Summary:
The year is 1894. Europe has been suffering from a series of Anarchist terror attacks, the latest of which was the bombing of a Parisian textile mill which killed thirteen people. The perpetrators of this act - the seven Hirsch Brothers - are believed to be on the run in London. Billings, Flynt and Clarkson are called in by Special Branch to help locate them. But the investigation goes spectacularly wrong. One by one, the Hirsch Brothers are found dead and the police have no idea who is killing them.
Anarchists, terrorist, or something more personal? When the missing Hirsch brothers keep turning up dead suddenly a case of anarchy is looking much more personal. Once again Olivier Bosman throws DS Billings headlong into a case that goes horribly wrong. Has he taken one too many wrong turns finally? For that you have to read yourself but trust me, it is well worth the time to find out.
I absolutely love this series, there is something about Billings that you just want to wrap the poor guy in a bear hug but it's going to take more than that to keep him safe. On the personal side, he's finally opening his heart up to his true nature, reluctantly but still more than he ever has before. Will he find happiness now that he's exploring his heart? You have to read that for yourself but I love how each entry brings him into himself more and perhaps not "risk" the consequences but he's not letting the fear completely shut him off from his heart.
As much of a history lover that I am, I have to admit 1890s England is not my area of knowledge short of what I've seen in films and read in fiction which I know is not always an accurate portrayal of the time. For that reason, I can't say with 100% certainty to the author's stick-to-it-ness of the era but I'm going to guess it is pretty real from what little I do know and that makes Anarchy even better.
The mystery, the romance, the history, all of these aspects makes Anarchy a great read and another great installment to the DS Billings Victorian Mysteries series. If you are new to this series I highly recommend reading it in order. Yes, each entry has a new case but as I already touched on DS Billings grows into accepting himself more and more with each book. The friction between him and his superior, the friendship between him and his partner, all these things continue from one case to the next making the personal side of each book flow better having read the previous ones. After the ending of Anarchy I can't help but fear Billings may suffer a few setbacks but then again it might serve as the kick-in-the-pants he needs to show him what's important. Either way I can't wait to see where Olivier Bosman takes his character next.
RATING:
Summary:
When Jamie Roma and Derek Lee find their blossoming love affair interrupted by dual invitations to a house party from a mysterious unnamed host, they think, Sounds like fun. The next thing they know they are caught up in a game of cat and mouse that quickly starts racking up a lot of dead mice. Yikes, they think. Not so fun.
Trapped inside a spooky old house in the middle of nowhere, with the body count rising among their fellow guests, they begin to wonder if they’ll escape with their lives. As a cataclysmic storm swoops in to batter the survivors, the horror mounts.
Oddly enough, even in the midst of murder and mayhem, Jamie and Derek’s love continues to thrive.
While the guest list thins, so does the list of suspects. Soon it’s only them and the killer.
And then the battle really begins.
John Inman has done it again! I've said it before and I'll say it again(and I'm sure it won't be the last time you'll hear me say it) the man knows how to bring danger, death, and destruction to the page and he manages to keep it fun and romantic too, its the whole package. Longtime friends have recently become friends with benefits who most likely both want more but haven't voiced it yet, receive invitations to a party in the woods from an unfamiliar name but decide to go because it sounds like a laugh, it's a stormy night in the middle of nowhere . . . what could go wrong? Practically everything.
So A Party to Murder sounds like a setup that has been done by many authors and Hollywood directors alike but John Inman makes it original with his own quirky blend of darkness, romance, mystery, and heat that keeps you on the edge of your seat. In a way it reads as a homage to Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None, Dashiell Hammet's The Thin Man, and any number of 80s horror flicks. You've got a cast of characters that keep dwindling, a dark and trapped setting, and then there is Derek and Jamie who may not be Nick and Nora Charles but their banter and obvious devotion to each other couldn't help but remind me of the chemistry the Charles' share.
Obviously I won't speak to the mystery aspect other than Party may not have had me fooled all the way up until the reveal but it didn't matter. Just because I suspected the who, it was the why that kept me on pins and needles. Just because my guess ended up being the who, doesn't mean I wasn't left wondering "am I right?" and on more than one occasion I found myself "or could it be ??? making this even more disturbing?" so just because you think you know, you really never truly know when it comes to John Inman.
As for Jamie and Derek, the friends with benefits, I think we all know they both want to be more than friends with benefits but its whether or not they'll open up to each other that gives A Party to Murder the romantic element. Some might think its not very believable that two people can find time for love when their fellow party guests are dropping like mayflies but what better time to be honest with your heart than when facing possible death? Not knowing if you'll be walking away is the perfect time to be true to one's heart. I loved their oddities that make them a perfect pair.
Throw in a cast of characters who don't know each other, who don't know the invitation sender, who have never been to the property, and what you have is a story that will keep you hooked from beginning to end. John Inman knows how to set the scene to make the reader feel as if they too got a mystery invitation to the creepy mansion in the woods and why it is perfectly understandable that Jamie, Derek, and everyone else on the fateful guest list would accept such an invite. A Party to Murder is definitely a win-win for mystery lovers, quirky lovers, romance lovers, heck its a win-win for any lover of good storytelling.
RATING:
Summary:
Stoker & Bash #2
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Finding lost poodles and retrieving stolen baubles is not how DI Tim Stoker envisioned his partnership with his lover, Hieronymus Bash. So when the police commissioner's son goes missing, he's determined to help, no matter what secrets he has to keep, or from whom.
When a family member is kidnapped, Hiero moves heaven and earth to rescue them. Even if that means infiltrating the Daughters of Eden, a cult of wealthy widows devoted to the teachings of Rebecca Northcote and the mysterious contents of her box. The Daughters' goodwill toward London's fallen women has given them a saintly reputation, but Hiero has a nose for sniffing out a fraud. He will need to draw on some divine inspiration to rattle the pious Daughters.
Like weeds gnarling the roots of Eden's fabled tree, Tim and Hiero's cases intertwine. Serpents, secrets, and echoes from Hiero's past lurk behind every branch. Giving in to temptation could bind them closer together—or sever their partnership forever.
DI Tim Stoker never saw lost pets and stolen trinkets in his future when he partnered up with his lover Hieronymus Bash so when his boss' son is missing, he jumps at the opportunity to find him. Hiero in turn is using everything available to find a family member who is also missing. When the Daughters of Eden come into the mix, will the two and their friends be able to work together to sniff out the fraud as well as find the missing persons? And what does it mean for Stoker and Bash, when their different tactics get in the way?
I don't often say this, and trust me when I say it because I am a HUGE series reader, The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree is even better than The Fangs of Scavo which is saying something because that was a pretty awesome read in itself. As fun as Stoker and Bash were when they met, watching them grow together(both good and bad) is even better. Don't get me wrong, they have a long way to go to truly find their HEA but with Fruit they are well on their way . . . eventually😉.
As for the case, well you know I won't touch on that because in a mystery every little tidbit can be a spoiler but I will say that the author kept me guessing right up to the big reveal. That doesn't happen very often, not because my ability of deduction is great but I've been reading/watching mysteries since before I knew what a mystery was which means I have seen pretty much everything when it comes to the "who done it?" genre. The mystery is a lovely blend of fiction and fact with amazing historical accuracies, yes a few liberties were taken but nothing that ruins the historical flavor of the story.
As for Stoker and Bash, well they are absolutely brilliant. Heat, both in actions and words, is never doubted but their ability to navigate each one's lack of willingness to talk about their pasts with the here-and-now left me in tears as well as giggles. As for their merry(or not-so-merry) band of comrades, they not only add to the detecting part of the story but the reader also sees just how they are more than allies, they have become a family. Hiero and Kip may have a long way to go before they are completely open with each other about everything they have seen and done that has made them who they are but in The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree they make giant leaps forward toward that goal. I for one can't wait to see what the future holds for these two and their family of misfits.
If you are asking me do you have to read The Fangs of Scavo first, I would say yes. The cases don't connect but the relationships are continuously growing and a few references are made to the Scavo case so not having read book one I feel would definitely leave you, perhaps not confused or lost but certainly missing something. Selina Kray is most definitely an author to keep your eye on.
RATING:
Summary:
Haven Hart #6
Lee, Jones, and Ginger deal with dangerous situations and mounting stress daily working for the most powerful assassin organization in the world. All of those things seem like a walk in the park compared to the friction that sparks between them. When all three are assigned to the same job, ignoring the heat from the inferno of desire becomes impossible.
Lee is a master at deciphering codes, skilled in hacking complicated systems, and never misses a target, even from over fifty miles away. His feelings for Jones and Ginger, however, may be the first code he’s unable to crack.
Jones deals in absolutes, but the road to his past is paved with bodies and regrets. Getting Lee to acknowledge the pull they both feel toward Ginger may be the hardest mission he’s ever had to face.
Ginger struggles to cope with the overwhelming guilt that accompanies this new job. Falling for these hired killers will be a risk—one that could wind up with him losing in the end or gaining everything he’s ever wanted.
As the three work together to take down a human trafficking ring—and save a desperate soul—time is of the essence. Their lives are on the line as mysteries unfold and unexpected encounters throw them off course. Will Lee, Jones, and Ginger let doubts come between them, distracting them from their mission and blocking any hope of love? Or can they face the toughest challenge of their lives and become…a triple threat?
I should start by saying M/M/M is not my go-to trope, I don't go looking for them HOWEVER, if one turns up in a series I'm reading or mysteriously finds its way onto my kindle I won't turn away from it😉. Now because its not my normal trope of choice, I don't have a wide variety of experience when it comes to the accuracy to how its written, nor do I know anyone in a poly relationship to make any realistic comparison. So because of my "lack of knowledge" I can only go by how each one is written and how it sucks me in. Well, Triple Threat is A-FREAKIN'-MAZING!!!!
For those who think M/M/M, menage, or poly romances are just porn without plot than you are in for the shock of your life when you open up Davidson King's newest Haven Hart entry, Triple Threat. Oh, sure there's heat, there's lust, there's sexy times that will set your kindle on fire but there is just so much more than the between-the-sheets(there's some fumbling without the sheets too😉) moments. As with the whole series, there is crime, drama, action, violence, drama, humor, mystery . . . well pretty much everything but sci-fi. So sit down, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.
Let's take a look at the threesome, triad, throuple, or whatever label you choose to use. Lee and Jones have been around Haven Hart more than once and called in when their expertise is needed and lets face it, Haven Hart is in dire need of their services. I don't think anyone was surprised to see them connected in more ways than on the job but Ginger on the other hand doesn't exactly fit in on paper. Miss King made it reasonably clear in Snow Storm that the boys weren't exactly unaffected by the younger man so it wasn't a complete surprise to find him as the third side of their trio. As I said, on paper he doesn't seem the type to connect with them but after only a page or two you know that he is exactly what Lee and Jones were missing to make them complete. Whether or not, they come to the same conclusion is something you have to read for yourself but I warn you once you start Triple Threat you won't want to put it down.
Now I have personally made references in my previous reviews to the Star Wars saga and you're probably wondering "you said this has everything but sci-fi so how can you connect them?" Obviously it isn't a literal connection but the passion and draw that I always feel whenever I hear Darth Vadar's entrance music or the hiss of the lightsaber or the whoosh as the Millenium Falcon finally goes into hyperdrive pretty much equals the natural high I get when reading Davidson King. She has this ability to not only create this amazing story with characters who are just out of reach and yet at the same time you feel like you're going to run into them pumping gas and picking up eggs at the store but the city of Haven Hart is so visual I almost feel like I'm living there. As I've said before, there is a difference between an author and a storyteller, they are both great in their own ways but a storyteller has that extra something special connection with words, well Davidson King is a storyteller and I can't wait to see what comes next.
One last note: Although each entry(except for Snow Storm) has a new pairing at its core, Haven Hart series is definitely a series that needs to be read in order. There is just too much ongoing plot and information that is underlying everything where each book puts just a little more of the puzzle together. So if you haven't started this series yet be sure to begin at the beginning with Snow Falling and if you are someone who likes to wait till a series is complete because you can't abide the wait in between releases, there is only one entry left to be written but be sure you put Haven Hart at the top of your TBR list.
RATING:
Summary:
Reverend Brian Lucas has a secret his congregation in the Nine Mile Methodist Church knows nothing about, and he’d really like to keep it that way. But even his earth-shattering secret takes a backseat to what else is happening in his tiny hometown.
Murders usually do that.
Brian's “close friend,” Sam, is urging a resolution to their little problem, but Brian's brother, Boyd, the County Sheriff, is more caught up in chasing down a homicidal maniac who is slaughtering little old ladies.
When Brian's secret and Boyd's mystery run into each other head on, and Boyd's fifteen-year-old son, Jesse, gets involved, all hell breaks loose. Then a fourth death comes to terrify the town, and it is Brian who begins to see what is taking place in their little corner of the Corn Belt. But even for a Methodist minister, it will take more than prayer to set it right.
A closeted reverend, his BFF(aka longterm secret boyfriend), the BFF's elderly aunt, the reverend's teenage nephew and his BFF are spending the summer preparing for the opening of the new church camp. Throw in the minister's brother the cop and it sounds like the opening of a bad joke but Sunset Lake is no joke. John Inman has once again showed his knack for death and danger with this incredibly well written murder mystery that may not be as creepy as some of his tales but it has it's fair share of gruesomeness to keep the reader leery of what awaits them on the next page.
Brian, the closeted minister, and Sam, the BFF/secret lover, are definitely a well suited item. I can understand why Brian is closeted and weary about being himself. Personally I don't think he gives his family enough credit but it isn't just his family, his biggest fear is his congregation and the church hierarchy and the possibility of them taking the church from him. I'm not a gay man so I can't speak from experience but I'd like to think if I was in Brian's place and my congregation couldn't accept me for who I am then I don't think I'd want to be their minister. The truth is for Brian it really comes down to being ready and only he can make that decision, which Inman really helps you see that through the minister's inner monologue.
