Facets of Love

By Chris Quinton

Aspects Of Love
Three Love Stories starring six men finding love – Home And Heart, a new love. Falling Again, a rediscovered love. Never Too Late, a second chance May-December love.

Home And Heart
A new love - Ben is taking care of old Mrs Bonney's house and dogs while she's away over Christmas. Adam has no money. Black sheep of his family, he has no job, nowhere to go, except his grandmother's house. When he learns an unpleasant truth about his father, Ben is there for him.

Falling Again
A rediscovered love - Thanks to a lucky win on the Power Ball Lottery, Joel has fulfilled his ambition - an island of his own. All he needs now is to show it to Gray, his best friend and ex-lover, who had shared that childhood dream. But life moves on and people change. So do connections. They can transmute into something wonderful and lasting, but only if both men feel the same.

Never Too Late
A Second Chances May-December love - For six years Stuart has been alone. He feels he's had his chance at love, and doesn't expect to find anyone else. Then he meets Tom. But Tom is twenty years his junior, and Stuart can't take that in his stride.

These stories have been published elsewhere and are available singly as ebooks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Quinton
• Release date: Jan 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005021443

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  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 the occasional male/female novel 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 reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. 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 not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

Facets of Love

by

Chris Quinton

Print Copyright – Chris Quinton 2014

e-Book Copyright – Chris Quinton 2019 - 2021

Front Cover Image © Marko Pekic Dreamstime.com

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, these stories may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means without written permission from the Author Chris Quinton.

Piracy is Theft

The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word and tell others about it, but please don't share it.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

These stories have been published elsewhere and are available singly as ebooks

HOME AND HEART

1st Edition Copyright Chris Quinton 2011

2nd Edition Copyright Chris Quinton 2013

3rd Edition Copyright Chris Quinton 2014 [print]

4th Edition Chris Quinton 2021

FALLING AGAIN

1st Edition Copyright 2012 Chris Quinton

2nd Edition Copyright 2014 Chris Quinton

3rd Edition Copyright 2021 Chris Quinton

NEVER TOO LATE

1st Edition Copyright - Chris Quinton 2013

2nd Edition Copyright - Chris Quinton 2014

3rd Edition Copyright 2021 Chris Quinton

Contents

Dedication

Home And Heart

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Falling Again

Never Too Late

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

About The Author

Bibliography

Dedication

To the Usual Suspects – as always, thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

You make writing even more of a pleasure.

Home And Heart

In loving memory of Bracken and Teazle

Home and Heart

Chapter One

You are not a hippie, are you? demanded the frail old lady.

No, Ben Elliot assured her, putting one hand back to the nape of his neck to make sure his ponytail was safely under control. Not at all.

Hm. I can see you are not, Mrs Bonney continued as if he hadn’t spoken. Too clean. A bit untidy, though. Her grey gaze, as piercing as a tungsten steel needle, raked him from head to feet and back again. Ben, who considered his best jeans and green Home-Safe Pet & House Sitting fleece and polo shirt to be pretty damned smart, offered her a placating smile.

Tiny as she was compared to his athletic six feet, Mrs Miriam Bonney could have stepped right out of the pages of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple books. She sat enthroned in an overstuffed armchair and fitted the author’s written descriptions to an absolute T, something most of the TV and film reincarnations did not.

A wood fire burned cheerfully, its flames glowing on the pale yellow stone of the living room’s huge fireplace. Polished wooden wainscoting and creamy-plastered walls, black ceiling beams and door-frames completed the timeless, homelike atmosphere of the old stone house nestling on the edge of Burford, a small but ancient town in the heart of the Cotswolds.

Home-Safe’s policy, Mrs Bonney, he said, still smiling. Company shirt, and trousers or jeans. We’re always prepared for hard and sometimes messy work.

Hah! Her snort of amusement startled him. You will get plenty of both with Bracken. Never knew such a dog for getting himself in a state. Well, I suppose you better meet them. But if they do not like you, young man, Home-Safe can send someone else.

Yes, Mrs Bonney. There wasn’t much else he could say.

They are in the conservatory, she said as she groped for the two walking sticks propped at the side of her chair. With a barely concealed wince, she stood and hobbled slowly across the spacious room to a door. He followed on her heels, wondering if he should have offered her his arm.

The door opened onto a wide Victorian-style sun-room, all glass and white wood. It was surprisingly warm, and jasmine scented the slightly humid air, a small corner of summer set apart from the dank winter outside. Foliage and flowering plants flourished everywhere, crowding around a small oasis. In it, comfortable chairs and a couch sat around a long, low table. Two large dogs started towards them.

