Rapport - 1. Chapter 1

Teague & Will

On a farm in rural Virginia, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the late fall sun is sinking in the sky. Teague finishes a hot shower where he washed away the rigors of his day. Toweling dry, he slipped into loose gray sweatpants and a well-worn UVa tee. He makes his way down the somewhat narrow back stairway that opens into the large farmhouse kitchen they remodeled three years back. Peeking out the side window, he doesn’t see Will’s truck.

Teague knows that Will has probably stopped at his grandmother’s place on his way home since he had office hours in town today. As a psychologist, Will specializes in working with trauma survivors. His hours are often unpredictable, but nominally, he’s in the office three days a week. On the other days, he saw clients in hospitals or longer-term care facilities in the community.

Stretching his sturdy frame, Teague goes through a wide doorway to a comfortable den separated from the open kitchen by an island. He settles himself into a deep recliner and closes his eyes briefly. Teague had spent a productive day in his studio and was pleased with a good day’s work. He always laughed at how artists are sometimes portrayed as flighty sorts who get middle-of-the-night inspirations and work for days while in a creative zone. Not that he never had a great idea at midnight, but you had to have a solid work ethic to earn a living as an artist. You can implement your brainstorm during regular hours if you're good at your craft. And besides, working with chisels and saws without proper sleep would likely cost him a finger.

He turns on the TV for some background noise, setting the volume to a low hum. The Law & Order rerun quickly lulls him into near sleep.

Sometime later, Teague hears Will rummaging in the kitchen. “Hey,” his voice warm as he calls out to his longtime partner. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

The lanky, bearded man stuck his head out of the walk-in pantry, plunking a wooden crate of eight-ounce jelly jars on the counter.

Teague notices that Will hasn’t yet changed from his office wear, but the tie is loosened and the shirttail untucked. He hasn’t been home long.

“Hey yourself, handsome.” Will’s blue eyes twinkled behind wire-framed glasses that lent a boyishness that contrasted nicely with a mature, chestnut beard. Teague was especially fond of Will’s soft, curly beard – he’s never had much of one of his own.

Teague had spent over ten years with the man and found him as sexy now as the day they’d met. The summer before Teague’s senior year, they had both been in Charlottesville. Will was doing a clinical practicum at the VA hospital, gaining experience working with veterans who were dealing with post-traumatic stress. Teague was finishing a four-year business degree so he’d “have something to fall back on,” to quote his dad. In some ways, they were an unlikely pair – artist and therapist – but they had more in common than not, and soon, they were figuring out how to build a life together.

“How’s Ms. Mamie this evenin’?” Teague asks.

“As ornery as ever.” Will hefted another carton out of the pantry. His grandmother was a spry seventy and the busiest person he knew, despite being allegedly retired. She lived on her own, excepting various indoor and outdoor animals, only a mile down the road on property adjoining theirs. The independent woman regularly refused help from ‘her boys.’ Of course, one, or the other, or both, slipped over most every evening to check on things just the same. The woman was a paradox, though. She would never bother them for her own needs, but she had an uncanny ability to find ways to occupy them elsewhere.

Will went on, “She’s back at the library next week to give Maeve a little vacation.”

Teague quirked a brow, amused but saying nothing. He had an idea that something else was coming, and he always enjoyed playing the role of the long-suffering partner.

“They’re running a career fair for the high school.” Will cast a surreptitious eye toward Teague but was not surprised to see the amusement blossom into a good-natured, expectant grin. He continued, “I said we’d be happy to join in if needed.”

“She sent a crock of vegetarian chili for our supper,” Will added, in case added enticement was needed.

“Lemme give you a hand with those, then.” Teague chuckled, hoisting himself out of the recliner.

Companionably, they loaded the two crates of pear preserves and apple butter into the back of Will’s late-model Jeep Cherokee parked in the gravel drive beside the house. Four additional crates later, the job was done.

A warm September breeze ruffles curls that brush Will’s collar. A storm may be brewing, but he hopes it will pass through quickly so they’ll have a good turnout at the farmers’ market. The opportunity to unload the fruits of one of his hobbies is too good to miss. Will relaxes from his stressful job by cooking, notably ignoring Teague’s half-hearted objections about expanding waistlines. The pair also liked checking in with their neighbors and getting the latest goings-on.

Firmly closing the tailgate and clicking the alarm to reset it, Will absently rubs his thumb over the iconic blue and yellow rectangle. Placing the Human Rights Campaign sticker on his first vehicle a decade earlier had felt like an enormous moment. He was acutely aware that they owed the acceptance they’d found mainly to the vision, work, and even blood of pioneers who’d cleared roads ahead of them.

