Date: Mon, 7 Jan 2008 13:58:45 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: JAMIE WRESTON - 1

JAMIE WRESTON - 1

Copyright 2008 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Jamie Wreston" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  As
in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually.  Comments on the story are
appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to
the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 1

(Setting the Record Straight)

Not quite knowing how he felt, the well built thirty-two year old put down
the phone and stared off into space.  The sailboats out on the Bay...the
clouds scudding across a bright blue sky - a scene that usually delighted
him - didn't even register.  Attorneys...  It hadn't been good news.  His
elder brother, Paul, together with his wife and younger son, had died in an
terrible auto accident.  Rain-slicked roads...not his fault.  What did it
matter?  He was dead and there'd never be time to work through the bad
feelings that had existed long before Paul went off to college.  He had
only met his wife, Bernice, once - when their paths crossed accidently in a
Chicago hotel lobby.  He had never met their sons, James and Shawn.  In
fact, he wouldn't even have known they existed had it not been for a TIMES
photo and story on their dad who was evidently a prominent attorney out on
the Coast.  His fingers played with the space bar of his word processor.
It surely wasn't all his fault.  Several times he had invited Paul and his
family to come back East for a visit...Christmas...summer...even one
fall...but it never worked out.  Several years ago he had swallowed his
pride and fished for an invitation out there.  It was never extended.  In
the last few years his growing professional involvement had softened his
loneliness and his efforts ceased.  Now their contacts were restricted to
Christmas cards - if, that is, he sent one first.  And now he had just been
told that he was the closest living relative of a thirteen year old who was
alone out in Portland.  With a muttered curse, he reached for the phone and
dialed the airport.

Good thing that the airport jitneys had air-conditioning, for the trip to
the airport took forever and it was a blistering July day.  What do they
say on the Mid-Atlantic coast?  Oh, yeah, "Hazy, Hot, & Humid!"  Needless
to say, the hour and forty-five minutes that it took him to get through
security did not sweeten his mood!  At least, he was now on board the big
Boeing and he didn't have to stir until they reached San Francisco.  With
only one change, he would still be in Portland shortly after nine p.m.  He
almost wished he didn't have so many hours to think...  Somehow, he felt
that his life was unraveling.  It had taken so many years for him to get
his life on track, let alone become comfortable with his own company!  Ok,
so he wasn't teaching at Princeton, but he had been happy, and reasonably
productive, at his small college.  God, he'd loved history since he'd been
in highschool!  Nor had he married after a short stint in the Marines and
college, but he had watched several of his friends flounder and had come to
realize that there were worse things than loneliness...much worse.  He had
received an honorable discharge, for instance; not all of his friends had.
Ok, so he hadn't had much sex, but he had never had an STD, let alone AIDS
from which one buddy had died.  Until he had fallen into the rhythms of the
teaching life, he had been terribly lonely.  Even now, he admitted, there
were moments...  Still, he was respected in the little Bay community of
Anne's Harbor, there was no question about his being well regarded by
students and colleagues alike, and his record wasn't littered with divorces
- or kids left alone without a father.

How in hell were his obligations to a thirteen year old going to square
with the life he had built?  He didn't even know the kid - and he was the
son of one of the most opinionated bastards he had ever met!  (As soon as
the words ran through his mind, he felt guilty about the outburst.  He
thought he had grown beyond it.)  The fact remained that some years ago, a
little fourteen year old - in terrible pain - had reached out to his big
brother.  One night he had bravely climbed into his bed and, in tears,
confided that he was gay.  He knew that Paul would make everything turn out
alright.  In reality, his bro had kicked him out of bed, saying that he
didn't know anything about "fags" or their lives - and wanted to know even
less!  Paul had never said anything to the family or to friends, but a wall
had existed between them since that night.  Almost worse, anytime that he
tried to approach his brother he was met by a look of disgust that froze
his heart.  Deep down, he had always accepted the major share of the blame
for the way things had worked out.  And now he was hurrying to meet his
son...

Chris Johnson, a junior partner in his brother's firm, met him at the
attractive Portland International airport.  In less than an hour they were
downtown, and he was checked in at a comfortable hotel only a few doors
away from the attorneys' office building.  He would meet Ken Porter, the
senior partner - and James - the next morning.

