Summary:
Can the magic of Christmas, and the soft voice of a man who has seen too much, show Bryan a future where anything is possible?
Bryan Graham is shocked to find he’s inherited a hunting cabin in north-central Pennsylvania. From his grandfather of all people; a stubborn man who went out of his way to make Bryan’s childhood miserable. He’d vowed never to go back to the small, rural community of Kutter’s Summit, not that he didn’t have fond memories of the place. It’s just that he’d rather be celebrating a quiet Christmas back in Nashville with his cat and his contracts.
A couple of weeks of hunting, cleaning, and handyman work, and he can hopefully put the place up for sale and move on with his life. He never expected to find his childhood friend Parson Greer living in the cabin. Parson is no longer a boy, but a handsome, wary man consumed by the demons of a faraway desert war. When a rekindled friendship shifts into something deeper, Bryan finds himself lost in emotions that a workaholic like him has never made time to experience before.
Will two complete opposites learn to cross party lines to benefit their beloved hometown and save Christmas?
Evan Griffiths is enjoying his tenure as the mayor of Cedarburg, Pennsylvania. While it may barely be a blip on the state map, it’s where he grew up, and he’s thrilled to be at the helm of the tiny rural community. With the recent election in the past, Evan can focus on his agenda to bring Cedarburg out of the fifties. Being the first gay mayor in the town’s history is a good start but there’s plenty more to do. His first big job is expanding the yearly Christmas Carnival to lure tourists to his fiscally challenged birthplace. Things seem to be moving along at a good pace then a ghost from Christmases past arrives on the morning bus.
As soon as Gideon Pierce returns to Cedarburg he picks up right where he left off back in elementary school—tormenting Evan at every turn. Only this time instead of shoving Evan down on the playground, Gideon is bedeviling him with snippy editorials in the local paper. Gideon is no longer the gangly, bucktoothed kid he used to be. When his gaze keeps touching on Gideon’s mouth and the appreciative fire in his brilliant holly green eyes, Evan finds it harder and harder to keep his mind on witty replies to Gideon’s cutting viewpoints.
Original Review December 2019:
Sometimes going back can be the scariest and yet strangely rewarding experience. Sometimes sticking it to someone who has hurt you can also be incredibly rewarding and that is what Bryan's plans are: to sell the beloved cabin his grandfather left him and give the money to LGBT charity since his grandfather painfully rejected him after coming out. Fate may have other plans for Bryan though when his old friend(and the only one who supported him, besides his sister after coming out) who is battling his own demons is living in said cabin. Fate can be cruel at times but it can be equally understanding when it comes to what we need and perhaps it knows exactly what it is doing when it brings Bryan home and reconnects him with Parson.
VL Locey tells an amazing story full of aches and warmth. Your heart will run the gauntlet of emotions in this holiday romance. So often holiday tales are full of sunshine, roses, rainbows, and unicorns - basically everything happy, happy and there is nothing wrong with that because I love a good holiday happy, happy but every so often you find a Christmas setting that is definitely romance but so much more than just the holiday magic and that is what The Christmas Oaks is. Amazing characters with goods and bads, setting that isn't always easy but still peaceful, internal struggles that make you want to whack them with a frying pan one minute and wrap them in the tightest Mama Bear Hug the next. A feel good story that has it's struggles and being Christmas just gives it an extra layer of warmth, that warm sweater on a cold winter night.
Sometimes going back can be the scariest and yet strangely rewarding experience. Sometimes sticking it to someone who has hurt you can also be incredibly rewarding and that is what Bryan's plans are: to sell the beloved cabin his grandfather left him and give the money to LGBT charity since his grandfather painfully rejected him after coming out. Fate may have other plans for Bryan though when his old friend(and the only one who supported him, besides his sister after coming out) who is battling his own demons is living in said cabin. Fate can be cruel at times but it can be equally understanding when it comes to what we need and perhaps it knows exactly what it is doing when it brings Bryan home and reconnects him with Parson.