As for Sam, I don't know as I could be as patient as he has been but what I loved most about this was the author didn't go the cliché route in having Sam pressure Brian to come out. Some authors go the way of an ultimatum for the sake of the drama element but Mr. Inman did not and that made Sunset Lake even more entertaining for me. Now that's not to say Sam is happy and content to be the secret lover but he understands Brian needs to be honest with himself, his family, and his parishioners at his own pace. Just how long Sam is willing to wait is something you'll have to read for yourself😉 but I will say that the lack of an ultimatum made for a welcome change.
Now let's talk murder. WOW! DOUBLE WOW! and WOW AGAIN! When evil comes to the little community of Nine Mile, it really comes full force, perhaps not in quantity but the quality of the evil is definitely not for the faint of heart. That's not to say Sunset Lake is the book equivalent of an 80s slasher flick but it's not pretty either😉. I obviously won't say who did it but I will say I was wrong in my guessing and theories up until about 5 or 6 pages before the reveal. Sunset Lake will keep you wondering, keep you intrigued, and keep you on the edge of your seat from beginning to end.
In my reading experience a limited number of authors, no matter how good they are, are true storytellers. What the difference is you ask? Well in my mind a storyteller not only pens a great read but puts you in it, makes the reader feel as if you are right there witnessing everything, if you turn left on the street corner on your way to the post office you'll run into character A, you'll see character B drive by when you step out to get the mail, and you'll do everything you can to avoid character C when you spot them coming out of the cafe😉. Sunset Lake is a perfect example of why John Inman is a storyteller and though it may seem kind of a creepy story to feel you are right there in the middle of, it definitely adds an extra layer of amazing-ness and "Oh crap I didn't see that coming". This is not a new release for the author but it did just recently come to my attention so if you are like me and missed it four years ago, be sure to give it a look-see because it is definitely a creepy romantic gem worthy of your time and money.
RATING:
A Party to Murder by John Inman
Chapter One
FROM THE passenger seat, Jamie Roma slipped a hand under the shirttail of the man driving the car. He chuckled to himself when the car swerved off the road, then lurched back onto the asphalt in a spray of gravel and mud.
Derek Lee growled through what Jamie considered to be the sexiest pair of lips he had ever seen in his life. “Jesus, if that hand had gone into my pants, we’d be dead now.”
“Dead but happy,” Jamie whispered back.
Derek made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. Mostly, Jamie figured, it was a groan. Jamie didn’t mind not getting a laugh at his feeble joke, because at the same time as he was groaning, Derek was also tucking his own hand under his shirt and stroking Jamie’s fingers.
They were motoring across the high desert thirty miles outside San Diego. Even had there been daylight, there would have been nothing to see but rolling hills, a bunch of boulders scattered around like spilled Legos, and about a gazillion clumps of sagebrush. As it was, they couldn’t even see that because darkness had fallen with a resounding thud about three hours back. And now not only was it night, it was a moonless and starless night, thanks to the rain clouds that had been forming overhead all day. If not for the Toyota’s headlights and the gleam of the GPS system on the dashboard, they would have been floundering through a sea of bottomless black shadow—blind, directionless, lost.
It was also lonely. They hadn’t seen another car for ages.
Jamie jumped, pointing through the windshield at a sudden twitch of movement up ahead on the side of the road. “Lookie! A coyote!”
No sooner had he cried out than the animal froze, every ounce of its attention trained on the approaching car. The coyote’s eyes were like teeny tiny flashlights, beaming straight back at them. The beast didn’t run; it didn’t cower; it simply stood there with its front feet on the road and its rear end in the bushes, waiting patiently for the car to speed past so it could go on about its business.
“It’s not afraid of us,” Jamie said.
“Why should it be?” Derek snorted. “It’s not the one that’s lost. And don’t say ‘Lookie.’ You sound like a three-year-old.”
Jamie slapped Derek’s arm at the exact moment he spun around in his seat to look behind them as the car zoomed past the coyote. For the briefest of moments, he spotted the creature flashing to life in the red glow of the car’s taillights. Then the animal melted into the receding darkness as if it had never been there at all. Jamie swung back around and replaced his hand on Derek’s bare belly.
He sighed.
“What’s with the sigh?” Derek asked.
“Nothing. Just happy.”
“You’re not getting romantic, are you?”
It was Jamie’s turn to snort. “I don’t get romantic. I’m just a guy who’s having fun driving along with his oldest friend in the world who happens to be an occasional trick.”
“Occasional as in every single night for the last two months.”
“Well, yeah.”
“After all these years of friendly abstinence together, we suddenly jump into bed and pork like bunny rabbits for eight solid weeks.”
“Pork like bunny rabbits. What a lovely expression. Rates right up there with fuck your balls off.”
“Oh hush. I wonder how it happened.”
“How what happened?”
“How we ended up in bed together that first night.”
Jamie gave Derek time to think about it while he enjoyed the sensation of exploring Derek’s tight little belly button with a fingertip. “Hormones, I guess,” Derek finally said. “Horny, humpy hormones.”
This time when Jamie groaned, it was a real one. “Yeah. And tequila. Lots and lots of tequila. My head still hurts.”
“How about your ass?”
“That too. But in a good way. And that’s from last night, not two months ago.”
They laughed, and Derek stroked Jamie’s hand again, making Jamie’s laugh ratchet down to a dreamy little smile. He couldn’t see it on his own face because he was too lazy to look in the visor mirror, but he knew it was there all the same. It was somewhat worrisome, too, that dreamy, contemplative smile he could feel twitching on his lips. My God, what if he was beginning to feel romantic about Derek? What would that do to their lifelong friendship?
“We met in fifth grade,” Jamie said, pondering out loud.
Derek cracked the window to get some air into the car. Either the night had grown warmer, or he was having a hot flash. He realized, of course, that Jamie’s roving fingers so close to his groin might have something to do with that. “I know. I was there. You tried to steal my milk. Hmm,” he hummed, sticking his nose through the crack, “smell that night air.”
Jamie rolled his own window down, letting in a blast of air that made his hair thrash around on top his head. He stuck his face through the opening, squinting into the night. “Smells like a monsoon coming!” he yelled into the empty countryside.
“They don’t have monsoons in California!” Derek bellowed. “And get back in here. You look like a Rottweiler hanging out a car door with his tongue flapping in the wind.”
Jamie dragged himself back inside. He was grinning like an idiot, hair going every which way. Batting his eyelashes, he leaned against his seat belt and laid his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Ooh, if I was a Rottweiler, we could do it doggy style.”
Derek laughed. “And break every law of nature there is. You’re impossible.”
A sudden flash of lightning sizzled across the sky in front of them, making them both jump. A moment later, fat raindrops began pelting the windshield. Derek switched on the wipers. Soon their comforting song filled the interior of the car. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It was a pleasant sound, Jamie thought. With his head still snuggled against Derek’s shoulder, Jamie returned his hand to Derek’s bare belly. His fingers twiddled idly with the hair around Derek’s navel. Both men grew quiet as they watched the road in front of them darken with rain.
“Any idea where we are?” Jamie asked.
With his lips in Jamie’s hair, Derek gave a good-natured growl. “Oh ye of little faith. I know exactly where we are.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere north of Mexico and south of the Bering Strait.”
“Very funny.”
Derek tapped the GPS monitor on the dashboard. “Honestly. We’re right where we’re supposed to be. See? There should be a turnoff coming up soon, and a few miles after that, a bridge. We’ll cross the bridge and continue on down a gravel side road for fifteen miles or so, and that will lead us unveeringly toward the house we’re trying to find.”
“So you hope,” Jamie drawled.
To which Derek didn’t quibble. “Yes. So I hope.”
For the space of about fifteen seconds, the rain came down so hard that even the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The sound was deafening. The downpour pummeled the car, almost stripping Jamie’s breath away. Being a Southern California boy, Jamie was more accustomed to drought. He didn’t like storms. When the rain eased up a little, his blood pressure dropped. He tried to relax. Through the streaming windshield, he could see the empty highway stretching out before them, disappearing into the rainy, wind-tossed distance. Derek tapped his index finger against the steering wheel. Clearly he was about to say something important. Which he finally did.
“I know we’ve been over this a dozen times, but I still don’t understand why we both received invitations to a house party from someone we don’t know.”
“From someone we assume we don’t know,” Jamie corrected. “Since the invitations weren’t signed, we really don’t know if we’re acquainted with the person who sent them or not. Personally, I think it’s some idiot friend of ours.”
“But we don’t know that for sure,” Derek pointed out. “And still, Jamie Roma, you putz, you insisted we come anyway.”
Jamie laughed. “Because it’s an adventure! It’s a lark. It’s mysterious. It’s a weekend house party in the middle of nowhere, fifty miles out of the city, cut off from the world, and being hosted by someone we may or may not know for reasons we haven’t got a clue about. Besides, at the bottom of the invitations they promised heart-stopping door prizes. Quote, unquote. Who could say no to heart-stopping door prizes?”
“Anybody with brains!” Derek snarled. “I’ve seen horror movies that start this way. While we’re tooling down this spookyass, rain-drenched highway heading straight into the maw of oblivion with thunder and lightning crashing and flashing all around us, I can imagine the opening credits of a really gory slasher movie unscrolling over our heads as we speak. Jamie and Derek on the Highway to Hell. Three for the Road with Jamie, Derek, and Leatherface. Queers on Elm Street.”
“That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there. Listen. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”
“Oh please, Jamie. When have you ever not steered me wrong? Remember that Mexican restaurant you wanted to try last week? The one where the cockroach crawled out of my taco?”
“You should have had a burrito.”
Derek ignored that. “I wonder how many guests there will be.”
“Like I care. Let’s just hope the booze doesn’t run out.” Jamie perked up. “Suppose there will be tequila?”
This time Derek’s groan came from the heart. “Oh God, I hope not. One shot of tequila and you end up with your legs in the air, toes pointed straight at the ceiling.”
“Why, thank you.”
Derek laughed. “No, thank you.”
Derek took their lives in his hands by leaning into the darkness and planting a kiss on Jamie’s eagerly expectant mouth. At the same time, their lives were further imperiled when Jamie’s fingers diddled their way south, burrowing under the buckle of Derek’s belt, which he cleverly unclasped with a flick of his thumb. Houdini couldn’t have done it better.
The car swerved again when Jamie wiggled out from under his shoulder harness and lowered his head to Derek’s lap. Rooting around with his nose like a hog hunting truffles, he unearthed exactly what he was searching for, and for the next three miles, not a word was spoken between the two.
The silence was finally broken when Derek stiffened all over and gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. Far beyond his ability to do anything about it, his hips lurched upward and he emitted a delicious moan.
“That’s my boy,” Jamie mumbled, smiling. “Let it go. And try not to run us off a cliff when you do.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Derek gasped, once again lifting his ass off the seat until there was a good six inches of daylight showing beneath him—if there had been any daylight available on this miserably stormy night. While a brand-new onslaught of rain and wind pummeled the car and rocked it back and forth, he clutched a fistful of Jamie’s hair with the one free hand he dared take off the wheel.
For the next thirty seconds or so, Jamie Roma worked just as hard as the windshield wipers—trying desperately to stay ahead of the deluge.
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Hieronymus Bash contemplated the question posed by the long, red-lettered banner that blazoned over the otherwise quaint fruit and vegetable stall. A sharp tug of the arm from Callie, his ward, brought him to heel. He’d already been struggling to match her brisk pace, having been dragged from his early afternoon repose in the cozy climes of his study into, of all things, the sunshine, or what passed for it on this weak-tea day.
Rays of piss-yellow sun trickled down over the city, tinting the fumes that oozed up from the Thames. Clouds of smog blurred the distant Albert Bridge into an impressionist’s nightmare. A growing crowd choked the small stage erected just before the river’s edge, scuttling in from both directions of Cheyne Walk like ants over a carcass. A bald man with a white mustache that flapped out to his ears checked his pocket watch for the fourth time since Hiero and his companions descended from their carriage.
At the far end of the stage, a squad of low-rank militia struggled to keep a path clear for the Duke of Edinburgh and his bride, Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia, only beloved daughter of Tsar Alexander II. The newlyweds were, in the timeless tradition of royals everywhere, unfashionably late to the opening of the Chelsea Embankment, the third and final stage of the sewage system that had transformed London’s riverside.
“Look, it’s Bazalgette!” Callie tugged him forward, doing a fine impression of an excitable hound.
“While I admire your enthusiasm, I do wonder if it’s not a tad misplaced.”
Callie scoffed. “Only you would prefer the arrival of some dippy duke over the architect of this entire endeavor.” She threw her free arm out wide. “Can you not spare a moment to admire this feat of engineering? In the place of muddy banks, pavement has been laid, a fence with lampposts erected, with gardens and greenery to come. And running beneath it, the waste of London, and soon an underground train! How can you be so trout-mouthed in the face of such marvels?”
“Not your most persuasive argument, comparing the face that dropped a thousand trousers to a fishmonger’s wares.”
Callie sighed, relinquishing his arm to chase after her muttonchopped idol. Hiero watched her go, marveling at how much she resembled her Uncle Apollo, Hiero’s long-deceased lover who had charged him with her care in character and spirit. Theirs was an unconventional household, where the lady moonlighted as a detective, the servants were part of the family, and the lord of the manor—Hiero himself—was neither a lord nor owned the manor.
“Come now.” Han, his friend and self-appointed keeper, fell into step beside him. The rhythmic taps of his lotus-headed walking stick slowed their pace to a stroll. “You’re no longer catch of the day with Mr. Stoker about.”
“Perhaps if he were about, someone would defend my honor.” Hiero bristled at the mention of his fair-weather paramour, Timothy Kipling Stoker, a detective inspector with Scotland Yard who shadowed them when there was a mystery to solve but otherwise preoccupied himself with... well, finding them another mystery. His dedication to duty exasperated.
“Not likely.”
