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Feeling at loose ends, Marcus gathered up the farmer's kit and their own belongings.
The farmer nodded. "Once we make sure this one's had his first meal, my wife was just about ready to have me sit down with her for lunch," he said. "I'd like for you to join us, you and your friend. You'd be welcome. " He gave Marcus a glance that told him the invitation wasn't necessarily so steady as far as he was concerned, but manners were manners.
"We'd love to," Thomas accepted.
Oh hell, Marcus thought.
Chapter Eleven
Cathy and Walter Briggs sold their goat cheese to a select but highbrow clientele, including Zabar's in New York City and several of the gourmet shops in Stockbridge, where the Boston symphony spent its summers.
Thomas had mixed feelings about accepting the lunch invitation. He'd done so automatically, for that was simple courtesy, giving the farmer the chance to repay a kindness himself. Thomas just wasn't sure what Marcus thought of it, or if he'd have preferred to get away as fast as he could.
Given the state of Marcus' temper before they were interrupted by Phyllis the Goat's labor crisis, he was a little concerned that Marcus would make the farmer regret his offer.
Instead, Marcus helped Cathy fill glasses with ice from the basement freezer while Walter showed Thomas where he could wash up, loaning him a shirt and baggy pair of work pants. Cathy took his clothes to wash out and put on the line to dry. They'd apparently recently built the house to replace an older one which had been infested with rot and termites. Walter was still working on wiring for things like the washer and dryer.
Marcus was sincerely complimentary of the carpentry work, most of which had been done by Walter with the help of neighbors and other family members. He particularly remarked on the arched moldings over the windows and the architecture of the vaulted ceiling, making Thomas relax somewhat.
The house had a nice feel to it, a good space, and Thomas could almost imagine it as an artist's Berkshire hideaway, particularly when Walter took him upstairs and showed him the rolling hill view from the windows and described the layers of fall color that would become a vibrant mural as the seasons cycled.
"Your friend looks more comfortable than I'd imagine him to be. " The farmer chuckled. He gestured down below, where Marcus had joined Cathy in a trip to the hen house, apparently to collect some eggs.
Thomas watched Marcus take the basket from her, kneel and reach into the first opening in the henhouse, a smile flashing across his face as she apparently instructed him on the proper way to do it. Like most women faced with that smile, Cathy blushed, even though Thomas was sure they were talking about something entirely innocuous.
Whatever Marcus said next made her laugh. She put a hand on his shoulder, motherly.
He was sure Marcus would have noticed her stiff knees from her gait, and, being Marcus, he'd volunteered to get down and learn how to pull eggs out.
Walter cleared his throat. "I stomped on you boys a little hard. You should have asked, but even so. . . We get a lot of them through here, city folk who think like your friend. Like they're better than us and want to change everything they think we should be and feel, without ever knowing who we really are. "
"Marcus is a good man, with a generous heart," Thomas responded quietly, glad for the reminder of it right before his eyes, and a little ashamed at the necessity for the reminder. "On some things he just refuses to consider any option other than a confrontation. Like he thinks he always has to make it a fight, or always be ready for one, I guess. "
"Sounds like a man who's been in enough of them to make him that way," Walter observed matter-of-factly. "Let's go get something to eat. My backbone's gnawing into my stomach. "
Lunch included goat cheese spread on thick slices of homemade wheat bread, a bowl of blackberries and lemonade made just that morning, a fresh and simple meal that made Thomas think of home and his mother's table with a pang.
Cathy was a comfortable conversationalist, asking about Marcus' gallery, Thomas' art, his family in North Carolina. She'd positioned Marcus at Walter's right, her at his left, and Thomas next to Marcus. Thomas wondered if she'd had a momentary lapse of good sense, putting Walter and Marcus catty corner.
"Does your family live in the area, Mr. . . ?"
"Just Marcus will do, ma'am. " Marcus took the bread plate from her, passed it to Walter at her nod. "My family's in this room. "
He didn't look up from his plate where he was applying goat cheese to the thick slab of wheat bread, but Thomas felt like he'd speared him through the gut with the butter knife. So matter-of-fact and easy.
Was he saying it just to deflect Cathy's questions about his background? He'd surely deflected them often enough when Thomas asked.
Cathy darted a glance at Walter, but he was just as studiously focused on his own meal. "Walter, those eggs should be ready in about five more minutes. " He shrugged. "We're in no hurry. Thanks to Thomas, I shouldn't have to worry about any more birthings today. I just hate I didn't find her earlier. We haven't had a morning birthing all summer. They almost always happen late afternoon. " Conversation turned to their interests in Stockbridge, the Boston symphony.
Marcus spoke primarily to Cathy, though he shifted his glance politely to Walter now and again, to all appearances relaxed in his surroundings. Marcus could handle almost any awkward social situation. But just like at the club, Thomas could feel there was something off, thrumming hard under the surface.
When he glanced down, he noticed Marcus' hand was resting on his knee in a tense half curl, his forefinger rubbing a half-inch track on the fabric. Back and forth. Back and forth. It was obvious, if only to him, that Marcus was finding this a very difficult situation.
But they weren't at the beach or sitting in a coffee shop where most of the people were of the same sexual preference, or expected them to be. Thomas couldn't reach out to offer the brief touch of comfort he was almost certain Marcus needed at the moment, some sense Thomas was in his corner.
Good Christ, he wasn't going to grope Marcus. What was the matter with him?
Lifting the glass of iced lemonade to his lips, Thomas reached over and laid his free hand on Marcus' beneath the table. If Walter glanced over at just the right angle, he'd see it, but if he saw it, he saw it. Closing his hand over the top of Marcus', Thomas let his thumb rub Marcus' palm. Gave him a slight squeeze.
