Greenwich
Chapter six
The call came three days after Wimbledon ended.
Blake had reached the quarterfinals, losing a tight four-set match to the eventual champion. He was resting, letting his body recover before the transition to the European clay for the Hamburg Open, when his phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
The caller ID read Lydia Harlan.
Blake stared at the screen for a long moment. His mother rarely called. When she did, it was usually to pass along a message from his father, or to inform him of a social obligation he was expected to ignore but acknowledge.
He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Blake,” Lydia said. Her voice was tight, the usual polished veneer stripped away, leaving something brittle and thin underneath. “It’s my mother—”
Blake felt a sudden, cold weight settle in his stomach. “What happened?”
“Grandma passed away this morning. A stroke. It was very fast, darling. She didn’t suffer.”
Blake's grandmother had been the only person in the Harlan family who had ever looked at Blake and seen a boy instead of an investment. She had smelled of peppermint and old paper, and she had secretly fed him sugar cookies when his father’s nutritionist wasn’t looking.
“I’m coming home,” Blake said immediately.
“The funeral is on Thursday. At Christ Church. Eleven o’clock.” Lydia paused, the silence stretching across the Atlantic. “Your father… he knows you’ll be there. He won’t cause a scene.”
“I’m not worried about a scene, Mom. I’m coming for Grandma.”
When he hung up, Andre was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a smudge of cobalt blue on his jaw, his expression concerned. “What is it?” Andre asked.
“My grandmother died,” Blake said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “I have to go to Connecticut.”
Andre crossed the room immediately, wrapping his arms around Blake, pulling him against his chest. Blake buried his face in Andre’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar and soap, letting the shock wash over him.
“Mon coeur,” Andre whispered against his hair. “Je suis là.” I am here. “I will come with you, mon ange,” Andre said, his fingers combing gently through Blake’s hair. “I will pack my bag now.”
“No,” Blake said, pulling back slightly. “No, Andre. You can’t.”
“Why not? You should not do this alone.”
Blake sat up, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Because my father will be there. He hasn’t spoken to me in over three years.
If you come, he’ll make it about us. He’ll make it ugly, and I won’t let him do that at my grandmother’s funeral.
” He paused, looking at Andre with a steadier expression.
“And you have the Whitfield deadline. Fifteen pieces by September, Andre. You can’t lose a week flying to Connecticut. ”
Andre’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue — wanted to say that no deadline mattered more than being beside Blake when he was hurting. But he could see the quiet, immovable certainty in Blake’s eyes. This wasn’t a negotiation.
“Okay. If that is what you want. But you will call me. Every day.”
“Every day,” Blake promised.
Blake flew into JFK on Wednesday afternoon.
The flight was long and quiet, giving him too much time to think.
He rented a car at the airport, the heavy gray sky matching his mood as he merged onto I-95, driving north toward Connecticut.
The familiar landscape rolled past the window — the dense trees, the sprawling estates hidden behind high stone walls, the manicured perfection of a world he had left behind.
He didn’t go to the family estate. He had booked a room at the Delamar, a luxury hotel on the harbor in Greenwich.
He couldn’t stomach the idea of sleeping under his father’s roof, of walking the silent, immaculate halls where he had spent his childhood trying to be perfect, where every trophy was a demand for another, and every failure was a personal insult to the Harlan name.
The hotel room was impersonal and quiet, overlooking the gray water of the harbor.
He ordered room service he didn’t eat, watched television he didn’t see, and tried not to think about the last time he had been in this town.
He called Andre twice, just to hear his voice, the low, steady cadence of his French accent grounding Blake in the present, pulling him away from the ghosts of his past.
The funeral on Thursday morning was exactly what he expected — a model in old-money restraint.
Christ Church, with its towering stone spire and magnificent stained glass, was filled with the elite of Greenwich society: surgeons, hedge fund managers, politicians, and socialites, all dressed in impeccable, understated black.
The air smelled of expensive perfume, damp wool, and the faint, sweet scent of lilies arranged in massive displays near the altar.
Blake stood near the back of the church, a tall, solitary figure in a dark suit.
He felt the eyes on him — the whispers, the subtle nudges.
There’s the Harlan boy. The tennis player.
The one who … well, you know. He could feel the weight of their judgment, the polite, veiled curiosity of people who had watched his public coming out with a mixture of horror and fascination.
He ignored them, keeping his eyes fixed on the altar, focusing on the memory of his grandmother.
He remembered her sitting in the sunroom, a book in her lap, slipping him a peppermint and telling him that he didn’t have to win every match to be worthy of love.
She had been the only soft place to land in a house made of sharp edges.
When the service ended, the congregation began to file out into the bright, humid July air. Blake waited near the heavy oak doors, watching the crowd disperse, dreading the inevitable encounter.
“Blake.” He turned. His mother was standing there, wearing a black silk dress and pearls, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe chignon.
She looked older than he remembered, the lines around her mouth deeper, the skin around her eyes fragile.
