I've had a few nerve-wracking weeks lately, but the worst seems to be behind me and I'm feeling almost human again. I hope this has been worth the wait. 
Neil
* * * * *
"Speaking of which," I began with a chuckle, "you've got a lot of cheek telling him that you made me fall in love with you."
"But it's true."
I looked at Brad. He looked very serious. As if to emphasise his statement, he reached across the console and placed his open hand on my thigh before leaning toward me to give me another kiss on the cheek. He left his hand on my leg as he withdrew.
"It's true, Pops," he repeated softly. "I knew I was going to marry you even before you met me."
I glanced at him again to see if he was still being serious.
He was.
And now, on with the story:
* * * * *
WATCHING BRAD
Part 217
You've probably heard that expression: "Déjà vu all over again."
Yeah, I know. It's a bit redundant. But I was feeling a whole lot of déjà vu that night as we zipped westward along the streets in the heart of Metropolitan Toronto on our way to Mississauga. Too much déjà vu for only the ‘déjà vu' part all by itself. There was enough left over for that ‘all over again' bit, too.
It wasn't all that long ago when I had been talking with Justin and Jeremy that they told me they always knew I was their father before they met me. They had, they told me, dreamt that their biological father was just their ‘pretend father' until the real one (me) found them. They said they saw me in their dream.
And now Brad was telling me that he had known he was going to marry me before we even met.
Like I said. Déjà vu. All over again.
"Are you going Miss Cleo on me or something?" I asked with a lighthearted lilt in my voice.
"Who's that?"
"That psychic on television."
"Oh, yeah," Brad said with a bit of a chuckle. "No. Nothing like that. It's just that I saw you the day you came to look at the house."
"I was there twice before I bought it," I told him. "Lindsay came with me for the second viewing."
"No, you were alone, so it must have been the first time," Brad replied, his brow furrowed in thought. "Anyway, it was a Saturday afternoon, I think, and I heard voices through my bedroom window. I looked out and saw you in the back yard with that agent who wore that stupid toupée that was a different colour than his real hair. He kept adjusting it when you were looking away from him. You were looking around and talking and he was pointing, and then he left you alone and went back inside. You lit a cigarette and you wandered around the yard and you even peeked through the hedge at the end of the yard, and then you went back and sat on the wall where you always used to sit for your smoke and you finished your cigarette. You flicked the butt away when you were finished and stood up to go back inside. But then you changed your mind and went back and picked up the cigarette and ground it out on the grass and put the butt back into your cigarette package. I. . ."
He paused for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. "I don't know why I watched you, Pops," Brad continued. "I can't remember ever doing anything like that before, but there was something about you that I liked. It wasn't anything sexual, though. I mean, you didn't give me a hardon or anything. . ."
"Gee, thanks," I said. I crammed as much sardonicism into those two words that I could manage to squeeze in without pulling a muscle.
Brad quickly reached out is left hand and planted it on my thigh. He gave it a tender squeeze and a reassuring jiggle. "Oh, Pops. You know I didn't mean it like that. Back then, I didn't think about you that way. I just liked looking at you and I wanted to get to know you better. I thought about you and kept watching to see if you would come back, but I didn't see you. And then I had a dream a few nights after that and you were in it. I don't remember us eating or anything, but I guess we must have. I was helping you do the dishes in Old Man Perkin's kitchen. I was washing and you were drying. I remember just being happy and talking with you and then I remember taking off my wedding ri. . ."
He fell suddenly silent and lifted his hand from my leg. He splayed his fingers and looked at the two golden bands on his ring finger. Then he lifted his right hand and mirrored his left hand. His head moved back and forth a few times as he carefully studied his hands. His brow furrowed again, but this time it wasn't in thought.
"Uh oh," he said. He held out his right hand to me. "What kind of ring would I wear on this finger?" he asked in a rather uneasy, anxious voice.
I took a quick glance before returning my eyes to the street and traffic ahead of us. He had curled all his fingers and thumbs except for the ring finger "Just about any kind," I told him. "Pretty much any kind of ring," I told him, "except a wedding ring. That goes on your
left hand."
There were a few long, tense moments of silence before Brad exclaimed loudly with a titter in his voice, "Well, shit! You mean all this time I've been thinking that dream meant I was going to marry you because of that ring and it was probably the Dick Tracy Secret Decoder Ring my Dad let me wear when I was a kid?"
