Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HUDSON
The hammock was strung between two old olive trees at the far end of the garden, and it was, Hudson had decided, the single greatest thing he had ever encountered in his life.
He’d been lying in it for forty minutes. The afternoon had gone golden and warm around him, bees working through the lavender beds along the stone wall, the trees filtering the light into a soft glow. His eyes were closed. His feet bare. His entire body doing something it hadn’t done in months.
Elliot was in a chair—a low wooden thing pulled into the shade—with a book open on his knee. He’d been reading for twenty minutes without saying anything. Occasionally he turned a page. Occasionally Hudson opened one eye to peek at him.
“What are you reading?” Hudson asked.
“Whitman.”
“Is that a person or a place?”
Elliot raised his gaze. “A poet. American. Nineteenth century.”
“Read me something.”
A pause. “No. You’ll make fun of it.”
“I won’t.” Hudson opened both eyes. “I swear.”
Elliot sighed. Then he turned to the book, found a page, and read—in French first, which Hudson understood zero of but appreciated greatly, and then in English:
“Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love; But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another.”
“Well…” Hudson said.
“I knew it. It’s like giving a child a present and watching them play with the box.”
“I was going to say,” Hudson said, drawing it out, “that I think that's genuinely beautiful and that you should read me some more.”
Elliot narrowed his eyes. “Really?”
“Yes.” Hudson closed his eyes again. “Please.”
He heard a page being turned and Elliot clearing his throat. “We two boys together clinging, one the other never leaving, up and down the roads going, north and south excursions making, power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching, arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving.”
Having made out for an hour in the hammock, Elliot and Hudson strode toward the house through the lush garden.
The grass was uncut and came up past their ankles, warm and dry against their skin.
Fig trees grew along the southern wall, unpruned, their branches reaching wherever they wanted.
Rosemary had taken over a whole corner like things did when left to themselves.
There were sunflowers gone slightly ragged at the edges, and something Hudson couldn’t name growing in tall purple clusters along the path. It smelled like summer.
Hudson thought about how different this place must be from what Elliot grew up in. The disorder of it, the unmanicured abundance, nothing here performing anything for anyone.
He watched Elliot move through it, unhurried, hands brushing the tops of the rosemary as he passed.
This was what Elliot looked like when nothing was required of him.
Like he belonged here. Hudson loved the thought of that, but it also scared him.
If this was where Elliot was supposed to be, how did Hudson fit into all of it?
He’d spent the last two weeks in Lyon trying to figure that out.
Elliot had explained that he bought the summer house right after his mother died. Apparently he had contacted the real estate agent before it was put on the market and told her the house was his. So bossy of him. Very Elliot.
Still, it wasn't until they arrived that Hudson had realized what this place was. What it meant. The second the car turned off the gravel road and the gate came into view—old iron, stone wall, plane trees—Elliot had exhaled loudly.
He had followed Elliot through the house without speaking.
Elliot moved through it like this was a place he understood, opening shutters and letting light in as he went.
Hudson stopped in the sitting room, taking in the line of photographs on the wall beside the fireplace.
Eight, maybe ten, in frames that didn’t match.
A woman laughing at something outside the frame. A younger Marguerite, recognizable by the eyes, standing in the garden. A formal family photograph taken at some sort of occasion—and there, in the front row, a boy maybe six or seven. Straight-backed. Careful. Already trying.
“Is this your mother?” Hudson said and pointed at the woman standing behind little Elliot.
“Yes.” He had come to stand beside him.
There was a warmth in her face, completely unguarded and present.
“She looks like you,” he said.
Elliot scanned the photograph again. Then he squeezed Hudson’s shoulder and turned to open the last of the shutters, letting the morning light flood in.
Hudson remained in the sitting room, taking in everything around him, and thought to himself that he was only just beginning to understand the size of what Elliot had been carrying around for thirty years.
Now, two weeks later, he knew which burner ran hot, which drawer stuck, and that the cellar key lived on the hook behind the kitchen door.
He knew Elliot took his coffee black and his wine seriously and that he read for exactly forty minutes before bed every night without fail.
He knew that the second stair from the top creaked and that the shutters in the bedroom needed to be angled just right if you didn’t want the morning light to hit the mirror and reflect straight into your eyes at 0600.
All in all, two very enlightening weeks.
He intended to keep every single piece of information.
Elliot was at the stove cooking coq au vin. Hudson sat at the kitchen bar with his wine glass and watched him work. He looked hot in his low hung jeans, a fitted white T-shirt and a brown leather apron around his waist. Oh—and the tattoos.
It smelled of garlic, red wine and the herbs Elliot had cut from the garden this morning.
“What are we making Saturday?” Hudson asked.
