The swiss-style chalet nestled against the hillside nearer the crest than base, its wood shingles and peaked roof concealing a spacious interior of four full bedrooms—three of which were occupied by men in various stages of drunken slumber—three baths, and a circular great room filled with comfortable leather furniture and almost completely enclosed by glass. From this room, Lake Tahoe opened wide in three directions. Cradled by the snow covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains, it shimmered in the light of a nearly full winter moon, calm, deep, and cold as the ancient glaciers from which it was birthed.

From the balcony outside the great room, Charles Samuel Morton stood drinking in this delightful vista, so taken by the view as to be temporarily oblivious to either the fog visible with each breath or the growing needles inserting themselves into his ungloved hand. He swiveled his silver and gold streaked head from left to right slowly, gray eyes wide. “This’s gotta be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he remarked, indicating the lake valley with a sweep of his arm.

His companion, similarly dressed in heavy parka and boots, followed the gesture with bright sapphire eyes. “It is beautiful,” he agreed in a deep, smoke roughened voice pitched as low as Charlie’s. “It reminds me of Zurich. My parents would take my sister and me skiing there during winter holidays when we were children.”

“That must’a been nice. We used to take the kids to Disneyworld every year.” By the rustle of nylon on nylon, he heard rather than saw his companion turn toward him, joined his own laugh with the other man’s. “Not fancy but warm.”

Harriman Nelson laughed again and leaned forward against the iron railing guarding the observers from the forty-foot drop to hard rock. “I’ve never been there. I’m sure it’s a wonderful place to take children.” Charlie heard another rustle, then Nelson was offering a cellophane package.

“Nah.” Morton hefted the half-full glass he held. “Gave ‘em up years ago. Clare said it set a bad example. Tennessee mash, however….” He took a sip, smacked his lips with faint theatricism. “Chip is giving up smoking, too. Was going to do it this week but decided to wait until he gets back from Hawaii. Said he didn’t want to get divorced on his own honeymoon.”

There was a scratch, then light flared briefly. Nelson lit the tip of his Marlboro and flicked the match over the balcony. “I tried to stop after Seaview was first commissioned. It lasted three days.”

“Too much pressure?” the big blonde asked, feeling his own mouth start to water; he might have quit smoking but that didn’t mean the very thought of one didn’t make him salivate.

Nelson chuckled, a rumble in his chest. “Before the week was out, the crew got together and left a full case of Chesterfields outside my cabin. John—that’s John Phillips, Seaview’s first captain—denied all knowledge but did wonder if I was scientist enough to recognize a clue when I saw one.”

The image was so humorous that Charlie found himself laughing out loud. “I met Captain Phillips once,” he said after swiping his sleeve across his streaming gray eyes. “Seemed like a fine man. Chip thought highly of him.”

The shorter red head sobered though after three years there was no grief left in his face; Charlie could only read a vague regret in those heavily lined features. “Fine man and an excellent officer. We’d known each other 20 years.” He took another drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly through his nostrils. “I didn’t think I’d ever find someone to replace him on Seaview until Lee came along.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Who could have guessed that the Joint Chief’s would actually come up with a good suggestion for a change?”

“Why didn’t you promote Chip?” The words were out before he could stop them. Morton gulped, surprised by his own alcohol-induced temerity. One didn’t question a four-star Admiral—and his son’s boss!—on naval appointment procedures!

Nelson looked surprised as well, but to Morton’s relief, he took no offense. “Chip wasn’t qualified,” he returned equably. “He’d only been promoted to Lt. Commander a few months earlier, and had been appointed XO just before Phillips was killed.” He shot the other a cool look, not unfriendly yet inviting no debate. “Lee had rank and command experience despite all the time he’d spent seconded to ONI.”

Like the other man with his case of Chesterfields, no one could ever say Charley Morton couldn’t take a hint. He raised his free hand palm up, then scratched at the thick blonde mustache he claimed made up for the faintly receding hairline. Doubt Harry’s ever gonna go bald—not with all that red hair. He’s getting a bit gray at the edges, though. “I know, I know. But ya can’t blame a man for wanting to see his son go to the top, can ya?”

The affability worked, and Nelson’s craggy features relaxed again, lips twisting wryly. “He’s also a fine officer,” he said thoughtfully, turning back to the mirror lake. “I remembered Chip well from the Academy. I was teaching applied engineering in exchange for use of the labs. Chip was easily the brightest student in the class. I wanted him as one of my lab assistants, but he’d already secured a place on the football team that semester.”