VL Locey tells an amazing story full of aches and warmth. Your heart will run the gauntlet of emotions in this holiday romance. So often holiday tales are full of sunshine, roses, rainbows, and unicorns - basically everything happy, happy and there is nothing wrong with that because I love a good holiday happy, happy but every so often you find a Christmas setting that is definitely romance but so much more than just the holiday magic and that is what The Christmas Oaks is. Amazing characters with goods and bads, setting that isn't always easy but still peaceful, internal struggles that make you want to whack them with a frying pan one minute and wrap them in the tightest Mama Bear Hug the next. A feel good story that has it's struggles and being Christmas just gives it an extra layer of warmth, that warm sweater on a cold winter night.
The Christmas Pundit #2
Original Review December 2020:
I don't do spoilers here and when it comes to Christmas stories I want to give away even less so this review is going to be short-ish and to the point.
Right off the bat I want to say as much as I loved Laurel Holidays #1(The Christmas Oaks) I think I loved The Christmas Pundit even more. That isn't something I say often so when I say book 2 is better than the original, I truly mean it. I hate to use the tag enemies to lovers to describe Evan and Gideon but it's not exactly friends to lovers either, perhaps childhood adversaries to lovers is closer. The guys have what I like to lovingly call "that snark and cuddle connection". Even at their worst the attraction is palpable, the push-and-pull almost fuels the heart.
Having lived in small towns ranging from so small it was a village to a large-ish small, I can honestly say the VL Locey has captured the feel to a tee. Having done so only heightens the appeal for me, making it easier to connect to both Evan and Gideon and hoping they'll find their HEA. Now, does the author let them find happiness? I think we all know the answer to that question but finding out the road the men have to navigate to get it is where all the magic happens and you have to read that for yourself. Trust me, you won't regret it. The Christmas Pundit is a delightful holiday reading experience that warmed this reader's heart and left a smile lingering afterwards.
RATING:
The Christmas Oaks #1
Chapter One
“Betty, I’ll need Dottie’s updated schedule in my hand when I land. No, not the tour schedule, we’ll have to see how she looks once she’s out of rehab. I need the schedule for the holiday specials she’s been booked on. Oh, and the phone numbers for all the producers of those stupid TV shows. Yes, I know, it’s a clusterfuck of biblical proportions. Were you talking about Dottie’s dive into dependency or this stupid trip home to bury Jim? Both are miserable.”
I shuffled around a large group of Middle Eastern people chatting away merrily, smiling, cell to my ear, desperate to get onto my flight out of Nashville International so I could have a damn drink. Merrily. Right. I guess it was the holiday season, so merry and bright was the theme of the month. Ho-fucking-ho.
Today had been one of those days that talent agents dread. Someone dying and someone signing themselves into rehab. Again. The rehab bit, not the dying bit. As I moved past departing passengers on my mad rush to my plane, I tried to weigh which bit of news had been worse. My grandfather Jim dying, or my highest paid client going into rehab out on the west coast when she was supposed to be doing three live streaming events here in Nashville over the next week.
My personal assistant and all-around savior, Betty Forde, yes that was her name, and no she didn’t think it was funny in the least, gave me a sound tsk.
“He was your grandfather, Bryan. You could at least try to sound remorseful about his passing. As for Dottie, well, maybe this time it will stick,” Betty said then sighed, the shuffle of papers ever-present when she was on the phone. The woman never rested, kind of like me. Betty had no life, also kind of like me, but she was in her late sixties and had lived a lot of hers. She’d been married to her childhood sweetheart for over forty years, had kids who were now spread over the globe making grandkids and doing philanthropic social work, and had buried her husband ten years ago. Me? I was thirty-three and married to my job and my cat. Speaking of Aesop…
“Don’t forget to stop and—”
“Pick up your cat.”
I smiled wearily. Thank God for this woman.
“Already have that jotted down in my schedule. Cat carrier still in the hall closet?”
“Yep. And don’t let him give you any shit. Close the bedroom door before you try to catch him. If he gets under the bed you’ll get clawed trying to reach for him. I have the battle scars to prove it.” I slipped around a couple kissing goodbye. Since this was just a flight to Elmira, New York, I couldn’t see why the need for so much face sucking was taking place right by the kiosk desk. Wasn’t like the guy was being sent off to war, unless someone had decided to invade us. Who would launch an invasion in a tiny town like Elmira? There was nothing but cows and grape vines in the Finger Lakes region. Go a little farther north, into Pennsylvania where it butted up against New York State, and all you’d find were more cows, snow, and stiff conservative ideology. Which brought us back to Jim and his sudden death and my need to go to Kutter’s Summit two weeks before Christmas to bury his judgmental ass.
