Padme's Library: 06/20/23

Tuesday, June 20, 2023

🌈Happy Pride Month 2023🌈: Top 20 LGBT Post-War Era Reads Part 3

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Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 95% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M post-war reads in no particular order. Most fall into post-WW1 era but there are some post-WW2 as well and are a perfect blend of romance, drama, healing, and heart, creating unforgettable reads.

One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.

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Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The Door Behind Us by John C Houser
Summary:
It’s 1919, and Frank Huddleston has survived the battlefields of the Great War. A serious head injury has left him with amnesia so profound he must re-learn his name every morning from a note posted on the privy door.

Gerald “Jersey" Rohn, joined the Army because he wanted to feel like a man, but he returned from the trenches minus a leg and with no goal for his life. He’s plagued by the nightmare of his best friend’s death and has nervous fits, but refuses to associate those things with battle fatigue. He can't work his father's farm, so he takes a job supervising Frank, who is working his grandparents’ farm despite his head injury.

When Frank recovers enough to ask about his past, he discovers his grandparents know almost nothing about him, and they’re lying about what they do know. The men set out to discover Frank's past and get Jersey a prosthesis. They soon begin to care for each other, but they'll need to trust their hearts and put their pasts to rest if they are to turn attraction into a loving future.

Original Review May 2015:
This is an amazing story of love, friendship, and overcoming both physical and emotional difficulties. Added on top of all that, it was a time when a gay relationship was not only shunned but illegal. Jersey and Frank both have their own issues to overcome that linger after returning from the war, alone they just manage to "get by" but together they find strength to not only get by but also grow and overcome. I loved the way the author dealt with their individual issues and meshed them together at the same time. Not all the characters are likeable but they aren't suppose to be and the author writes them in a way that is understandable, at times leaves the reader wanting to shake them till they realize what they are saying and doing could do with some rethinking. A definite must for those who love historicals and for those that enjoy a good romance and character study, because you just might find something that makes today a little brighter, I know I did.

RATING:

Christmas Homecoming by LA Witt

Summary:
The Christmas Angel #4

August 1939. Roger Miller and Jack O’Brien have been close since childhood. By the time they realize there’s more between them than friendship, Jack is leaving their sleepy Iowa town for college. But they console themselves knowing he’ll be home for Christmas. Right?

It is Christmas before they see each other again, but that Christmas comes six years and a world war later. Aged, beaten, and shaken by combat, they’re not the boys they were back then, but their feelings for each other are stronger than ever.

Neither know the words to say everything they’ve carried since that peacetime summer kiss, though. Even as they stand in the same room, there’s a thousand miles between them.

But maybe that’s some distance the little angel in Roger’s rucksack can cross.

This 24,000 word novella is part of the multi-author Christmas Angel series, and can be read as a standalone.

Original Review December 2018:
One last splash through the local swimming hole for the summer leads to realizations for Roger Miller and Jack O’Brien but is it too late since Jack is leaving the next day for college? With promises of seeing each other at Christmas they wonder where they'll end up but the promised holiday reunion comes six years late after the long years of war have shaped their lives. Will Roger and Jack find happiness with each other finally or has their time passed them by?

Yet another amazing story in the multi-author Christmas novella series, The Christmas Angel. LA Witt's Christmas Homecoming is full of everything that makes holiday romances great: promises of more, separation by unseen circumstance, and inevitable reunions. I don't think I'm giving anything away by saying this is a HEA because as it so often is with holiday tales, the meat-and-potatoes of the story isn't in the ending but the journey the main characters take to get there.

For those who don't usually go for historicals all I can say is please go outside your norm and give this series a try. So far I've only read three of the seven tales but they have all been respectful for the past all while telling a great little gem of love story. With Roger and Jack's part of the Angel's journey we get to see them warring within themselves between what their hearts desire and what is expected of them: getting married and settling down(they don't call the years following WW2 the Baby Boom for nothing😉😉). As a forty-five year old woman in 2018, its hard to imagine what Roger and Jack faced as returning soldiers but LA Witt does a wonderful job of telling their story in a heartwarming entertaining Christmas package. Who says we have to wait till Christmas morning to unwrap all our treats?

I really don't think I can recommend this series enough. Is it one you need to read in order? No. As a matter of fact, I myself read book four before book three(a rarity for me but I accidentally opened Homecoming first and went with it😉). The Angel is the connection and since we don't really learn how she gets from one era to the next, it is not necessary to read in order. I will say that even though each entry is a standalone from a different time, I would highly recommend reading book one(Christmas Angel by Eli Easton) first simply because we learn how and where the angel came to be. It isn't something that will leave you lost if you don't start with the first one but personally I would be left wondering about her origins and it would leave me a bit distracted from completely enjoying each of the authors' entries, but that's just my personal opinion.

RATING:

Awfully Glad by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:
WWI hero Sam Hines is used to wearing a face that isn’t his own. When he’s not in the trenches, he’s the most popular female impersonator on the front, but a mysterious note from an anonymous admirer leaves him worried. Everyone realizes—eventually—that Sam’s not a woman, but has somebody also worked out that he also prefers his lovers to be male?

When Sam meets—and falls for—fellow officer Johnny Browne after the war, he wonders whether he could be the man who wrote the note. If so, is he the answer to Sam’s dreams or just another predatory blackmailer, ready to profit from a love that dare not speak its name?

2nd Re-Read Review November 2020:
Not much to add that hasn't already been said so I'll just reiterate that Charlie Cochrane's love of the era shines through in all the tiny moments. Don't get me wrong, they shine through in the big moments too but it's the small details that some might "forget" or don't fully research that make her one of top 1-click authors and her WW1/post-war stories are some of my absolute favorites.

