gary planned to even include the receptionist in Roaring Rasta Rockout.

Frank Duma had agreed to walk away with nothing but his stock.

Frank Duma had been so pissed that he’d agreed to walk away with nothing but his stock that he’d said fuck it, and sold all his stock that very day. March 9, 2000.

Yes, March 9 is significant.

Because on March 10, the NASDAQ peaked at 5,048.62.

Trust Frank Duma: anyone who sold all their tech stock the day before March 10 would remember the number the NASDAQ peaked at, no matter how geeky that made them.

It means Frank Duma sold all his shares of Zoom.com the day before the bubble burst.

Yes. All his shares.

Frank Duma is retired at thirty-seven. You do the math.

FRANK DUMA IS RETIRED AT THIRTY-SEVEN. YOU DO THE MATH.

By the time the conductor announced their arrival in Sayville, and Frank Duma used his bricklayer arms to pull down Jude’s heavy leather bag from the overhead rack, two things had become as clear to Jude as chips of cocktail ice.

First, he loved Frank Duma with all the blind, beating fervor of his capricious little heart.

Secondly, as the would-be recipient of Frank Duma’s everlasting devotion, it behooved him to make haste. If a slab of fresh meat like Frank Duma arrived on that ferry dock unclaimed, it would take the gals about two seconds to circle in for the kill. This strapping stallion needed to be roped, corralled, and saddled, lickety-split.

As they tumbled down the station ramp in the lemming run for a taxi van, Jude managed to wrangle from Frank a promise to abandon his housemates on the first night of his first season on the legendary island, in favor of dinner with Jude and his hosts above the water in a spectacular bayside beach house, faultlessly redecorated.

It is a measure of that legendary island—of its mercurial society, of the quicksilver alliances that pool and divide, amoeba-like, on its ever-shifting sands—that this is not what actually happened.

In a convolution characteristic to the island’s particular sociology, within the hour the pledge of dinner and the silent promise of Jude’s enduring love were both completely rescinded.

Chapter 3

What happened was this.

When the phalanx of minibuses arrived at the ferry terminal and disgorged its load of beach-bound fags, a lifetime of well-ingrained, ladies-first manners dictated the courtesy Frank Duma paid Jude Dunbar.

But Frank had already filed the funny, sexy busybody into the plain manila folder of friendship.

Jude was an actor, and though only out of the closet for two years, Frank had by now had his fill of actors. Wally had been an actor. So had Ronnie, Kelly, and sweet, doomed Jake. All gorgeous, initially enchanting, eventually boring, actors. He had had enough of actors. And though he could already tell that Jude was different, possessed of real wit and genuine curiosity for the world that thrived past his nose, there was no spark. And spark was non-negotiable.

While Jude searched his pockets for the four-buck fare, Frank held his bag for him and wished he hadn’t accepted the dinner invite.

Jude, oblivious to all this, turned from the satisfied driver, reached for his bag, and nodded at the line of backpack and boat-tote-loaded gays forming in front of the