It was all I could do to keep myself from bursting out in laughter as I said, "Want a divorce?"
* * * * *
"Sacré bleu, mon ami! Enough already!"
Warren's exclamation actually startled me and I jumped, and that made Brad jump, too. He was cuddled up next to me on the smaller sofa. My forearm lay on his thigh, my hand cupped over his knee. Bill and Warren shared the larger sofa. Bill's left arm lay casually atop the back of the sofa behind his husband.
"Enough what, Warren?" I asked as I willed my thumping heart to return to its usual cadence.
"How long are you going to prattle on about that restaurant and concert, Teddy? I'm sure your coc au vin was delish and the concert took you to that secret place you go to whenever you listen to that music, but there are more important things to discuss here. Zut alors!"
I let out a short, sniggering snort as my face scrunched itself into a look of undisguised bemusement. "‘Zut alors'? Have you been reading
Tintin again?"
Warren's face scrunched itself into a melodramatic scowl of frustration as he crossed his arms intently and firmly over his chest.
"I caught him watching
Babar a few weeks ago," Bill offered with a sneaky little smirk which Warren didn't see.
"Oh, honestly!" Warren said in mock disgust. "I didn't stay up this long just to be insulted by the two of you old meanies!" His eyes turned to Brad. "What about you, Bradley? Would you like to take a shot at me, too? Might as well. It seems to be ‘Let's All Pick On Warren Night' tonight."
"I'd never do that, Warren," Brad replied. "I like you too much."
The mock scowl instantly vanished from Warren's face, replaced by a pair of twinkling eyes and a pair of smiling lips. He shook his head back and forth a few times. "Blond, beautiful, built,
and polite."
"And happily married," Bill reminded him with another sneaky little smirk which Warren didn't see. "Just like you."
Warren was silent for a dramatic moment, then shrugged one shoulder. "Okay. I'll give you ‘married'. The ‘happily' part is still under debate."
"Ouch," I said. "Touché."
"Indeed," Bill said.
Warren, still looking at Brad, breathed in a deep sigh. "If ever there was a man who could lead me into temptation. . ."
I looked at Bill and winked. "Incorrigible."
"Yes, he is," Bill said winked back, "but he makes an apple crumble to die for and he irons my ties. I think I'll keep him."
Warren's mock scowl returned as he threw his arms into the air. "Oh, mon Dieu! Fermez les bouches, will ya? Both of you! Now, let's get back to the matter at hand. Tell us more about this Tom Kent! Our Terry's future is at stake!"
"Terry?" I said, surprised.
"Bien sure, Teddy. We're the closest thing to family she has. Right? It's our duty to take care of her and make sure Tom is right for her."
Before I could respond, Brad did.
"I think you just want to hear about how hot he looks in tight pants."
I looked first at Brad, surprised that he would take such a shot at Warren so swiftly after promising that he wouldn't. I saw an extra little glint in his twinkling green eyes that I didn't think our friends would notice let alone recognise. And then I looked at Warren to check his reaction to what Brad said.
Warren looked extremely put out. The scowl on his face was harsh and critical, but he couldn't fool me. As hard as they were trying to keep up appearances, his eyebrows were smiling. His squinting eyes flicked to meet mine for just a moment, but I saw something in them which I hadn't seen in quite some time. I caught a flash of a boyish exuberance and mischievousness which had been missing in him for so very long, ever since that day he told me he needed to have heart surgery. I was beginning to think that I would ever see it again. Now it was back. Proof positive that my best friend was truly on the mend.
"You've got almost as much cheek," he grumbled as menacingly as Warren is capable of grumbling menacingly, "as you've got junk in your trunk, Bradley."
I heard and felt Brad suck in a sudden, contrite breath.
Warren didn't torture my Tiger for very long. The smile in his eyebrows began to sweep down his face, lighting up his eyes first before continuing on down to his lips and settling there. His arms relaxed noticeably and his head bobbed up and down like a bobblehead doll as he winked and said lightheartedly: "Good one."
We all had a good laugh, and nobody laughed harder than my Brad. It took a minute or two for the laughter to die down and, when it did, Brad was still chuckling when he told me to hold up my hand.
"What?" I asked.
He bent his elbows and raised both hands palms outward in front of him. "Hold up your hands," he repeated. "Like this."
"Why?"
"Just do it," he giggled some more.
