Chapter 2

“I’ll see you, Mr Wiggins,” he said, leaving his employer to tackle the month’s accounts.

He dropped the parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, into the tray. It sat precariously on top of the various letters, bills and catalogues, but there was nowhere else for it to go.

Some days Alexander set off wondering how he was going to conjure up the expected smile for any of the townspeople he might encounter. Day after day he took the same route, gave the same half-hearted greetings to the same people. On those dark days he would vary his route, do it backwards or go up a street he normally went down, yet ultimately these tiny changes failed to inject any enthusiasm into him.

Today was not one of those days. Today he was going to interact with Mr Christian O’Neill. He’d be able to get right up close, close enough for the man to sign the post office register. He might even get a look inside the house, a feat no one else in town had ever managed to accomplish. His heart felt as though it was radiating sunlight from inside his chest and nothing, not Mr Cherry’s mongrel dog, which never failed to try and attack him through the gaps in Mr Cherry’s picket fence, nor Mrs Taylor’s little brats, who were fond of booby trapping the mail box so that either something slimy jumped out at him or something slimy ended up on his fingers, could rattle him.

There was also Lester Moore, who was in his sixties and who tried, as often as possible, to be at the mailbox when Alexander arrived with his mail. Happy were the days when Alexander could sail past and shout, “Nothing today, Mr Moore.” Yet he could see, from across the street, that Mr Moore, wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with “I love Australia” emblazoned across the front, was waiting for him with a smile that could have put the Cheshire Cat out of work.

With a deep inhalation he rode across the street, Mr Moore’s letters and bills in his hand, ready to deliver and run.

“You’re looking as handsome as ever,” said Mr Moore.

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied.

“Are you thirsty? Would you like to come in for a drink?”

It was just Alexander’s luck to have the only man interested in him be someone old enough to be his grandfather. Some might have suggested he thank his lucky stars that there was even another gay man in a town the size of Grasspatch. But those stars weren’t lucky at all. They were teasing, frustrating, and perhaps even mocking stars. And he certainly wasn’t going to thank them.

“I’m sorry, Mr Moore. Got a job to do.” He handed Mr Moore his mail. “Mr Wiggins wants me back as soon as possible.”

The smile on Mr Moore’s face didn’t even waver. “He’s a lucky man, working with you all day. Perhaps you might like to…”

“Good bye, Mr Moore.” Alexander rode away.

Alexander had always been one to save the best for last. Finally it was time to deliver Mr O’Neill’s package, which was sitting securely in the tray now all the rest of the mail had been delivered. He could feel his heart rate increase and he knew it wasn’t from the exertion of riding his bicycle.

He rode up to the wrought iron gate and was surprised to find it unlocked. There was no real need to lock it, of course. The only crime ever committed in Grasspatch was the occasional drunk and disorderly. He dismounted and leant his bike against one of the sandstone pillars. He pushed the gate open and, in his eagerness to be at the door, he almost forgot to take the parcel and his clipboard with him.

He walked up the paved path and climbed the single step to the front door. As he raised his hand to knock he realised he was trembling a little. He wanted more than anything to get a good look at Christian O’Neill and to see the inside of his magnificent home, if only to have a tale to tell when he returned to town. Yet there was something else at work, an anticipation of some kind. An inexplicable sense of destiny.

He took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened almost immediately and he heard himself gasp.

The man who answered the door was indeed in his mid-thirties, although thirty-six rather than thirty–four. He had a handsome face; the kind that Alexander knew would always be handsome. His chocolate brown eyes had heavy lids, and his mouth was wide and sensual with thick lips. He was clean shaven though his jaw was already shaded by the day’s growth.