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Happy Grandparents Day! For Grandparents Day 2024, I chose the following 5 stories. Perhaps the grandparents only play a minor part, some may be a flashback or the reason the MC finds themselves facing the scenario before them, some might not always play a positive role, or 100 other possible roles. Whatever the reason grandparents were featured they made a lasting impact on the MC, the story, and possibly the reader. If you have any grandparent-centric stories to rec, please feel free to comment on this post or the social media post that lead you here.
On a little personal note: I was fortunate & blessed to have most of my grandparents & a few great grandparents in my life and my blog cover above is 3 of the 4 generation pics of me with said grandparents & great grandparents.
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Equality by Helena Stone
Summary:Dublin Virtues #2
Love is love. But what if the fight for equality gets in the way of building a relationship?
Lorcan Barratt has never considered himself relationship material. After his parents made it perfectly clear they’d never welcome a partner of his into their home, he learned to love his own company and can’t imagine sharing his life with another. After a single passionate kiss with Eric Kavanagh—the night before he travels to Canada for three months—Lorcan’s no longer sure he wants to be on his own. The problem is, he has no idea what sharing his life with someone else might entail.
Eric Kavanagh grew up in a loving and supportive family and always assumed he’d end up in a committed relationship. Sure that he’s found the one, Eric doesn’t worry about the fact that Lorcan has no experience when it comes to love and relationships. They are good together, so what could possibly go wrong?
When both men get involved in the marriage equality referendum in Ireland, it appears to bring them even closer together until Lorcan’s insecurities get the upper hand and he shuts Eric out. Will the fight for a yes-vote cost them their relationship or will they be able to find a balance between the love they share and the need for equality?
Original Review May 2017:
I have been looking forward to reading Eric and Lorcan's story ever since they met when their best friends, Zander and Troy met in Patience. Boy, did Helena Stone deliver! Set with the backdrop of the Yes Referendum for marriage equality in Ireland, Eric and Lorcan try to balance dating, family, and well equality.
As a heterosexual woman I have no idea what it is like to come out to one's family and having a close loving relationship with my parents I can't imagine what it feels like to have them turn on you either but I would think that to face what Lorcan does could be so trying. To have them basically say "okay but don't bring it to our door", I can't imagine the lack of hope and support he feels so when his grandmother steps up and supports him at a family dinner made me smile and cry happy tears and showed Lorcan that perhaps not all hope is lost. Having said that, the author really conveys Lorcan's fears throughout, even if you want to shake him and tell him to open up to Eric.
I just love this series so far and I love how the equality is not just about marriage, gay and straight, but also between Eric and Lorcan. Lorcan is in a relationship for the first time in his life so for him to balance what he's always done alone with Eric is also a battle. Like in Patience, you just might walk away with a little new insight about yourself as well as enjoyed a lovely work of fiction as you follow Lorcan's journey.
RATING:
Lorcan Barratt has never considered himself relationship material. After his parents made it perfectly clear they’d never welcome a partner of his into their home, he learned to love his own company and can’t imagine sharing his life with another. After a single passionate kiss with Eric Kavanagh—the night before he travels to Canada for three months—Lorcan’s no longer sure he wants to be on his own. The problem is, he has no idea what sharing his life with someone else might entail.
Eric Kavanagh grew up in a loving and supportive family and always assumed he’d end up in a committed relationship. Sure that he’s found the one, Eric doesn’t worry about the fact that Lorcan has no experience when it comes to love and relationships. They are good together, so what could possibly go wrong?
When both men get involved in the marriage equality referendum in Ireland, it appears to bring them even closer together until Lorcan’s insecurities get the upper hand and he shuts Eric out. Will the fight for a yes-vote cost them their relationship or will they be able to find a balance between the love they share and the need for equality?
I have been looking forward to reading Eric and Lorcan's story ever since they met when their best friends, Zander and Troy met in Patience. Boy, did Helena Stone deliver! Set with the backdrop of the Yes Referendum for marriage equality in Ireland, Eric and Lorcan try to balance dating, family, and well equality.
As a heterosexual woman I have no idea what it is like to come out to one's family and having a close loving relationship with my parents I can't imagine what it feels like to have them turn on you either but I would think that to face what Lorcan does could be so trying. To have them basically say "okay but don't bring it to our door", I can't imagine the lack of hope and support he feels so when his grandmother steps up and supports him at a family dinner made me smile and cry happy tears and showed Lorcan that perhaps not all hope is lost. Having said that, the author really conveys Lorcan's fears throughout, even if you want to shake him and tell him to open up to Eric.
I just love this series so far and I love how the equality is not just about marriage, gay and straight, but also between Eric and Lorcan. Lorcan is in a relationship for the first time in his life so for him to balance what he's always done alone with Eric is also a battle. Like in Patience, you just might walk away with a little new insight about yourself as well as enjoyed a lovely work of fiction as you follow Lorcan's journey.
Summary:
Love at Blind Date #4
Sometimes it’s not the clothes that need stitching together.
Omega Keith Jenson is starting to see his years of hard work pay off as the small tailor shop he runs with his best friend and boss flourishes. Everything is going to plan—until he gets a phone call that turns his life upside down. His grandfather had an accident and needs him. Keith doesn’t think twice about dropping everything for the person who once did the same for him. What's a couple of months for the man who gave him everything?
Alpha Ethan Russo is taking a year’s leave from his job teaching at the university to write the novel that has always been a someday plan. It is finally time to just jump in with both feet and do it. The time away will also give him time to help his grandmother build the patio she’s been hinting at since pretty much ever. She is also not so subtly hinting at setting him up with her neighbor’s grandson, but Ethan’s gone on a date she arranged once before and it did not go well. No. He was just going to write his book, build her patio, and leave her matchmaking skills for somebody else.
Ethan is drawn to Keith at first sight, but the omega keeps him at arm's length, even with his meddling grandmother being her persuasive self. And then one night something changes and Keith lets him in. Ethan sees what they could have together for the first time and he loves it...if only they didn’t have an expiration date.
Blind Date for Father’s Day is a super sweet with knotty heat M/M Mpreg romance featuring an omega who’s focused on his grandfather’s health and is not looking for love—or so he tries to convince himself, an alpha who follows his dreams and discovers so much more, a persistent grandmother, a parrot with, shall we say, a unique vocabulary, an addictive shifter soap opera, and an adorable baby. If you love your alphas hawt, your omegas determined, and your mpreg with heart, you will love this new addition to the popular Love at Blind Date series by the cowriting team, Lorelei M. Hart and Colbie Dunbar.
Original Review June 2024:
Another lovely entry in this delightful series. Keith and Ethan are so perfect for each other on multiple levels but their timing seems to be against them. Will they manage to navigate the course of true love? For that you'll have to read for yourself, I guarantee you won't disappointed in their journey and the familial interference . . .I mean familial help😉😉.
Having both characters aiding and caring for a grandparent is a huge plus for me. I've read some amazing grandparents before but to see both MCs so close to their's is an extra bonus. Back in 1991 I became my grandmother's caregiver after she had a massive heart attack so to see that kind of generational connection in a book is always something I tend to aim towards a higher levle of standards and Hart & Dunbar have captured that role and emotions perfectly. A special kudos to the authors on that point.
Blind Date for Father's Day is a true gem, it will make you laugh, smile, and for those who's grandparents are no longer here you will find yourself reliving many happy memories. I look forward to reading the other two entries in Lorelei M Hart & Colbie Dunbar's Love at Blind Dates series.
Summary:
Rowan does his best to blend in, but thanks to the ugly sweater from his grandmother, he’ll have a hard time sneaking away from the holiday party unnoticed.
What’s worse…he’s starting to think it’s not only ridiculous, but enchanted.
It’s hardly a recipe for meeting the man of his dreams. But sometimes you find a kindred spirit when you least expect it.
Like a Charm is a quick, sweet holiday read featuring two painfully shy guys, a plethora of ugly sweaters, an obnoxious neighbor, a sassy grandma, and a hint of magic.
Original Review January 2023:
Who doesn't love a good connection that starts with an ugly Christmas sweater? Like a Charm is more than just another ugly Xmas sweater cute meet, it has hints of magic, touches of fate, and all around holiday fun.
Rowan is so set on looking out for the one who is effected by the love charm he believes his grandmother has placed on the sweater he doesn't realize that sometimes fate has a way with or without the charm or maybe the charm works it's magic anyway😉. So fun, just so much fun in this Xmas short that I don't want to say more other than you can't help but find yourself grinning like a fool when you swipe that last page. Yum yum down to the very last thread.
Hat Trick by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Harrisburg Railers #8
Stan Lyamin has seen many of his dreams come true. He’s found his soulmate, loves Noah like his own, hoisted the Cup, and has his Mama living with him in his new country. But his fantasies of a loud, loving, madcap home overflowing with childish laughter linger. When a distant family member passes, Stan and Erik immediately agree to take in the two orphaned children, but that means a trip back to Russia for Stan, an idea that both exhilarates and terrifies him.
Erik’s world tilts on its axis when a phone call wakes him and Stan in the middle of the night. Abruptly, Stan is returning to Russia, making deals, working with people who know people, and fully intending to bring two orphaned children home. The red tape is overwhelming, and Erik is alone in Harrisburg with the nearly impossible task of finding a nanny who can speak fluent Russian. Being on his own is one thing, but add in fears about Stan’s safety and team issues, and Erik is finding everything hard to balance; not least of which is spending quality time with Noah.
When their family expands from three to five, the journey won’t be easy, but love can always find a way.
Original Review February 2019:
Stan Lyamin and Erik Gunnarsson have so much to be thankful for with their love, their championship, their friends, Stan's mama, and baby Noah when a phone call with news of a cousin's death shakes things up as Stan is named guardian of two orphaned children in Russia. There is no question of Stan accepting what's asked of him but when their household increases suddenly by two, will their life become more hectic or more loved?
OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!
Okay, now that I got that out of the way let's begin😉. Hat Trick is absolutely adorable from beginning to end. How can it not be with Stan front and center? It's no secret that Ten and Jared are my favorite couple in Harrisburg Railers series but Stan and Erik are a very close second, truth is Ten & Jared probably only inch ahead because they were first and I've made no secret of the fact that 99.999% of the time the first pairings in a multi-couple series is always my fave. But come on! This is Stan we're talking about and he is impossible not to love. I have to be honest, I don't know which author, Scott or Locey, is mainly in charge of Stan but he is one of about three or four characters that I actually read in my head with the accent and broken English that he's written as, generally the accents just fall to the wayside but not with Stan, oh no his broken English is sounded out in every adorable syllable.
I've made no secret of the fact that I find men who care for children to be an incredible turn on and Stan and Erik are no different. Seeing them with baby Noah is just breathtaking but now that Eva and Pavel enter the picture, I have no words to describe how much I love how they accept them into their home without question, especially Erik because with him he has the added language barrier to break through.
Talking of Eva and Pavel, one of the things that really caught my attention was how even though Stan "knows people" to cut out some of the red tape, the authors still manage to let the reader know just what some of the hurdles are as well as letting us see why Stan is so thankful to be here as being a gay man is not an easy life in Russia right now. But what I loved the best was that these elements factor into the story but they are not the forefront of the journey. Hat Trick is all about Stan, Erik, Noah, Eva, and Pavel getting to know each other and settling into their knew life.
And I can't forget Mama Lyamin because she is feisty, fun, and no nonsense all in one. Too often older foreign parents are written as meek and just so thankful to be here that they just accept everything and yes, she is grateful to be here but she doesn't just let everything roll by her which I absolutely love about her.
Hat Trick may be a novella in Scott & Locey's Harrisburg Railers but it is packed to the brim of everything we have come to know and love about the series, add in a little setup for Save the Date coming this summer and this entry is nothing short of sublime. You will laugh, cry, laugh some more, and have a smile on your face so huge that will make people question your sanity(if you're reading it in a public place). What more can you ask for?
RATING:
Erik’s world tilts on its axis when a phone call wakes him and Stan in the middle of the night. Abruptly, Stan is returning to Russia, making deals, working with people who know people, and fully intending to bring two orphaned children home. The red tape is overwhelming, and Erik is alone in Harrisburg with the nearly impossible task of finding a nanny who can speak fluent Russian. Being on his own is one thing, but add in fears about Stan’s safety and team issues, and Erik is finding everything hard to balance; not least of which is spending quality time with Noah.
When their family expands from three to five, the journey won’t be easy, but love can always find a way.
Stan Lyamin and Erik Gunnarsson have so much to be thankful for with their love, their championship, their friends, Stan's mama, and baby Noah when a phone call with news of a cousin's death shakes things up as Stan is named guardian of two orphaned children in Russia. There is no question of Stan accepting what's asked of him but when their household increases suddenly by two, will their life become more hectic or more loved?
OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!
Okay, now that I got that out of the way let's begin😉. Hat Trick is absolutely adorable from beginning to end. How can it not be with Stan front and center? It's no secret that Ten and Jared are my favorite couple in Harrisburg Railers series but Stan and Erik are a very close second, truth is Ten & Jared probably only inch ahead because they were first and I've made no secret of the fact that 99.999% of the time the first pairings in a multi-couple series is always my fave. But come on! This is Stan we're talking about and he is impossible not to love. I have to be honest, I don't know which author, Scott or Locey, is mainly in charge of Stan but he is one of about three or four characters that I actually read in my head with the accent and broken English that he's written as, generally the accents just fall to the wayside but not with Stan, oh no his broken English is sounded out in every adorable syllable.
I've made no secret of the fact that I find men who care for children to be an incredible turn on and Stan and Erik are no different. Seeing them with baby Noah is just breathtaking but now that Eva and Pavel enter the picture, I have no words to describe how much I love how they accept them into their home without question, especially Erik because with him he has the added language barrier to break through.
Talking of Eva and Pavel, one of the things that really caught my attention was how even though Stan "knows people" to cut out some of the red tape, the authors still manage to let the reader know just what some of the hurdles are as well as letting us see why Stan is so thankful to be here as being a gay man is not an easy life in Russia right now. But what I loved the best was that these elements factor into the story but they are not the forefront of the journey. Hat Trick is all about Stan, Erik, Noah, Eva, and Pavel getting to know each other and settling into their knew life.
And I can't forget Mama Lyamin because she is feisty, fun, and no nonsense all in one. Too often older foreign parents are written as meek and just so thankful to be here that they just accept everything and yes, she is grateful to be here but she doesn't just let everything roll by her which I absolutely love about her.
Hat Trick may be a novella in Scott & Locey's Harrisburg Railers but it is packed to the brim of everything we have come to know and love about the series, add in a little setup for Save the Date coming this summer and this entry is nothing short of sublime. You will laugh, cry, laugh some more, and have a smile on your face so huge that will make people question your sanity(if you're reading it in a public place). What more can you ask for?
RATING:
The Bells of Time Square by Amy Lane
Summary:Every New Year’s Eve since 1946, Nate Meyer has ventured alone to Times Square to listen for the ghostly church bells he and his long-lost wartime lover vowed to hear together. This year, however, his grandson Blaine is pushing Nate through the Manhattan streets, revealing his secrets to his silent, stroke-stricken grandfather.
When Blaine introduces his boyfriend to his beloved grandfather, he has no idea that Nate holds a similar secret. As they endure the chilly death of the old year, Nate is drawn back in memory to a much earlier time . . . and to Walter.
Long before, in a peace carefully crafted in the heart of wartime tumult, Nate and Walter forged a loving home in the midst of violence and chaos. But nothing in war is permanent, and now all Nate has is memories of a man his family never knew existed. And a hope that he’ll finally hear the church bells that will unite everybody—including the lovers who hid the best and most sacred parts of their hearts.
I want to start off by simply saying "This is an amazing read!" Those of you who have been following my personal reviews here or on Goodreads, have probably noticed that I've been in a historical mood for the past six months or so and this is a perfect addition to my historical shelf. I could see where the story was going to end from nearly the first page but it in no way took away from my enjoyment of this Amy Lane creation. It's not always about the ending but the journey and that's what we have here, Walter's journey. The connection and love between Nate and Walter might not seem to have much future but it is definitely heartwarming and everlasting. I can honestly say that, although I've cried with many a book before, I have never teared up so much as I did with this story.
RATING:
Equality by Helena Stone
“For fuck’s sake.”
The red brake lights on the back of the car in front of him flared brightly for the tenth time in less than a minute, making Lorcan curse, his words reverberating through the Nissan as he hit the steering wheel hard with the flat of his hand. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard display and realized he had more than enough time, but the thought didn’t settle his nerves or do anything to lessen his frustration with the stop-go traffic he found himself caught in.
Maybe it wasn’t the traffic jam so much as the uncertainty surrounding the day and his upcoming reunion with Eric. Lorcan wasn’t sure and couldn’t settle his thoughts long enough to figure it out. Being stuck in a barely moving line of cars didn’t help the tension building in his stomach.
He went over the details once more. If the plane arrived on schedule it would land in an hour. Getting from the plane to the arrivals hall would take Eric at least another half hour, which meant that even if Lorcan had to leave his car behind and walk from here, he’d still make it to the gate with time to spare.
