Recovering alcoholic Sam isn't quite ready to let go of his failing marriage. Gord gave up his dream to care for his dying father, and now he's trapped by an inheritance he doesn't want.
When Sam's new job sends him to Gord's remote farm in the hear...
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2015
3.1
Towering white clouds sailed across the breadth of a darkening aquamarine sky. Behind, fields and bristling hedges and uplifted branches blinked hazy green shoots, unfolded delicate buds into crisp blue air. Ahead, glass and steel glinted in the squint of the lowering sun.
Gripping the worn wheel of the truck between callused palms, Gord inhaled deeply through his nose and checked his rearview mirror again. White headlights from behind glanced blindingly off silvered glass.
Dark asphalt arced up into a curve of bridge. For a moment, rough water glinted jade-green below, tumbling quickly but not yet deepened by the bounty of spring snowmelt. On shallow banks, greening lilacs fanned graceful limbs between frothing waves.
Downtown, clogged-artery traffic lurched between crimson lights. A series of one-way roads tripped Gord up; he lifted off his battered cowboy hat and set it on the seat beside him as he strained his eyes to read street signs. Twice he missed turns and had to backtrack.
At last, Gord saw the ornately lettered sign for Sam's building. There were three For Sale signs swinging in the wind by the front door, three different realtor's names hopeful along their edges.
A bumblebee-striped height limit sign above the entrance to the underground parkade rattled a little as Gord eased his pickup underneath it. The parking spot, too, was a tight fit, barely enough space between the rusty blue truck and the gleaming white Mercedes beside it for Gord to ease out of his door.
Sam buzzed him in through spotless glass doors. The foyer was clean and quiet, pristine floors and thoroughly modern fixtures and far too many mirrors. Gord grimaced at the array of gleaming elevator buttons and opted for the narrow, dim space of the stairwell instead. His footsteps echoed against bare cement walls.
The stairwell door opened to a lush hallway: more gleaming floors, more mirrors spangling smooth pale walls. When Gord found the right door, checking the number twice, he hitched his bag further up his shoulder before knocking briskly.
Moments later the door swung wide to reveal Sam with his phone held to his ear. He hadn't finished changing out of his casual-Friday work clothes: dark denim, violet shirt untucked and unbuttoned to his navel, normally tidy black hair a little unruly.
Making an apologetic face, Sam gestured for Gord to come in as he went on to the person on the phone. "Yes, I know. Of course."
Gord eased the door closed behind him, slung his bag off his shoulder and set it carefully on the floor.
"Yeah, I did, I talked to Dad about it when we-- No, he told me--"
A longer pause. Gord took the opportunity to lean in and steal a small, chaste kiss. Sam smiled warmly at him, eyes sparkling, but held up a finger in warning.
