Sunday, May 8, 2022
🌷🌹Mother's Day 2022🌹🌷
💖💙💛💚💜💚💛💙💖
In honor of Mother's Day here in the US today, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential mother figures. I say "mother figures" because it isn't always a mom, sometimes it isn't even family, sometimes it can be a stranger who steps up and fills in. Some aren't necessarily even a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, etc. The mother figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Mother's Day 2022, I chose 5 stories where the mother, aunt, friend, and all around motherly figure helped to shape the characters, intentionally or not, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling. If you have any recommendations for great mother figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
💖💙💛💚💜💚💛💙💖
Summary:
Thomas Vale is one of Hollywood’s most sought-after actors. He’s as humble as they come and adores his family. This Christmas he wants to give his dying grandfather the only thing he’s ever asked Thomas for: for Thomas to fall in love.
Noah Berry has worked for Thomas since before he was a household name. He doesn’t have a close-knit family, but he’s fine with the way things are as long as he has Thomas. After all, Noah has been secretly in love with the man for years.
Thomas gets the crazy idea to bring a fake boyfriend home, but Christmas approaches and nobody is worthy enough to fulfill the task. Noah steps in—if he can’t have Thomas in real life, he can pretend for a little while and make an old man happy.
Davidson King does the holiday!! YUMMILICIOUS!!!!
Fake boyfriends✅
Unspoken love✅
Friends to lovers✅
Holiday-loving family✅
Romance✅
Humor✅
Heart✅
You're the One ticks all my holiday romance boxes. Thomas and Noah's Christmas journey may not have the mystery, violence, and action that Davidson King often brings to the page but that doesn't make it any less brilliant. Personally, I think those missing elements speak volumes to the incredible talent the author has for storytelling.
Knowing King's penchant for giving her couples a HEA, I think we can all guess where the men's journey ends up but the road they travel getting there is so much fun, so full of holiday spirit, so many edge of your seat smiles that I won't spoil it for anyone. Just know that you won't be bored, you won't be Bah Humbugging, you'll be Santa HO! HO! HO-ing! many hours after the final page.
If you're a fan of Hallmark Christmassy romances, not only will you love You're the One but you'll be blown away because IMO, King's holiday fare is 200% better. Some may call it "holiday schmaltz" but I call it "holiday heart". Davidson King may regret having written such a holiday gem because I am already highly anticipating next year's holiday story.
RATING:
Summary:
Cost of Repairs #2
Reformed party animal Barrett McCall now takes life one day at a time, grateful for each new one that he has. His job as a short-order cook at Dixie's Cup pays the rent, and he likes living in small-town Stratton, Pennsylvania. When his apartment is destroyed in a fire, Barrett’s boss Dixie steps in with an offer to rent her finished basement, and he eagerly accepts—except this puts his solitary life on a collision course with Dixie’s nephew: arrogant high school art teacher Schuyler Rhodes.
Schuyler paid the reticent Dixie’s Cup cook little mind until Barrett moved into Aunt Dixie's basement apartment. Now they seem to run into each other everywhere, and the sexual attraction between them is undeniable—only Schuyler is protecting a tragic secret. Fifteen years ago, Schuyler's teenage cousin Matty drowned in a nearby lake. Everyone believes it was an accident, but Schuyler knows the truth—and so does the culprit.
Even though Barrett and Schuyler’s physical chemistry is explosive from their first kiss to more hands-on explorations, Schuyler’s guilt insists that he keep Barrett at arm's length. Barrett exercised his own personal demons years ago, and he wants to help Schuyler do the same so their fledgling relationship has a chance to thrive. But when the other witness to Matty's death unexpectedly shows up in town, Schuyler is forced into a deadly confrontation that may cost him his relationship with Barrett—and possibly even his own life.
NOTE: This work was previously published under the same title. The book has been lightly edited, with updated cover art, but no major parts of the story have been changed.
Schuyler paid the reticent Dixie’s Cup cook little mind until Barrett moved into Aunt Dixie's basement apartment. Now they seem to run into each other everywhere, and the sexual attraction between them is undeniable—only Schuyler is protecting a tragic secret. Fifteen years ago, Schuyler's teenage cousin Matty drowned in a nearby lake. Everyone believes it was an accident, but Schuyler knows the truth—and so does the culprit.
Even though Barrett and Schuyler’s physical chemistry is explosive from their first kiss to more hands-on explorations, Schuyler’s guilt insists that he keep Barrett at arm's length. Barrett exercised his own personal demons years ago, and he wants to help Schuyler do the same so their fledgling relationship has a chance to thrive. But when the other witness to Matty's death unexpectedly shows up in town, Schuyler is forced into a deadly confrontation that may cost him his relationship with Barrett—and possibly even his own life.
NOTE: This work was previously published under the same title. The book has been lightly edited, with updated cover art, but no major parts of the story have been changed.
I was having a hard time getting into this one at first because I couldn't stop thinking of Schylar as kind of a jerk he was in Cost of Repair and I was having a hard time letting go of Sam and Rey. But after about 3 ch. I was hooked and really cheering for Barrett and Sky.
RATING:
Summary:
Minnesota Christmas #2
The way to a man’s heart is on a sleigh.
Arthur Anderson doesn’t want anything to do with love and romance, and he certainly doesn’t want to play Santa in his mother’s library fundraising scheme. He knows full well what she really wants is to hook him up with the town’s lanky, prissy librarian.
It’s clear Gabriel Higgins doesn’t want him, either—as a Santa, as a boyfriend, as anyone at all. But when Arthur’s efforts to wiggle out of the fundraiser lead to getting to know the man behind the story-time idol, he can’t help but be charmed. The least he can do is be neighborly and help Gabriel find a few local friends.
As their fiery arguments strike hotter sparks, two men who insist they don’t date wind up doing an awful lot of dating. And it looks like the sleigh they both tried not to board could send them jingling all the way to happily ever after.
Warning: Contains a feisty librarian, a boorish bear, small town politics, deer sausage, and a boy who wants a doll.
Arthur Anderson doesn’t want anything to do with love and romance, and he certainly doesn’t want to play Santa in his mother’s library fundraising scheme. He knows full well what she really wants is to hook him up with the town’s lanky, prissy librarian.
It’s clear Gabriel Higgins doesn’t want him, either—as a Santa, as a boyfriend, as anyone at all. But when Arthur’s efforts to wiggle out of the fundraiser lead to getting to know the man behind the story-time idol, he can’t help but be charmed. The least he can do is be neighborly and help Gabriel find a few local friends.
As their fiery arguments strike hotter sparks, two men who insist they don’t date wind up doing an awful lot of dating. And it looks like the sleigh they both tried not to board could send them jingling all the way to happily ever after.
Warning: Contains a feisty librarian, a boorish bear, small town politics, deer sausage, and a boy who wants a doll.
