The Cardmaker and the Caretaker - 11. Chapter 11 Visits and meetings

On Wednesday morning the two men went for a long run in the park. Patrick had managed to have an early morning run on Sunday, before the Danes woke, but he usually ran three or four times a week, and was missing his morning jog. He had to go slower than normal for Peter to keep up, but ended with a faster run on his own, while his boyfriend did push-ups and other exercises on a convenient grass patch.

On the way home Peter asked about local fitness centres. “I usually work out several times a week, since I had equipment at home. But with Moster looking after Michael, I can use a gym. At least until we might have room for a home gym.” Patrick smiled with satisfaction over the implicit acceptance of his plan to buy the house next door. He envisaged the fun they could have deciding how best to utilize the space of the two houses.

Before the cardmaker left for work, Peter helped him create a program on his shop website, where customers could book meetings during specific time periods on weekdays and Saturdays. Patrick also posted the new shorter opening hours and reminded his customers he could be reached via email or cell phone in case of urgent commissions for personal cards or artwork. So far, he hadn’t been overwhelmed by people contacting him on his work phone and email, and even if his shop was doing better than expected, he knew it would always cater to a small exclusive segment rather than larger groups.

He phoned John during his lunch hour and arranged for the two couples to meet at the shop at closing time on Saturday. He’d have the card for Anthony’s mother ready by then. The redhead groaned a bit at the reminder.

“I’m glad we’re going out with you Saturday night. It will keep my mind off the dreaded Sunday lunch. I love Tony, but most members of his family are boring bigots, penny pinching prudes, or agonizing aunts. But since this is my mother-in-law’s birthday, I can’t escape. At least, Tony’s parents are pretty cool.”

Patrick laughed heartily at the alliterative insults which were surely a much repeated complaint. They chatted for a short while longer, and the feeling of a good friendship developing intensified.

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Returning home made him miss Peter even more. He had left for Copenhagen, and the last text from Heathrow had said, ‘Boarding now. Miss you already. See you on Friday. xxx’

Grethe had taken over the kitchen and he once more encouraged her to rearrange everything to her liking, and buy whichever implements and ingredients she wanted. They went shopping online for a dishwasher and managed to find a place which could deliver and install by Friday.

She’d already made several small improvements in addition to the smell of baking and the sound of happy Danish chatting which greeted him every day. She had wasted no time in establishing a visiting friendship with Mr. Archibald, who was more than pleased to meet for tea once or twice a day. Interestingly, the old man got on well with Michael too, in spite of the language barrier.

Although Patrick knew the man had several grandchildren, he’d never paid much attention to them or their relationship with his neighbour. But apparently Mr. Archibald had a grandson who was a year younger than Michael and had a passion for LEGO. This came out on Wednesday when the cardmaker brought home a rather expensive set which the boy lusted after, according to his great-aunt. The intention was to distract Michael in case he missed his father, who luckily wasn’t there to protest against the extravagance, and the plan worked beautifully.

Especially since Mr. Archibald helped build the complicated Star Wars space ship. He’d line up the parts and assist whenever a bit of extra pressure was needed to fix the building components together. Michael was quite capable of following the instructions, but he enjoyed the attention and admiration of the adults as he slowly assembled the LEGO construction.

The boy didn’t say much, but stayed focused on the task and communicated by pointing and a few easy phrases such as “Press here, please. Where this? Help please.” Patrick was proud of him for remembering the magic word, especially since Peter had told him there was no precise Danish equivalent of ‘please’.

On Thursday afternoon the neighbour’s daughter Sheila arrived with not quite seven-year-old Ian, who clutched a bag with his two favourite Star Wars LEGO contraptions. The boys were equally shy but managed to spend half an hour finishing Michael’s toy, assisted by Ian’s granddad.

Afterwards they lined up the figures and space ships on the large kitchen table, while the adults talked and ate delicious home-made Danish biscuits. Grethe helped the boys communicate now and then, but Michael was well versed in all the Star Wars terms in English and the sounds of star ships fighting seemed to transcend the language barrier.

Patrick was relieved by Sheila ignoring the matter of Michael’s dad being in a relationship with him, but of course the absence of Peter helped. Whether her reaction would be curiosity or censure, he felt ready for neither. He was even more relieved she only mentioned the loss of his parents briefly, and didn’t dwell on it other than the quiet observation “Dad got quite lonely after your parents died; they were a great comfort after he lost Mum. He thought they were very special, you know.”

Their visitors left around six, and he stood on the door step watching Ian skip next door with his granddad carrying the bag of Lego. Sheila lingered enough to say: “Thank you for the generous offer on my dad’s house.” When he tried to protest the price hadn’t even been set yet, she shook her head.

“I’m not talking about the money, but about giving him time to get used to the idea and sort out his life.” She gave him an arch look. “And we might even get out of moving those damn rose bushes, since I’ve the feeling Dad will be visiting his old house regularly in the future.”

She left with a parting chuckle and he went back in, smiling at how she’d picked up on her dad’s growing fondness for tea with Danish biscuits and a chat with Grethe. Peter’s aunt was already getting ready to make supper, and she gently chased him off.