“He used ta talk about you when you were both at the Pentagon,” Charlie said, taking a large swig of his Jack Daniels; the liquor burned both throat and stomach, seeming to warm him up from within. It was then he began to notice just how cold it was out there. “He said you were one of the few top brass there who could find his own—” Nelson choked on his smoke and he stopped, cursing his second case of foot-in-mouth in as many minutes. Last drink around this guy, that’s for sure. He took a deep breath and finished, “…uh, who could be counted on to do a good job.”

The cigarette glowed red. “I’m lucky to have him as Exec. If Mr. Morton was back in the Navy, he’d be in line for his own sub.” The admission was easy and genuine; Nelson used one forefinger to scratch his deeply cleft chin. “But I’m not planning to replace Lee.”

The affection in his voice was an interesting facet for the tall, broad Charlie Morton. He raised one blonde brow though made sure to keep his face turned away. “I’m kind’a fond of that boy, too. ”

Again the red head turned in his direction, guards shuttering sapphire eyes. “I’ve a fondness for all my men,” he responded carefully, all trace of warmth banished from his voice. “The crew of a submarine become close knit rather quickly.”

Ah-ha, Charlie thought, this time raising both brows only mentally. Does he really think it isn’t obvious to everyone that he thinks the world of Lee Crane? Or that Lee doesn’t practically worship the ground he walks on? For some reason that brought a slight pang of jealousy; both he and Clare had ‘adopted’ Lee Crane from the first moment their eldest had brought the skinny, shy boy home for the holidays, and Charlie still thought of himself as a kind of surrogate father to the young man. Definitely laying off the Jack, he told himself with some disgust. Was never jealous of Nelson ‘round either Lee or Chip before.

Behind them the door slid open with a soft whoosh, then a bulky figure in plaid wool was leaning at Charlie’s left side, thick cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. “Evenin’, gents,” Lt. Commander Frank Bishop greeted them in a slurred voice. “Out fer a breath a’?”

Nelson peered around Morton to Seaview’s gamma watch commander, who was gazing vaguely in the direction of the lake. “Good evening, Mr. Bishop,” he returned more formally, Charlie contributing a “Hi, Frank,” of his own. “Are you the last one back from the casino?”

Bishop, a moon-faced man in his mid-40’s, removed his cigarette and waved it generally in the direction of the town. “Nah. Doc Jamieson and Hank Rovner are still at Harrah’s. Doc is up 300 bucks; Hank is playin’ the slots. I think Sparks might be there somewheres; haven’t seen him since about midnight. He was wit’ a girl,” he added with a drunken smirk.

Charlie switched his drink to his other hand, sticking his now frozen right one in his pocket. “Sounds like they’re having a good time.”

“Ever’body’s havin’ a good time,” the younger man returned, reaching into his own pocket. He extracted a red flask. “Got ta hand it to the Skipper, he sure knows how ta throw a bachelor party.” He unscrewed the flask, removed his cigar and took a hefty swig. “Must’a cost him a fortune what with the private plane, big ol’ house, all da booze….”

A thin smile appeared on Nelson’s lips. “I think we can all agree, Lee does know how to throw a party.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I ever would have believed it of him. Perhaps I should put him in charge of more Institute gatherings.”

Bishop nodded enthusiastically; Charlie chuckled. “Maybe you have the money for it, but not on my paycheck. The boy went all out on this one.”

“…an’ I heard Mr. Morton’s wedding is gonna be a big’n, too,” Bishop finished as though no one had spoken.

Charlie Morton thought back to the stack of invitations his daughter-in-law-to-be had shown him several months previously. “They’re expecting 250 at the reception,” he confirmed, tugging his parka closer around his throat; the chill was seeping in steadily now. “Patti’s got a big family, and then there’s all of Chip’s side: his sisters and their husbands, uncles, friends from the Pentagon and the Seaview, golf buddies….” He whistled, remembering with a pang the day he taught a six-year-old Chip to whistle. And now my son is getting married!

“Quite a reunion,” the red-haired Admiral remarked, taking another puff of his cigarette.

“Weddin’s an’ funerals,” the slightly taller but far more broad Bishop acknowledged, returning to his flask.

Morton’s other hand was growing cold as well; he dumped the remainder of his drink over the balcony and set his glass on the railing. He’d paced himself but still lost count of how many he’d had since 8:00 that evening and it was easily 3am now. “Ain’t that the truth. We’re getting RSVP’s from all over the country: “Wisconsin, Minnesota, New York, Rhode Island….”

