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Thomas' world righted itself, giving him a calm peace. He stepped forward until they were eye to eye.
"No," he said.
As Marcus' expression changed, he pressed on. "Tomorrow, I'm going to go home and tell my mother how I feel about you, the life I intend to have with you. I'm going to deal with Rory. I'm going to make it clear who I am and what I want, and how it's going to be. Then, I'll come back and say yes. "
He put his hand over Marcus' on the box, tried to ignore how the fingers had gotten rigid. "The words you just said to me mean everything. So I owe you the same. I won't ever have you wonder if you just overwhelmed me, coaxed me into this. I'm standing up to you, Master. To Marcus Aurelius Stanton, turning you down flat until I can go get my life in shape and deserve you. Then, I'm going to ask you to marry me. " 239
Chapter Twenty-One
It had been hard to say. The right thing to say, but so hard. From the worry in Lauren's face, Thomas knew she had the same concern he did. That although Marcus heard the words, nothing in his past or present gave him the ability to believe them.
When Thomas left for his family in the past, whether for a short trip or to break it off, he left. Which is why Thomas had to prove to Marcus that wasn't going to happen again.
He couldn't think about it too much, because it tore him apart to leave Marcus suffering, to only be able to convince him through the deed, which required the passage of time.
Marcus thwarted in his intent was not a pleasant person. Sex had been savage, stilted, and Thomas had woken alone, aching and bruised, to find Marcus already gone to his gallery. He'd left a Thermos of terrible coffee for Thomas' cab ride to the airport.
The rings and the chain were still on the mantle where Marcus had put them. Thomas deliberated, then took them with him. He wanted to look at them, think about them, remind himself. He wanted Marcus to see he'd taken them.
The connecting flight had been delayed, so he'd gotten home late, after midnight.
He'd found out from a sleepy Les where his mother was.
Somehow, the tranquility of the one a. m. hour seemed appropriate for the conversation. That, and his urgency to get back to Marcus. Following the gravel road, Thomas walked the mile to the church under a silent starry sky. He was accompanied by the Murphy's coon dog, who saw him pass their house and fell into step with him, always up for a stroll.
Even a Catholic church as small as theirs was had a tabernacle, where vigil prayer went on twenty-four hours a day over the extra communion wafers that had been blessed by the priest as the actual flesh of Christ. The Catholics in the area, including his mother, took turns. Apparently, she'd chosen the 12:30-1:30 a. m. time slot, probably because she wasn't sleeping well.
She hadn't slept well since their father died, really. Still learning to sleep in a bed by herself, he assumed. A couple times when he'd woken earlier than her, he'd seen her curled up in Les' single bed.
When she took a late hour like this, Thomas' practice of faith had been to meet her on the steps to walk her home. He'd taken over that responsibility as a teenager, when his father had to work long hours. He wouldn't let the boys help with things that interfered with their homework. So this was one thing Thomas could do.
It was a ritual he remembered now with deep affection, how his mother would loop her arm through his as they walked so he could keep her from tripping over loose rock.
He'd talk about problems, skirting around the one that was uppermost in his mind.
She'd walk silently next to him, pauses he now knew reflected her understanding of what his real worry was. She'd tell him to pray, to ask God to help him to find his true self.
Tonight, he looked up at the stars, the vastness of the sky and the world in which he lived, and knew who he was. All he wanted was for her to accept that, the way she accepted God's wisdom for the many things she couldn't understand.
As he thought about it, it was all about family. Les, Rory, Mom. Marcus. It wasn't a spigot that turned on and off, no matter how his Mom or even Marcus wanted to believe it was, to uphold their view of the world, or to protect a heart that had already been invaded. He was in Marcus' heart, in his soul, and he couldn't be shut out. Same with his mother. Just as Walter Briggs had said.
When there was full surrender, a lot of things became clearer. To be head of a family meant something far different than just being there - it meant making the hard choices he knew would be best for all of them, as Marcus had demonstrated to him that day in the way he'd handled Rory.
Tonight he would tell his mother he loved Marcus. Tomorrow, he would make sure Les knew she shouldn't get married until she finished school, and he'd invite her boyfriend down and make sure he understood the same. Rory would get off his butt, figuratively speaking, and start pulling his weight. Then he would go to Marcus.
The asshole had left him one message. A business card next to the coffee, one of his gallery associates, with a scrawled note saying "If you don't come back, deal through John on your paintings. It will be easier for both of us. " Thomas had torn up the card and left it on the table. Idiot.
When he got there, Elaine was just coming out, pulling her light jacket over her shoulders. She saw him, a momentary start, then recognition. Smiling, she came down the steps. He hugged her when she was still a couple steps up, so they were eye to eye.
"Hi, Mom. "
"Hello, son. I'm glad you're home. You didn't have to come out here. I'm sure you're tired from your flight. "
"I wanted to come. I wanted to talk to you. Here. " Elaine's eyes stilled, studied his face. "All right. Why don't we sit here, on the stairs?" As if she felt better with all the symbolic strength of God at her back. He didn't fault her for that, but he hoped she'd use it as a comfort, not a reinforcing army to turn this into a combat.
He sat next to her, pressing close as he usually did when they walked, to give her warmth. She seemed to have shrunk some since Dad died, and seemed more fragile and often cold.
Though he knew he was risking the hurt of having her pull away, he took one of her hands, enclosed it in both of his. "I do pray, a lot, Mom. I always have, because I believe you. And I believe in Him. You know that?"