Re-Read Review November 2018:

Not much more I can say about Awfully Glad that I didn't say when I originally read it back 2015. Watching Sam and Johnny navigate the whole "is he or isn't he" debate is just as fulfilling as it was over three years ago. Like I said before, if they just communicated more clearly so many answers would have been discovered but then not only would that make this little gem way too short but not very accurate either. Nobody wants their nose broken if they got the assumptions wrong and it was also illegal to be in a homosexual relationship so its no wonder they were edging around the question. Once again Charlie Cochrane has proven her respect for the era as well as her respect for her readers with her storytelling in this little gem.

Original Review February 2015:
A nice little tale of war, post war, romance, and a bit of "what's he after?" thrown in for good measure. Sam is such an interesting character but as himself and as Madeline, who brought such joy to the men during the war. Now that the war is over and he's put Madeline behind him, he is reunited with one of the men he met after one of his Madeline's shows. I just love watching Sam trying to figure Johnny out and what he's after. Of course, there's a bit of "if they just communicated" but then the story would be even shorter and where's the fun in that? Definitely a great addition to my library and once again, I was not let down by the writings of Charlie Cochrane.

RATING:

Aunt Adeline's Bequest by Amy Rae Durreson
Summary:

When wounded WW1 veteran Jasper walks into Valentine's sweet shop, he brings a mystery: a box of indiscreet letters received by his recently deceased great-aunt. Jasper has been entrusted with reuniting the letters with their sender, but the only clue he has in the box they're in—an old chocolate box from Valentine's family shop. Snowed in together the night before Valentine's Day, the two men are drawn together as they search for answers.

Original Review October 2017:

I should start by saying that I have not yet read any of the other stories from Dreamspinner's 2014 A Valentine Rainbow set so I can't speak to whether any of them are connected but as they are a variety of authors I'm guessing there only connection is Valentine's Day but I could be wrong.

As for Aunt Adeline's Bequest, I'll admit I read this one now because it is centered around a WW1 veteran and it is November which always piques my interest in stories about the Great War. I haven't read everything by Amy Rae Durreson but I have loved what has reached my Kindle and Aunt Adeline's Bequest is no different. Yes, its a short story but its packed with warmy goodness. Because it is a short story I won't say much more but that I found it worth the time to read it because as I said its warmy goodness was uplifting and exactly what I needed. Jasper and Valentine's connection is pretty instant but it fits the setting, the characters, and I guess simply put: it just works.

RATING:

Dear Jon by VL Locey
Summary:

The dark days of the Second World War are past, and life is looking like a shiny new penny for Jon Porter. Living a bohemian artist’s life in New York City, Jon’s finally found acceptance and is within an arm’s length of becoming the next hot thing in the art world. Then everything goes horribly wrong. One telegram from the small Pennsylvania town he’d fled from years before draws him back to bury his estranged sister and take charge of the nephew he never knew existed.

Into the chaos and grief comes local woodworker Ross Coleman, an older man with an easy smile and a gentle manner that charms Jon instantly. They quickly fall for each other but there’s no easy way for two men in 1945 to be together, let alone raise a child, even if Jon was sure he wanted a child, which he’s not. And then there’s the final letter from his sister waiting for him among all the legal papers and bills…

What can she possibly have to say that they hadn’t screamed at each other over their father’s casket?

Sign up to V.L. Locey's Newsletter to claim your FREE copy of this book.

Original Review July 2021:

Dear Jon is an incredibly enjoyable and entertaining read, incorporating some of my favorites: historical, 1940s, single parenting, small town life, friendship, romance, heat, and an adorable child. Now in Dear Jon, 1940s small town life isn't all good of course for anyone in the LGBT community but I think VL Locey handles it beautifully. From Jon having to go back to the home he left years before to escape the bigotry to Ross Coleman who has accepted the way things are to Jon's friend, Charlotte turning up and perhaps giving them the greatest beard of all time, the author paints a picture of small town life so creatively that you feel like you're there in Hannity Hills. I say this as someone who grew up in a small town, so small actually we were a village until my senior year in high school when the 1990 census results came out, now granted the late 40s is a bit before my time but I can certainly picture Ellsworth having been similar back then.

I won't say too much more but I loved watching Jon and his nephew, who he never knew existed, Andy get to know each other, become comfortable around each other, and the obvious loving connection that comes from it. And I might add, watching Jon run from the geese, George and Gracie(great names BTW) is priceless and very accurate as my parents had about 8 geese when I was 5 or 6 and I hated the squawking SOBs and found myself having to run to the bus more than once and not always getting away without being pecked, one time not even making the bus because they blocked my path and Mom had to wave the bus on so Jon's feelings are spot on. George and Gracie added some well timed levity as well as another element of realism.

Dear Jon is a free read from the author when you sign up for her newsletter and definitely one of the best free reads I've read in a long time, frankly I would of purchased had it not been free because it pulled me in and ticked many boxes. Intriguing characters, beautiful setting, and simply put: an entertaining, heartwarming gem from beginning to end.

RATING:

The Door Behind Us by John C Houser

Chapter 1
1965
THE YOUNG man still had a dressing over one ear and a crust of blood inside one nostril. The doctor paged through the chart. Notations recorded progress as good as could be expected for such a recent amputee. “Mind if I look?” He pulled back the sheet and noted the wound drained normally. “How’d he rest last night?”

The resident pulled at his narrow tie. “Poorly. He was yelling and thrashing around. That’s why I asked for you to look in.”

“Hmm. Has he been given anything to help him sleep?”

“No, he even tried to refuse the morphine.”

“That’s interesting.” He watched the steady rise and fall of the muscular chest. “He’s a sergeant. Was he a squad leader? Do you know what happened to him?”

The resident shook his head, yawning. “Nope. He hasn’t said much.”

“Does he know about the leg?”

“We told him there was too much nerve damage.”

“The nightmares started before the surgery?”

“Before.” The resident yawned again. “From the first night he was here.”