“I know how to handle him. Oh, I have Brock Callahan on another line. Do you want to talk to him?”
Ah, my top male performer. “Yes, tell him…shit, no. I have to get through security and get on the plane. Betty, tell him to shine up his belt buckle and be ready to stand in for Dotty. And make sure you grab Aesop’s toys. That pink catnip mouse and his purple cactus.”
“Okay, I’ll handle Brock. Just get on the plane. Call me when you’re able.”
The line went dead and I jumped ahead of some old man with fourteen suitcases. I just had a carry-on and a wheelie suitcase.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, then began toeing off my sneakers.
We sailed through security and I made a dash into the nearest men’s room to try to contact the desk at Oasis Way Rehabilitation Center in San Juan Capistrano, California. I was politely told that Dottie Anders was currently unable to come to the phone but my message would be delivered. I ran my fingers through my hair, cussed at the stall door, and then flushed the toilet several times just for the fucking hell of it.
Why in God’s name had I decided to start a talent agency? I could have taken my bachelor’s degree in Organizational Communications and Public Relations and done any number of things. But no, I had to go into business for myself so I could play nursemaid to egotistical country and western singers. I could have been a lobbyist, for fuck sake, slipping cash into the pockets of greedy politicians in exchange for a yes vote on legalizing something really bad for the American people. I’d be rich and stress-free. Maybe I’d have a hot Senatorial aide for a lover, and we’d be the stars of the Washington gay scene.
I padded to the sink and stared at myself in the mirror as men came and went. I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed, which I had. The call from my sister had come in at four a.m. sharp. Jim couldn’t even die at a decent time. My brown eyes were puffy and my face covered with thick dark stubble. I hadn’t had time to shower or shave. Not even Aesop would look at me when I’d slipped from the bed I shared with my cat and only my cat. I wasn’t even going to try to remember the last man who’d been between my sheets. The long drought was too depressing to contemplate. Who had time to work on a relationship when you had to be at the beck and call of celebrity singers? Was ten percent really worth it? I looked closer to forty than thirty and felt closer to a hundred.
“Oh, the glamour of the music business,” I grunted, poked at the bag under my left eye, and shuffled along to my waiting plane. Once I was settled into first class and had a vodka and tonic with extra lime in hand, I began checking off things to attend to once I landed. Rental car, hotel room in Kutter’s Summit because no way was I staying with Debbie and her twins. Nope. Eight-year-old boys and me did not jibe. Any child under the age of college freshman and I didn’t mesh well. Too much yelling and whining. I dealt with that all day long with my clients, who the hell wanted to come home to more of the same? Thanks, but no thanks.
So, hotel in town, funeral as soon as humanly possible, reading of the will, leaving the backwoods rural community I’d grown up in with all due haste after the not-surprising discovery that Jim had left me nothing. He had disliked my being gay. Hated it actually, so I was reasonably sure Deb and her boys would get the bulk of the inheritance. Which was fine. I wanted nothing from the homophobic old prick. Deb needed the money more than I did. She was a single mom with two kids. I was a successful agent with a cat. But just in case Jim had decided to bequeath me something, I already had plans in mind for anything he’d left me. Selling it and donating the money to my favorite LGBTQ charity in Nashville, Danny’s Place, which was a mecca for homeless gay kids in the Nashville area. I sniggered into my vodka and tonic at the thought of giving Jim’s bigoted and tightly hoarded cash to a bunch of fag boys. His slur, not mine.
I tossed back my drink and flagged down the flight attendant for another. Perhaps if I had a few more cocktails, my grandfather’s intolerable disgust of me and men of my kind wouldn’t hurt quite so badly.
Kutter’s Summit never changed.
Seriously.