The traffic in front of Lorcan started to move and he shifted his car into first gear before almost whooping out loud when he had to change into second. Fifty meters, one-hundred meters, third gear…fourth—much to Lorcan’s surprise, traffic continued to progress, and a few minutes later the exit sign for the airport came into view. The closer Lorcan found himself to his destination, the harder it was to control his nerves. He had no idea how this reunion was going to work out. Lorcan was looking forward to his reunion with Eric as much as he was dreading it. Excitement and apprehension alternated, throwing him from butterflies in his stomach to nervous cramps and back again now that the thousands of miles that had separated them were almost reduced to zero. In just about an hour they’d be face to face, and Lorcan had no idea what to expect, no frame of reference to work with.
His memories once more transported him back to the night he’d last seen Eric. Lorcan and Eric had been circling each other for almost two months by then, ever since their friends, Troy and Xander, had first met and had subsequently hooked up. The farewell party Xander had thrown for his best friend and housemate had drawn to an end and despite the fact that Eric was supposed to have been saying goodbye to all the friends who had gathered, he’d spent almost the whole evening with or close to Lorcan. Even when either of them had been talking to others they’d always been aware of where the other was and who he was talking to. It hadn’t been until the last guests had left, and Xander and Troy were cleaning up the mess, that Eric had literally cornered Lorcan at the front door.
Lorcan steered his car toward the entrance of the parking garage. The first floor was full, as was the second. By the time he reached the roof and found a spot, he knew he should have saved himself the hassle of checking the lower levels. At least it wasn’t raining. In fact, it was a very nice day for late March. After a long and mostly gray winter it was at last possible to believe spring would be brightening the world before too long. He rested his head against the support behind him and closed his eyes as the moment came back with such clarity he could almost feel and taste it.
He leaned into the door, handle pressing into his side, trapped by Eric’s bigger and taller body only inches from his. His heart thundered as his mouth went dry. The look of pure hunger in Eric’s eyes as he licked his lips stole his breath. When Eric bent forward and teased Lorcan’s lips with his tongue, a sensation of pure pleasure ran through his veins, leaving him weak and mesmerized.
Never before had a kiss affected him like this. Toe curling and boner evoking didn’t begin to describe it. They clung to each other like two men hanging onto a raft for dear life in the middle of an oceanic storm. The kiss went on, getting deeper, more heated and urgent with every passing second. He had no idea how long their lips had been locked together when Eric pulled back and pressed his forehead to Lorcan’s.
“Why did we wait until tonight?” Eric’s voice held all the regret Lorcan experienced and he had no answer.
The vividness of the memory sent shivers down Lorcan’s spine and had an immediate effect on his cock. Lorcan still didn’t understand what had possessed him to go home that evening, even if they had promised to stay in touch before he’d left.
He took the lift down to the arrivals hall as he reluctantly admitted to himself that he did know why he hadn’t stayed that night. Even then the strong attraction he felt for Eric had scared him. He’d thought three months might be long enough to lessen the pull, to bring him back to his normal level-headed self. He’d been wrong.
Lorcan found himself on the receiving end of quite a few bemused stares when he reached the arrivals hall, checked his watch and laughed out loud. Despite the traffic and torturous hunt for a parking space, he was still almost an hour early. Clearly his obsession with never being late had gotten the better of him yet again. Still, it was one thing less to worry about and, on the upside, the plane from Canada was still scheduled to arrive on time, so the wait wouldn’t be longer than it needed to be. Lorcan walked to the coffee counter, ordered himself a large Americano and tried to settle into one of the surprisingly comfortable seats. He allowed his thoughts to roam freely as he stared at the people moving back and forth around him.
To say he had been disappointed when Eric had told him he’d have to return to Canada for three months would’ve been a gross understatement. Long before that kiss, Lorcan had privately acknowledged there was a connection between him and Eric. Even the very first night they’d met for what should have been a purely business related chat, Lorcan had hoped they would find an opportunity to get to know each other better. Xander and Troy falling for each other and quickly settling into a relationship had taken care of that issue. What was more, from that first night, he’d been sure he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t deny the pull between them.
A frown formed on Lorcan’s forehead as he recalled how they’d never acted on that attraction. They’d been content to just enjoy each other’s company whenever the four of them had met up and when Eric had to be in Lorcan’s workplace to oversee the interior design job he’d been contracted to do by Lorcan’s boss. Back then, Lorcan had told himself Eric was simply keeping his professional and personal lives separate. The fact that they hadn’t kissed until after Eric had finished working for Lorcan’s boss, shortly before he had to leave for Canada, had seemed to confirm that impression. But maybe he’d been wrong. After all, he was nobody’s prize. With his short, spiky dark-brown hair and average features, he rarely warranted a second glance. Why somebody as sophisticated and handsome as Eric would be interested in him was beyond Lorcan—almost as big a shock as the fact that he occasionally found himself thinking about Eric in a long-term sort of way.
And yet… Lorcan relaxed as the memory surfaced again. It had been Eric who’d instigated the kiss. Eric had insisted they stay in touch while he was gone. Most calls between them had been initiated by Eric and it had been him who’d first introduced the idea of using Skype so they could see each other while they talked. Eric had obviously been delighted when Lorcan had offered to pick him up from the airport. On the other hand, Eric hadn’t accepted Lorcan’s invitation to stay with him until he could move into a place of his own.
Lorcan watched the area in front of the arrivals doors and smiled when a young woman started running before the sliding doors had a chance to close behind her again, straight into the arms of an attractive man. The couple held on to each other as if they’d been apart for years—and who knew? Maybe they had. No matter what happened next, the chances of Eric running toward Lorcan to collapse into his arms were slim to none. And that was probably just as well. Lorcan might have come to terms with the fact he was gay, even be comfortable with it most of the time, but it wasn’t something he wanted to broadcast to all and sundry. Especially since chances were the majority of people weren’t ready to appreciate such displays of affection. Sure, things were getting better almost by the day, and Lorcan wanted to believe that the upcoming marriage equality referendum would further improve the situation, but personal experience told him that many Irish people clung to their beliefs and preconceived ideas as if they were treasures to be guarded.
Suddenly restless, Lorcan drank the last sip of his now lukewarm coffee, got up and walked to the small bookshop. It was as good a place as any to kill time. He didn’t want to think about his parents and their attitude toward him, but as always, his thoughts had a mind of their own and attacked. Sure, his father had made it very clear they would never reject him, but he’d also told him they didn’t really want to meet any partner of his, should he find one.
‘What would the neighbors say, Father Brendan? How would we be able to hold our heads up while the whole town is talking about our son’s sinful lifestyle? And what about the grandkids? How would we answer their questions?’
Just remembering their words made Lorcan’s blood boil. His sister, Laura, had taken some of the sting out of the situation when she’d assured their parents that her kids knew better than to discriminate, but it hadn’t made a difference. His parents had refused to change their minds. The message had been clear. Lorcan could be exactly who he wanted to be, as long as he didn’t do it at home.
When a government minister had come out as gay in January, Lorcan had hoped it might make his parents less judgmental. They’d always been supportive of the politician and Lorcan wanted to believe they wouldn’t suddenly change their opinion based on his sexual orientation. He’d been both right and wrong. Their position had been that while they didn’t think the fact that the minister was gay would affect his political decision making, they would have preferred it if he hadn’t gone public with the news. Frustration ate at Lorcan as he wondered, not for the first time, how his parents managed to navigate their way through life while wearing blinkers.
Lorcan didn’t really see the titles of the books he was staring at as he recalled how he’d all but begged them to watch Panti Bliss’s Noble Call. He didn’t know how anybody would be able to watch those poignant ten minutes and not understand why it was important to allow people to be who they were without fear of repercussions. They’d flatly refused and Lorcan had stormed out of the parental house when they’d told him they would never be able to take a man dressed as a woman seriously.
He glanced at his watch for what felt like the umpteenth time since he’d entered the airport and realized he’d somehow managed to miss the plane’s arrival. Eric had touched down on Irish soil twenty minutes ago. Nerves and happiness renewed their battle in Lorcan’s stomach as he strode toward the doors which would open to reveal Eric before too long. He pushed his way through the other people waiting until the barrier stopped him from going farther, and fixed his gaze on the entrance.
Forcing his parents and their negativity out of his mind, Lorcan concentrated on the last conversation he’d had with Eric.
“Are you sure you can put me up? I don’t want to be a nuisance,” Eric had asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” Lorcan had answered. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Besides, what else are you going to do? Move in with Xander again? Book yourself into a hotel until you find a place of your own?”
The grimace on Eric’s face when Lorcan had mentioned Xander had been priceless. “I’m sure Xander would offer me his spare room again, but…”Lorcan hadn’t needed the rest of the sentence. He had known that Xander would never leave his best friend stranded, but he’d also realized Eric might feel uncomfortable in the apartment Xander shared with Troy. Those men were as in love and demonstrative about it as they had been when they’d first gotten together. Eric would be welcome to use Xander’s spare room again, but Lorcan was sure he’d prefer not to intrude on the lovebirds.
When Eric had agreed to consider the idea, Lorcan had been elated, convinced that Eric would end up saying yes. Now that the moment of truth had arrived, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. If Eric agreed to stay with him for the time being it would answer any questions Lorcan had about them. He couldn’t decide what would be worse—to discover that they were indeed irresistibly attracted to each other, or to find that the pull between them hadn’t been strong enough to survive three months apart. One thing Lorcan had no doubt about was that he would be hurt if Eric decided to move into a hotel. And that was just stupid. Lorcan didn’t do love or relationships. He didn’t need anybody in his life—he was more than good on his own, and yet…the rejection would be devastating. Of course, acceptance of the invitation would be terrifying.
He watched while people who weren’t Eric entered the arrivals hall and made their way either to those waiting for them or toward the exit. He hated the insecurity he experienced. He hadn’t been as uncertain about meeting another man since he’d been a teenager. This situation would have been easier to handle if Troy and Xander had been here, too. But when they’d called to say it would be impossible for them to make it to the airport on time, Lorcan had told them not to worry about it since he would be there anyway.
Of course, now he was the one worrying about it. Would Eric think it strange Lorcan had come on his own? Would he mind? And where would Lorcan end up taking him? His mind went into overdrive again when the sliding doors opened once more and Eric walked through them. All worries and nerves evaporated momentarily as Lorcan lost himself in the sight of the tall man who somehow managed to look distinguished and fresh, even after a seven-hour flight. Then they were back with a vengeance—he who always planned his life down to the minute details had no idea what would happen next, and he hated it.
The red brake lights on the back of the car in front of him flared brightly for the tenth time in less than a minute, making Lorcan curse, his words reverberating through the Nissan as he hit the steering wheel hard with the flat of his hand. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard display and realized he had more than enough time, but the thought didn’t settle his nerves or do anything to lessen his frustration with the stop-go traffic he found himself caught in.
Maybe it wasn’t the traffic jam so much as the uncertainty surrounding the day and his upcoming reunion with Eric. Lorcan wasn’t sure and couldn’t settle his thoughts long enough to figure it out. Being stuck in a barely moving line of cars didn’t help the tension building in his stomach.
He went over the details once more. If the plane arrived on schedule it would land in an hour. Getting from the plane to the arrivals hall would take Eric at least another half hour, which meant that even if Lorcan had to leave his car behind and walk from here, he’d still make it to the gate with time to spare.
The traffic in front of Lorcan started to move and he shifted his car into first gear before almost whooping out loud when he had to change into second. Fifty meters, one-hundred meters, third gear…fourth—much to Lorcan’s surprise, traffic continued to progress, and a few minutes later the exit sign for the airport came into view. The closer Lorcan found himself to his destination, the harder it was to control his nerves. He had no idea how this reunion was going to work out. Lorcan was looking forward to his reunion with Eric as much as he was dreading it. Excitement and apprehension alternated, throwing him from butterflies in his stomach to nervous cramps and back again now that the thousands of miles that had separated them were almost reduced to zero. In just about an hour they’d be face to face, and Lorcan had no idea what to expect, no frame of reference to work with.
His memories once more transported him back to the night he’d last seen Eric. Lorcan and Eric had been circling each other for almost two months by then, ever since their friends, Troy and Xander, had first met and had subsequently hooked up. The farewell party Xander had thrown for his best friend and housemate had drawn to an end and despite the fact that Eric was supposed to have been saying goodbye to all the friends who had gathered, he’d spent almost the whole evening with or close to Lorcan. Even when either of them had been talking to others they’d always been aware of where the other was and who he was talking to. It hadn’t been until the last guests had left, and Xander and Troy were cleaning up the mess, that Eric had literally cornered Lorcan at the front door.
Lorcan steered his car toward the entrance of the parking garage. The first floor was full, as was the second. By the time he reached the roof and found a spot, he knew he should have saved himself the hassle of checking the lower levels. At least it wasn’t raining. In fact, it was a very nice day for late March. After a long and mostly gray winter it was at last possible to believe spring would be brightening the world before too long. He rested his head against the support behind him and closed his eyes as the moment came back with such clarity he could almost feel and taste it.
He leaned into the door, handle pressing into his side, trapped by Eric’s bigger and taller body only inches from his. His heart thundered as his mouth went dry. The look of pure hunger in Eric’s eyes as he licked his lips stole his breath. When Eric bent forward and teased Lorcan’s lips with his tongue, a sensation of pure pleasure ran through his veins, leaving him weak and mesmerized.
Never before had a kiss affected him like this. Toe curling and boner evoking didn’t begin to describe it. They clung to each other like two men hanging onto a raft for dear life in the middle of an oceanic storm. The kiss went on, getting deeper, more heated and urgent with every passing second. He had no idea how long their lips had been locked together when Eric pulled back and pressed his forehead to Lorcan’s.
“Why did we wait until tonight?” Eric’s voice held all the regret Lorcan experienced and he had no answer.
The vividness of the memory sent shivers down Lorcan’s spine and had an immediate effect on his cock. Lorcan still didn’t understand what had possessed him to go home that evening, even if they had promised to stay in touch before he’d left.
He took the lift down to the arrivals hall as he reluctantly admitted to himself that he did know why he hadn’t stayed that night. Even then the strong attraction he felt for Eric had scared him. He’d thought three months might be long enough to lessen the pull, to bring him back to his normal level-headed self. He’d been wrong.
Lorcan found himself on the receiving end of quite a few bemused stares when he reached the arrivals hall, checked his watch and laughed out loud. Despite the traffic and torturous hunt for a parking space, he was still almost an hour early. Clearly his obsession with never being late had gotten the better of him yet again. Still, it was one thing less to worry about and, on the upside, the plane from Canada was still scheduled to arrive on time, so the wait wouldn’t be longer than it needed to be. Lorcan walked to the coffee counter, ordered himself a large Americano and tried to settle into one of the surprisingly comfortable seats. He allowed his thoughts to roam freely as he stared at the people moving back and forth around him.
To say he had been disappointed when Eric had told him he’d have to return to Canada for three months would’ve been a gross understatement. Long before that kiss, Lorcan had privately acknowledged there was a connection between him and Eric. Even the very first night they’d met for what should have been a purely business related chat, Lorcan had hoped they would find an opportunity to get to know each other better. Xander and Troy falling for each other and quickly settling into a relationship had taken care of that issue. What was more, from that first night, he’d been sure he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t deny the pull between them.
A frown formed on Lorcan’s forehead as he recalled how they’d never acted on that attraction. They’d been content to just enjoy each other’s company whenever the four of them had met up and when Eric had to be in Lorcan’s workplace to oversee the interior design job he’d been contracted to do by Lorcan’s boss. Back then, Lorcan had told himself Eric was simply keeping his professional and personal lives separate. The fact that they hadn’t kissed until after Eric had finished working for Lorcan’s boss, shortly before he had to leave for Canada, had seemed to confirm that impression. But maybe he’d been wrong. After all, he was nobody’s prize. With his short, spiky dark-brown hair and average features, he rarely warranted a second glance. Why somebody as sophisticated and handsome as Eric would be interested in him was beyond Lorcan—almost as big a shock as the fact that he occasionally found himself thinking about Eric in a long-term sort of way.
And yet… Lorcan relaxed as the memory surfaced again. It had been Eric who’d instigated the kiss. Eric had insisted they stay in touch while he was gone. Most calls between them had been initiated by Eric and it had been him who’d first introduced the idea of using Skype so they could see each other while they talked. Eric had obviously been delighted when Lorcan had offered to pick him up from the airport. On the other hand, Eric hadn’t accepted Lorcan’s invitation to stay with him until he could move into a place of his own.
Lorcan watched the area in front of the arrivals doors and smiled when a young woman started running before the sliding doors had a chance to close behind her again, straight into the arms of an attractive man. The couple held on to each other as if they’d been apart for years—and who knew? Maybe they had. No matter what happened next, the chances of Eric running toward Lorcan to collapse into his arms were slim to none. And that was probably just as well. Lorcan might have come to terms with the fact he was gay, even be comfortable with it most of the time, but it wasn’t something he wanted to broadcast to all and sundry. Especially since chances were the majority of people weren’t ready to appreciate such displays of affection. Sure, things were getting better almost by the day, and Lorcan wanted to believe that the upcoming marriage equality referendum would further improve the situation, but personal experience told him that many Irish people clung to their beliefs and preconceived ideas as if they were treasures to be guarded.
Suddenly restless, Lorcan drank the last sip of his now lukewarm coffee, got up and walked to the small bookshop. It was as good a place as any to kill time. He didn’t want to think about his parents and their attitude toward him, but as always, his thoughts had a mind of their own and attacked. Sure, his father had made it very clear they would never reject him, but he’d also told him they didn’t really want to meet any partner of his, should he find one.