“There’s not much I can do for him until he wakes up. You’ll have me paged?”

Chapter 2
1919
FRANK CAME into the barn sniffing the air like the scent might tell him whether the place was dangerous.

“About time you got here. Saw the note, I take it? Any questions?” Charlie watched the boy take in the stone barn, from hayloft to the three-legged stool where he sat. “Questions?” he prompted the boy a second time.

Cocking his head as if sorting through a stack of mental index cards, the boy eventually picked a pair of questions. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?”

“You received a head injury, maybe from a shell explosion. That’s what the quacks at the hospital told us. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Why don’t you remember anything? I don’t know. Here, grab a bucket. I expect your hands remember how to milk a cow, even if your head don’t.” Charlie watched the boy’s hand creep upward to touch his head. “Queenie knows you, even if you don’t know her.”

Frank picked up a bucket hesitantly.

Charlie nodded at a Jersey cow that stamped impatiently at her stanchion. “She’s waiting.”

What was it like for the boy to discover who he was every morning from a note tacked to the door of the privy? If the boy had any feelings about it, he never told Charlie.

THE BOY discovered the note after waking in an unfamiliar room. Pale light filtered through a dusty window at the end of a tunnellike dormer. Feeling exposed even under a woolen blanket, he slid to the floor and rolled part way underneath the bed. More comfortable with the solid frame looming over him, he stayed for a time, staring upward. As the light strengthened, he let his gaze follow the lines of wood grain in the window frame. The builder of this house had cut matching pieces for the verticals, their patterns mirrored on either side of the window.

Eventually he rose and struggled out of the tangled bedclothes. A small writing desk, cluttered with loose sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen, and an inkpot, was tucked into the dormer. A stack of unopened envelopes lay next to the writing supplies. The first was postmarked in July of 1918, and the last in October of the same year. Why didn’t this fellow, Francis Huddleston, open his mail?

Gut fluttering like an anxious bird, he peered under the bed for a chamber pot. Finding none, he rushed down to the second floor looking for a toilet or the way to the privy. Steps led down toward either end of the house. The set in the back were coarse and painted rather than finished, a servant’s stair. He knew the term, even if he didn’t know where he’d learned it. Down again, he found a large kitchen and heavy door framed in pantry shelves. He ran out into the yard. A well-worn path led to a small, clapboard structure with high windows. A minute later, as he tried not to breathe the acrid stink, he noticed a ruled sheet of writing paper tacked to the door in front of him. GOOD MORNING was blocked out in square letters.

GOOD MORNING
Your name is Francis “Frank” Huddleston. You are a soldier, returned from the war in Europe. The white-haired man milking the cows in the barn is your grandfather, Charlie Clark. He will welcome your help with the chores. When you return from the barn, the gray-haired woman in the kitchen will give you breakfast. She is your grandmother, Edith “Eddy” Clark.

Charlie continued to milk his own cow and watched as Frank began to squeeze a stream of milk from Queenie’s teats, the familiar act calming the boy. Soon the milk squirted steadily, and Frank fell into a kind of trance, his movements automatic, until a diminishing stream and restless stamp from Queenie signaled time to change to a new pair of teats. Shifting to a new set, he rested his head against Queenie’s side and continued mechanically.

Charlie finished first and went to stand behind the boy. When Frank was done, he placed his hands on his knees and looked around. Charlie held his breath and watched Frank’s face. But there was only a tightening around Frank’s mouth and a narrowed gaze. Charlie sighed and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. I’m your grandfather, Charlie Clark. You’re Frank Huddleston, come home from the war with a head injury. That’s why you don’t know me. Let’s go in and meet your grandmother. She’ll give us something to eat. Are you hungry? Don’t forget your bucket.”

EDDY’S SPOTTED hands twisted in her lap as she spoke. “Charlie isn’t a young man anymore. You’re a great worker, Frank, but it’s the forgetting. With one of us staying with you all the time to answer your questions, we can’t….”

Frank fidgeted in his chair and let his gaze wander over the worn fixtures and scarred wood of the kitchen. He wondered if they would ask him to leave, the strangers who had fed him for months, judging from the thick wad of notes in his hand. Would their faces ever be familiar?

“… so Charlie and I, we’ve posted a notice at the Grange Hall. We hope to have someone here by the harvest.”

Frank became aware the room had fallen silent—except for the tap dripping in the sink and the birds calling outside. Eddy and Charlie. They watched him closely as if they expected something, as if they were unsure of his response. He didn’t know why. Eddy’s careful announcement seemed to have little to do with him.

“Will you hire someone I knew… before?”

“No, Frank. You were with your parents in Philadelphia before the war. Nobody around here knows you.” Charlie looked away. His voice took on a rote quality. “They thought you might be more comfortable here with us while you recovered.”

“Will the new person stay with me or work with you?”

Charlie rubbed fingers across his forehead like he was trying to erase the wrinkles there, but Eddy answered in firm tones. “We have to be careful with our money, Frank. It may be cheaper to hire somebody to keep an eye on you and to help you remember when you have one of your spells. Charlie will work around the house.”

Frank fingered his notes again. “So… you want me to keep feeding the horses and milking the cows?”

“Yes, you’ll do that and other work as well.”

“Now, Eddy.” Charlie’s voice was gentle. “The boy’s still recovering. I’m not dead yet.”

“He’s strong as a bull, Charlie.”

“I don’t mind doing more, if that’s what you want.” Frank shifted from face to face until he focused on the sharp furrows at the side of Eddy’s mouth. “Just tell me what you want.”

“That’s what the new man will do,” Eddy said, looking at Charlie.

Charlie’s gaze dropped to his callused hands.

Christmas Homecoming by LA Witt

Chapter 1

Roger

August 1939

“This place won’t be the same without you around.”