More curious than confused, I complied.
"Just so you know, Warren," Brad said through his continuing snickers, "these are the only keys to my trunk."
Bill and I burst out laughing again with Brad quickly following along, but Warren sat there, frantically patting his pockets before twisting around and pulling open the end table drawer and searching through it. I managed to calm myself enough to ask, "Gee-sus, Murphy, Warren! What are you looking for!?"
"Lock picks!"
Warren couldn't contain himself this time. He joined us in yet another rousing round of mirth. It felt good laugh with my Tiger and my best friends like that.
It took a minute or two for things to calm down this time and, when it finally did, Brad surprised Warren with pictures on his camera that he'd taken of Terry and Tom Kent at the restaurant. There was ever a photo of all four of us which our waiter had taken at Brad's request. He had to satisfy himself with squinting at the tiny pictures on the viewing screen at the back side of the camera and was suitably impressed with Tom's rugged good looks. I promised him that we'd have a housewarming party as soon as we moved into the new house and he and Bill would be invited. If Terry was still seeing Tom at that time, we'd make sure they were there as well and Warren could meet him in person.
By that time it was late and we were all pretty-much wiped and ready to hit the sack. After a quick trip to the bathroom, Bill gave us each a kiss on one cheek (which we happily returned), but Warren kissed us goodnight right smack dab on the lips and gave us a warm and friendly rather crushing hug.
As we left them and entered the guestroom, Bill called out to us, "Sleep well, you two, and be good."
"And if you can't be good," Warren added, "be loud!"
With my best ‘you're
still incorrigible' voice, I replied, "Nitey nite, Warren." Brad and I laughed as we pushed the bedroom door closed behind us.
* * * * *
"You sound tired already, Nathan," I said into the phone. It was early on Saturday morning but I knew he'd be awake. The boys were early risers and weren't particularly fond of the grownups sleeping in when they should be awake. I could hear them chittering and giggling in the background along with Barry. Brad was sitting beside me at the table, holding my free hand. I held the phone in front of us so we could both hear and talk.
Warren sat across the table from us, watching and listening intently. He had that happy ‘Uncle Warren' smile on his face that he always got when any of the kids were involved. Bill was at the small kitchen counter setting out mugs and cream and sugar and waiting for the pot of coffee to brew.
"A bit, I suppose," Nathan replied, "but I'm having the best time. Barry is, too. He's helping them make funny faces on their pancakes with berries and fruit slices, peanut butter and chocolate and butterscotch chips."
"And your homemade syrup, too!" came Barry's voice.
"You make your own syrup, too?" Brad asked.
"Of course!" Nathan sounded truly shocked. "Do you have any idea what's in that store-bought stuff? It's mostly corn syrup. Believe me, homemade is a whole lot better and a whole lot healthier. I'll give you the recipe if you want it, Brad. It's easy to make."
I should have known better, I suppose. When it came to food, Nathan used the real stuff whenever he could. I'm sure that he'd make his own hotdogs and sausages if he had a sausage stuffer.
"Thanks," Brad replied, giving my hand a squeeze. "I still can't figure out why I can't make my pancakes taste like yours, though, Nathan. I follow the recipe you gave me but I must be doing something wrong. They boys keep saying they like yours better."
"At least they
eat them," I interrupted. "When
I make them, the boys use them as Frisbees or play road hockey with them." This got a laugh from Nathan and from Bill, Warren, and Brad. "So, no problems with the boys, then?" I asked when the snickers died down. "No more fevers?"
"None. Not even a little belly ache. I've been checking both of their temperatures regularly just to make sure. Trust me. If anything changes, I'll call you right away. Did you want to talk to them?"
As if on cue, there was a burst of all-too-familiar gleeful clapping and piercing squeals of laughter. I could hear Brad chuckling beside me and it made me smile, too. He looked at me and nodded. "Sure, we'll talk to them for a minute or so."
"Okay. Hang on." In an aside voice, he said, "Boys? Your fathers are on the phone. Want to say ‘hi' to them?"
From a distance, we heard their voices in unison: "Hi, Daddy! Hi, Daddy Brad!" Then Justin said, "We can't talk now!" Jeremy added, "We're playing with our pancakes!"
"Well, at least they said ‘hi'," Nathan said cheerfully into the phone.
"That's alright. We'll hear all about it tomorrow afternoon, I'm sure.
