Archive of Our Own ^beta

Naomi said, "Quieres ir a la playa, mijo?"

"Si, mama," Blair said, looking up from the oversized book he was reading. His chubby hand covered the colorful drawing of a dinosaur; he was hiding it from a tiny mammal peeking out from behind a giant fern. He sighed and pulled his hand away. The dinosaur would see the little guy and Eat Him Up, Blair just knew it. He closed the book and pushed himself to his feet.

"Tienes las flotadores?"

"Si, mama," he answered again. He hated those blow-up doughnuts around his arms, but his mama worried about him in the surf, even at their gentle beach. He did like his new swimsuit, though; it was baggy and colorful, like the big boys wore when they surfed. Not that they'd go to that beach; mama considered it too dangerous para los ninos. No, they went to the beach in front of the home they were staying in. Just a short walk down the hill and they were on la playa de los muertos.

Blair loved the story of the beach of the dead, how bad sailors had thrown their sick comrades overboard, for fear of catching the plague. His mama wrinkled her nose and shuddered when he mentioned it, but he thought it was cool, imagining all the dead bodies at the bottom of the beach. Maybe I'll swim over some, he thought, smiling to himself. Ewww, gross.

The fish seller was there today, under a big purple umbrella. He had a small fire going, very hot, and sold some kind of fish on a stick. You squeezed lime over them and ate them, bones and all. Blair loved them. He loved the whole beach, he thought as he stood, feet just in the foamy water. Up the beach came an old lady selling slices of mango and watermelon; you squeezed lime over them, too. And little girls sometimes gave him flowers and smiled at him. He'd tuck the flowers in his wild curly hair and his mama would take a picture. They must have a million pictures of him with flowers in his hair on this beach.

Way down the beach he could hear the motor boat going really fast to lift the parasailors up into the sky. His mama refused to let him do that. She said he was too little, and he knew she was right. But he always asked. "Please, mama?" She just shook her head, her long red hair shining in the sun.

"Put on the floats," she said, and now he wrinkled up his nose in distaste, but obediently shoved them up his arms.

"When can I swim without them?"

"When you're a big boy."

"When will I be a big boy?"

"When you're fifteen."

"When will I be fifteen?"

"In ten years."

"How long is ten years?"

But Naomi always gave up at that point. She turned him to face the sea and patted his bottom, kissing the top of his head. "I'm going to lie right here and watch you. Don't go out far." That was silly advice, he thought; the water never got more than chest high for him no matter how far out he walked. And the waves weren't very big, either. Even if it was the beach of the dead, it was a little kids' and old people's beach.

Secretly, Blair didn't mind too much. He was a little afraid of water, as if there was something waiting in the water for him. But he didn't like to admit that to himself so he always complained.

"I wanna go to the big kid's beach, mama. I wanna learn to surf."

"When you're a big boy."

"When will that be?"

And they went through their little ritual again.

He bounced in the water, feeling the sand with his toes. Sometimes fish swam up and bumped into him. Once something bit him and his toe swelled up. He'd had a headache for a day but then was okay again. The water was so clear he could almost see the bottom, so he watched his toes turning over shells and stuff. He was hoping he'd find a sand dollar. He'd seen one hanging from a cord once and wanted to make a necklace for his mama.

When he looked back at the beach, his mama waved at him. She was putting lotion on her skin so she'd tan, but she could only burn and peel. He could tan a lot more than she could. When he'd shower, the difference between his tan and the pale skin hiding under his swimsuit was startling even to Blair.

There was a big splash and then his mama was floating next to him. The water was so shallow and her legs so long that she had to bend them to stay in the water. He laughed and splashed her, then swam away. He could hear her swim after him. "I'm gonna get you!" she said, and he laughed again.

Suddenly he turned and swam towards her, splashing with his hands. "Pow! Pow!" She changed direction and fled, laughing over her shoulder at him. But she always let him catch her. He clung to her back and she stood up; he tucked his legs around her waist. "I love you, mama," he shouted. "You're the prettiest lady on the beach!"

"Mmm," she kissed his hand and snugged him tighter against her. "Had enough? Time for shower and lunch and then a nap, okay?"

And he was tired, so he rested his head on her shoulder and let her carry him back up the cobblestone street to the house. "Can we have helado for lunch?"

"For dessert, sweetie. Ice cream's for dessert. We'll have fish and beans and tortillas for lunch, okay?"

"Corn," he said sleepily, and she kissed his hand again.

After lunch, she put him down on her big bed and started the fan in the ceiling turning. He snuggled into her pillow, loving the faint scent of his mama he could find there. She rested her hand on the small of his back and sang softly under her breath. His eyes closed of their own accord.

He woke up when he heard voices. He was only in his underwear, the white briefs he hated, so he didn't go out to see who was there. But he did climb off the bed and stand by the half-open bedroom door, so he could better hear what was said.

It was the red-haired man's voice. "I'm sorry, Naomi, but you need to face facts. You try to live in this imaginary world, but all you do is hurt yourself. And your son."

"My son is fine," mama said fiercely, and Blair clung to the door. He could feel tears at the back of his throat. He'd overheard conversations like this before. His mama's daddy wanted them to Come Home. Blair didn't really understand what that meant, or where this Home was. It scared him. He could tell it scared Naomi, too.

"Now, Naomi," the man said, but she interrupted him.

"Get out of my house. Get out!" There was a long silence and Blair thought maybe the man had obeyed her.

"Naomi," he said finally, "this is not your house. You're living off friends. You mooch off people, sometimes perfect strangers. You carry your little boy all over creation. Why are you depriving him of the chance to know his family? To know a real home? I have a court order right here, Naomi. The courts say you're not a fit mother."

Mama was crying, Blair could hear, and he started to cry, too. He heard something crash and then a big bang. He sat on the floor and cried harder, not even trying to be a big boy.

Suddenly he was swept up into his mama's arms. He sobbed into her neck, scarcely aware that she was crying, too. She sat on the bed and tucked his feet behind her and they rocked back and forth while they cried. He stopped thinking and simply fell into the wash of emotions: fear, mostly, a little anger, and a little desperation.

Finally, mama pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped his face. "Blow, sweetie," and he did. She wiped his nose thoroughly and then cuddled him back to her. "I'm sorry, Blair. I'm so sorry. But we need to pack and go, okay? Can you help me find everything?" He nodded, still miserable. "You are such a good boy. I love you so much. You're my life, Blair; you know that, don't you?" He nodded again, not really understanding, but happy for her attention and affection. She kissed his cheek noisily and tried to smile. "Okay. Let's get you dressed and then you pack your room."

She helped him choose some shorts and a tee shirt, and then set out socks and shoes. "Aw, mama," he complained, but she just tapped his nose and pointed at the offensive items. So he pulled on the socks and velcroed the sandals onto his feet and then set about packing his things. He'd done this before; he really was a big boy at some things.

He could hear his mama out in the main room moving something. The screen door to the courtyard opened and slammed shut with its peculiar squeak, and then he heard something else. He went to the window and climbed up into the wide sill. He couldn't see her very well because of all the plants and trees and flowers, but his mama was bent over and walking backwards. He watched her for a minute, but then went back to backing.

He knew they'd be leaving right away.

"Jesus, I can't believe how this place has changed," Blair exclaimed, hanging on to the roll bar of the baby blue Jeep Jim was driving over the cobblestone streets.

"How long's it been since you were here?"

"Well," he closed his eyes and thought. "I guess a little over twenty-five years."

"Twenty-fi -- Blair, you'd've been a baby. You can't possibly remember that far back."

"Do, too."

Jim rolled his eyes but kept his hands on the wheel. They were getting close now, according to the folded and wrinkled hand-drawn map they were using to find the house.

"Hey, turn here." Jim slowed down and saw the enormous wisteria draped over a trellis with a swing in it, just like the map said, so he turned left. "Look, the beach!"

Blair's connections with Rainier finally paid off, Jim thought rather grimly. After everything that place had put him through, ultimately driving him right out of academia, it was a near miracle that one of his former professors had asked him to check on her house in Puerto Vallarto. Stay as long as you like, she'd insisted; just make sure the plumber gets the second bathroom redone. Well, between Blair's Spanish and Jim's plumbing skills, they ought to be able to handle that. And in return, an almost-free Mexican vacation.

Jim was going to see that Blair enjoyed this trip if it was the last thing he did. He'd researched it out as best he could, visiting the public library, going online, and asking his co-workers about PV. What to do there. Any museums? Shows? Tours? He had put together a secret list of Things To Do. Although all he wanted was to find a place to surf, maybe teach Blair to ride a few waves, he would spend most of the time attending to his partner.

