A seventeenth-century artwork, a portfolio of canvases and a gorgeous man no one seems to notice— Add in a jealous brother and a scheming stranger, and Paul has inherited trouble.
Paul is estranged from his family, and inherits property on Malta from his artist great-uncle Lawrenz Calleja. It includes a portfolio of canvases Lawrenz painted over the decades, and an artwork that might be a seventeenth-century piece in the style of Caravaggio, but is more likely a symptom of his great-uncle’s obsession—the same man appears in every painting. Paul has grown up knowing that face, the man Lawrenz called Angelo. When he meets someone who matches the image exactly, Paul is hooked. Their friendship rapidly deepens into love.
Angelo is in exile on the island of Malta—he has to learn compassion and love before he can return to his Father’s house. But he learns the lessons too well, and that proves dangerous. Nico has watched him for a long time, waiting for just this moment, when Angelo is at his most vulnerable. Nico gains an ally when Paul’s brother, Calvin, arrives in Malta. Calvin is convinced Paul inherited a fortune and is determined to claim a share of it. But the battle between Angelo and Nico is far more than it seems and the Calleja brothers are in danger of becoming collateral damage.
General Release Date: 25th April 2014
I found this among Dad’s papers, Calvin had written. It’s old, but he never opened it, so I haven’t either. The funeral is at Saint Joseph’s, Hempstead. That was it. Abrupt as the email Paul had received from his brother four days ago, informing him of their father’s unexpected death from a stress-induced heart attack, and that Paul and his lifestyle choice were the underlying causes of that stress. No time and date, no invite, certainly no sense of the family reaching out to the black sheep now its autocratic patriarch had shuffled off this mortal coil.
Paul felt no grief, not even regret. The controlling bastard had managed to alienate most of his offspring and relatives, a contentious bunch at best. In fact, the only thing on which his brother and three sisters stood united was disapproval of their gay youngest sibling. Biting words and often painful pranks had been a feature of Paul’s life from the moment he had come out to them at fifteen, to the day he left for a university on the other side of the continent three years later.
Calvin, the first born son after three daughters, had been the butt of their father’s ire for years. All his life his rounded face had been labelled as pretty—unmanly by their father’s reckoning. Calvin had developed a belligerent attitude in an attempt to counteract both his appearance and his father’s disapproval.
It hadn’t helped that Paul was the better academically—better, too, at baseball and basketball. When he came out as gay, their father's venom was turned on him as well, along with the added threats of Hell and eternal damnation.
When Paul had graduated, he’d returned to the family home in the hope that things would have improved. They hadn’t. He’d stuck it out for another three years, but after another major row with his father and brother two years ago, he’d walked out for good and moved in with his long-time friend Rogier Marais.
He should be grateful to Calvin, Paul decided. After a hard day dealing with difficult customers whose ideas for their websites were completely unworkable, the last thing he needed was to come home to aggravation from his brother. So apart from the one dig, this cold businesslike approach to their father’s passing was a blessing. He was tempted to show up at the funeral anyway, if only to outrage the whole judgmental pack of them. For a few moments, Paul indulged in the fantasy of arriving in a lavender suit with a rainbow tie, complete with guyliner and tinted lip salve. He’d give his relatives his best imitation of Rogier’s flamboyant flouncing, the one Rogier produced when he chose to act the part of the stereotypical flaming queen just to irritate.
“A letter in a letter,” Rogier observed, peering over Paul’s shoulder. Rogier had re-styled his blond hair from the office-friendly gelled-back sleekness to his partying dandelion-head look, ready for their evening on the town. It made an exotic combination with Rogier’s chocolate brown skin. No matter what his family assumed, Rogier and he were friends. Good friends, but that was all. Paul’s lack of a steady relationship was so far down his own list of priorities, it didn’t even register. For Rogier, it was a challenge. “And with foreign stamps. Darlin’, what has Devil-Bro sent you?” The antipathy between his brother and his best friend stretched back years.
“Apart from a non-invite to my father’s funeral?” Paul turned the enclosed envelope over. “I haven’t a clue.” The stamps and postmark proclaimed a Maltese origin, and its printed address label had an official look. It was thick as well, as if it held more than just a single sheet of paper. The date on the postmark told him it had been sent nearly two years ago, a few months after he’d left home for the last time.