When I finished Let It Snow, I immediately started Sleigh Ride. Often what happens for me when reading a series that centers on a different pairing with each book, I have a hard time connecting with the new couple because I just am no ready to let go of the first. No surprise, that happened here as well. So it took me a few chapters to really get into the book but once I did, I really couldn't stop. Arthur really came around once he met Gabriel. Perhaps "came around" isn't really the best description, but I think "grown" isn't really accurate so I'll stick with "came around". He wasn't looking for a relationship but his mom was determined to find him some happiness that she was sure he was lacking. I loved her not-so-subtle matchmaking for both Arthur and the librarian, Gabriel. I guess a case of "mother knows best" is proven right again. There is some moderate D/s relationship between Arthur and Gabe but it's not at the center of the story.
I've never read this author before but I certainly will be checking out her other works and I can't wait to read Paul's story down the road.
RATING:
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Summary:When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.
Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.
Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.
Silent Sin is brilliant!
I've been looking for a story set in Old Hollywood for about 3 years and when this popped up in a FB group rec request I one-clicked immediately. 2020 screwed with my reading mojo so unfortunately I just got around to reading it and I loved it! EJ Russell really sets scene of the silent era, incorporating real historical facts and scandals that add just the right level of reality into her fictional story. Don't worry, Silent Sin isn't a tell-all, Hollywood documentary but it definitely shows the author's respect for the past with the balance of reality and fiction.
As for the characters, watching Robbie's journey from "runaway" country bumpkin to studio chauffer to stand-in to ???(well I don't want to give away all the lad's secrets😉) is an uplifting, heartfelt tale of entertainment. Seeing Martin's journey of trying to stay true to who he is and who he lets the studio bosses and fans see makes you smile, laugh, and a few times you just want to shake him. When their paths cross you just know that it's fate but you also know it won't be easy but it will definitely be captivating. You can't help but want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything will be okay, of course there are a few times I want to smack them too and scream but that's what makes Silent Sin such a delight.
I have featured some of EJ Russell's books on my blog before but Silent Sin is my first read. For me it's the perfect introduction to a new author, Sin ticks so many of my boxes:
historical✅romance✅Old Hollywood✅friendships✅author's respect for the era✅plenty of heart✅
I have to admit one of my favorite moments comes between Robbie and Martin's manager Sid, the actual activity happens off-page but we learn about it and it put the biggest smile on my face and a loud "YES!" in my internal monologue. Just another example of how the author has written more than romance and how sucked into the story I became.
Again, Silent Sin is brilliant!
Sunset Lake by John Inman
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.
Original Audiobook Review January 2021:
There really isn't anything I can add to my original review as to the greatness of this story. Brian, Sam, Boyd, Jesse, and even Mrs. Shanahan(Sam's aunt) are just as interesting the second time around as they were originally. Knowing what was coming and who did what didn't lessen the edge of your seat creepy factor either. Let's face it, the who, what, where, and why are the meat and potatoes of a good mystery and sometimes once you know the answers they can be not as fun anymore but not with Sunset Lake. "Fun" may seem an odd term for this kind of tale but when done right, I find mysteries are my favorite genre of choice to enjoy and John Inman has done it right. As for the narration, I've never listened to a book read by Randal Shaffer but he was quite perfect for this tale of the macabre and I can see this being a re-read/listen for years to come.
Original ebook Review August 2019:
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 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:
You're the One by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Noah
“You need to calm down, Miss Thing.” I narrowed my gaze at the blond bombshell standing in front of me who thought she was getting in to see Thomas.
“He’s expecting me.” She tried to push past security, toward me, thinking we’d roll over because she was Chantel Morrison, a box-office draw.
“No…no, he is not. Shoo.” I made a sweeping motion with my fingers, and her ivory skin flushed red.
“Listen, you little gnat—”
“Nope.” I covered my ears. “Bye.” I spun on my heel and went into the room she was desperately trying to enter.
When I shut the door, Thomas was sitting on the couch, a small smile on his face as he looked at me. “She’s relentless.”
“Why, Thomas? Why did you have to take her to the Oscars with you? Now she thinks you’re going to have babies with her.” After locking the door, I went and sat beside him.
“I didn’t know she’d turn into a face-hugger, Noah. She was actually quite relaxed and calm at the show. Then the next day it was bam, let’s get married.”
Thomas Vale was everything in Hollywood, and I was his personal assistant. I’d been by his side since the days he could only get a minor role on a soap opera. When he skyrocketed to fame, he’d made sure I was holding on. We were friends…and I was madly in love with him. Not that he knew that—no, he could never. The trust Thomas had in me was worth never telling him that little fact.
“Might I suggest going solo to the next award show?”
He chuckled. “Noted.” His phone buzzed and he sighed.
“What’s wrong? Did she get your number? I will go out there right now and—”
“No, she didn’t, and if she had, I’d have blocked her. No reason to summon your inner Bruce Lee on my account.”
Yeah, I was only five foot seven, and the only exercise I got on the daily was swimming laps at night…well, when I could. Sure, a swift wind could blow me over. But I was spunky. I had defensive skills, thanks to many bullies while growing up.
“Fine. Explain the frown and sigh and dejected body language?” I eyed him, then his phone, which he was scowling hard at.
“Christmas is next month.”
“Oookaaay? I’ve never known you to be a scrooge, Thomas. You’re actually a festive fella.” I laughed when he rolled his eyes.
“I love Christmas. You know I always go home. Spend it with my family in the mountains. It’s the only time all of us are together for the year.”
“And, what, it was canceled?” Getting him to tell me things sometimes was like pulling teeth.
He turned his body slightly, folding his leg so he was now sitting on his foot, staring at me. “My grandfather—”
“Victor or—”
“William.”
“Okay, continue.”
“He’s dying.” Thomas’s shoulders slumped, and as if his pain were mine, I gasped.
“Thomas, why didn’t you tell me?” I knew his family as if they were my own. Sure, I’d never met them because Thomas barely even had time to see them himself. But I’d practically memorized everything about them. Birthdays, anniversaries, where they lived, the pets they owned…all of it.
“I was well aware you’d do this thing you’re doing right now, had I told you.” He waved a hand at me.
“I’m concerned; how is that a thing?” He shrugged. “Just is. You’re dramatic.”
“Says the actor,” I huffed.
“I know my grandfather is old…like really old. It was going to happen eventually.”
“Yes. Life is funny that way.” He slapped my leg. “What? I’m agreeing with you.”
“Anyway. Last Christmas, he knew he was sick. Lung cancer.”
“Seriously, Thomas, why did you never tell me any of this? You said your grandfather had the flu. I sent flowers from you saying get well soon…to him…and he had lung cancer.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. I’m sorry.”
Here I was making him feel bad for not telling me when his grandfather was dying… I suck. “No, forget it. I’m a brat. Go on. I assume the cancer is back?”
He nodded. “Thing is, last year he and I were sitting outside, watching my nieces play in the snow. He took my hand, Noah, and pleaded with me that before he died, he wanted me to fall in love. Of course I swore to him I was fine, but as his dying wish…he made me promise to try and let someone in.”
My eyes widened. “He made you promise to fall in love with someone?”
“No. He just said it would be his dying wish. And I really thought he was going to be okay, and I’d have time but…” He sighed again.
“But time is running out.”
He nodded. “I wish I could give him that. Show him I have someone in my life to love and I’ll be fine.”