Marguerite and her boyfriend Antoine were joining them for dinner. Antoine was a retired schoolteacher from Villeurbanne who was apparently an expert on cheese, which meant Hudson had been Googling camemberts and bries excessively for the last couple of days.
“I’m making bouillabaisse.” Elliot adjusted the heat. “You’re making sure we have enough wine.”
“Hm, why do I feel like that's a downgrade?”
“It’s not. The right wine’s just as important as the food.”
“Then I accept.” Hudson topped up both their glasses. “Can I learn to make bouillabaisse?” His pronunciation was so flat, Elliot chuckled.
“Depends. Can you dice an onion without crying?”
“Of course I can.”
Elliot set a knife and an onion on the cutting board at the end of the counter without comment. Then he resumed his work at the stove with what might have been a ghost of a smile.
Hudson slid off the bar stool and picked up the knife.
He cried like a baby.
When Hudson realized cooking wasn't all that fun, he moved behind Elliot and slid his arms around his waist. He pressed his mouth to the curve of his neck.
“Smells incredible.”
“It’s not done yet.”
“I meant you.” Hudson felt Elliot exhale. “Also the food. Both. Strong showing all around.”
Elliot turned around. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mhm…” he reached behind Elliot and dialed the burner down to a minimum. “I’ve heard coq au vin needs a lot of time simmering.”
Elliot backed Hudson toward the counter’s edge. Then he had both hands on his hips and lifted him onto the surface with ease. “Look who’s the chef now.”
Hudson’s lips grazed gently over Elliot’s cheeks, his jaw, the crook of his neck. The moan that escaped Elliot was more satisfying than any wine or food.
“Give me an hour,” Hudson said. “Then the kitchen is all yours.”
The curtains moved in the warm night air, slow and irregular, letting in the smell of the garden. The room was dark except for the strip of moonlight coming through the open French doors and the small lamp on Elliot’s side.
Hudson was in the crook of his arm, Elliot’s hand resting on his shoulder. He listened to Elliot’s steady heartbeat, thinking about how he’d memorized this exact rhythm in a hospital chair in Germany and never wanted to forget.
“You know,” Hudson started. “After my dad left I spent so much time and energy on being loud and funny and making sure everyone was paying attention to me. Taylor used to say I was so brave, but that was not what it was about.”
Elliot’s hand was in his hair, fingers circling tenderly. “What was it about?”
“I think I wanted to make sure no one would forget about me. Would leave and not come back.” The curtains played in the wind and Hudson focused his eyes on them. “I did it with you for six years too. Wanted you, stayed near you, made sure I was loud enough that you wouldn’t forget.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Elliot said.
“I know.” Hudson pressed his hands flat against Elliot’s chest. “I’ve known for a while. You’re not exactly the person to do anything halfway. I think you’re the least likely person I’ve ever met to just leave.” He exhaled. “Voluntarily.”
Elliot was quiet for a beat. Then, “I’m leaving the military.”
Hudson lifted his head. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Before Syria, even.“ His eyes were on the ceiling. “I want to study engineering. I think it’s time I decide for myself.”
Hudson’s stomach fluttered. Elliot was leaving the military. He would be out of harm's way. Safe. Happy. Tears prickled behind his eyes. “Okay.”
“Yeah? That’s it?” Elliot’s eyes found his.
“Elliot.” Hudson reached up and kissed his lips. “I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had. And you’ve had some good ones.” He paused. “I want you to be happy.”
Elliot closed his eyes, but said nothing.
Hudson laid back down. “Also… It’s kind of perfect. You can be in charge of the house. And the kids.”
Before he even finished the sentence, Elliot was sitting up. “What?”
“Kids.” Hudson looked at him, all innocence. “You know. Small people. Loud. Sticky hands. We should get some.”
“You’re suggesting I become a stay at home dad while you chase reckless highs in a helicopter?”
“And study engineering,” Hudson added helpfully. “I’m not a monster.”
Elliot stared at him deadpan. Then he lay back down, clearly done pursuing his mad ideas.
Hudson waited approximately eight seconds. “Just one,” he said. “To start.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Two is a good number. You have enough attention for two—”
“Tété de m?le.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a stubborn ass. More or less.”
Hudson grinned into his shoulder, then turned serious. “I think about it a lot though. Having kids. Doing it right.” He paused. “Our dads weren’t exactly a high bar.”
“No,” Elliot said finally. “They were not.”
“Someone should do better.”
Elliot exhaled and draped his arm around Hudson’s back. “Yes,” he said. “Someone should.”
Hudson closed his eyes.
He thought about two little boys who learned to keep up the hard way. Both living in the shadows of their fathers. Both here, years later, in a summer house in Lyon. At rest.
In the arms of someone who wasn’t going anywhere.