It had been fifteen years since I’d been here. Was that right? Yes, fifteen years since I’d left for college, a beautiful campus in the heart of Nashville that was a little more faith-based than I would have liked, but the communication and media studies program was the most highly-rated curriculum among the schools that had accepted me. I just kept a wide berth of the chapel and hung out off campus with the other queers around Church Street. Despite what people would think the city has a thriving LGBT community, a tiny blue island of acceptance in a predominantly red state as it were. I fell in love with the city, the gay community, and so set up shop. Using what money I could beg or borrow from relatives—not Jim—and sold myself as an inclusive agent willing to represent all. And amazingly I had flourished.
Not everyone who wears a cowboy hat and croons about girls in tight jeans and his love for his pick-up truck is straight. My client list has several rainbow talents on it. Some are out, some not. Matters not to me, as long as you’re not bedding anyone under eighteen or farm animals, I’ll represent you if you have the chops and the drive. Sadly that wasn’t the case for many agents in the deep South.
I slowed to a stop by the Kinnerson farm, about a mile outside of Kutter’s Summit proper, and waited for a kid in chore boots and a flannel shirt to catch the half-grown red beef cow standing along the side of the road. Ah rural life. I missed it so. Not. I’d never been one of those kids who wanted to show sheep or learn how to grow corn. No Future Farmers of America club for Bryan. I really didn’t participate much aside from a stint on the high school basketball team. That had ended badly when the student body found out I was gay.
Let’s just say that one can only be concussed so many times by errant elbows from both his own team—oops sorry Graham, didn’t see you there—and opposing teams before one got some sense knocked into him. I removed my lanky self from the team, and the locker room, and everyone including the coach was pleased. The only person who had been supportive had been Parson Greer, fellow gangly guy and the single male in our high school who didn’t hurl hurtful comments at me after I had come out. I smiled softly at the memory of Parson. He and I had been buddies of a sort. I wondered how he was doing in the military. Deb would know. She knew all the gossip working at our tiny rural electric company as the lone dayshift switchboard operator.
I wondered if old Kinnerson was still coaching the boys’ basketball team. His farm looked a little ragged, but then again who could make a decent living in a town like Kutter’s Summit? There was no industry, only cows and opioid addictions. And of course old men like my grandfather who refused to leave because this was God’s country, and he had roots like a mighty oak. I rolled my eyes.
Someone in a pick-up truck behind me hit their horn. The urge to flip them off was strong, but I simply motioned to the kid draping a rope around his steer’s neck and asshole in the red Ford stopped being a dick. As soon as the kid and cow were safely back in the pasture, I hit the gas, following the familiar route that led me past Kutter’s Summit High School and right into town. The few street lights had been decorated with the same gold bells that had been used when I was a kid. The stores had blinking lights in the windows. Oh, but it was quaint and festive.
The town consisted of two red lights, a sub/pizza shop, a bar, and four churches, all with nativity scenes half-buried with snow. There was not a synagogue or a mosque. Although there was a Catholic church outside of town. Talk about acceptance! My toxicity rose with every breath. By the time I was checked into my hotel room I’d be a seething ball of acid. This was what this town did to me. How Deb could live here made no sense. She should move down south with me and get away from the creeping death that was slowly choking the life out of this small town. I kept asking her to but she refused. Her reasons were many, but I suspected it was because she hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband, the biggest ass rash I had ever met.
After a quick stop at the red light by the sub shop, I eyeballed the liquor store. It was locked up tighter than a nun’s drawers. Sunday blue laws were still highly regarded here in Kutter’s Summit. The urge to drive right through my hometown and not stop until I hit Canada was strong, but being the good boy that I was, I pulled into the parking lot of the Tumbling Pines Hotel on Main Street. Little Margie Pinkens was sitting behind the reservations desk. Her gaze lit up when I pushed through the doors, snow whirling around me as I entered.
“Deb said you were flying in! Thank goodness you made it before this clipper came in,” Margie exclaimed, her cheeks still freckled and her hair still as red as the town’s lone fire engine. “You look good! I saved you the best room.”
I gave her a warm smile. Deb and Margie had been friends since elementary school. “Thanks for that,” I said as I signed the ledger, yes a ledger, and then handed her my debit card. “I’ll only be here for maybe three days, so I’ll pay up front. You do have free Wi-Fi, right?”
“Oh, of course! We’re all modernized now, well, aside from the ledger here.” She patted the book that probably dated back to the early eighties. “You know Uncle Dave. He likes to see who comes and goes.”