“No, I rather thought not.” Hiero pressed a lavender handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Mr. Bazalgette’s innovations would have to work much harder to filter out nearly a millennia of filth, the river being a cesspit into which the city had poured every conceivable kind of rubbish, from human to animal to otherwise. A place where sins had been cast off and bodies buried. A few of Hiero’s personal acquaintance.
“Where has your Mr. Stoker taken himself off to this—” Han considered the urinal murk of the embankment and found himself at a loss of an adjective. “—afternoon?”
“I do not presume to know what impulses rule that man.”
“And yet you are the one who rides his... coattails.”
“Only when he deigns to undress for the occasion. Otherwise...” Hiero huffed, his mood irretrievably spoilt by this line of conversation. “I cannot think where I’ve gone wrong with him.”
“No?” Han evidenced something close to a smirk. “It wouldn’t have something to do with meddling in his work affairs, compromising his relationship with his superiors, forcing him into our fellowship, risking everything he holds dear, and then sharing nothing of consequence about yourself, now would it?”
Hiero peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing of the sort, I’m sure.”
“Ah. Well, then, it is a mystery.”
“Coo-coo! Mr. Han!” a voice trilled at them from behind.
With a pair of heavy sighs, they turned to heed an all-too-familiar call. A hand waiving a white handkerchief fluttered up and down amidst a dense crowd. A grunt from Han parted the sea of surging revelers to reveal Shahida Kala, the latest of Hiero’s charity cases, hopping with the vigor of a spring hare. Her compact figure contained a carnival of personality.
The instant this bright light had beamed into his study on the arm of her father—who served under Apollo in Her Majesty’s Navy—Hiero recognized her for one of the rare people who could steal his spotlight. So he had relegated her to the least enviable position in the household, that of nurse to Mrs. Lillian Pankhurst, Callie’s permanently indisposed mother. But the long days of attic dwelling and reading Richardson’s Pamela ad nauseam had not snuffed a single spark.
Instead Lillian had transformed from bed-ridden depressive into a semifunctional member of the family. Every morning she and Shahida took a two-hour stroll. They cultivated a rooftop garden. Shahida had imposed an afternoon tea regimen on their household, always leading the conversation as Hiero, Callie, and Han plotted ways to return to their preferred solitary occupations. Dinners were always a family affair, but Shahida’s insistence on more healthful, nourishing fare that conformed to Lillian’s new diet had Minnie, their cook, weekly threatening to resign. Callie was the only other member of the household resistant to her charms.
Even Han, cynical, monkish, seen-it-all Han, danced to whichever melody she played. Hiero watched as he bounded over to her, biting his lip at the comical sight of a surly giant bowing to the whims of a pretty imp, but also to keep from emitting a growl of frustration. He glanced back to search for Callie, but the crowd had swallowed her. By now she’d likely clawed her way to the front of the stage and barked questions at a baffled, bewhiskered Mr. Bazalgette, which Hiero thought should be his formal title.
Schooling his features, he joined Han and Shahida’s conversation in medias res and was somewhat aghast to discover them talking about produce.
“... the plumpest, juiciest berries. Artichokes the size of a fist. Fat aubergines and cabbages and cauliflowers, and cucumbers as long as...” Shahida pressed two fingers to her mouth. Hiero didn’t miss how her eyes flickered down. “Well.”
Shameless, that was the trouble. As if she’d snipped the best pages from his playbook and then had the temerity to improve on his notes.
Han chuckled. Chuckled! Hiero hadn’t seen his friend so much as shrug in all the time he’d known him.
“A religious order, you say?” Han asked.
“The Daughters of Eden.” Shahida leaned in, gave him her most conspiratorial smirk. “And I think they might be.” She didn’t even have the grace to straighten when she spotted Hiero. “Oh, Mr. Bash! Mrs. Pankhurst and I don’t mean to spoil your fun. But if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll stay here for a while. We’ve discovered the most—”
“Impressive cucumbers. So I heard.”
“Mrs. Pankhurst is just beside herself. We’ve big ideas for our garden, but this...”
Hiero was unmoved. “And what is it you want?”
“We’ve done our third crate and could fill two more. The crowd is bit much for Mrs. Pankhurst, so I thought Mr. Han might take us back to Berkeley Square? We’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“As it is my carriage, I rather think it will return for me regardless.”
That got her attention. “Of course. If you’d like us to stay—”
“Let us see these berries from heaven.” With a sweep of his hand, Hiero directed them back toward the stall that had earlier piqued his interest. “Their Majesties will wait upon our leisure.”
A long line of enterprising vendors hawked their wares along the edge of Cheyne Walk, hoping to entice royal watchers to purchase a bit of refinement for their life. One stall lined up its dainty little bottles of oils and perfumes like Russian nesting dolls. A mini royal portrait gallery sold likenesses of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their progeny in a variety of poses. The gentleman scooping iced lollies for the children had his work cut out for him on such a tepid day, Hiero thought. The pub with a street-side stand offering hot tea and cider already did brisk business. A few watercress girls fought against the crowd’s undertow, but their wares looked shriveled as seaweed compared to the glorious bushels of the Daughters of Eden.
Even Hiero had to admit, upon inspection, the quality of their produce astounded. Fat and luscious, their fruit allured like the bosom of an opera diva, ready to smother and enthrall. Their vegetable stalks evidenced a virility that would put most molly-houses out of business. Little wonder their customers meandered around the baskets like lovestruck swains. Their bounty conjured images of orgies culinary and carnal. Hiero didn’t doubt there were more than a few serpents lurking about this tiny Eden, eager to defile a peach or two.
All of this was overseen by a trio of women dressed in immaculate white uniforms that somehow defied the city’s grime. Hiero drifted away from his companions to better observe these wyrd sisters. The tallest was also the least remarkable, a stout but cheery woman with farm-worn hands and hard-earned streaks of gray in her brown hair. She milled through the customers, answering questions and nudging reluctant buyers toward the register.
A skittish dove of a girl dutifully kept the ledger and the cash box, cooing her thanks before slipping some sort of pamphlet into people’s baskets. Her crinkly hair had been woven into two winglike braids that perfectly framed her heart-shaped face. A sprinkling of dark freckles contrasted with her pale-brown skin, all but disappearing when she blushed.
Which she did whenever the third sister glanced her way. “Willowy” did not do this petite, flopsy woman justice. A willow branch would look as leathery and stiff as a whip compared to her wispiness. Near-translucent skin and stringy cornsilk hair completed the otherworldly effect. Hiero almost questioned whether she was really there, such was the nothing of her regard. She appeared to have no occupation other than to pose under the sign in a demure attitude. The crowds gave her a wide berth, and little wonder. Nobody wanted to mingle with a possessed scarecrow.
Except possibly meddlesome not-detectives stuck on a boring outing with friends who had abandoned him for some phallic parsnips and a walrus architect.
Just as Hiero made to pounce, the waif leapt as if lightning struck. Eyes ravenous, mouth agape, hair billowing in an invisible breeze, she stared into the buzzing hive of customers. Transformed in an instant from trinket to spear, her astonishment gave color to her cheeks and heft to her bearing. She appeared somehow taller, bolder, a colossal spirit crammed into a compact package: a genie unleashed from its lamp.
All the better to bedazzle you with, my dear, Hiero thought.
Hieronymus Bash, professional cynic, knew a performance when he saw one. He read again the red sign that screamed above her head: When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box? But there was no box he could see, and if this woodland sprite was Mrs. Northcote, he’d eat Han’s walking stick. These Daughters had lured in quite a crowd with their sensuous produce. Was she the serpent come to tempt them? And if so, to what end?
Hiero shuttered his natural radiance to watch the spectacle unfold. The pale sister glided, arms outstretched, into the maze of crates, eyes fixed on her prey. Hiero hissed under his breath when she stopped at Lillian Pankhurst. In a state of docile confusion at the best of times, Lillian continued sorting out a mess of string beans, oblivious to this starry-eyed suitor. Han, ever protective, moved to Lillian’s side just as the sister shrieked...
“Daughter! You are found!”
The woman at the ledger jumped to her feet. “Juliet?”
“I’ve heard your spirit call to us these long nights, and now you have come home!” Juliet continued at eardrum-splitting pitch, making herself heard to all in the vicinity and probably those across the Thames. “Welcome, Daughter, into Her grace and light! Welcome home!” She hugged a startled Lillian with impressive fervor for one so slender. Lillian, looking to Shahida for a cue, patted her on the back.
A frowning Han caught his gaze from across the way, but Hiero signaled he would play Polonius behind the curtain. Hopefully without the knife in his gut.
“Don’t fear, Daughter. You are among friends,” Juliet nattered on. “We have come to shepherd Her back to Eden through our good works, and, by your pallid cheeks and trembling hands, I can see that you are eager to play a part.”
“Oi!” Shahida hollered, shoving her way between Juliet and Lillian. “Mrs. Pankhurst gets three square a day, and her arthritis is much improved. I dare anyone here to say otherwise.”
“But her spirit, dear girl, droops like a flower too long out of the sun.” Juliet backed away a step to address the customers, every one of which stood rapt. “She knows how this frail woman has struggled. She has heard her prayers and her anguish. She has shone Her glorious light into her, lit her like a beacon for her sisters to find. She is a Daughter, called upon to continue Her good work and bring about a second Eden!”
Shahida let out a trill of laughter three octaves too high. It effectively pierced the balloon of hot air Juliet had been huffing and puffing.
“Angel with a flaming sword you’re not, ma’am. Sorry.” Shahida locked an arm around Lillian. “Stick to the fruit and veg.” A pointed look directed Han to escort their charge away.
“But I haven’t finished the beans...” Lillian muttered as they disappeared into the gaggle of onlookers.
“Shame!” Juliet bellowed, beseeching the yellow sky. “Shame! It is the burden of womankind.” The customers moved into the space vacated by his friends, and Hiero followed, curious as to how she would spin such a public defeat. “The prophet Rebecca Northcote warned against it in her great bible, The Coming of the Holiest Spirit. Too often we ladies wait upon the actions of others. Are made to feel shame and guilt and worthless when we do act. Allow others to lead us astray, away from the truth in our hearts. We pay the price for the sins of our fathers and brothers and husbands. But She... oh, She is coming to deliver us from these injustices, from our fears and torments. As our Holy Mother Rebecca divined, if we join together, Daughters, and build the garden, She will come to save us all. She will gift us with her light!”
“Amen!” the ledger-keeper cried, having abandoned her post to shove pamphlets into the hands of any who would take them.
“Thank you, Mother!” the other sister seconded, lifting a basket of golden pears for all to see.
Juliet scanned the crowd. “You reap of the bounty we offer, but you do not know of how we labor in Her name. To prepare for Her coming, our prophet Rebecca chose each of Her Daughters with care. And though a shame-filled few will deny Her, everyone is welcome to hear Her message and to contribute however they can.” Hiero swallowed a snicker as she gestured to the donation tin. So transparent. “If you are committed to peace and prosperity, if you would see heaven retake the Earth, then I invite you to heed our prophet Rebecca’s call. And She will shine Her light upon you for all the days of your life.”
Juliet seemed to resist taking a bow, but only just. She gave each customer a final angelic smile, then returned to her perch beneath the red sign. A few of the curious chased her with questions; a ragdoll sag and a vacant stare shut them out. Instead the ledger-keeper, who introduced herself as Sister Nora, gathered them around the donation tin before addressing any queries.
“And?” Han appeared beside him, sudden as Banquo’s ghost. “Showstopper or second-rate?”
Hiero rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Better than a pair of poncy royals cutting a ribbon, but only just.”
“Fit for a return engagement?”
“Perhaps. Their setup is commonplace, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Enough to en savoir plus?”
“Time will tell. You know how religion turns my stomach. But their focus on Lillian was...”
“Agreed. That Sister Juliet read her too easily.”
Hiero nodded. “Could have been instinct.”
“Or she saw a mark.”
They shared a look weighted by their years of friendship and experience, a partnership of equals who knew, without another word, how to protect their own.
Triple Threat by Davidson King
With Lee and Jones busy, I popped my earbuds in, hit play on my Spotify, and drowned in the sounds of Pat Benatar. I loved the ‘80s, some of the ‘90s, but damn the ‘80s had amazing music. As with every time I listened to my music, I started swaying in my seat. I closed my eyes, let my hands tap, my feet slide, and that chorus in “We Belong”… it possessed me, and I couldn’t help myself but to sing. I sang softly as to not disturb Lee and Jones.
“What the absolute fuck!” The sound of Jones’ voice broke through. I opened my eyes and pulled my buds out. The van had stopped and now Lee was standing, staring at me, too.
“Hey,” I said meekly. “What’s up?”
“You scared the crap out of me,” Jones said, and Lee nodded in agreement.
“How?”
“One second it’s all quiet, then it’s like opera cats or something,” Lee answered, and this time Jones agreed.
“Wow, that’s harsh.” I drew my legs up to my chest, hearing the faint sounds of Tiffany singing that she thinks we’re alone now.
“Just warn us when you’re going to break out into song is all,” Lee grumbled, and then got back into the driver’s seat. I slipped the earbuds back in.
A tap on my leg had me pulling out my earbuds again.
“You listen to all ‘80s or you got some not shitty crap in there?” Jones asked, and I gripped my phone like he just shit on my dreams.
“Nothing of what I have is shit!”
Lee started to laugh as he pulled back onto the road and Jones had a huge grin. It was a change I hadn’t really seen in a while. Those two actually enjoying each other. I knew there was history there, everyone did.
If they wanted to be that way, okay. “Just for that,” I said as I put the phone on speaker and hit play. Joan Jett & The Blackhearts started singing about loving rock and roll, and because they love it so much, I sang with them.
Jones’ eyes widened and Lee once again pulled to the side of the road and turned in his seat. Seemed I was entertainment. I knew I didn’t have the best voice, but I had rendered these two dangerous men speechless. I was loving the power, the control.