His partner now for real, not just as an observer. Jim felt as though his heart swelled a little each time he realized that Blair wasn't going to leave. He wasn't an observer, he wasn't waiting to finish collecting data, he wasn't just having fun; he was an honest-to-God police officer, a good detective, the best partner Jim had ever had. He'd survived being kicked out of Rainier , he'd toughed out the academy, and he'd made the transition from scholar to detective.

"Here!" Jim hit the brakes and looked where Blair was pointing. Goddamn. What a beautiful place. How could the professor ever leave?

"Man, this is fantastic," Blair enthused, hopping over the side of the jeep and reaching back in for a duffel bag and backpack. "Got the keys?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jim said, getting out a bit more sedately -- those cobblestones were rugged -- and grabbing a suitcase he was pretty sure had come from Carolyn's side of the family. "How can your friend stand to stay away from this place?"

Blair snickered. "Catch-22, man. She has to work summer school and intersession in order to pay for it, so she never has time to get down here. I guess she's hoping to hit the lottery." The place was gorgeous, Jim thought as he fussed with the complex keying of the barred outer door, then the screen door, and finally the heavy and heavily-carved wooden front door.

The air was strikingly cooler inside. Jim saw the brilliantly-painted walls were almost two feet thick. The floor was a light wood, covered with blue and green throw rugs. "It looks almost Renaissance in the coloring," he mused as he wandered through the living room and into a long hallway.

"Yeah," Blair agreed, pointing awkwardly with the hand carrying the duffel. "Look at the mustard yellow juxtaposed to the ochre. Really beautiful." Jim nodded. It was beautiful. It was somehow both soothing and stimulating to his senses.

"Dibs," Blair said suddenly, and then they were in the master bedroom. "Oh, man, just look at this place." The bedroom was as large as the living room of the loft. The walls painted a very pale blue, the ceiling a deeper blue with silver trim high on the walls. There was a blue chair and a blue desk and, in front of a large window, a low couch. Jim dropped the suitcase and pulled open the wooden shutters; the window looked out into a lush garden. He pushed up the window and the scent of wisteria and roses floated into the room. He heard a whoomp behind him and turned to see Blair flop onto the bed.

"No way, Junior," Jim warned him. "This is mine."

"Uh-unh. I called dibs."

"Dibs is for kids. We're adults. I'm older and bigger and wiser. It's mine." Blair started to laugh.

"Wiser? Wiser?" His voice cracked and even Jim had to laugh. He bounced off the bed. "Let's see what else is here."

There was a big bath at one end of the bedroom, very open. "Not a lot of privacy here," Jim pointed out, but Blair just shrugged.

They went back down the hallway, going through an archway that led into a kitchen filled with utensils Jim didn't recognize. Ristras of chiles hung from either side of the window, also shuttered. A round scarred oak table took up most of the floor space, with four ladder-backed chairs pushed under it. "Look," Blair pointed. "There's even a dishwasher." Jim's eyebrows rose; they didn't have a dishwasher back home. Wow.

Back through the archway and into the hall; at the opposite end of the house was another large bedroom, this one painted soft pinks with a rose ceiling and gold trim. "Yours, Chief," Jim told him. Blair rolled his eyes but didn't argue. The bathroom wasn't as big as the one in the blue bedroom, and there was only a shower. "You can borrow the tub in my room," Jim generously offered. Blair patted him on the shoulder and shook his head.

"Let's check out back," Blair suggested, and took the doorway from the pink bedroom outside to the veranda that ran the length of the house. To their surprise, they stood in a courtyard; arched corridors stretched perpendicularly from either side of the house. They walked along the uneven tiled floor, pointing out unusual plants and glowing flowers. The courtyard was so densely populated with climbing roses, enormous birds-of-paradise, and cottonwood trees that they couldn't see across it.

"Hey, look," Jim pointed suddenly, stopping Blair with his other hand. "What is that?"

The two men stepped off the tile and onto the ground lumpy with roots, moving cautiously around the ferns and unidentifiable bushes. They were looking at a large wooden structure, about twice Jim's height, round with a cover. "It's a well," Blair realized. They peered over the edge, but no glint of water shone back at them.

Jim shivered deeply. "What is it?" Blair asked him.

He shrugged. "Just -- I dunno. Creepy."

Blair looked up into his friend's face. "Creepy how?" Jim shrugged again, and looked around the yard.

"What a great place," he murmured. "I could stay here forever." Blair nodded. Jim turned to him abruptly. "Thanks, Blair. This is the best birthday present I've ever had." Blair felt his face blush, but he just smiled and patted Jim again.

"I'm dirty, and hungry, and sleepy," he announced. "Let's go do something about that." Jim nodded, and they carefully picked their way through the yard, back to the open door to Blair's room.

Their meal was skimpy, just stuff they'd brought with them. They'd have to go back into town and hit the supermercado before they could have dinner. But the water was hot. Blair got the bath first, since Jim had bullied him out of the blue room. He loved lounging in the tepid water, listening to the Macy Gray Jim had found in the CD player, drinking tequila with lime right off the tree outside the bathroom window.

Jim poked his head in the bathroom after twenty minutes or so. "I found a mango tree, buddy; want some?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair enthused, and to his surprise, Jim brought him a small plate painted blue with gold stars, covered in dripping chunks of peeled mango. He'd included a quartered lime to squeeze over the fruit. There was a small wicker table in the bathroom; Jim pulled it next to the tub and sat the tequila and the mango down there. "Hey, I used to eat this as a kid," Blair recalled, squeezing the lime, shooting juice everywhere.

"Have at it, tiger," Jim said, and gave a quick pat to Blair's wet head before disappearing out into the bedroom and beyond. The bathwater, the music, a slight buzz from the drink, the luscious flavor of the mango combined to put Blair in a state of deep relaxation. He dozed for a bit, waking only when Jim came in a second time, to hint that he'd like a bath, too.

"Kay," Blair sighed, and reluctantly climbed out of the water, wrapping a towel loosely around him. He fell straight onto the bed, even if it was Jim's room, and straight into a light sleep. He was vaguely aware that Jim covered him with part of the bedspread, and that was all.

When he woke, Jim was sitting on the veranda just outside the door from the kitchen, watching hummingbirds fight over an exotic and sweet-smelling flower. "Man, I'm sorry I crashed like that."

"It's okay, Chief. I dozed a bit myself. But we really gotta get into town if we're gonna eat tonight."

"Let's catch dinner out somewhere and then shop." Jim nodded, and rose with a sigh.

"I'm already more relaxed than I've been in twenty years," he told Blair, who smiled.

"And you haven't even seen the beach yet."

They had dinner at a taqueria, and bought extra tamales to heat the next day. The panaderia was just two doors down; Blair bought sweet rolls painted with fluorescent colors while Jim satisfied himself with the crumbly pancilla sugar rolls, along with a loaf of more sedate white bread. The supermercado didn't appeal to either of them; too big, too crowded, too twenty-first century, so they wandered through town stopping at smaller stores, buying cheeses, eggs, tortillas, beans, rice, pasta, and baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. Blair was jotting down ideas for meals as he discovered different chiles and beans; Jim kept thinking of the comfort of tortillas and eggs and cheese. Oh god, he was getting hungry again. They stocked up on bottled water, lemonade, and lots of beer.

By the time they'd staggered into their borrowed home with the last of the groceries, Jim was ready to crash. He crammed the beer and lemonade into the fridge, tucked the boxes of food onto the kitchen counter, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed off for bed. Before he was two steps down the hallway, he turned and came back into the kitchen. Blair looked up from his notes, his glasses sliding down his nose. Jim grabbed Blair in a firm hug. "Thank you," he said finally, compulsively patting the wiry back of his partner. "I just don't know how to thank you."

Blair beamed up at him. "See ya in the morning, Jim."

"A que horas esta abierto el museo?" Blair asked, standing on tiptoe so he could see the pretty young woman at the counter.

"Ahora, chiquito," she smiled at him. He hated being called "ito" anything. Little. Yeah, okay, he knew he was a little guy. His mama called him Little Guy.

"Cuanto cuesta el boleto?"

"Dos cientos pesos."

Blair lowered himself and twisted to pull his backpack in front, unzipping the pocket with money. Carefully he counted out the colorful bills, and then reached up to pay her. She handed him a ticket and pointed toward the guard at the entrance, who was already watching him. There were lockers along the wall next to where the guard stood, so he pulled out some coins and fit his backpack in one, putting the key in the pocket of his shorts. Then he handed the ticket to the guard, who clicked a counter at him and helped him push the turnstile so he could enter. "Gracias," he said shyly, and the guard gave him an enormous smile. "De nada, chico." Blair shook his head, curls flopping in the damp heat. Chico, he thought. Just another way of saying Little Guy.