My best friend, Jack O’Brien, smiled at me as we strolled down the long dirt road that would take us from town to our houses. His hands were in the pockets of his dusty trousers, the brim of his cap shading his eyes from the late summer sun. “I won’t be gone forever.”

“Four years is a long time.”

“Yeah. It is.” He let his elbow brush mine. “But you’ll be so busy you won’t even notice.”

I laughed halfheartedly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll notice.”

He glanced at me, and he started to say something, but then didn’t. I was glad, because I had a feeling I knew what he was about to say.

“You’re gonna be married soon.”

I stared down at the dirt at our feet. I didn’t know if I would be or not. Everyone in town had been pushing for me and Daisy Morton to get married, and she always got this hopeful look in her eyes whenever someone mentioned it. Me, I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach that a man probably wasn’t supposed to get when he thought about marrying the nicest girl in town.

We continued through the dusty heat, and finally made it to the woods. We both sighed with relief as the road took us out of the bright sunlight and into the shade.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” I asked. “After college?”

Jack shrugged, staring at the ground like I’d been doing a moment ago. “Wherever there’s work, I guess.”

There wasn’t much work in this town. Hadn’t been in years. We hadn’t even felt the crash in ’29 because things had already been tough here. If not for the newspapers, I doubt we would have known about it at all.

So all I could hear in Jack’s words was: I don’t think I’m coming back.

As we kept walking, the silence between us as uncomfortable as it was unusual, I couldn’t think of what to say. How to tell him I wanted to go with him. There was nothing for me here except my parents’ farm, and Lord knew if that would still be standing in a few years.

I didn’t imagine there was much for me in the city either, but Jack would be there, and that seemed like enough. I didn’t say it, though. The train would take Jack away tomorrow, and I wouldn’t be going with him, and that was final. What did it matter if none of this seemed right?

We walked on, and we still didn’t talk. The quiet made me itchy. I wasn’t used to it. Not with Jack. We talked so much we drove our folks and friends crazy. But ever since we’d met up at the carnival this morning, things had been different. I couldn’t figure out what to say. I couldn’t even look at him without getting this ache in my chest. I was afraid to say anything because I was sure all that would come out was “don’t leave” or “let me come with you.”

Up ahead on the left was a well-worn trail that went deep into the woods. How many times had we gone tromping down that trail over the years? There were berries you could pick and eat—and a few we’d figured out real quick you shouldn’t—and if you followed the trail far enough, there was a swimming hole. Jack told me a while back he’d had his first kiss down there. Tenth grade with Dottie McAllister. My first kiss had been with Daisy a couple of months ago, on a dare in front of all of our friends. I liked to think Jack’s was more fun than mine.

It was hard to believe that time was over. Not the embarrassing first kisses, but our days of jogging down that path, vines whipping at our bare shins and both of us whooping and shouting with our friends before we cannonballed into the swimming hole with the leeches. Betting Jimmy Davenport he couldn’t hold his breath longer than I could. Tossing in coins and diving to find them, even though the pond was usually too deep and murky. Tying ropes to branches and swinging so we could sail through the air before splashing into the water, and still doing it after Bobby Harwood swung too far and broke his arm. Smoking stolen cigarettes and drinking stolen liquor and batting away mosquitoes.

I would miss those days—mosquito bites, leeches, broken arms and all.

And more than that, I’d miss the friend who’d been there for all the most amazing adventures.

I’d always known there would come a time when we’d drift apart and turn into memories. My dad told stories about his childhood friends, and even if he got a little melancholy now and then, he didn’t seem sad that those days were behind him. He had a family, and he had friends here in town, and he seemed happy like that. I’d always known that would be me someday too. Jack would be someone I talked about with a smile, just like I talked about David Sullivan, who’d moved to the city with his family five years ago. Sure, we all missed David, but life had gone on and so had we. That would happen after Jack was gone too. I didn’t know when or how, but it would.

As we closed in on the overgrown entrance to that little side trail, Jack slowed. Then he stopped. I watched him, and he stared at the grass-lined trailhead for a moment. When he finally turned my way, he had that smile that always meant we were about to do something crazy. Usually something that got our hides tanned once our folks found out. Worth it. Always worth it.

“No one’s expecting us for a while.” He gestured at the trail. “Want go down to the swimming hole?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Come on.” The grin widened as if he knew I could never say no to him. “Go jump in the water. Cool off. Have a swim for old time’s sake?”

It sounded crazy. Two grown men spending an afternoon in a swimming hole?

It sounded crazy and… irresistible.

So I grinned back and nodded toward the trail.

Jack went first, breaking into a run as soon as he was off the road, and I stayed on his heels. All the way down the winding trail, across the gully where we used to catch frogs, past the tree where Jack and Dottie had carved their names two days before they’d broken up, and into the clearing that would be littered with maple leaves in a few weeks.

At the center of the clearing was the swimming hole—a pond about ten yards across and so deep in places we’d never actually been to its bottom. The rope we used to swing on still hung from a tree branch, half-covered in moss as it swayed in the warm wind.

Sometimes there were kids and people our age, but almost everyone was in town for the carnival, so there wasn’t a soul in sight. We had the whole place all to ourselves.

A ways up from the water’s edge, we quickly stripped down to our drawers. Then we exchanged glances, ran, and cannonballed into the swimming hole.

The shock of the cold water always startled me, and I surfaced with a gasp. Beside me, so did Jack, and I turned, laughing and ready to say something, when—

He brushed water from his face and pushed his red hair back off his forehead.

When did you turn into a man?

I shivered, hoping if Jack noticed, he blamed it on the water. We’d both become men in the last couple of years, but we were still kids in my mind. Still two boys with nothing better to do than go out raising Cain, as my mother always said.