Feeling daring, I inched over to Jones who looked positively terrified, and began drumming on his legs.
“Sweet Jesus,” Lee said and laughed so loudly I lost track of my words and watched him. Tears ran down his face, and he had his arms wrapped around his middle. It was a contagious laugh, and suddenly the three of us were in hysterics.
Sunset Lake by John Inman
Chapter One
HERE IN Nine Mile, kinship still shapes daily life. Familial bonds are strong, and the ties of friendship are lifelong and rarely broken. We seem to possess the tattered remnants of a pioneer culture, with all the spirit and cohesiveness that entails, and at the same time, we find ourselves coexisting with satellite dishes and microwave ovens and shiny computer-driven automobiles that beep and boop and flash annoying little lights at us every time we do something stupid.
The people here are good, most of them. Kind, simple country folks. Many are farmers, and like good farmers everywhere, they have an undying, tongue-in-cheek faith in the ability of God or government, or both, to somehow mangle the next harvest and render it worthless.
In reality, these people haven’t changed as much as they might think they have. Their accessories have, certainly, but not the people themselves. Like the pioneers before them, their hearts are strong with reverence for country, family, friends, and church. And the land, of course. With citizens such as these, it is always the land that comes first. Always.
Put simply, they are nice, decent people. On the whole.
Exceptions, of course, can always be found.
And on this, the last day of her life, Grace Nuggett would meet one of those exceptions face-to-face.
It wasn’t the sort of day one would choose for the last day of life if one’s options were open. The rain had not yet come pelting down, but by the look of that dismal gunmetal sky above our heads, I figured it was only a matter of time before it did. From the occasional grumble of distant thunder, it seemed a safe bet Someone up there agreed with me.
Being the only Methodist minister in Nine Mile, and knowing full well the farmers were scanning the sky for the least little promise of rain to ease the long drought they had been enduring (God did it to them this time, since they couldn’t very well blame the government for the weather), I should have sent up a grateful prayer of thanks that the withered crops in the fields would finally get some much-needed moisture. But in reality, all I did was lean against the outside wall of my church, cross my arms, stare balefully at the sky, and sigh. If I were a farmer in need of sunshine, I would have had the pleasure of blaming God for this outrage, but being a preacher in need of sunshine in the middle of a drought, I didn’t quite dare. Not that I wasn’t tempted.
After two long months with nary a hint of moisture in the air, today, of all days, the sky had finally decided to open up. Sam had warned me, of course. He always does. About everything.
Sam is my go-to guy for all things mechanical, since I’m about as useful as a box of sick hamsters. Sam is also my best friend. We have known each other since we were kids growing up in this one-horse town. Looking at us, one would think we were polar opposites. Sam stands about five foot six, and I’m six four. Sam is well built, and I’m a beanpole. His hair is reddish blond while mine is black. The only thing we truly have in common, other than friendship, is the fact that we are both single. Which, of course, opens up a whole new can of worms since every woman at the church is constantly trying to set us up with a female relative or two. Or three. But so far Sam and I have held on to our bachelorhood with tooth and claw.
But that’s another story altogether.
“Give the farmers a break, Brian,” Sam told me. His voice was a booming, sonorous echo because he had his head buried in the church’s old upright piano. He had his head stuck in the piano because he was trying to tune the thing himself since the church couldn’t afford to pay an actual piano tuner to do the job.
I didn’t say anything, but it sounded to me like he was getting questionable results as far as the tuning went. His words, however, would later prove to be right on key.
“Set the date for the annual basket dinner,” he said. “That’s the only way the poor farmers’ll get any rain, and you know it.”
He must have heard my derisive snort, for he poked his head out of the piano and gave me a glare. A dust ball the size of a mouse was stuck in his hair. “Just wait. You’ll see. And while you’re waiting, hand me that velvet hammer. The one in the toolbox.”
I handed him the hammer, and here I was, two weeks later, propped against the side of the church like a tired wooden Indian, the back of my neck heating up, remembering how I had scoffed at Sam’s prediction.
Well, to make a long story short, I did see. All too well. As I watched, the good ladies of my congregation, with their starched Sunday dresses flapping like flags about their legs, tried rather unsuccessfully to place tablecloths and napkins atop the plank-covered trestles arranged in rows beneath the elm trees at the edge of the churchyard. Unsuccessfully because as soon as someone neatly spread a tablecloth, the wind would come along and flip it into the grass. Or happily toss the napkins into the air. Or simply poof the poor lady’s skirt up around her ears until she was forced to drop everything in an attempt to maintain her dignity, and the moment she did, the wind would take everything—tablecloth, napkins, paper plates and cups—and gleefully scatter them to hell and back.
At my back, through the walls of the old church, I heard the sweet voices of the Methodist choir practicing, yet again, one of the hymns they had chosen for this occasion. Behind the emphatic lead of the ancient upright piano—which still wasn’t tuned right, dammit—I heard the choir sing the old familiar lyrics I grew up with.
Shall we gather at the ri-i-iver,
The beautiful, the beautiful r-i-i-iver.
Before the verse was finished, a particularly energetic gust of wind rattled the elm branches, and rain began to splatter the sidewalk at my feet and plunk against the tall windows of the church. Then something a bit more insistent began plunking at the window beside me, and I turned to see Sam tapping at the glass from inside the chapel and pointing to the ladies out there beneath the trees as they frantically gathered up the tumbling paraphernalia of our ill-timed basket dinner. With squeals of laughter, they began scurrying, light-footed, through the wet grass toward the church to seek shelter from the quickening rain.
As luck would have it, the food was already in the basement.
“Just in case,” Sam had said earlier, with a wary eye on that ugly sky overhead as the ladies began arriving with dishes upon pots upon containers of every sort, filled with heaven knows what but all smelling so wonderful it sent saliva dribbling off the end of my chin as if the gaskets in my mouth had dissolved from the sheer splendor of it all.
As my nephew Jesse, fifteen years old and looking uncomfortably spit shined on this summer afternoon, and his friend Kyle, looking equally clean and miserable, ran past me to help the ladies do what they had to do, I realized it might not be a bad idea if I helped them a bit myself. They weren’t paying me to prop up the church. I was supposed to be the man in charge.
Before I could set off to assist the ladies of Nine Mile, a loud crack of thunder made me jump straight up into the air and bang my head on the underside of the electric meter nailed to the side of the church.
One of the ladies squealed in mock terror as she ran for the door, trailing a tablecloth over her head to protect her hair from the rain. Manly enough not to squeal, or so I hoped, I caught one last glimpse of Sam’s laughing face in the window as I sprinted for the door myself. Rather than mowing the good woman down in my haste to escape the now cascading sheets of rain, it seemed a bit more gallant to grab her arm and lead her safely, but hurriedly, up the church steps and into the vestibule. There we shook ourselves off like a couple of wet dogs and laughed at the silliness of the situation.
Never one to miss an opportunity to embarrass me, as old friends always seem to do, Sam gave me a good-natured ribbing as I stood in the vestibule, dripping. “Good Lord, Brian! It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Let’s have a picnic, shall we?”
Sam’s aunt Mrs. Shanahan, a rotund lady of eighty-some years with blue finger-waved hair that rolled across the top of her head like a corrugated tin roof, and possessing a voice that could crack obsidian, came to my rescue. Not. Mrs. Shanahan and I were adversaries from way back. She used to chase me out of her scuppernong arbor back in my youthful, barefoot days, and she had been chasing me one way or another ever since.
“Now, Sam. Mustn’t pick at the poor man just because he chose the worst day we’ve had in six months to hold our annual basket dinner. We’ll get by. We always do. Old Reverend Morton, now. He knew how to pick ’em. Always chose the prettiest day of the year. I asked him once how he managed to do that year after year, and he said he asked God to set the date for him. Now, there was a man of faith!”
He was also a pompous old windbag who inevitably smelled of garlic and cheap aftershave, I thought, rather uncharitably, I suppose, for a Methodist minister. Especially when referring to the man of God who had preceded me at my post for nigh on fifteen years. But it was true nevertheless. Reverend Morton was the dullest man to set foot on this planet since the conception of time, and if he ever spoke directly to God, and God actually deigned to answer, then I was a Kurdish camel driver on the road to popedom.
“But never mind,” Mrs. Shanahan yammered on, giving Sam a wink and me a snarl. “We’ll eat inside. Lord knows we haven’t had to do that for ages. Kind of defeats the purpose of an outdoor basket dinner, don’t you know. But what the hey? The food’s good. That’s what counts. Right, Jesse?”
A hand the size of a thirty-dollar pot roast came out of nowhere and slapped Jesse on the back. I could hear the boy’s teeth rattle from the impact. The poor kid looked vaguely appalled at being thusly singled out for an opinion, but he carried it off well enough. “Suppose so,” he mumbled to no one in particular. At the same time, he rolled his shoulder around to get some circulation back into it. “I like the rain.”
Mrs. Shanahan enthusiastically pounded his back again, this time nearly driving the boy to his knees, which elicited a snicker from his friend Kyle. She appeared oblivious to her own strength. “Of course you do, Jesse!” her voice boomed out. “You and everybody else within shouting distance come from good American farm stock. Ain’t a farmer been hatched yet that don’t like the rain. In decent doses, that is.”
The woman stuck her great arm through mine and dragged me toward the basement steps. “Come on, Reverend. Let’s get the tables set up downstairs. Gotta work before we eat, you know.”
Sam stood on the sidelines, watching this exchange with laughing eyes and a heart, I’m sure, that soared with happiness. Nothing amused him more than my own embarrassment. If you get to really know Sam, sooner or later he’ll tell you about the time I peed my pants in first grade. But let’s not get into that.
I was still being dragged along in Mrs. Shanahan’s wake when a sudden burst of lightning made her tighten her grip on my arm and hasten her step. She came to life like Frankenstein’s monster, I pleasantly conjectured, rather happy with my choice of metaphor, and at the same time, I wondered how the woman could so unfailingly steer my mind into such unchristian corridors. It was a talent at which she positively excelled.
Sam made a face as if he knew what I was thinking, which he probably did. He grabbed Jesse and Kyle around their necks and dragged them down the basement steps behind me. As we headed underground, the sound of thunder receded, to be replaced by the confused babble of a hundred happy voices all jabbering at once in delirious abandon.
The church basement was large, thank heavens, but still every corner was filled. Colorful print dresses were interspersed only occasionally with the more somber shirt and tie. It was a weekday, after all, and most of the farmers were in their fields, or had been until the rain started. Only their wives could afford the luxury of a day off. But even they had earned it. The array of supper dishes and cake plates and aluminum pots and pans of every shape and size confirmed that fact. Food was everywhere. The air was alive with the smell of it. These ladies hadn’t simply popped out of bed that morning and dressed for church. Most of them had been up half the night preparing dishes they could be proud of. Dishes, they hoped, that would pucker their neighbors’ hearts with envy.
Basically, they were showing off. But Lord, theirs was a vanity of which I fully approved.
It didn’t take us long, with all hands chipping in, to arrange the food on tables along the basement wall.
It was a mouth-watering assortment, to be sure. Meats first, then came the casseroles and veggies, and after that the delicacies I loved the best. Homemade pickles, wilted lettuce swimming in sugar and bacon grease (hellish in cholesterol but heavenly on the palate), tiny ears of young corn dabbed with freshly churned butter, garden fresh radishes and peppers dipped in vinegar, and a dozen other trifles.
After that, as you greedily meandered down the line of tables, you came to the breads and biscuits: Freshly baked sourdough that had been tenderly raised—covered with a dishcloth and placed in the sun for warmth—transforming it from an unappetizing wad of pale dough to one of God’s greatest gifts to man, next only to the sacred act of sex itself. Chunks of home-baked bread the size of concrete blocks that you pulled apart with your hands. Round slabs of cornbread baked in cast-iron skillets and sliced in triangles, pie-fashion. Muffins of every shape and flavor—apple, blueberry, carrot, gooseberry, hickory nut, pumpkin, zucchini, and some that were unrecognizable but delicious just the same.
After the muffins, as you neared the apex of this fattening runway, you came to the desserts. Pies of every flavor, with delicate designs carved into the crusts. An angel food cake standing a foot high if it was an inch and topped with strawberries from someone’s garden. Freshly picked cherries buried in coconut and whipped cream, cookies piled high on platters, a dozen different kinds, and at the end my personal favorite: a peach cobbler, baked, I knew, by Mrs. Shanahan, who with those pot-roast-size hands of hers could pull culinary wonders from her oven.
Guilt over calories consumed would come later. For now, everyone dedicated themselves, heart and soul, to the business at hand. We milled around like cows on a hillside, chewing our cuds, eyes half-closed in delirious bliss, as if this were the sole purpose for our existence. To eat. We did it with unbridled enthusiasm, occasionally exclaiming over a particularly delightful discovery and calling out to ask who made it. When the culprit was found, it was usually a stocky housewife with sunburned cheeks and eyes that crinkled at the corners from squinting in a truck garden for hours on end beneath a blazing summer sun. Hearing the compliments, a blush of pride from all the praise accorded her would raise the pink glow of those sunburned cheeks to a happy, fiery red. Then, to ease herself humbly from the spotlight, she would cry out in praise of some delicacy or other, and in so doing, pass the torch to someone else.
It was all very civilized and Christian. These people were, after all, friends. Many of them had known each other, like Sam and I, since birth. They understood that praise, like butter, must be spread around. One brief moment of glory was enough for anyone, but once your moment ended, lend it to someone else. Otherwise, the next time praise was being flung about like candy at a parade, you might find none of it flying in your direction. They were friends, yes, but they were friends who never forgot a kindness or a slight.
After a time, the clatter of forks on plates diminished, and snippets of conversations could be heard that didn’t always refer to the food at hand. The feeding frenzy was winding down.
I sat back, sandwiched as I was between Sam and Mrs. Shanahan, gorged like a tick about to pop. Casually, so as not to be unduly noticed, I loosened my belt a notch. Sam looked about as miserable as I did, although he was still chomping on a fistful of oatmeal cookies.