‘What would the neighbors say, Father Brendan? How would we be able to hold our heads up while the whole town is talking about our son’s sinful lifestyle? And what about the grandkids? How would we answer their questions?’
Just remembering their words made Lorcan’s blood boil. His sister, Laura, had taken some of the sting out of the situation when she’d assured their parents that her kids knew better than to discriminate, but it hadn’t made a difference. His parents had refused to change their minds. The message had been clear. Lorcan could be exactly who he wanted to be, as long as he didn’t do it at home.
When a government minister had come out as gay in January, Lorcan had hoped it might make his parents less judgmental. They’d always been supportive of the politician and Lorcan wanted to believe they wouldn’t suddenly change their opinion based on his sexual orientation. He’d been both right and wrong. Their position had been that while they didn’t think the fact that the minister was gay would affect his political decision making, they would have preferred it if he hadn’t gone public with the news. Frustration ate at Lorcan as he wondered, not for the first time, how his parents managed to navigate their way through life while wearing blinkers.
Lorcan didn’t really see the titles of the books he was staring at as he recalled how he’d all but begged them to watch Panti Bliss’s Noble Call. He didn’t know how anybody would be able to watch those poignant ten minutes and not understand why it was important to allow people to be who they were without fear of repercussions. They’d flatly refused and Lorcan had stormed out of the parental house when they’d told him they would never be able to take a man dressed as a woman seriously.
He glanced at his watch for what felt like the umpteenth time since he’d entered the airport and realized he’d somehow managed to miss the plane’s arrival. Eric had touched down on Irish soil twenty minutes ago. Nerves and happiness renewed their battle in Lorcan’s stomach as he strode toward the doors which would open to reveal Eric before too long. He pushed his way through the other people waiting until the barrier stopped him from going farther, and fixed his gaze on the entrance.
Forcing his parents and their negativity out of his mind, Lorcan concentrated on the last conversation he’d had with Eric.
“Are you sure you can put me up? I don’t want to be a nuisance,” Eric had asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” Lorcan had answered. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Besides, what else are you going to do? Move in with Xander again? Book yourself into a hotel until you find a place of your own?”
The grimace on Eric’s face when Lorcan had mentioned Xander had been priceless. “I’m sure Xander would offer me his spare room again, but…”Lorcan hadn’t needed the rest of the sentence. He had known that Xander would never leave his best friend stranded, but he’d also realized Eric might feel uncomfortable in the apartment Xander shared with Troy. Those men were as in love and demonstrative about it as they had been when they’d first gotten together. Eric would be welcome to use Xander’s spare room again, but Lorcan was sure he’d prefer not to intrude on the lovebirds.
When Eric had agreed to consider the idea, Lorcan had been elated, convinced that Eric would end up saying yes. Now that the moment of truth had arrived, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. If Eric agreed to stay with him for the time being it would answer any questions Lorcan had about them. He couldn’t decide what would be worse—to discover that they were indeed irresistibly attracted to each other, or to find that the pull between them hadn’t been strong enough to survive three months apart. One thing Lorcan had no doubt about was that he would be hurt if Eric decided to move into a hotel. And that was just stupid. Lorcan didn’t do love or relationships. He didn’t need anybody in his life—he was more than good on his own, and yet…the rejection would be devastating. Of course, acceptance of the invitation would be terrifying.
He watched while people who weren’t Eric entered the arrivals hall and made their way either to those waiting for them or toward the exit. He hated the insecurity he experienced. He hadn’t been as uncertain about meeting another man since he’d been a teenager. This situation would have been easier to handle if Troy and Xander had been here, too. But when they’d called to say it would be impossible for them to make it to the airport on time, Lorcan had told them not to worry about it since he would be there anyway.
Of course, now he was the one worrying about it. Would Eric think it strange Lorcan had come on his own? Would he mind? And where would Lorcan end up taking him? His mind went into overdrive again when the sliding doors opened once more and Eric walked through them. All worries and nerves evaporated momentarily as Lorcan lost himself in the sight of the tall man who somehow managed to look distinguished and fresh, even after a seven-hour flight. Then they were back with a vengeance—he who always planned his life down to the minute details had no idea what would happen next, and he hated it.
Blind Date for Father's Day by Lorelei M Hart & Colbie Dunbar
One
Keith
“Three wedding parties.”Andrew stood there with his chest puffed out. I didn’t blame him after landing three entire wedding parties while I was on a delivery that took far longer than it should’ve.
“Well done.” He beamed at my praise, and it was well-earned. There had been a few times when he had just started that I’d been worried this place would be too much for him. We were a small shop on the outside, but we had a very steady business and our quality was what kept us that way. But Sebastian took him under his wing and many many more patient hours than I would’ve had later, and here we were.
“When are their fittings?” He told me the details, and I wrote them on our paper calendar, the one Jason insisted we use in addition to anything computerized. We were going to need to start limiting events pretty soon. We just didn’t have the manpower. Not with Jason still on partial paternity leave.
“Sebastian getting you guys lunch?” He was so addicted to the local sub place. At first I thought maybe he had a crush on one of the counter people, but then I discovered he also picked them up from the one by his place, and often ate them multiple times a day. They weren’t that good, but if they kept him happy I was all for it.
“He should be back by now.” Andrew squished his lip funny, something he tended to do when he was nervous, and then his face bloomed. “Never mind. He’s here.” He jogged over and opened the door, Sebastian with three subs and a drink container with four fountain drinks.
“Did you get them all?” Andrew was like a five-year-old kid. I wasn’t even sure about what.
“Yes.” Sebastian sighed. “That’s why I was late. I made them open the new case, just for you.”
Squeeing. The air was filled with squeeing. Over I still didn’t understand what.
“You are the best. That’s why I love you,” he kissed the man’s cheek, who consequently turned a bright red.
“I meant thank you. Not the I love you stuff.” Awww, Andrew had no idea I knew they had been sleeping together or dating or whatever it is called when you try not to let people know.
“You thought I didn’t know?” I pointed to the ginormous subs, and Andrew handed me one. It would be good for both lunch and dinner. “Thanks.” I had a standing order. So yeah, fine, I was addicted too.
“What has you so excited?” I asked. Poor guy looked like he was about to be punched or fired or set on fire or something horrible. I just wanted to hug him and make it better. Of course pissing off his man might not be the best way to do that.
“Andrew, it’s fine. Really it is.” Sebastion spoke softly, so I could barely hear.
“I was just excited,” he mumbled. “It’s okay to like things other than... you know... work.” He glanced at me. “And I work hard.”
“No one said you didn’t, love.” And with that, Sebastion kissed the top of his head and Andrew relaxed. If I had known the stress of them hiding their relationship had been weighing on them so much, I’d have let the cat out of the bag earlier.
“I do need to know what he got you that you think is so cool, and then you can tell Sebastion what you did while he was gone.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. Bounced. It was official, they were the cutest couple ever. They just better stay that way because we needed them both.
“Bastian got me all four Shifter World collectors cups! All. Four.” He handed me the drink tray, and sure enough, four plastic cups with Shifter World slapped on the side and a picture of the hot men that made the show popular and some random animals that correlated with their shifter animals or what have you.
“That is awesome.” Because if it made him happy, it was. “Now tell him your good news.”
He told Sebastian all about the wedding, and I put half my sandwich on a paper towel and the other half in the fridge. I’d barely taken my first bite when my phone started announcing, “It’s your grandpa. You better pick up.” Because yes, I set it that way after missing one too many phone calls and hearing about it.
“Hey, Grandpa,” I answered the phone and stepped out back, not wanting to ruin their lunch by the medical questions that I would inevitably ask.
“It’s Aunt Kallie.” My stomach dropped. She should not have his phone. “Your grandfather, he had a—shit, he’s fine now—he will be fine, but he had a fall and I think you need to come down.”
Ten minutes later, I was on my way out the door, giving Sebastian the keys and promising to make it up to both of them. The last thing I was expecting to hear was that my grandpa broke his hip...and then it got worse. He’d done it a week prior and no one called me. The guilt started to seep in and grow roots. I didn’t call him either. He’d had surgery and was doing well, but he was refusing to go to a rehab facility, and Aunt Kallie wanted me to get there and “talk some sense into him.”
I had no intention of doing that.
“Keith,” Jason answered his phone in a whisper. Shit. He had a sleeping baby.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I hope no one is stirring.” I pulled up in front of my apartment building. I needed to pack—everything else could be done remotely. “I’m calling because I need to go for a while. Grandpa broke his hip.”
“What do you need me to do?” Just like Jason. Always looking out for others.
“I think the guys will be okay at the shop, but maybe could you come in just a little bit more?” I hated to ask, knowing how much he was loving his time home.
“Yes,” he said almost excitedly. “Thank you.” Surely I heard him wrong.
“Umm you’re welcome?”
I’d grabbed my duffle and was filling it with a little bit of everything. I could buy more later if I didn’t coordinate or what have you, I just wanted to get on the road.
“I need to get back to work and I kept finding excuses not to.” Oh. “And don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, and just a heads up, Sebastian and Andrew know we know they are fucking.”
“How many shades of red was Andrew?” This was easier. Better. I could gossip and not think about everything. I zipped up my duffle bag and swung it over my shoulder, glad I didn’t have pets to worry about.
“Andrew—he was just Andrew, but Sebastian...I mean, Bastian was the color of that cumberbund they kept having us redo because they were sure we could find a better red.” I locked the door, leaving the hall light on, and threw my duffle bag into the car.
“I need all the details.” He didn’t. It was very much not him, but he knew I needed to talk and think about not the badness. He was that kind of a friend, and I was beyond grateful. Because right now—I needed him so I didn’t pull over and cry.
Like a Charm by Jordan Castillo Price
ROWAN
“Rowan, is that you?” Gran’s voice rang through the house, strong and clear. Most grandmas you see on TV are white-haired, kindly old ladies who play bridge and bake pies. But not her.
My Gran was an enchanter. A modern-day witch.
She bustled out from her workshop in a well-worn leather apron covered with pockets and pouches where she kept the tools of her trade close at hand. Her steel gray short-cropped hair was streaked with purple, and it stood on end where she’d run an impatient hand through it while mixing her spells. “Make a little noise next time, will you?” she chided. “If it weren’t for that creaky door….”
“I texted that I was coming.”
She cut her eyes to the phone across the room in its charger, ignored. “I know you’re proud of your talent, but you take things too far.”
Whereas Gran needed herbs and tinctures to work her magic, all I had to do was think—and my specialty was fading into the background. It’s not as useless as it might sound. I’d make a great diamond thief, for instance. Or a stellar peeping Tom. But since I was too nice to go for either of those things, I’d cultivated a sideline as an assistant exam proctor. When I wasn’t helping her inventory trinkets or ship out orders, anyhow.
Gran wasn’t wrong, though. Sometimes I did feel a little too invisible. Especially with another Yule on the horizon with no boyfriend to snuggle in front of the fire.
“Come on, then,” Gran said, “into the workshop with you. My stock won’t rotate itself.” Twice a year, I helped Gran reshuffle her groaning shelves of ingredients, perched up high on a precarious stepladder that was supposedly warded from tipping over…though I suspected she just said that, given the piece of cardboard shoved under the short leg.
It was a grueling afternoon of shifting and wobbling that ended with a cramp in my shoulder and cobwebs in my hair. But she was my Gran—and the only other one in my family with talent. So, though she was loud and outspoken where I was quiet and shy, we had a special bond, Gran and me.
Though that special bond gave her license to ask some pretty uncomfortable questions.
“Well, then. Given that hangdog look on your face and the fact that you haven’t said anything about bringing a plus-one to the Yuletide feast, I’ll take it to mean you’re still single. Some people are true introverts, and they thrive on that kind of thing. But I know how you are—too much time by yourself, getting all up in your own head—it just makes you miserable. You may be quiet, Rowan, and you may be shy. But too much alone time is doing you no favors at all!”
I sighed. “Everyone says to fake it till you make it. Maybe I could pretend to be more outgoing, but in the long run, it won’t do me much good. Believe me, I’ve tried. The minute I start acting like myself, anyone who’s attracted to the ‘fun’ me loses interest.”
“Pah! You don’t need to be fun. You’re good and kind and patient. Not to mention you have phenomenal eyelashes. You got those from me.” Gran fluttered her patently fake lashes. “By the way, you’re welcome. Now, why don’t you open your present early? Just a little something I whipped up. It might help ease you into the spirit of the season.”
I scanned her workbench, eyes stopping on the heavy box of rose quartz she bought in bulk. The stone was ubiquitous in love charms—one of her specialties. Gran hadn’t gone and crafted me a love charm, had she? She saw nothing wrong with providing that initial spark of attraction to her customers, but the idea of using magic for something like that has never sat well with me. How could I ever trust a relationship that started with magical coercion? It would feel like it was built on a lie.
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can wait till Solstice—”
“Nonsense. If I gave it to you in front of the rest of the family, they’d all be jealous.” She shoved a box into my hands, then jabbed a finger at the card tucked under the ribbon. “Besides…this invitation won’t be any good to you once the party’s over.”
“Wait, what party?”
Hat Trick by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Stan
Watching snowflakes flutter by the window, I was struck by how beautiful snow was and yet how deadly it could be. Like now, it was soft and fluffy and would blow off the wings as soon as the 747 I was seated in took off. But there were snows that could cripple an airplane, sticking and freezing on the wings. Such was how many things were. Such was how my homeland could be. Russia was a beautiful country, rich with history and stunning cathedrals. The people were proud and vibrant and loving. But there was a dangerous side to Russia, one that might make my return risky. It was not a good time for gay men in Russia. The government called us terrible names, jailed us, or worse… simply for loving someone of the same gender.
I glanced at the flight attendant helping the other first-class passengers find their seats and stow their carry-on bags. He’d told me his name was Howard. He was older, distinguished, slim, with salt-and-pepper hair. His accent was British, very pretty, and he fussed over his passengers like a mother goose does her goslings. He’d assured me that, once we were in the air, he would come with the drink cart. Generally, I did not drink much. On New Year’s Eve of course, but other than special occasions, athletes skipped alcohol. Erik was not much on boozing it up. We were happy homebodies.
I looked back out at the snowy airfield. Erik. I missed my beloved already, and the plane was still sitting at Harrisburg International Airport taking on passengers. I shifted in my seat, glad for the leg room that first class gave me. Also, the seat was plush, the blanket thick and warm, and the food and drinks would be above par. Sadly, I would be enjoying all of this luxury alone. Erik had to stay home with Noah. There were hockey games to play, a nanny to find, and paperwork to have in order when I returned with our new children. The team wasn’t happy to lose me for the time required to make this trip, but they had given me leave to go. My stomach flipped in excitement and apprehension yet again. Ever since the call had come during the night two weeks ago, all of us had been bouncing between terror, anxiety, and joy.
Funny how a man’s life can change with just one phone call.
I’d been sleeping soundly the night the news had come, Erik in my arms, our bodies tacky with sweat and semen. My eyes had felt as if they had just closed when Elvis started singing Hound Dog over and over. I had found a new ringtone app called ”Elvis Ringtones” and picked a new song every week. Elvis had released many, many songs, so I could have a new ringtone whenever I wished. That night, it was Hound Dog, and it played repeatedly. Erik had slid over me, mumbling, and grabbed my phone off my nightstand.
“It’s for you. Someone saying something in Russian,” he’d grumbled.
I slung an arm over his back to keep his belly pressed to mine. He let his head drop to my shoulder and his leg shimmy between my thighs. Perfection, I remember thinking before I put the cell to my ear and everything went upside down and inside and out. Is there an ”and” in that saying? I shook my head. No, I didn’t think so. Inside out. Yes, inside out is right. So yes, the call had come through, the line raspy with static as the service in the small town I had grown up in wasn’t good.
It was bad news. My fourth cousin on my father’s side, Anatoli, had been killed in a terrible accident involving a truck and him on a motorcycle. The two children he had looked after, children of another cousin, had been left alone upon his death, as their parents had died several years earlier. Their father from cancer and their mother from alcohol poisoning. She had been just a young woman, but her drinking was bad, as it is for many in the backwoods of Russia. When I was a child, I would look at the people of my small village and see only gray faces filled with great hardships and bleak futures. Which was why I had worked so hard to get out and make sure my sister and mother did as well. I did not want my mother to die before her time, her life dreary and sad.
The children, it seemed, had now been left to me, or maybe the better explanation was that I had been named as their next-in-line guardian. The poor children had been passed from pillar to post and had never known a stable family. The message was clear— could I come now to Leskovo and fetch them before they went into the government system. It seemed no one in the family could afford two more mouths to feed. I had sat up, stunned and shaken, unable to think of the proper words to say back to one of my uncles. I’d had no knowledge of my cousin naming me as a second guardian of his children if anything should happen to Anatoli, and I had told Erik that, after I’d blurted out some reply to Uncle Maxim about giving me time to make plans and to not allow the little ones to go to the government.
“I do not know how the government treats little ones with no parents, but if they treat them as bad as they do gay people,” I mumbled as Erik hurried to dress and find me something to pull on. “I go now.”