But that wasn’t a boy in front of me. That was a man. Broad-shouldered. The earliest hints of a beard that wanted to grow, and would be as red as the rest of his hair when it did. A sharp jaw. Muscles from working on the farm and climbing trees with me and our friends. I wanted to touch those muscles, a desire I’d never had before. And couldn’t explain now. And could barely resist now.

I’m staring at Jack. What in the world?

I pulled my gaze away and splashed some cool water on my face. It was enough to snap me out of that ridiculous trance, and as near as I could tell, Jack hadn’t noticed.

We swam and splashed like we always had. We dove to the bottom for some of the coins that had been down there for years. Jack found a nickel, but otherwise we both came up empty-handed. Still, it was fun, and the cool water was perfect. Not just because of the summer heat, but because it took me back to all the days we’d spent out here. One last hurrah before we left our youth behind.

Before Jack was gone.

The thought sobered me, cutting through the carefree feel of the afternoon and reminding me of tomorrow. I tried to ignore it, though. I didn’t want to think about tomorrow.

Unaware of the struggle in my mind, Jack treaded water, smiling as the sun beat down on his face. “Ahh. Too bad I won’t be able to do this when I’m home for Christmas.”

“You can if you want to, but your balls might not come back down till spring.”

Jack laughed, and I didn’t hear what he said because I was too busy staring at him. We’d swum in this place hundreds of times, but I’d never really looked at him like this. Like I needed to drink him in before the train took him away.

Crystal drops clung to the darkened tips of his wet red hair, and slid down the scattered stubble of his not-quite-beard. His cheeks and nose were sun-kissed, and when he met my eyes, his sparkled with… no, not with his usual mischief. With something else. Something I’d never seen before.

He waded closer to me, gaze still fixed on mine. I was standing on some solid ground, and I knew when he’d found his footing because his shoulders rose a couple of inches out of the water. He was taller than me, but the ground must’ve been lower, because we were eye to eye now.

Neither of us said a word. I had no idea what to say. What was happening? Why was he looking at me like that? Why was I looking at him like this?

And why was the thought of kissing Jack—my best friend, a boy I’d known my whole life—suddenly irresistible? Even the cool pond couldn’t stop me from getting hard, and my face burned. What if he noticed? What if he was close enough to notice?

And suddenly… he was close enough to notice.

Jack. Right there. Our faces inches apart above the water, our bodies nearly touching below it.

His hands found my waist, and I gasped, which drove me a little closer to him. Our hips brushed, and I only had the space of a heartbeat to be embarrassed before I realized he was hard too. In the name of balance, I put my hands on his chest, then slid them up and behind his neck, and we were doing more than grazing each other beneath the surface. The firm ridge against my hip was unmistakable, and there was no doubt he noticed mine.

My heart thumped so hard, he had to have felt that too, especially when our chests nearly touched. Our eyes locked. We’d touched before, but never like this, and now I really, really wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him.

But he’s Jack. He’s a man just like you. We can’t kiss.

Can we?

“Is this…” I licked my lips. “Are we supposed to…?”

“Does it matter?” he whispered, and then Jack O’Brien’s lips were against mine.

And everything.

Was just.

Still.

Kissing Daisy had never been like this. Nowhere near it. There was no one around to heckle us, but that wasn’t what was different this time. I loved Jack’s lips against mine. They were cool, but quickly warmed, and they moved gently—almost lazily—as he drew me closer. There was nothing awkward or embarrassing. Nothing that didn’t seem to fit quite right. Part of me worried someone might appear and catch us, and the scandal wasn’t one I wanted to imagine, but I couldn’t bring myself to let him go. I hadn’t known until this moment that I wanted to do this, but now that we were, it was like my entire life had been leading up to it.

The cool water seemed to be all that was keeping me from bursting into flames. Jack’s body was hot and firm against mine, his hands gentle and maybe even a little timid as he slid them up and down my back. As his tongue slipped into my mouth, I could taste the cigarette we’d shared while we’d walked, and I held him tighter and refused to think about anything that would happen after this. As far as I was concerned, time stopped here and now, and this moment was too big to be contained in a memory.

Jack’s lips broke away from mine, and he pulled back enough to look in my eyes.

How did I never notice how beautiful your eyes are?

Because we were boys. Men. I was supposed to be with Daisy, getting married like a respectable gentleman, same as Jack would do once he met the right girl. There was a future ahead of us, a future that was coming up quick, and where did something like this fit?

“What are we doing?” My voice shook as if I were shivering.

“I don’t know.” He smoothed my hair with a wet hand. “I don’t know why, but I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” The sunburn on his cheeks deepened with a blush, and he dropped his gaze. “And since I’m leaving tomorrow, I…”

“I’m glad you did.”

His eyes found mine again, and he watched me silently.

I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Everything that came to mind would be too sad, and the moment would be lost.

Why did we wait so long to do this?

Do you know how much harder it’ll be to watch you leave tomorrow?

Please take me with you.

He must have seen the longing in my eyes, because he caressed my cheek and whispered, “I’ll be home for Christmas. You’ll see me again before you know it.”

We gazed at each other, and my heart ached.

But you’ll go back after Christmas.

But we’re men.

But Daisy.

“I’ll write you,” I said, as if it would make any difference. “As often as I can.”

His sweet smile made me feel things I’d never known I could feel. Warm and shaky all over, but in a good way, like I could stand here and look at him forever. Like I wanted to.

He cupped my cheek. “I’ll send you my address as soon as I can. And you better write.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Me too.” Beneath the water, his hand slid up my back, and he drew me in closer. “I’m going to miss you.”

Before I could speak, his lips were against mine again, and I held on. As the kiss lingered, my body felt things it never had before, but so did my heart. My chest hurt and my stomach was sick because no matter how glorious this moment was, it was just that—a moment. One that would be over sooner than I was ready to let it go.

Tomorrow, Jack would be gone.

And it had taken me until today to realize I loved him.

