Hatless and wearing a light raincoat, Terry was miserably cold before they had gone more than halfway. Pat tried to get a conversation going about France or Terry's life in New York, but his companion fell silent as his loafers filled up with snow and his teeth began to chatter. His feet were blocks of ice by the time Pat opened his front door on a leaping, barking, joyous Irish setter. "Down, McGonigle, sit, dammit," Pat roared at his jubilant pet. "Sorry, Terry, he's more greeter than watchdog. Come on in. Get warm." Turning on the hall light, he suddenly saw the younger man's trembling blue lips and the desperate way he was hugging himself to control his shaking.

"Jesus," Pat said. "I didn't realize…" He rushed Terry into the kitchen. "Get your shoes and socks off," he ordered as he filled a roasting pan with warm water and plunked his shivering guest into a chair and his feet into the improvised bath. Pat disappeared but returned almost immediately with a heavy wool cape. "This was Spence's. His one bit of flamboyance," he explained, removing Terry's raincoat and wrapping the cloak around him like a blanket. "I'm going to get you some brandy, too. We're out of rum."

"B-br-brandy's f-f-fine," Terry stuttered. "I'm s-s-sorry to be a n-n-nuisance."

Pat didn't answer, but as soon as he came back to the kitchen and succeeded in pouring most of a tumbler of Courvoisier down Terry's throat, he took the young man's hands one by one and began to chafe the numbness out of them. "You're not a nuisance," he said. "I was thoughtless not to realize that you weren't dressed for Napoleon's retreat from Moscow."

"Oh, it wasn't that cold. Or that far. It just seemed that way." Terry smiled.

Still holding one hand, Pat knelt. "How are your feet?"

"Tingling. I think I'll be able to walk again, but my dancing career may be over." He was no longer just smiling. He was grinning. "Pat, I'll be fine. Thank you. But I have a question. I don't know Cincinnati, but it seems to me that downtown, where I'm staying, is on the opposite side of Eli's from your place. But you said my hotel was on your way home."

"You've got a pretty good sense of direction," Pat conceded, lifting one of Terry's feet out of the pan and rubbing it vigorously.

"Then…?"

"Why did I offer you a ride? Because no cab would have ever come to get you, and Eli's not set up for guests." He lifted the other foot clear of the water and began to massage it. Then he looked up. "And, Terry, to tell you the whole truth, because you remind me of me when I was first given the full Eli treatment. He didn't approve. He thought Spence had flipped and that sooner or later I'd run out on him and take the heirloom silver with me. He called me 'the BYT' even to my face."

Terry looked puzzled.

"'BYT,'" Pat explained, "Beautiful Young Thing. It really hurt not to be taken seriously, and I was - am - shy anyway. Like you. Maybe that's why we go for photography. Maybe Eli's right and we do hide behind our cameras." He put Terry's foot down and slid the pan of water away. "Stay put for another minute or two." Pat stood up. "I'll go get some dry socks and shoes that may fit you, and then, if the other car starts, I'll run you downtown."

"No, please." Terry shucked off the cape and stood up. "Pat, I don't want you to drive all that way on roads as slick as the ones we just saw. You're right about me. I am shy, but could I… I mean … are you set up for guests … and could I spend the night and could I please," the words came in a rush, "haveanothercigarette?" His lips were no longer blue. His cheeks, instead, were almost crimson from blushing.

"Yes, yes and sure." Pat took the pack from his pocket and shook a cigarette free. "There's a guest room upstairs. With its own bath. You probably ought to take a shower, warm and then hot, just to finish the frostbite treatment. Would you like some more brandy? Or maybe tea?"

"Will you have some?"

"Tea? Yeah, not a bad idea. And a cigarette of my own. You put the water on, and I'll go get something for your feet."

With McGonigle at his heels, Pat went up to his bedroom, found a pair of heavy wool hiking socks, decided that slippers wouldn't fit over them and hurried back to the kitchen. The kettle was on, and Terry was at the sink scrubbing out the roasting pan.

"You don't have to do that," Pat protested. "At any rate, stop it and put these socks on." Terry complied. Pat lit a cigarette, and the kettle soon began to steam. He made two mugs of herbal tea and put a bag of cookies on the kitchen table. "You should probably eat something," he told Terry. "I've got some rat cheese if you'd like that."

"No, these are fine. Milanos are my favorite. I am a little woozy, but I think it's your brandy. It's a great cure for bashfulness. I've never invited myself to stay the night anywhere before."

"I'm glad you did. I was kind of dreading the drive. And this way, you can help me retrieve Kati tomorrow."

"Katie?"

"My wreck. For Katishaw, the character in the 'Mikado.' She's 'a ruin that's romantic.'" He saw Terry's look of incomprehension. "Gilbert and Sullivan." A shrug of ignorance. "Oh, God, the youth of today." Pat pretended to be appalled. "It's all right. I'll play you the operetta sometime or, better, take you to see it. Right now, though, if you're ready, I think it's bed time."