I tried not to puke watching him, and while I gave my glutted body a much-needed rest, I let my attention roam around the room as I studied the faces of my flock.
These were the people who worshipped in my church, who suffered through my sermons, who sometimes came to me with their problems. We seemed a cozy, friendly group, sitting there huddled together with our bellies full while the summer storm howled outside.
The farmers should be happy, I reflected, watching the rain slap against the little ground-level windows placed high along the basement walls. They had certainly needed this rain, even if I had not. But what the hey, rain or not, the annual basket dinner appeared to be a raging success. Perhaps the rain had brought us closer together, here in this crowded basement room, than we would have felt underneath the elms outside with the endless summer sky overhead.
Gradually, for lack of anything better to do and too stuffed to do it even if there had been, I tuned in to the voices around me.
Mrs. Shanahan’s, of course, was the first to pierce my awareness. She leaned across me and Sam to speak to Aggie Snyder, who was one of the farm wives and who, at the moment, was about as pregnant as a human being can be. Mrs. Shanahan blithely ignored Sam and me as if we were a couple of fence posts someone had had the audacity to sink into the ground smack in front of her face.
“Lordy, Aggie, I feel as full as you look! And this girdle is cutting me in two. ‘Comfortable support for a lovelier you,’ the box said. That’s a laugh!”
They come in boxes? I asked myself. Like stereos? In the meantime, Sam choked on a cookie.
Like Mrs. Shanahan, Aggie leaned over Sam and me as if we didn’t exist. “I don’t know why you bother wearing those silly things. I really don’t. You have a lovely, full figure. If you’re trying to catch a man,” she teased, “it will take more than a girdle.”
“Yes,” Sam whispered in my ear, “a bazooka,” causing us both to break into giggles.
Mrs. Shanahan cackled as happily as we did. “A man? I’ve had a man, and let me tell you, they ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. I married Mr. Shanahan fifty-seven years ago. He hung around for two months, bailed out one morning after breakfast, and I haven’t seen him since. The laziest creature that ever walked the face of the earth! Wouldn’t milk the cows ’cause he said it pained his knees. Wouldn’t hang my new kitchen curtains ’cause he said it pained his neck, don’t you know, reaching his arms way up over his head like that. That man had more pains than a window factory!”
She leaned in even closer to Aggie Snyder, pushing my back to the wall with her head a mere inch and a half from my lap. “A man, you say! What on earth would I do with a man?”
And what, I wondered as I studied those intricate blue waves that seemed to undulate across the top of her head with a life of their own, would he possibly do with you?
Chapter One
FROM THE passenger seat, Jamie Roma slipped a hand under the shirttail of the man driving the car. He chuckled to himself when the car swerved off the road, then lurched back onto the asphalt in a spray of gravel and mud.
Derek Lee growled through what Jamie considered to be the sexiest pair of lips he had ever seen in his life. “Jesus, if that hand had gone into my pants, we’d be dead now.”
“Dead but happy,” Jamie whispered back.
Derek made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. Mostly, Jamie figured, it was a groan. Jamie didn’t mind not getting a laugh at his feeble joke, because at the same time as he was groaning, Derek was also tucking his own hand under his shirt and stroking Jamie’s fingers.
They were motoring across the high desert thirty miles outside San Diego. Even had there been daylight, there would have been nothing to see but rolling hills, a bunch of boulders scattered around like spilled Legos, and about a gazillion clumps of sagebrush. As it was, they couldn’t even see that because darkness had fallen with a resounding thud about three hours back. And now not only was it night, it was a moonless and starless night, thanks to the rain clouds that had been forming overhead all day. If not for the Toyota’s headlights and the gleam of the GPS system on the dashboard, they would have been floundering through a sea of bottomless black shadow—blind, directionless, lost.
It was also lonely. They hadn’t seen another car for ages.
Jamie jumped, pointing through the windshield at a sudden twitch of movement up ahead on the side of the road. “Lookie! A coyote!”
No sooner had he cried out than the animal froze, every ounce of its attention trained on the approaching car. The coyote’s eyes were like teeny tiny flashlights, beaming straight back at them. The beast didn’t run; it didn’t cower; it simply stood there with its front feet on the road and its rear end in the bushes, waiting patiently for the car to speed past so it could go on about its business.
“It’s not afraid of us,” Jamie said.
“Why should it be?” Derek snorted. “It’s not the one that’s lost. And don’t say ‘Lookie.’ You sound like a three-year-old.”
Jamie slapped Derek’s arm at the exact moment he spun around in his seat to look behind them as the car zoomed past the coyote. For the briefest of moments, he spotted the creature flashing to life in the red glow of the car’s taillights. Then the animal melted into the receding darkness as if it had never been there at all. Jamie swung back around and replaced his hand on Derek’s bare belly.
He sighed.
“What’s with the sigh?” Derek asked.
“Nothing. Just happy.”
“You’re not getting romantic, are you?”
It was Jamie’s turn to snort. “I don’t get romantic. I’m just a guy who’s having fun driving along with his oldest friend in the world who happens to be an occasional trick.”
“Occasional as in every single night for the last two months.”
“Well, yeah.”
“After all these years of friendly abstinence together, we suddenly jump into bed and pork like bunny rabbits for eight solid weeks.”
“Pork like bunny rabbits. What a lovely expression. Rates right up there with fuck your balls off.”
“Oh hush. I wonder how it happened.”
“How what happened?”
“How we ended up in bed together that first night.”
Jamie gave Derek time to think about it while he enjoyed the sensation of exploring Derek’s tight little belly button with a fingertip. “Hormones, I guess,” Derek finally said. “Horny, humpy hormones.”
This time when Jamie groaned, it was a real one. “Yeah. And tequila. Lots and lots of tequila. My head still hurts.”
“How about your ass?”
“That too. But in a good way. And that’s from last night, not two months ago.”
They laughed, and Derek stroked Jamie’s hand again, making Jamie’s laugh ratchet down to a dreamy little smile. He couldn’t see it on his own face because he was too lazy to look in the visor mirror, but he knew it was there all the same. It was somewhat worrisome, too, that dreamy, contemplative smile he could feel twitching on his lips. My God, what if he was beginning to feel romantic about Derek? What would that do to their lifelong friendship?
“We met in fifth grade,” Jamie said, pondering out loud.
Derek cracked the window to get some air into the car. Either the night had grown warmer, or he was having a hot flash. He realized, of course, that Jamie’s roving fingers so close to his groin might have something to do with that. “I know. I was there. You tried to steal my milk. Hmm,” he hummed, sticking his nose through the crack, “smell that night air.”
Jamie rolled his own window down, letting in a blast of air that made his hair thrash around on top his head. He stuck his face through the opening, squinting into the night. “Smells like a monsoon coming!” he yelled into the empty countryside.
“They don’t have monsoons in California!” Derek bellowed. “And get back in here. You look like a Rottweiler hanging out a car door with his tongue flapping in the wind.”
Jamie dragged himself back inside. He was grinning like an idiot, hair going every which way. Batting his eyelashes, he leaned against his seat belt and laid his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Ooh, if I was a Rottweiler, we could do it doggy style.”
Derek laughed. “And break every law of nature there is. You’re impossible.”
A sudden flash of lightning sizzled across the sky in front of them, making them both jump. A moment later, fat raindrops began pelting the windshield. Derek switched on the wipers. Soon their comforting song filled the interior of the car. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It was a pleasant sound, Jamie thought. With his head still snuggled against Derek’s shoulder, Jamie returned his hand to Derek’s bare belly. His fingers twiddled idly with the hair around Derek’s navel. Both men grew quiet as they watched the road in front of them darken with rain.
“Any idea where we are?” Jamie asked.
With his lips in Jamie’s hair, Derek gave a good-natured growl. “Oh ye of little faith. I know exactly where we are.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere north of Mexico and south of the Bering Strait.”
“Very funny.”
Derek tapped the GPS monitor on the dashboard. “Honestly. We’re right where we’re supposed to be. See? There should be a turnoff coming up soon, and a few miles after that, a bridge. We’ll cross the bridge and continue on down a gravel side road for fifteen miles or so, and that will lead us unveeringly toward the house we’re trying to find.”
“So you hope,” Jamie drawled.
To which Derek didn’t quibble. “Yes. So I hope.”
For the space of about fifteen seconds, the rain came down so hard that even the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The sound was deafening. The downpour pummeled the car, almost stripping Jamie’s breath away. Being a Southern California boy, Jamie was more accustomed to drought. He didn’t like storms. When the rain eased up a little, his blood pressure dropped. He tried to relax. Through the streaming windshield, he could see the empty highway stretching out before them, disappearing into the rainy, wind-tossed distance. Derek tapped his index finger against the steering wheel. Clearly he was about to say something important. Which he finally did.
“I know we’ve been over this a dozen times, but I still don’t understand why we both received invitations to a house party from someone we don’t know.”
“From someone we assume we don’t know,” Jamie corrected. “Since the invitations weren’t signed, we really don’t know if we’re acquainted with the person who sent them or not. Personally, I think it’s some idiot friend of ours.”
“But we don’t know that for sure,” Derek pointed out. “And still, Jamie Roma, you putz, you insisted we come anyway.”
Jamie laughed. “Because it’s an adventure! It’s a lark. It’s mysterious. It’s a weekend house party in the middle of nowhere, fifty miles out of the city, cut off from the world, and being hosted by someone we may or may not know for reasons we haven’t got a clue about. Besides, at the bottom of the invitations they promised heart-stopping door prizes. Quote, unquote. Who could say no to heart-stopping door prizes?”
“Anybody with brains!” Derek snarled. “I’ve seen horror movies that start this way. While we’re tooling down this spookyass, rain-drenched highway heading straight into the maw of oblivion with thunder and lightning crashing and flashing all around us, I can imagine the opening credits of a really gory slasher movie unscrolling over our heads as we speak. Jamie and Derek on the Highway to Hell. Three for the Road with Jamie, Derek, and Leatherface. Queers on Elm Street.”
“That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there. Listen. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”
“Oh please, Jamie. When have you ever not steered me wrong? Remember that Mexican restaurant you wanted to try last week? The one where the cockroach crawled out of my taco?”
“You should have had a burrito.”
Derek ignored that. “I wonder how many guests there will be.”
“Like I care. Let’s just hope the booze doesn’t run out.” Jamie perked up. “Suppose there will be tequila?”
This time Derek’s groan came from the heart. “Oh God, I hope not. One shot of tequila and you end up with your legs in the air, toes pointed straight at the ceiling.”
“Why, thank you.”
Derek laughed. “No, thank you.”
Derek took their lives in his hands by leaning into the darkness and planting a kiss on Jamie’s eagerly expectant mouth. At the same time, their lives were further imperiled when Jamie’s fingers diddled their way south, burrowing under the buckle of Derek’s belt, which he cleverly unclasped with a flick of his thumb. Houdini couldn’t have done it better.
The car swerved again when Jamie wiggled out from under his shoulder harness and lowered his head to Derek’s lap. Rooting around with his nose like a hog hunting truffles, he unearthed exactly what he was searching for, and for the next three miles, not a word was spoken between the two.
The silence was finally broken when Derek stiffened all over and gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. Far beyond his ability to do anything about it, his hips lurched upward and he emitted a delicious moan.
“That’s my boy,” Jamie mumbled, smiling. “Let it go. And try not to run us off a cliff when you do.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Derek gasped, once again lifting his ass off the seat until there was a good six inches of daylight showing beneath him—if there had been any daylight available on this miserably stormy night. While a brand-new onslaught of rain and wind pummeled the car and rocked it back and forth, he clutched a fistful of Jamie’s hair with the one free hand he dared take off the wheel.
For the next thirty seconds or so, Jamie Roma worked just as hard as the windshield wipers—trying desperately to stay ahead of the deluge.
TEN MINUTES later, Derek’s clothes were once again buttoned, zipped, and properly tucked into place, thanks to a little help from Jamie, who proved to be equally adept at getting Derek dressed in the cramped front seat of the car as he was in getting him undressed. With his heart still thumping in his ears and feeling smugly self-satisfied now that Jamie had had his way with him, which was what Derek had hoped for all along, he repositioned himself comfortably behind the steering wheel and drove on through the pounding rain.
Beside him, Jamie—also licking his lips but for different reasons—leaned forward and squinted through the rainwater sluicing down the windshield. He instantly gave a whoop.
“There’s the turnoff!” he cried, grabbing the dashboard. “Right there. Don’t miss it. Turn! Turn!”
Derek jumped in response and banged his head on the roof of the car. Then he slammed on the brakes, all but strangling them both against their seat belts. The car jolted to a stop in a mudhole the size of Lake Tahoe. Outside, the rain had turned to hail. It clattered off the hood and pounded on the metal roof while Derek stared out, bug-eyed, at what lay ahead. He glanced at Jamie, and in the glow from the dash lights, saw the look of horror on Jamie’s face. He was pretty sure that same horror was plastered all over his own puss. And why wouldn’t it be? After all, the situation, the night, and especially the road ahead, looked far from promising. To say the least.
They both peered intently forward, studying the terrain.
What was labeled a county road that appeared perfectly respectable meandering its way across the map on the GPS monitor was in reality little more than two muddy ruts awash in the storm. Those ruts wove their way toward a wind-tossed wilderness of trees—some pine, some deciduous and bare. They were etched into stark relief by an occasional stab of lightning sizzling across the heavens above.
“Think this is where the Donner party got lost?” Derek mumbled under his breath.
“Don’t be silly. Just keep driving,” Jamie said. “What have we got to lose?”
“I shudder to think,” Derek answered, but he did as directed and drove on anyway.
The road was rent with washboards and potholes, and muddy water splashed all the way up to the door handles as they bumped and lunged their way along. If not for their seat belts, they would have had their brains bashed out on the roof of the car. The chassis of the vehicle squeaked and creaked beneath them, complaining every inch of the way, and Derek wondered if his poor old Toyota would survive the journey at all.