His mama was off with friends, doing something political. He'd been wanting to see the museum of archaeology for some time, so when he got bored playing with the other little kids, he caught a jitney into town and followed the signs to the museum. He wandered happily past exhibits of Aztec, Mayan, Inca, and Zapotec stuff: little clay statues, pipes, jade knives, beads, balls made of stone or rubber from the rubber tree, and the Aztec calendars he loved so much.

He'd spent maybe an hour, stopping occasionally to stare at something or to try to read the printed description. He could read English really well; he'd learned to read when he was three, but he had to puzzle out the Spanish by saying it softly under his breath. He was getting tired, now, and had a tiny headache from reading so hard. He pressed his forehead against a glass case, enjoying the cool pressure against his head.

When he looked up, he saw another stone carving mounted on the wall above the case. Unfortunately, the sign explaining what it was had been set next to it, far too high for Blair to see. He knew he needed glasses but hated to tell his mama. He was already so different from the other little kids.

He stared at the carving. It was, unlike the round calendars, roughly square, a little taller than it was wide. The bas relief had weathered over the centuries or millennia, but Blair could tell he was looking at a representation of the jaguar, an animal sacred to many cultures native to the Americas. He stood on his toes and leaned against the case, trying to see it better.

"Can I help you?" someone said in English, and Blair turned to see a nicely-dressed man a little older than his mama smiling down at him. "Would you like me to lift you up?"

Blair hesitated. Mama always told him not to let strangers touch him. But this man looked very nice, and he had asked first, not like that kid in Connecticut who had put his hand on Blair's pee-pee, right through his blue jeans. Blair rubbed his nose and then smiled. "Yes, sir. I'd like that."

Very carefully, as if aware of Blair's concerns, the gentleman put his hands around Blair's waist and then lifted him up even with the carving, holding Blair at arms' length from his body. Blair studied the carving closely. The detail was incredible. Circling the central jaguar, he could see carvings of birds and other animals, maybe an ocelot, and one that looked like a wolf. He promised himself to look up wolves in his natural history books at home, to see if any lived in Mexico.

"Do you know where this is from?" he asked the man holding him, who gently set him down.

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

Blair glanced around and saw another guard. "Perdoneme," he called, catching the guard's attention. "Quien hecho esta escultura?"

The guard shrugged elaborately. "Nadie sabe."

"Nobody knows," Blair translated to the man who'd helped him. "I think it looks more like something from South America than from Mexico."

The man frowned a little at him. "How old are you?"

Blair refrained from rolling his eyes. Between his age and his size, he couldn't catch a break. "Five. I'll be six in May, though." The man nodded thoughtfully.

"My older boy is fifteen, and the younger is eleven, but neither one of them is as knowledgeable as you."

Looking at the man's size and build, Blair said, "Maybe not, but I bet they can play sports really well."

His new friend gaped at him. "Yes, yeah. Here, look," and he pulled out his wallet. Tucked inside was a picture of two handsome kids, both with vivid blue eyes. The older had his arm draped protectively around the younger. Blair recognized their type immediately; they were the same kinds of big boys he watched surfing and playing soccer. They were never interested in playing with him. But he didn't tell their father that.

"They're very handsome," he said politely, and the man laughed again.

"You tell your mother that she's raised a fine young man," he said. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could use an ice cream."

"No, thank you, sir," Blair said instantly, remembering what his mama had said about strangers. The man seemed to understand and shook his hand.

"Goodbye, young sir," he said, and then patted Blair on the back. "It's been a pleasure talking with you." Blair watched him leave the room and then turned to study the carving again.

Once he left the exhibits, he asked the woman at the counter, "Tiene Usted este cuadro en postal del jaguar?" But they had no such postcard, so Blair had to make do with his memories. He promised himself to try to draw a picture of the carving when he got home, and left the museum to find the jitney back to the beach.

His mama was still talking politics, only now with a tall red-haired man who sat very close to her. Blair watched them for a while and then walked to their house. It was time for his nap.

When Blair finally got up the next morning, he found Jim again sitting on the veranda, staring out into the garden. He had a large glass of juice in his hand -- fresh squeezed from orange trees in the courtyard. A pitcher waited for Blair in the fridge and he gratefully poured himself a large glass. He'd put beans in a large iron pot to soak the night before, so he drained them off, poured in more water, and started them simmering. Onions, garlic, chiles, tomatoes, cumin, cilantro, fresh squeezed lime, all saut d in his secret weapon: lard. Then he crumbled in chorizo and added a can of chipotle chiles. Oh my god, the smell was incredible. It brought Jim in from the veranda to hover at his back, peering with great interest into the pots.

"Set some of that queso fresco out to warm, okay?" Blair asked. "And while you're at it, four eggs." The eggs were big and brown; he knew they'd have enormous orange yolks. Breakfast would be fantastic.

At last he ordered Jim to set the table while he scooped up breakfast: crumbled fried tortillas covered in beans with the tinga spooned on top of them and then two fried eggs over it all, He finished it off with the white cheese, a good grinding of black pepper and one of kosher salt. Jim's eyes were watering with the chiles' fumes, but he dug in as if he hadn't eaten in a week. "Beer," he said, and so Blair found himself drinking Dos Equis at ten in the morning. What the hell. He was on vacation and his plans didn't include anything more complex than walking to the beach.

Jim did the dishes, which took almost no time since they had the dishwasher. It was Saturday, so they had two days before they needed to find the plumber and get him started on what was Blair's bathroom. It was to be enlarged, with a tub added, and, somewhat to Jim's embarrassment, a bidet. Blair promised to take care of all conversations about the bidet, but Jim felt he had to be there to watch the plumbing.

They filled Blair's backpack with bottles of water and beer, sun block, towels, books, and a large bag of granola. Jim insisted they put sun block on thirty minutes before they went out, so Blair spent that time straightening his room and hanging his clothes up. Since they'd be there for two weeks, he might as well settle in.

"Chop, chop!" Jim started yelling when the thirty minutes were up.

"That is, like, so racist, man," Blair chastised him, but Jim just hustled him out the door, Blair's pack slung over his broad shoulder, a Jags cap on his head. He plopped a Cascade PD cap on Blair's head as well; Blair just rolled his eyes. "You need one of those POP hats, man. Personal Ozone Protection." That made Jim laugh, but he didn't stop patting Blair's back, encouraging him to get a move on.

It was just a short walk to the beach. Blair felt a wave of deja vu wash over him. "I just know I've been here before," he murmured, and Jim looked at him curiously. He shrugged. "Just a feeling I got. You know, they think deja vu is really a mis-firing of synapses," he started, and Jim smiled as they stepped over the low retaining wall and onto the hot white sand.

The beach was surprisingly empty, but there was an old man tending a fire, roasting fish on sticks over it. A hump-backed old woman carried an oversized tray of sliced mangoes, papayas, and watermelon, with chunks of lime to squeeze on them. Two little girls ran up to Jim and Blair, smiling shyly and handing them flowers. "Un regalo por Ustedes," they giggled before running off. Blair tucked his into his hair between his ear and the cap and started to walk away, but Jim put a large hand on his shoulder. "Hold up there, buddy." Then Jim slid his flower into Blair's hair, too, and patted his face. "Looking pretty good."

They spread two towels and dropped the backpack, then ran out into the water. The ocean was as warm as Blair's bath last night, and never got higher than Jim's knees no matter how far they walked out. "This is amazing," Jim said again and again, staring in disbelief at the white sand visible under his feet.

"Hey, look," Blair called excitedly. He was pushing something around with his toes, rolling it toward his other foot. Standing like a stork with an intense expression of concentration on his face, he looked, Jim thought, like a very bright child, not a man of thirty. His nose was already pink; Jim made a note to put more block on it when they got out.

Suddenly, Blair ducked down and grabbed something. He pulled up a perfect white sand dollar, the dotted circle in the middle seeming to portend something beyond the shell's mere existence. "Here," he said, blushing, and handed it to Jim. "If you want, I'll make it into a necklace for you."

Jim was puzzled and flattered and pleased all at once. He held the sand dollar with both hands, turning it over and around, studying it. "Thanks, Sandburg," he said softly, and looked up to see his friend's blush deepen. He couldn't help himself; yet again, he reached out and touched his friend's face. Aware that he touched no one else the way he touched Blair, Jim still couldn't stop himself. He felt compelled. Then he took Blair by the shoulders and turned him so he faced the ocean. For a few seconds they stood there and then Jim let go and fell into the water, swimming as best he could in the shallow surf. Blair followed him, eyes nearly closed against the silver glare.

They spent the afternoon on the beach, buying pieces of fruit to slurp down, getting a mild beer buzz, reading murder mysteries, and noshing on granola.

