"Sam? Please..." Harry's voice was weak but still strong in tone. Sam, sitting across the room reading a book, looked up.

"Yes, Harry, I'm here." He marked his place in the book, set it on the lamp table and got up. "Can I get you something? Water? Tea?"

Harry, ninety-two-years old and dying of cancer, could still smile. "If it's after five o'clock, I'll have a martini. Otherwise, no. Just you."

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and took Harry's hand in his. It was dry, the skin papery, hiding the cancer that was eating Harry alive. "I'm here," Sam said, his voice thick with emotion.

"You know I love you, don't you, Sam?" He tried to squeeze Sam's hand but hadn't the strength. "More than any son, more than any lover." He let out a sigh, weak from the exertion.

"I know, Harry. I know. I love you, too. I've loved you all this time, ever since I got over being scared of you."

Harry smiled. "Did I really scare you, Sam? Really?"

"You did. Probably for most of the first year I was here." He leaned down and kissed Harry on the forehead. "Then I figured out that you were just an old fraud."

Harry's breathing became labored. "It's time, Sam. I just couldn't go without telling you I love you." He went suddenly rigid and then relaxed, his last breath taken. He closed his eyes and died.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed for a while, petting the limp hand he held. Then he got up, crossed the room and telephoned Harry's doctor. "It's over," he said when the doctor answered.

"I'll be right there."

A few hours later it was done. Harry was gone, his rented bed freshly stripped and all the trappings of grave illness packed up in their boxes, ready for the rental agency to pick up. Sam sent the staff home and then found himself at loose ends, wandering through the house, looking for... what? He didn't know.

He finally came to rest in the library, perhaps his favorite room in the house. He lit the fire, put some ice in one of the Waterford glasses, poured himself a drink and settled into his favorite chair, a large wingback, covered in a cobalt-blue fabric which Harry had hated when Sam first brought it home. It had grown on Harry, though, and now there were two identical chairs, side by side, facing the fireplace, with a small table between them.

Sam drank some of the cold, dark whiskey and settled back, letting his mind wander.

It was Los Angeles, late spring, 1979. Sam, then 22, had been fired from yet another job, this one as a busboy at a Denny's. Having nothing else to do, Sam went down to the unemployment office and stood in line. When he got up to the window, he noted that the plastic name plate in the brass holder said "Mr. Willow." He'd had dealings with Mr. Willow before. The man looked up and smiled at him.

"Wait, wait. Don't tell me. It's... It's... Sam, right? Sam Davis?"

Sam ducked his head in what he thought was a proper show of deference. Mr. Willow simply thought it was cute. "Yes, sir. Sam Davis."

"Well, nice to see you again. So soon." He emphasized the So soon. Turning to the counter behind him, he rummaged around in a file box, extracted a card and stamped it with a rubber stamp. "Don't even have to fill out a new card," he said, handing the card to Sam."Just sign here, by the new date stamp."

Sam took the pen. "That's all? Just sign and the checks start?"

"Not quite," Mr. Willow said. "We have a new regulation which requires that you go out on at least one job interview before you're eligible for cash assistance." He rooted around in another file box. "And I have just the one for you. You won't get it, of course, and if by some miracle you do get it, you won't last long, so I'll be seeing your pretty face in here again soon."

He made a quick phone call, filled out a form, stamped it in a couple of places and handed it to Sam. "Get this signed, bring it back and you're all set." His voice lowered, "And if you need a meal or something I'm probably the dumb ass who'll buy it for you." Louder, he said, "Now git. Others are waiting."

The address was deep in Beverly Hills. Sam could have taken the bus, but he hitchhiked instead, both to save money and to see what adventure might come his way. He'd become adept at deflecting the occasional advances he encountered, from both women and men. He had one simple rule for hitchhiking: "I can always say no." And if his ride didn't understand no, then he got out. It wasn't that he objected to an occasional approach; it was that he didn't want someone driving a car to be distracted by lust and lose track of the fact that he was driving in Los Angeles traffic. His rule had served him well.

There was no problem this time, except that he had to walk the last five blocks. When he got to the address on the form, he was a little intimidated by the size of the house. He was even more intimidated when he rang the bell and the door was opened by a rather haughty man in a tuxedo who looked him up and down with distaste.

"Your business?"

Sam held out the form. "I'm to see a Mr. McKibben."

The tuxedo-dressed man looked him up and down again and sneered. "I doubt Mr. McKibben will find you suitable, but he has instructed me to show you to the garden." He turned abruptly on his heel. It took a moment before Sam realized he was supposed to follow.