“He could see who comes and goes online,” I pointed out as she ran my card several times, each time her frown growing deeper. “Problem?”
“Oh, it’s this old reader.” She huffed and typed the card number in by hand. “Bad weather slows the internet.”
I nodded. My sister’s internet still dropped out when her phone rang. Ah, rural living. I had to remind myself to say that every time I got mired in all the backwoods charm, or I’d start to weep openly. Nashville glowed in my mind like an oasis in an arid desert of bucolic bullshit.
“So, while we wait for this to go through to the bank, how are things in the big city? Deb tells me that you’re still not married or even seeing anyone. I have a cousin who’s gay. He’s just adorable! Would you like his number?”
“God. No.” Her eyes flared. “I mean, God, no way would I turn that down.”
“Yay! I told Deb that you and Clarence would hit it right off,” she grinned up at me. I swallowed down a glob of despair. First thing when I got to my room and located enough bars to make my fucking phone work I was calling my sister and ranting at her.
“He’s just so cute. Works for a lawyer and sings in the church chorus. He’s one of those gays who aren’t making it weird for people. You know, he’s kind of like you. Just not as normal as the rest of us, but in a good not-normal way.”
Wow. That was an exemplary display of a backhanded compliment. It had more shade than a lamp shop. And the sad thing was that Margie had been being nice, or what she thought was nice. I sighed, signed the damn slip when the card reader finally coughed it out, and went to the executive suite. Turns out the only thing that made this room more expensive is that it was closer to the router in the main office. Yep. Still no bars for cell service but I could yell at my sister online now. Which I planned to do right after I threw my bag to the floor and tried to find somewhere in this miserable town where I could buy a damn lime, some tonic, and a bottle of vodka. Maybe a case of each would be wise. It promised to be a long ass three days.
The Christmas Pundit #2
Chapter One
“…said to him that there was no way he clumb all the way up to my property just to track no deer! You know what he said to me then, Mayor?”
“I’m assuming that he explained in a polite manner that he had indeed climbed up to your property to track the doe?” I replied, looking from one old farmer to the other, both men nearly indistinguishable from the other save for the wear and tear of their Carhartt work coats. Looked like Berger Mason had bought a new one in the past year whereas Carson Oats had worn his for years. Into the cow barn if the smell of manure wafting off him was any indication. Of course, the poop could be on their mucky boots as well. Seemed neither of the dairy farmers deemed a trip to city hall was worth changing out of their chore clothes. Mara, my executive assistant, was sitting beside me taking notes of the impromptu meeting with a hankie over her nose. I had said during my first speech on the night the results had come in that my office door would always be open to the good citizens of Cedarburg. I’d just assumed they’d scrape the cow shit off their boots before coming to the courthouse…
“That’s right, Mr. Mayor, I said exactly that,” Berger replied, his big nose red with frustration. It tended to glow like a certain famous reindeer whenever he was upset. “I told him that my arrow nicked a branch and the shot was low. Then the doe bounded over the fence, and I asked real politely like if I could track her. He got all belligerent and told me to haul my fat ass back down the ridge where it belonged. Then he called me an encroacher and a defiler of his scarecrow! Which is pure horseshit! I didn’t never touch that stupid scarecrow!”
“Yes, you did. I know you dressed it up to look like my wife. Even give it a big squash nose!” Carson shouted.
“Okay, let’s settle down.” I lifted my hands while speaking up over the din. I was a politician, so I was good at speaking loudly. “Now is this the scarecrow incident of ’92 that you’re referring to, Carson?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” both men replied at once before slipping back to silent glowering.
I had assumed so. I tossed Mara a pleading look. She deftly shook her head and hid behind her lilac-scented hanky. I suspected the older woman was sniggering into the folds of silk over her nose and mouth.
“Right, okay, well, I remember that incident well. I was ten. Didn’t Officer Blakeman deduct that it was local kids who dressed up your scarecrow like Dolores?” I pointedly asked Carson, who had the good grace to at least look a little contrite. He bobbed his head but continued to mutter to himself. This feud between the Mason and Oats clans had been raging since the fifties when old Booger Oats had taken up with Marlene Mason. It had been a torrid affair, at least by fifties standards. Booger had run off to Canada leaving Marlene in a delicate condition. The child of that scandalous liaison had been breastfed on the stories of how dastardly the whole Oats clan was and he then carried the nonsense on, passing the hatred along to the next generation like an heirloom pocket watch.