Awfully Glad by Charlie Cochrane

A makeshift stage. An audience. An entirely male audience, in khaki. A high sense of anticipation. The Macaronis concert party about to perform. Music starts, curtain is pulled across—to an outbreak of applause—revealing a group of men in evening dress, who take up the tune. The show begins.

They’d reached the part where the comic had finished his rendition of “Gilbert the Filbert,” leaving the stage to guffaws of laughter and thundering applause, and the tenor had come on to the opening strains of “Roses of Picardy.” The audience settled down, lulled by the familiar tune but with the first buzz of expectation starting to rise. They’d been briefed about this concert party by a couple of the officers whose friends had seen them perform before. So far, the advance information had been correct—good singing, good jokes, a couple of things slightly near the knuckle but not going too far.

And now, the much-vaunted and long-awaited “Roses of Picardy.” That song could only mean one thing—the imminent appearance of the lovely Miss Madeleine.

Second Lieutenant Hampson nudged his fellow officer in the ribs. “She’s on her way. I wonder if she’s really as hot a piece of stuff as they say.”

Lieutenant Browne shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve been looking forward to this a long while.”

An agitated “Shh!” from somewhere along the line of spectators put a stop to conversation as the tenor’s rendition of the verse began. The holding of breaths within the audience became palpable, especially when the curtain to one side of what passed for a stage twitched slightly. The chorus came, and with it Madeleine, gorgeous in a lavender dress to match her eyes and a sumptuous hat, worn at a coquettish angle. An outbreak of wolf whistling, a single shout of “Cor!” and more “Shh!”s, mainly from the colonel in the front row who’d leaned forward to get a better view of the trim ankles that appeared as she sashayed across the stage.

“What a peach,” Hampson whispered, staring up at the stage, spellbound.

“Not bad at all.” Browne tipped his head to one side to set up a better line of observation of the trim waist, the pert backside, and the well-proportioned décolletage. Those curves were just what you wanted in a woman.

The song came to an end among rapturous applause, whistling, and stomping of feet. The tenor kissed Miss Madeleine’s hand and led her upstage, where she prepared for her solo, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at the colonel. She looked like a nice girl, dressed like a nice girl, was rumoured to have no truck with any of the officers who beat a path to her stage door, but there was a roguish twinkle in her eye which belied all of that.

The first few bars of “Home Fires Burning” welling up from the small orchestra stifled any expectations of a saucy song to match the saucy twinkle. Her voice was clear, bell-like, incredibly moving. By the time the song had finished, sleeves were being drawn across faces and noses blown. Even Hampson, who had never been known to show much in the way of emotion—apart from getting worked up over a shapely, slim-waisted form—had a tear in his eye.

“Marvellous,” he said, clapping wildly. “And think. We’re the lucky blighters who’ll get to meet her afterwards.”

Browne laughed. “She’ll never look twice at you. Not with that shock of hair—she’ll think a scarecrow’s come in.”

“Is it that bad? Could you lend me a comb?” Hampson tried—in vain—to flatten his locks into submission.

“We’ll have you turned out like the Queen of the May.” Browne grinned. “Now hush.”

Madeleine had been joined by the tenor for a haunting love duet, one which soon had the audience thinking of home and happier times, far away from trench foot and whiz-bangs. They’d be back to that soon enough, but for now they had a glimpse of something heavenly, and not just in the form of Madeleine’s shapely arms.

Aunt Adeline's Bequest by Amy Rae Durreson

VALENTINE HAD stepped away from the counter to turn up the gaslights when the shop door opened with a jangle of bells. He turned to smile at his customer, wondering how many more would shuffle through his door before closing. Sleet and snow had been coming down heavily all afternoon, but it was the thirteenth of February, and every hopeful lad in Chester would be trying to woo his girl tomorrow.

By the cut of his coat, this one could afford to treat his ladylove to more than a paper twist of barley sugar, so Valentine stepped forward politely. “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

The customer was still hesitating just inside the door. He was a tall man, and his hat was pulled forward over his face. He wore an old, soft school scarf, wound high, and all Valentine could see of him was the tip of his nose. For a moment, Valentine felt worried. His day’s takings were in the register, which was old and could be easily forced by a strong man with a crowbar, and this was always one of the most profitable days of the year in a sweet shop.

The customer said, sounding politely bewildered, “There was an old man in charge when I was last here. I was hoping to speak to him.” His voice was soft, every syllable carefully enunciated, and it was undeniably posh, with none of the blunt vowels that fell out of Valentine’s mouth no matter how hard he tried to hold them back.

Valentine’s throat closed up for a moment before he spoke. “My grandfather, that would be. He died just over a year ago, I’m afraid. The Spanish influenza.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the customer said, sounding sincere. His shoulders fell, and he added, “I won’t trouble you any further. Good evening.”

“Wait, please!” Valentine protested. “I use all his recipes, and he taught me the craft. If there was some particular thing you were after, I’m sure I can supply it.”

“I was hoping for your grandfather’s advice,” the stranger said and then confided, his tone a little sheepish, “I’m afraid I’ve been wasting your time, Mr. Nugent. I had no intention of buying any confectionery.”

In that case, Valentine would do his best to change his mind. Rich patrons should not be easily dismissed. Besides, the man had piqued his curiosity. Quickly, he pulled forward the chair in the corner (designed for grandmamas and nannies, so they would be willing to let their charges shop longer), putting it in front of the fire. “The weather’s ghastly. Please, sir, sit awhile, and perhaps I can help you instead. May I take your hat?”

It was a polite question, but the man tensed up. Then, with an almost defiant swiftness, he reached up and plucked his hat from his head, exposing his face.

