Basque Trilogy: Book One
When bestselling novelist Mick Henley contacts his editor and former lover, Paul Alcott, after a seven-year absence, hearing Mick’s voice reinforces what Paul has known all along―he still loves Mick. The possible reunion entices Paul into considering a dinner invitation, but his hopes are dashed when he learns Mick is in a loving relationship with Spanish Jai alai player Tono Garat.
Paul still accepts the invitation, and Mick asks Paul to help Tono through the final revision of a love story he’s written, inspired by his affair with Mick. When Paul refuses, Mick reveals he’s been diagnosed with a fatal disease, and the novel is Tono’s only means of coping with the eventual outcome.
Paul and Tono resent each other, but they can’t deny the strong sexual attraction between them. Can the past blend with the present to ease the way for Mick’s inevitable future? Will they overcome their differences to provide the loving support necessary to sustain the man they love or will their collision destroy Mick’s final days?
Cover Artist: DWS Photography
Most people disliked Sunday for the simple reason that Monday loomed ahead. For Paul, the seventh day of the week ranked high on his list of guilty pleasures. It was the one day he allowed himself to indulge his passion for reading, forgoing any sort of schedule.
A warm breeze blew in through the open French doors of his bedroom, rifling the pages of the New York Times that were laid out on his bed in neat piles. His weekly ritual consisted of a slow appraisal of each section of the paper as he got caught up on world news and local events. The editor in him couldn’t help zeroing in on typos, overused words, or poorly chosen phrases. It was just a part of his personality and something he couldn’t put on hold, regardless of which day of the week it was. It was distracting at times but ingrained in him and as natural as breathing. Paul took a lot of pride in his work and was always surprised whenever he found errors in other publications that were easily avoidable.
Another unexpected gust turned the neat stacks into an unorganized mess, spurring him to get up and close the doors to prevent any more disruptions. When he glanced out the panes of glass, he was struck by the beauty of the colorful display of annuals overflowing the varied pots strategically placed around his brick-covered rooftop garden. He knew the temperatures would spike toward noon, but for now, the warmth felt good against his bare chest, and so he ventured outside. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was in an exclusive resort instead of his twenty-room apartment overlooking Central Park. The soothing sound of the recycling waterfall in his pool added to the illusion.
Paul sat in one of the comfortable lounging chairs and let the early morning sun beat down on him. He must have dozed for a second because the next thing he was aware of was Baxter shaking him gently.
“Good morning.” Paul smiled at his assistant, who stood over him with a breakfast tray. He wrapped his long fingers around the handle of the steaming mug of French roast Baxter had prepared and took tentative sips, loving the taste of the strong brew that was always made to perfection.
“Good morning, Mr. Alcott. I’m surprised to find you out here.”
“I thought it might be nice to stop and smell the roses. Literally.” Paul grinned.
“It’s a beautiful day, sir. You should sit out here and relax for a change. Shall I go and get your paper?”
“Yes, please.”