“Stan,” he said a moment later as I pulled a pair of jeans over my ass, “I’m sure they’ll be fine for a few days until we sort through all of this. You can’t just fly to Russia and toss the kids into a plane headed for America.”
“Why not? I am chosen next guardian by father. I go now. Bring home. We adopt. Make them ours. We want more children; you say so too. Now we will have three!”
I padded to the closet to find a suitcase. Erik slid between the closet door and me. “Stan, you can’t go off halfcocked. This is going to be a tangled-up bureaucratic mess to wade through. We’ll need a lawyer, probably an adoption representative, maybe state and federal permission. Things between the US and Russia aren’t exactly stable right now. And there’s the fact that the Russian government knows you’re in a relationship with a man here in the States.”
“Pah. I do not care. The Kremlin can suck my fat cock.”
Erik rolled his pretty eyes. “Stan, the point is you can’t just run over to Russia and expect to come home with two kids the next day. There’s protocol that we’re going to have to follow. And two kids? I mean, at once? Who don’t speak a lick of English? What are their names? How old are they? What sex are they? Are they healthy? Are they immunized? I don’t want any kids around Noah who haven’t been immunized. What if they’re mean to other kids or pets? What if you get over there and the government is waiting, and they lock you up to make a show of you, or they take you to the top of some high fucking office building in Moscow and throw you off just because you’re—”
“Hush now, hush.” I pulled him into my arms and held him for a long, long time. He clung to me, fingers digging into the skin on my lower back, his nose buried in my throat. I kissed his golden curls as he sucked in a long breath, then slowly let it out. “Nothing bad happens to us. We are strong family. Much love. This will be good.” I ran a hand up and down his back. “We will make this good, you see. Big family means much more love and strength.”
The soft rumbling of the plane rolling out to taxi jarred me from the memory. I fastened my seatbelt and turned off my phone. Howard checked on me, smiling and patting my shoulder, and then went on to make sure the others were obeying the rules. The flight was long, over eleven hours, and would afford me plenty of time to dwell upon things. Such as my mother’s reaction the following day when she had learned of our fourth cousin’s death. She said she’d never liked him, but she had wept softly for the children, holding Noah on her lap. Then I’d had to tell her about me being the chosen adult to take them.
It made sense to me and to Erik once we’d returned to bed the next night and talked things out as best we could. I was the most successful one in our big family. My cousins all knew I played professional hockey, and that I was now studying to be an American citizen. They had seen the images of my house, my car, my family here in Pennsylvania. I’d not pushed my wealth under their noses, but even just sharing pictures on social media, my family back in Leskovo would comment on the luxuries they saw. So, me being listed to take Anatoli’s children if there was no one else made sense. Also, who didn’t want to immigrate to America? This was the country of opportunity! The Statue of Liberty said so. She called to the weak and frail of other countries to come to her shores. I loved her so much, Lady Liberty. Every time we played in New York City I went to see her, and I thanked her for taking me and my family into her country.
So, me being picked seemed reasonable. I had been chosen, and I would fulfill my obligation to my family and those children. Mama had broken down when I’d told her I was returning to Russia as soon as we could arrange the legal things. Erik had been tasked with the paperwork. He was well spoken, his English smooth, and his bearing that of a prince. I was big and scary, and while my English was wonderfully better, it was still bumpy sometimes.
I’d hushed her as I had Erik the night before, assuring her that I would be welcomed back to Russia with open arms. She’d not thought so, but she had quieted when I reminded her of those two children— a girl and a boy, we had learned— who had no one to love them.
“They will need much love. They never really knew their parents, and now they have lost a guardian. They need more even than Erik and I can give them,” I’d whispered to her in Russian as I’d knelt beside the rocking chair in Noah’s room and held her. “They will need a sweet gam to tuck them in when their pappa's are not to home and bake pryaniki for them.”
She’d patted my cheeks and sniffled, her chin coming up a bit. “I will do whatever they need, but you must promise to come home to me, Stanislav.” She’d stared at me with eyes the same stormy color as mine. “You bring the babies home. Safe. All three of you. I will work hard with Erik to make the house ready for them.”
“You are a good woman.” I’d pulled her to my chest and kissed her damp cheek.
“And you, my son, are a good man.”
The plane began to roll down the runway. I felt the pressure against my chest as we lifted off. Turning my head to the left, I looked out of the window and watched Harrisburg slowly get smaller and smaller.
“I will be back soon,” I whispered to Erik, then pulled the shade down and patted my passport and the packet of legal papers riding in the interior pocket of my winter coat. Never had mere paper felt so heavy.
The Bells of Time Square by Amy Lane
Dawn of a New Age
“Mom, is he ready?”
If Nate Meyer could have smiled, he would have, but his face didn’t do that anymore.
“Blaine, honey, it’s freezing outside. Really? Are we really doing this?”
Nate closed his rheumy eyes. His wrinkled, liver-spotted hand shimmied as he plucked at the polyester blanket across his lap. Please, Stephanie. Please. The bells. I might hear the bells.
“Mom, he lives for this, you know that.”
Good boy. Blaine, such a good boy. Dark black hair, big brown eyes—couldn’t look more like me as a young man if we’d tried.
But then, Stephanie had married a nice boy, a dentist, with black hair and brown eyes as well, and she’d laughed about that. A good Jewish girl marrying a Jewish dentist—it was like she’d read a manual, yes? Her children would look almost frum. Nate and Carmen had laughed quietly about that as well, because Stephanie herself looked German. Her brother Alan had blond hair and brown eyes, although Nate suspected that after he hit twenty-five, the blond streaks had come from a bottle. Well, yes, a man could do that now, in these days. A man could dye his hair and not be accused of being a . . . What had Walter called them?
Poof. Yes, that was the word.
A man could streak his hair and dress himself fancy, and not be afraid of being a poof.
In his head, Nate laughed, and he could see himself as Walter had seen him: just like Blaine with his dark curly hair, dark-brown eyes, dark lashes, full lips, a slight space between his teeth, and a nose with a decided bow outwards. He’d always looked like a Jew, had never been ashamed of it, not even when he’d moved from his predominantly Jewish neighborhood in the Lower East Side to the barracks with the other USAAF privates, some of them from places in the country that had never seen a Jew before. That posting hadn’t lasted long, though.
Somewhere, somebody had seen his recruitment papers. The degree in art history meant nothing, but his father was a clockmaker, and Nate worked in his shop. His specialty? Cameras, the new and the old. And Nathan Meyer suddenly became a valuable commodity, didn’t he? Six-pointed star and all, Nate could work cameras, and in 1941, when Brits had just started figuring out how to outfit their Spitfires so the pilots didn’t die and the cameras didn’t freeze, that man who could take a picture was like gold, wasn’t he?
Nate hadn’t hidden his gloating, either, when he’d been recruited by the OSS while in the USAAF. He’d been inducted into the 25th Tactical and Reconnaissance Wing—more specifically, the 654th bombardment. Him, Nate Meyer. Even he had something special, something the OSS needed.
It had started with the clocks. Everyone had something to contribute, because that was the war, right? Even Nate’s mother had planted a victory garden in the flower bed she kept in the little concrete apron behind the family brownstone. Before the crash, when Nate was a little boy, she’d worn gloves when dusting to keep her hands soft. And now, with the crash and the war? She was gardening!
And Nate, who had needed to beg his father to buy an old Brownie and then had taken it apart, put it together, learned all the words—f-stop, shutter speed, lens width, scope—while his father complained bitterly about the newfangled thing and the expense of the invention, that Nate now had a special skill to offer. So he got the promotion and the raise in pay and the better bunk, and all for taking pictures.
His father hadn’t been so proud. Pictures? What good were pictures? Officers needed pictures; the war needed men! But of course, pictures of officers were what Nate had told his parents he took so his letters home didn’t look like a picture puzzle. In reality, his pictures were very different . . .
“Grandpa? Are you ready yet?”
Not so ready. Because my body is meat, boy, and no amount of wiping it off or swaddling it in these acrylic afghans your mother makes will render it more than meat.
Blaine didn’t hear him, of course. He was a strong boy, and Nate had enough of himself to wrap his arms around Blaine’s neck so the boy could lift him up from his bed and set him in his wheelchair. Stephanie’s husband—another good boy. Oh, Nate was surrounded by good boys. He was grateful—had a ramp installed. So thank heavens, there would be no bump-kerthump, bump-kerthump, as there had been so often in the first days after the stroke.
“Mom! Where’s his coat? The thick wool one, with the leather gloves in the pocket?”
“Blaine, do you really want to—”
There was a knock at the front, and Stephanie left off her nagging, probably to open the door.
“That’s Tony,” Blaine said. He had always liked talking to Nate and had kept up the habit of it even after Nate couldn’t talk anymore. Nate might find it irritating as hell, but at least Blaine talked about real things. He certainly could do without Stephanie’s yammering about buying something new for the house. He hated the new things—the new tile, the new tables—because her mother had worked so hard for the old things. It felt disloyal, this opening of the house, the sunshiny colors, the skylight over the living room. Hearing Stephanie justify these things to Nate—that only hurt him more.
But Blaine talked about politics, he talked about books.
And because Nate couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell, couldn’t condemn, Blaine also talked about Tony.
Nate lived for Blaine’s monologues about Tony.
At first it had been Tony’s mind—the funny things that Tony had said. Tony was in Blaine’s sociology course at NYU, and he had the best things, the best shows, the best songs.
Then it had been Tony’s laughter, the jokes that he told and how he liked action-adventure movies and didn’t like the Oscar ones because they were too sad. Blaine had been disappointed by this at first, because Blaine himself was always so serious, always so worried about tomorrow. But Nate had listened, and Blaine had started to laugh at himself more, appreciate that you needed to laugh in order to work toward a better tomorrow.
Sometimes Blaine would talk about how he’d been giving Tony lessons about being a Jew, which made Nate laugh inside. When Nate had been Blaine’s age, he hadn’t even spoken Yiddish in an attempt to not align himself with his father or any of the traditions that Nate had been forced to follow, simply because they were traditions. He had changed when he’d come home from the war, embraced those stories, loved those traditions, for Carmen’s sake, for his own, for his family’s.
And Blaine had learned to love them as well. Blaine would study the Passover Seder stories and the Purim stories, and tell them to Tony, and then come home and tell his zayde all about Tony’s reactions. So yes, Nate had heard all about Tony’s love of a good story.
More recently, he’d heard all about Tony’s smile.
But Nate had yet to meet Tony, and now, hearing the suppressed excitement in Blaine’s voice, he was suddenly excited, as well. He was going out, out into the cold to listen for the bells, and he would get to meet Blaine’s Tony. He made an effort then, worked hard, and a sound came out. A happy sound, he hoped.
“You like that?” Blaine smiled while he helped Nate into his coat. “You want to meet Tony? He’ll like you. I told him you were a hero in the war, you know? He thought that was pretty awesome.”
Awesome—everything these days was awesome or excellent or wonderful. What about Blaine’s generation made them talk in superlatives? Nate missed the days when you could understate things, when it would be nice or nifty or interesting instead.
Of course, if Nate had lived in a time when your whole life could be accomplished on a little glowing box on the kitchen table, well then, everything might indeed have been awesome, wouldn’t it?
But Blaine didn’t hear Nate’s thoughts on awesome.
“I wanted him to meet you. I mean, I know you can’t exactly tell him stories, Zayde, but you know . . .”
You wanted to know if I would welcome him, love him as you do already. You wanted to know if Zayde would bless you and make it all good, even if your mother would say to stop this mishegas already, there is no gay in her family.
The moment stretched on achingly as Blaine helped him with his gloves. Nate remembered this boy when he was a child. He would cling to Nate’s hand, bury his face in Nate’s thick wool coat whenever they went outdoors during the holidays. New York, even the Upper East Side, was loud and frightening for a small boy. And now, the boy had found another hand to help him through, and he wanted to know if his Zayde would bind their hands together, like a rabbi at a wedding.
Nate longed to give his blessing.
Blaine buttoned up Nate’s coat. He was sweltering inside it, but, well, it was better than freezing as soon as they made it outside. Blaine was in the middle of tucking another blanket around Nate’s lap when he turned.
“Tony!” The warmth of his voice, the pitch of the enthusiasm, told Nate far too much about how hard it was to be here, wrapping his grandfather up like a swaddled child, to help him honor this old tradition.
“Is he all ready?” Tony asked cheerfully, and Nate’s good eye focused on him.
Oh my. The left side of his face could still move, and he knew he was smiling in pleased surprise.
Tony was a handsome boy, with skin nearly the color of Nate’s black wool coat and teeth that gleamed against that dark skin. Oh, look at them! Boys who could look at each other and smile like that, dark skin and six-pointed star and all.
If Nate could have spoken, he would have said Awesome! or Excellent!
Blaine . . . such a good boy.
Of course, Nate’s father would have said no such thing about Blaine’s choice. But then Selig Meyer had not been a fan of Carmen when she had first followed Nate home from the library in the fall of ’47—although he’d never said so to her face. Too fair, too blue eyed, too delicate, even though her parents went to the same temple as Nate’s family, when his father went at all. But he’d come to love her—probably more than he loved his only son—by the end.
A boy—any boy, no less a boy like this one—would have sent Nate running from the city, his father’s outraged disappointment chasing him like a black wave.
But then, no boy had ever really appealed to Nate after Provence Claire La Lune. No girl, either, but Carmen had been kind, and determined. A marriage—a kosher marriage—had been no less than her ultimate goal, and Nate, so lost after the war, what was he to do?
“Hereyago, Mr. Meyer!” Tony was right behind him, pushing the chair down the ramp, holding the back of it so very low to keep it from pitching. “Blaine’s been looking forward to this for a week, you know. Kept trying to tell me about the bells.”
Nate glanced around, his right eye rolling frantically in the useless, drooping side of his face. He made a noise then, a panicked and inarticulate noise, because—
“Blaine’s back in the house, Mr. Meyer,” Tony said quickly. “No worries. You got no worries at all. He was just checking with his mom. Didn’t want her to panic none, ’cause he said he was going to edge in close to 37th Street tonight, and it’s a bit of a walk, and sort of a riot, but you know that.”
Nate let out a long exhale, and the slap of the wind tried to steal that breath from him as it went. Of course, of course. Blaine would not leave him in the hands of someone who would not care for him. That was not his way.
“You ready?” Blaine called from the top of the stairs. “Ready, Grandpa? We’re going to stop down at the corner for some hot chocolate, and then make our way toward Times Square.”
“Man, that place is gonna be crowded. Do you really wanna go all that way?”
Nate couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might have been a touch of . . . something. There was a pause that bespoke intimacy, of that he was certain.
“We’re not going all the way into the square,” Blaine said quietly. “We’re going near the square. Close enough to hear church bells, if there are any.”
“Church bells,” Tony said blankly. “I know you told me this, but why are we listening for church bells again? Do church bells even ring on New Year’s at Times Square?”
I don’t know, Nate thought. I never heard them.
“And besides, aren’t you Jewish?”
Blaine laughed shyly. “You really have to ask?”
Tony’s return laugh was fond. “No, I guess not. So why church bells? Why not temple bells or something?”
Blaine sighed. “I’m not really sure. It’s just . . . It’s weird, really. Grandpa, for as long as I can remember, he’s gone on a walk on New Year’s Eve—Mom said he did it when she was little too. Grandma never went. He always said he was listening for bells.”
Once. My Carmen went once. Then she gave the walk to me, my once a year, to listen for church bells.
“That’s sort of cool,” Tony said, and Nate could feel his regard. For a moment, Nate was the handsome, strapping man who had gone off to war, and he was confused. Wasn’t he wounded, slight, limping on the damaged body that kept him from returning to active duty, the lone stranger in any crowd? Older, seasoned, a child on his hip and one by the hand? Middle-aged, successful, a hard-working photographer with his own exclusive Manhattan boutique?
Old, bereft, a widower, remembering how to make his own toast and the reasons a man should get out of bed in the morning?
Helpless, afloat in his own head, his body a lingering wreck of lung sounds and heartbeats, his only power in his thrice-weekly visits to the pool with an aqua teacher?
Young and in love, holding his male lover to his chest after the fury of the mishkav zakhar, the one act between men that was considered unforgivable, that reshaped the hearts of them both.
Oh God, the merciful and wise, who was Nathan Selig Meyer, and where was he in time?
The distant sound of shouts called him to the present, the faraway merriment reminding him that those shouts of joy were just out of his reach.
Walter, are you there? Are they ringing the bells? I can’t hear the bells!
“Here we go, Grandpa,” Blaine said, pulling the wheelchair back next to a bench. They were in a lovely neighborhood, not too far from the statue of the tailor and the needle. He used to see stage actors here, sometimes. Nate didn’t know if they owned or rented, but he loved the excitement of walking down the street and, Hey! There was someone you’d seen perpetrate magic on the stage or the screen.
He enjoyed this place, this bench under the tree. Blaine had chosen well.
He could hear Blaine and Tony sitting down on the bench beside him, talking animatedly, in a way that bespoke great familiarity.
“So, we’re out here to hear bells that don’t get rung?” Tony sounded skeptical, but playful too.
“Yeah,” Blaine replied shyly. “I mean, I looked it up once. The most I could get was a reference, mind you, that a nearby church rang bells on New Year’s Eve during the war.”
“Did you keep it?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve seen me study!”