Paul opened it and took out several pages and another envelope. This one bore just his name, written in Uncle Larry’s flowing old-fashioned script and with the Maltese spelling of his first name—Pawl Calleja. He smiled. Many years ago, the old man had refused to be called Great-Uncle Lawrenz. Said it made him feel antique. So from then on, Paul always called him Uncle Larry. Paul chuckled, then frowned. He hadn’t visited his great-uncle since just before his final split with his family. Not because he thought the old man would also reject him. Despite the rancor between the siblings, the wound was unexpectedly raw—too raw to talk about. Up until then, he’d flown out to Malta for a few weeks every year, sent the usual cards and long chatty letter every Christmas and birthday along with a box of the old man’s favourite cigars. He hadn’t always gotten a reply.
Uncle Larry’s memory was erratic at times, and if he was locked into one of his painting projects, the mighty walls of Valletta could fall, and the old man wouldn’t notice. So it hadn’t bothered Paul that he hadn’t received a letter from him for a long time—several years, in fact. Now he remembered his great-uncle was in his eighties, something easily forgotten both in his presence or thousands of miles away. Guilt struck hard. He should have written or phoned. Uncle Larry hadn’t known he no longer lived in the family home in Hempstead, but had moved to the apartment he shared with Rogier in nearby Westbury.
Guilt and foreboding settled under Paul’s ribs. He grabbed the phone and keyed in Uncle Larry’s number. It rang for a long time before Paul gave up and ended the call. The uncomfortable feeling intensified, and he opened Uncle Larry’s letter.
Dear Pawl,
I’ve asked Charlie Zammit to send this along with the official papers when the time comes. All I ask is that before you make any decision about the apartment, you come to Malta and live here for a full year. There are no conditions, no codicils. Everything is straightforward and as uncomplicated as I can make it.
I never had a son but always wanted one, and then you were born, right here in Valletta. You became that son. No matter where your life takes you, know that I love you and I am so proud of you. My only regret is that you couldn’t visit more often.
Uncle Larry
“Oh, shit,” Paul whispered, and snatched up the loose sheets of paper. An imposing letterhead informed him they had come from the offices of Zammit & Borg, Advocates, Republic Street, Valletta.
Dear Mr Calleja,
It is with deep regret that I inform you that Lawrenz Alexander Calleja has passed away. He was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive pancreatic cancer, and died peacefully in his sleep on November 11th at the Mater Dei Hospital, Msida.
Paul’s vision blurred for a few seconds, and he blinked to clear the moisture from his eyes.
As soon as his condition was diagnosed, he amended his will, appointing me as trustee. In that capacity, I can inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of Mr Calleja’s estate. I enclose a brief list of his assets. I would ask that you contact me at your earliest convenience so we can finalize matters.
Yours sincerely
Charles Zammit
“Bad news?” Rogier asked quietly, resting his hand on Paul’s shoulder.
“Yes.” His voice sounded gruff. He coughed to clear his throat. “My bastard father didn’t bother to send this on when it arrived. Uncle Larry died. Two years ago!”
“I’m so sorry. I know how much the old guy meant to you.”
“I can’t go with you tonight. I have to go to Malta.” He pushed Uncle Larry’s letter into Rogier’s hands. “They’re six hours ahead of us, so I can’t phone yet. Do me a favor and get me on the first plane out you can find. I’m going to pack a bag.”
“You got it.” Rogier pulled him into a hug and kissed his temple. “Leave it to me, darlin’. We can continue with the Get Paul Laid program when you’re back.”
Paul didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He leaned into Rogier’s embrace for a moment, then straightened.
Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received—until the inventions of the home—computer and the worldwide web.
Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes male/female novels in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time (hah!) she embroiders, quilts and knits. Over the years she has been a stable lad (briefly) in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor.
She lives in a small and ancient city in the south-west of the United Kingdom, sharing her usually chaotic home with an extended family, currently only one large dog, a frilled dragon [lizard], three psychotic mice and sundry goldfish.
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