"Don't worry, Ted. We're taking lots of pictures."
"Any problems getting them to bed last night?"
"Are you kidding? They were so excited about their tent, I could barely keep them in the tub long enough to take a bath. As soon as they were out of the tub and in their pyjamas, they were out in the livingroom. Barry had everything ready and waiting. Justin helped me pump up the air mattress with the foot pump and helped me make the bed while Barry and Jeremy set up the tent. Thank God for Barry. I wouldn't have known where to begin.
"Anyway, as soon as the tent was up and we got the mattress inside it, Justin and Jeremy were in there, too. Laughing and clapping and shouting at me to take their picture so you could see them. Barry and I lay on the floor and stuck our heads inside and we all had brownies and hot chocolate for a snack before they went to bed. I thought maybe they'd be too excited to sleep but they talked for only about five minutes before they fell silent. I peeked in and they were dead to the world. It was like someone just flipped their switch."
Brad and I laughed. "That's the way it is with them. They don't slow down. They just stop."
"Well, I didn't hear a peep out of them all night long until about an hour ago when then they were up and ready to go full steam ahead."
"Yup," Brad commented with a sigh. "There's that friggin' switch again."
Bill set a tray of three full coffee mugs and one glass of juice (for Warren) on the table, then took his seat at the table beside his husband and set a mug in front of both Brad and I as Warren took his glass of juice.
"Think you'll be able to entertain them until tomorrow?" I asked into the phone as Brad prepared our respective coffees.
"That shouldn't be a problem," Nathan said. "We have plenty of ideas to keep them occupied."
"Have fun then, okay?"
"And give the boys a hug for us," Brad added quickly.
"We will. Enjoy your weekend."
‘Goodbyes' were said all around and the phone call came to an end, allowing Nathan to get back to what he enjoyed doing most - feeding the people he loved - and us to get on with our day.
"It certainly sounds as though Justin has recovered from the bout of whatever it was he had," Bill commented as he held his coffee mug close to his lips.
I nodded my agreement. "Sounds like Jeremy's in the clear, too," I added rather gratefully. "I don't know what Justin had, but I'm glad it wasn't catchy."
"That's the one thing that makes me hesitant to adopt," Warren said. "I'd love to raise a child like you, but I don't think I could deal with him being sick like that. I'm sure I'd spew chunks if he ever upchucked on me the way Justin did on you."
"No, you wouldn't, Warren." Surprisingly, that was Brad who responded.
Warren gave him a knowing look and said, "Oh, you don't know me, Bradley."
"But I know
me, Warren," Brad continued with a rather serious and quiet tone in his voice. "That used to happen to me all the time whenever I was around anyone who was sick. I didn't even have to see it. I'd just have to hear it and I'd have to get away from them in a hurry."
"Same here," Warren interjected.
"But it doesn't work that way when it's your kid who's sick. All you think making them better." Brad looked down at his coffee mug and shrugged his shoulders. "You just do what has to be done and you don't even think about it. Something changes when you become a father. You stop being the old you when you. It's suddenly all about the kids." Brad looked up again and caught Warren's eye. "You become someone you didn't even know you could be, Warren. Trust me. It's the best thing that could ever happen to you." And then he flashed his chipped-tooth smile at him. "I highly recommend it."
* * * * *
We sat at the table, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the morning. With the afternoon and evening already planned, the morning hours were free and Brad announced rather sheepishly that he had never been to Kensington Market and was rather keen to see it. . . if it wasn't too much trouble.
"No trouble at all, Brad," Bill assured him with a smile. "We'll be over that way anyway."
I didn't mind. Kensington Market, one of Toronto's oldest and most famous markets, used to be one of our favourite weekend when Connie and I lived in Toronto. That's where we bought all our meat and vegetables and we found a lot of our household furnishings and knickknacks there, too. When Lindsay was a baby, we'd push her in her stroller up and down the streets and, when she was old enough, she'd walk between us, holding our hands, and having a ball looking in all the windows. Even after we moved out of the city, we would go back once or twice a month until Connie changed and things became strained between us. Suddenly, Kensington Market was beneath her and she wouldn't be caught dead shopping there. We stopped going even before we became separated and I hadn't been back since. I was quite looking forward to becoming reacquainted with it with Brad.