“Thomas, you can’t force yourself to love someone to appease a dying man’s last wish, even if it’s your grandfather. Don’t you think it would hurt him even more if he found out you were putting on a show on his account?”
Thomas’s eyes widened and a huge smile graced his handsome face. I knew that look. “Noah, you’re a genius.”
“Um, Thomas, whatever you’re thinking, no. It can’t be good.”
“Because I’m happy?”
“No. Because something you clearly heard made you grin like the Grinch, and nothing I said was a good idea.”
He tilted his head back and laughed so hard his body shook. Carefree Thomas was the best.
“Hear me out.” He giggled like a child, excited and quite animated.
“As if I have a choice.”
My sarcasm was completely lost on Thomas, or he was ignoring it. More likely it was the latter.
“The doctor gave him three months. If I can bring someone home for the holidays, and it’s massively convincing that we’re in love, it will make his final time peaceful.”
All I could do was stare at him, waiting for the “Just kidding.” It never came. Sweet Mother Mercy.
“Thomas, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
“I don’t think so. If I find the right person to—”
“Lie to? Thomas, you’re going to grab someone and be all, ‘Hey, I love you, meet my family?’ ”
Thomas huffed. “No, but I’m in an industry full of actors. I’m sure I could find someone willing to do this.”
I had to pinch the bridge of my nose to release the pressure. “And you don’t think, at the slightest convenience, they won’t sell this story to the tabloids? Thomas, why are you acting dumb? It’s not who you are. You’re above average in the smarts department.”
He snickered and sat back. “It has to be the right person. Someone trustworthy but who could pull it off. We can have them sign an NDA.”
“We…oh, I’m helping?”
“Who else would be able to find the perfect person for me other than the person who knows me best?” He beamed and fucking fluttered his eyelashes…the asshole.
“One day I will quit.”
He stood and went over to the vanity. He was about to go on The Tonight Show in fifteen minutes, right before Chantel Morrison, which explained why she was there.
“You’ll never leave me, Noah.”
He looked at me through the mirror and I pouted, knowing he was right. Was it just because I loved him? No, Thomas needed protecting, and I’d never let anything happen to him.
“Fine, let me see what my brain can come up with. Operation Fool Grandpa is in full effect.”
They knocked and told him it was time, and with one last titter, he left the dressing room. I sat on the couch for a few moments wondering how in the hell I’d help him pull this off.
Color of Grace by AM Arthur
Chapter One
Barrett McCall stood on the sidewalk with at least thirty other gawkers and watched his apartment burn down. The acrid smoke stung his nose and made his eyes water, and he couldn’t quite summon up the energy to sneeze or wipe his eyes. He was exhausted after a long late shift working the flattop at Dixie’s Cup and all of his visions of falling into bed and sleeping for twelve hours had evaporated when he realized the sirens he’d heard an hour ago had descended upon his place of residence.
All around him people chatted in clusters. Some of them leaned across the police barriers and conversed with the Stratton cops keeping order, or watched the volunteer firefighters working to stop the blaze. He stood there, not engaging, still a relative outsider, and watched the flames destroy his meager belongings.
Not only his, though, he reminded himself. Three other people rented apartments in the same building as he did, on the second floor of a structure that housed a Laundromat and a used bookstore. The bookstore owner, Julia Kakalios, was also their landlord, and he’d spent a lot of time down there buying and trading reading material. She was losing her livelihood. His neighbors were losing everything they owned. He was losing a suitcase full of clothes, a stack of books and a week’s worth of tips he hadn’t banked yet.
And his medical records. They’d be burnt to a crisp along with the copy of A Separate Peace that he was only halfway through reading. He hated leaving a book unfinished.
A woman’s high-pitched cry made it over the roar of the fire and the rush of water from the fire hoses. Halfway down the block, two women pushed their way through the crowd to the police barrier. Laura Walsh owned the Laundromat that was currently engulfed in flames, and her daughter Jennie waitressed at Dixie’s Cup a few afternoons a week. She’d go full-time once she graduated high school in three weeks. His heart hurt for the two ladies. He’d met Laura a few times, and he genuinely liked Jennie. They didn’t deserve this loss.
The onlookers had doubled in number in the last few minutes as more people woke up to the three a.m. trouble and came to see for themselves. Stratton was a small town, and a fire this large was big news. Two of the town cops were trying to console Laura. Insurance should cover the losses, but seeing what she’d worked hard for crumbling apart had to hurt like hell. It had certainly hurt Barrett the first time his own world had crumbled.
He spotted one of his neighbors quietly freaking out a few yards away. She was plump, had blonde hair and was dressed in a yellow terrycloth robe that made her look like a marshmallow Peep. He couldn’t remember her name. Most of the people he knew in Stratton were regulars at Dixie’s Cup, where he’d worked steadily for the last seven weeks. Outside of work and the bookstore, he mostly kept to himself, and he liked it that way. He lingered in the shadows of an awning, hoping to avoid any public displays of “Oh my God, I’m so sorry” from anyone who recognized him.
He didn’t want to stay there, but he had nowhere else to go. He had no credit cards. Even if he’d had the extra money to have taken out a renter’s insurance policy, no one would magically appear and hand him the cash in the next thirty minutes. The twenty dollars in his wallet wouldn’t buy him a motel room, and he’d rather sleep on a park bench than call someone up and beg for their couch for the night. Dixie’s Cup was open twenty-four hours, so sitting in a booth until dawn wasn’t completely out of the question, even if it was less appealing than the park bench. Dixie’s meant people, people meant conversation, and conversation inevitably led to “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Barrett was beyond tired of hearing those words spoken to him.
Another familiar face appeared in the crowd, working his tall frame toward Laura and Jennie. Samuel Briggs had returned to walking his third shift beat around Stratton last week—a beat which included Dixie’s—and Briggs had made a habit out of stopping there for his eight p.m. dinner break. Barrett had Briggs’s preferred tuna melt and chips down to an exact science.
Briggs was also one of the few other gay people that Barrett knew in Stratton. Briggs didn’t fly a rainbow flag on the back of his car, but he was open about his relationship with Rey King—the guy who’d once had Barrett’s job. Rey still picked up an occasional shift at Dixie’s when they needed a fill-in. The pair of them, Rey and Briggs, were so disgustingly happy together that Barrett found himself liking them both.
And since one was rarely seen without the other when they weren’t working, Barrett wasn’t at all surprised to see Rey bobbing his way through the crowd toward him. It was too late to duck into the shadows and avoid a conversation, so Barrett simply stood there, hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
“Hey, man,” Rey said. “You at home when it started?”
“Just got off.” Barrett was silently grateful that Rey hadn’t started the conversation with a condolence.
“Shit, that sucks. You couldn’t get anything out?”
“No.”
Rey cast a look at the burning building, as though trying to imagine what possessions of Barrett’s might be turning into charcoal and ash on the second floor. “You got someplace to go tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Besides Dixie’s?”
Barrett blinked hard, and Rey gave him a knowing smile. “No, not really. But I’ll land on my feet. I always do.”
“Why don’t you think about landing in the morning, after a night’s sleep and a solid breakfast?”