That last caught the admiral’s attention. He forked the cigarette between fore- and middle fingers and cocked his head inquisitively. “Rhode Island? Will Lee’s mother be at the wedding?”

 “Amanda sent a very expensive set of crystal and a card.” Charlie shrugged one shoulder. “She never was one to socialize.” With us, he added silently.

“Met her once—Cap’n’s mom, I mean.” Bishop took another swig, gulping loudly and smacking his lips. “Yep. Cap’n’s mom…she sure was a hottie.” He made to raise the flask again, then froze, eyes widening when he realized what he’d said and to whom he’d just said it. Slowly, he lowered the flask. “Er… beggin’ the Admiral’s…uh, pardon.”

Blue eyes reproached with a glance. “We can’t have the crew speaking about the captain’s mother like that.”

Bishop mumbled another apology and stuffed the flask back into his pocket. “’Reckon I’d better turn in. G’night sir, Mr. Morton.” He stumbled back thru the still open glass doors disappearing into the nearest bedroom, the smell of a cheap cigar wafting in the air behind him.

Nelson waited until the bedroom door closed before his glare melted into an loud snort. “I don’t think Frank will be imbibing at any of my own receptions from now on. He’s right about one thing,” he added after a moment, “Amanda is a hottie, but don’t tell Lee I said that.”

Charlie’s own grin faded as he thought back to the few times he’d met Amanda Crane over the last fifteen years. She was tall and still beautiful even at 55, with lush auburn hair, the same smooth, cream colored skin that her son was blessed with, and exotic shaped eyes so dark as to be nearly black. Cold eyes, Clare had said, though Charlie described them as simply uninterested. “She’s attractive enough,” he agreed when the interval had drawn a glance from his companion. “Guess I’m surprised she sent a gift at all. She gave her own son a stock certificate for his graduation from Annapolis. She was in Rome at the time.”

He caught Nelson startled look from the corner of his eye. “I only met Amanda last year at a Presidential reception.” He tapped off his cigarette before taking another puff; the smoke rose steadily, forming a little cloud before drifting slowly away. “I met Lee on his first sub duty; he was the new dive officer on the Nautilus-2 when I was in command.”

“Do they usually put admirals in charge of submarines?” Morton asked, wracking his brain for what little remained of his own three years at sea. He’d served on an aircraft carrier and not paid much attention to the ‘boats’ until Chip joined up.

But Harriman Nelson was shaking his head. “It was the Nautilus’ first voyage, and the Navy hadn’t assigned her a captain yet. While the Pentagon was deciding, I took the boat out for some sea trials. There was a…uh, skirmish, and Lee performed beyond the call.” The cigarette described a vague circle in the air. “I didn’t know Lee at Academy, of course. He and Chip were in different degree programs.”

A low chuckle welled up as Morton recalled his son’s excitement at being accepted into the Naval Engineering program at Annapolis. “Chip was the first engineer in the family. ‘Course Clare worried ‘bout him bein’ so near a nu-cle-ar reac-tor.” Why were his own words slurring? Couldn’t be all that alcohol. Must be the cold. Yeah. The cold. Satisfied, he leaned closer to finish, “In case he wants kids later, an’ all.”

Smoke spurted from Nelson’s mouth at that, though he had—in Charlie’s opinion, anyway—the good grace to not laugh aloud. “Mr. Morton’s progeny should be safe,” he returned solemnly if with a suspicious sparkle in those very blue eyes.

Silence reigned for several minutes while both men contemplated the icy lake below. At least, Nelson seemed to be contemplating the lake; Charlie’s mind insisted on returning to his son’s future progeny. A shiver worked its way up Charlie Morton’s spine, both hands and feet were now numb. Yet, he was reluctant to leave, turning instead until he could face the shorter man. He still felt a bit of awe when talking to the two-time Nobel Prize winning scientist and one of only eight four-star admirals in the country. Nelson had featured prominently in newspaper and magazine articles and television programs for at least two decades, all of which the ex-Navy seaman had devoured eagerly, and even more so since his son had joined the Nelson Institute of Marine Research. Wealthy, brilliant, and powerful, a man like Harriman Nelson was one of the last people in the world Charlie would have imagined himself having a tête-à-tête with in a ski resort in Nevada.