After several minutes of this, while rain and hail pelted them from above and gale-force winds jostled them from the side, Jamie leaned forward and, with his hot breath steaming the windshield in front of him, cried out, “There’s the bridge!”
Once again, Derek slammed on the brakes. This time the car slued sideways. It sloshed to a stop, still hanging on to the narrow roadway without sliding off into the bracken on either side.
Derek was just beginning to wonder if Jamie’s fingernails were leaving claw marks on his faux-leather dashboard when he decided to lean forward and study what lay ahead, hoping to come up with a game plan on how to proceed. With help from the headlights and an occasional explosion of lightning, he got a pretty good idea what they were up against, and it wasn’t encouraging.
Tucked in among the pine trees, the contraption that had the audacity to call itself a bridge squatted there in front of them in all its rustic splendor. In truth, it was merely a one-lane clapboard affair with no visible metal framework or overhead support beams and no railings on either side. Rickety, wooden, poorly constructed, the bridge looked like a death trap gleefully waiting for the next two gay boys to come along so it could snatch them into a premature and entirely unprepared-for afterlife.
“Is that thing safe?” Derek asked through squeaky, tight lips. “It doesn’t look safe. Do you think it’s safe?”
“Like I know,” Jamie all but snarled, clearly not optimistic.
In a momentary lull in the downpour, while the precipitation once again shifted from hail to rain—which in Derek’s opinion was a step in the right direction—he cocked his head to the side and breathed, “Listen!” For the space of half a dozen heartbeats they sat frozen in place, staring out the windshield. The air around them was alive with the sounds of the storm above their heads.
“If this rain keeps up,” Derek said, “it could cause a flash flood in the arroyo under the bridge.”
Jamie groaned. “Great. Could the water get high enough to wash the bridge away?”
“I don’t know.”
Jamie tried again. “Well, if we get across and the bridge is washed away behind us, is there a way for us to get back to where we started?”
“You mean back to the city?”
“Yeah. Back to the city.”
Derek punched a few buttons on the GPS monitor, scanning the maps that popped up, tracing the lines depicting roadways with a trembling fingertip.
Finally he said, “No. If we cross this bridge, there’s no way back, not on any sort of marked road at any rate.”
“And if we don’t cross the bridge, we’ll miss the party. Not to mention having driven all this way for nothing.”
“What are you doing?” Derek asked. “Weighing our lives against the possibility of free booze and door prizes?”
Jamie turned to him, his face suddenly lit with a familiar glimmer of mischief. It was his “it’s Saturday night, let’s get rowdy and raise hell, screw the consequences, I’ve got bail money” look. Derek knew it well.
“Well, yeah,” Jamie patiently explained. “What other criteria do you need?”
“I’m vaguely appalled by that devil-may-care light in your eyes,” Derek drawled. He tore his gaze from Jamie’s sexy grin and back to the bridge in front of them. “Almost as appalled as I am by the prospect of driving over that ricketyass bridge. Think the other guests got across already?”
Jamie thought about that for a minute. “Actually, we don’t even know if there are any other guests.”
“You’re right,” Derek agreed. “We don’t. What sort of idiots accept a party invitation in the middle of nowhere when they don’t know who sent the invitation or how many guests will be there when they arrive?”
“Idiots like us. I say we go for it. Cross the bridge.”
“What if it collapses?”
Jamie gave a dismissive wave at the structure in front of them. “Oh pshaw. It looks like it’s been standing for a couple of centuries already. What are the odds of it collapsing tonight at the exact moment we’re scurrying across?”
Derek chewed on the inside of his jaw. “I hate it when you say pshaw. It sounds so bucolic.”
“I’m a bucolic sort of guy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a citified wimp! But you’re right. Statistically, if the bridge has withstood the elements this long, it should be safe enough for the next two minutes.”
“Exactly. And we definitely need to get where we’re going, because I could really use a drink right now. If this party is hosted by teetotalers, I’m going to be extremely upset. Cross the fucking bridge.”
“You’re crazy.”
Jamie shrugged. “So are you. Cross the bridge.”
“We should have packed our own booze.”
“You’re right, but it’s too late now. Oh wait, look up ahead. What’s that tucked in among the brambles and the blackberry bushes? Can it be? It is! It’s a liquor store!”
There was nothing ahead but trees and mud and rain. “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”
“Who me? Cross the bridge.”
Derek slipped the car into Drive. “If we die, thanks for the blowjob.”
“No, thank you,” Jamie innocently beamed, licking his lips.
And with both men holding their breath, Derek floored the car and sailed out across the bridge.
Still holding their breath a moment later, they came to a sloshing, jolting stop inside a foot-deep mudhole on the far side. They turned to peer through the rear window. In the red glow of taillights, the wooden structure gave a shudder, then seemed to settle.
“See,” Jamie said. “We’re fine.”
As if his words had conjured disaster out of thin air, there came a horrific grinding, tumbling, rushing noise that seemed to be churning its way up from the depths of the earth itself. A surge of dark water poured down the arroyo and dashed against the side of the bridge. With a heave upward amid a tiny explosion of splintered timbers, the bridge collapsed in upon itself and disappeared without a trace. One second it was there, the next it was gone, washed away in the churning flood below.
“Well, poop,” Jamie whispered in the sudden silence. His eyes, Derek noticed, were as big as dinner plates.
Less than eagerly, they turned back to study the muddy, rutted path ahead. The storm had sprinkled it with evergreen bows and pine cones ripped from the living trees. The trees themselves appeared beaten down and half stripped bare, their heads bowed in the gusting wind. Fighting to stand upright against the onslaught, they shook and thrashed on both sides of the road. Derek didn’t want to think about what might be lurking among the spookyass shadows between their battered trunks. He forced his attention dead ahead at the disappearing roadway weaving a winding narrow mud-holed path through the trees toward a stormy, uncertain distance.
“This had better be a damn good party,” Derek muttered.
Jamie grunted in agreement. Terse for Jamie, Derek thought, who usually blathered on endlessly about everything. With Jamie’s fingers tightening on his thigh, Derek tapped the accelerator enough to urge the car slowly forward into that nightmarish tunnel burrowing its way between the trees ahead. The car rocked and lurched as they sloshed and splashed and squelched along, sinking hubcap-deep into every rain-glutted pothole they passed.
Derek decided on the spot that the only enjoyable part of this miserable night was having Jamie at his side to suffer through it with him. Creeped out by the storm and the collapsing bridge and the wind and the spooky, shadowy trees, Derek was nevertheless vaguely astounded by how much he enjoyed having Jamie with him. After all, Jamie was just a friend, although there was no denying they had suddenly slipped into the realm of fuckbuddydom lately. So what did that mean exactly? Did it mean Jamie had suddenly become something more than a friend?
Dumb question.
Derek allowed a smile to play at the corners of his mouth as he drove down the miserable, bumpy cow path. He glanced down at Jamie’s hand still resting on his thigh, and his smile widened.
“Don’t worry,” he softly said. “We’ll be fine.”
Jamie didn’t speak, but his fingers tightened on Derek’s leg, and that was answer enough.
Turning his attention back to the road, Derek drove on through the storm. Comforted by Jamie’s touch, he hummed a quiet song deep in his throat to the rhythm of the whooshing wiper blades.
With hail still clattering across the roof of the car and the bridge now washed out behind them, he suddenly wondered what the heck he was humming about.
He also began to wonder—all kidding aside—if they’d really be fine at all.
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box?
Hieronymus Bash contemplated the question posed by the long, red-lettered banner that blazoned over the otherwise quaint fruit and vegetable stall. A sharp tug of the arm from Callie, his ward, brought him to heel. He’d already been struggling to match her brisk pace, having been dragged from his early afternoon repose in the cozy climes of his study into, of all things, the sunshine, or what passed for it on this weak-tea day.
Rays of piss-yellow sun trickled down over the city, tinting the fumes that oozed up from the Thames. Clouds of smog blurred the distant Albert Bridge into an impressionist’s nightmare. A growing crowd choked the small stage erected just before the river’s edge, scuttling in from both directions of Cheyne Walk like ants over a carcass. A bald man with a white mustache that flapped out to his ears checked his pocket watch for the fourth time since Hiero and his companions descended from their carriage.
At the far end of the stage, a squad of low-rank militia struggled to keep a path clear for the Duke of Edinburgh and his bride, Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia, only beloved daughter of Tsar Alexander II. The newlyweds were, in the timeless tradition of royals everywhere, unfashionably late to the opening of the Chelsea Embankment, the third and final stage of the sewage system that had transformed London’s riverside.
“Look, it’s Bazalgette!” Callie tugged him forward, doing a fine impression of an excitable hound.
“While I admire your enthusiasm, I do wonder if it’s not a tad misplaced.”
Callie scoffed. “Only you would prefer the arrival of some dippy duke over the architect of this entire endeavor.” She threw her free arm out wide. “Can you not spare a moment to admire this feat of engineering? In the place of muddy banks, pavement has been laid, a fence with lampposts erected, with gardens and greenery to come. And running beneath it, the waste of London, and soon an underground train! How can you be so trout-mouthed in the face of such marvels?”
“Not your most persuasive argument, comparing the face that dropped a thousand trousers to a fishmonger’s wares.”
Callie sighed, relinquishing his arm to chase after her muttonchopped idol. Hiero watched her go, marveling at how much she resembled her Uncle Apollo, Hiero’s long-deceased lover who had charged him with her care in character and spirit. Theirs was an unconventional household, where the lady moonlighted as a detective, the servants were part of the family, and the lord of the manor—Hiero himself—was neither a lord nor owned the manor.
“Come now.” Han, his friend and self-appointed keeper, fell into step beside him. The rhythmic taps of his lotus-headed walking stick slowed their pace to a stroll. “You’re no longer catch of the day with Mr. Stoker about.”
“Perhaps if he were about, someone would defend my honor.” Hiero bristled at the mention of his fair-weather paramour, Timothy Kipling Stoker, a detective inspector with Scotland Yard who shadowed them when there was a mystery to solve but otherwise preoccupied himself with... well, finding them another mystery. His dedication to duty exasperated.
“Not likely.”
“No, I rather thought not.” Hiero pressed a lavender handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Mr. Bazalgette’s innovations would have to work much harder to filter out nearly a millennia of filth, the river being a cesspit into which the city had poured every conceivable kind of rubbish, from human to animal to otherwise. A place where sins had been cast off and bodies buried. A few of Hiero’s personal acquaintance.
“Where has your Mr. Stoker taken himself off to this—” Han considered the urinal murk of the embankment and found himself at a loss of an adjective. “—afternoon?”
“I do not presume to know what impulses rule that man.”
“And yet you are the one who rides his... coattails.”
“Only when he deigns to undress for the occasion. Otherwise...” Hiero huffed, his mood irretrievably spoilt by this line of conversation. “I cannot think where I’ve gone wrong with him.”
“No?” Han evidenced something close to a smirk. “It wouldn’t have something to do with meddling in his work affairs, compromising his relationship with his superiors, forcing him into our fellowship, risking everything he holds dear, and then sharing nothing of consequence about yourself, now would it?”
Hiero peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing of the sort, I’m sure.”
“Ah. Well, then, it is a mystery.”
“Coo-coo! Mr. Han!” a voice trilled at them from behind.
With a pair of heavy sighs, they turned to heed an all-too-familiar call. A hand waiving a white handkerchief fluttered up and down amidst a dense crowd. A grunt from Han parted the sea of surging revelers to reveal Shahida Kala, the latest of Hiero’s charity cases, hopping with the vigor of a spring hare. Her compact figure contained a carnival of personality.
The instant this bright light had beamed into his study on the arm of her father—who served under Apollo in Her Majesty’s Navy—Hiero recognized her for one of the rare people who could steal his spotlight. So he had relegated her to the least enviable position in the household, that of nurse to Mrs. Lillian Pankhurst, Callie’s permanently indisposed mother. But the long days of attic dwelling and reading Richardson’s Pamela ad nauseam had not snuffed a single spark.
Instead Lillian had transformed from bed-ridden depressive into a semifunctional member of the family. Every morning she and Shahida took a two-hour stroll. They cultivated a rooftop garden. Shahida had imposed an afternoon tea regimen on their household, always leading the conversation as Hiero, Callie, and Han plotted ways to return to their preferred solitary occupations. Dinners were always a family affair, but Shahida’s insistence on more healthful, nourishing fare that conformed to Lillian’s new diet had Minnie, their cook, weekly threatening to resign. Callie was the only other member of the household resistant to her charms.
Even Han, cynical, monkish, seen-it-all Han, danced to whichever melody she played. Hiero watched as he bounded over to her, biting his lip at the comical sight of a surly giant bowing to the whims of a pretty imp, but also to keep from emitting a growl of frustration. He glanced back to search for Callie, but the crowd had swallowed her. By now she’d likely clawed her way to the front of the stage and barked questions at a baffled, bewhiskered Mr. Bazalgette, which Hiero thought should be his formal title.
Schooling his features, he joined Han and Shahida’s conversation in medias res and was somewhat aghast to discover them talking about produce.
“... the plumpest, juiciest berries. Artichokes the size of a fist. Fat aubergines and cabbages and cauliflowers, and cucumbers as long as...” Shahida pressed two fingers to her mouth. Hiero didn’t miss how her eyes flickered down. “Well.”
Shameless, that was the trouble. As if she’d snipped the best pages from his playbook and then had the temerity to improve on his notes.
Han chuckled. Chuckled! Hiero hadn’t seen his friend so much as shrug in all the time he’d known him.
“A religious order, you say?” Han asked.
“The Daughters of Eden.” Shahida leaned in, gave him her most conspiratorial smirk. “And I think they might be.” She didn’t even have the grace to straighten when she spotted Hiero. “Oh, Mr. Bash! Mrs. Pankhurst and I don’t mean to spoil your fun. But if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll stay here for a while. We’ve discovered the most—”
“Impressive cucumbers. So I heard.”