“That’s what I was planning for on my way home,” he said with a little too much sarcasm.
Rey was completely unruffled. “We’ve got two guest rooms, Barrett. You’re more than welcome to crash for a while.”
For a while held too much unspecified meaning and potential baggage. It could mean one night, it could mean until he found a new place. Barrett didn’t want to assume anything, and he hated to impose on the pair, whose relationship seemed too new to easily weather the addition of a third wheel. They’d been together for about the same seven weeks as Barrett had been working at Dixie’s.
“If you say no,” Rey continued, “I’ll have my cop boyfriend invent some reason to toss you into the drunk tank for the night so you aren’t sleeping on a park bench.”
How the hell did Rey do that?
He didn’t know Rey’s story, but he did know that the younger man had lived through his share of bad times, and that he’d worked hard for everything he had. Rey didn’t seem like the kind of man to offer more than he thought Barrett would accept. He also seemed to understand that there were fine lines between friendship, charity and pity.
“Only for tonight,” Barrett said.
“Since it’s practically morning now, how about we say until Monday morning? Think you can stand us for thirty hours? Nothing happens quickly in this town on Sundays, anyway.”
“I don’t want to intrude on your plans.”
“Pal, Sam wants to sand the hardwood floor in the downstairs den tomorrow. Please, intrude on our plans.” He spoke with an easy assurance and gentle smile.
And Barrett found himself wanting to say yes. It wasn’t as though he had other plans. The thrift store next to Dixie’s wasn’t open on Sunday, so he’d be able to wash the clothes he was wearing until he could buy more. He hated to walk around reeking of fry grease. “Monday morning?”
“Through breakfast.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Come on.”
He kept his head down as he followed Rey through the crowd, toward a cluster of people overseen by Briggs. Jennie Walsh practically jumped into Rey’s arms when he was within range, and Barrett thought Laura might have too, if she wasn’t being bodily supported by Briggs. She stared at the fire with tears rolling down her cheeks. The familial scene made Barrett feel like an intruder.
“Anyone know how it started?” Rey asked as he untangled himself from Jennie.
“I’ll go find out,” Briggs replied.
He passed Laura sideways. The slender woman clung to Barrett, latching onto his left arm hard enough that he feared loss of circulation from her grip. But he couldn’t quite muster up the glare that the back of Briggs’s head deserved as he moved toward the police barricade.
Laura looked at him and seemed to understand who she was holding onto, because her eyes went wider. “Oh my God, Barrett, your apartment.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t have much in it.”
“It was your home.”
“It was a place I rented. You lost a lot more than I did.”
That set off a fit of crying, and she threw her arms around his neck. Jennie had mercy on him and pulled her mom away, soothing her in hushed tones. With the shock of the fire beginning to wear off, Barrett’s earlier fatigue returned in spades. His knees ached and his head was beginning to feel sore—not quite a headache, but one would be along soon enough. He and Rey watched the fire in silence until Briggs headed back to them.
“They think it started downstairs,” Briggs reported once he was within hearing range. “But they won’t know if it was the Laundromat or bookstore until the investigators can get in.”
The non-answer was a sobering thought, and Laura only looked more miserable. Barrett couldn’t imagine the guilt of knowing your business could have unintentionally hurt so many people.
“Why don’t you two go home?” Briggs said to Laura. “Get some rest. Chief Layton will contact you when he has news.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jennie said. “Let’s go home, Mom.” She nudged Laura toward the end of the block, and Laura allowed herself to be led. She moved as if weighed down by a great burden, aged thirty years by the destruction of her business.
Briggs trailed them, and since Rey followed Briggs, Barrett tagged along in an uneasy wagon train of bodies. Once the women were tucked into their car, Briggs finally seemed to notice he had an extra shadow. His curious stare shifted from Barrett over to Rey.
“I offered him a room,” Rey said. “Seeing as how his is on fire and all.”
Briggs lifted one eyebrow in a look that seemed to say they’d discuss it further in private, then smiled at Barrett. “Not a problem. It’s about time we broke in the guest room, right?”
Barrett wasn’t sure if he was supposed to reply to that, or if it was rhetorical, so he chose to look at Rey for help. Rey grinned. “Yeah, it’s time.”
“Car’s this way.” Briggs jacked his thumb over his shoulder, then started walking. He didn’t seem put out by the unexpected guest, but Barrett also didn’t think he knew the man well enough to be sure. Maybe he didn’t like to argue with Rey in front of other people.
Barrett hated the idea of putting his problems in between the couple, or of being the cause of an argument. Rey must have seen some of that on his face, because he held back to walk next to Barrett and whispered, “It’s really fine. He’s surprised, not annoyed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. His ‘surprised’ looks like most people’s ‘angry’.”
“Gotcha.”
The ride to the house was quiet. Barrett didn’t have a car of his own, and in the year he’d lived in Stratton he hadn’t really ventured out of his own small neighborhood. The tree-lined streets and old homes on this side of town reminded him of the small Tennessee town where he’d lived with his grandparents from sixth grade through high school—quaint, intimate, with curious eyes hiding behind pulled-back curtains. The biggest difference between Stratton and Lovettville was that no gay couple would dare live so openly in Lovettville.
Briggs pulled into the short driveway of a two-story home, probably turn of the century construction. The exterior needed a fresh coat of paint and some flower beds. He’d heard Rey mention a few times that it was a project house, and they were slowly fixing it up together. He imagined that getting the interior together mattered more. The outside fixings were what his Gamma would have called “lipstick and rouge”.
It felt strange following Briggs and Rey into their home. Over the years, he’d slept in a lot of bizarre places, like an air mattress in the back of a tattoo parlor, and a lot of really bad places—of which he’d rather forget—but he’d never crashed with a friend in the middle of the night stone-cold sober.
A polished wood floor stretched through the foyer, up the front stair and down a short hallway that probably led to a kitchen. To his right was a sparsely decorated living room, and to his left an empty dining room. From first glance, it felt a bit like a model house—finished walls waiting for the right touch to make it a home. A family could live there.
“You hungry?” Rey asked.
Barrett was famished, but he wasn’t going to put them out any more. “No. A little thirsty.”
“I’ll grab you a bottle of water. I need one myself.”
“I’ll show you where your room is,” Briggs said. Barrett followed him upstairs, and he pointed at the first door at the top. “Bathroom’s in there. There are clean towels in the closet if you want to take a shower later.”
“Thanks,” Barrett said.
Briggs took him to the door at the end of the hall and to the left. It was a smallish room, painted a golden yellow, with a simple black wood headboard and matching chest. The blanket on the bed looked like a handmade Amish quilt. He didn’t quite know what to say with Briggs hovering in the doorway, so he settled for, “It’s nice.”
“I’ll grab you something of Rey’s to sleep in. He’s closer to your size.”
“Thank you.”
He disappeared and was almost immediately replaced by Rey holding out a frosty bottle of water. Barrett took it with a grateful smile, twisted off the cap and chugged half of it down, trying to wash away the taste of smoke. But the smoke also clung to his clothes and skin. He was too damned tired to bother showering tonight.