“I’ve settled Michael for a quick nap in my room. You go and do whatever you need, and supper will be ready at seven thirty.” He knew better than to object and in fact did have various small work-related tasks to do.

Just as he was finishing up on his laptop, Grethe came out of her bed room carrying a still sleepy Michael. “Supper’s ready. Vågn op, min skat, der er mad.”[1] Before she got any further, the doorbell rang.

Patrick stood up in surprise, wondering who it could be. As he walked to the door, he got a fleeting glimpse of Grethe and Michael looking at him with equally mischievous and pleased grins. Next thing he knew, two familiar figures popped into his mind wearing identical expressions of secretive glee. What on earth…

But he got no further in his thought, because he opened the door to find a large blond Viking with tired but happy blue eyes grinning at him. “Hi honey, I’m b…” This was as far as the Dane got, before he suddenly had an excited Brit wrapped around him and kissing him right there on the door step.

Afterwards, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up with his arms clutching Peter’s neck, tongue kissing outside the front door. His lover certainly liked the enthusiastic welcome and held him close with one hand fondling his butt and the other wrapped in his hair. The light from the hall illuminated them and in spite of the chilly night, Patrick felt as if steam was coming off their joint bodies.

The angel voice in his head was cooing: ‘oooh, he’s home early, show him how happy you are to see him’ while the little imp was chortling ‘fuck yeah, go for it boy, let’s give the whole neighbourhood a live show right here in your front garden.’

In the silence of their low-traffic road, the shocked gasp from next door was painfully audible. Once again the two different viewpoints in his brain managed to coincide. ‘Uh oh, shit’s about to hit the fan!’

Both men turned their heads to the side and met the outraged glare of the woman, who’d just come out of the neighbouring house. The vague disapproval which Patrick had felt from her at previous encounters was now a torrent of indignant disgust and fury. Before they could react, she’d turned around and gone back inside, slamming the door behind her.

“Oops, we’d better get inside before she reports us for indecent exposure,” Peter chuckled.

Patrick was embarrassed at the incident, but also genuinely shaken by the malice he’d felt. Profoundly grateful for Peter’s attempt to joke he dragged him over the threshold and went back to get his bag and two suitcases. His partner had caught Michael up in a hug, kissing the boy’s cheek as he clearly bragged about something.

“Vi holdt det hemlig, far, lissom du sa’. Papa vidste ikke noget.”[2] Patrick felt Grethe’s hand on his shoulder and almost knew what she was going to explain.

“He’s very proud he managed to keep the secret of his dad coming home tonight instead of tomorrow. Peter wanted to surprise you.”

“He certainly did. And ehm, I guess we gave the woman next door a shock too. I’m not sure she approves.” He tried to quell the feeling of inadequacy and shame, knowing it was due to the fact his neighbour’s reaction reminded him of how most of his parents’ adult relatives had regarded him, although for completely different reasons.

Both figures shook their heads at him and left with a joint admonishment, though worded differently. ‘Fuck what those idiots think. It’s your life, so go get laid.’ And ‘Forget the bigots and focus on the man you love and your future family.’ On the rare occasions those two annoying voices in his head agreed, he knew the advice was sound.

After a nice dinner, they relaxed in the living room. Patrick was content to let Michael have his dad’s full attention, since the young boy would soon go to bed. He had the feeling Moster Grethe might retire early too, which would leave them with time to talk and make decisions. When Michael began to nod sleepily on his lap, the blond man rose and tried to carry him to the guest room. This caused a minor crisis and Patrick quickly intervened.

“Peter, take him upstairs to his own room, and tell him papa will be along soon. I can see you’re exhausted, so you go to bed too.”

The Dane had revealed how he’d spent most of the night packing up his place, only sleeping a few hours. He’d done the paper work, met with various people and finished the packing during the day, in order to return home as fast as possible. It made Patrick’s heart beat harder to hear his lover use the word home for their house without even thinking about it.

He chatted a bit with Grethe about the plans for Friday and the weekend. She assured him she’d do her best to persuade Michael to stay with her the next nights. He tried not to blush and she pretended not to notice.

Fortunately, the boy had decided he wanted a new bed, once he’d seen the possibilities online and realized a smaller sleeping place would free up space for a desk with a gaming computer and more toys. Patrick had been relieved, because thinking it over, he had concluded having sex in a bed which subsequently would belong to their son, might feel weird for both of them.

He said goodnight to Grethe, went upstairs and got ready for bed, including a quick shower to take off the edge. He imagined Peter’s hands sliding over his body, distributing soap over his intimate parts and whispering naughty things in his ear. A minute of determined stroking of his erect manhood and a soapy finger sliding into his ass was all it took to have him spurting and moaning his lover’s name. Was it natural to be so sensitive and turned on by the man he loved? To be brought to the edge just from imagining intimacy?

He’d indulged in many erotic fantasies for the past fifteen years, but nothing made him cum the way Peter’s smell or touch or voice did. Or the thought of doing sexy stuff and having his way with that delicious body, and they hadn’t even gotten to the point of actual sex!