Aware of the scrutiny if not the sentiment, Nelson cleared his throat. “Lake Tahoe is 1,625 feet deep,” he murmured, startling Charlie out of his own reverie. “I wonder how much of the life at the bottom has been documented.”

“When you’re bored with the ocean, you should come find out what’s down there,” Morton teased.

“I’d never become bored with the ocean,” the other man retorted with real enthusiasm. “It’s still unexplored frontier, and as a scientist, I want to see it all.”

“I think I’d want to see it in warmer climate,” Charle complained, shivering again; he could no longer feel his feet. “G’night, Harry.”

Nelson waved a vague acknowledgement, arms crossed on the railing, quicksilver mind obviously far, far away. Probably at the bottom of Lake Tahoe, Morton thought, slipping between the still-open doors. He slid them shut, cutting off the cold air that followed him inside, and gave the room a quick scan. In the corner opposite, a fire blazed merrily in the grate, angled to throw heat on each of the several couches and settees scattered around the room. From two of the doors off to the side, loud snores could be heard; from a third, the low hiss of a television set; the fourth, on another level, was too far away to care about.

Not gonna get any rest in the bedrooms, he decided, settling onto a lounger nearest the fire. May as well bunk out here. He toed off his boots and tossed his coat haphazardly to the floor; it was warm, almost hot, this close to the flames, and he felt a comfortable lassitude stealing over his senses. It had been a long day of travel, skiing, shows, gambling… Oh, yeah. And drinking. He let out a contented sigh as he swung his tired feet up onto the lounger. Frank was right—Lee does know how to throw a bachelor party. Speaking of….

He became aware of a low murmur from the direction of the leather sectional situated in the exact center of the room. Lying full along its length, Charlie’s eldest—a good-looking young man with a high forehead under platinum hair and close-set eyes the color of arctic ice—stretched his denim-covered legs out straight and wiggled sock-covered feet. He looks like me. Both Clare’s and my coloring, of course, but my build, my nose… He rubbed his own long appendage—it still tingled from the cold. ‘Chip’ off the old block. He laughed silently at the joke that was as old as his firstborn.

Memories rushed back then of his only son as the impish child he’d been, so clever and mischievous as to make his father wonder if his future lay as a professional prankster. But no, Charles “Chip” Morton had pursued his own dream, graduating near the top of his class from the Naval Academy and landing the best job he could have ever imagined: Executive Officer on the Seaview. And he’s getting married in two days, Charlie Morton added to himself, pride adding its own glow. My son is getting married. Maybe I’ll even be a grandfather…well, a grandfather again, in a year or two! Progeny. Yeah.

Chip balanced a glass on his well-muscled chest and tipped his head to the left; Charlie’s attention shifted as well to another young man, so natural at Chip’s side as to engender the impression that he’d always been there for all that Charlie knew it to not be true. Similarly dressed in jeans and heavy sweater, Navy Commander Lee Breton Crane sat cross-legged on the floor. About Chip’s age, there was no prankster about this one—Lee was slender and intense, with sculptured cheekbones and thick black curls now tousled from an afternoon on the ski slopes. Like two sides of the same coin, Charlie Morton thought, shaking his head. My son and the brother he asked me for when he was six. It only took you another 12 years to get him, Chip.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then cracked them again so that he could see the two young men through his lashes. Calling on father’s perogative, he unabashedly listened in….

“…the rest of the crew in jumpsuits. He’s eliminating the navy bells completely.”

“About time.” Chip Morton jiggled his half-full glass of Jack Daniels while staring blankly at the unembellished ceiling. “Never did like half the crew in bells; jobs overlap too much.” He scratched his jaw, on which was sprouting a surprisingly heavy growth of whisker for so fair a man. “I’ve been pushing for two years to leave the bells to the dock crew; half of them are active Navy anyway. Seaview’s crew should all be in poopy suits.”

Still showing only a trace of beard on his own smooth cheeks, Lee blinked and tilted his head, regarding his friend with an amused glint in amber colored eyes. “I think I’m banning that term from the boat,” he returned, fine lips nevertheless turning upwared at the corners.”It’s ‘jumpsuit’ from now on, Mr. Morton.”

The other, crossed his long legs at the ankle while effecting a half-hearted salute with the glass. “You the cap’n. No more poopy suits.”

Figures, Charlie thought wryly. Leave those two alone for more than five minutes and they’re talking about that sub. Nice sub…big difference from when I was on that carrier; we used ta talk ‘bout girls…. His mind drifted a bit, borne on a wave of alcohol, old times, and comrades passing in a rush. He came to himself again though did not move beyond a single little start as his head dropped to the side. Where? Oh. Tahoe. Chip and Lee…. Wonder what they’re talking about now?