Tony made an exasperated sound. “Augh, kid, you are killing me. You know I live for this stuff.”
“I’m a year younger than you, smart-ass, but look here. I brought you something.”
Nate saw Blaine pull something out of his coat, and inside, he smiled.
“Oh wow! A scrapbook!”
“Yeah, apparently my great-grandmother kept a scrapbook of Zayde—”
“Thereyago, talking Jewish to me again!”
Blaine laughed, but it wasn’t embarrassed. “Yiddish, Tony. We call it Yiddish, and I only know a few words. It’s like ‘Grandpa,’ but, you know, affectionate, like ‘Papa’ or ‘Grampy’—Zayde.”
A speculative silence then. “Zayde . . . That’s nice. What about, you know . . .” And now Tony was the shy one. “What I want to call you, but nothing sounds right.”
“Mmm.” Blaine’s voice fell, then rose intimately. “Tateleh, I think.”
Tony laughed a little. “That don’t hardly sound real. But, you know, better than ‘baby.’”
“Oy gevalt!” Blaine exaggerated, and they both laughed again, the sound low and personal. “Anything’s better than ‘baby’!”
More laughter, and instead of feeling excluded, Nate felt the opposite. Like he was in on the joke, in on the secret. He knew something about these two young men that nobody else did.
“Seriously,” Tony said, the laughter in his voice faded and sad. “You got all these traditions—”
“Not so many, now,” Blaine said quickly. “My grandparents, they were Reformed Jews—sort of like, modern but, you know, you gotta say it different. I’m not sure if Zayde believed, exactly, but he thought it was important. Traditions were important to him—us belonging somewhere. He said that a lot to my mom, that we needed a chance to belong. He wanted that. But”—and Nate could imagine Blaine’s shrug—“my parents, they barely made it to temple.”
“You got a bar mitzvah, though,” Tony chided.
Blaine grunted. Direct hit. “It was a party, you know? I said some verses, recited some Torah, got the party. Mom didn’t want her neighbors to think we couldn’t afford it; it was a status thing.”
“But you liked the words. You told me that. The words mean something to you.”
“Yeah, but only the good ones. Why is this important, anyway?”
It was Tony’s turn to grunt, and Nate couldn’t see, couldn’t turn his head, but he heard what sounded like a kiss. On the cheek, on the hand, on the lips, Nate couldn’t be sure, but men, they didn’t sit and kiss parts of each other when they were talking about sports or the weather.
“Because it is,” Tony said lowly. “I want to look at your family scrapbook and say, ‘Hey! That’s my boyfriend’s history!’ Is that so bad?”
“No.” There were more kissing sounds, and Nate burned inside to talk to them, to tell them, to explain. The Orthodox rabbis said one thing and the Reformed rabbis said another. It was supposed to be okay if you were that way, as long as you didn’t act on it, but Nate had been young, he’d felt the pull, the strength like steel springs, binding a human heart to another. What was talk of an unseen God when the world had fallen to chaos? All was hell and violence—how bad could the mishkav zakhar be?
“Does your mom know?” Blaine asked when the kissing sounds stopped. “Did you tell her?”
“About you? No.”
Blaine grunted shortly, but it sounded hurt, not angry.
“You need to be ready to come out to your family first, you know that right?” Tony said sternly, and it must have been an argument they’d had before, because Blaine’s sound changed.
He sighed instead. In Nate’s line of vision, a parade of cars trolled slowly down the street, headlamps slicing through the darkness like the wind was currently slicing through Nate’s coat. Light, steel, it all found a way in.
“But my mom knows about me,” Tony said, sighing. “I told you that. When I was a little kid, I said I liked boys. She cried, she tried to talk me out of it, she threatened to have my uncle beat the gay out of me. But Uncle Jason wouldn’t do it, and in the end, she just accepted it. I just had to be . . . you know . . .”
“Stubborn,” Blaine said. “You.”
Nate wanted to see them. More cars wandered the night, but in his mind, he saw that beautiful young man with the skin like night touching Blaine’s hair, his forehead, his cheek. Tenderness, Nate imagined. There would be tenderness.
Abruptly, his skin—which had deadened, had become blind to the realm of touch—ached for tenderness like amputees were said to ache for missing limbs. Once, Nate had known such tenderness, and he would never feel it again, not in this body.
“Would they cut you off?” Tony asked. “If you came out? If we moved in, like we’ve been talking about?”
“Eh . . .” Blaine said uncertainly. “I don’t know.” Nate heard rustling, and from his finite line of vision, he saw Blaine’s knees shift so the boy was facing Nate. “I don’t think Grandpa would, even with all the tradition, because . . . I don’t know. Because he was just too good a guy. But my mom, well . . .” He grunted. “I heard my grandpa call her kalta neshomeh once, when she was redecorating the house after Grandma died. He was hurt, you know? I mean, she said he was just being cheap because, well, I guess it was a thing. The Depression had everybody saving money and stuff, but it was more than that— All of Grandma’s stuff was getting put in storage and sold, and Grandpa was shoved into a room and . . . and it wasn’t right.”
“So what does it mean?”
“I had to ask our rabbi. I think he yelled at Grandpa for it too. It means ‘cold soul.’”
Tony’s low whistle made Nate smile inside. Oh yes, yes I did call her that. She deserved it, selling her mother’s things like that. No, we did not go to temple as often as we could have, but we had a happy home. Those things should not have been sold as if they had no meaning. Carmen’s old jewelry boxes, her costume jewelry, the desk where she’d done the store and family accounts for more than forty years. Couldn’t Stephanie have waited until Nate died? It wasn’t like he had more time than anyone else! Of course, Nate chuckled inwardly, that had been six years ago, and he was still hanging around. Perhaps he did have more time!
“Wow,” Tony said in the resulting quiet. Then, low voiced, urgent: “I have my own apartment. You have a job working at the hospital. I mean, we’ve talked about it before, but even if they cut you off, you could move in anyway. You know I want you with me, right?”
“I want to be there too,” Blaine said plaintively. “But my mother—”
“I mean, you could still be a doctor, even if your mother doesn’t want to pay for school. You’d have to take out loans and stuff, but, it’s like, people are always so afraid of not having any money, but whether you have it or not, you’re living your life, and that’s the fun part, right? If you’ve got food, a roof over your head—”
He was so urgent, so upset. Nate wanted to reassure him. He loves you, Tony. Don’t worry. Our boy will do the right thing.
“Sha shtil, tateleh,” Blaine said, and his knees shifted in Nate’s vision again. Nate could picture them, Blaine holding Tony so that his face buried into Blaine’s deceptively wide shoulder, their faces close together, a dropped kiss on Tony’s forehead. “I hear you.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have anything to say to me!” There was a rustle, and Tony must have stood up because so did Blaine. Nate gave up chasing cars in the darkness. He closed his eyes and saw the boys—his boys—like a movie.
Oh, Walter. It looks like a good one. A romance—I wonder how it ends.
“I want to say yes,” Blaine murmured. “But I need to ask Zayde.”
“You need to ask—”
Yes, bubeleh, I am confused, as well.
“Don’t say it,” Blaine told him softly. “I just . . . I want so badly to talk to someone in my family, do you understand? He’s the one person who told me about tradition and about banding together with people who care about you, and he’s the one person who can’t say he doesn’t love me anymore.”
“I hear you.” An ironic pause. “Bells, huh?”
“Yes. I am not so sure we will hear any tonight, but if we do, maybe we should take it as a sign, you think?”
“I think I’m freezing my ass off, that’s what I think. You said coffee?”
“Thank you. See it? Three blocks up.”
“Yeah, I know. Is your gramps gonna want some?”
“Get him hot chocolate—me too, for that matter. I’m not such a fan of coffee.”
Tony’s briskness faded, and Nate saw a hand, covered in a bright-red wool mitten, reach out and pluck off Blaine’s hat so the other hand could ruffle his curly hair. Tony stepped into Nate’s vision and placed the hat carefully on Blaine’s head before kissing him on the forehead.
“I know you’re not,” he said fondly. “I’m just as happy you prefer ‘hot chocolate.’”
Blaine choked on a guffaw. “That was awful. Oh my God, I should break it off with you just for that!”
“You wouldn’t really—” beat “—would you?”
“No. Oh God, no. I just need a minute, Tony. Just, let me swallow it all. Coming out, moving out, is . . . irrevocable. I want to be sure.”
“The fact that you take it so seriously? That’s why I love you. That’s why it’s worth the wait. Just know that all I want for both of us is— Is there a Yiddish word for ‘everything’?”
“I don’t know,” Blaine said softly, and they were standing so close!
“That’s what I want for you,” Tony said, and this time the kiss was personal, intimate, on the lips.
Nate couldn’t look away.
Alz. Alz is the word. That’s what you want for each other. Alz. Isn’t that what we wanted, Walter? Isn’t that what you wanted for us? Wasn’t that what we were looking for, listening for, with the bells?
But Walter didn’t answer, and Nate watched in frustration as Blaine’s Tony disappeared into the night, looking for the coffee shop. The lights around them, from the streets, from the cars, were swallowed up, and the darkness washed over his vision like a closed shutter, and when the shutter opened again, he was back, back in 1943, before Walter, before Carmen, when his world was narrowed to the tiny bunk with Hector and Joey and the missions he flew and the danger and the horror of a war that had swallowed the world . . .
Recon
“That’s a dame!” Joey Shanahan muttered after a low whistle. “Hey, Meyer. Did you get that shot?”
“Mom, is he ready?”
If Nate Meyer could have smiled, he would have, but his face didn’t do that anymore.
“Blaine, honey, it’s freezing outside. Really? Are we really doing this?”
Nate closed his rheumy eyes. His wrinkled, liver-spotted hand shimmied as he plucked at the polyester blanket across his lap. Please, Stephanie. Please. The bells. I might hear the bells.
“Mom, he lives for this, you know that.”
Good boy. Blaine, such a good boy. Dark black hair, big brown eyes—couldn’t look more like me as a young man if we’d tried.
But then, Stephanie had married a nice boy, a dentist, with black hair and brown eyes as well, and she’d laughed about that. A good Jewish girl marrying a Jewish dentist—it was like she’d read a manual, yes? Her children would look almost frum. Nate and Carmen had laughed quietly about that as well, because Stephanie herself looked German. Her brother Alan had blond hair and brown eyes, although Nate suspected that after he hit twenty-five, the blond streaks had come from a bottle. Well, yes, a man could do that now, in these days. A man could dye his hair and not be accused of being a . . . What had Walter called them?
Poof. Yes, that was the word.
A man could streak his hair and dress himself fancy, and not be afraid of being a poof.
In his head, Nate laughed, and he could see himself as Walter had seen him: just like Blaine with his dark curly hair, dark-brown eyes, dark lashes, full lips, a slight space between his teeth, and a nose with a decided bow outwards. He’d always looked like a Jew, had never been ashamed of it, not even when he’d moved from his predominantly Jewish neighborhood in the Lower East Side to the barracks with the other USAAF privates, some of them from places in the country that had never seen a Jew before. That posting hadn’t lasted long, though.
Somewhere, somebody had seen his recruitment papers. The degree in art history meant nothing, but his father was a clockmaker, and Nate worked in his shop. His specialty? Cameras, the new and the old. And Nathan Meyer suddenly became a valuable commodity, didn’t he? Six-pointed star and all, Nate could work cameras, and in 1941, when Brits had just started figuring out how to outfit their Spitfires so the pilots didn’t die and the cameras didn’t freeze, that man who could take a picture was like gold, wasn’t he?
Nate hadn’t hidden his gloating, either, when he’d been recruited by the OSS while in the USAAF. He’d been inducted into the 25th Tactical and Reconnaissance Wing—more specifically, the 654th bombardment. Him, Nate Meyer. Even he had something special, something the OSS needed.
It had started with the clocks. Everyone had something to contribute, because that was the war, right? Even Nate’s mother had planted a victory garden in the flower bed she kept in the little concrete apron behind the family brownstone. Before the crash, when Nate was a little boy, she’d worn gloves when dusting to keep her hands soft. And now, with the crash and the war? She was gardening!
And Nate, who had needed to beg his father to buy an old Brownie and then had taken it apart, put it together, learned all the words—f-stop, shutter speed, lens width, scope—while his father complained bitterly about the newfangled thing and the expense of the invention, that Nate now had a special skill to offer. So he got the promotion and the raise in pay and the better bunk, and all for taking pictures.
His father hadn’t been so proud. Pictures? What good were pictures? Officers needed pictures; the war needed men! But of course, pictures of officers were what Nate had told his parents he took so his letters home didn’t look like a picture puzzle. In reality, his pictures were very different . . .
“Grandpa? Are you ready yet?”
Not so ready. Because my body is meat, boy, and no amount of wiping it off or swaddling it in these acrylic afghans your mother makes will render it more than meat.
Blaine didn’t hear him, of course. He was a strong boy, and Nate had enough of himself to wrap his arms around Blaine’s neck so the boy could lift him up from his bed and set him in his wheelchair. Stephanie’s husband—another good boy. Oh, Nate was surrounded by good boys. He was grateful—had a ramp installed. So thank heavens, there would be no bump-kerthump, bump-kerthump, as there had been so often in the first days after the stroke.
“Mom! Where’s his coat? The thick wool one, with the leather gloves in the pocket?”
“Blaine, do you really want to—”
There was a knock at the front, and Stephanie left off her nagging, probably to open the door.
“That’s Tony,” Blaine said. He had always liked talking to Nate and had kept up the habit of it even after Nate couldn’t talk anymore. Nate might find it irritating as hell, but at least Blaine talked about real things. He certainly could do without Stephanie’s yammering about buying something new for the house. He hated the new things—the new tile, the new tables—because her mother had worked so hard for the old things. It felt disloyal, this opening of the house, the sunshiny colors, the skylight over the living room. Hearing Stephanie justify these things to Nate—that only hurt him more.
But Blaine talked about politics, he talked about books.
And because Nate couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell, couldn’t condemn, Blaine also talked about Tony.
Nate lived for Blaine’s monologues about Tony.
At first it had been Tony’s mind—the funny things that Tony had said. Tony was in Blaine’s sociology course at NYU, and he had the best things, the best shows, the best songs.
Then it had been Tony’s laughter, the jokes that he told and how he liked action-adventure movies and didn’t like the Oscar ones because they were too sad. Blaine had been disappointed by this at first, because Blaine himself was always so serious, always so worried about tomorrow. But Nate had listened, and Blaine had started to laugh at himself more, appreciate that you needed to laugh in order to work toward a better tomorrow.
Sometimes Blaine would talk about how he’d been giving Tony lessons about being a Jew, which made Nate laugh inside. When Nate had been Blaine’s age, he hadn’t even spoken Yiddish in an attempt to not align himself with his father or any of the traditions that Nate had been forced to follow, simply because they were traditions. He had changed when he’d come home from the war, embraced those stories, loved those traditions, for Carmen’s sake, for his own, for his family’s.
And Blaine had learned to love them as well. Blaine would study the Passover Seder stories and the Purim stories, and tell them to Tony, and then come home and tell his zayde all about Tony’s reactions. So yes, Nate had heard all about Tony’s love of a good story.
More recently, he’d heard all about Tony’s smile.
But Nate had yet to meet Tony, and now, hearing the suppressed excitement in Blaine’s voice, he was suddenly excited, as well. He was going out, out into the cold to listen for the bells, and he would get to meet Blaine’s Tony. He made an effort then, worked hard, and a sound came out. A happy sound, he hoped.
“You like that?” Blaine smiled while he helped Nate into his coat. “You want to meet Tony? He’ll like you. I told him you were a hero in the war, you know? He thought that was pretty awesome.”
Awesome—everything these days was awesome or excellent or wonderful. What about Blaine’s generation made them talk in superlatives? Nate missed the days when you could understate things, when it would be nice or nifty or interesting instead.
Of course, if Nate had lived in a time when your whole life could be accomplished on a little glowing box on the kitchen table, well then, everything might indeed have been awesome, wouldn’t it?
But Blaine didn’t hear Nate’s thoughts on awesome.
“I wanted him to meet you. I mean, I know you can’t exactly tell him stories, Zayde, but you know . . .”
You wanted to know if I would welcome him, love him as you do already. You wanted to know if Zayde would bless you and make it all good, even if your mother would say to stop this mishegas already, there is no gay in her family.
The moment stretched on achingly as Blaine helped him with his gloves. Nate remembered this boy when he was a child. He would cling to Nate’s hand, bury his face in Nate’s thick wool coat whenever they went outdoors during the holidays. New York, even the Upper East Side, was loud and frightening for a small boy. And now, the boy had found another hand to help him through, and he wanted to know if his Zayde would bind their hands together, like a rabbi at a wedding.
Nate longed to give his blessing.
Blaine buttoned up Nate’s coat. He was sweltering inside it, but, well, it was better than freezing as soon as they made it outside. Blaine was in the middle of tucking another blanket around Nate’s lap when he turned.
“Tony!” The warmth of his voice, the pitch of the enthusiasm, told Nate far too much about how hard it was to be here, wrapping his grandfather up like a swaddled child, to help him honor this old tradition.
“Is he all ready?” Tony asked cheerfully, and Nate’s good eye focused on him.
Oh my. The left side of his face could still move, and he knew he was smiling in pleased surprise.