That set the pace for the rest of their time there, with the addition of the plumber's visits. They slept late, ate well, swam and read, and enjoyed each other's company. They found, of all things, a sushi bar in downtown PV with hamachi that melted in Jim's sensitive mouth. It was the perfect vacation, Jim thought, sitting again on the veranda, sniffing curiously at the myriad scents rising through the humid air. Blair did most of the cooking; he'd found Elisabeth Lambert Ortiz's cookbooks on the owner's bookshelves, and studied them with his usual intensity. Jim obediently chopped and sliced and peeled and sauteed; he carried the bags and boxes of fresh produce; he didn't complain about not having any hamburgers, even though there was an hamburgueseria a short drive away. Instead, he remembered bits and pieces of living with the Chopec and learning to eat their foods. Occasionally, he shared a shy memory with Blair, who longed, Jim could see, to take notes but refrained out of a kind of courtesy for the fragility of Jim's lost memories. Jim appreciated this, although he was certain Blair was madly writing it all down when he finally took himself to bed.

But on the veranda, a well-iced marguerita in one hand and a Patricia Cornwell in the other, listening to Blair mutter to himself as he read Ortiz's cookbooks, Jim felt only contentment and a lazy happiness that spread throughout his body, slowing him down, forcing him to pay attention to these beautiful days. Beautiful.

The only thing that bothered him was that well. Dry well. It just creeped him out. He didn't say anything to Sandburg, for fear of the barrage of tests that might ensue. Blair might no longer be a college student, but he was still a scientist. So Jim said nothing, but felt a sort of pressure at the edge of his awareness, as though he could almost see something in his peripheral vision, or as if he were catching a scent of something off. He shrugged, took a sip of marguerita, and went back to the novel.

Blair walked to the tienda in the hopes of finding something to read. He loved his dinosaur book; he had every word and every picture memorized. His mama had brought him a Dr. Seuss, which was fun, and a Richard Scarry, also good, but not enough. He had read all her magazines and the political papers she and her friends were working on. Already at five, he knew he wasn't going to care about politics the way his mama did. Not that he wasn't concerned about the plight of los indios and how terribly they were treated by the wealthy landowners. He was, he truly was. But there were other things that called to him. Dinosaurs, of course. But also early man. His mama scolded him for that; early *humans*, she said. Not everybody's a man.

The walk was a narrow dirt road, deeply rutted, along the side of an irrigation canal. It was dim and cool as long as he stayed in the shade, and the water smelled darkly interesting. Frogs gurgled in the mud, and occasionally a fish would kiss the surface of the still water. Once he thought he saw a crawdad or something like that -- translucent and clawed. He swung his backpack from his hand, happy to be outside and free to do as he liked.

A taxi came around the corner, heading his way. An old battered Chrysler, he saw; cool car. Little fuzzy orange balls bounced around the tops of the windows, and a shiny clump of chains and medals swung from the rearview mirror. Blair had seen the driver around, in his car and out, so he waved at him. The taxi stopped and the driver shouted at him, "Where you go, little one?"

"Voy a la tienda, senor," Blair answered politely. The driver gestured elaborated at him: get in, get in. "You're going the wrong way."

"Josefina can turn, little one," the driver said. "You get in; I take you. Too hot to walk."

So Blair climbed in the front seat of the taxi, admiring the elaborate fringe stapled to the inside of the ceiling, shimmering iridescent silver blue, and the nodding Jesus glued to the dashboard. "Me llamo Blair," he said.

"Alberto," the driver said, backing up almost into the trees lining the road opposite the canal and then spinning the car around. Jesus seemed to shiver as they pulled back onto the road and headed toward the little store.

"Why you here, Blair?"

"My mama is helping los indios," he said proudly, and Alberto smiled.

"Bueno, bueno. We always like the American women." Blair thought Alberto meant something other than what he said, but just nodded silently. "And why you go to the store?"

"I need something to read."

Alberto glanced at him. "Little one, you read?" Blair nodded again, more vigorously. Alberto pulled his mouth down and raised his eyebrows; he looked impressed. "You a special little boy," he finally said, and Blair felt himself blush.

Alberto stopped in front of the store and turned off the engine. "I need a coke," he said as he climbed out and followed Blair into the sudden darkness of the interior. The owner, a tiny Asian woman named Maricita Hiroko, already knew Blair and smiled at him, then looked at Alberto with a different expression. Blair went straight to the spinning rack of paperbacks and began to study them. He only had enough money for one book, so it needed to be a good one.

When he'd finally decided, Alberto was sitting on the hood of the taxi, a coke half finished. Blair smiled shyly, not sure why he was there, until Alberto slid off the car and opened the passenger door with a flourish. "Vaminos a casa, Blair."

His mama still wasn't home when Alberto dropped him off. He pulled out the wallet from his backpack, but Alberto wouldn't take any money. "You need a ride, you look for me, okay? I take you." Blair suddenly knew that Alberto didn't approve of his mama, that he felt Blair needed someone to take care of him. But it would be rude to say anything, so he just said, "Gracias, Alberto. Muchas gracias."

He went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a lemonade, then sat on the veranda to read his new book, enjoying the perfume of the garden. The house they were staying in was a little run down, but large. It ran all the way across the width of the property and had wings going back behind it, making a square courtyard that no one could see from the front. He loved the secrecy of it. Best of all, there was a wishing well in the middle of the courtyard, nearly hidden by the trees and bushes and tall pampas grass. Even when he dragged a chair out and stood on the seat, he couldn't see the bottom of the well.

If his mama didn't come home soon, he'd fix himself a plate of leftover beans and rice, and smear avocado on a tortilla. That sounded really good.

After they'd been in the house for a week, after they'd recovered from their traveling and from the novelty of having nothing to do, Jim started to get antsy. The plumber, a man about his own age, came every day, sometimes with a younger helper, sometimes not. Jim had already helped them manhandle the old shower stall, sink, and toilet out and into the back of the elderly pickup Senor Alvillar drove, and later that week, helped carry in the new fixtures.

He and Blair walked to the beach several times a day. Sometimes to swim in the placid waters of Playa de los Muertos, sometimes to buy fishes roasted to a crisp over a fire, sometimes just to walk. He wore a large straw cowboy hat, at Blair's insistence; they'd bought it on one of their walks. Blair had pointed out how the tips of his ears were burning; his favorite baseball caps didn't help with that problem. Although Jim enjoyed Blair smoothing sun block over the reddened skin, he agreed to wear the hat.

They often walked into town, too, up the cobblestone streets from the house they were staying in, past the wisteria-covered swing and then over a small stone bridge. Blair remembered seeing women wash clothes in the stream below, spreading them on the flat white rocks to bleach and dry. But they used a laundromat in PV; Jim had had enough roughing it in his life that he didn't want to wash his clothes by hand while on this vacation.

Once in town, there was lots to do. By unspoken agreement, they stayed away from the large population of Americans who lived and vacationed there. Too noisy, too drunken, for their enjoyment. Blair seemed to know his way around the narrow streets and back alleys. He knew where the prettiest churches were, the best ice cream, the freshest bread. Standing in front of the salon del helado, Jim asked, "How do you know this stuff, anyway, Chief?"

Licking his ice cream cone, Blair shrugged. "I was here as a kid for a few months. You know how kids are, always out exploring. Plus it was a lot smaller then. Not so many Americans around. So a little white kid like me stood out. People were really nice to me." His eyes glazed over a bit, as if he were looking into the past. "That was a great summer for me. Like the summer I spent in India, at the ashram. Did I tell you about that?"

Jim smiled and licked his own cone, enjoying Blair's reminiscences. So much better than his own. He gently pushed his shoulder against Blair's to get him started moving again, and they continued strolling.

That night, sitting quietly on the veranda, enjoying the cool evening air, Blair half-woke Jim when he said, "Oh. Oh, hey. I just remembered that there's a great museum here. Let's go tomorrow, okay? We'll have to take the jitney; it's too far to walk."

Jim stretched his back, enjoying how heavy and relaxed he felt as he sprawled in the comfortable wicker chair. "Sure," he said. "But you buy me lunch afterwards."

Blair nodded in the dusk, and Jim could hear the smile in his voice. "You got it. Seafood okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Camarones, langostino, mmm."

After they'd separated to go to their bedrooms, Jim was startled by Blair's shout. He raced into Blair's pink bedroom to find him standing on the bed, staring into what had been his bathroom. There, gleaming on the unfinished floor, was a large golden scorpion. Jim ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the broom, then smacked the scorpion as hard as he could. It fought a little bit, but he finally was able to stamp it to paste. "Ewww, gross," he heard Blair moan, and turned to see him hugging himself. "Oh, man. Like spiders, only to the tenth power."