The house seemed monstrous to Sam with it's huge rooms and high ceilings. All the rooms they passed through had big vases of fresh flowers placed on tables or sideboards, and all the rooms were bright and airy. Sam sighed and wondered who could possibly live in such splendor.

"This way, this way," the man in the tuxedo said in an exasperated tone of voice. "Don't dawdle, and don't gawk at the furniture!"

They stepped through French doors to the outside and down some steps. The man in the tuxedo turned right and stopped. "Excuse me, sir. This is the boy the agency has sent. Shall I wait to show him out?" He stepped aside, and Sam laid eyes for the very first time on Harry McKibben. All of Harry McKibben.

Harry rose from his lounge and extended his hand. "Harry McKibben," he said. "And you are..."

It was almost too much for Sam to take in all at once. Harry was an older man, probably in his sixty's, over six feet tall, with white hair, a closely cropped white beard and a bright smile. He was also naked as the day he'd been slapped on the butt by the doctor.

Sam gulped and somehow rose to the occasion. "Good to meet you, sir." He shook the man's hand, smiled and looked him directly in the eye. "My name is Samuel Davis but everyone calls me Sam. I've come to see about the job opening you have."

"Have you now?" Harry looked past Sam, to the man in the tuxedo. "You may go, Walker. I'll ring if we need you. Oh, and young Sam here might like something to drink." He looked back at Sam.

"Oh, no, sir, I'm fine just as I am. Thank you."

Walker turned and left, obviously annoyed.

Sam got the job after a long conversation with Harry followed by the formalities of filling out a lot of papers for Harry's lawyer. In just under a week's time Sam was settled into a room that was bigger than his whole apartment had been and had become the official companion to Harry McKibben.

His first official action as Harry's companion was to fire Walker. Over the next twenty-four years Sam hired most of the people who made life comfortable for Harry and fired those that didn't. He served as Harry's companion, majordomo, attendant and, finally, his caretaker-everything in fact but his physical lover.

They got on well together, and after a year or so, most of Harry's friends saw them as a couple; one was never invited to an event without the other. They never discussed money beyond Sam's salary, which in later years was quite substantial. On his birthday, Christmas, and, oddly, on Harry's birthday, Sam always received some shares of stock in one company or another, to be put away in an account at Harry's bank.

It should be noted that money was never high on Sam's list of priorities. His beginning salary was several times what he had commanded as a busboy at Denny's, and his food, clothes, and shelter were all supplied by Harry. Sam never had to ask for anything; it was as though Harry was tuned to him and always anticipated his needs and wants. Very quickly it began to work the other way as well.

For his part, Sam ran the household and went everywhere with Harry, helping him more and more as he grew older. He was chauffeur, travel agent, arranger, companion and, starting sometime in his first year, a decorative-and naked-fixture around Harry's pool. The men invited to Harry's pool parties were quite careful never to make an advance towards Sam. They could, however, look to their hearts' content and-sometimes-with longing.

Not that Sam was required to be celibate. Far from it. Sam was quite free to have whatever liaisons he might want, but they were always out of sight, never spoken about, and not allowed to interfere with his job. This suited Sam, and although he sometimes wondered what it would be like having a man permanently in his bed, he was satisfied and content.

In the morning, after Harry's death, Sam showered, dressed and went down to the kitchen. "I thought I told you to take the rest of the week off, Albert," he said, laughing before helping himself to a cup of Albert's superb coffee. "And what do I find? You can't seem to leave your beloved stove."

Albert grinned. "I'd be lonely without him. And I thought you'd be hungry. I see you didn't touch the chicken and mushroom stew I left for you." This last was said with a scowl of disapproval.

Sam gathered him into a hug. "Thank you Albert. I just wasn't... interested in food last night."

"Well, you have to eat. Good food helps us with our sorrows, my mother always said." His face crumpled a little, and he looked into Sam's eyes. Softly he said, "I'll miss him too, you know. We all will. He was a good man." He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took a deep breath, his voice becoming brisk. "But you must eat, Mr. Sam. How about a nice plate of scrambled eggs with shrimps. You always like that, now don't you?"

Sam knew he was outclassed, outmaneuvered and outranked. "Yes, Albert. That sounds good. And maybe some sourdough toast?"

The food was good, and Sam was hungrier than he'd realized. As he was finishing, the phone rang. It was Alistair Middleton, Harry's lawyer, calling to ask if he could visit. Sam told him to come for lunch, thinking it would give Albert something to do.

For the rest of the morning Sam wandered around the house and garden, thinking, remembering and missing Harry.

Over lunch in the solarium Sam and Alistair made small talk and savored Albert's lobster quiche and baby greens. After the chocolate mousse and coffee Alistair finally got to the reason for his visit.

