A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Butter Me Up Please

Carrying a bowl of popcorn, Harry headed into the living room, where they'd been watching a videotaped movie. They'd spent the morning and afternoon talking about everything except the one thing Harry was desperately interested in: his plans to find out who murdered his wife and clear himself. The first time Harry brought the subject up, he repeated what he'd said yesterday about not wanting to spoil their present with worries about the future. When Harry explained he wanted to help Zayn however he could, he'd teased Harry about being a frustrated Nancy Drew. Rather than ruining their day by pressing the issue, Harry had let the subject drop for the time being and agreed with his suggestion that they watch one of the movies in the large cabinet of videotapes. Zayn had insisted Harry pick the movie out, and Harry had his first moment of unease when he realized there were several of Zayn's movies on the cabinet shelves. Unable to bear the thought of watching him making love to some woman in one of those steamy love scenes for which he was justifiably famous, Harry had chosen a movie he was almost certain Zayn would like and which he hadn't seen.

Zayn seemed perfectly satisfied with his choice before the movie began, but as Harry discovered moments afterward, the seemingly simple pastime of movie watching was something quite different to Zayn Malik, former actor-director. To his complete discomfiture, Zayn seemed to regard a movie as some sort of art form to be minutely scrutinized, analyzed, dissected, and evaluated. In fact, he'd been so critical of it, that Harry had finally invented the excuse of making popcorn just to escape his derogatory comments.

Harry glanced at the television set's giant-sized screen as he placed the popcorn bowl on the table and heaved a silent sigh of relief that the climactic ending was nearly over. Zayn evidently didn't think it was very climactic because he looked up at Harry in the middle of it and said with a grin, "I love popcorn. Did you put salt on it?"

"Yep," Harry said.

"Butter, too, I hope?"

One look at his boyish grin and Harry forgot how exasperated he'd been with him a moment before. "It's swimming in it," he joked. "I'll be right back with turkish towels and something to drink."

Chuckling at his quip, Zayn watched him going toward the kitchen, admiring the easy, natural grace of his walk and the subtle élan with which he wore clothes. At Zayn's insistence, he'd chosen another outfit from the closet that afternoon—a simple white silk shirt with wide, blousy sleeves and a pair of black wool crepe slacks with a pleated cummerbund waistband. When he'd first seen the clothes lying on the bed, he'd been rather disappointed that Harry hadn't chosen something more special for himself. When Zayn saw him in the outfit, however, with a narrow, hammered gold belt around his slender waist, a borrowed gold bracelet at his wrist, and the collar on his shirt turned up, Zayn instantly changed his mind. With his luxuriant mane of shiny hair tumbling in waves and curls about his shoulders, Harry dressed with a casual chic that suited him perfectly. Zayn was trying to decide what sort of evening dress would most compliment that artless sophistication of his when he realized that he'd never have an occasion to take Harry to the sort of social functions that required evening attires. His days of attending Hollywood premieres, charity balls, Broadway openings, and Academy Award dinners were long past, and he couldn't imagine how he'd forgotten that. He wasn't going to be able to take Harry to any of those affairs. He wasn't going to be able to take Harry anywhere, ever.

The realization was so amazingly depressing that he had to struggle not to let it spoil what had been another completely memorable day with Harry. With a supreme force of will, he made himself think only of the evening that stretched before him, and he smiled as Harry sat down beside him on the sofa. "Don't you want to pick out another movie?"

The last thing Harry felt like doing was enduring another critique of a movie he selected. Since he obviously wanted to watch another one, Harry was willing to be present, but not accountable. Giving him a look of exaggerated horror, he said, "Pleeeease don't make me do that. Ask me to iron your socks, ask me to starch your handkerchiefs, but do not ask me to choose another movie for you to watch."