“If you need more, help yourself,” Rey said. “Kitchen’s open territory, and so’s the bathroom. Anything you need, except my toothbrush.”
Bitter laughter tore from Barrett’s throat. He didn’t even have a toothbrush. He had the clothes on his back, his wallet, a disposable cell phone and nothing else. All evidence of his life before Stratton was gone. His eyes burned. He walked to the room’s only window and braced one hand on the sill, keeping his back to the door. He hadn’t cried in front of another person since Shawn’s funeral five years ago.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall toward them, then stopped in the doorway. Fabric whispered.
“You want to be alone?” Rey asked.
Barrett nodded.
“We’re two doors down if you need anything.”
His bedroom door creaked shut, and two pairs of feet moved away. Barrett stared out into the street in front of the house. Now that he was alone, it would be okay to cry. But the tears got stuck in his throat and made it hard to breathe. So he stood there for a while, trying to not think of anything at all. He stood until his knees started giving out.
He turned and stumbled to the bed. A neatly folded T-shirt and boxers lay on the quilt. He decided he’d save them to wear in the morning while his own clothes were in the washing machine. He collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep to the chorus of chirping crickets. Their song closed the curtain on what had been his second chance at life. It was time to start over. Again.
Third time’s a charm, right?
Sleigh Ride by Heidi Cullinan
Chapter One
Everyone in Arthur Anderson’s life was fixated on happily-ever-after, and it was seriously pissing him off.
He was happy for his friend Marcus, now all but married to Frankie, the cute little hairdresser who had been stranded with them in a blizzard last year. Arthur had known since high school that Marcus’s grumpy exterior hid a soft and gooey center—the burly lumberjack-turned-lawyer longed for nothing more than someone to love. Frankie wanted to cut hair on Main Street while Marcus sat in on Chamber of Commerce meetings and ran a law office on the other side of Frankie’s shop. This was all fine, but their domestic bliss was giving everyone dangerous ideas. Now everyone thought Arthur should get lovey-dovey too.
The worst offender was Arthur’s mother, who after fifteen years of letting Arthur’s love life be his own business, now routinely asked him when he would be making an honest man of Paul, Arthur’s other best friend. Paul wasn’t Arthur’s boyfriend, never had been. Paul and Arthur lived and slept together, but they weren’t dating, and they saw other guys. Sometimes they saw them at the same time. Every so often Paul decided he had a boyfriend and slept on the couch instead of next to Arthur in the loft, but that never lasted for more than a week. The arrangement suited Arthur fine, and he figured it would continue until he was too old to get it up anymore.
Except now Marcus and Frankie were together, and somehow that meant everything changed. Marcus had only lived with Paul and Arthur a little while before moving out to be with Frankie, but within two months of Marcus’s departure, Paul started dropping hints he and Arthur should be officially a couple too. As the year wore on, those hints became outright statements, and after seven months of watching Marcus and Frankie play house, Paul threw down an ultimatum. Arthur would stop seeing other people and go on the record as officially dating Paul, or Paul would leave.
Arthur dealt with this by ignoring the nonsense completely. Which meant by the first week in August, Paul started packing his bags.
Arthur got annoyed. “You want a boyfriend? Fine. We can stop f**king. You can go out with guys and still live here. We’ll build you a bedroom. I’ll install a lube dispenser above the headboard.”
“No, I can’t stay here. If I bring them to the cabin, you’ll scare them away or try to have a three-way.”
Arthur failed to see how this was a problem, but whatever. “So we won’t have three-ways. Problem solved.”
Paul wouldn’t budge. “I can’t date anyone else while I live with you. I have to move.”
This argument went on and on, until Paul found a duplex for rent on the south end of town and didn’t just talk about moving out or packing up boxes, he actually did it.
Arthur refused to help him, which meant he paced the edge of his property like a pouting child while Frankie and Marcus loaded up Paul’s things and took him away. Before they left, Marcus glowered at Arthur. “You’re being an idiot, and you’re hurting him.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Arthur stared across the grassy hayfield behind the tree line. “Yeah, well, it’s mutual.” He paused, frowning as he weighed whether or not his words made sense. “I mean, he’s an idiot too.”
“He still wants to be friends with you, but you’re making this all or nothing. Except it isn’t all or nothing. He’d marry you if you asked—”
Arthur made outraged noises through his nose.
“—except he knows he can’t even get an exclusive commitment out of you, let alone a house and kids. So he’s doing the smart thing and backing out before you hate each other.”
“I wouldn’t ever hate Paul.” He glared at Marcus. “And that’s a load of crap about him wanting a house and kids. I don’t buy for one second he asked for kids.”
Marcus looked Arthur dead in the eye. “No. But once upon a time, you did.”
Arthur turned away with a hiss. “Jesus. I was ten. I still pretended I could marry a girl.”
“Yes—because it was the only way you could get babies. You bragged all the time about how you were going to take your son hunting, teach him hockey. How you’d beat down anybody who treated your girl wrong.”
“Yeah, well, people change. I got Thomas and Brianna and baby Sue.”
“You’re deliberately missing the point. I’m telling you I don’t think, I know you want what he’s asking for, and more.”
“I don’t, and stop f**king talking about it.”
Marcus threw up his hands. “Frankie and I are going to go help move your best friend and try to cheer him up, because some asshole keeps breaking his heart and f**king up his head. You do whatever you need to do.”
Arthur winced but said nothing, didn’t move until he heard Marcus’s SUV and Paul’s car pull out of the drive. He went back to the house, which was lonely and still with Paul and all his things removed.
It really sucked. And as the days wore on into weeks, it didn’t suck any less.
With nothing else to do at the end of a workday, Arthur got in the habit of hanging out in his work shed and sorting junk, tackling his fix-it pile and the projects his mom had been after him to finish. He repaired a toaster and refinished the old dresser she’d used when she was a little girl. He repaired the dining room chairs too, even the one broken into six pieces, and on the first Sunday of September he dropped everything off at his parents’ house.
“Oh, Arthur, thank you.” Corrina Anderson kissed her son on the cheek and waved him inside with the first load of furniture. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Big Tom glanced up with a nod over his glasses from his post by the window, where he sat reading the paper and sipping out of a mug with his grandchildren’s pictures on it. “Good to see you, son.”
Arthur set the chairs down. Laughter echoed in from the living room, where Arthur’s niece and nephew played. Thomas ran toy trucks up and down the carpet while his younger sister ran, giggling, in clumsy circles.
Becky sat in the rocker with the baby on her knee. “Hey,” she said wearily when Arthur entered the room.
Arthur leaned against the doorway. “How’s everything with you?”
“Same. No job, deadbeat ex not paying child support, out of unemployment and living with my parents.”
Arthur frowned. “The restaurant in Eveleth didn’t pan out?”
“They kept sticking me with evenings. I never got to see Thomas except to put him on the bus in the morning, and I never got to put him or Brianna to bed.”
Six-year-old Thomas looked up at Arthur with a bright smile. “Hi, Uncle Arthur.”
Arthur grinned and crouched beside him on the carpet. “Hey, sport. You gonna help me fix Grandma’s water heater?”