"Come on down," Jim said, and Blair jumped off the bed and headed into the kitchen, pulling down a bottle of tequila.

"No fucking way am I sleeping now," he said as he poured a shot into a tall glass, and then another one that he held out to Jim. Jim put the broom outside and joined Blair in a late night drink.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked when Blair's glass was empty.

"Yeah. Yeah. But I'm gonna sleep in the living room. That couch doesn't look too bad."

"Naw. You take my room. I'll sleep in the pink tonight." Blair looked up at Jim from under his lashes. "It's okay. I've slept in worse places." Blair grinned at that and Jim gently smacked the back of his head.

"I bet. I just bet," Blair said, rinsing the glasses and leaving them on the counter. Jim sighed and washed them, feeling Blair's eyes on him.

But a few hours later, Jim was not sleeping. As much as he didn't want to let Blair know, that encounter with the scorpion had spooked him. Jesus, he hated those things. If he ever did get to sleep, he knew he'd dream about them, too. He turned on the light and got up, checking the floor beneath the bed first.

Jim checked on Blair, too, who seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the just in the blue room, taking up more bed than seemed possible for a man his size. He stood in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the wooden frame, and watched his friend. His best friend in the whole world. Then he pushed off and went down the hall into the living room. The couch was oversized, an oatmeal colored chenille monster. He flopped down and pulled the afghan over him. His last thoughts before falling asleep were wondering about Blair in Mexico when he was a little boy.

Blair was trying. He really was. His mama had explained that he wasn't old enough to go with her, that he had to stay with Anna and Sue for a couple days while she went into the mountains east of Puerto Vallarta to meet with the peasants, with los indios. He knew he was only five and that a five-year-old was considered to be a little boy. But he and his mama were best friends. He'd tried to explain to her why he should go, but she wasn't listening. Mama said, "I hear you, sweetie," but she really didn't. She was still with that red-haired man, and Blair knew that the red-haired man didn't like him. Or maybe didn't like little boys. It didn't matter. As long as Mama was with the red-haired man, Blair would be left behind.

So he tried. He could feel his lower lip quivering, so he bit it. His eyes were watering, so he looked at his feet, wiggling his toes in their sandals. Anna and Sue were really nice people and they'd promised to take him to another museum. But it wasn't right; he knew it wasn't right.

"Bye, sweetie! Adios, querido!" his mama called, but Blair just couldn't answer. He stared at his toes. A tear fell from his eye onto the floor next to his right big toe, staining the sandy linoleum. He felt Anna put her hand on his shoulder and squeeze, but Anna wasn't his mama, wasn't anybody he really knew. Just a nice lady who got stuck with him. He pulled away and went into the room they'd told him he could use. He shut the door and crawled up onto the bed. His dinosaur book was there, so he curled his fingers around the edges of it and brought it near his face. But dinosaurs were all dead; they only existed in books. Everything he loved only existed in books.

They walked to the bus stop and caught the jitney into downtown, Jim yawning all the way. Even his morning swim hadn't really helped; he just plain hadn't gotten enough sleep. Blair noticed, of course; he noticed everything about Jim, and Jim knew there'd be words that night. But right now Blair was too excited about the museum.

Because Blair was so much more fluent in Spanish than he was, Jim let him lead the way. Well, he always leads the way, Jim reflected, settling into the uncomfortable seats on the jitney. Like every bus he'd ever been on in Central or South America, this one had an old woman carrying two chickens. He was pretty sure he smelled goat, too, but it must've gotten off at the last stop.

Blair's bare knee was jiggling frantically as he peered ahead, looking for landmarks. Jim laid a big hand over it and gently squeezed. "Excited there, Junior?"

Blair smiled, a little shamefaced. "Yeah. It's been so long since I've been here. I remember I saw something, a statue maybe," he shook his head. "Can't quite remember. But I just have a feeling that there's something there."

"Something about, ah, sentinels?" Jim asked softly, and Blair nodded. Jim squeezed his knee again and then patted it before removing his hand. It didn't take them long to get to the stop nearest the museum; Blair had remembered it being a lot further away from the beach than it turned out to be. He paid their admission fees and then headed with confidence into the cool dark of the adobe walls, navigating the narrow corridors and artifact-filled rooms as if he knew where he was going.

And perhaps he did. He stopped in front of a dusty glass case filled with crudely made coins, but pointed at the stone carving above the case.

Jim stared at the carving. It was, unlike the round Aztec calendars, roughly square, a little taller than it was wide. The bas relief had weathered over the centuries or millennia, but Jim could tell he was looking at a representation of the jaguar. He leaned against the case, trying to see it better, feeling Blair next to him practically quivering with excitement.

"I was right," Blair whispered, and Jim thought he was.

Without touching the carving, Jim pointed out figures in the background. A rough outline of a temple. Many kinds of animals. A tall human figure with another immediately at his side, a hand on the taller figure's shoulder. He felt Blair reach up and put a hand on his shoulder. "Sentinel and Guide," Jim heard Blair breathe. He put his own hand over Blair's, somehow comforted by the image. By the warmth of Blair's hand. By his presence in Jim's life.

"I love you," he said suddenly, and felt Blair's hand fall away. He turned, blushing. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna, like, jump your bones. I just, it's just important that you know. You made my life better, Blair." He shrugged, embarrassed. Everyone thought Blair was the open and free touchy-feely one, but really, he was pretty shy and reserved. Jim studied his friend, who was blushing, too.

"It's hard for me to say that," Blair finally said. Jim laughed.

"Yeah, I noticed. Don't worry about it. Let's go get a beer, okay?"

"Don't you wanna see the rest of the exhibits?" But Jim just rolled his eyes and headed back the way they came, using his sense of smell to find an open air market that sold fish tacos and another stall selling bottles of a local brew.

The plumber was told about the scorpion when they got back; he was caulking the new shower stall and tub, which would be almost as big as the one in the blue room. He nodded sympathetically. "I look better," he promised. Jim was tired after a sleepless night, an excursion into town, and a beer for lunch, so he plopped down on the big sofa. Blair said, "Use the bed, man. It's okay. More comfortable, and you won't be disturbed by the plumber coming and going. Come on." So they both went into the blue bedroom and crawled on top of the covers. Above them, the fan turned slowly. Blair had shut the blinds but left the windows open, so the room was filled with a dim blue light and the sweet scent of wisteria. Jim's eyes closed of their own accord as he heard Blair say, "Thank you."

He woke up when Blair suddenly sat up, bouncing the bed. "Mmph," he tried to say, but his mouth was sticky.

"Oh, man," Blair said. Jim rolled onto his back and looked up at his friend. "Man. I had such a nightmare. Meshuggeh." Jim pointed at the glass of water on the nightstand; Blair passed it to him. "I dreamt I was a little boy, here, in this very room. With the fan turning, just like this." A breeze puffed in the soft cotton blinds, rippling the fringe along the bottom.

"That's a nightmare?"

"No, but I dreamt I got off the bed and peeked down the hall. That I saw Naomi and some other guy. They were arguing about me."

"Are you sure this is a dream?"

Blair shook his head, then took the water from Jim and swallowed it down. "Need some more."

Jim got up with him, not bothering to dress, and they went into the kitchen. "No more beer for me." So they had lemonade and leftovers.

As had become customary, they sat on the veranda, sipping lemonade and shmoozing after dinner. Jim had poured a small tot of tequila in his lemonade, once he'd had some food in him. Blair had thought for a second, then shaken his head no. He needed to think, and for Blair to think meant to talk. So they'd washed dishes and then settled down in their usual chairs, feet up on the railing, and watched the stars come out in the sudden way they do in the jungle.

"I think I've been here before, Jim. I think this is the very house we stayed in when I was here with Naomi in, uh, seventy-four or five."

"Sandburg, how can you possible remember something like that? No, never mind," Jim shook his head. "You probably remember being in her womb. Your past lives."

Blair smiled, but refused to be diverted. "The house looked a lot different back then. It wasn't furnished this nice, and the bathrooms --" He shivered. "I remember going in to use the toilet and finding a snake behind it. Man, I was constipated for a month.

"Will you help me?" Jim took a sip of lemonade and braced himself; he knew this would be unpleasant. "I want to remember. Maybe you could help me, walk me through a relaxation exercise and then a visualization."

"Jesus, Sandburg, I'm no good at that stuff. I only do it because you taught me how and you're around to walk me through it."

"That's okay. I'll write you out a script. We'll get comfortable and you lead me. You know the drill by now."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "I know the drill," he said sarcastically.

"Tomorrow night?"

"Maybe."

Blair nodded, content. "Maybe I will have a drop of that tequila," he suggested, and Jim took his glass into the kitchen while Blair leaned back and sighed.