“Mrs. Pankhurst is just beside herself. We’ve big ideas for our garden, but this...”
Hiero was unmoved. “And what is it you want?”
“We’ve done our third crate and could fill two more. The crowd is bit much for Mrs. Pankhurst, so I thought Mr. Han might take us back to Berkeley Square? We’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“As it is my carriage, I rather think it will return for me regardless.”
That got her attention. “Of course. If you’d like us to stay—”
A long line of enterprising vendors hawked their wares along the edge of Cheyne Walk, hoping to entice royal watchers to purchase a bit of refinement for their life. One stall lined up its dainty little bottles of oils and perfumes like Russian nesting dolls. A mini royal portrait gallery sold likenesses of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their progeny in a variety of poses. The gentleman scooping iced lollies for the children had his work cut out for him on such a tepid day, Hiero thought. The pub with a street-side stand offering hot tea and cider already did brisk business. A few watercress girls fought against the crowd’s undertow, but their wares looked shriveled as seaweed compared to the glorious bushels of the Daughters of Eden.
Even Hiero had to admit, upon inspection, the quality of their produce astounded. Fat and luscious, their fruit allured like the bosom of an opera diva, ready to smother and enthrall. Their vegetable stalks evidenced a virility that would put most molly-houses out of business. Little wonder their customers meandered around the baskets like lovestruck swains. Their bounty conjured images of orgies culinary and carnal. Hiero didn’t doubt there were more than a few serpents lurking about this tiny Eden, eager to defile a peach or two.
All of this was overseen by a trio of women dressed in immaculate white uniforms that somehow defied the city’s grime. Hiero drifted away from his companions to better observe these wyrd sisters. The tallest was also the least remarkable, a stout but cheery woman with farm-worn hands and hard-earned streaks of gray in her brown hair. She milled through the customers, answering questions and nudging reluctant buyers toward the register.
A skittish dove of a girl dutifully kept the ledger and the cash box, cooing her thanks before slipping some sort of pamphlet into people’s baskets. Her crinkly hair had been woven into two winglike braids that perfectly framed her heart-shaped face. A sprinkling of dark freckles contrasted with her pale-brown skin, all but disappearing when she blushed.
Which she did whenever the third sister glanced her way. “Willowy” did not do this petite, flopsy woman justice. A willow branch would look as leathery and stiff as a whip compared to her wispiness. Near-translucent skin and stringy cornsilk hair completed the otherworldly effect. Hiero almost questioned whether she was really there, such was the nothing of her regard. She appeared to have no occupation other than to pose under the sign in a demure attitude. The crowds gave her a wide berth, and little wonder. Nobody wanted to mingle with a possessed scarecrow.
Except possibly meddlesome not-detectives stuck on a boring outing with friends who had abandoned him for some phallic parsnips and a walrus architect.
Just as Hiero made to pounce, the waif leapt as if lightning struck. Eyes ravenous, mouth agape, hair billowing in an invisible breeze, she stared into the buzzing hive of customers. Transformed in an instant from trinket to spear, her astonishment gave color to her cheeks and heft to her bearing. She appeared somehow taller, bolder, a colossal spirit crammed into a compact package: a genie unleashed from its lamp.
All the better to bedazzle you with, my dear, Hiero thought.
Hieronymus Bash, professional cynic, knew a performance when he saw one. He read again the red sign that screamed above her head: When will She open Rebecca Northcote’s box? But there was no box he could see, and if this woodland sprite was Mrs. Northcote, he’d eat Han’s walking stick. These Daughters had lured in quite a crowd with their sensuous produce. Was she the serpent come to tempt them? And if so, to what end?
Hiero shuttered his natural radiance to watch the spectacle unfold. The pale sister glided, arms outstretched, into the maze of crates, eyes fixed on her prey. Hiero hissed under his breath when she stopped at Lillian Pankhurst. In a state of docile confusion at the best of times, Lillian continued sorting out a mess of string beans, oblivious to this starry-eyed suitor. Han, ever protective, moved to Lillian’s side just as the sister shrieked...
“Daughter! You are found!”
The woman at the ledger jumped to her feet. “Juliet?”
“I’ve heard your spirit call to us these long nights, and now you have come home!” Juliet continued at eardrum-splitting pitch, making herself heard to all in the vicinity and probably those across the Thames. “Welcome, Daughter, into Her grace and light! Welcome home!” She hugged a startled Lillian with impressive fervor for one so slender. Lillian, looking to Shahida for a cue, patted her on the back.
A frowning Han caught his gaze from across the way, but Hiero signaled he would play Polonius behind the curtain. Hopefully without the knife in his gut.
“Don’t fear, Daughter. You are among friends,” Juliet nattered on. “We have come to shepherd Her back to Eden through our good works, and, by your pallid cheeks and trembling hands, I can see that you are eager to play a part.”
“Oi!” Shahida hollered, shoving her way between Juliet and Lillian. “Mrs. Pankhurst gets three square a day, and her arthritis is much improved. I dare anyone here to say otherwise.”
“But her spirit, dear girl, droops like a flower too long out of the sun.” Juliet backed away a step to address the customers, every one of which stood rapt. “She knows how this frail woman has struggled. She has heard her prayers and her anguish. She has shone Her glorious light into her, lit her like a beacon for her sisters to find. She is a Daughter, called upon to continue Her good work and bring about a second Eden!”
Shahida let out a trill of laughter three octaves too high. It effectively pierced the balloon of hot air Juliet had been huffing and puffing.
“Angel with a flaming sword you’re not, ma’am. Sorry.” Shahida locked an arm around Lillian. “Stick to the fruit and veg.” A pointed look directed Han to escort their charge away.
“But I haven’t finished the beans...” Lillian muttered as they disappeared into the gaggle of onlookers.
“Shame!” Juliet bellowed, beseeching the yellow sky. “Shame! It is the burden of womankind.” The customers moved into the space vacated by his friends, and Hiero followed, curious as to how she would spin such a public defeat. “The prophet Rebecca Northcote warned against it in her great bible, The Coming of the Holiest Spirit. Too often we ladies wait upon the actions of others. Are made to feel shame and guilt and worthless when we do act. Allow others to lead us astray, away from the truth in our hearts. We pay the price for the sins of our fathers and brothers and husbands. But She... oh, She is coming to deliver us from these injustices, from our fears and torments. As our Holy Mother Rebecca divined, if we join together, Daughters, and build the garden, She will come to save us all. She will gift us with her light!”
“Amen!” the ledger-keeper cried, having abandoned her post to shove pamphlets into the hands of any who would take them.
“Thank you, Mother!” the other sister seconded, lifting a basket of golden pears for all to see.
Juliet scanned the crowd. “You reap of the bounty we offer, but you do not know of how we labor in Her name. To prepare for Her coming, our prophet Rebecca chose each of Her Daughters with care. And though a shame-filled few will deny Her, everyone is welcome to hear Her message and to contribute however they can.” Hiero swallowed a snicker as she gestured to the donation tin. So transparent. “If you are committed to peace and prosperity, if you would see heaven retake the Earth, then I invite you to heed our prophet Rebecca’s call. And She will shine Her light upon you for all the days of your life.”
Juliet seemed to resist taking a bow, but only just. She gave each customer a final angelic smile, then returned to her perch beneath the red sign. A few of the curious chased her with questions; a ragdoll sag and a vacant stare shut them out. Instead the ledger-keeper, who introduced herself as Sister Nora, gathered them around the donation tin before addressing any queries.
“And?” Han appeared beside him, sudden as Banquo’s ghost. “Showstopper or second-rate?”
Hiero rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Better than a pair of poncy royals cutting a ribbon, but only just.”
“Fit for a return engagement?”
“Perhaps. Their setup is commonplace, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Enough to en savoir plus?”
“Time will tell. You know how religion turns my stomach. But their focus on Lillian was...”
“Agreed. That Sister Juliet read her too easily.”
Hiero nodded. “Could have been instinct.”
“Or she saw a mark.”
They shared a look weighted by their years of friendship and experience, a partnership of equals who knew, without another word, how to protect their own.
Triple Threat by Davidson King
With Lee and Jones busy, I popped my earbuds in, hit play on my Spotify, and drowned in the sounds of Pat Benatar. I loved the ‘80s, some of the ‘90s, but damn the ‘80s had amazing music. As with every time I listened to my music, I started swaying in my seat. I closed my eyes, let my hands tap, my feet slide, and that chorus in “We Belong”… it possessed me, and I couldn’t help myself but to sing. I sang softly as to not disturb Lee and Jones.
“What the absolute fuck!” The sound of Jones’ voice broke through. I opened my eyes and pulled my buds out. The van had stopped and now Lee was standing, staring at me, too.
“Hey,” I said meekly. “What’s up?”
“You scared the crap out of me,” Jones said, and Lee nodded in agreement.
“How?”
“One second it’s all quiet, then it’s like opera cats or something,” Lee answered, and this time Jones agreed.
“Wow, that’s harsh.” I drew my legs up to my chest, hearing the faint sounds of Tiffany singing that she thinks we’re alone now.
“Just warn us when you’re going to break out into song is all,” Lee grumbled, and then got back into the driver’s seat. I slipped the earbuds back in.
A tap on my leg had me pulling out my earbuds again.
“You listen to all ‘80s or you got some not shitty crap in there?” Jones asked, and I gripped my phone like he just shit on my dreams.
“Nothing of what I have is shit!”
Lee started to laugh as he pulled back onto the road and Jones had a huge grin. It was a change I hadn’t really seen in a while. Those two actually enjoying each other. I knew there was history there, everyone did.
If they wanted to be that way, okay. “Just for that,” I said as I put the phone on speaker and hit play. Joan Jett & The Blackhearts started singing about loving rock and roll, and because they love it so much, I sang with them.
Feeling daring, I inched over to Jones who looked positively terrified, and began drumming on his legs.
“Sweet Jesus,” Lee said and laughed so loudly I lost track of my words and watched him. Tears ran down his face, and he had his arms wrapped around his middle. It was a contagious laugh, and suddenly the three of us were in hysterics.
Sunset Lake by John Inman
Chapter One
HERE IN Nine Mile, kinship still shapes daily life. Familial bonds are strong, and the ties of friendship are lifelong and rarely broken. We seem to possess the tattered remnants of a pioneer culture, with all the spirit and cohesiveness that entails, and at the same time, we find ourselves coexisting with satellite dishes and microwave ovens and shiny computer-driven automobiles that beep and boop and flash annoying little lights at us every time we do something stupid.
The people here are good, most of them. Kind, simple country folks. Many are farmers, and like good farmers everywhere, they have an undying, tongue-in-cheek faith in the ability of God or government, or both, to somehow mangle the next harvest and render it worthless.
In reality, these people haven’t changed as much as they might think they have. Their accessories have, certainly, but not the people themselves. Like the pioneers before them, their hearts are strong with reverence for country, family, friends, and church. And the land, of course. With citizens such as these, it is always the land that comes first. Always.
Put simply, they are nice, decent people. On the whole.
Exceptions, of course, can always be found.
And on this, the last day of her life, Grace Nuggett would meet one of those exceptions face-to-face.
It wasn’t the sort of day one would choose for the last day of life if one’s options were open. The rain had not yet come pelting down, but by the look of that dismal gunmetal sky above our heads, I figured it was only a matter of time before it did. From the occasional grumble of distant thunder, it seemed a safe bet Someone up there agreed with me.
Being the only Methodist minister in Nine Mile, and knowing full well the farmers were scanning the sky for the least little promise of rain to ease the long drought they had been enduring (God did it to them this time, since they couldn’t very well blame the government for the weather), I should have sent up a grateful prayer of thanks that the withered crops in the fields would finally get some much-needed moisture. But in reality, all I did was lean against the outside wall of my church, cross my arms, stare balefully at the sky, and sigh. If I were a farmer in need of sunshine, I would have had the pleasure of blaming God for this outrage, but being a preacher in need of sunshine in the middle of a drought, I didn’t quite dare. Not that I wasn’t tempted.
After two long months with nary a hint of moisture in the air, today, of all days, the sky had finally decided to open up. Sam had warned me, of course. He always does. About everything.
Sam is my go-to guy for all things mechanical, since I’m about as useful as a box of sick hamsters. Sam is also my best friend. We have known each other since we were kids growing up in this one-horse town. Looking at us, one would think we were polar opposites. Sam stands about five foot six, and I’m six four. Sam is well built, and I’m a beanpole. His hair is reddish blond while mine is black. The only thing we truly have in common, other than friendship, is the fact that we are both single. Which, of course, opens up a whole new can of worms since every woman at the church is constantly trying to set us up with a female relative or two. Or three. But so far Sam and I have held on to our bachelorhood with tooth and claw.
But that’s another story altogether.
“Give the farmers a break, Brian,” Sam told me. His voice was a booming, sonorous echo because he had his head buried in the church’s old upright piano. He had his head stuck in the piano because he was trying to tune the thing himself since the church couldn’t afford to pay an actual piano tuner to do the job.
I didn’t say anything, but it sounded to me like he was getting questionable results as far as the tuning went. His words, however, would later prove to be right on key.
“Set the date for the annual basket dinner,” he said. “That’s the only way the poor farmers’ll get any rain, and you know it.”
He must have heard my derisive snort, for he poked his head out of the piano and gave me a glare. A dust ball the size of a mouse was stuck in his hair. “Just wait. You’ll see. And while you’re waiting, hand me that velvet hammer. The one in the toolbox.”
I handed him the hammer, and here I was, two weeks later, propped against the side of the church like a tired wooden Indian, the back of my neck heating up, remembering how I had scoffed at Sam’s prediction.