Thomas beamed at him and hurried to his feet. “I’ll get my toolbox.”
While Thomas pounded up the stairs and rooted through his closet, Arthur spun Brianna around until Becky yelled at him, at which point he went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and waited for Thomas.
His mom glanced at him from the stove as she stirred gravy. “Did I hear you say you were going to fix the water heater?”
Arthur nodded over the rim of his cup. “I think you need a new anode. Picked one up yesterday when I was in town.”
“Thank you, honey. You’re so helpful.” Her stirring took on a deliberation and focus, warning Arthur something unpleasant was coming. “I saw Paul at the market yesterday. You never told me he moved out. Did you two have a fight?”
Arthur pursed his lips and picked up his mug. “When Thomas comes down, tell him I’m in the basement.”
Corrina followed him down the stairs, still carrying her whisk. “You did have a fight. Oh, honey.”
Arthur stalked to the water heater and pulled the screwdriver from his back pocket so he could unfasten the access panel. “Mom, leave it alone.”
“Can you talk to him? You never communicate with him enough, you know. You’re always so distant.”
“Mom.” Arthur let out a heavy breath and clenched his fists at his sides. “I don’t want to talk about Paul.” God, if she started in about how he should have kids, he’d stick his head in a snowbank.
She didn’t talk about kids, but she sighed heavily, and he could all but hear her gears turning as she tried to figure out how to talk about Paul without talking about Paul. “I should check on my gravy, I suppose. Though that reminds me—can you look at my burner before you go? It’s fritzing again.”
She didn’t bring up Paul the rest of the day, Arthur and Thomas replaced the anode no problem, and they enjoyed a pleasant meal. He heard all about his mother’s prospects for a new job for Becky at a dentist’s office in Eveleth and Thomas’s upcoming school pageant. While Becky and Corrina did the dishes, Arthur fixed the burner, with more help from Thomas.
It felt good to be at the house, and Arthur started dropping by more frequently. It was nice to have a meal made for him, but there was also plenty that needed doing, and with his bum leg and arthritis, Big Tom couldn’t manage much. Becky needed someone not-Corrina to talk to, and Thomas needed a good male role model.
Never mind that Arthur hanging out with Frankie and Marcus had become politically tricky because of Paul.
One night after he and Thomas snaked the sewer line, Arthur got dinner and dessert, the pudding-and-ice-cream one his mom knew was his favorite. He’d thought it was his reward for an afternoon of hard work, but no. The pie was a lure, and as Arthur carried his empty dish to the kitchen, she sprang her trap.
“You know,” she said in a tone of voice that should have tipped him off right away, “I think the night nurse at the care center is single.”
Arthur froze with his dish halfway into the sink. “Mom, I’m not dating Kyle. I’m not dating anybody, because I don’t date.”
“What’s wrong with Kyle? He’s a sweet boy.”
“Boy, Mom. He’s what, nineteen?”
“I suppose that is a bit young for a forty-year-old.”
Arthur glowered. “I’m only thirty-nine.”
Corrina waved this away. “You’re forty in April.” She tapped the side of her cheek, clearly indexing the gay men she knew in a fifty-mile radius.
Arthur decided to cut this serpent off at the head. “Mom, don’t fix me up. I’m fine.”
“You’re certainly not fine. I saw Paul with two different men this week. He’s not coming back—and you’re not getting any younger.”
“Mom.”
“What about that nice man who runs the bed-and-breakfast in Cloquet Valley? He’s gay, isn’t he?”
It went on and on like this the whole month of September, until when Arthur saw his mother coming up his drive, he braced himself for another onslaught of potential dates. There had been one horrible moment when he’d caught Corrina trying to log in to Grindr—heaven help Arthur if she’d actually found his profile. Though after the adolescence he’d put her through, he doubted anything could surprise her.
His mother playing yente was problematic, not only because Arthur didn’t want to date, but because he if he did date, he’d never go in for nice boys, which was always how Corrina introduced her prospective sons-in-law. There wasn’t any way to explain Arthur wanted a man, big and rough and raw. Some cuddling was nice, but only after some serious pounding and a lot of raunchy talk. Nice boys weren’t ever going to private message RedBear69 with a dirty pic. And until they did, Arthur had no time for them.
Corrina was undaunted by Arthur’s refusals. She started stopping by the cabin a lot, usually with Tupperware containers full of freezer meals, always with news of another prospective mate. The Monday before Halloween she was at Arthur’s place when he arrived home from work. She was putting a roast together on the counter, and she beamed at him as he came in. “Arthur, sweetheart, you’re home early.”
Arthur sank into his easy chair with a grunt. Today was a day he wanted to see his mother. “They’ve closed the mill until after the first of the year. We just found out.”
“What?” Corrina put down the carrot she was peeling. “The mill is shutting down?”
“Temporarily.” Though rumor was if it started up again, they’d be reducing the work crews by half.
“But what will you do for a job? What will everyone do for a job?” Corrina clucked her tongue in disapproval. “To do such a thing so close to Christmas. It’s a crime.”
“We’re collecting unemployment, so I guess it’s something. Figure I’ll get some good hunting in if nothing else.” Hunting which, he realized, he’d do without Paul for the first time in forever.
His mother busied herself with her roast for a moment. Then she said, far too casually, “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
Arthur shut his eyes and tipped his head back. “Mom, I’m not dating anyone, so save your breath.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “It works out you’re laid off, I suppose, because I worried you wouldn’t have time otherwise. There’s a project I’ve been setting up with the library.”
Library? Arthur sat up, frowning. His mom was on the library board, he knew, but how in the world he could help the library was something he had to hear. “What is it?”
“The board wants to have a fundraiser for Christmas. We’re almost out of our grant, you see, and though Gabriel is looking for a new one come spring, we thought we’d give him a leg up. We’ll do a little to stir up some funds, help patch up any gaps and buy us a few more months if the worst happens.” She beamed. “We’re going to have sleigh rides.”
Arthur laughed. “What—are you going to pull Grandpa Anderson’s old beast out of storage?”
“I thought so, yes.” She leaned against the counter. “I wanted to make it a big deal. Get Frankie’s friends up from the city, maybe people from Duluth. It could bring money to the downtown as well as the library. Everybody would win. Except…the sleigh needs a little work. Do you think you could take a peek at it?”
God, Arthur hadn’t thought about that sleigh in years. “I’m not sure how much I can do, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Excellent. Next time you’re over, we’ll pull it out and give it a look.” She pushed off the counter and nodded at the oven, where she’d tucked the roasting pan. “Give this until six, sweetheart, and you’ll have yourself a nice dinner. I’ll ask around too, see if anyone has jobs for you. It won’t be good for you to sit idle, not with the mill shut down and Paul moving on.”
The comment about Paul made Arthur worry this was a setup, that somehow agreeing to repair the sleigh was giving her a matchmaking opening, but no matter how he turned it around in his head, he couldn’t see how even Corrina Anderson could spin carpentry into happily-ever-after. So he settled into researching sleigh restoration with Thomas, holding baby Sue while Brianna got her bath, and in general picking up his ex-brother-in-law’s slack.