“…retrofit Seaview with that new hydrophone module. Should increase our determination capability by at least 10%.”

At least, that was how Charlie Morton interpreted his son’s statement…eventually. In reality, Chip’s voice was growing thick and filled with many starts and stops as he sorted his words. Obviously, Crane was having the same problem understanding; he regarded his friend with a faint line between dark brows. “If…uh, you said what I think you did,” he managed after a moment—his soft baritone was even more slurred than Chip’s, “leave…leave instructions for…the… the dock crew for next week.”

Chip shook his head. “Uhn-uh. Want to oversee this myself. The software is a bit diff— uh, diffi—uh, tricky to install.”

“We have a wholllle…” He waved both hands wide, nearly hitting Chip in his long nose. “…I.T. depar’ment at the Institute and…” He broke off and next raised his left hand, light glinting from an onyx ring as he counted. “…two…three…five computer techs aboard.”

Once more the blonde head shook though this time Chip looked like he wished he hadn’t. He swallowed heavily, took a deep breath and even larger sip from his glass before going on stubbornly, “Nah. Wanna do it myself.” When his voice, a more powerful baritone than Crane’s, got that petulant tone there was no disuading him without a direct order. Charlie opened both eyes and watched interestedly. He’d never seen Lee Crane i Chip a direct order. During their occasional visits to the Morton clan, it was usually Lee who uncomplainingly fell in with whatever plans the family might have, though should Lee make his wishes known about anything, Chip generally moved heaven and earth to make it happen. Charlie assumed it was usually that way on the sub, as well—one strategy, one tactical.

Their dynamic was endlessly fascinating to Charlie Morton. He listened closely but was to be disappointed when, instead of issuing an order, Crane merely rubbed his left shoulder. “Have it your own way, Mis’r Mor’on,” he said. He offered a sheepish grin and corrected himself, “I mean, Mis-ter Mor-ton.”

Unnoticing of the slip, the blonde simply rearranged himself on the sofa, his left elbow just grazing Crane’s left shoulder. “I’ll show you how to do the install when I get back from Hawaii next …um, Monday next.”

Crane shook his dark head, making his riot of curls bounce. “No can do, Mis’ser Morton.” He didn’t correct himself this time. “You have a psych evaluation schedl’d…” Still massaging his shoulder, he stared at the expensive gold wrist watch on his wrist. “…Tuesday. You have ta do that ‘fore you get access to the program…ming.”

That earned a cross-eyed scowl. “Psych eval? Blast. Is it six months already?”

“Yeah. Mine’s next week.” An impish light rose in those amber colored eyes. “Y’should have no problem. I fig’ger you’ll be in good mental…” He tapped his own temple. “…condition after your honeymoon.”

Chip leaned to his left until is face was only inches from Crane’s. He effected a leer and Snydley Whiplash like wiggle of the eyebrows; “Y’got that right, m’boy. I’m in a great ‘mental’ condition jus’ thinking ‘bout it.” Crane burst into laughter; Morton winked at him then swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat up. “Patti showed me a picture of her wedding dress. She thinks she’s still too heavy to wear it.”

“But patti isn’t heavy,” the darker man protested, twisting his upper torso with a wince. “She’s…what did you call her? ‘Pleasingly plump’?”

“Zoftig.” He received an inquiring glance and grinned. “That means really curvy.” He described a double parabola in the air. A small coffee table had been pushed to the side; it held an overflowing ashtray, four glasses, bottle, and pack of cigarettes. Chip deposited his own empty glass, retrieved the pack and shook one out. “Eat this, don’t eat that. Calories and fat content.” He struck a match and puffed his cigarette to life. “She’s driving me crazy with this new diet.”

"Did she lose weight?

He blew a smoke ring, looking pleased as it rose slowly in the still air. “Not a pound, but I think she looks great anyway. S’all right. I’ll get her back after Hawaii when I give up the smokes.”

Lee slumped a bit, leaning his head back against the cushion then tilting his chin up so that he could regard his sitting friend blearily. “You’re a lucky man. Patti’s terrific.”

That earned a lopsided grin. “Yeah. I sure am.” He stretched and jabbed at his back. “Haven’t skiied so much in years. Gonna be stiff myself tomorrow.” He glanced down to where Crane was still rubbing his shoulder. “Bet you’re achey, too. That bullet really did some damage. How’s your belly? Two bullets in one year can’t a happy skiier make.”