And there’s still work to do, he thinks somberly. Earlier today, Will had talked with a father who was worried about his son. The boy had come out to them the week before, and the mother wasn’t handling it well at all.

“C’mere, you,” Will pulled his man close, resting his chin against the shorter man’s temple. The warm comfort of a long embrace was something neither took for granted. The pair headed back into their house to reheat the chili, enjoy their quiet evening, and anticipate whatever might lay ahead.

Adrian

Adrian sat at the dressing room mirror, adding the final touches to create the Peach Brandy mystique. Truth be told, he was feeling anxious for no specific reason. There seemed to be something in the air. His voice was in perfect form based on a few numbers rehearsed yesterday. Miz Peach’s favorites were jazz and blues – Etta, Ella, Gloria, and Bonnie. “Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around,” he belted Tracy Chapman’s gritty lyric, causing the mirror to shake.

The bright fluorescent bulbs on either side of the mirror were unforgiving. Thankfully, Adrian’s fair complexion was nearly flawless, with only a few visible lines creasing the corners of his eyes. Sable lashes and deftly applied liner enhanced their already dramatic deep blue. Rouge made angular cheekbones even more striking, while a matte powder subtly softened a masculine, even stubborn, jaw. He carefully finished the look with deep cherry lip liner, filling in with a shade lighter.

Adrian mused that last night’s concert had been lovely – a busman’s holiday in a way. The Chelsea studio provided a perfect venue for the small, intimate gathering, where they were fortunate to hear the renowned Argentinian guitarist perform. A friend at The New Yorker, which had sponsored the event, arranged their tickets when some VIPs had canceled due to an unexpected conflict. He’d enjoyed a smoky Malbec while listening to intricate classical strains that seemed to tug silent tears from his soul. Adrian's favorite song was a ballad in Spanish -Vecinos. Neighbors are not only the folks next door but also people you can trust wherever they are in the world. The theme resonated with Adrian. Most of the people he trusted were in the room with him, not so much in Savannah, where he’d spent his youth.

His night did not end until after a splurge at a late-night diner – rich coconut cake nicely balanced with a bitter espresso. Adrian shrugged mentally – odd sleeping hours were indeed nothing new for him, and he’d burn the calories away in the weight room or on a run easily enough. It was terrific to visit with his NYC vecinos who all too rarely managed to squeeze in time together with their separate and demanding schedules. Adrian cherished the security of being with found family. It was a difficult feeling to convey to anyone who’d always known the love and support of their family of origin. If you know, you know, he thought.

Tonight’s show here at Aunt Georgia’s would be somewhat different from last night's low-key experience, even though the audiences had a fair amount in common. Their sometimes-raucous crowd always enjoyed the burlesque that the club offered regularly, and the bartenders were known for generous pours. Tonight, he knew business would be brisk, the receipts high. They could count on patrons coming together for a good cause.

Adrian had worked hard to make a place for himself here in the Big Apple, and nowhere felt more like home these past ten years than Georgia’s. He blessed the day he’d wandered through the doors looking for a meal and a bartender who wasn’t particular about checking ID. Marty had laughed at him and given him a club sandwich, a Barq’s, and a job. Adrian knew he was a lucky bastard, even if he hadn’t appreciated it much at the time.

Adrian rose for one last check at the three-way mirror in the corner. There’s no sign of his usual honey-toned hair beneath Peach’s flowing Titian locks. White-gloved hands smooth a vibrant sapphire sheath layered over a bodysuit studded with tiny rhinestones. The dress clings to just the suggestion of curves at the breast and hip. He makes a few turns worthy of any catwalk model on impossible heels to survey his tall, normally lithe figure from all angles. Nodding in approval, he thinks that it’s been too long since Peach Brandy has made an appearance. Taking a deep, slow breath, he hopes his nerves will settle soon.

A quick rap at the door preceded Marty poking his shaved head in. His beloved friend and mentor gave a low whistle.

“Looking mighty fine there, Miz Peach. Can I walk you out?” A flash of the dressing room lights signaled that the next curtain rise was imminent.

“By all means, good sir.” Deepening his barely-there accent to the one of his youth came easily to Adrian.

Taking the ageless man’s arm, a sense of calm envelops him at the contact. From somewhere deep inside, a beaming smile and booming laughter erupt unchecked. “It’s going to be a magnificent show, Marty,” he gives the sturdy arm an affectionate squeeze.

“Of course it is, Ms. Peach,” the man agrees. “The shelter won’t be running short of money on our watch.”

Softly humming Jill Scott - I’m living my life like it’s golden – Peach Brandy allows Marty to escort her to the wings.