‘I wonder what making love will do to me?’ He quickly dismissed the thought, to avoid having to deal with another unruly hard-on. But he couldn’t help a quick prayer to his patron saint as he slid under the duvet next to his two Danish bed fellows, both fast asleep.

‘Please let me experience the love of my Valentine soon, before I go mad with longing. Thank you.’

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The next day Patrick was busy at the shop and had to stay until 8 pm. Peter came by at lunch time with a sandwich, which helped with the ache of missing his partner. Well, maybe the hugs and kisses were the most important details of the visit. The Dane had several errands to deal with and only stayed for half an hour, but the cardmaker made sure to convey his gratitude for the brief encounter.

“Please drop by any time you want, my love. I wish I could do the same, when you go back to work.”

He closed his shop for a couple of hours in the afternoon and went to the meeting he’d scheduled with his parents’ solicitor. He’d been quite surprised the day before when he called to book an appointment, to be immediately transferred to Mr. Wickham himself and assured of being welcome any time on Friday.

The old lawyer actually came out of his office to greet him, before taking him back inside for their talk. He seemed pleased to hear the good news and not the least bit upset when Patrick used the word partner in relation to the new love in his life.

“My dear boy, it’s a relief to see you looking happy for the first time in years. Of course I’ll help with the acquisition of your neighbour’s house, or at least with the transfer of funds. For the value assessment and the paperwork I’d like to refer you to a colleague with experience on estate business. Do you have any idea about the amount needed?”

The next business matter concerned the paperwork to be done in the event of marriage, a possibility which had the solicitor visibly taken aback for a moment.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about this, but you’re quite right to bring it up, even if it’s a future option. There are several aspects you’ll have to consider.”

Patrick decided not to tell the solicitor how eager they both were to tie the knot.

“Will you get married here or in Denmark? I shall have someone look into the paperwork needed. Do you want pre-nuptial agreements in case of divorce? Although, some of your funds already have clauses on them, to keep them separate. Are you going to formally adopt his son? It would make some things easier and complicate others.”

The list of subjects up for discussion was long, and the solicitor made clear to him how decisions on most of them ought to involve Peter. He seemed almost relieved when Patrick mentioned talking to some else who might know about the intricacies of same-sex marriage and adoption.

After they’d concluded this, he brought up the matter of getting in touch with his cousin. Mr Wickham nodded and went to his filing cabinet.

“Ms Fiona is actually my client as well, and she asks how you’re doing every time she’s here. Since you were adamant about not having anything to do with your relatives, I simply tell her you’re OK, but not interested in any contact. Otherwise, I’m sure she would have come by the shop or sent you an email. So, I won’t be breaking any client confidentiality by giving you her contact details.”

He wrote them down and handed Patrick the piece of paper.

“Uhmm, do you know if Fiona is married and has any children?”

“No, as far as I know she’s single.”

He didn’t want to ask about the possible child from her teen pregnancy, since it might have been kept a secret within the family. But there could be no harm in enquiring about his cousin’s job.

“What does she do? I can vaguely recall my dad talking about Fiona wanting to be a teacher.”

He was surprised to see the old lawyer beaming with satisfaction. “Ms Fiona has recently become deputy headmistress at a prep school in Kent. She has done very well in pursuing a career in education.”

Considering his cousin had attained this exalted position at such a young age, perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at the pride evident in Mr. Wickham’s voice. The cardmaker vaguely recalled his father mentioning the man had gone to Cambridge with Patrick’s grandfather, but it was the first time he’d considered him as a possible family friend, or at least someone with ties and knowledge about his relatives beyond lawyer/client matters – and apparently an almost grandfatherly interest in the success of his deceased friend’s descendants.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and Mr Wickham wished him luck. “Please get in touch when you need assistance on your financial matters, I’m always ready to be of service.” He was too old-fashioned and formal to do more than shake Patrick’s hand warmly, but it was clear the old lawyer genuinely cared about him. Perhaps he should meet him for lunch some time and try to learn more about his father’s side of the family?

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When he came home at eight-thirty, Grethe had a meal waiting for him. At her request he’d phoned shortly before leaving the shop and she heated up the delicious lasagne she’d served Peter and Michael earlier on. The boy was ready for bed and greeted him with a hug and cries of ‘Papa.’

He insisted on sitting next to him while he ate, and telling about his day with Peter translating patiently. Apparently, most of it had been taken up with planning his future room, unpacking the additional boxes from Denmark, and with the arrival of the dishwasher. Michael was annoyed at being banned from the kitchen and the fascinating sight of two guys installing it.

When he was done eating, the boy clearly expected to be picked up and carried into the living room. He settled on his Papa’s lap with Richard Scarry’s Min første ordbog[3] containing Danish and English words next to the illustrations. They spent twenty minutes saying and repeating the terms of various household objects in both languages, and Patrick had the feeling this would be an established evening ritual for the foreseeable future. Not that he minded in the least. The tender smiles and proud looks from Peter were just additional bonuses. Having a family was a dream come true.