Tony was a handsome boy, with skin nearly the color of Nate’s black wool coat and teeth that gleamed against that dark skin. Oh, look at them! Boys who could look at each other and smile like that, dark skin and six-pointed star and all.
If Nate could have spoken, he would have said Awesome! or Excellent!
Blaine . . . such a good boy.
Of course, Nate’s father would have said no such thing about Blaine’s choice. But then Selig Meyer had not been a fan of Carmen when she had first followed Nate home from the library in the fall of ’47—although he’d never said so to her face. Too fair, too blue eyed, too delicate, even though her parents went to the same temple as Nate’s family, when his father went at all. But he’d come to love her—probably more than he loved his only son—by the end.
A boy—any boy, no less a boy like this one—would have sent Nate running from the city, his father’s outraged disappointment chasing him like a black wave.
But then, no boy had ever really appealed to Nate after Provence Claire La Lune. No girl, either, but Carmen had been kind, and determined. A marriage—a kosher marriage—had been no less than her ultimate goal, and Nate, so lost after the war, what was he to do?
“Hereyago, Mr. Meyer!” Tony was right behind him, pushing the chair down the ramp, holding the back of it so very low to keep it from pitching. “Blaine’s been looking forward to this for a week, you know. Kept trying to tell me about the bells.”
Nate glanced around, his right eye rolling frantically in the useless, drooping side of his face. He made a noise then, a panicked and inarticulate noise, because—
“Blaine’s back in the house, Mr. Meyer,” Tony said quickly. “No worries. You got no worries at all. He was just checking with his mom. Didn’t want her to panic none, ’cause he said he was going to edge in close to 37th Street tonight, and it’s a bit of a walk, and sort of a riot, but you know that.”
Nate let out a long exhale, and the slap of the wind tried to steal that breath from him as it went. Of course, of course. Blaine would not leave him in the hands of someone who would not care for him. That was not his way.
“You ready?” Blaine called from the top of the stairs. “Ready, Grandpa? We’re going to stop down at the corner for some hot chocolate, and then make our way toward Times Square.”
“Man, that place is gonna be crowded. Do you really wanna go all that way?”
Nate couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might have been a touch of . . . something. There was a pause that bespoke intimacy, of that he was certain.
“We’re not going all the way into the square,” Blaine said quietly. “We’re going near the square. Close enough to hear church bells, if there are any.”
“Church bells,” Tony said blankly. “I know you told me this, but why are we listening for church bells again? Do church bells even ring on New Year’s at Times Square?”
I don’t know, Nate thought. I never heard them.
“And besides, aren’t you Jewish?”
Blaine laughed shyly. “You really have to ask?”
Tony’s return laugh was fond. “No, I guess not. So why church bells? Why not temple bells or something?”
Blaine sighed. “I’m not really sure. It’s just . . . It’s weird, really. Grandpa, for as long as I can remember, he’s gone on a walk on New Year’s Eve—Mom said he did it when she was little too. Grandma never went. He always said he was listening for bells.”
Once. My Carmen went once. Then she gave the walk to me, my once a year, to listen for church bells.
“That’s sort of cool,” Tony said, and Nate could feel his regard. For a moment, Nate was the handsome, strapping man who had gone off to war, and he was confused. Wasn’t he wounded, slight, limping on the damaged body that kept him from returning to active duty, the lone stranger in any crowd? Older, seasoned, a child on his hip and one by the hand? Middle-aged, successful, a hard-working photographer with his own exclusive Manhattan boutique?
Old, bereft, a widower, remembering how to make his own toast and the reasons a man should get out of bed in the morning?
Helpless, afloat in his own head, his body a lingering wreck of lung sounds and heartbeats, his only power in his thrice-weekly visits to the pool with an aqua teacher?
Young and in love, holding his male lover to his chest after the fury of the mishkav zakhar, the one act between men that was considered unforgivable, that reshaped the hearts of them both.
Oh God, the merciful and wise, who was Nathan Selig Meyer, and where was he in time?
The distant sound of shouts called him to the present, the faraway merriment reminding him that those shouts of joy were just out of his reach.
Walter, are you there? Are they ringing the bells? I can’t hear the bells!
“Here we go, Grandpa,” Blaine said, pulling the wheelchair back next to a bench. They were in a lovely neighborhood, not too far from the statue of the tailor and the needle. He used to see stage actors here, sometimes. Nate didn’t know if they owned or rented, but he loved the excitement of walking down the street and, Hey! There was someone you’d seen perpetrate magic on the stage or the screen.
He enjoyed this place, this bench under the tree. Blaine had chosen well.
He could hear Blaine and Tony sitting down on the bench beside him, talking animatedly, in a way that bespoke great familiarity.
“So, we’re out here to hear bells that don’t get rung?” Tony sounded skeptical, but playful too.
“Yeah,” Blaine replied shyly. “I mean, I looked it up once. The most I could get was a reference, mind you, that a nearby church rang bells on New Year’s Eve during the war.”
“Did you keep it?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve seen me study!”
Tony made an exasperated sound. “Augh, kid, you are killing me. You know I live for this stuff.”
“I’m a year younger than you, smart-ass, but look here. I brought you something.”
Nate saw Blaine pull something out of his coat, and inside, he smiled.
“Oh wow! A scrapbook!”
“Yeah, apparently my great-grandmother kept a scrapbook of Zayde—”
“Thereyago, talking Jewish to me again!”
Blaine laughed, but it wasn’t embarrassed. “Yiddish, Tony. We call it Yiddish, and I only know a few words. It’s like ‘Grandpa,’ but, you know, affectionate, like ‘Papa’ or ‘Grampy’—Zayde.”
A speculative silence then. “Zayde . . . That’s nice. What about, you know . . .” And now Tony was the shy one. “What I want to call you, but nothing sounds right.”
“Mmm.” Blaine’s voice fell, then rose intimately. “Tateleh, I think.”
Tony laughed a little. “That don’t hardly sound real. But, you know, better than ‘baby.’”
“Oy gevalt!” Blaine exaggerated, and they both laughed again, the sound low and personal. “Anything’s better than ‘baby’!”
More laughter, and instead of feeling excluded, Nate felt the opposite. Like he was in on the joke, in on the secret. He knew something about these two young men that nobody else did.
“Seriously,” Tony said, the laughter in his voice faded and sad. “You got all these traditions—”
“Not so many, now,” Blaine said quickly. “My grandparents, they were Reformed Jews—sort of like, modern but, you know, you gotta say it different. I’m not sure if Zayde believed, exactly, but he thought it was important. Traditions were important to him—us belonging somewhere. He said that a lot to my mom, that we needed a chance to belong. He wanted that. But”—and Nate could imagine Blaine’s shrug—“my parents, they barely made it to temple.”
“You got a bar mitzvah, though,” Tony chided.
Blaine grunted. Direct hit. “It was a party, you know? I said some verses, recited some Torah, got the party. Mom didn’t want her neighbors to think we couldn’t afford it; it was a status thing.”
“But you liked the words. You told me that. The words mean something to you.”
“Yeah, but only the good ones. Why is this important, anyway?”
It was Tony’s turn to grunt, and Nate couldn’t see, couldn’t turn his head, but he heard what sounded like a kiss. On the cheek, on the hand, on the lips, Nate couldn’t be sure, but men, they didn’t sit and kiss parts of each other when they were talking about sports or the weather.
“Because it is,” Tony said lowly. “I want to look at your family scrapbook and say, ‘Hey! That’s my boyfriend’s history!’ Is that so bad?”
“No.” There were more kissing sounds, and Nate burned inside to talk to them, to tell them, to explain. The Orthodox rabbis said one thing and the Reformed rabbis said another. It was supposed to be okay if you were that way, as long as you didn’t act on it, but Nate had been young, he’d felt the pull, the strength like steel springs, binding a human heart to another. What was talk of an unseen God when the world had fallen to chaos? All was hell and violence—how bad could the mishkav zakhar be?
“Does your mom know?” Blaine asked when the kissing sounds stopped. “Did you tell her?”
“About you? No.”
Blaine grunted shortly, but it sounded hurt, not angry.
“You need to be ready to come out to your family first, you know that right?” Tony said sternly, and it must have been an argument they’d had before, because Blaine’s sound changed.
He sighed instead. In Nate’s line of vision, a parade of cars trolled slowly down the street, headlamps slicing through the darkness like the wind was currently slicing through Nate’s coat. Light, steel, it all found a way in.
“But my mom knows about me,” Tony said, sighing. “I told you that. When I was a little kid, I said I liked boys. She cried, she tried to talk me out of it, she threatened to have my uncle beat the gay out of me. But Uncle Jason wouldn’t do it, and in the end, she just accepted it. I just had to be . . . you know . . .”
“Stubborn,” Blaine said. “You.”
Nate wanted to see them. More cars wandered the night, but in his mind, he saw that beautiful young man with the skin like night touching Blaine’s hair, his forehead, his cheek. Tenderness, Nate imagined. There would be tenderness.
Abruptly, his skin—which had deadened, had become blind to the realm of touch—ached for tenderness like amputees were said to ache for missing limbs. Once, Nate had known such tenderness, and he would never feel it again, not in this body.
“Would they cut you off?” Tony asked. “If you came out? If we moved in, like we’ve been talking about?”
“Eh . . .” Blaine said uncertainly. “I don’t know.” Nate heard rustling, and from his finite line of vision, he saw Blaine’s knees shift so the boy was facing Nate. “I don’t think Grandpa would, even with all the tradition, because . . . I don’t know. Because he was just too good a guy. But my mom, well . . .” He grunted. “I heard my grandpa call her kalta neshomeh once, when she was redecorating the house after Grandma died. He was hurt, you know? I mean, she said he was just being cheap because, well, I guess it was a thing. The Depression had everybody saving money and stuff, but it was more than that— All of Grandma’s stuff was getting put in storage and sold, and Grandpa was shoved into a room and . . . and it wasn’t right.”
“So what does it mean?”
“I had to ask our rabbi. I think he yelled at Grandpa for it too. It means ‘cold soul.’”
Tony’s low whistle made Nate smile inside. Oh yes, yes I did call her that. She deserved it, selling her mother’s things like that. No, we did not go to temple as often as we could have, but we had a happy home. Those things should not have been sold as if they had no meaning. Carmen’s old jewelry boxes, her costume jewelry, the desk where she’d done the store and family accounts for more than forty years. Couldn’t Stephanie have waited until Nate died? It wasn’t like he had more time than anyone else! Of course, Nate chuckled inwardly, that had been six years ago, and he was still hanging around. Perhaps he did have more time!
“Wow,” Tony said in the resulting quiet. Then, low voiced, urgent: “I have my own apartment. You have a job working at the hospital. I mean, we’ve talked about it before, but even if they cut you off, you could move in anyway. You know I want you with me, right?”
“I want to be there too,” Blaine said plaintively. “But my mother—”
“I mean, you could still be a doctor, even if your mother doesn’t want to pay for school. You’d have to take out loans and stuff, but, it’s like, people are always so afraid of not having any money, but whether you have it or not, you’re living your life, and that’s the fun part, right? If you’ve got food, a roof over your head—”
He was so urgent, so upset. Nate wanted to reassure him. He loves you, Tony. Don’t worry. Our boy will do the right thing.
“Sha shtil, tateleh,” Blaine said, and his knees shifted in Nate’s vision again. Nate could picture them, Blaine holding Tony so that his face buried into Blaine’s deceptively wide shoulder, their faces close together, a dropped kiss on Tony’s forehead. “I hear you.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have anything to say to me!” There was a rustle, and Tony must have stood up because so did Blaine. Nate gave up chasing cars in the darkness. He closed his eyes and saw the boys—his boys—like a movie.
Oh, Walter. It looks like a good one. A romance—I wonder how it ends.
“I want to say yes,” Blaine murmured. “But I need to ask Zayde.”
“You need to ask—”
Yes, bubeleh, I am confused, as well.
“Don’t say it,” Blaine told him softly. “I just . . . I want so badly to talk to someone in my family, do you understand? He’s the one person who told me about tradition and about banding together with people who care about you, and he’s the one person who can’t say he doesn’t love me anymore.”
“I hear you.” An ironic pause. “Bells, huh?”
“Yes. I am not so sure we will hear any tonight, but if we do, maybe we should take it as a sign, you think?”
“I think I’m freezing my ass off, that’s what I think. You said coffee?”
“Thank you. See it? Three blocks up.”
“Yeah, I know. Is your gramps gonna want some?”
“Get him hot chocolate—me too, for that matter. I’m not such a fan of coffee.”
Tony’s briskness faded, and Nate saw a hand, covered in a bright-red wool mitten, reach out and pluck off Blaine’s hat so the other hand could ruffle his curly hair. Tony stepped into Nate’s vision and placed the hat carefully on Blaine’s head before kissing him on the forehead.
“I know you’re not,” he said fondly. “I’m just as happy you prefer ‘hot chocolate.’”
Blaine choked on a guffaw. “That was awful. Oh my God, I should break it off with you just for that!”
“You wouldn’t really—” beat “—would you?”
“No. Oh God, no. I just need a minute, Tony. Just, let me swallow it all. Coming out, moving out, is . . . irrevocable. I want to be sure.”
“The fact that you take it so seriously? That’s why I love you. That’s why it’s worth the wait. Just know that all I want for both of us is— Is there a Yiddish word for ‘everything’?”
“I don’t know,” Blaine said softly, and they were standing so close!
“That’s what I want for you,” Tony said, and this time the kiss was personal, intimate, on the lips.
Nate couldn’t look away.
Alz. Alz is the word. That’s what you want for each other. Alz. Isn’t that what we wanted, Walter? Isn’t that what you wanted for us? Wasn’t that what we were looking for, listening for, with the bells?
But Walter didn’t answer, and Nate watched in frustration as Blaine’s Tony disappeared into the night, looking for the coffee shop. The lights around them, from the streets, from the cars, were swallowed up, and the darkness washed over his vision like a closed shutter, and when the shutter opened again, he was back, back in 1943, before Walter, before Carmen, when his world was narrowed to the tiny bunk with Hector and Joey and the missions he flew and the danger and the horror of a war that had swallowed the world . . .
Recon
“That’s a dame!” Joey Shanahan muttered after a low whistle. “Hey, Meyer. Did you get that shot?”
Nate glanced up from the viewfinder of his 35mm Leica Rangefinder and whistled, pretending he’d noticed the pretty WAAF officer walking across the field of Harrington.
He hadn’t. He’d been framing the big, powerful B-4 bombers instead.
“Yeah, you should get a picture!” Joey nodded, decidedly enthusiastic. Joey had apparently been striking out with women on a regular basis. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid, really, Nate thought objectively. He stood average height, with dark-blond hair and blue eyes—the picture of the Irish people in the same way Nate was the picture of Jewish descent—and his mouth was wide and smiled easily. He even had sort of a crooked-grinned charm, but oy! Could that boy talk!
“You know, you should take a lot more pictures of dames in your spare time, you know that? I mean, you get the air base, the crowds, the seashore—why don’t you got any dames?”
“For one thing, I don’t call them that,” Nate said, pulling a corner of his mouth up in faint derision. He liked Joey, liked him fine. If he was taking pictures of people right now, he’d take a picture of Joey, eyes as guileless as the sea. But Joey seemed to be incredibly single-minded about the thing—the one thing—Nate had never had a particular interest in. Oh yes, Nate did admire a pretty girl sometimes; pretty girls made pretty pictures. But he wasn’t interested in spending his leave in some strange woman’s bed. It wasn’t kosher—there was supposedly no joy in that sort of sex, and while Nate’s parents hadn’t been Orthodox, they had raised him in the traditions out of a sense of obligation if nothing else.
And, well . . . girls just didn’t appeal. Not even a little, not to touch, not to linger over. But the new mission—that’s what appealed to him.
The missions were risky, which held an allure all its own. Risk meant you were doing your part, right? And flying in low in the middle of the night, dropping the M46 photoflash bombs to take pictures—it didn’t get much riskier than that. So much for his father saying Nate wasn’t a real man with the camera, that he couldn’t do his part with a degree in art history and no military skills whatsoever. Nate had been in the cockpit for six Joker missions thus far, and every damned one of them scared the hell out of him.
Of course, Joey and Hector were flying Red Stockings, and those weren’t a joke, either. They had to fly at high altitude, find a specific spot, and circle until Hector picked up the signal from the OSS officer who’d been dropped behind enemy lines earlier. Tough gig for Joey, circling around and around like that while Hector fiddled with the recording equipment to find the signal. Tougher still for the guy on the ground transmitting information and requesting information back—and hoping not to get killed!
Nate’s pilot, Captain Albert Thompson, RAF, was a stolid sort—late thirties, lived for his weekly letter from his wife and two children. Nate depended on him to get them home safely, and Albert depended on Nate to competently assure him that their foray into darkness hadn’t been in vain. Together, they were nothing like the fiery Hector and Joey, and Nate appreciated that. Three nights before, they’d been over Belgium when they’d been spotted by the Jerries. Albert had flown, closed mouthed, until they’d reached the air territory over St. Croix, and the stationed Allied planes had moved in and intercepted while Nate had taken pictures with a quiet resolve. Of course, it was dark, and even with his training and the special lens, Nate had only a general notion as to what he was looking for. But that didn’t matter, now did it? What mattered was that his pictures would be developed and analyzed, and the installations he was photographing would either be announced useful for the war effort or too crowded with civilians to destroy. Either way, it was necessary information to have, and Nate was proud.
