Sunday, July 18, 2021
Sunday's Short Stack: Dear Jon by VL Locey
The dark days of the Second World War are past, and life is looking like a shiny new penny for Jon Porter. Living a bohemian artist’s life in New York City, Jon’s finally found acceptance and is within an arm’s length of becoming the next hot thing in the art world. Then everything goes horribly wrong. One telegram from the small Pennsylvania town he’d fled from years before draws him back to bury his estranged sister and take charge of the nephew he never knew existed.
Into the chaos and grief comes local woodworker Ross Coleman, an older man with an easy smile and a gentle manner that charms Jon instantly. They quickly fall for each other but there’s no easy way for two men in 1945 to be together, let alone raise a child, even if Jon was sure he wanted a child, which he’s not. And then there’s the final letter from his sister waiting for him among all the legal papers and bills…
What can she possibly have to say that they hadn’t screamed at each other over their father’s casket?
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Dear Jon is an incredibly enjoyable and entertaining read, incorporating some of my favorites: historical, 1940s, single parenting, small town life, friendship, romance, heat, and an adorable child. Now in Dear Jon, 1940s small town life isn't all good of course for anyone in the LGBT community but I think VL Locey handles it beautifully. From Jon having to go back to the home he left years before to escape the bigotry to Ross Coleman who has accepted the way things are to Jon's friend, Charlotte turning up and perhaps giving them the greatest beard of all time, the author paints a picture of small town life so creatively that you feel like you're there in Hannity Hills. I say this as someone who grew up in a small town, so small actually we were a village until my senior year in high school when the 1990 census results came out, now granted the late 40s is a bit before my time but I can certainly picture Ellsworth having been similar back then.
I won't say too much more but I loved watching Jon and his nephew, who he never knew existed, Andy get to know each other, become comfortable around each other, and the obvious loving connection that comes from it. And I might add, watching Jon run from the geese, George and Gracie(great names BTW) is priceless and very accurate as my parents had about 8 geese when I was 5 or 6 and I hated the squawking SOBs and found myself having to run to the bus more than once and not always getting away without being pecked, one time not even making the bus because they blocked my path and Mom had to wave the bus on so Jon's feelings are spot on. George and Gracie added some well timed levity as well as another element of realism.
Dear Jon is a free read from the author when you sign up for her newsletter and definitely one of the best free reads I've read in a long time, frankly I would of purchased had it not been free because it pulled me in and ticked many boxes. Intriguing characters, beautiful setting, and simply put: an entertaining, heartwarming gem from beginning to end.
Chapter One
Greenwich Village
Caffe Wastrel Coffee House 1945
One never expects life-altering news to be delivered over coffee and Danish. Maybe it's the assumption that cherry, cream cheese, and flaky crust will somehow protect you from the hand of fate slapping the shit out of you. That somehow the sweetness of the tart and the richness of the coffee can envelope you in a cushion of false security. Hell, maybe I just didn't think anything from the family would dare to come find me in Greenwich Village. Lord knows my father certainly wouldn't have set a foot in this section of the great metropolis.
Leave it to Betty to be the one to flip my world upside down. She was always one of those older sisters who could make you feel like a king one moment and a pauper the next. It had been ten years since I had heard from my sister. Ten years was a long time. A lot could happen in ten years. A world war for instance.
Obviously, I must have been caught up in the glorious aftermath of V-J Day, like every other red-blooded American. We had just celebrated our victory over Japan a month ago. We— and I mean we as in the singular individual and a country— were so hopped up on our own godliness that we— and I mean me now— couldn't imagine a kick in the shins coming in the form of a Western Union telegram.
But it had. And now here I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop in my favorite part of New York a scant two blocks from my studio/ apartment. The boy who had pedaled across the Village in search of me was antsy. He couldn't have been older than fourteen but he was prouder than punch of the official cap and uniform, even if his tie was a little off-center of his pronounced Adam’s apple. The two cent tip brought a wide grin to his gaunt face.
“Thank you, sir!”
He pedaled off with exuberance. I, with far less exuberance, flipped the envelope over and looked at Charlotte. She lit a cigarette, eyed the missive with her large grey eyes then stood and left. Her behavior wasn't odd. At least not for Charlotte. She was one of the most superstitious people in Manhattan.
“It might not be bad news,” I called over my shoulder.
My friend waved my words away like an annoying mosquito and swayed out onto the sidewalk, the door of the coffee shop drifting closed behind her. I smiled at her well-clad back. Charlotte Duvall— aka Charles Goodrich— was one of the best female impersonators I had ever had the pleasure of meeting or seeing perform. The woman was pure vamp.
I had come to Greenwich after the death of my father to find a place where a person could be who and/ or what they wanted to be. For me that was an artist who slept with other men. For Charlotte it was looking better than ninety-nine percent of the other women in New York. For my friend Patty it was making a home for herself and her gal Ronnie. The Village was the most welcoming neighborhood for the oddballs of society on the east coast. Greenwich was bohemian and open-minded, rich in art and music, and particularly respectful of those who live within its invisible walls of acceptance. As long as we all kept our heads down and our predilections to ourselves life was as enjoyable as it could be for people like us.
I watched Charlotte going past the front windows, looking pretty sharp in a black calico dress with pink pin-striping and a jaunty black cocktail hat with a pink flower. Straight men and gay alike turned to admire her. The redhead knew she had it, and boy did she flaunt it. I ran my sight up to the fan spinning lazily overhead, my fingers growing clammy. I could see my name and the address of my studio typed out neatly through the skinny window. Somewhere behind the counter Les Brown was playing “My Dreams Are Getting Better All the Time”. The other patrons had returned to their coffee and their own private melodrama.
Mr. Jonathon Porter18 Barrow St.Greenwich Village, New York
I laid the envelope on the table, tapping the three cent stamp for luck before ripping the end off and tugging the folded dispatch out. I knew before I even opened the telegram that the line about this possibly being good news I had fed Charlotte was just that, a damned line. Betty had never contacted me after that showdown the day Dad had died. What was there to say to each other? I think we’d pretty much said it all that icy cold afternoon in January. What could she want? There wasn't anyone left to die aside from a few distant relatives who no one cared about, cold as that sounded. If they knew about me they'd be glad not to have the queer nephew coming to call, rest assured.
Running a hand through my hair, I peeked at the mirror on the wall. Yeah, I was stalling. I was also scared. It was obvious. Worried green eyes stared back at me. I patted down the sandy blond hair that was scandalously skimming my collar. Yeah, I appeared normal enough. Brown gabardine slacks with a short-sleeved tan shirt. No tie, no hat, no jacket. Still rebelling at twenty-eight, hey Jon? Finding the guts I unfolded the telegram, found my coffee, downed a good pull, and then read.
Mr. Jon Porter18 Barrow St.Greenwich Village, New YorkSister Betty Porter passed away. Stop. Your presence required home immediately. Stop. Of utmost urgency you return ASAP. Stop. To do with your nephew. Stop.Theodore Bartlett Esq.Law Office of Bartlett & BowenHannity Hills, PA
I found my reflection again. I was stunned. Nephew?
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, 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 pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two 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 one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
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