“I did stop and ask, Mayor, truly I did. Then he got all up on his face and—”
“In your face. He got in your face, Berger.” That made me smile just a little. Bless the older generations. They were trying. Well, some of them were. Others not so much. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call WCO Carlota over in Silverwood and ask him to come over to escort Berger onto your land to fetch his deer. If they can track the doe and find her, then you two will split the venison fifty-fifty. How does that sound?”
Both old codgers grumbled and hemmed but in the end they nodded briskly.
“I’ll go call the game commission now,” Mara said into her square of silk then rose and hurried out of my cramped office. If it weren’t a blustery October day I’d open the window to let some of the manure smell out. But it was too dank and chilly in the hills of Pennsylvania on this early October day to crack the window let alone open it. This old courthouse was damp enough as it was even on a sunny day.
“There, see how nicely things work out when we compromise?” I asked, pushing to my feet to offer my hand to Berger. He eyed it warily but finally gave in, slapping his palm to mine. We shook in a most manly fashion, which I suspected he was shocked about. I’d run into lots of that kind of crap while I’d been campaigning against the incumbent mayor, Ralph Kitterman. Everyone in my hometown knew I was gay. I’d been one of the first of “them vocal gays” in the county to come out and wave my rainbow goodness proudly way back in high school. “So, if there’s not anything else, I’ll let you two go meet WCO Carlota and tend to that doe, and I’ll get back to work on the Christmas Carnival fundraising committee work.”
Oats got to his feet, offered me his hand, shook, and then crammed his red ballcap back onto his bald head.
“Told you he was a smart one,” I heard Berger mumble as they left my office.
“Kitterman was smarter,” Carson replied with his usual obstinance.
“Kitterman was a horse’s ass,” Berger fired back.
I chuckled, shook my head, and then let Mara handle them in the outer office. Shutting the door behind my warring constituents, I sighed, stretched, and gave my sanctum a pleased perusal. There wasn’t much to peruse. A desk littered with papers and a desktop that took forever to load up due to the dreadful internet we had up here in Northcentral Pennsylvania. One window but you had to stand on a chair to see Main Street, a chair in front of my desk that was here when Eisenhower was in the Oval Office and two flags. One the American and one the state, shoved into one corner while a filing cabinet lurked in another corner and a rickety coat rack hid in yet another. The fourth corner had a stand with brochures about Cedarburg and a picture of my parents who lived five minutes away. I flopped down into my one new extravagance, an office chair from the mall up in Corning, New York. I no longer felt like fiddling with the dismal numbers on the fundraising reports. Maybe my aide would be calling in from home with better news. Like more money news. If he could get his damn cell to work out in the boonies, which was never a given. God but we needed new infrastructure out here.
That had been one of my top five running points when I’d gone up against Kitterman. Infrastructure, updating wastewater practices, working on creating the right kind of rural roads, pushing for new ways to lure businesses into our community thereby creating jobs that will keep the young people in Cedarburg, and adding more housing choices for our rapidly growing elderly population. Oh, and a new fence around the elementary school. All those problems, plus hundreds more, were mine now.
Those five platforms had appealed to the four thousand people in my town, and they’d been able to overlook the fact that I was a little light in the loafers. I’d been rabidly pushing our nearest cell provider to build two new towers for us as well as begging Harrisburg for some road and bridge work next summer. The capital wasn’t keen on hearing about my little issues all the way up by the New York State border. They were more concerned with what Philadelphia and Pittsburgh needed, which was total bullshit.
There were farms in the outlying areas of my town that still had no internet accessibility, or it was so poor students couldn’t run videos for homeschooling or homework assignments. I ran a hand over my face. I bet they all had highspeed access in Harrisburg and the two big Ps. I scrubbed at my face even harder.