“What’s wrong with calling a girl a dame? Hector, did you hear that? He thinks I’m not a gentleman enough to get a girl!” Joey sat at a folding card table in the sun outside their barracks, doing nav calculations for their next run. Most guys did their calculations once, twice, and then they were through, but Joey didn’t make it through high school before he started working at his father’s bar. He was smart, whip smart, and he wasn’t going to let anybody say that some uneducated Mick blew a mission because he couldn’t do the goddamned math.
“You’re not,” Hector said, grinning. He leaned up against the door with his face to the thin English sun. Having spent his whole life in Southern California, he was only truly happy when his bronze skin was glutted with sunshine, like an exotic houseplant or a napping cat. So far, England had proved a vast disappointment to him, but Hector wasn’t the complaining sort. Nobody at this base even knew what Chanukah was, which was why Nate had given Hector a postcard of St. Croix for Christmas so he’d always have a little sunshine. Hector hadn’t said much at the time, but he slept on one of the bottom bunks, and the postcard was right above him every time he woke.
“I am too a gentleman,” Joey muttered, mapping out his nav coordinates for the third time. “If I wasn’t a gentleman, I wouldn’t do such a good job of escorting you home!”
Hector laughed loudly, with his mouth open, as though he expected everyone to share the joy. Nate loved that about him: he was unapologetic about who he was. He spoke Spanish with a big, booming voice and proudly displayed a picture of himself, dancing with his girl, in a zoot suit that he claimed to be sky blue and gold, and spoke of fondly. “Me and the other pachucos, we’d dance the sailor boys to shame, you know?” Even after the riots, Hector showed that photo, because he wasn’t going to run scared just because the sailor boys had no sense of humor.
“Yeah, you take real good care of me, sweetheart. But maybe try those skills on someone who hasn’t seen you scratch your balls and your ass and brag about it while in the shower.”
Nate laughed, and after a year in the service, he didn’t even blush. He’d gone to a private school, and while boys could get crude in the locker rooms anywhere, it was when they said things like that out under the sun, where even women could hear you, that had made Nate uncomfortable at first. But only at first.
But then, he’d been watching Joey Shanahan scratch his balls and his ass simultaneously for nearly three months—ever since he’d been assigned here, specialized camera equipment and all. There weren’t so many OSS officers here at Menwith Hill that Nate could afford to alienate his roommate because he didn’t like the way the guy talked about scratching his balls.
Besides, watching Joey check and recheck the calculations reminded Nate of what Hector had said repeatedly: Joey wasn’t letting anyone die on his watch, particularly not the guy who had his back whenever they went looking for girls.
“You like it,” Joey retorted. “If you didn’t see me scratch my ass in the morning, you’d forget you needed that extra blanket to keep your pansy ass warm.”
Hector squinted at the gray sky and shuddered. “Nobody’s warm today, that’s for certain.”
No, not on this chilly day in March.
“It would be this cold in New York,” Nate said, thinking. He found he didn’t miss his family’s brownstone or his father’s small watch shop at all. He hadn’t waited for Pearl Harbor, no. Nate had watched, along with the rest of his family, as the Nazis had become more than just a frightening rumor, threatening their kin overseas, and metamorphosed into a terrifying, mind-twisting reality. Friends’ cousins had disappeared, letters had ceased, pleas to the State Department for news had gone unheeded. Nate’s Uncle Lev, whom he had never met, became a ghost on the tongues of his father and mother, overnight, one more mortal caution to haunt the brownstone, next to Nate’s dead brother and the children his mother’s body had not been able to sustain.
“Yeah?” Hector asked. He pulled a cigarette from the ever-present pack in his pocket and offered one to Joey. Joey demurred, because he was still working and he didn’t smoke when he was working, and Nate simply didn’t smoke. At first the guys had assumed it was because he was a Jew; that he was too fastidious to like the taste was beyond them.
“Yes,” Nate said, staring at the grayness ruminatively. “In fact, it would be even more bitter.” He cracked a smile. “Of course, in New York, they don’t have to put on flight gear and go miles into the air.”
A sudden silence descended then. There was a big push tonight in the 654th. More than two hundred of the men stationed at Menwith Hill were with tactical surveillance, and Nate figured that between him and Hector, they’d counted over twenty planes that were going up this night. Not a weather advance, which meant more dogfights and more casualties, but a surveillance push. Several planes going off to all quarters of Europe, some Joker, some Red Stocking, all of them with urgent orders that they didn’t share with anyone else. American, RAF—everybody was going up in the sky to see what was what.
Nate, who only played chess a little, thought about the way the old men in the park would sit back, surveying the entire board over their noses before letting go of a long, considering breath.
This moment right here was the Allied equivalent of sitting back, sliding their hands under their suspenders, and saying, Hmm, what is it we have to work with here, before beginning the game in earnest.
Sometimes, an awful lot of pawns would be left, rolling alongside the board, before those moments behind the chessboard ended. Nate worried about those pawns like he worried about the entire board. In fact, he worried more.
“Hey,” Hector said lowly, in the kind of voice that made Nate sidle a little closer, even aware that he and Joey were the only ones within earshot anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Where’re you going tonight?” Hector asked. “I mean, not specific-like, just, you know. Country at least, okay?”
“Germany,” Nate said without compunction for spilling secrets. There were no secrets between the three of them. “But I don’t know specifically where. You?”
“France. Some place called Provence Claire La Lune. Our operators down there say we might talk to some resistance fighters—our guys are supposed to encourage that, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah? Well, that’s a good thing.”
“I know it. What about you?”
Nate grunted. “The usual—take a picture at these coordinates—again? Got no clue. A month later, those coordinates are pulverized to powder. Or not.”
Hector grunted back. “It’s not personal enough,” he growled. “The Jerries, they don’t like the color of our skin, who our parents are—feels like a knee to the balls. We go five miles up and listen to voices—”
“Or two miles up and take pictures of clouds,” Nate finished for him. “Yes. Impersonal means for a very personal war. I understand. But what’s to do? Our skills weren’t marching and shooting, they were pictures and listening. It’s what we can—”
“You ready?” Albert stalked around the corner in midconversation. Well, he often did that—he didn’t like small talk for one thing. For another, he was in charge of settling new recruits. He met with his staff sergeants in the morning—the mother hen of the Menwith Hill barracks. He was busy, and he had no time to worry about OSS recruits with one lousy skill.
“We’re not going until . . .” Nate left the end meaningfully. He hadn’t been given a time; that was Albert’s purview.
“Twenty-one hundred,” Albert told him shortly. “Be outfitted and ready to belt in, yeah?” As though Nate had ever not been ready to belt in. “Meet me on the field, no fucking off to spank your monkey or bugger the rabbi or whatever the hell else you blokes do.”
“Yes, sir!” Nate saluted, because Albert was a superior officer and for no other reason. “Sir?” he asked, when it looked like Albert was going to stomp off.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Where we going tonight?”
Albert grimaced. Yes, all destinations were classified, but it did help a photographer to know what he was dealing with. Albert called Nate over with a jerk of the head, and Nate left off his insouciant pose against the barracks.
“Stuttgart, like that means anything to you,” he said, voice low enough for Joey and Hector to be left out. “Looks like there’ll be good cloud cover, but there’s nothing friendly for pretty much everywhere. Be prepared to keep a sharp lookout and not just through the viewfinder. Can you do that or is it some sort of holy day?”
“I’m up for the job, sir!” Nate saluted again, and Albert glared, then stalked off. A good pilot, but not a kind man, at least not to Nate. And it was clear his heart was so very with the family he saw once a month on leave. Well, good for him. He could see family on leave. Nate couldn’t—and apparently Hector and Joey could only get hints of getting laid, and not all of that was Joey’s fault.
“Really, Meyer,” Joey asked, looking up from his calculations and leaning on his elbows, “what did you do to that guy?”
“Besides make him fly reconnaissance?” Nate asked with a shrug. “I have no idea. You think it’s because I’m a Jew?” That was rhetorical, of course.
“They don’t got Jews in England? Get out!” Hector laughed, turning his head to spit. “I thought that was Hitler’s problem. They got Jews everywhere!”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “We’re not cockroaches, but yes. Jews populate Europe much like Catholics—wherever there is a warm place to breed.”
Hector and Joey didn’t take offense; they laughed instead. No, you could not spend months smelling your roommates’ farts and not learn to be tolerant of one another’s differences. Of course, Hector had started to thaw with the postcard of St. Croix. With Joey, it had taken a tiny gold pin of the cross, which Joey wore on his hat, underneath the brim. Not Nate’s faith, no, but then, giving it some honor had made Joey feel like it wasn’t under attack by Nate’s very “otherness.” He had friends from college who would have been angry at this—why should Nate pacify the ignorant?
But Hector had his zoot suits, and Joey had his crosses, and Nate had the six-pointed star he wore under his shirt with his dog tags on every mission. His father may have thought Nate was weak for becoming friends with the gentiles, but Nate had to believe that faith and goodness were things to respect. Wasn’t that what his own faith taught?
He had only needed to spend a week playing cards, listening to Joey’s record player, and exchanging family stories with Hector, to know that if these men didn’t come back from their mission, or the next, or the next, he should be very sorry.
“Have we all put our letters under our pillows?” Nate asked carefully in the silence following Albert’s departure.
“Same letter as last time.” Joey grunted. “I’m starting to think it’s a good luck charm.”
“Yeah, well, as much as the captain hates me, I’m thinking I can take all the luck I can get.”
Hector grunted in return. “I’d let Joey here fly you, but he’s the only one who doesn’t scare the hell out of me at thirty thousand.” Hector shuddered. “Dios. What a man like me is doing in that much cold, I don’t even want to think about.”
Nate smiled at him, liking him very much. “Penance,” he said, eyes twinkling. “For all the bad deeds you’ve left to do.”
Hector laughed again, and Nate felt an unfortunate stir in the pit of his stomach. No. No. Not this. Not this, that had kept him aloof from his fellows through school. Not this, fear of seeing the sun on a cheekbone, filtered through someone’s eyelashes, or the shadow of a jawline, and feeling . . . this thing. The thing that poets spoke about, but not like this. Not for the girls at the dances with their shy smiles and sturdy prettiness but for the boys, milling about on the other side of the room in navy shirts and red ties, looking, by turns, bored and nervous and happy.
“I haven’t done anything truly bad yet,” Hector said, chuckling low and evil. Then he kicked Joey’s chair. “I’ve got an albatross around my neck keeping me from all the wickedness!”
Joey cast him an irritated glance. “Yeah, and it’s called a dame in the States. Now gimme two more seconds, and we can go do some PT before we go up!”
“I’ll go change,” Nate said, because his camera equipment was flawless, as it always was, and because whoever thought of doing PT before a mission had been inspired. Getting the blood flowing and the muscles pleasantly exercised took away some of the feeling of confinement in the small space of the cockpit, and some of the restlessness, as well. Not too much—not enough to tire one out—just enough to make the body easier at rest.
And it was a perfect excuse to get away from Hector and his bronzed skin and square face and the way his brown eyes seemed to invite everyone in on the joke.
Nate was buttoning up his loose khakis and lacing his softest boots when he decided to check under the pillow for his letter. Ah, yes, there it was. A good-bye to his mother, and a passing nod to his father.
His throat tightened.
Was that all he wanted to offer? His father was a reserved man, certainly—open affection had never been his way. But was Nate’s enmity an adult feeling or the leftovers of childhood resentment? Nate frowned at the envelope, made of some of the best paper stock Joey had been able to smuggle out of the officers’ supply cabinet, and wondered if he shouldn’t write another letter. Something more genial, more neutral. Something, perhaps, asking his father to believe he was worthwhile, that he was capable of worthwhile things. Something apologizing for not being Zev.
Nate’s conscience was perfectly clear about the things he’d done in the war thus far. The tally of things that bothered him or made him question his faith at this moment equaled the number of times his father had ever kissed his cheek in affection: zero.
He heard a ruckus behind him as Hector and Joey entered, pushing on each other and laughing. No time to rewrite the letter now. He shoved it back under the pillow and ran after his roommates for a round of pop-up in the field by the airstrip. None of the other pilots or officers joined them—they never had. Many of the residents were RAF, for one, and the rivalry was not always easy to transcend. For many, the mix was too different. The spic, the Mick, and the Jew—it was the beginning of a joke with no good punch line. Nate, who had never had a peer group through school, had finally managed to find one, and they were as isolated unto themselves as three as Nate ever had been as one.
But at least they were three.
Maybe next leave, Nate would go with them and let Hector try to find him a woman. Maybe those moments of thinking Hector Garcia was as beautiful as sunlight would fade.
Nate had a notion that being inside a real mosquito was probably much quieter than being inside of a de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito—wooden sides or not. The airplanes were versatile—light bombers, tactical bombers, day or night missions, and, of course, converted photo-surveillance planes. While the top sported the squadron insignia, as well as Captain Thompson’s personal insignia—a mosquito wearing a flowered dress with a purse—near the cockpit, the bottom of Miss Mossy (as the captain called her) had been painted dark gray to blend in with the nighttime cloud cover. Still, Nate had always been surprised that every plane that went flying over German airspace hadn’t been shot down.
“Stuttgart,” Nate said resignedly into the intercom as the plane took off. “Five shots at the coordinates. We have ten flares.”
“I know the mission,” Captain Thompson stated flatly. “I know the mission, I know the risks. Do you need me to hold your hand?”
“Only if it would help you feel better,” Nate replied just as flatly.
Thompson grunted, the sound translating over the intercom as a crackle of static. “Not bloody likely. Do you have anything else obvious you’d like to tell me? Do I take a right or a left to get to Germany? How’s that? Can you tell me how to fly this boat to Germany, you uppity shit?”
“I assume you point it east and go,” Nate snapped. “Wake me up when we get there.”
But Nate had no intention of sleeping.
The view through the cockpit window wasn’t ideal. Nate had thought more than once that he wished he could fly facedown on a clear platform so that he could see everything—the countryside, the farms, the smokestacks, everything. Because even with the hum of the Mosquito in his ears, when he gazed down on the sleeping mass of Europe, he knew he wasn’t seeing the complete vista, and the artist that he was hungered for the whole picture.
Bombs would be dropped on some of the towns down there; devastation would follow. What would that look like? Who would be killed? He was skilled with the specialized camera and the twenty-four-inch lens that allowed him to take shots from the plane, although the pictures he usually shot needed a room full of intelligence officers with magnifying glasses to pinpoint exactly what the photo targets were. What he was not skilled at was understanding the distance between the plane, at fifteen thousand feet, and the people on the ground. Empty space? The handbreadth of God? What made it so someone such as he could determine whether people he would never see or touch would live or die?
The silence in the plane became oppressive, and Nate scanned through his viewfinder to keep himself from sleeping in earnest. The shiny, roiling mass of the ocean sat underneath them, but the horizon of France and Germany was not that far away. Oh, hey—a town, smaller than Stuttgart, right across the black silver of the channel.
“Hello, what’s that?” Nate murmured to himself. “Do you see that?”
“I don’t see it!” Captain Thompson snapped back, but Nate was too preoccupied with what looked to be large smokestacks coming from the ground, just north of the tiny city below, to respond to his tone. That couldn’t be right, could it? There would have to be an installation underground. He couldn’t see in the dark—or without his camera.
“Captain, give us a candle drop—”
“Those are saved for the—”
“I know, but we’ve got ten. We’ll only need two. I just want one.”
“I don’t like it—we’re hours away from Stuttgart.”
“Do you see anyone, Captain? There’s no one out tonight, and that . . . that thing down there. It looks like a plant. It wasn’t there the last time we flew up this way, and it just feels wrong—it’s something important, can’t you feel it?”
“Could give a shit what you feel, you fuckin’—”
“Captain, do you really want to finish that sentence?” Nate asked, his skin chilling underneath his voluminous flight suit.
“Yes, damn it!” Thompson snapped, but he didn’t. “Candle dropping. Where do you want to go?”
“That town below us—it’s small. You see the outskirts of it to the east a little. Yes. There. Go.”
“Count off,” Thompson snarled, and Nate held his breath. There. They were close. Close. Close.
“Launch candle in ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two— Candle launch!”
Thompson hit something on the dash, and the flare cascaded out of the plane, falling, falling, falling before exploding harsh and white, lighting up the sky around them.
Nate was ready.
He clicked the shutter furiously, all of the settings ready for nighttime pictures. One, two, three, four—the light began to stutter—five, six.
“Shit!” Thompson cried, and Nate finished his last shot and looked around. Oh hell. Sure enough, framed against the clouds by the stuttering flare was a pair of Messerschmitts.
“Can you—”
“Shut up and let me call for backup,” Thompson barked, and Nate heard him radio for a couple of bulldogs to come take care of the Messers on their tail.
And then Captain Thompson did what was best for everyone involved and flew that little plane as fast as it could go.
The Messerschmitts weren’t going anywhere. They stayed on their tail, firing occasionally but lacking the necessary range. Miss Mossy had a lead on them from the very beginning, and if Captain Albert knew one thing, it was how to fly quick like zoom.
