The Chartreuse Door

1

Keir Moreau lurched awake as a familiar childhood panic lanced through him. Attack? Of course not. The noise was probably just thunder—it had been a stormy spring so far. With shaking hands, he fumbled to put on his thick glasses, already knowing he was safe in his bedroom, at home, alone. His subconscious just had to catch up. Whatever that crashing din had been, it was nothing to worry about.

He glanced at the clock. Well, maybe the idiot disturbing everybody at six a.m. on a Sunday morning might want to worry. Mrs. Prendergast, the all-powerful ruler of the Huntington Hill Condominium Association—Elegance and Diversity are our Watchwords—was sure to flay the poor bastard alive.

Stretching his bony shoulders until they cracked, he groaned and headed for the bathroom. By the time he came out, the noise had receded to occasional bumps, bangs, and bellows, so he detoured to the kitchen before investigating. A few minutes later, holding his favorite indulgence of a slab of toast smeared with greedy gobs of strawberry jam, he raised the blind and peeked out the living room window.

A moving van was parked right across the street. It was staffed by a crew of four stooges—deliciously built stooges, he had to admit—falling all over themselves. No wonder there was so much commotion.

So Riley Quinn, the new resident Mrs. Prendergast had warned him about, was moving in. Until last week, Keir hadn’t even known the condo facing his was on the market. Nothing as tacky as For Sale signs was allowed in Huntington Hill. Instead, Mrs. P. and the board sought out just the right people to entice into joining the community.

He frowned, remembering the day she’d bustled in and announced, “You’ll be getting a new neighbor soon. I’m sure the two of you will get along famously.” Averting her gaze, she’d added, “Although I must admit, I found him a bit brusque myself.”

Keir had wanted to ask what she meant by that, but the proud woman shrugged off her moment of doubt and sailed on. “As our newest board member, you’ve been chosen to welcome him and help him fit in with our family of residents.”

He was pretty sure he’d been chosen because, according to gossip, the new resident was gay. And single. Like Keir. Mrs. P. had a thing for symmetry: the condo association boasted artfully balanced numbers of African Americans, Asians, Latinos, and now a matched pair of gay men.

In lieu of a badge of authority, Mrs. P. had handed him a tasteful gray and burgundy leather packet. On the plus side, it contained a cheery letter of welcome and a handful of brochures for local shops and restaurants, all within easy walking distance. On the minus side was the draconian list of rules for life in Huntington Hill. It would be Keir’s task to explain to the new guy just what he was up against.

Wondering what had happened to that packet, he glanced at the stacks of student papers heaped on the dining room table. The edge of the welcome folder peeked from the bottom of the biggest pile. His shoulders drooped at the reminder he’d be spending most of the day reading student journals and grading dreadful compositions.

Maybe she’d done him a favor. The welcome wagon assignment would make a fine diversion. He could bring a home-cooked meal for the new guy to ease the sting of the condo association regulations. And just maybe Riley Quinn would turn out to be a friend, someone who would relieve Keir’s solitary social existence.

A lifetime of habit had Keir raising a hand to rub the dark purple birthmark that wound its way down one side of his face. No matter how old he got, seeing strangers’ open-mouthed stares still left him cringing like some shy kid.

On the weekends, Keir didn’t bother with the make-up he used for his teaching job at the ultra-conservative Winchell Academy for Young Men. In truth, hiding it probably wasn’t necessary at all. At least he hoped the school administration wouldn’t object to the vivid port-wine-stain birthmark. It was just that he’d hidden it for the job interview, and now he felt he had to keep it up.

But today was not a school day. Today he’d leave the mark visible when he went to welcome Riley Quinn. If nothing else, it would save awkward explanations later. Besides, if the guy was repulsed by it, better to know up front.

Returning his attention to the activity across the street, he realized the show was just about over and the workers were packing to go. That hadn’t taken very long—not for a whole household of items. The oldest worker, the one who looked like he was Larry, Curly, and Moe’s supervisor, carried just a clipboard in his hand as he disappeared one last time through the propped-open front door.