Page 65 of I Will Always Find You
While Marshall had never been intimate with any of those men, he did have a brief fling with former silent film star Tonio Rodrigo; however, that ultimately went nowhere due to the actor’s obsessive anxieties over his sexuality and his Roman Catholic upbringing.
Not long after the two men went their separate ways, Marshall came to realize it was more than just Tonio’s issues that broke them up; he had struggled to connect with the gorgeous, older Spanish man on an emotional level.
Marshall knew he was attracted to men, and he was okay with his homosexuality, even if society was not. He liked himself, and it made him sad that so many of his fellowconfirmed bachelorsstruggled with their sense of identity. And he had liked Tonio well enough, but there was no spark between them, at least not on his end.
There had beenno chemistry, a relatively new term he overheard a starlet use once on a set when discussing her single date with Marlon Brando.
Marshall longed to meet a man with whom he could connect on every level, not just sexually. He believed with all his heart and soul that such a man existed somewhere in the world, someone unafraid of a society that often looked downon them, labelling them as “moral risks,” “sexual misfits,” or “undesirables.”
After Tonio, Marshall had decided to call it quits on dating; he chose to invest his emotional energy in fate, trusting that, in time, serendipity would align in his favour.
If only I could meet someone like that guy I made eyes with back at Heathrow.
It had only been a moment of connection across a crowded room, but Marshall had felt something special. The man’s good looks had stirred something within him, definitely inside his pants. But it was the stranger’s dark eyes that truly captivated him.
Stop it, you’re being ridiculous. He was simply being friendly. It was just a glance and a smile in return, nothing more.
Marshall wished it could have been more, but the man who had captured his attention was not on his flight. He left that fantasy behind in London.
Suddenly, a stout glass was placed in front of him, filled with a vibrant red liquid.
A Negroni? What in the—?
This was Marshall’s favourite drink, a classic Italian cocktail known for its balanced blend of bitter, sweet, and botanical flavours, crafted with equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. This concoction was typically garnished with an orange peel; it had been. It was perfectly made. He had not ordered one when he first sat down, worrying it was too early in the day for hard liquor; it would make him look sad and pathetic, especially when drinking alone.
Again, the reason for choosing a beer as a substitute imbibement continued to elude him.
“From the gentleman sitting over there,” the bartender stated in English, yet with a sexy French-Canadian accent. Grinning, he pointed towards the large window next to an oversized framedpicture of Maurice Duplessis, the former Premier of Québec. In the photo, Duplessis was standing next to his friend Bertrand Bergé, a prominent French-Canadian businessman whose family owned the Château Bergé in Fairporte, Ontario. While the Château Bergé was an impressive architectural wonder, the older and larger Château Frontenac remained the true jewel in Canada’s crown.
Marshall turned around and saw a gorgeous young Italian man with thick, black hair and sun-kissed skin smiling at him; his glass was lifted in the air as if to toast. Marshall could not help but notice that the guy was at least ten years younger than he was. He was intrigued by the way the young man looked at him, with such interest and intent, as if he wanted nothing more than to make his acquaintance.
There was nothing creepy or lecherous about the man’s gaze; he was simply too young and clean-cut for any of that nonsense in Marshall’s thinking.
Lifting his cocktail in the air and nodding, the Englishman mouthed a thank you. He smiled as widely and as friendly as he could without looking crazy. He believed wholeheartedly that this was no friendly gesture in sending him the Negroni; it was a pickup.
There’s something oddly familiar about him. He’s so handsome—and maybe too young for me? What would he want with a red-headed, freckled thirty-four-year-old, anyway?
“Go over, man,” the bartender encouraged. “Or if you chicken out, I’ll pop over and see if he’s available after my shift is done.”
“Beat it, queen, he’s mine,” Marshall retorted in good fun.
The two men laughed conspiratorially, not wanting to arouse too much attention from the other bar patrons who might not be so friendly toward queers, especially boisterous ones. This was Québec City, after all, not Paris.
After taking a big swig of the free drink for some liquid courage, Marshall carried the now half-empty glass with him as he sauntered over to the table where the young man sat alone.
This is not a date or a pickup. I’m just going over to be friendly.
As he got closer, Marshall found himself becoming more and more physically attracted to the younger, dark-haired stranger. Then, when he was nearly at the table, he saw the man move his lips and say something, but it was so low in volume that he could not make it out.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Marshall asked.
“I said, ‘Scire me! Nosce te ipsum!’ It’s a Latin phrase. It’s a welcome to a stranger who is soon to be a friend—and I hope more.”
Suddenly, a strange euphoria washed over the Englishman; it was a pleasant yet powerful sensation, and he swooned, dropping his drink.
The Romani witch caught the drink psychically with his will, bringing it to the table without a drop spilled. Thankfully, no one had noticed his use of an invisible power they would not understand to prevent a mess, not even Marshall, who was too busy trying to regain his composure.
This strong reaction from him is a good sign! A thousand times better than the frustrating failure in Madrid so long ago. No, stop thinking about that. This is a new life, a new chance. Release your past, man. By Hecate, he looks like he certainly has. The way he stares at me! How much does his heart remember? Come back to me, Aeneas.