Bill managed to find a parking spot in the parking garage on St. Andrews Street, just east of the market and walked arm in arm with Warren as I walked beside Brad, who was pushing Warren's folded wheelchair in front of him. Warren was well along the path of recovery, but not yet far enough along that he didn't tire easily when he exerted himself too much. And he wanted to save himself for the afternoon's activities where the wheelchair might be more of a hindrance than a help.
We walked westward to Kensington Avenue and turned south. Brad looked around, taking in all the shops along the street but not really paying attention to them. We were about halfway to Dundas when I asked," Well, what do you think, Tiger?"
"About what?" he replied, looking at me with a rather confused look on his face.
"About the market."
Brad looked around him, then back at me. "Where is it?"
"You're
in it."
He looked around again, studying his surroundings more closely. "This is the market?"
"What were you expecting, Bradley?" That was Warren.
"Well, a market, I suppose," Brad replied, still looking confused. "A building, I guess. You know, like St. Lawrence Market."
"Main non, mon petit chou," Warren continued with a wide sweep of his arm to indicate the entire street. "This is it. You should really try to come here at the end of the month, though. The streets are closed to traffic on the last Sunday of the month and the whole market becomes like a fairgrounds. It's wonderful, and there's so many things to keep the kids entertained, too. The streets are full of juggling clowns, buskers, screevers. . ."
Brad looked at me with questioning eyes. "What are screevers?" he whispered as Warren continued his list.
"Sidewalk artists," I told him.
"Oh." Brad nodded his thanks.
". . . bouncy castles," Warren concluded, "and sidewalk vendors and such."
"Sounds like fun," Brad said with a happy smile.
"Oh, it is. Now, be a sweetie and open that chair for me, would you? I grow fatigued."
"Who the heck are you?" Brad said. "Ricardo Montalban?"
If it was a joke, I didn't get it. Warren glanced at me, his face full question and I could only shrug a shoulder to let my friend know that I didn't have a clue what Brad was talking about. I made a mental note to ask him about it later, but I forgot all about it within minutes.
Anyway, Brad smiled and shook his head back and forth as he and I opened and locked the wheelchair. "I grow fatigued," he repeated with a distinctly Latin accent. I still didn't get it. Warren moved around and settled himself into place in his wheelchair when it was ready. He said he was getting tired, but I suspected he just wanted Brad to push him around the city.
When he was comfortable, Warren thrush his right hand into the air with his index finger extended and shouted in a most regal voice, "To the market, lackey! And don't spare the horses!"
"Oh, Gee-sus Bloody Murphy," Brad groaned with a slow, exaggerated, mischievous sigh in his voice. "God save the Queen."
It was all I could do to keep from bursting out in laughter, but Bill didn't even try. His boisterous laugh suddenly filled the street and caused many heads to turn and faces to smile in response. Bill's laugh is rather infectious and I quickly joined in. Meanwhile, Warren twisted around in the chair and looked up at Brad. He was smiling and nodding his head slightly. "Good one," he said.
Brad smiled back at him, bent down, and kissed Warren on the only cheek his lips could reach. "Your command is my wish, Your Majesty."
I swear, Warren blushed and practically swooned as he turned back around to face the crowded sidewalk ahead, gasped for breath, and fanned his flushed face with his hand. It was all for show, of course, but that was Warren. . . all for show.
Brad quickly settled into the role of wheelchair chauffeur and market goer and cheerfully and expertly wheeled Warren through the crowd of weekend shoppers. As we walked along, Bill related a brief history of the Market, how it dated back to the early 1790s when Toronto was founded by British colonials as the Town of York. The market soon took root and continued to expand into the early nineteenth century when York was renamed the City of Toronto. For decades, it continued to grow until, in the early 1900s, it was a predominantly Jewish community in which four out of five Jews lived and did business. Kensington became a large, multicultural community after a flood of European immigrants settled in Toronto following World War Two. The streets of Kensington Market are lined with residences whose street-level floors were converted into shops of every type imaginable.
"Wow," Brad said as he looked around in childlike amazement. "So this is like two hundred years old?"
"Well, the
market is," Bill concluded. "The buildings are a bit younger."
"Wow," Brad repeated with just as much amazement as there had been the first time he said it. Knowing that he was now actually in the midst of historic Kensington Market and surrounded by sights and sounds and smells from all over Europe, Brad began taking in everything with renewed wonder and excitement as we continued down the avenue.
