Chapter One   AS WE stood between two oak trees, their emerald leaves parted, revealing a rippling turquoise lake cradling swimmers of all ages. I gazed at the sailboats shielded by the azure sky. Bathed by the late-morning sun, I said to my husband, “This is the spot where eighteen-year-old Nolan and Giorgio went sailing and proclaimed their love nearly six decades ago.” Jamison took my hand in his larger one. I breathed in his woodsy scent and felt safe and protected. “As I said in our wedding vows, we went on a journey to find Giorgio, and we found ourselves and each other.” We shared a lengthy kiss. “Theo.” Jamison pointed downward at a private cove. Our dark eyes met. We both knew that was the spot where we had buried Nolan and Giorgio’s ashes. I offered a silent prayer. Jamison joined me in quiet meditation. So much had happened in less than a year, since my local upstate New York LGBTQ center elder friend program partnered me with Nolan Downes. I granted Nolan’s dying request—to rejoin with his lost first love, Giorgio, at last—and in the process, I found true love with Jamison. Subsequently, Jamison and I had a big fat Greek wedding, moved into Nolan’s gorgeous four-bedroom home on the Hudson River, filled out myriads of forms and had numerous interviews with an adoption agency, and continued our careers. I’m a corporate tax accountant, and Jamison is the county’s infectious disease director. Our inheritance from Nolan enabled us to purchase the Poconos resort where Nolan and Giorgio first met—prior to their families separating them. So whenever Jamison and I can get joint vacation time, we visit the resort we renamed: Nolan Giorgio’s. Thanks to the very competent manager and assistant manager, Asher Hillel and Phoenix Brand, the resort is running smoothly and efficiently—and in the black! Even more importantly, it’s a place where everyone is welcome. Jamison and I, feeling like lords of the manor, continued strolling through our resort. We marveled at the majestic mountains and dancing waterfalls in the distance that shielded courageous hikers. When we paused to rest, I couldn’t help staring at Jamison. Courtesy of his Egyptian and Swedish heritage, his black hair, crystal blue eyes, and peaches-and-cream complexion glistened in the sunlight. His salmon polo shirt and tan slacks could barely contain his rippling muscles. More important than his terrific looks were Jamison’s honesty, integrity, and concern for others. His Egyptian last name, Radames, is appropriately translated as prince. Jamison—my anchor throughout our search for Giorgio—is my Prince Charming. My last name, Stratis, means warrior in Greek. After all Jamison and I went through to find Giorgio, the name seems to fit. Jamison glanced over at me. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Don’t make me wrestle it out of you.” “Oww. Sounds like fun.” He slapped my behind playfully. “Are you miffed about not hearing from the adoption agency?” “Not at all.” “You would have made a terrible actor.” “Hey, I pretended I wasn’t interested in you when we first met.” His white teeth emerged in a sexy smile. “Like I said, you’re not a good actor.” I felt my cheeks match my ruby polo shirt. “Be nice. Remember, you’re older than me.” “Only two years!” “Twenty-eight will turn to ninety-eight before you know it, and I’ll be taking care of you in a nursing home. Don’t make me pull that plug early.” We shared a laugh. Both of our cell phones rang. We fished them out of our pockets and glanced at the screens. Jamison moaned. “More sales calls.” “Same here.” Since our ownership of the resort had been posted in various business news sources, we had been flooded with sales calls, texts, and emails. “Let’s turn off our phones this week.” Jamison’s idea was music to my ears. “How about sealing the pact with a kiss?” “I don’t know. My husband might get jealous.