There was so much to do. Kitterman had been a stick in the mud. A hard-as-nails stickler for law and order, apple pie, and the good old days. He also was an obnoxious ass who’d been stunned to learn that a queer had beaten him by over three hundred votes back in May. Guess the people of Cedarburg were tired of living in nineteen forty-nine. Or at least the majority were. It had been a stunning upset win given the county was as red as a Honeycrisp apple and I was as blue as a Smurf. Imagine that! My blue democratic gay ass beat the good old boys republican red incumbent.
Reaching over my head I padded around my desk to stretch my legs. My knees tended to crack and creak whenever it rained. Thirty-eight was a rough age. Not quite forty yet according to the calendar but feeling about sixty whenever rain was on the air. Old baseball injuries I liked to say when my knees locked up, but those who knew me knew I’d never actually played baseball for the Cedarburg Cardinals. Not that I’d not tried, but my membership in the LGBTQ club made Coach Knight’s lips flatten whenever he looked at me during tryouts. I ended up warming the bench for every game. He kept a sharp eye on me during showers that first year after I’d come out. I took it all in stride, even the few knockdown fights I’d had with a few of the school jerks.
“Gideon Pierce,” I muttered as I dropped into my ergonomic seat and picked up my now cold cup of coffee. Whenever I thought of those who had made my childhood harder than it had to be, his damn face popped up in my mind’s eye. Taller than me, bigger, dark-haired, and brilliant green eyes to counter my strawberry-blond and blue-eyed self, and certifiably meaner, Gideon had always been a festering sliver under my skin. Way before anyone knew I was gay, hell before I was even fully aware of why Shawn Hunter appealed to me way more than Topanga on Boy Meets World, Gideon was being a jerk.
Then suddenly one day he just wasn’t there on the playground anymore. He wasn’t even in school, or the state. Rumor had it that his parents had divorced after a pinnacle domestic squabble that the town cops still talked about. The Pierce’s always fought. It was a standard thing every weekend. Mr. Pierce would end his work week at the tannery over in Silverwood and hit the nearest bar where he’d leave most of his paycheck.
Gideon was taken to Seattle to live with his mother, so the story went. Mr. Pierce disappeared and was found dead in an alley in Buffalo one week after his wife and son had left the state. Cause of death was suicide. What he had been doing in Buffalo no one seemed to know. Gossip ran rampant for about two weeks and then the town moved on. I, for one, was thankful to see Gideon gone but the circumstances surrounding his leaving were chilling to say the least.
“The big bully.” I took a swig of coffee, grimaced, and put the mug down beside my cellphone lying on the blotter. Mara came hustling into my office in a cloud of lilac perfume and big round eyes.
“The bus from Elmira just arrived,” she panted, one hand on her rather substantial bosom, the other still holding her cellphone.
“That’s good.” I smiled, wondering why she hadn’t knocked before barging in. Not that I’d been doing anything. At all. But still it was odd. Her blue eyes were huge behind her glasses. I sat back into the firm cushion of my chair, folded my arms over my blue dress shirt and dark blue tie, and raised an eyebrow. “What? Did they bus in zombies?” She shook her head strongly, sending her recently dyed red-orange hair swaying. “Vampires? Werewolves? More Democrats?!”
“It’s Gideon Pierce,” she whispered as if saying his name would make him appear before us like some evil wizard. My mouth dropped open. “It is. Mollie from the beauty parlor just called Sue-Ann at the fabric shop who called me. You know Sue-Ann worked in the cafeteria at the W. B. Kitterman Elementary school for forty years before she retired and opened the fabric shop which was always her dream but what with Pearly getting sick and all she always stayed in the school because it was full-time and—”
“Mara, focus.” She tended to get off-track when riled. She bobbed her head, ran her hand over the front of her dark brown dress, and pulled in a deep breath. I gave her my most appealing smile, the one that all the girls had liked so much back in college. Pity they never could get more than a smile from me but alas. “Good. Okay, so are we sure it’s Gideon? I mean, why on earth would he come back to Cedarburg on a Greyhound from Elmira?”
“Well, the bus from Elmira is the only one that runs from the airport,” she calmly explained.
“Yes, I know, Mara. I wasn’t asking that literally I was just…” I waved it off and stood. My left knee cracked like tinder wood. Damn knees. “Are you sure Sue-Ann had the right glasses on. You know she has one pair for reading the tape measure and another for long distance.”