"The will," Alistair said, with some finality. "Everything Harry owned goes to his grand-nephew and grand-niece." Seeing the look on Sam's face he grinned. "You have a problem with that?"

"Only with the fact that Robert actively detested Harry because he was gay. And the fact that Melissa found him to be socially superfluous and told him so to his face." He looked around the solarium. "I can't imagine either of them living here."

"Whoa there, Sam. Didn't Harry discuss this with you? He said he would, but you know him, always putting off things he didn't like to talk about."

Sam shook his head. "I don't think, with the exception of my salary, he ever mentioned things like that. Harry was a very private person, you know, and it wasn't really any of my business, anyway. I figured most of whatever he owned would go to charity."

Alistair set his coffee cup firmly on it's saucer and rose from the table. "There's a bar in here somewhere isn't there? I think you're going to need a drink."

He did.

It seemed that Harry owned, in his own name, only one thing: an insurance policy for $1.5 million dollars. The beneficiaries of that policy were Melissa and Robert, his only living relatives. Everything else was owned by The Harry McKibben and Samuel Davis Trust For Benefit of Harry McKibben and Samuel Davis. There were only two trustees to that trust, and now one of them was dead.

"The insurance policy and the will," Alistair said, "were to protect you from them. They each get $750,000 and if they want more, there is no will to contest and no way for them to get at the trust, since they have already been provided for. You, Sam, get everything else." He chuckled. "Well you don't exactly get it. You've had it all along. A very neat bit of planning I'd say."

From the pride in Alistair's voice Sam knew it had all been Alistair's idea in the first place.

"So what are we talking about here?" Sam asked.

"Well, I haven't had time to order a full accounting yet, but generally we're talking about this house, the cars, the stocks and bonds, and a great deal of cash." He cocked his head at Sam. "Harry was something of an odd bird, if you didn't know," Alistair said with a grin. "He was always most comfortable with cash around."

Sam laughed. "You mean like the $50,000 in the library safe?"

Alistair nodded. "Tip of the iceberg, Sam. There are bank accounts, mind you, savings accounts, with something over five million dollars in them. Cash! Doing nothing but garnering a paltry interest." He shook his head. "But that was Harry, and, after all, it was Harry's money." He paused. "Oh, yes, and the house in Palm Springs. I always forget about that one."

Sam shook his head. "Palm Springs? We went down there a few times but I didn't know-"

"He bought it from some friends down there. It seems they had some financial reverses and needed money. Harry of course offered to give it to them, but they wouldn't hear of it. Instead, they sold their house to Harry for an exorbitant sum, and then he let them live there rent free. They both passed away some time ago-let's see, '95 or '96, I believe."

Sam was having a little trouble taking it all in. "So there's this house, a house in Palm Springs, some savings accounts... What's it all add up to, Alistair?"

Alistair looked at the ceiling for a moment, estimating and adding in his head. "Oh, I should say, counting the potential sale price of the real property, somewhere on the order of forty-two to forty-five million dollars."

Sam nodded although it didn't really register on him. "And you manage it."

Alistair shook his head. "No, no, I... that is, my firm, oversees the actual managers. We make sure Harry's, uh, well, now your, wishes are carried out. We also handle necessary payments and so on. We basically make sure everything's on the up and up and running as it should."

Sam stood, walked around the table and put his hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Thank you," he said, and when Alistair stood, thinking to shake hands, Sam pulled him into a tight hug. "Thank you."

It took several months for Sam to figure out what to do with himself. He had no real profession other than that of companion and caretaker, and no real need for one. He busied himself with a celebration of Harry's life, with seeing to the house and staff, and, ultimately, with seeing to nothing.

His friends, Harry's friends, entertained him and did their best to keep him busy. One couple decided that he needed a long ocean voyage, so he booked a cruise, but then couldn't do it because there would be no Harry there to take care of, and he would be lonely. It was the same with a trip to Australia: why be at loose ends in Australia when he could be at loose ends at home?

He hired handsome young men to bring him pleasure, once four of them at the same time, but found the pleasure empty, hardly more than he could bring himself.

Ultimately he realized that his whole life had been devoted to Harry, and now it was coming up empty. He needed a change, a change of place-a change of people.

So he closed up the house, gave generous bonuses to the staff and called Alistair to find out just where the house in Palm Springs was; he had decided to live there for a while, to see what adventures he might find in the desert.

And so it was that around noon on Saturday, February 26, 2005, Sam found himself checking into Some Guys, a gay, clothing-optional resort in Palm Springs.