Laurel Holidays #3
A trip that he thought would bring him only pain is about to present him with the greatest gift of all.
For three years now, Cabriolet Vermat has put off, wiggled out of, and outright lied to get out of making this dreaded trip east. The owner of Cabriolet Chauffeur Services in Los Angeles has avoided the yearly invitation to the small town of White Bridge, New York, to speak at their alumni winter gathering but this year they’ve outfoxed him. They’re throwing a dinner to honor his late partner’s dedication to his alma mater and have asked Cab to speak. This time he has to go no matter how much pain it will stir up. Arriving in the picturesque small town beside one of the Finger Lakes, Cab is treated to a special performance of holiday songs and there he sees Julian Gabriel Baez for the first time.
The young singer captivates him immediately, and he finds himself seeking out the much younger man after the performance. The pull he feels toward Jules is unlike anything he’s felt since he met his partner years ago. Confusion and desire war within him, but the outgoing young tenor wins him over with his engaging smile and kind heart. A two-day trip soon turns into an extended holiday vacation. Cab worries that the magic of Christmas will quickly fizzle out and he’ll be alone once more. Or will this festive season bestow a blessing of the heart upon a man who thought he would never love again?
The Christmas Tenor is a standalone small-town gay Christmas romance with a beautiful May-December relationship, a lonely widower, a rising opera star, loving families, and plenty of holiday joy.
Pierre was enraptured. I shifted in my seat, took a sip of water, and resigned myself to two hours of utter boredom. Opera was not on top of my musical favorites list. Actually, it was somewhere down near the bottom. I much preferred the songs I grew up with during the eighties. Give me Billy Idol over Pavarotti any day.
Three performers walked onto the stage, two young men and a woman. The men were in tuxes and the willowy young blonde was in a sparkling silver evening gown.
“The crème de la crème of our vocal students. A baritone, a tenor, and a soprano,” Mrs. Professor explained to Pierre and me in a soft whisper. “Christine is the soprano, Kennedy is the baritone, and Jules is our tenor. We have high hopes for all of them.”
We smiled and nodded while the trio walked to then settled behind three stands that held sheet music. The girl was sandwiched between the two males. The fellow on the left was a pale Black lad with bad skin and thick glasses. My eyes touched on him then moved to the young miss who was lovely with her gold hair and blue eyes. And then my sight moved to the young man on the left of the soprano, and it felt as if a horse had kicked me in the gut. He was breathtakingly beautiful. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair black as night and long enough that he had to flip it back from his face, and his eyes big and brown and framed by thick dark lashes. His tux fit him like a second skin. He belonged in formal wear.
Or in nothing…
The glass of water in my hand nearly slipped from my fingers.
The three on stage smiled and nodded in thanks. Then the stunning one, Jules the tenor, starting singing and I had to hurry to place the goblet on the table before I embarrassed myself. He had a glorious, powerful voice that grabbed and held you captive from the moment his first note hit the stuffy airwaves. His rendition of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” gave me chills, and I was not a religious man. Each word sung in Italian reverberated off the walls of the ballroom, filling not only your ears but your soul. The orchestra backed him beautifully, the strings carrying one to the heavens. And then the chorus blended in taking us in the audience to another world.
“Is it wrong to want to lick the tenor? Asking for a friend,” Pierre whispered in my ear.
“Hush,” I replied sharply, shoving at the burgeoning erection threatening to tent my trousers. I’d not felt such stirrings for a man since Carter had passed. Yes, I had admired men but growing hard at the mere sight of a sexy young man? No, not for years. I’d resigned myself to being celibate and alone for the rest of my years.
“Are you okay? You look queer,” Pierre asked in a hushed tone.
“I always look that way. Now hush!”
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
The Christmas Tenor #3
The Christmas Oaks #1
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