We stopped in a few shops now and again, the first of which sold antiques. Warren was the one who wanted to go in, but Brad was the only person to buy anything - a Parcheesi game and a Chinese Checkers board complete with all the marbles, and two original Etch-A-Sketches in their original packaging for the boys. As he was paying for the games, he spotted a beautiful print hanging on the wall just to the right of the counter. It was a stunning, snow-white unicorn with a long, flowing, silvery mane and brilliantly-golden spiral horn which glinted in the sun. At its side was its foal - a miniature version of its mother. The colt was drinking from a small, secluded, sparkling, sun-dappled forest stream as its mother kept watch. The frame was exquisitely hand-carved wood with black highlights and flecked with what remained of the gold paint.
He stepped over to it, flipped over the price tag which dangled from it, and lifted it off the wall. "Lindsay will
love this," he said excitedly as he set it on the counter with the other treasures he'd discovered.
On the opposite side of the street, as we were heading back up Kensington Avenue toward Baldwin, Brad found a small shop which, amongst a plethora of other general store items, also sold loose candy in large, fish bowl style jars with flat sides and plastic lids. He bought a bag of assorted candies which were sold by weight, a small bag of black balls because he thought the twins would have fun turning their tongues black when they sucked on them, a handful of licorice strings (both red and black) which make really fun straws when you bite off both ends, a few bags of store-spun candy floss, a dozen fire engine red wax lips, and a dozen sticks of fairground midway pull taffy wrapped in waxed paper. Actually, Brad decided on the candies. I paid for them. He'd spend enough money on the toys for the boys and for Lindsay's unicorn print.
Chinatown is just east of Kensington and within easy walking distance. In fact, the car was parked halfway between the two, so we headed over there for a delicious all-you-can-eat buffet lunch. There was plenty of food which Warren could eat so he didn't feel quite as left out as he often does because of his diet.
After lunch, we walked back to get the car, stored the wheelchair in the trunk, and climbed in. Bill hit the streets and headed east toward the city core and beyond where we would begin our afternoon of open house viewings. Warren and Bill weren't actually looking to buy in the near future, but they had been going to a number of open houses over the previous few weeks and were hoping to take advantage of a number of open houses in Cabbagetown which had been advertised in The Star. On the way back to the apartment, if there was time, Warren wanted to take a look at few homes in High Park Swansea area as well.
"Swansea," I mentioned casually. "Expensive digs."
"Mais oui, mon ami," Warren replied. "But the mortgage wouldn't be much higher than what we're paying in rent here. I love this apartment, but High Park would be so much more convenient for Bill's work. And I just love the neighbourhood. So many trees and lawns and gardens. If I'm going to move somewhere, I'd rather move to a place where I'm going to feel at home."
Warren and Bill's apartment certainly wasn't modern, but it's very clean and quite contemporary. Surprising, since Warren seemed to be concentrating the older homes of High Park and the Victorian homes in Cabbagetown which were in complete contrast to his home in Mississauga.
"I thought you were looking at The Bluffs?"
"We were," Warren said, "and we saw some nice homes there last week, but Bill and I didn't think we could fit all those zeros on a cheque."
"And yet you're looking at Cabbagetown and High Park."
Warren shrugged. "I thought we might get more kids at Hallowe'en."
As it turned out, we only had time to see three homes in Cabbagetown that afternoon. Well, I guess I should say two and one-eighth homes. The second one we went to see was a huge, empty Victorian which had been converted into six separate rental units over three floors with two small units in the basement. From the looks of the unit we actually saw, the entire complex had been sorely neglected by the landlord and would have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars just to make it liveable again. The agent did his best to try to interest Bill in the property, but even he knew he was wasting his breath. Bill thanked the agent and wished him luck, then exited the apartment door and went straight for the front door with the rest of us in his substantial wake.
The third house was the highlight of the afternoon - impressive with well-tended landscaping and magnificent, statuesque maple trees and beautifully-manicured lawns. The rain gutters looked brand new and in keeping with the style of the house and the window were in fine repair and didn't even look as though they needed painting. Brad stayed outside with Bill, who wanted to investigate it more closely.
The instant I stepped inside, I felt as if I had been there before - as if the house was reaching out its arms to welcome me inside. It felt eerily familiar and I was getting that sense of ‘déjà vu all over again' all over again. I felt at home in the house, and I felt as though I could be quite comfortable living there. In fact, I almost felt as though I had lived there before. I think Warren felt it, too. He literally gasped as we stood in the majestic foyer and whispered, "Oh, Teddy. . ."