See? He got to be a dad, sort of, sometimes, and if he ever logged onto Grindr again himself, he could get his kink on. He told himself it was the best of both worlds.
Except every time he went home to his empty cabin, he had a hard time believing he had it all.
There were many things about small-town libraries Gabriel Higgins had acclimated to—micro-budgets, monthly battles over content, a library board full of retirees living out high school vendettas and grudges. But Corrina Anderson? He was fairly sure nothing in the known universe could have prepared him for the president of the library board.
When he’d accepted the position as director for Logan, Minnesota’s tiny, failing library, he’d done so knowing at some point it would come out he was gay, and his orientation would likely cause some friction. While that friction had technically come to pass as he predicted—some of his patrons definitely gave him side eyes, making it clear they fretted for the state of his soul—he also found PFLAG flyers displayed in the brochure area before he arrived, and of course there was Corrina. When she asked after his girlfriend and he explained he was gay, she became excited—and began suggesting potential partners. She never missed a chance to point out so-and-so was gay and unattached, and she always happened to have the phone numbers of the men in question. The fact that Gabriel had yet to do anything more than shred the phone numbers didn’t slow down the stream.
He couldn’t simply throw them away—she pulled the papers from the wastebasket, smoothed them out and left them on his desk.
For eighteen months he endured her efforts, willing to pretend he’d act on her suggestions for potential suitors in order to keep the peace. But in October she began hinting he consider her son, and Gabriel felt the time had come to be not only firm but unequivocal.
He stood in front of her, for once glad for his six-foot-three inches, because God knew he needed every advantage he could get over his personal termagant. “Corrina, I’m sure your son is a wonderful man, but I’m not interested.”
She crossed her arms, unbowed as ever. “You’re never interested, young man, not even in friends. I know for a fact Frankie Blackburn has invited you to movies and dinner dates and meals at his house with Marcus, and you always turn him down. I can’t so much as get you over for Sunday dinner. I know you aren’t refusing because you think you’re better than we are.”
That barb caught. “No, I don’t.” He sighed. “I’m not very social. It’s nothing personal to you or anyone else.”
“No one can be this antisocial.” She smiled and patted his arm. “Come for dinner. My house. You have to eat.”
Gabriel knew there was no way a dinner at her house would feature anything less than Arthur Anderson. “Perhaps another time.”
He was surprised how easily she gave in to his refusal, and he stood on guard all the rest of the week, waiting for another strike. It did eventually come, but it was so out of left field he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “You want to have…a sleigh-ride fundraiser?”
Corrina beamed. “Yes, I do. Everyone’s so excited about it. Oh, it’ll be a grand time. Old-fashioned sleigh rides up and down Main Street. It was my dad’s sleigh. He bought it from an estate sale when he came home from World War II, repaired it, and every Christmas he’d get it out, give us rides like the good old days. It’ll need some refreshing before we use it, but I thought some old-fashioned feeling might be just what we need around here, with the mill closed and winter coming so early. We could make it more than rides. Maybe we could have a party afterward.”
“That sounds…fine.” Gabriel kept trying to find the catch. With Corrina, there would be one. “Are you asking me to plan the party?”
“Heavens no. I’ll take care of everything. But I wanted you to know we were making plans. Hopefully we’ll make enough money to cover your salary if we can’t get the grant renewed.”
This was a recurrent conversation with the whole library board, and now the strange fundraiser made sense. “Corrina, as I’ve told you, I’m not concerned with the grant. If it runs out, I’m certain you’ll still find a way to pay me.”
She frowned, gesturing to his desk. “I’ve seen the job offers you get. I don’t want someone taking you away from us because we’re too cheap.”
“It’s kind of you to think of me, but I assure you money won’t be why anyone takes me from Logan.”
Corrina regarded him warily. “But why on earth would you stay, if you’re not attached to anyone here?”
Oh, that was why she was so fixated on partnering him up. Gabriel relaxed. “Remember, I’m from a small town too. I don’t really want to live in a city anymore, and small libraries are where my passion is. I like Logan, and I like your library. I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy here. I don’t need a boyfriend, period. I’m married to my job.”
He’d said the lie so many times now he almost believed it.
“But you’d be happier here with a boyfriend. Or at least a friend.”
Gabriel threw up his emotional walls before Corrina could barrel any more down. “The fundraiser sounds lovely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some books to shelve.”
She didn’t bother him any further about it that day, and blessedly her matchmaking cooled down as well. She continued to update him on the fundraiser—he got an earful at the next board meeting, and she came to the library every other day with additional ideas. She showed him the Santa-suit pattern her friend was sewing, which briefly had him nervous, but thankfully the suit wasn’t nearly big enough for Gabriel’s long, lanky legs.
Just before Halloween she began to tell him about the sleigh, which apparently her son was restoring, and her dinner invitations now included encouragements to come see how grand the progress was. She showed him pictures on her phone—it was still mostly a mess from the look of things, but Gabriel could imagine it swishing through the snow.
Corrina smiled when he told her that. “I can’t wait to see it all finished.”
“Who’s driving?” Gabriel asked, starting to become enchanted by the scheme despite himself.
“Arthur’s going to take lessons from Mr. Peterson as soon as he gets it finished. Gary has draft horses who know how to drive. We need to teach Arthur, and we’re set.” She patted Gabriel’s arm. “I was going to ask you to learn, but it wouldn’t really look right, would it, to have the elf driving Santa?”
Gabriel’s heart thudded a terrible beat. “Elf?”
“Didn’t I say? You’ll be playing Santa’s helper. Your costume is almost done—it’s so adorable. The children will love it. They love you, and they’ll be so charmed by the idea that you’re friends with Santa.”
Gabriel realized how well he’d been played, how this had been a matchmaking setup after all. “I assume Arthur is playing Saint Nick?”
“Of course. His hair will be a trick to hide, with all that red, but we’ll make it work somehow. Frankie will help.”
Gabriel didn’t know where to start objecting, only that he had to extract himself from this now. “Mrs. Anderson, I’m flattered but—”
“It truly is going to be the most charming event we’ve had in Logan in years. My grandson is already so excited I can barely get him to bed at night. You’ll be perfect as you always are. Everyone loves you, you know this, and such a feather in our caps this will be. A big event like something they’d do in the Cities. Don’t you worry about a thing, either. Arthur’s a good boy—he’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is show up on the day of the fundraiser and be your charming self. I want the children’s home in Pine Valley to come, perhaps have a special gift delivery by Santa.”
Dear God, this was the train wreck to end all train wrecks. She’d waited this long to set her trap too, laying so much bait there was no way Gabriel could tell her no, he didn’t want to pass out presents with her son because he found Arthur Anderson to be a boorish, untutored oaf. And yet he could not do this. “Mrs. Anderson, I honestly can’t—”
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear me. Nine thirty already? Becky just took a new job, and Big Tom, bless his heart, isn’t much help with morning routine. I’ll stop by with them for afternoon story time, and I’ll chat with you then.”