At once, Valentine’s heart hurt for him. It had been over a year since the armistice, and the war still haunted them. There were empty places in the church pews every Sunday, and he had many friends who had survived themselves but lost beloved older brothers and cousins. Then there were those like this man, who would never be able to forget, not while he owned a mirror. He must have been a handsome man before the war, and it still showed on the right side of his face. The other side was as stiff as a mask. He’d clearly had a good doctor, but there were some miracles even modern medicine could not perform, and his left eye still drooped at the corner, the edge of his mouth sloped, and the side of his cheek was puckered under newly grown skin. His left eye was glass and lacked the blue depths of the other.

Valentine realized he had been staring too long when the man’s mouth twisted down on the other side as well. Drawing a breath, he decided not to draw attention to it by apologizing. Instead, he took the proffered hat and said, “Please come and sit down, sir. Would you like a chocolate?”

“A chocolate?” the stranger echoed, but he made his way forward. He limped badly, and Valentine was glad he had moved the chair, especially when he caught the little sigh and the easing of the lines around the man’s mouth as he settled into it. Valentine busied himself bringing over the plate of samples from the counter.

“I recommend the violet creams,” he said, pointing them out. “Though they’re a little sugary for some tastes, in which case there are rum truffles or crystallized ginger.”

“How much are the truffles?”

“They’re free.”

He realized too late that it might sound as if he was offering pity, as he saw the man’s hand flinch back, so he added hurriedly, “They’re all misshapen leftovers. I give them away to customers as a sample.”

“How shrewd,” the stranger said but plucked a truffle from the edge of the plate anyway.

The bell jangled then, and a young lad slid into the shop, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. He looked both determined and a little terrified, and Valentine smiled at him as he stood up, blocking the boy’s view of his stranger. A few questions revealed that, yes, he did want a present for his sweetheart, that she was pretty and kind and good, and he didn’t know what she liked, no sir. Her name, though, was Rose, so Valentine packed him up a little bag of sugar roses.

“They’re pretty,” the boy ventured, cradling them gently in his big hands.

“Tell her that,” Valentine suggested, winking at him. “And then tell her she’s prettier.”

“I couldn’t do that, sir.”

“Give it a try,” Valentine said, taking his money and ushering him out gently. “Keep those dry now.”

“And a ladies’ man as well.” The comment was made in a quiet, amused tone as Valentine closed the door behind the boy. Valentine pretended not to hear. It was easy to flirt if you didn’t care in the least whether the girls would flirt back. Love, though, was a different matter. He’d begun to think he would never find it here. The town was too small and too sleepy. He didn’t want to leave, but the cities held more men of his type, and so a better chance to find what he wanted: just a sweetheart of his own, nothing more daring or illicit than that.

“So,” he said, heading back to the counter. “What did you want to ask?”

The man hesitated. “It’s a matter of discretion.”

“I’m discreet.” Valentine caught his doubtful look and held up his hand. “I won’t share your secrets. By my mother’s grave.”

“It concerns a lady’s reputation. I really don’t think I should….”

Valentine leaned forward, touching his arm without thinking. “You came here for a reason, Mr.…. What should I call you?”

For a moment, the man stared down at Valentine’s hand on his sleeve. His face showed more confusion than outrage, so Valentine didn’t pull back, even though he knew quite well he was being rude.

Without looking up, his stranger said, “My name is Jasper.”

“Mr. Jasper.”

“It’s my Christian name.” He looked up then. “I’m sorry to be familiar, but….”

“I understand,” Valentine said, belatedly taking his hand away in case it was a hint as well. “You are very welcome to call me Valentine.”

“Like the saint?”

“I was born on his feast day.”

“My felicitations. Dare I ask how old you will be?”

“Twenty.” He gave out an exaggerated sigh. “There’s my first score gone, and so much left to do.”

“‘Since to look at things in bloom, fifty springs are little room,’” Jasper murmured and then added soberly, “It’s a good day for it. I was on the Somme when I turned twenty.”

“I’m sorry,” Valentine said and reached for his hands again. This was a man who needed to be touched. Only four years between them, though he would have guessed more. “At the time, I was angry that I was too young, but I think now I was very lucky. I’m sorry you had to suffer it.”

Jasper’s hands were shaking under his, but he took a breath and said, “I have—had—a great aunt. She died last month and left me, well, the half of her estate that didn’t go to the RSPCA, and a box of letters.”

“Letters?” Valentine prompted.

Jasper cleared his throat. “Indiscreet letters.”

Valentine had worked out who he was talking to by now, and he felt his eyebrows go up. This must be the unexpected heir. Adeline Pritchard had been the wealthiest and most cantankerous old maid in Chester, and every gossip in the city had been twittering about her will. No one, however, had ever dared breathe any suspicion that Miss Pritchard was anything other the soul of propriety, no matter how much they had personally disliked her.

“She wanted them returned to the writer.”

“And you brought them here?” Grandpa had been a scoundrel, no doubt, but he was also the one Valentine had inherited his weakness for pretty boys from, so he wouldn’t have been sniffing at Miss Pritchard’s no doubt formidable petticoats.

Jasper shifted in his chair. “It was a slim hope. You see, none of them are addressed or signed with more than a doodle, which was no doubt very wise at the time but makes tracing the author damned hard. All I’ve got to go on is the tin my aunt kept them in.”

“One of our tins?”

Jasper nodded. “I know it could be pure coincidence, but I thought perhaps she kept the letters in that particular tin for good reason. I was hoping your grandfather might have a record of his sales around the time of the first letter.”

“Do you have the tin?”

Jasper reached inside his coat and drew out the tin. It was six inches deep and almost as wide, shaped like a heart, with patterned sides and a picture of an ice skater printed on its lid. Valentine reached for it, and Jasper’s fingers tightened.