"Matthew Wreston to meet Mr. Porter.  He's expecting me," Matt had
announced himself to the secretary shortly before ten o'clock.  "Of course,
Professor Wreston," the secretary acknowledged.  "Oh, here he comes," she
continued.  "Professor Wreston, good morning!" a distinguished looking man
in his late forties or early fifties greeted Matt cordially.  "Please join
me in my office."  As they sat down facing each other in two comfortable
chairs, the senior partner looked intently at his guest before saying
sadly, "Your brother was my friend.  He and his family did a great deal for
Portland.  I'm only sorry to meet you under these circumstances."  After
calling for coffee and settling on first names, Ken Porter turned directly
to business.  "I've asked James to join us after we have had a few minutes
to talk.  Naturally, he is in shock, but who wouldn't be in this situation?
You will appreciate that I did not want to make important decisions without
your concurrence.  I suppose I could beat around the bush, but that simply
isn't my way.  My question: If moneys were made available for his care,
would you be willing to assume responsibility for your nephew?"
Appreciating Porter's coming to the point directly - though emotionally it
had him gasping for breath - Matt paused for a moment before responding.
"It really isn't a matter of money, Ken.  Teachers rarely have a great deal
of money, but there is usually enough to handle what's necessary.  My
problem is that I have never met the young man.  Further, I am
somewhat...anxious about his feelings towards me inasmuch as his father and
I have had little contact for years."

"I appreciate YOUR directness, sir," Ken responded.  "When I examined your
brother and sister-in-law's wills, I was surprised to find that almost
everything had been left to charities.  Naturally," he hastened to add,
"more than adequate funds have been left to James in trust.  I could ask a
professional to discuss these feelings with him, and I shall, be that your
desire.  On the other hand, it might be best for you and he to explore them
personally.  Although I loathe the idea of turning him over to the
Department of Human Services, especially at such a difficult time, I don't
think he can long be left in limbo.  The responsibilities that have been
delegated to me are limited and short-term."

Matt quietly agreed that delaying his meeting with James was probably not
best for anyone.  Minutes later, his secretary escorted a fast-growing
young teen into Porter's office.  Matt immediately empathized with him.
Dressed in his school uniform of white shirt, tie, blazer, khakis, and
black shoes, Matt realized from the significant amount of wrist and socks
showing that this tragedy had caught him in the middle of a major growth
spurt.  He remembered how disorienting these periods had been at the onset
of his own adolescence.  For all of that, he was a handsome lad topped by a
carefully combed mop of red hair and a pair of blue eyes that sparkled in
the sunlight spilling in through the window.  "James, I'm your Uncle," Matt
said warmly, rising as the boy walked over to the extra chair that Ken
Porter had added to the grouping.  "Sir," the youngster acknowledged him
politely and sat down.  Treading water for a minute or two while the
secretary refilled coffee cups and brought in a glass of soda for James,
Ken Porter finally said kindly, "How's it going, James?"  "Pretty well,
sir," the redhead answered.  "It's kinda hard concentrating in school, but
I'm working on it."

Seemingly a little less than fully coordinated, the hand James was using to
hold the soda hit the arm of the chair and liquid and ice spilled out over
the designer rug.  His face burning with embarrassment, the lanky kid knelt
down right in the midst of the spill, trying to scoop the ice and some of
the liquid back into the glass.  "Here, son, let me help," Matt murmured
and squatted down beside him.  "No!" the youngster exclaimed emphatically
and pushed his hand away.  With that he rose, slammed his butt down into
the chair, and glared at Matt with barely concealed anger.  Catching
himself within seconds, he turned to Ken and said, almost mechanically,
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Porter.  Please forgive me for being so clumsy."  "Not
at all, James, not at all," Ken replied.  "It will clean up.  Now I have a
problem.  In a very few minutes I have a meeting that I cannot miss.  I
thought you gentlemen might like to go out to lunch - on me - and rejoin me
here when you have finished."  (Matt had the distinct impression that
Porter was bailing in the face of unpleasantness.)  His expression fighting
a major battle between the rules of courtesy and his own feelings, the
redheaded one paused and then abruptly replied, "Thanks, sir.  By the way,
I saw Mr. Johnson in the outer office as I came in.  He's been very kind to
me.  Is there any chance that he could join us for lunch?"  "Well, James, I
know that you and your Uncle haven't met.  Perhaps, it might be good for
the two of you to talk together for a little while.  If you don't feel like
going out to a restaurant, perhaps you might simply use the cafeteria down
on the ground floor.  Would that be satisfactory?"  His expression could
not completely conceal an internal struggle, but the youth finally choked
out, "Of course, sir.  Thank you."

Having gone though the cafeteria line and transferred a few sad looking
dishes onto their trays, Uncle and nephew sat down in an empty booth.  Matt
looked at the lad whose face had regained its look of polite neutrality and
said wryly, "Well, that didn't go so well, did it?"  "Sir?" the boy
responded.  With chilling prep-school courtesy, he added, "As Mr.  Porter
said, we don't know each other.  Perhaps, you would tell me a bit about
your life."  Refusing to hide behind the wall of a frigid correctness, Matt
simply murmured, "Not much to tell...  I was your dad's younger brother.
As soon as I got out of highschool, I joined the Marines."  Suddenly, he
stopped.  "Red," he muttered.  "I'm having real trouble with the name
'James'.  It's so formal.  Could I call you... 'Jim'?"  Seeing the glare
that flashed across the boy's face, he tried again.  "For a while, I was
stationed in London, guarding the American Embassy.  The neatest guy I met
over there was a big Scot.  Believe me, Jamie...that was his name...and I
downed more than a few pints when we were off duty!  He was the
greatest..."  Again, Matt paused.  At least the boy wasn't glaring.  "How
about my calling you 'Jamie'...after my best friend?"  "Whatever..." the
lad replied offhandedly, though there was considerably less frost in his
voice.  Grinning softly, Matt continued, "Well, Jamie, I left the Marines
as soon as I could.  Respected them all to hell, but it just wasn't the
life for me.  Back home, I went to college and earned a Masters degree in
history on top of my baccalaureate.  Got a job teaching at a small college
down on the Bay and I'm still there.  Truth is, I've loved every minute of
it... teaching, sailing, hiking, the time to read and write...and think,
working with some great kids, palling around with the biggest Great Dane
you've ever seen.  Not a bad life...not half bad."