Gabriel watched her go, torn between chasing after her and pleading for mercy, and shutting himself in his office to stick his head between his legs. This was worse than matchmaking. This was putting on a happy holiday face for the entire town, getting roped into a gala where he would stand along the wall as usual and watch other families and couples play and be happy while he remained alone. He had to find a way out of this.
Perhaps you won’t have to, he consoled himself. Perhaps Arthur will do the objecting for you. Which, honestly, was the most likely outcome. Because the only thing more incredulous than Gabriel dating Arthur Anderson was that foul-mouthed man-whore playing Santa Claus.
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Chapter One
July 28, 1921
Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samson’s truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocer’s assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sun—it was more holes than straw by this time.
Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not here.” Samson’s gaze slid away from his. “Don’t have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.” He nodded at the truck. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Robbie’s empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. He’d learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the ride—anything that got him farther from Idaho, really—was more than he could hope for. “Thank you, sir.” He stumbled toward the truck cab.
“Hold on, you. Not up front.” Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. “Back there. But give us a crank first.”
Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too.
As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruits—a lemon and five oranges—almost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.
He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it.
His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after another—even the lemon, so sour it made his eyes water—as the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust.
After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze.
With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he could—less chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day.
Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. “End of the line, kid.”
Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed.
He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. “Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.”
Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. “No skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I don’t need any help on the farm.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“I understand. Thanks anyway.” He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. “Does this road lead to Mexico?”
Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. “Whatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you can’t get here.”
“Where’s here?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hollywood.”
Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. “I guess it is.”
With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. “Give us another crank, will you?”
Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street.
What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other grower’s orange grove. There weren’t any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldn’t hire somebody with only one set of clothes—and those almost too worn to be decent.
Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldn’t muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime.
So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasn’t adrift or as castaway as his namesake—Robinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samson’s truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus.
At the back of Mr. Samson’s orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old man’s farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy who’d never heard of the Volstead Act—not the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect.
He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.
*******
“I’m not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I can’t.” Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. “He tried to drown me.”
Sid Howard, Martin’s manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Come on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You can’t take this personal.”
“I damn well do take it personally. He’d never try that shit with Fairbanks.”
“Shite.”
Martin frowned at Sid. “What?”
“A baronet’s son from Hertfordshire wouldn’t say ‘shit.’”
“But I’m not a baronet’s son from Hertfordshire.” Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. “That would be you. Me? I’m only a tailor’s apprentice from Flushing.”
Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martin’s grip. “No. That would be me. And don’t forget it, even when we’re alone. Even in your own head. It’s easier to remember the lies if you live ’em full-time.” Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. “And don’t drink this shit. You’ll go blind.”
“I’ll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstow’s finest bathtubs.” Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. “But you’re right.” He bared his teeth. “It’s shite.”
“That’s more like it.” Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. “So. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.”
“Better you than me,” Martin muttered. “I loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.”
“Maybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because he’s—”
“A pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?”
“Because,” Sid raised his voice over Martin’s, “he’s the one who controls your career.”
“He’s not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.”
“Yeah, but Ira’s the talent-facing brother. Jacob’s got his sausage-like finger on the studio’s financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, money’ll trump talent every time.”
Martin snorted. “So much for art.”
“Pictures aren’t art, Marty. They’re business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it don’t matter if it’s as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.”
“Really, Sid,” Martin murmured. “Your language.”
Sid grinned. “Unlike some, I don’t forget who I’m supposed to be.” Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailor’s apprentices didn’t have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England.
“As I said, I met with Jacob today.”
“And?”
Sid’s heavy brows drew together. “He and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Ira’s liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks you’re the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob… well….”
“I know, I know. He hates queers.”
“Nobody knows for sure that you’re queer, Marty.” Sid’s scowl said, “And keep it that way” louder than words could. “Anyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as they’re in their place.”
Martin’s snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martin’s backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martin’s backstory and he’d traded it with Martin’s when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures.
“Right. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.”
“It’s not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows he’s got none. He’s a stevedore’s son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so you’ll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dick’s bloody hatband and he wouldn’t care as long as your pictures make money. But they won’t make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.”
“Kerrigan’s popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because he’s queer.”
“Exactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didn’t lift a finger to save him. He’d become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You don’t want to be in that position.”
Martin pinched his eyes closed. “If it’s not because they suspect I’m in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, I’m never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.”
“No. It’s because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?”
“Vernon, actually.”
“Right. Well, they don’t like that you fired him.”
“I fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.”
“Swive.”
“What? Are you telling me a baronet’s son wouldn’t say fuck?”
“Baronets’ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronets’ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywood’s finest gentlemen, does not.”
Martin leaned his head on the cushions. “Jesus, Sid. Don’t you ever get tired of the act?”
“I’ll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.” Sid crossed his legs. “I met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.”
Martin groaned. “Good lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasn’t it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?” Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey.
“It has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter can’t fix it.”
“Very well. I’ll return tomorrow to die again.”
“Good. They expect you at ten.”
“Ten.” Martin cracked open an eye. “That’s a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still won’t let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. I’d take the streetcar, but—”
“No. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.” Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. “I’ll contact the studio. They’ll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.” He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. “You’re not Valentino, after all. Yet.”
“Isn’t it grand that I don’t want to be, then?”
Sid sighed. “Marty, you need to think about your image. The studio’ll only protect you as long as you’re an asset, and you’ll only be an asset if—”
“If I make Jacob enough money.”
“If you don’t make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.”
Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homer—”
“Vernon,” Martin murmured.
“—was a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the press—”
“They wouldn’t. Nobody who’s in the life would ever give me away. We don’t do that to one other. Not ever.”
“That’s what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truth—”
“Truth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.”
“Maybe. But you can’t depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.” Sid settled his straw boater on his head. “A studio driver’ll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. I’ll take care of it.”
Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. “Thanks, Sid.”
“And next time? If you’re gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sid grabbed Martin’s wrist, his dark eyes serious. “I mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.”
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court.
Damn it, he’s right.
The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were few—New York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didn’t even have a word for it.
In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment… worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval.
Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. I’ve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know.
So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, he’d heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanks’s next picture.
It was nuts.
It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the bills—his and Sid’s. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where they’d been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too.
Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do that—he had few enough fans left. He’d best keep the faithful remnants happy.
With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.
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?
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?
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.
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Author of over thirty novels, Midwest-native Heidi Cullinan writes positive-outcome romances for LGBT characters struggling against insurmountable odds because they believe there’s no such thing as too much happy ever after. Heidi’s books have been recommended by Library Journal, USA Today, RT Magazine, and Publishers Weekly. When Heidi isn’t writing, they enjoy gaming, reading manga, manhua, and danmei, playing with cats, and watching too much anime.
Heidi goes by Jun when being spoken to in person or online, and Jun’s pronouns are they/them.
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
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.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
AM Arthur
EMAIL: AM_Arthur@yahoo.com
Heidi Cullinan
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
PINTEREST / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: heidi@heidicullinan.com
EJ Russell
John Inman
EMAIL: John492@att.net
You're the One by Davidson King
Color of Grace by AM Arthur
Sleigh Ride by Heidi Cullinan
Sunset Lake by John Inman
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)