Free A Pinchbeck Bride by Stephen Anable Page A

Genevieve Courson. Mingo House is known…around the world. We had a TV crew from Bulgaria there last week.”
    Jon rippled his pectorals as he fidgeted in his chair. He focused his gaze on a bed of begonias flourishing against one of the walls delineating the garden. “That flurry of people won’t last, of course. And the original records of the house suggest that it had substantial structural issues, right from the beginning. The foundation has buckled. Which wasn’t alluded to in the architects’ report.”
    I had purposely consumed as little ale as possible, since this was, purportedly, a business meeting. “It sounds like you two have written Mingo House off. Like you’re ready to call in the bulldozers.”
    “There’s no need to sound like Nadia, Mark,” Rudy said. “The building can be used for other purposes. If massive renovations take place.” Then Rudy rambled on, quoting great slabs of copy from the architects’ report, as if savoring the details about the dire state of Mingo House, how the brownstone used in the house matched that used in Arlington Street Church, a stone quarried in New Jersey that became all the rage before it proved wretchedly unstable…“Perhaps there
is
a curse on the old place, who knows?”
    Was Rudy coveting Mingo House as real estate? Had his developer’s greed already converted it into a club, restaurant, or condominium? Gutted like his own house, of course.
    “The collection—the furniture and artifacts—can be donated to the Museum of Fine Arts.” Rudy reached out and almost touched Jon’s knee in the intimate gesture of a sexual partner, then censored himself.
    “Why would the MFA want the things in Mingo House? They’re pretty mundane. It’s their being together—the intact state of the household items after all these years—that makes it unique. Will the MFA want the soapstone sinks in the basement or Clara Mingo’s sewing and cribbage board? Come on!…And you’re still having the party in August.’
    “Well, that’s been planned for so long.”
    I’d rattled them both—the atmosphere had become taut—I was the serpent in Rudy Schmitz’s garden. Rudy passed Jon another chicken-salad sandwich without offering me any. “I heard you went to Genevieve’s funeral,” he said to me.
    “How did you know?”
    “Nadia told me.”
    “Why was she there?”
    “She’s ubiquitous. Like ragweed…I wish I could have gone. I had an important financial meeting.”
    Jon Kim now directed the conversation away from anything to do with delicate matters. “You live quite nearby, Mark. Is that correct?”
    “I’m just on the other side of the Public Garden.”
    “Do you live with a partner?”
    “Yes, he’s a law student.”
    “Mark is taken, Jon.” Rudy sounded jealous.
    “You’re married, aren’t you?” I asked Jon.
    Rudy answered for him: “He’s in transition.”
    “Speaking of which, I should be off.” I consumed the last of my chicken-salad sandwich, and Jon said, “I should be off also. I’ll walk out with you.”
    Rudy didn’t object, but accompanied us as Jon fetched his beach things from the kitchen; these included, I noticed, a sage Ralph Lauren polo shirt, three sandy towels, aviator sunglasses with silver lenses, French tanning cream, and, to his chagrin, a box of Trojan condoms that had the audacity to drop onto the floor. “You’re such a butterfingers,” Rudy chided him, as Jon snapped up the condoms, turned and pulled on his polo shirt. Jon made the move and embraced Rudy, who responded by tousling his hair.
    Outside, Jon said, “Rudy is a wonderful guy.”
    “You would know.”
    “He’s such a Renaissance man.” Jon tripped on an uneven brick in the sidewalk, and then walked ramrod-straight. “We’re just friends.”
    Do “friends” bring condoms on jaunts to the beach? I forced him to fill the silence, let it hang in the air.
    “My wife and I are separating. It’s a long story, but she wants to relocate to Silicon