Chapter Text
Rumford Gold despised the heat.
He’d spent his life in the heart of Glasgow, where the winters were cool and overcast, the springs temperate and overcast, and the summers warm and overcast—with the occasional sunny day thrown into the mix. He’d grown accustomed to frequent rain and infrequent changes. So stepping out into the oppressive heat of North Carolina?
“I’m already sweating,” he muttered.
The cabbie shot Rum a surprised look, grinning as he pulled bags from the trunk.
“You expectin’ somthin’ else?” he asked, slurring his words together. “Course its hot ‘ere!”
Rum didn’t know if that was his normal speech or if the man was intoxicated, and frankly he didn’t care. The boy had gotten him here without incident and now he could be on his way. Rum shoved a wad of bills at him to indicate just that.
“I expected professionalism,” he sniffed and ignored the kid’s exaggerated mockery. Boy took the bills, left Rum’s last bag with a pat, and tore off with the sound of wheels on sea-shell gravel.
Watching him go, Rum became more and more convinced that he was drunk off his ass, just like everyone else here. The residents of the Outer Banks were either wasted college frats—piled up twenty a house three streets down—or elderly couples on vacation, sipping cocktails and never bothering to enter the water. Rum felt like gnashing his teeth because he didn’t belong to either group. He was a middle-aged man in a suit, standing outside a beach house with couture luggage and a designer scowl. He so obviously didn’t belong that Rum took a peek over each shoulder, worried that someone was out there, watching and judging him. The street was empty though and Rum hurried inside before that could change.
He nearly wept the second he crossed the threshold: cold, conditioned air slapping him in the face. Rum took a moment to just breathe... then set about his work with the proficiency of a well-oiled machine. He took one last look to make sure he was alone, then slipped off his shoes, placing them perfectly aligned on the “Beach! Lose Your Shoes!” welcome mat— fitting. The suitcases were lined up too as Rum undid his cufflinks and slipped off his jacket, carefully rolling each sleeve. Barefoot and bare-armed he took a case in each hand and padded through the entranceway, past the kitchen, up the stairs.
Rum didn’t notice the cute blue upholstery theme, or the sea-life decorative details, or even the gorgeous, beach-front view. It was enough trouble getting his bags upstairs with his bad knee. He headed straight to what he presumed was the guest bedroom and began carefully putting away his clothes. This consisted of numerous suits in black and grey, a tux for the wedding...and a single polo shirt with slacks because Neal had insisted that he “dress down” when they went out. Rum hadn’t bothered to buy a bathing suit. He wouldn’t need one.
Cufflinks in the woman’s jewelry box, shoes paired beneath each suit in the closet. Rum set out his toiletries and the one book he’d bothered to bring: The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference by Malcolm Gladwell. Presumably it was a text that could give him more insight into running his antique business, though frankly Rum wasn’t holding his breath.
Socks and underwear went quickly into a drawer—no reason to stare at that too long—and finally his briefcase filled with work and notes was placed directly beside his bed. The two bags still downstairs contained odd and ends for the wedding, things that Neal had asked him to bring, and Rum was more than happy to supply them. Expense was no issue, of course. Not when it came to his boy.
With nothing else to do Rum sat down on the coin-tight bed, awkwardly running his hands over the quilt. He finally took in the decor. It was a far cry from his knick-knack packed shop back home, that was for sure, and Rum felt a sudden, unexpected desire for the shadows: a familiar dark and chilly place.
“Get ahold of yourself,” he growled. “You’re no goddamn vampire.”
Not that many would agree. With a sigh Rum hoisted himself to his feet, deciding that at the very least he should eat something after the flight. He meandered back down to the kitchen where he found nothing but old teabags left by the owners, though they would do. He wasn’t feeling confident enough to fiddle with their coffee machine (likely to break the thing, really) so Rum settled for boiling water in a pot when a kettle didn’t present itself. He leaned over the pan as steam wafted up in his face, telling himself that it was good conditioning for getting used to this weather.
Rum cleaned a mug, poured the water, and let the bag steep too long. There was no sugar or honey so he took it as it was, choking down the chamomile without enthusiasm. With nothing else to do Rum headed straight for the balcony.
If the air conditioning was a welcome slap to the face, this endless heat was a smothering blanket, forcing Rum to abandon his hot drink before he’d even taken three sips. Admittedly it was slightly more bearable without shoes or long sleeves, but not by much. It was only when an ocean breeze picked up and ruffled his hair that Rum sighed. It helped him feel slightly more like himself.
He padded to the railing, briefly noting that there was an identical balcony to his right, currently deserted. Good. He didn’t need nosy neighbors honing in on his time. This moment was for him, to gather his thoughts and enjoy whatever breeze he was able to get.
Rum felt his shoulders relaxing just a bit. The ocean did make for a magnificent view.
“Can’t fault you for choosing beachfront, son,” Rum said. “I only hope that woman of yours appreciates it.”
She would. Emma was no Milah.
So this was it then. His ‘home’ for the next two weeks. Rum was actually getting close to enjoying himself, despite it all, and his spirits might have improved exponentially if not for one little thing.
The was a figure suddenly waving at him from the other balcony.
“Hey, there!”