"So, where you gonna sleep tonight?" Jim asked as he handed the drink back to Blair, who blushed.

"Uh," he said.

Jim laughed. "Sleep in the big bed. We did okay this afternoon. I can rescue you from any critters this way and still get a good night's sleep."

"Okay," he said hesitantly. "If you really don't mind."

"I think you mind," Jim said shrewdly, and Blair's blush deepened.

"No," he said in such a way that Jim knew no more would be said that night.

The plumber turned out to be a lot more than a plumber. The next day, their eighth there, he laid new tile, beautiful white squares with reproductions of Italian Renaissance representations of the sky: stars and ringed planets and tiny moons. "Tomorrow last day," he told Jim, who admired his craftsmanship as he chipped a tile just so to fit around the back of the bidet. Blair was overwhelmed by the tile and tried to persuade Jim that he should re-do the loft's bathroom. Privately, Jim agreed. A new and bigger water heater, a bigger shower and tub. Maybe two sinks, so they could shave at the same time. That image stopped him cold, though, and he discouraged Blair for the time being.

Jesus. He and Blair standing in the bathroom side by side, staring into the mirror as they shaved. What was the significance of that?

After their morning swim, Jim suggested they go back into town and look for a gift for the owners of the house. Blair thought it was a great idea, "and for Simon and Naomi, too," so they changed into shorts and sandals and started walking to the bus stop.

"You don't mind not using the Jeep? After we paid for it?"

Jim shrugged. "Naw. It's nice not to have to drive. If I were here alone I probably would, but you know your way around so well. I can't believe it's been twenty-five years since you were here. You ever forget anything?"

"Uh, girlfriends' birthdays. That's like a major problem for me." Jim thought about this. This trip was a birthday present for him. What did that say about Sandburg?

They got off the bus at the downtown terminal and wandered through an arcade covered with purple wisteria. In shallow alcoves, craftsmen and artisans were creating their wares -- silver and turquoise jewelry, recycled aluminum turned into candlesticks, straw hats, cotton ties and belts, leather sandals, pictures of Jesus on the cross and Moses with horns and Elvis when he was skinny.

They decided on a large serving platter for the professor who'd loaned them the house; it was white, painted with a deep blue border and vivid yellow lemons around the rim. They bought Simon a matching mug for his coffee, and then bought four more for themselves. Blair found a necklace for Naomi, finely wrought silver threads, an entire waterfall of them. Jim bought her matching earrings, which pleased Blair enormously.

They tucked their purchases into Blair's backpack, except for the platter, which Jim carried. After a late lunch, Jim suggested catching a taxi back, rather than trying to find a bus stop. So he waved the next one down, sighing with relief as he climbed in after Blair.

They were driven home the back way, down a tree-covered narrow road set against a sluggish irrigation canal. Jim rolled his head back against the seat and shut his eyes, half dozing in the bouncing vehicle. He sat up, wide awake, though, when he heard Blair gasp. But all he saw was the wisteria-covered swing.

Once they were in the house again, their purchases hidden in the suitcase, Jim asked Blair what was wrong.

"I have been here before, man. This very house. Something about the drive home reminded me. Naomi and I stayed here."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "That's quite a coincidence."

"Yeah. Yeah." But Jim recognized the look on Blair's face.

"What is it?"

He frowned and shrugged. "Nothing, probably. I just think -- I think something bad happened here. Something to Mom." He bit his lip. "I remember this man she was seeing. A big red-haired American. A jerk."

Jim put his hand on Blair's shoulder. "Did he hurt you?"

"Nah. But he didn't want me around." He screwed up his face, obviously trying to remember something. "Hey, you want a beer or some lemonade?"

Jim let it go. "Lemonade."

While Blair was fussing in the kitchen, Jim took a look at the bathroom. Senor Alvillar did wonderful work; too bad he couldn't come to Cascade. The bathroom gleamed. He'd washed everything, too. That meant Blair could sleep in here tonight.

Maybe.

Dinner was quiet, both of them tired from the outing. Jim was nervous and could smell Blair's tension, too. They sat in the living room for a change, a small fire burning in the fireplace, and read. Jim noticed Blair glancing at him, so he finally set down his book and said, "What."

"Um. You said you'd help me remember."

Jim sighed dramatically, but he had promised. Kind of. And clearly Blair was disturbed by what he was remembering. "Did you write me a script?" Stupid question, Jim reflected, smiling as Blair pulled a sheet of paper from the book he was reading. "Okay, buddy," he conceded. "Just lie back and relax and let Doctor Jim take care of you." Blair laughed, but tucked a pillow behind his head and draped his feet over the end of the sofa.

Jim glanced at the instructions. He could see that Blair was already half-way into a meditation, his chest lifting evenly and regularly, his eyes closed. Jim stared down at his friend, then pulled an ottoman to the side of the sofa and settled there.

"Okay," he started, "I know you know the drill. Take a deep breath for me and hold it." Blair obeyed; Jim counted to six and said, "Let it out slowly, slowly," and counted to eight. "Okay, another deep breath." He did this eight or nine times, discovering he could see the blood flow under Blair's skin shift as he fell into states of deeper relaxation.

"Okay, buddy," he said again, hearing the affection in his voice. "I want you to picture Naomi here, in this house, all those years ago." He glanced at the script again. "She has long red hair and is the prettiest person you know." A small smile curled the corners of Blair's expressive mouth.

"She's talking to someone, a red-haired man. Can you hear them?"

Blair frowned, and Jim added, "Keep breathing, nice and slow. Just nod your head when you can hear them." For several minutes, the only sounds in the darkened room were the crackling fire and Blair's deep, slow breaths. Then he nodded his head.

"Good. Good. Do you hear your mom's voice?" A nod. "Do you hear the man's voice?" A pause, and then a nod. "Okay, Blair. Take another deep breath and hold it." Jim walked him through another minute or so of what Blair had taught him was pratyahara yoga, before saying, "Whenever you're ready, open your eyes."

Blair had tears in his eyes. "He wanted to take me away from Naomi," he whispered. Jim put his hand on Blair's where it rested on his chest.

"It's okay, buddy. He didn't succeed. Your mom took care of you." Jim thought briefly about his own mother, leaving him in the uncertain care of his father, but returned to Blair's distress.

Blair sniffed and squeezed Jim's hand, then started to sit up. "God, I'm tired." He wiped his eyes. "I don't remember much more. Just that he wanted to take me. I knew he didn't like me, so I was really scared."

Jim said, "Listen. Uh, why don't you sleep in the big bed again."

Blair put his glasses back on and studied Jim. "Even though the bathroom's finished?"

"Uh, yeah. You know, just in case." He grinned at Sandburg, who slowly smiled back.

"Just in case another arthropod decides to invade? Or I have another nightmare?" Jim nodded. After a second, Blair nodded, too.

So it was a little weird, Jim told himself in thirty minutes or so, when Blair finally pulled back the sheets and climbed in. But hell, it was comfortable. It was comforting.

"This is comfortable," Blair mumbled, startling Jim, who rolled onto his side to look at Blair. But Blair was already three-quarters asleep, so Jim watched him fall the rest of the way, face relaxing in the dim light of the moon filtered through the trees and shutters. "S'better."

Jim wondered what was better than what, but then he, too, slipped into sleep.

Blair was getting up when Jim woke in the morning, brushing his teeth while he poked through the books over the blue desk. He was already wearing his swim trunks; the giant bottle of sun block was sitting on the nightstand. "Gerrup," he said indistinctly when he realized Jim was awake, and went to spit in the bathroom sink.

So Jim got up.

The last three days flew by. They had settled into a routine and Jim loved it. He couldn't remember being more relaxed and rested. They both took to the tradition of the siesta as if born to it, rising once the afternoon cooled to fix dinner and go for another walk. Jim read every book he'd brought, most of the books Blair had brought, and was working through the small library in the living room. Fortunately, the professor who owned the house evidently loved English murder mysteries, so he had Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and Margery Allingham to discover.

The afternoon before their flight left, Jim insisted they pack. They took their dirty clothes into town, using the Jeep for once, and washed them at the laundromat. They each bought a tee shirt and hat from a street vendor, then Blair impulsively bought a cap for Darryl Banks and boxes of cactus candy for everyone in Major Crimes. For dinner they ate up everything in the house in a wild omelet Jim created.

Only the things they'd need tomorrow were left out. Jim puttered around the house, checking for missing possessions, untidiness, bugs, while Blair blended their last Mexican margueritas. He obediently went out to the veranda when Blair called him, and they settled down for their last evening.

"I can never thank you enough for this, Chief," Jim admitted, sipping the slushy drink.

Blair shrugged. "I had no idea how great this would be, myself. I'm just glad we got to come."