"Hold, Sir," Jamie abruptly interrupted Matt's monologue.  With an attitude
that reflected a brutal mixture of disbelief, disgust, and sarcastic anger,
he asked, "The Marines?  Teaching?  I thought you were the family queer!"
Matt recoiled as if slapped.  The reply ground out between his teeth,
"That's a pretty nasty word, bud, coming from a kid who never returned one
word of thanks for cards and presents sent him over the years...or for many
invitations to the family to spend time with him back East...or whose
closest living relative just put his pal, Grunt, into a kennel and flew
almost 3000 miles out here to make sure you were ok."  Gasping, struggling
to regain his self-control as tears backed up behind his eye lids, Matt
completely lost it.  Angry, frustrated words poured out of his mouth.  "If
you're asking whether I'm gay, the answer is that I am.  I suspect,
however, that you're suggesting that I'm a lying predator - and I sure as
hell am not!  An honorable discharge from the Marines and a career in
teaching say I'm not!  More importantly, I say I'm not.  I took that kind
of crap from your father, James, but you have no right to expect me to take
it from you!"

Gulping, his eyes wide, the redhead lay his hand on top of his uncle's and
said, "Whoa, Uncle Matt.  Chill.  You gotta believe me when I tell you that
I never once got a card or a present from you - and neither did Shawny.  We
wondered about it sometimes...until one night I overheard my father yelling
at my mother.  Our vacation trip might take us close to you, but we would
NOT visit that queer - invitation or no invitation!  Really, Uncle
Matt...I'm not that kind of guy!"  The boy's eyes left no doubt as to his
truthfulness or his sincerity.

They sat quietly for several minutes.  Finally, Matt slid around the booth
until he was sitting next to the boy, put his hand on his shoulder, said,
"No, I guess you're not, Jaime.  And I'm not a loudmouthed crybaby who just
feels sorry for himself - even though I sure sounded like it a minute ago.
Can we start over?"  His voice unsteady...  even cracking slightly...the
young redhead leaned slightly into the man.  Wearily, he allowed his head
to rest on his chest as he whispered, "Yeah, Uncle Matt, I want that, too."

The rest of the process took something more than two weeks.  Ken Porter
orchestrated it with full concern for Jamie' rights and Matt's needs.  Man
and boy lived at the Wreston home in Portland during that period.  Matt got
quite a tour of the City of the Roses - including, most certainly, the zoo
that was one of Jamie's favorite spots.  They even got over to the Pacific
for a quick look at Oregon's famous coastline.  It was really only a matter
of time, for the facts were clear.  Matt was his closest living relative,
his record was clean, his resources were adequate, and he wanted full
responsibility for his nephew.  Jamie quickly realized that his uncle was a
much finer human being than the man who had been represented to him.
Furthermore, emotionally wrung out, the boy clung to him as if he were his
last hope in an sea of chaos.  When all that became clear to State
officials, the Courts, and the banks, the boy was placed in his uncle's
care.  A large trust administered by Porter's firm would support Jamie's
entrance into adulthood.  Matt was guaranteed an extremely generous
one-time payment and quarterly sums far more than sufficient to raise him.
Jamie would later learn that the quarterly checks were immediately
deposited into a bank account in his name.

(The Plan)

Well before the time arrived during the third week to return East, Matt had
fallen completely in love with the redheaded colt.  In fact, he couldn't
imagine his life anymore without the intelligent, funny, handsome young
teen.  Thanks to a suggestion made by Ken Porter - i.e., that he keep the
sparkling Mercedes-Benz CL500 2-door Coupe that Jamie's parents had
purchased earlier that summer - they decided to drive home rather than take
the plane.  Matt loved the coast to coast drive; Jamie had flown across
country several times, but had never driven it.  It would give them time to
continue the process of getting to know each other; it would give Matt a
chance to introduce Jamie to some of the fantastic sights that can't be
enjoyed at 500+ mph when tens of thousands of feet up in the sky - or, for
that matter, on the interstates (usually at only a slightly lesser speed!).


(To Be Continued)