Well, to make a long story short, I did see. All too well. As I watched, the good ladies of my congregation, with their starched Sunday dresses flapping like flags about their legs, tried rather unsuccessfully to place tablecloths and napkins atop the plank-covered trestles arranged in rows beneath the elm trees at the edge of the churchyard. Unsuccessfully because as soon as someone neatly spread a tablecloth, the wind would come along and flip it into the grass. Or happily toss the napkins into the air. Or simply poof the poor lady’s skirt up around her ears until she was forced to drop everything in an attempt to maintain her dignity, and the moment she did, the wind would take everything—tablecloth, napkins, paper plates and cups—and gleefully scatter them to hell and back.
At my back, through the walls of the old church, I heard the sweet voices of the Methodist choir practicing, yet again, one of the hymns they had chosen for this occasion. Behind the emphatic lead of the ancient upright piano—which still wasn’t tuned right, dammit—I heard the choir sing the old familiar lyrics I grew up with.
Shall we gather at the ri-i-iver,
The beautiful, the beautiful r-i-i-iver.
Before the verse was finished, a particularly energetic gust of wind rattled the elm branches, and rain began to splatter the sidewalk at my feet and plunk against the tall windows of the church. Then something a bit more insistent began plunking at the window beside me, and I turned to see Sam tapping at the glass from inside the chapel and pointing to the ladies out there beneath the trees as they frantically gathered up the tumbling paraphernalia of our ill-timed basket dinner. With squeals of laughter, they began scurrying, light-footed, through the wet grass toward the church to seek shelter from the quickening rain.
As luck would have it, the food was already in the basement.
“Just in case,” Sam had said earlier, with a wary eye on that ugly sky overhead as the ladies began arriving with dishes upon pots upon containers of every sort, filled with heaven knows what but all smelling so wonderful it sent saliva dribbling off the end of my chin as if the gaskets in my mouth had dissolved from the sheer splendor of it all.
As my nephew Jesse, fifteen years old and looking uncomfortably spit shined on this summer afternoon, and his friend Kyle, looking equally clean and miserable, ran past me to help the ladies do what they had to do, I realized it might not be a bad idea if I helped them a bit myself. They weren’t paying me to prop up the church. I was supposed to be the man in charge.
Before I could set off to assist the ladies of Nine Mile, a loud crack of thunder made me jump straight up into the air and bang my head on the underside of the electric meter nailed to the side of the church.
One of the ladies squealed in mock terror as she ran for the door, trailing a tablecloth over her head to protect her hair from the rain. Manly enough not to squeal, or so I hoped, I caught one last glimpse of Sam’s laughing face in the window as I sprinted for the door myself. Rather than mowing the good woman down in my haste to escape the now cascading sheets of rain, it seemed a bit more gallant to grab her arm and lead her safely, but hurriedly, up the church steps and into the vestibule. There we shook ourselves off like a couple of wet dogs and laughed at the silliness of the situation.
Never one to miss an opportunity to embarrass me, as old friends always seem to do, Sam gave me a good-natured ribbing as I stood in the vestibule, dripping. “Good Lord, Brian! It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Let’s have a picnic, shall we?”
Sam’s aunt Mrs. Shanahan, a rotund lady of eighty-some years with blue finger-waved hair that rolled across the top of her head like a corrugated tin roof, and possessing a voice that could crack obsidian, came to my rescue. Not. Mrs. Shanahan and I were adversaries from way back. She used to chase me out of her scuppernong arbor back in my youthful, barefoot days, and she had been chasing me one way or another ever since.
“Now, Sam. Mustn’t pick at the poor man just because he chose the worst day we’ve had in six months to hold our annual basket dinner. We’ll get by. We always do. Old Reverend Morton, now. He knew how to pick ’em. Always chose the prettiest day of the year. I asked him once how he managed to do that year after year, and he said he asked God to set the date for him. Now, there was a man of faith!”
He was also a pompous old windbag who inevitably smelled of garlic and cheap aftershave, I thought, rather uncharitably, I suppose, for a Methodist minister. Especially when referring to the man of God who had preceded me at my post for nigh on fifteen years. But it was true nevertheless. Reverend Morton was the dullest man to set foot on this planet since the conception of time, and if he ever spoke directly to God, and God actually deigned to answer, then I was a Kurdish camel driver on the road to popedom.
“But never mind,” Mrs. Shanahan yammered on, giving Sam a wink and me a snarl. “We’ll eat inside. Lord knows we haven’t had to do that for ages. Kind of defeats the purpose of an outdoor basket dinner, don’t you know. But what the hey? The food’s good. That’s what counts. Right, Jesse?”
A hand the size of a thirty-dollar pot roast came out of nowhere and slapped Jesse on the back. I could hear the boy’s teeth rattle from the impact. The poor kid looked vaguely appalled at being thusly singled out for an opinion, but he carried it off well enough. “Suppose so,” he mumbled to no one in particular. At the same time, he rolled his shoulder around to get some circulation back into it. “I like the rain.”
Mrs. Shanahan enthusiastically pounded his back again, this time nearly driving the boy to his knees, which elicited a snicker from his friend Kyle. She appeared oblivious to her own strength. “Of course you do, Jesse!” her voice boomed out. “You and everybody else within shouting distance come from good American farm stock. Ain’t a farmer been hatched yet that don’t like the rain. In decent doses, that is.”
The woman stuck her great arm through mine and dragged me toward the basement steps. “Come on, Reverend. Let’s get the tables set up downstairs. Gotta work before we eat, you know.”
Sam stood on the sidelines, watching this exchange with laughing eyes and a heart, I’m sure, that soared with happiness. Nothing amused him more than my own embarrassment. If you get to really know Sam, sooner or later he’ll tell you about the time I peed my pants in first grade. But let’s not get into that.
I was still being dragged along in Mrs. Shanahan’s wake when a sudden burst of lightning made her tighten her grip on my arm and hasten her step. She came to life like Frankenstein’s monster, I pleasantly conjectured, rather happy with my choice of metaphor, and at the same time, I wondered how the woman could so unfailingly steer my mind into such unchristian corridors. It was a talent at which she positively excelled.
Sam made a face as if he knew what I was thinking, which he probably did. He grabbed Jesse and Kyle around their necks and dragged them down the basement steps behind me. As we headed underground, the sound of thunder receded, to be replaced by the confused babble of a hundred happy voices all jabbering at once in delirious abandon.
The church basement was large, thank heavens, but still every corner was filled. Colorful print dresses were interspersed only occasionally with the more somber shirt and tie. It was a weekday, after all, and most of the farmers were in their fields, or had been until the rain started. Only their wives could afford the luxury of a day off. But even they had earned it. The array of supper dishes and cake plates and aluminum pots and pans of every shape and size confirmed that fact. Food was everywhere. The air was alive with the smell of it. These ladies hadn’t simply popped out of bed that morning and dressed for church. Most of them had been up half the night preparing dishes they could be proud of. Dishes, they hoped, that would pucker their neighbors’ hearts with envy.
Basically, they were showing off. But Lord, theirs was a vanity of which I fully approved.
It didn’t take us long, with all hands chipping in, to arrange the food on tables along the basement wall.
It was a mouth-watering assortment, to be sure. Meats first, then came the casseroles and veggies, and after that the delicacies I loved the best. Homemade pickles, wilted lettuce swimming in sugar and bacon grease (hellish in cholesterol but heavenly on the palate), tiny ears of young corn dabbed with freshly churned butter, garden fresh radishes and peppers dipped in vinegar, and a dozen other trifles.
After that, as you greedily meandered down the line of tables, you came to the breads and biscuits: Freshly baked sourdough that had been tenderly raised—covered with a dishcloth and placed in the sun for warmth—transforming it from an unappetizing wad of pale dough to one of God’s greatest gifts to man, next only to the sacred act of sex itself. Chunks of home-baked bread the size of concrete blocks that you pulled apart with your hands. Round slabs of cornbread baked in cast-iron skillets and sliced in triangles, pie-fashion. Muffins of every shape and flavor—apple, blueberry, carrot, gooseberry, hickory nut, pumpkin, zucchini, and some that were unrecognizable but delicious just the same.
After the muffins, as you neared the apex of this fattening runway, you came to the desserts. Pies of every flavor, with delicate designs carved into the crusts. An angel food cake standing a foot high if it was an inch and topped with strawberries from someone’s garden. Freshly picked cherries buried in coconut and whipped cream, cookies piled high on platters, a dozen different kinds, and at the end my personal favorite: a peach cobbler, baked, I knew, by Mrs. Shanahan, who with those pot-roast-size hands of hers could pull culinary wonders from her oven.
Guilt over calories consumed would come later. For now, everyone dedicated themselves, heart and soul, to the business at hand. We milled around like cows on a hillside, chewing our cuds, eyes half-closed in delirious bliss, as if this were the sole purpose for our existence. To eat. We did it with unbridled enthusiasm, occasionally exclaiming over a particularly delightful discovery and calling out to ask who made it. When the culprit was found, it was usually a stocky housewife with sunburned cheeks and eyes that crinkled at the corners from squinting in a truck garden for hours on end beneath a blazing summer sun. Hearing the compliments, a blush of pride from all the praise accorded her would raise the pink glow of those sunburned cheeks to a happy, fiery red. Then, to ease herself humbly from the spotlight, she would cry out in praise of some delicacy or other, and in so doing, pass the torch to someone else.
It was all very civilized and Christian. These people were, after all, friends. Many of them had known each other, like Sam and I, since birth. They understood that praise, like butter, must be spread around. One brief moment of glory was enough for anyone, but once your moment ended, lend it to someone else. Otherwise, the next time praise was being flung about like candy at a parade, you might find none of it flying in your direction. They were friends, yes, but they were friends who never forgot a kindness or a slight.
After a time, the clatter of forks on plates diminished, and snippets of conversations could be heard that didn’t always refer to the food at hand. The feeding frenzy was winding down.
I sat back, sandwiched as I was between Sam and Mrs. Shanahan, gorged like a tick about to pop. Casually, so as not to be unduly noticed, I loosened my belt a notch. Sam looked about as miserable as I did, although he was still chomping on a fistful of oatmeal cookies.
I tried not to puke watching him, and while I gave my glutted body a much-needed rest, I let my attention roam around the room as I studied the faces of my flock.
These were the people who worshipped in my church, who suffered through my sermons, who sometimes came to me with their problems. We seemed a cozy, friendly group, sitting there huddled together with our bellies full while the summer storm howled outside.
The farmers should be happy, I reflected, watching the rain slap against the little ground-level windows placed high along the basement walls. They had certainly needed this rain, even if I had not. But what the hey, rain or not, the annual basket dinner appeared to be a raging success. Perhaps the rain had brought us closer together, here in this crowded basement room, than we would have felt underneath the elms outside with the endless summer sky overhead.
Gradually, for lack of anything better to do and too stuffed to do it even if there had been, I tuned in to the voices around me.
Mrs. Shanahan’s, of course, was the first to pierce my awareness. She leaned across me and Sam to speak to Aggie Snyder, who was one of the farm wives and who, at the moment, was about as pregnant as a human being can be. Mrs. Shanahan blithely ignored Sam and me as if we were a couple of fence posts someone had had the audacity to sink into the ground smack in front of her face.
“Lordy, Aggie, I feel as full as you look! And this girdle is cutting me in two. ‘Comfortable support for a lovelier you,’ the box said. That’s a laugh!”
They come in boxes? I asked myself. Like stereos? In the meantime, Sam choked on a cookie.
Like Mrs. Shanahan, Aggie leaned over Sam and me as if we didn’t exist. “I don’t know why you bother wearing those silly things. I really don’t. You have a lovely, full figure. If you’re trying to catch a man,” she teased, “it will take more than a girdle.”
“Yes,” Sam whispered in my ear, “a bazooka,” causing us both to break into giggles.
Mrs. Shanahan cackled as happily as we did. “A man? I’ve had a man, and let me tell you, they ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. I married Mr. Shanahan fifty-seven years ago. He hung around for two months, bailed out one morning after breakfast, and I haven’t seen him since. The laziest creature that ever walked the face of the earth! Wouldn’t milk the cows ’cause he said it pained his knees. Wouldn’t hang my new kitchen curtains ’cause he said it pained his neck, don’t you know, reaching his arms way up over his head like that. That man had more pains than a window factory!”
She leaned in even closer to Aggie Snyder, pushing my back to the wall with her head a mere inch and a half from my lap. “A man, you say! What on earth would I do with a man?”
And what, I wondered as I studied those intricate blue waves that seemed to undulate across the top of her head with a life of their own, would he possibly do with you?
Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.
I'm an avid reader and film fan and I have an MA in creative writing for film and television.
John has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. Born on a small farm in Indiana, he now resides in San Diego, California where he spends his time gardening, pampering his pets, hiking and biking the trails and canyons of San Diego, and of course, writing. He and his partner share a passion for theater, books, film, and the continuing fight for marriage equality. If you would like to know more about John, check out his website.
Selina Kray is the nom de plume of an author and English editor. Professionally she has covered all the artsy-fartsy bases, having worked in a bookstore, at a cinema, in children’s television, and in television distribution, up to her latest incarnation as a subtitle editor and grammar nerd (though she may have always been a grammar nerd). A self-proclaimed geek and pop culture junkie who sometimes manages to pry herself away from the review sites and gossip blogs to write fiction of her own, she is a voracious consumer of art with both a capital and lowercase A.
Selina’s aim is to write genre-spanning romances with intricate plots, complex characters, and lots of heart. Whether she has achieved this goal is for you, gentle readers, to decide. At present she is hard at work on future novels at home in Montreal, Quebec, with her wee corgi serving as both foot warmer and in-house critic.
If you’re interested in receiving Selina’s newsletter and being the first to know when new books are released, plus getting sneak peeks at upcoming novels, please sign up at her website.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Olivier Bosman
Davidson King
Anarchy by Olivier Bosman
A Party to Murder by John Inman
The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree by Selina Kray
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
Triple Threat by Davidson King
Sunset Lake by John Inman
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