Jim nodded, and propped his feet up on the railing. "You still think this is the house you lived in?"

"I'm surer than ever. That's why everything seemed so familiar -- the walk to the beach, the backyard. It's just been fixed up a lot nicer."

"I'll say." A long pause while they listened to a bird calling. "Just -- what's with the well?" Blair looked at him. "It's off, or something."

"You said it creeped you out."

"It does. It really does." Impulsively, Jim set down his glass and scuffed his sandals back on, then picked his way through the rough ground to the wooden framework. He could hear Blair behind him.

"What is it, Jim?"

He peered over the well cautiously, letting his sight open up. Then he learned as far over as he could. Blair grabbed the waistband of his shorts and he leaned a little farther. He could smell something, almost see something. . .

He stood up abruptly. "Skeleton. There's a human skeleton down there." Blair stared at him, then stepped away.

"Oh, shit," he murmured, and even in the pale light, Jim could see his face blanch. He grabbed Blair's arm to keep him upright and they walked back to the veranda.

"What is it," he asked gruffly, settling Blair back into his chair and handing him his drink.

Blair took a gulp, then smacked his forehead. "Ow! Brain freeze! Ohhh, man," he groaned, but Jim laughed.

"From the sublime to the ridiculous," he said, sitting down and waiting for Blair's brain to warm up.

"Jesus," Blair muttered, and sniffed.

When Blair had composed himself and taken a tiny experimental sip of the marguerita with no ill effects, Jim said, "Why do you think there's a skeleton in the well?"

Blair shrugged, looking down at his sandals. After a long moment, he said, "I think I had a dream about it."

Jim waited. He knew Blair by now, he knew him, in a way Jim knew no other person, and he could tell that Blair had a story but that he was reluctant to tell it. He tried to remember what Blair had told him about living in this house all those years ago. Just he and Naomi. Naomi doing political work, leaving, he had gathered, Blair home alone a lot. Naomi with some guy who didn't like Blair.

He sat up. "Did that guy hurt you?"

Blair turned a look of honest bewilderment on him. "What? What guy? When?"

"When you were a kid here. You said there was some guy with Naomi and that he didn't like you. Did he try to hurt you?"

Jim saw Blair put on his professor face, the calm, let's-be-reasonable face he used when students demanded he change a grade. "Now, Jim," he said evenly, "I was only five years old when I was last here. Admittedly," he smiled, "I was an extraordinary five-year-old, but I'm not sure I was capable of what you're suggesting."

"What am I suggesting?"

Blair stared at him. "I don't know. What are you suggesting?"

Slowly, Jim said, "I think this guy frightened you. Threatened you or hurt you. And no matter what I think of Naomi, I know how much she loves you. She wouldn't permit anyone or anything to hurt you. To take you from her." He saw Blair flinch at that. "Did that guy want to separate you from Naomi? Go off with her alone, maybe?"

"Are you saying you think my mother killed someone and dumped him in that well?"

Jim was a little surprised. But yes, actually he was thinking that. He looked away from his friend, in order to sort out his feelings. What if that had happened? He'd have knowledge of a murder. After the fact, considerably after the fact, but still. But if someone tried to hurt Blair, to separate him from Blair, he'd kill him, too. Just as, he was suddenly convinced, Naomi had.

He looked back at Blair. "Yes, I am. And if that guy tried to separate you two, then he got what he deserved."

Blair's eyes widened. "Jim. You're a cop. You've sworn --"

"I know what I've sworn," he interrupted Blair. "I've sworn to your mother to take care of you. I've sworn to myself never to let anything happen to you. And if somebody ever did hurt you, I'd fucking off them myself and be grateful for a nearby well."

Blair scratched his head. "Jesus. Jesus, James. I, uh. Wow." Jim patted his knee. "Thanks. I think." They laughed.

"So," Jim finally said. "What do you remember?"

"You're not gonna turn my mom in?" Jim glared at him. "Well, really not much. I do remember this guy hanging around with her. I assume they were, uh, having an affair, but I was too little to really know about things like that. But I was real jealous of the time she spent with him.

"Anyway, I remember them arguing in the living room, about me. I think I remember him saying that she wasn't a good mother and that I should go somewhere. But I was so upset at him yelling at my mom." He shook his head. "I don't really remember anything else."

Jim said, "What else?" He was studying Blair's face closely, maybe smelling him.

Faintly, Blair admitted, "I have a vague memory of mama walking backwards through the yard, pulling something."

Jim thought about Blair's sudden use of the word "mama." He didn't think he'd ever heard Blair refer to Naomi as mama. Mom, ma, and Naomi, yes, but not mama. He wondered how much significance he should read into Blair's apparent regression.

"You know what, Blair," he finally said. "It doesn't matter. Any mother would protect her child, and Naomi isn't just any mother. And as you say, you were just a little kid. Your testimony wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel in a court of law. It's all just speculation. Don't worry about your mom, okay?"

"Thanks," Blair whispered, and took another sip of his drink. "Uh, are you gonna report finding the skeleton?" But Jim just gave him another look.

So they finished their drinks, washed dishes, and got ready for bed. Their last night in this beautiful house on the beautiful beach. They'd have time for a quick swim in the morning and then have to rush back to the airport where'd they drop off the Jeep. Jim had it all mapped out in his head.

But when he finally composed himself for sleep, lying next to his friend, he started to wonder where this map was taking him. Blair looked a little stunned from the evening's conversation, speculation though it might be. Jim touched Blair's shoulder and he rolled toward Jim, who put his arms around him.

For a second Blair just lay there, and then he hugged Jim awkwardly. Jim hugged him back.

He pulled Blair closer to him. They fit together better than he and Carolyn ever had; the right heights, the right widths. Still Blair remained silent, and Jim realized he would have to lead this time. He'd hurt Blair too often for Blair to risk more.

So he slowly and lightly ran one hand up Blair's back, over his shoulder, and then to his neck, enjoying the warmth. He rested his head against Blair's, sighing in pleasure. Then he whispered, "Blair. Blair." He whispered it into Blair's ear. "Blair. Blair." Blair shivered deeply and pressed more firmly into Jim's arms. Jim closed his eyes and rested his face against Blair's temple. Sighing, he very cautiously let his lips touch the soft skin there, just at the hairline. "Blair," he whispered again.

This time Blair rolled his head back to look into Jim's face. His movement caused Jim to open his eyes again; Blair's eyes were half-closed as he swayed in Jim's grasp. One final step, Jim told himself. One final, necessary step.

Slowly, slowly, he tilted his head forward and to one side. He felt Blair rise a bit to meet him and rejoiced in the gesture. He smiled and whispered, "Blair" against Blair's lips. Then he kissed him.

A chaste and closed-mouth kiss, a kiss of questions. But answers, too, as Jim felt Blair strain toward him. He opened his mouth and sank into the kiss. This was Blair, after all, who would forgive him. Would take care of him.

Breathing through his nose, Jim prolonged the kiss, relaxing into Blair's arms, trusting Blair to catch him. Blair's mouth tasted sweet, like peppermint toothpaste, but warm and moist. He kissed Jim deeply, unafraid, aroused. Jim heard his breathing and heart rate accelerate, and he cuddled Blair to him.

When the kiss broke, both men were panting and both were smiling, pink with exertion and embarrassment. "Wow," Blair said, and licked his lips. Jim kissed him quickly, again and again, then sank back into his mouth.

The next time they stopped, Jim was squirming against Blair, groaning in pleasure. "Blair, I," he started, but Blair kissed him again. He felt Blair's hands rove down his body and cup his ass, squeezing him confidently, pushing Jim against him and rubbing back.

"Wait, wait," Jim said, pulling back, a little dazed. "This is way too fast for me. I. What do you want?"

Blair looked at him. "What do you want?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it. How had they ended up like this, anyway? One minute they're brushing their teeth, the next minute they're necking. He remembered the feel of Blair's hand on his shoulder in the museum. Helping Blair off the bed when they'd found the scorpion. How Blair looked sleeping in his bed.

"Is this, is this?"

"Yeah," Blair said, rolled up tight against Jim, a solid and hot miracle.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna," Jim groaned, unable to finish a sentence.

"Yeah," Blair said again, and rocked hard against him. "Yeah, you want this, don't you, don't you."

"Yeah. Yeah, oh, shit, Blair, God, Blair," and Jim was coming, coming as hard as a freight train, crying out nonsense words of praise and pleasure. And Blair was writhing in his arms, against his body, drawing Jim's attention away from his orgasm to Blair's. He held on to the wild man tossing his head dangerously.

"Fuck," Blair said, and draped himself over Jim like a favorite blanket. Jim liked that; he liked that a lot. He wiggled until he was comfortably sprawled back against the pillows, keeping Blair next to him.

