My first day in Spring Lakes passes in a blur. Dane and Julian help me take my things over to the main house, which lies about a quarter mile to the east in the middle of a small, natural meadow.
Grace and Chloe have turned the surrounding few acres into something of a miniature farm, where they keep horses, sheep and bees. Chloe makes her own wool and yarns, honey and candles, as well as natural herbal remedies, which she sells through an online store. For someone who grew up not knowing she came from a Shifter line, she's come a long way in a very short time.
The pair welcome me with open arms, and quickly get me settled in the little loft above their living area. It's just big enough for a futon bed, a free-standing full-length mirror, and a small dresser. The roof is slanted with exposed wood beams, and the floor is polished pine.
"It's like a little nest, just for you Noah-bird," Grace says, giving me a happy squeeze. She has dark brown skin and hair she wears wild and loose. She's willowy but strong, has a movie-star face, a big smile, and a personality to match.
Her girlfriend, by contrast, is pale, red-haired, and freckled. Chloe is pretty, too, but not remarkably so, and nearly as quiet and shy as I am.
If I'd had to guess which of them was the leader of a previously patriarchal Shifter clan, I'd pick Grace. I'd be wrong.
That role is Chloe's, and from what I've heard, she's good at it, too. Her gentleness and soft voice belie a strong core, and apparently, she has no problem speaking up and being heard when she feels the need.
In that, at least, we are not alike at all.
Once I'm settled, the five of us—Dane, Julian, Chloe, Grace, and I—spend the rest of the day talking, eating the delicious meals that Grace cooks (including an award-worthy cherry pie), and doing odd chores around their little farm.
By nightfall, I'm full of good food, sore in muscles I didn't even know I had, and pleasantly exhausted. After a warm shower and a final round of drinks with the girls, I brush my teeth, change into my PJs, climb the ladder-like steps to the loft, and fall into the welcoming embrace of the simple futon.
I'm so tired, I figure I'm safe from the memories that continually visit my dreams.
I'm wrong about that, too.
~ ☾ ~
"I'm sure it's nothing, Noah. You worry too much."
I stare unhappily at the letter in my hands. I'm seated at the dining table in the house I share with another man.
He's my colleague, my friend, and—for the last few months—something more as well.
"You really think so?" I ask, twisting to look up at Thom where he stands at my back, his strong hands holding my shoulders with a steadying grip.
He nods. "In fact, it's probably something good. You just had your review, right? If anything, they want to promote you."
I turn back and stare at the stark, almost threateningly bland text on the paper I hold. It's from the University's Board of Regents, and it says that they want to see me. In person. That afternoon.
I swallow, nerves already tingling with anxiety at the thought.
"Hey, relax," Thom says, leaning to kiss the side of my face. "You're brilliant, Noah. If they're not going to promote you, then they damn well should. You're a fine scholar, and a good man."
He gives my shoulder a final pat and then turns away.
"I got to go," he sighs. "Lectures until eight, tonight. Don't wait on dinner for me. I'll see you later."
He grabs his briefcase and then pauses at the door. "And, Noah?"
"Yeah?" I twist again to look at him.
He shoots me a wink. "I love you—and don't you forget it."
Then he's gone, off to a day of teaching grad students about the mysteries of ethnolinguistics.
Dr. Thomas Flynn is a tenured professor, and also the first—and only—colleague who'd made an effort to befriend me when I'd landed a job as a part-time lecturer in the department he heads—languages and linguistics.
He's my opposite, in a lot of ways: 54 to my 32, tall, and handsome in a generic, 'men's product commercial' sort of way. He's also vigorously athletic, outgoing and—until quite recently—considered himself remarkably heterosexual.
As a recent divorcee, he'd seemed as much in need of a friend as I was, and we'd quickly bonded over our shared academic interests.
Eventually, as we began spending time together outside of our professional spheres, he'd pressed me about my apparently permanent single status, and, though fearful I would lose a friend, I'd come out to him as pan-romantic and gray-sexual.
Rather than reject me, though, he'd shown patient interest, and listened as I educated him on the nuances of sexual, romantic, and gender identities.
A few weeks later, he'd confessed that he had feelings for me that he didn't know how to process or express.
We'd taken things from there—slowly—and now we were partners, of a sort.
We lived together, took care of one another, and, occasionally, we slept together, too.
We had something good between us, even if he did have the unfortunate habit of closing his eyes when we made love. It made me wonder if he imagined he was fucking someone else, but he'd told me he'd always closed his eyes, and that he couldn't stop his brain from thinking otherwise.
I believed him. He was caring, kind, and attentive. He chased away my loneliness and made me feel wanted in a way I never had before.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't romance, exactly.