Automatically, Crane’s fingers dropped to his right side just above his belt. With what looked to be deliberte effort, he clasped his hands and shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve had worse.”

That snapped a drifting Charlie wide awake. He opened his eyes, staring hard at the young, dark haired man who was still protesting. Two bullets? Lee’s been shot twice this year and no one mentioned it to me or Clare? He felt the blood rush to his face, lips thinning to a hard line. He was just home with us on Thanksgiving. He must have still been healing, and he didn’t say a word? Neither did Chip, he added with some disappointment. I’ll bet Harry knew, though. Harry prob’ly knows where he got the rest of those scars I’ve seen on him, too.

Oblivious to Charlie’s dark thoughts, Chip Morton slid off  the sofa, landing on the floor with a little ‘thump. He tamped out his cigarette and retrieved the bottle from the table. “No good objecting. You need a little more painkiller.”

 With some difficulty he poured two generous helpings. Lee watched with bleary awe, then shook his head when Chip proffered the second glass. “I think I’ve had enough. I’m feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges. ‘sides, I got’a fly tomor’ night.”

Charlie chuckled at the ‘a bit fuzzy’ understatement. Boy never could drink, he thought with the unjustifiable pride of one rather soused himself. Even Clare can outdrink him an’ Chip always could.

For his part, the younger Morton ignored the protest and shoved the glass into his hand. “Sippin’ whiskey, boy,” he returned, adopting an atrociously fake southern accent. “Good fer what ails ya.” When Crane only stared at the glass, he added without the accent, “You forget, buddy, it’s my party and I decide when you’re drunk enough.” He nudged Lee’s arm, scowled until the other man took a halfhearted sip, then replaced the bottle with a drunk’s careful exactitude. “Just one more. A toast.” He lifted his glass. “To’a bes’ durn bachelor party any guy ev’r had.”

Crane took a deep breath, braced himself, then drained his whiskey with a loud gulp. He flopped back against the sofa cushion, the empty glass rolling across the gray carpet. “Gla’…glad you… liked it,” he managed, shutting his eyes.

One blonde brow rose even as Chip stretched his legs out straight. “Like it?” he echoed incredulously. “C’mon, Lee, dis…uh, this’s too much.” He waved his free hand. “Tahoe, skiing, dinner shows…”. He blew out his cheeks in a long whistle. “This must’a set yuh back a month’s paycheck.”

“This?” Gold flashed briefly through long lashes. “Cashed one’a mother’s stock certificates. Wasn’ ev’n from father’s company.” He paused and forced open his eyes, catching and holding Chip’s earnestly. “An’ it’s not too much. Not for you.”

Chip Morton’s usually stern features softened with a radiant warmth that would have astonished Seaview’s crew had they been there to see and which caused even his own father to stare.  “Wha’ever you say, Lee, this’s the bes’ thing anyone’s ev’r done fer me.”

“No, it isn’t,” the other returned immediately. “Is jus’ the best I could do for you.“

From where he sat Charlie could see his son’s eyes mist over even as his own were. Chip slipped an arm around Lee’s shoulders and pulled him close. “thanks, brother.” Lee returned the hug then pulled away, both men looking embarrassed but happy. “By the way,” the blonde went on, after reinforcing himself with another sip, “I ‘spect you ta visit more. An’ stop canceling our golf dates. Yer startin’ ta give me a complex.” He made a great show out of sniffing his underarms, earning another grin.

Lee, now listing heavily to starboard, again closed his eyes. “Not gonna intrude on’a man an’ his new wife.”

“When you gonna git it through that curly head’a yours…” He tugged on one dark lock; rather than resisting, Lee simply spilled over against his shoulder. “…that we like having you over. Patti’d never resen’…er, mind my own broth’r. That’s why I love her.”

Charlie saw a blush staining Lee’s pale cheeks though he did not open his eyes; Charlie doubted he could anymore.  Even Chip was wilting visibly though he continued describing his honeymoon plans. Charlie was pretty sure from the steady rise and fall of Lee’s chest that he was now talking to himself.

Like two little boys, Charlie noted with a paternal rush. My little boys still, blood or not. And I’ll be there with Nelson when it’s Lee’s turn ta get married. He was just drifting off himself when a new thought instruded. Hmmmm. I wonder what kind of bachelor party Chip will throw for Lee?

 Finish