Directly ahead of us was a wide, elegant hallway which lead to the kitchen, a portion of which was visible through an open doorway at the end of the hall. On the left side of the hallway was a grand, oak staircase equally as wide as the hallway itself leading upward to the second-floor landing. Double doors on either side of us opened to well-appointed, period reception rooms.
We were greeted at the door by the selling agent, a striking, middle-aged gentleman who introduced himself as Laughlin Something-Or-Other. He offered us a large envelope which Warren accepted. Inside was Laughlin's business card and a brochure containing photos of the house and a bright blue Duotang folder with pages describing the features of the house in more detail.
"You may survey the house at your leisure," Laughlin said, "or I would be happy to guide you through a more thorough tour."
Warren glanced briefly at me, then back to the agent. "I think we'd like to walk through on our own. If you'd be so kind to send our husbands on through when they come in."
"Your husbands?" Laughlin seemed perplexed. His extended index finger moved back and forth between us. "Forgive me, but I thought. . ."
"Who? Us? Oh, no. We're just old friends who are too stubborn to go out and find new ones." He poked his left thumb over his shoulder toward the front door. "Our husbands are outside looking at bricks and foundations and shingles and windows. They'll come in when they get bored. Mine's the big one. You can't miss him."
I'm not at all certain that Laughlin was any less confused than he was before, but he nodded politely and smiled and suggested that we begin our tour with the room to our right. Warren smiled and nodded and thanked him, then looped his right arm in my left and guided me toward the open doors as Laughlin exited the front door undoubtedly in search of Bill and Brad.
"Well, that was fun," Warren commented with a impish smile in his voice.
A wood fire was burning in the elegant fireplace on the far wall, snapping and crackling and adding a cheerful, comforting, warm, and homey feel to the room. There was a slightly aromatic aroma from the burning wood which mixed with the other smells in the room, making it feel even more familiar, but not so familiar that I could put my finger on the reason why. At least, that is, until Warren pulled himself to an abrupt stop as we crossed the room and put his free hand on my arm, bringing me to a stop beside him. His hand squeezed my arm firmly.
"You recognise it, too, don't you, Teddy?" he asked softly.
"Sort of," I replied likewise as I looked around the room, "but I'm not quite sure what it is."
"Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Just close them."
I stood beside him and closed my eyes, feeling rather silly to be doing so. After a short time I said, "Okay, I don't hear anything unusual."
"It's not the sound, Teddy," Warren prompted.
So, it wasn't sight and it wasn't sound. That didn't leave many senses available to me. In fact, there was really only one available to me at that moment which was even remotely effectual and I concentrated on it. When I did, recognition came almost immediately.
"Gee-sus, Murphy, Warren!" I gasped in a loud stage whisper as my eyes popped open. "It's your
grandmother's house!"
Warren squeezed my arm again. "Bien sure, mon ami," he said. "C'est ça. Just like when we were kids and we'd go to Grandma's and she'd give us chocolate milk and cookies and little cakes and stuff."
The happy memories came flooding back into my own mind and I looked at Warren. He turned his head toward me and there was such a contented look on his face. "I could be very happy living here, Teddy."
"Whoa!" I said anxiously. "Hang on there, pal. Are you seriously thinking of buying this place just because it smells like your grandmother's house used to smell?"
Warren's expression suddenly changed and he started laughing. "Sacré bleu, mon ami," he cackled. "Are you kidding me? Do you
seriously think I want to be reminded of my Grandma when I'm lying in bed upstairs licking Bill's lollipop? Merde! I can hear her now!" And then, in his best Grandma Michaels voice, he said, "‘Warren Michaels!? You get that thing out of your mouth this instant! You don't know where it's been!' Mon Dieu, Teddy! I might be happy living here, but I'd never have sex again in my life if I did, and I didn't survive life-and-death heart surgery to become a freakin' monk!" He laughed again and released his hand from my arm before dragging me further into the room and toward the doorway leading into the diningroom. "Now, suivez-moi, Teddy. I want to see if the kitchen has a dishwasher."
And that, as they say, was that.
To Be Continued
](/images/smilies/bang.gif "Brick wall ](*,)")
