Nate and Jonathan

This snippet is from Bedroom Eyes, Book 2: Song of Love. Nate Fairchild is ungraciously awoken by his clerical brother Jonathan. He’s been found passed out in the St. George’s Cathedral vestry.

“Maybe he will drink himself to death, and I will inherit,” Jonathan said, not for the first time. “Is this the fifth, the sixth such incident? You’ll not see another year!”
Hiram reappeared with a tin pail. “Shall I sprinkle water on him to wake him up?”
“Give it here!” His voice rose, hoping the curate hadn’t overheard. Without ceremony, he threw the entire contents down on his brother’s face.

Nate woke confused, sputtering as water ran up his nose. He snorted it out. Croach! Then used his sleeve to wipe his cheeks and eyes. He was thirsty, and the stones pressing against his back were cold. Sleep fell away, and the blur before him sharpened into Jonathan’s scowl. A twinge constricted into pain in his chest.
“I missed it, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know why you try.” Those disapproving eyes intensified.
“I wanted to come.” He sounded like a petulant schoolboy and corrected his tone as he pushed onto his elbows. “God has blessed you, dear brother. It’s clear you will rise far and be rewarded.”
“The boys would have liked to see you.” Nate pressed his molars and lips together. They both knew it was a hit, and the most wounding thing his brother could fling at him.
“I enjoy seeing my nephews and nieces.” He attempted to find a smile.
“Peter, in particular. My oldest son adores you.”
Another hit. A breath in and out, then a strong need to end their staring match struck. He pushed up and whacked himself in the chest to get his blood pumping.
“To honor you, I wrote something.” He wobbled as his vision swam. An arm thrown back helped steady him.
“Not one of your silly songs?” Jonathan’s voice would have frozen water.
“No. A hymn. It came to me yesterday, and I worked on it through the night.”
“You smell of drink.”
Smack. “Drink is my inspiration—my muse—and keeps me going.” He straightened and crossed his legs. Then he ran fingers through his hair to prevent a trickle from running down his forehead. Reaching into his coat, he hunted for sheets of paper and carefully unfolded them.
“They’re a bit damp.” Nate raised his gaze to a face that glowered with the same disapproving stare as their father. Papa was a good man. After spreading the pages across one thigh, he closed his eyes, stuck out his chest, and sang.
“Unto Heaven, do you call us, calling each by his name, Lord Above, will I answer, all your glories I proclaim…” The purest voice, a rich tenor, told the story in song, of God seeing not mankind but a specific man and singling him out. The man answered with an honest heart.
“That’s just the first two verses,” he explained after he stopped. He peeped at his brother through long lashes. Jonathan and the curate held their chins tipped up as if to keep tears from falling out of their eyes.
Jon’s mouth hung open, but he recovered and snapped his teeth shut. “How do you do it? You’re a disgusting drunk. You’ve done nothing worthwhile. Yet, you can write a song that brings Hiram to tears.” Jonathan didn’t admit to his own.
“We both craft words. You stand in a pulpit, pound a fist, and declaim them. I sit in public houses, open my ears and heart, and compose them.”
His brother didn’t reply. Nate folded the hymn, keeping his eyes low.
“I’m sorry I missed your sermon and that I stink like sin. But the hymn is yours.” He offered it up in supplication.
“Damn you!” Jonathan snatched up the paper. “Don’t let anybody know you’re a Fairchild looking like that!” He stormed out. The curate didn’t follow, but waited for instructions. Nate stared at him.

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