Blair yawned and Jim kissed him again. "Pretty cool," he said, and Jim had to agree. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

Jim kissed him. "That's right; you need words. Gimme a day or two and I'll come up with something."

Blair thumped his chest. "You big jock. You figured out you loved me. I wondered if you'd ever catch on."

Jim tickled Blair's ribs, holding him tightly so he couldn't escape. He rejoiced in the giggles and laughed himself. "Yeah, I caught on, tough guy," he said, and kissed Blair again.

"Oh, man, I could get used to this," Blair sighed, throwing one arm around Jim's neck to pull him closer.

"Good. Good." They lay still for a while as Jim tried to remember the last time he'd felt this at peace. Blair leaned against Jim's face, so Jim could kiss his forehead, temple, and hair while stroking his back and arms.

"You gonna stick around a while, Chief?"

"This is quite an incentive. I believe I just might." Blair kissed Jim, then, twisting in his arms so he could press his mouth against Jim's, sucking on Jim's tongue.

"Mmmm," Jim murmured, the last sound he made for a long time.

The next night, their first back at the loft, they found themselves standing awkwardly in the kitchen. Blair got a glass of water and watched Jim over the edge as he drank. Jim studied him cautiously. The flight home they had held hands under a blanket; Blair had sneaked his hand between Jim's legs and given him a friendly squeeze, nothing too sexy, just a little "hello, there, don't forget me" squeeze that had Jim's hips thrusting up for more. Blair had giggled again, and at that moment, Jim realized he was lost. Utterly and completely lost, that another man's giggle should be the most charming and provocative sound in his universe.

Jim took Blair's glass and set it on the counter. He felt his mouth curl into a smile, and realized that he was happy. After everything he'd gone through, he'd reached this moment, standing a foot away from the most important person in his life. The person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He put out a hand and gently touched Blair's face, lightly tracing the line of his chin. Blair closed his eyes and relaxed.

Jim stepped forward into Blair's personal space until their bodies were touching. Blair slipped his arms around Jim's neck and Jim put his hands on Blair's waist. Blair's eyes were still closed, so Jim leaned down and tenderly kissed each eyelid, then his cheek, then his lips. Blair obediently opened his mouth and Jim slid his tongue in, pleased that he had this right.

When they paused for breath, foreheads touching, Jim said, "You coming upstairs with me?"

Blair laughed. "You'll have to get a gate to keep me out."

"No. A gate to keep you in. I'll never let you out of our bed." He realized he was rocking his body against Blair's; he felt so good, so warm and charged with energy and excitement. He kissed Blair again, thinking again how happy he was that he had the right to do so. The obligation, if he recalled the common law correctly. He had husbandly duties toward Blair. Or wifely. But duties he would be happy to fulfill.

Rather dreamily, Blair asked, "So you don't mind if my mother is a murderer?"

Jim kissed him again, as passionately as he knew how, a kiss to calm Blair's fears and excite his body. "No," he whispered. "I honor your mother. I'll tell her when I see her." Blair giggled again, softly, never opening his eyes. "I'll tell her that I love you and cherish you and that I'll always take care of you. That she can continue to jaunt around the world without worry, because you have a safe place to live, where you're loved and cared for." Blair seemed to be melting in his arms, getting hotter and looser, melding to him. "Oh, Chief," he whispered again. They climbed the stairs and lay down on the bed, and Jim knew he was cherished, too.

The second night they were home, while they were getting ready for bed, smiling at each other when they passed, Naomi called.

"Ma!" Jim heard Blair cry out in delight. "How are you? How's the retreat?"

Distantly, he could hear Naomi ask Blair if he was all right, if Jim was all right. Had they had a good time?

"It's great, Mom. We're both great. We, uh, figured some things out."

"Blair!" she cried happily, and Jim smiled around his toothbrush. "I knew it! Oh, sweetie, I'm so happy for you. Give Jim my love. I'll be out in a month or so, once you two get settled."

"Naomi," Blair whined, embarrassed, but Jim tuned out the rest. His mother-in-law was happy. Well, hell, that's more than Carolyn's mother had ever been.

He saw Blair's pink face appear over his shoulder in the mirror. "You hear that?" Jim nodded cheerfully. He spit and rinsed, then dried his face. Turning, he slung an arm around Blair's shoulders and kissed him sweetly.

"Wanna go to Mexico?" he asked in his most lascivious voice. His only answer was another kiss and a pinch on his ass. Oh, yeah.

"Look, mama!" Blair began waving. "It's Alberto!" The taxi pulled to an abrupt stop parallel to the two travelers burdened with backpacks and a duffel bag.

"Ola, Blair! Where you go?" Blair looked up at his mama, who looked tired and uneasy. "Mrs. Blair?" Alberto asked. "You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, and opened the door to the backseat.

"I want to sit up front with Alberto," Blair began, and she smiled wearily. Alberto leaned over and opened the door, so Blair scampered around the front of the car and climbed in.

When his mama was settled, all the luggage around her, Alberto said, "Now, Mrs. Blair. Where to go."

To Blair's distress, his mama started to cry. He climbed over the seat and sat in her lap, hugging her. Alberto handed her a neatly pressed handkerchief embroidered with tiny flowers, and she wiped her eyes, laughing ruefully. "I'm sorry, honey. Just a little tired.

"Senor Alberto," she said, finally looking at Blair's friend. "I need to go back to the States. What's the best way for a poor woman to get there?"

Alberto studied her; Blair watched him, waiting for him to solve the problem. Finally, he nodded. "I have, uh, un primo?"

"A cousin," Blair chimed in.

"Si. A cousin. Drives to los estados unidos con los mueblos."

"Furniture. Can we go with him?"

"Si, Blair. I take you to him. Okay, Mrs. Blair?"

Mama wiped her eyes and nodded. "Gracias, Senor Alberto. Muchas gracias."

"Muchisimus gracias!" Blair added, and both Mama and Alberto smiled at him.

"Bueno," Alberto said, and turned back to drive them into town. Blair cuddled against his mama, feeling her relax the farther away they got. "I'll miss la playa," he said sadly, and his mama stroked his hair.

"You'll come back someday, sweetie. With someone you love very much. I just know it." She kissed the top of his head, then ruffled his curls. He watched the green jungle as they wound through the back road to town, leaving the house on the beach behind them.

"Adios," he whispered. "Hasta luego."

"We'll never find all this stuff in Cascade," Jim complained, staring at the long list in his hand.

Blair pulled the Volvo into a parking spot, shut off the engine, and disagreed. "You know there's a large population of Mexicans and even Peruvians and Chileans here. Of course we'll find what we need." Jim raised his eyebrows, but obediently got out of the car and followed Blair into a shabby grocery story. The green awnings were torn and splattered with bird shit, but the vegetables in the bins outside looked fresh and juicy.

"Donde estan los chiles?" Blair asked the elderly man behind the counter, who pointed toward the back. "Okay," he said, half to Jim, half to himself. "We need six ancho chiles, four pasilla, and four mulato."

"Help," Jim said faintly and stepped backwards.

"Dial it down, Jim," Blair guided, but never took his eyes off the mounds of dark red, purple, black, and green chiles. "Go get us a pound of tomatoes, really ripe ones, two onions, and a big head of garlic." Jim sped off, eyes watering, wondering if this meal would be edible.

It took an hour, but they found everything they needed in that little store except the turkey. For that they went to Safeway, Jim mildly happy to be shopping in familiar surroundings.

Once home, Jim took a beer and waited on the balcony while Blair washed the dried chiles, removing their veins, stems, and seeds. He tore them up and put them to soak in hot water, and then cut the turkey up to simmer on the stovetop. Time enough for a beer himself with Jim, and a lecture on the upcoming meal to celebrate their first year as a couple.

"The nuns in some convent were paid a surprise visit by a viceroy and archbishop," he related, tossing another tortilla chip in his mouth. "The cooks were all Indian girls and they thought these visitors were God and the King himself, so they fixed their very best dish. You can tell that they thought they were feeding royalty because of the chocolate."

"That's what I don't get, Chief," Jim interrupted, swallowing a salsa-laden chip. "Chocolate and turkey?" He pretended to shudder.

"Yeah, well, wait till you taste it."

"Raisins, almonds, garlic, sesame seeds -- I've eaten all over the world and never heard of this."

Blair just grinned at him. "Like I said -- just wait." Jim couldn't resist; he leaned over and kissed Blair, right there on the balcony, for God and everyone to witness.

"I love you," he said, eyes apparently still watering from the chiles.

"Yeah," Blair sighed, and ate another chip. "That is, like, so cool."

Jim laughed, wiping his eyes. "Yeah. Pretty damn cool," he agreed, and ate another chip himself.