Stay, Mrs Bonney ordered. Sit. The Golden Retriever immediately planted his backside on the tiled floor, his tail wagging enthusiastically. The chocolate brown Curly-Coated Retriever eyed Ben with cool reserve, sitting slowly enough to suggest it was her decision rather than obedience to her owner’s command. Bracken and Teazle, Mrs Bonney said. Her ladyship is the one you will have to convince. Bracken is utterly uncritical.

They’re beautiful dogs, Ben said, genuinely appreciative. How old are they?

Bracken is six, Teazle is eight. They are walked for at least an hour every morning. My usual walker slipped on the ice and broke her wrist and ankle, poor girl, or I would not need to call in a stranger. She glared as if blaming him and Ben revised Miss Marple to Granny Weatherwax. Teazle, to me. The brown dog rose to her feet and strolled with leisurely, almost feline, grace to stand in front of her.

Mrs Bonney, Home-Safe has the highest reputation, he said earnestly, and all our staff are security-checked by the police.

I know that, boy, or I would never have contacted your employer! Now, introduce yourself.

Hey, Teazle, Ben said quietly, not meeting the dog’s eyes but focussing on her left ear. He held out his hand, letting her sniff his knuckles. Her tail began to wag and he scratched the back of her head, sinking his fingers into the thick, surprisingly soft corkscrew curls of her ruff. Her jaw dropped open a little, just enough to show the small incisors in front.

Good. Mrs Bonney smiled. She likes you. Call Bracken to you. He obeyed, and the Goldie threw himself eagerly at Ben’s feet, rolling on his back for a belly-rub. He is such a trollop, she said indulgently. Now, Marge Compton comes in twice a week to dust and tidy, but everything else in the house is up to you—including looking after the conservatory plants. Come back tomorrow at ten o’clock prepared to start. Marge will give you the grand tour and show you your room. I will give you the dogs’ routine, and a map of the footpaths where they are walked. Two pairs of ears pricked up. They obviously recognised the word. You will be needed in the day only, until I go in to the hospital.

Understood, Mrs Bonney. If your usual walker is hurt, would you like me to take them out now? he offered. I’ll be happy to do it.

Thank you, but it is not necessary, she replied, her eyes warming to a definite twinkle. I go into hospital for the operation on Monday, so they and I have a few days to be absolutely certain you’ll suit, Mr Elliot.

Please, call me Ben, he said quickly.

I will do no such thing. The paperwork gave your name as Benedict, a perfectly respectable name and not one to be shortened. There are some house rules you will be expected to follow, of course. There will be no overnight visitors, Benedict. And if you invite in a female friend, bedrooms are off-limit. Do I make myself clear?

Absolutely, he said solemnly, deciding she needn’t know dates with girls weren’t at all his preference. Home-Safe has strict rules covering—um—

Shenanigans, she finished for him, nodding. After I have had the hip-replacement surgery, I will be transferred to Fountain Court. It is a private convalescent home. While I am there, I will expect regular visits from you to report on the dogs. You will be able to bring one of them with you, Bracken by choice. Teazle can be standoffish with strangers, but he is always happy for anyone to make a fuss of him, and Fountain Court allow people-friendly animals.

Whistling cheerfully, Ben drove the Home-Safe green Land Rover 4x4 back towards Cheltenham. The Bonney contract was an unusually long one—ten weeks—and would bring in a nice profit for the company plus a bonus for him personally.

Admittedly, he wouldn’t be spending much of Christmas and the New Year with his family and friends, but he should be able to manage part of Christmas Day itself, and the extra cash would go a long way to making up for everything else.

Ben’s route to the office would take him through his home-village of Charlton Kings, now a suburb on the edge of Cheltenham. He rented the flat above Elliot’s Groceries, the small general store owned and run by his Uncle Bob, and the thought of hot tomato soup in the comfort of his living room proved an irresistible draw. Ben turned into the side road opposite the Beaufort Arms pub, and turned again into his usual off-road parking slot beside the shop at the end of the terrace, right next to the black iron staircase leading up to his front door.

As he let himself in, Ben took out his mobile phone and hit the office number on speed dial. The call was answered within seconds, Julie’s cheery voice giving her standard greeting; Home-Safe Pet and House Sitting, how can I help you?

You always say I’m beyond help, Ben answered, grinning. The Bonney deal is a go. Mrs B has signed the contract and I start tomorrow, but I don’t move in until the Monday, when she goes into hospital.