“Go look!” She flapped a hand at the chair in front of my desk. Feeling rather sure of myself and my rational approach to the supposed return of Gideon Pierce, I walked around my desk, grabbed the chair, and hauled it over to the window. Up I climbed, smirking at the silliness of it all.
Rising up to my toes, fingers biting into the cold cement casing that held the rectangular window, I cranked it open. A blast of wet air that reeked of fallen leaves hit me in the face, making my nose run instantly. Balancing precariously, I pushed my nose closer to the weathered screen and turned my head to the left. Yes, the Greyhound from Elmira was indeed setting beside the curb by the village green, and yes, a few people were milling around. Well, actually two. One looked like the bus driver in a gray-blue sort of uniform and one was a tall lanky man in a stylish coat that was rippling around him like a superhero’s cape.
It was hard to say who the dark-haired man was from this distance. Nose chilled, I was about to climb down and suggest to Mara that she tell Sue-Ann to check which glasses she had on when the new arrival turned and looked right at our tiny white courthouse. I drew back, stunned. There was no mistaking him. Gideon Pierce had grown up to look just like his father. It was like seeing a ghost. I took a step back, my mind whirling, setting the chair off balance. Down I went to my ass. Mara squealed and fluttered around like a manic goose. I groaned at the impact as well as the fact that as soon as Gideon Pierce showed up in Cedarburg, I was down on my ass again.
Hating to look like a coward, I walked out of the courthouse with my chin high at exactly four p.m. sharp. Just like every day. The bus from Elmira was long gone and praise be to the gods who looked over little bullied gay boys, so was Gideon Pierce. Jamming my hands into my coat pockets, I pounded down the white marble stairs. The clouds overhead were riotous, thickening over the past few hours to blot out the sun without compunction. Rain had fallen on and off, making the colorful leaves on the elms and maples that lined Main Street droop.
I moved at a good clip, the thunderous rainclouds welling up adding speed to my step. Usually, I ambled home, stopping to talk to constituents who would approach me on the sidewalk or call from front porches. That was one of the blessings of being a small-town mayor. I got to talk with the people in my town on a daily basis. I’d grown up here, and so knew most of them or their kids, and the newcomers who had filed in were vocal in politics. My aide, Benton Aubrey, was one of those new arrivals. A young man coming into Cedarburg was a rarity, most kids hightailed after graduating as there was little work here aside from a tannery in Silverwood and a community college in Fisher Lake, a close adjoining county that sat below us. I’d stolen Aubrey from the community college where we’d been working after meeting the bright, energetic black man at a monthly town hall last spring. I’d terribly needed someone to help coordinate my campaign. Most candidates had wives or a small staff. All I’d had was a dream to make my hometown a better, more inclusive, more modern town, and a winning smile. Aubrey had leaped on the chance, him being a political science degree holder like myself, and soon we were thick as thieves. The only black man and the only out gay man in the whole town of Cedarburg were on a mission.
Within a month, I’d announced my candidacy, and we never looked back. Well, a few times we did when we’d been out stumping and knocking on doors. Who knew domestic turkeys could be so mean? Thinking of looking back, I tossed a quick glance over my shoulder, saw nothing, and then returned to my speed walk home. How silly I was being. Gideon was not going to run up behind me and push me to my face. We weren’t in third grade anymore. Plus, the harder I thought about it the more I felt that the man I’d seen earlier wasn’t Gideon at all. Just some passing stranger stopping in our small town, probably rented a room at the Big Buck Motel across from the Shopper Mart and was now about to meet with a local realtor to buy a hunting camp. Perhaps he resembled Mr. Pierce, strongly, but that was all it was. Yep, that was it. A case of mistaken identity.
I turned off Main Street onto Alberton Avenue. My parents’ home was the first house off Main on Alberton, and I hustled up the slick stone path to the front door and let myself in, turning to shuck off my coat and wet shoes before stepping onto the new rose carpeting. The smell of roasting meat tickled my nose. My stomach rumbled. Guess the apple that I’d forced down during a meeting with Pastor Nichols from the Presbyterian Church had worn off.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
The Christmas Oaks #1
The Christmas Pundit #2