They rinsed out the mugs, turned out the lights and climbed the stairs. In the upper hallway, Pat led the way. "This is it," he announced, pushing open a door and snapping a light switch on the wall inside, "our presidential sui… oh, Christ, oh, Christ!" He seemed to crumple in the doorway, tottering back against Terry who could see that the room was filled with cardboard boxes and that the bed was covered by piles of clothes.

Pat straightened up and turned to his guest. His face was ashen, and he looked as though he were about to cry. "I forgot," he whispered. "How could I forget? That's where I put all of Spence's stuff. From his office. From his closets. There are even boxes of papers in the tub. I couldn't go through them. I couldn't face it." He slumped against the wall and brought his hands up to his face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He wiped some moisture from his eyes. "I'm so ashamed."

Terry stood in the hallway, almost paralyzed by Pat's display of grief until, timidly, he touched the other man's raised forearm. "It's all right, Pat. It doesn't matter. Isn't there a couch downstairs I could use? Or the floor. I've slept on floors before."

"You'd have to fight McGonigle for the sofa." Pat tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. For a prolonged moment, he seemed completely at a loss, but then he squared his shoulders and looked at Terry. "We," he started, paused, composed himself again, "I mean I… I have a big bed, king-size. I do snore. I'm sorry, but shaking me by the shoulder will make me stop. There's plenty of room, and I won't make any improper advances." He managed a weak smile.

"Oh, I couldn't do that. That's too much of an imposition on you. Why don't I just call a cab and wait downstairs however long it takes? Then you can get some sleep."

"I couldn't sleep with you on my conscience. Terry, please, it's late. This is the only solution that makes sense. And I'd really like your help with the car tomorrow morning. So, as a favor to me…" He gestured toward an open door farther down the hallway on the other side and, taking Terry by the elbow, led him into the spacious master bedroom.

"Wow!" Terry took in the elegance of the furniture, the enormous television screen, the fireplace and the wood stacked by it as proof that it was functional, the display of Pat's photographs of wheelchair athletes from his "Challenge" portfolio and the imposing bed on its slightly raised platform. "Pat, this is an incredible room. It's so beautiful I don't see why you'd ever want to go anywhere else. Are you sure you want me…?"

"I'm sure. End of discussion. The bathroom is through that door," he pointed. "I'll get some towels." Pat was being curt, almost brusque, for two reasons. He was still shaken by his purposeful amnesia, stashing Spence and their past away in the guestroom, out of sight, out of mind. But he was also suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of sharing his bed with Terry. He was attracted to the kid. When he had crouched to rub his chilled feet in the kitchen, he had found himself eyeing Terry's crotch, wondering. But to bring a stranger into the bed he'd shared with Spence and only with Spence -- what kind of loyalty would that show?

The bathroom door was closed when he came back with the towels, but Terry opened it to his knock. "Sorry," the young man said, "I had to take a leak. Pat, this bathroom is fabulous. Two sinks, and that shower is huge. Vachement cool, like your French friend said."

"Well, I'll just brush my teeth and the joint's all yours. So are these." He put the towels on a chrome rack and opened a medicine chest over one of the sinks. "Aha. I knew there was a toothbrush somewhere. Compliments of Finnair. The one time I got to fly Business Class. An Aalto catalogue."

"Thanks. I won't say I'm sorry anymore about inviting myself, because I'm not, not now. If I hadn't, I never would have seen this great place. But, Pat, I am grateful. You're really nice to take in a stranger this way."

"Not a stranger. Eli says you're family. I only hope you still feel grateful when my snoring wakes you. I won't be long."

Terry left the bathroom, and when Pat returned to the bedroom, his bladder empty and gums tingling, the young man had hung his jacket, jeans, shirt and tie over a chair back and was standing rapt, in baggy briefs and Pat's wool socks, in front of one of the photographs. It showed a legless, sweat-drenched man, arms raised in triumph off the wheels of his lightweight chair, crossing a finish line. Behind him an empty roadway stretched to the picture's vanishing point.

"It's fabulous, Pat," Terry, hugging his arms across his bare chest, turned back into the room. Pat struggled and just managed to keep his eyes above his guest's trim waist. "But there's something about it, something I should remember and don't."

"Look again."

Terry swiveled. "Of course. Now, I see it," he exclaimed. "He's not the winner. He finished last. And still he's delirious."

"The point is that he finished. I love that shot. It sneaks up on you. I hung it and the others in here when Spence… when he got sick. To encourage him. I should probably take them down."

"Oh, no. Don't. I mean, it's none of my business, but they're magnificent. And you don't have to be sick to need encouragement, do you?"

"No." Pat was surprised. Hinting at some unhappy memory, Terry's remark revealed an unexpected thoughtfulness. "I'll think about it. Right now, I'd encourage you to use the bathroom and come to bed. If you shower, use the handles on the left. The other head is sort of shot."

Terry nodded and disappeared. Pat hung up his jacket and slacks, tossed his shirt, boxers and socks on a chair and headed for the bed. Halfway there, he stopped, irresolute. "Maybe I should wear something to bed. Don't want to shock the kid." He retrieved the shorts and started to put them on. Then he dropped them to the floor. "I sleep in the raw," he said to himself. "Always have. I'm too old to start pretending."