That’s quick. Are you okay to start so soon? Julie asked worriedly. Obviously you got along with her okay, but she sounded so stern over the phone, I’ll admit I expected to lose this one.

Yeah, it’s fine, though she is pretty formidable. Ben chuckled as he fished a can out of the cupboard, and hunted up a bowl. He hunched his shoulder and wedged the phone under his ear while he tugged off the ring-pull, then emptied the soup into the bowl. She could give my Nan a run for her money in the Scary Old Lady Stakes. But the dogs are great, just a little overweight and under-exercised. He paused to shove the bowl into the microwave and set the timer. I’m home at the moment, taking my lunch break. I’ll bring in the paperwork afterwards.

Okay. See you.

Ben ended the call, spent a few minutes making coffee, then opened his breadbin. It held half a loaf of reasonably fresh bread, enough to last for a couple of days, at least. Making a mental note to buy another as soon as possible—anything left over on Monday could go in the freezer—he hacked a large chunk off the loaf.

When the microwave pinged, he assembled his meal and took it through to the living room. Thanks to the ground floor extension built over fifty years ago to create the shop and its store room, the room was spacious.

Though it and its furnishings were shabby and mismatched, it had a comfortable, welcoming aura. The bathroom and the kitchen-diner overlooked the road, while the living room took up the rest of the first floor, stretching back to wide windows looking out across backyards and gardens. The open pine staircase rose from the living room to the two attic bedrooms. Ben had lived there for nearly eighteen months, paying only a token rent, and was thoroughly settled in.

He’d known the place before, of course. His Uncle Bob and Aunt Rose had raised their two sons in the flat and Ben had been a frequent visitor throughout his childhood. But this wasn’t meant to be his permanent home. When he’d saved up enough money, Ben intended to go back to college and study for his Master’s degree in Psychology. But those plans were at least a couple of years further down the line.

By the time Mrs Bonney was out of hospital and beginning her convalescence at Fountain Court, Ben was at home in Wisteria Cottage, on very good terms with the two dogs and with Marge, the part-time housekeeper.

* * * *

Rain pounding on the roof woke Adam from sleep. He blinked bleary eyes and stared up at the stained fabric above him. Sleeping in his car was getting old very quickly. His fourth night of living rough left him with stiff muscles, an aching back—head ditto—and chilled to the bone. Not to mention smelling like an unwashed tramp, as well as looking like one.

This is ridiculous, he muttered aloud, throwing off the coat he’d used for a blanket. His body heat had filmed condensation on the windows, adding clamminess to the stale air. Sod it. Adam peered at his watch. Just gone ten on a bitter December morning.

He swore again and sat up, triggering the release. The seat back creaked from horizontal to vertical, settling against his shoulder blades. Wiping his sleeve over the side window, Adam gazed out onto a fog wall as dense as the water vapour he’d cleared from the glass, and thought about the last text he’d received from Peter: "Get your stubborn arse back here and I’ll forgive and forget. You can even have your old job back."

For a moment, Adam wavered. He was cold, hungry, and since he’d emptied his bank account right up to his overdraft limit to pay back the thirty thousand Peter loaned him, virtually penniless. Like his short-lived business.

Prescott Couriers had lasted a year. Just as the business began to pick up profitable trade his one other driver, Tom, had fallen asleep at the wheel, written off the car and put himself in hospital. By the time all the insurances and accident investigations had been sorted out, Adam knew his business couldn’t maintain itself. He’d paid Tom a month’s wages, cancelled the rent on the offices, and contacted his regular customers to advise them. By then, he and Peter were at the nasty stage of their break-up.

After another spectacular row Peter called in the debt. Instead of trying to negotiate terms of some kind, Adam slammed out of the flat, drew out every penny he could from his bank account, and threw the money in Peter’s face—literally. Then he’d shoved his belongings into two suitcases and stormed out.

That might have been a mistake.

At least he hadn’t made the greater error of giving in to the temptation to throw a punch along with the bank notes.

Adam rubbed his hands over his stubbled face and through his greasy hair, considering his options. He could only think of one, his grandmother. Her house had always been something of a haven while he’d been growing up. Until he was fifteen. Before then, she’d never asked about the bruises, except to either scold him for being so clumsy or worry he was getting into fights with other kids. He didn’t blame her for it, nor did he tell her the true cause.

Adam didn’t resent the secrecy, but when the situation inevitably came to a head,