It was, however, comfortable, reassuring, and safe. He wanted little from me apart from companionship. We spend all our free time together, and a lot of our professional time as well. We shared research, co-authored papers, and talked long into the night, debating arcane points of knowledge that most people couldn't be paid to care about. Best of all, he was helping me with my book—a work of popular non-fiction exploring the origins of certain words through interesting historical tales, which I hoped would catapult my career to the next level.
I didn't know what I'd do without him.
Sighing, I folded up the letter and tucked it back in the envelope. Thom was right. I'd done nothing wrong. I had nothing to worry about. If anything, I should be excited to be called before the Board. It was probably a good thing.
Right?
~ ☾ ~
The following morning, I awake in a cold sweat, unsure where I am. I'm in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house, and the unfamiliar sound of female laughter rises from the floor below.
Finally, I remember—I'm at Grace and Chloe's, and nearly three weeks have passed since the day of which I'd dreamed.
Rising, I dress myself as usual—socks, singlet, slacks, a white button-down shirt, waistcoat and tie. Studying myself in the free-standing full-length mirror leaned against the wall beneath the highest point of the sloped ceiling, I realize that I look ridiculous—as out of place as a penguin on the Serengeti plains.
It can't be helped. At least not until I get myself some new clothes. For now, I'll have to do my best to help out around the farm dressed like the fussy little academic that I am.
Or was.
Carefully, I climb down to the lower level and wander towards the open kitchen, from whence comes the sounds of happiness and the smells of fresh coffee and crispy bacon.
Rounding the corner, I freeze, caught completely by surprise and unsure whether I should retreat or announce myself.
Grace has Chloe backed against the counter, kissing her with heated passion, one hand up her skirt and the other roaming beneath her blouse.
There's a lot on display for a little after 7 am.
I make an unconscious sound of distress, and Grace breaks contact to turn and look at me.
"Oh, hey Noah," she says, grinning and completely unashamed. "Good morning."
Chloe's pale face flushes scarlet, and she pushes Grace away, ending her girlfriend's sub-sartorial explorations.
"H-h-hi, Noah," she stammers, not quite meeting my eyes.
"I hope we didn't wake you," Grace says, winking at me. "Coffee gives me the giggles sometimes."
"Wasn't the coffee," Chloe counters, so quietly I almost can't hear.
"Well, the coffee started it, anyways," Grace concedes. "Help yourself, Noah—there's a breakfast quiche in the oven, too. I swear my hands were clean when I made it," she adds, inviting unwelcome thoughts into my brain.
"Grace!" Chloe chides softly, adjusting her clothes. "Honestly."
Grace is the only one among this strange, extended family, who is nothing but a normal human being. Well, she is a librarian, but besides that she's just an ordinary girl who's found herself pulled into an extraordinary world by the people she knows and loves.
Sometimes I think she handles it better than the rest of us.
"Thank you," I say, willing myself not to look as embarrassed as I feel while serving myself some coffee and a slice of quiche. "Um...What can I help with today?"
"Actually," Grace says, "Julian tells me you're good with numbers. Maybe you can take a look at our accounts. I've been trying to sort them out for a week now, but something just isn't adding up."
"Oh. S-sure. I can do that," I agree. Actually, some quiet indoor time sounds pretty good to my sore muscles right now.
Grace's face lights with another big smile. "Great! I've never been good with math. You need something arranged alpha-numerically, and I'm your gal. Calculating a tip, on the other hand—nuh-uh. I'll get the box."
"The...box?" I echo.
A moment later, she places a large file box on the table in front of me. "This is all our records from the last three months," she says. "We've never had a problem like this before, so honestly I never kept them in order. If you can make heads or tails of it, I'll owe you big-time."
"I...I'll do my best," I say, peering into the chaos of papers within.
"Thanks, Noah. You're a lifesaver," she grins, and pats my short, densely curled hair. "You don't have to do it right this instant, though," she adds, as I pull the box closer. "There's no rush."
"No, I work best in the morning," I say. "After lunch my brain turns to mush."
She laughs. "Alright. Well, take it easy, anyway. Chlo' and I are going into town for a bit—probably won't be back until after two. We'll see you later."
The pair leave, and I find myself alone in the soothing quiet of their peaceful home. Somehow I manage to find the shadowy downside of even that innocuous thought, as I recall that the reason I'm here is that I don't have any such place of my own.
To distract myself, I turn my attention to my task, and spend the next several hours sorting and tallying, and making sense of Grace's jumbled financial mess.
I make some good headway, and by noon I'm ready to put my work aside and have something to eat.
I've just risen from the table, when I hear the approach of a car, and assume that Grace and Chloe have returned earlier than expected.
Then I hear the enthusiastic bark of a dog and a deep, lilting male voice, and realize—with a sudden spike of anxious dread—that this assumption is probably wrong.