Dear Jon by VL Locey

Chapter One

Greenwich Village

Caffe Wastrel Coffee House 1945

One never expects life-altering news to be delivered over coffee and Danish. Maybe it's the assumption that cherry, cream cheese, and flaky crust will somehow protect you from the hand of fate slapping the shit out of you. That somehow the sweetness of the tart and the richness of the coffee can envelope you in a cushion of false security. Hell, maybe I just didn't think anything from the family would dare to come find me in Greenwich Village. Lord knows my father certainly wouldn't have set a foot in this section of the great metropolis.

Leave it to Betty to be the one to flip my world upside down. She was always one of those older sisters who could make you feel like a king one moment and a pauper the next. It had been ten years since I had heard from my sister. Ten years was a long time. A lot could happen in ten years. A world war for instance.

Obviously, I must have been caught up in the glorious aftermath of V-J Day, like every other red-blooded American. We had just celebrated our victory over Japan a month ago. We— and I mean we as in the singular individual and a country— were so hopped up on our own godliness that we— and I mean me now— couldn't imagine a kick in the shins coming in the form of a Western Union telegram.

But it had. And now here I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop in my favorite part of New York a scant two blocks from my studio/ apartment. The boy who had pedaled across the Village in search of me was antsy. He couldn't have been older than fourteen but he was prouder than punch of the official cap and uniform, even if his tie was a little off-center of his pronounced Adam’s apple. The two cent tip brought a wide grin to his gaunt face.

“Thank you, sir!”

He pedaled off with exuberance. I, with far less exuberance, flipped the envelope over and looked at Charlotte. She lit a cigarette, eyed the missive with her large grey eyes then stood and left. Her behavior wasn't odd. At least not for Charlotte. She was one of the most superstitious people in Manhattan.

“It might not be bad news,” I called over my shoulder.

My friend waved my words away like an annoying mosquito and swayed out onto the sidewalk, the door of the coffee shop drifting closed behind her. I smiled at her well-clad back. Charlotte Duvall— aka Charles Goodrich— was one of the best female impersonators I had ever had the pleasure of meeting or seeing perform. The woman was pure vamp.

I had come to Greenwich after the death of my father to find a place where a person could be who and/ or what they wanted to be. For me that was an artist who slept with other men. For Charlotte it was looking better than ninety-nine percent of the other women in New York. For my friend Patty it was making a home for herself and her gal Ronnie. The Village was the most welcoming neighborhood for the oddballs of society on the east coast. Greenwich was bohemian and open-minded, rich in art and music, and particularly respectful of those who live within its invisible walls of acceptance. As long as we all kept our heads down and our predilections to ourselves life was as enjoyable as it could be for people like us.

I watched Charlotte going past the front windows, looking pretty sharp in a black calico dress with pink pin-striping and a jaunty black cocktail hat with a pink flower. Straight men and gay alike turned to admire her. The redhead knew she had it, and boy did she flaunt it. I ran my sight up to the fan spinning lazily overhead, my fingers growing clammy. I could see my name and the address of my studio typed out neatly through the skinny window. Somewhere behind the counter Les Brown was playing “My Dreams Are Getting Better All the Time”. The other patrons had returned to their coffee and their own private melodrama.

Mr. Jonathon Porter
18 Barrow St.
Greenwich Village, New York

I laid the envelope on the table, tapping the three cent stamp for luck before ripping the end off and tugging the folded dispatch out. I knew before I even opened the telegram that the line about this possibly being good news I had fed Charlotte was just that, a damned line. Betty had never contacted me after that showdown the day Dad had died. What was there to say to each other? I think we’d pretty much said it all that icy cold afternoon in January. What could she want? There wasn't anyone left to die aside from a few distant relatives who no one cared about, cold as that sounded. If they knew about me they'd be glad not to have the queer nephew coming to call, rest assured.

Running a hand through my hair, I peeked at the mirror on the wall. Yeah, I was stalling. I was also scared. It was obvious. Worried green eyes stared back at me. I patted down the sandy blond hair that was scandalously skimming my collar. Yeah, I appeared normal enough. Brown gabardine slacks with a short-sleeved tan shirt. No tie, no hat, no jacket. Still rebelling at twenty-eight, hey Jon? Finding the guts I unfolded the telegram, found my coffee, downed a good pull, and then read.

Mr. Jon Porter
18 Barrow St.
Greenwich Village, New York
Sister Betty Porter passed away. Stop. Your presence required home immediately. Stop. Of utmost urgency you return ASAP. Stop. To do with your nephew. Stop.
Theodore Bartlett Esq.Law Office of Bartlett & Bowen
Hannity Hills, PA

I found my reflection again. I was stunned. Nephew?

John C Houser
John C. Houser’s father, step-mother, and mother were all psychotherapists. When old enough, he escaped to Grinnell College, which was exactly halfway between his mother’s and father’s homes—and half a continent away from each. After graduation, he taught English for a year in Greece, attended graduate school, and eventually began a career of creating computer systems for libraries. Now he works in a strange old building that boasts a historic collection of mantelpieces–but no fireplaces.

LA Witt
L.A. Witt and her husband have been exiled from Spain and sent to live in Maine because rhymes are fun. She now divides her time between writing, assuring people she is aware that Maine is cold, wondering where to put her next tattoo, and trying to reason with a surly Maine coon. Rumor has it her arch nemesis, Lauren Gallagher, is also somewhere in the wilds of New England, which is why L.A. is also spending a portion of her time training a team of spec ops lobsters. Authors Ann Gallagher and Lori A. Witt have been asked to assist in lobster training, but they "have books to write" and "need to focus on our careers" and "don't you think this rivalry has gotten a little out of hand?" They're probably just helping Lauren raise her army of squirrels trained to ride moose into battle.

Charlie Cochrane

As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.

Amy Rae Durreson
Amy Rae Durreson is a quiet Brit with a degree in early English literature, which she blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek, and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students. Amy started her first novel a quarter of a century ago and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the semicolon. She was a winner in the 2017 Rainbow Awards.

VL Locey

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.