The polished, impenetrable armor she usually wore seemed thin today, cracked by the loss of her mother.
“Mom,” Blake said softly.
Lydia stepped forward and hugged him. It wasn’t her usual, practiced embrace — it was tight, longing, her fingers digging into the fabric of his suit jacket.
She smelled of Chanel No. 5 and grief. “I miss you so much, darling,” she whispered, her voice trembling against his shoulder. “I miss you every day.”
Blake closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her, an ache blooming behind his sternum in his chest. “I miss you too, Mom.”
She pulled back, her hands resting on his arms, her eyes searching his face. “You look well. You look… happy. Despite everything.”
“I am happy,” Blake said gently. “Andre is good to me.”
Lydia’s expression tightened slightly at the name, a brief flash of the old, ingrained prejudice, but she forced it down. “I’m glad. I just… I wish things were different. I wish your father could understand.”
“He doesn’t want to understand,” Blake said, his voice hardening. “And I’m done trying to make him. I am happy.”
Lydia nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s over there,” she said quietly. “By the cars.”
Blake looked past her. Dr. Richard Harlan was standing near a black town car, speaking to a group of men in dark suits. He looked exactly the same — tall, imposing, radiating an aura of absolute authority.
As if sensing Blake’s gaze, Richard turned.
Their eyes met across the crowded courtyard. The distance between them was perhaps fifty feet, but it felt like an ocean. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The noise of the crowd seemed to fade, leaving only the heavy, airless silence that Blake remembered so well.
Richard gave a single, brief nod. It was the kind of nod one might give to a business associate across a boardroom table. Cold. Cordial. Completely devoid of affection.
Then he turned back to his conversation.
Blake felt something crack inside his chest. He had thought he was past this. He had thought that more than three years of distance, of building a life with Andre, of finding his own happiness, had armored him against his father’s disapproval.
He was wrong. It still hurt. It hurt with a fresh, merciless clarity.
“He can’t help it,” Lydia said softly, watching Blake’s face. “He’s… he’s a proud man, Blake. He doesn’t understand.”
“He doesn’t want to understand,” Blake corrected, his voice tight. “There’s a difference.”
“I know.” Lydia reached out, touching his arm. “I’m sorry, darling. I truly am.”
“I have to go, Mom.”
“Will you come to the house? For the reception?”
“No,” Blake said, stepping back. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He turned and walked away, his chest tight, his breathing shallow, desperate to get to his car, to get back to the hotel, to get anywhere that didn’t feel like a trap.
That night, Blake sat on the balcony of his hotel room, watching the lights of the boats bobbing in the harbor. The air was warm and thick, the sound of the water lapping against the docks a steady, rhythmic pulse.
His phone buzzed on the small metal table. Andre.
Blake answered, pressing the phone to his ear, closing his eyes at the sound of Andre’s voice.
“Are you okay?” Andre asked immediately.
“I’m fine,” Blake lied.
“Do not lie to me, Blake Harlan. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what happened.”
Blake let out a long, shaky breath, the tension of the day finally catching up to him.
He told Andre about the church, about his mother’s tears, about the cold, silent nod from his father.
He told him about the overwhelming, stifling feeling of being back in Greenwich, surrounded by people who looked at him like he was a stranger in his own hometown.
Andre listened in silence, letting Blake empty it all out. “I am sorry,” Andre said softly when Blake finally stopped talking. “I am so sorry, mon amour.”
“It’s stupid,” Blake said, rubbing his eyes. “I shouldn’t care. I have you. I have my career. I don’t need his approval.”
“It is not stupid. He is your father. It is natural to want him to look at you with pride.”
Andre paused, the line crackling slightly. “But you must remember something. His inability to see you — to truly see the man you are — is his failure. It is not yours.”
Blake swallowed hard, the truth of the words settling into the hollow space in his chest. “I miss you,” he whispered.
“I miss you too. The bed is too big. The flat is too quiet.”
“Tell me about your day,” Blake said, needing the distraction, needing the anchor of their shared life. “Tell me what you painted.”
Andre’s voice softened, taking on the rhythmic, melodic cadence he used when talking about his art.
“I started a new piece. It is smaller than the others. It is a study of light, really. The way the morning sun hits the hardwood floor in our bedroom. I am trying to capture the exact color of the dust motes floating in the air. It is very difficult. The yellow must be warm, but not heavy.”
Blake closed his eyes, picturing it. The bedroom in South Kensington. The pale London light. Andre standing at the easel, his dark curls messy, his hands stained with paint. “It sounds beautiful,” Blake murmured.
“It will be,” Andre promised. “When you come home, I will show you.”
Andre kept talking, his voice a low, steady murmur in the darkness, describing the colors, the textures, the quiet details of their life together. Blake listened, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders, the cold weight in his stomach beginning to thaw.
He fell asleep in the chair on the balcony, the phone still pressed to his ear, anchored by the sound of the man he loved.