“Where’s the bloody bulldogs?” Captain Thompson snarled. “What’s the good of having planes out with guns if they can’t shoot that bloody lot out of the fucking sky?”
Nate wisely didn’t answer. He changed the film in his camera in tense silence, putting the canister in the cargo pocket of his flight suit and readying the camera for Stuttgart on faith.
They didn’t make it.
The Messerschmitt Bf 110 was a superlative night fighter, and Miss Mossy, who was fitted out with cameras all around, had no guns. Her cooling system had been modified to keep the cameras and the pilots from freezing during the high-altitude missions, and when pushed too hard, her engines tended to get hot. Even while Nate despised Captain Albert, he knew the man was flying a fine line between outrunning the enemy and cooking their engines with speed.
Their one hope was that the call for backup would be answered and some dogfighters would appear over the horizon around them.
Nate kept lookout, and when the first bursts of fire spurted from the newly appeared specks behind them, acute relief almost stopped his voice.
“Friendlies!”
“Brilliant. We might not die up here.”
“I am not overwhelmed with optimism,” Nate muttered, but either Thompson’s voice was lost in the engine noise or he didn’t deign to answer.
Below, the various lumps and smokestacks of Stuttgart appeared. Very few lights—all sides had learned the trick of the blackout to confuse bombing raids—but Nate had flown over and taken pictures before. He knew the shape, the basic landmarks—and although he knew their support was behind them and if they couldn’t outrun the Messerschmitts before the bulldogs got there they were in real trouble, for some reason the city gave him comfort. It wasn’t featureless, wasn’t blank. He recognized the landscape, and they weren’t lost.
And just as he figured it out, tracers of antiaircraft fire passed to his right, shattering his peace.
“They’re closing in!”
“Not them! It’s another group! Hang on and spot the bastards!”
Calmly, Nate placed his camera and lens in the case and buckled it shut, using his stomach muscles and thighs to keep his seat as the plane began a series of vicious evasive maneuvers that might have made his stomach rebel when he’d first started to fly. When the camera was safely stowed, he grabbed hold of the grips on either side and did what Captain Thompson had ordered: held on and spotted.
“Three o’clock, Cap. Two planes closing.”
“Dive roll. Don’t puke.”
“They’re following, following—lost them. Not puking.”
“Don’t be a bloody arse! Fire from six o’clock. G roll.”
Oh hell. The negative-G rolls—Captain Thompson’s specialty—were Nate’s least favorite aerobatic. He held on and didn’t puke—his first time up in the cockpit, he had puked, and had to live in it for hours. Never again.
“Nine o’clock, Cap—friendlies.”
“Fucking firing! Blast it and bugger God’s arse!”
The blasphemy didn’t faze Nate, but the fact that they were stuck between friendly fire and enemy fire without guns themselves was starting to wear on his hard-earned calm.
“Evade, Captain. Friendlies engaging!”
“I am evading, you stupid kike. Shut the fuck up and let me work!”
Oy! Now they get to the bottom of Captain Albert’s hostility? “For heaven’s sake,” Nate muttered, but Thompson let out another round of cursing, and the plane jerked, shuddered, and rolled some more. They had flown past Stuttgart now, beyond the borders, and dropped their altitude in an attempt to evade. The featureless landscape loomed below them, a black trough of rural woods.
“Holy God, there’s more!”
“You had to stop and take a fucking picture!” Thompson snarled. “We had one lousy job to do, and you had to stop and take a fucking picture, and we’ve got these buggers following us from fucking everywhere!”
“Well, that means whatever was there was pretty damned important, don’t you think?” Nate shot back, because that was the truly frightening thing. Stuttgart was a big city, pretty close to the border of France and Germany; there should be important things in Stuttgart. But that smaller city, on the tip of land across from England, the Axis shouldn’t be making anything there, should they?
“We’re not bloody likely to find out, are we?”
They executed a barrel roll evasive maneuver then, the horizon spinning dizzily and leaving Nate gasping for breath in the hopes that he wouldn’t throw up and wouldn’t pass out. Captain Thompson swore again, and the plane suddenly lurched in the middle of a barrel roll.
“We’re hit!” Thompson screamed. “We’re hit! And I’m going to die because a bloody kike Jew had to jerk off his camera!”
Later, it would occur to Nate that for all his shortcomings as a companion, Albert Thompson was an amazing pilot. The plane heaved level, which saved his life, and descended at a terrifying, dizzying speed. Too fast to jettison, even if bailing out of a Mosquito was possible at this altitude, but slow enough to keep the plane from disintegrating on impact. Maybe.
The wood under his feet trembled, and the plane skittered and rattled, shaking Nate like a yolk in its shell. Something exploded behind him, the force of air blowing Nate forward, then back, until he cracked his head on the window and the world detonated into the blackness inside his skull.
He hadn’t. He’d been framing the big, powerful B-4 bombers instead.
“Yeah, you should get a picture!” Joey nodded, decidedly enthusiastic. Joey had apparently been striking out with women on a regular basis. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid, really, Nate thought objectively. He stood average height, with dark-blond hair and blue eyes—the picture of the Irish people in the same way Nate was the picture of Jewish descent—and his mouth was wide and smiled easily. He even had sort of a crooked-grinned charm, but oy! Could that boy talk!
“You know, you should take a lot more pictures of dames in your spare time, you know that? I mean, you get the air base, the crowds, the seashore—why don’t you got any dames?”
“For one thing, I don’t call them that,” Nate said, pulling a corner of his mouth up in faint derision. He liked Joey, liked him fine. If he was taking pictures of people right now, he’d take a picture of Joey, eyes as guileless as the sea. But Joey seemed to be incredibly single-minded about the thing—the one thing—Nate had never had a particular interest in. Oh yes, Nate did admire a pretty girl sometimes; pretty girls made pretty pictures. But he wasn’t interested in spending his leave in some strange woman’s bed. It wasn’t kosher—there was supposedly no joy in that sort of sex, and while Nate’s parents hadn’t been Orthodox, they had raised him in the traditions out of a sense of obligation if nothing else.
And, well . . . girls just didn’t appeal. Not even a little, not to touch, not to linger over. But the new mission—that’s what appealed to him.
The missions were risky, which held an allure all its own. Risk meant you were doing your part, right? And flying in low in the middle of the night, dropping the M46 photoflash bombs to take pictures—it didn’t get much riskier than that. So much for his father saying Nate wasn’t a real man with the camera, that he couldn’t do his part with a degree in art history and no military skills whatsoever. Nate had been in the cockpit for six Joker missions thus far, and every damned one of them scared the hell out of him.
Of course, Joey and Hector were flying Red Stockings, and those weren’t a joke, either. They had to fly at high altitude, find a specific spot, and circle until Hector picked up the signal from the OSS officer who’d been dropped behind enemy lines earlier. Tough gig for Joey, circling around and around like that while Hector fiddled with the recording equipment to find the signal. Tougher still for the guy on the ground transmitting information and requesting information back—and hoping not to get killed!
Nate’s pilot, Captain Albert Thompson, RAF, was a stolid sort—late thirties, lived for his weekly letter from his wife and two children. Nate depended on him to get them home safely, and Albert depended on Nate to competently assure him that their foray into darkness hadn’t been in vain. Together, they were nothing like the fiery Hector and Joey, and Nate appreciated that. Three nights before, they’d been over Belgium when they’d been spotted by the Jerries. Albert had flown, closed mouthed, until they’d reached the air territory over St. Croix, and the stationed Allied planes had moved in and intercepted while Nate had taken pictures with a quiet resolve. Of course, it was dark, and even with his training and the special lens, Nate had only a general notion as to what he was looking for. But that didn’t matter, now did it? What mattered was that his pictures would be developed and analyzed, and the installations he was photographing would either be announced useful for the war effort or too crowded with civilians to destroy. Either way, it was necessary information to have, and Nate was proud.
“What’s wrong with calling a girl a dame? Hector, did you hear that? He thinks I’m not a gentleman enough to get a girl!” Joey sat at a folding card table in the sun outside their barracks, doing nav calculations for their next run. Most guys did their calculations once, twice, and then they were through, but Joey didn’t make it through high school before he started working at his father’s bar. He was smart, whip smart, and he wasn’t going to let anybody say that some uneducated Mick blew a mission because he couldn’t do the goddamned math.
“You’re not,” Hector said, grinning. He leaned up against the door with his face to the thin English sun. Having spent his whole life in Southern California, he was only truly happy when his bronze skin was glutted with sunshine, like an exotic houseplant or a napping cat. So far, England had proved a vast disappointment to him, but Hector wasn’t the complaining sort. Nobody at this base even knew what Chanukah was, which was why Nate had given Hector a postcard of St. Croix for Christmas so he’d always have a little sunshine. Hector hadn’t said much at the time, but he slept on one of the bottom bunks, and the postcard was right above him every time he woke.
“I am too a gentleman,” Joey muttered, mapping out his nav coordinates for the third time. “If I wasn’t a gentleman, I wouldn’t do such a good job of escorting you home!”
Hector laughed loudly, with his mouth open, as though he expected everyone to share the joy. Nate loved that about him: he was unapologetic about who he was. He spoke Spanish with a big, booming voice and proudly displayed a picture of himself, dancing with his girl, in a zoot suit that he claimed to be sky blue and gold, and spoke of fondly. “Me and the other pachucos, we’d dance the sailor boys to shame, you know?” Even after the riots, Hector showed that photo, because he wasn’t going to run scared just because the sailor boys had no sense of humor.
“Yeah, you take real good care of me, sweetheart. But maybe try those skills on someone who hasn’t seen you scratch your balls and your ass and brag about it while in the shower.”
Nate laughed, and after a year in the service, he didn’t even blush. He’d gone to a private school, and while boys could get crude in the locker rooms anywhere, it was when they said things like that out under the sun, where even women could hear you, that had made Nate uncomfortable at first. But only at first.
But then, he’d been watching Joey Shanahan scratch his balls and his ass simultaneously for nearly three months—ever since he’d been assigned here, specialized camera equipment and all. There weren’t so many OSS officers here at Menwith Hill that Nate could afford to alienate his roommate because he didn’t like the way the guy talked about scratching his balls.
Besides, watching Joey check and recheck the calculations reminded Nate of what Hector had said repeatedly: Joey wasn’t letting anyone die on his watch, particularly not the guy who had his back whenever they went looking for girls.
“You like it,” Joey retorted. “If you didn’t see me scratch my ass in the morning, you’d forget you needed that extra blanket to keep your pansy ass warm.”
Hector squinted at the gray sky and shuddered. “Nobody’s warm today, that’s for certain.”
No, not on this chilly day in March.
“It would be this cold in New York,” Nate said, thinking. He found he didn’t miss his family’s brownstone or his father’s small watch shop at all. He hadn’t waited for Pearl Harbor, no. Nate had watched, along with the rest of his family, as the Nazis had become more than just a frightening rumor, threatening their kin overseas, and metamorphosed into a terrifying, mind-twisting reality. Friends’ cousins had disappeared, letters had ceased, pleas to the State Department for news had gone unheeded. Nate’s Uncle Lev, whom he had never met, became a ghost on the tongues of his father and mother, overnight, one more mortal caution to haunt the brownstone, next to Nate’s dead brother and the children his mother’s body had not been able to sustain.
“Yeah?” Hector asked. He pulled a cigarette from the ever-present pack in his pocket and offered one to Joey. Joey demurred, because he was still working and he didn’t smoke when he was working, and Nate simply didn’t smoke. At first the guys had assumed it was because he was a Jew; that he was too fastidious to like the taste was beyond them.
“Yes,” Nate said, staring at the grayness ruminatively. “In fact, it would be even more bitter.” He cracked a smile. “Of course, in New York, they don’t have to put on flight gear and go miles into the air.”
A sudden silence descended then. There was a big push tonight in the 654th. More than two hundred of the men stationed at Menwith Hill were with tactical surveillance, and Nate figured that between him and Hector, they’d counted over twenty planes that were going up this night. Not a weather advance, which meant more dogfights and more casualties, but a surveillance push. Several planes going off to all quarters of Europe, some Joker, some Red Stocking, all of them with urgent orders that they didn’t share with anyone else. American, RAF—everybody was going up in the sky to see what was what.
Nate, who only played chess a little, thought about the way the old men in the park would sit back, surveying the entire board over their noses before letting go of a long, considering breath.
This moment right here was the Allied equivalent of sitting back, sliding their hands under their suspenders, and saying, Hmm, what is it we have to work with here, before beginning the game in earnest.
Sometimes, an awful lot of pawns would be left, rolling alongside the board, before those moments behind the chessboard ended. Nate worried about those pawns like he worried about the entire board. In fact, he worried more.
“Hey,” Hector said lowly, in the kind of voice that made Nate sidle a little closer, even aware that he and Joey were the only ones within earshot anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Where’re you going tonight?” Hector asked. “I mean, not specific-like, just, you know. Country at least, okay?”
“Germany,” Nate said without compunction for spilling secrets. There were no secrets between the three of them. “But I don’t know specifically where. You?”
“France. Some place called Provence Claire La Lune. Our operators down there say we might talk to some resistance fighters—our guys are supposed to encourage that, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah? Well, that’s a good thing.”
“I know it. What about you?”
Nate grunted. “The usual—take a picture at these coordinates—again? Got no clue. A month later, those coordinates are pulverized to powder. Or not.”
Hector grunted back. “It’s not personal enough,” he growled. “The Jerries, they don’t like the color of our skin, who our parents are—feels like a knee to the balls. We go five miles up and listen to voices—”
“Or two miles up and take pictures of clouds,” Nate finished for him. “Yes. Impersonal means for a very personal war. I understand. But what’s to do? Our skills weren’t marching and shooting, they were pictures and listening. It’s what we can—”
“You ready?” Albert stalked around the corner in midconversation. Well, he often did that—he didn’t like small talk for one thing. For another, he was in charge of settling new recruits. He met with his staff sergeants in the morning—the mother hen of the Menwith Hill barracks. He was busy, and he had no time to worry about OSS recruits with one lousy skill.
“We’re not going until . . .” Nate left the end meaningfully. He hadn’t been given a time; that was Albert’s purview.
“Twenty-one hundred,” Albert told him shortly. “Be outfitted and ready to belt in, yeah?” As though Nate had ever not been ready to belt in. “Meet me on the field, no fucking off to spank your monkey or bugger the rabbi or whatever the hell else you blokes do.”
“Yes, sir!” Nate saluted, because Albert was a superior officer and for no other reason. “Sir?” he asked, when it looked like Albert was going to stomp off.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Where we going tonight?”
Albert grimaced. Yes, all destinations were classified, but it did help a photographer to know what he was dealing with. Albert called Nate over with a jerk of the head, and Nate left off his insouciant pose against the barracks.
“Stuttgart, like that means anything to you,” he said, voice low enough for Joey and Hector to be left out. “Looks like there’ll be good cloud cover, but there’s nothing friendly for pretty much everywhere. Be prepared to keep a sharp lookout and not just through the viewfinder. Can you do that or is it some sort of holy day?”
“I’m up for the job, sir!” Nate saluted again, and Albert glared, then stalked off. A good pilot, but not a kind man, at least not to Nate. And it was clear his heart was so very with the family he saw once a month on leave. Well, good for him. He could see family on leave. Nate couldn’t—and apparently Hector and Joey could only get hints of getting laid, and not all of that was Joey’s fault.
“Really, Meyer,” Joey asked, looking up from his calculations and leaning on his elbows, “what did you do to that guy?”
“Besides make him fly reconnaissance?” Nate asked with a shrug. “I have no idea. You think it’s because I’m a Jew?” That was rhetorical, of course.
“They don’t got Jews in England? Get out!” Hector laughed, turning his head to spit. “I thought that was Hitler’s problem. They got Jews everywhere!”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “We’re not cockroaches, but yes. Jews populate Europe much like Catholics—wherever there is a warm place to breed.”
Hector and Joey didn’t take offense; they laughed instead. No, you could not spend months smelling your roommates’ farts and not learn to be tolerant of one another’s differences. Of course, Hector had started to thaw with the postcard of St. Croix. With Joey, it had taken a tiny gold pin of the cross, which Joey wore on his hat, underneath the brim. Not Nate’s faith, no, but then, giving it some honor had made Joey feel like it wasn’t under attack by Nate’s very “otherness.” He had friends from college who would have been angry at this—why should Nate pacify the ignorant?
But Hector had his zoot suits, and Joey had his crosses, and Nate had the six-pointed star he wore under his shirt with his dog tags on every mission. His father may have thought Nate was weak for becoming friends with the gentiles, but Nate had to believe that faith and goodness were things to respect. Wasn’t that what his own faith taught?
He had only needed to spend a week playing cards, listening to Joey’s record player, and exchanging family stories with Hector, to know that if these men didn’t come back from their mission, or the next, or the next, he should be very sorry.
“Have we all put our letters under our pillows?” Nate asked carefully in the silence following Albert’s departure.
“Same letter as last time.” Joey grunted. “I’m starting to think it’s a good luck charm.”
“Yeah, well, as much as the captain hates me, I’m thinking I can take all the luck I can get.”
Hector grunted in return. “I’d let Joey here fly you, but he’s the only one who doesn’t scare the hell out of me at thirty thousand.” Hector shuddered. “Dios. What a man like me is doing in that much cold, I don’t even want to think about.”
Nate smiled at him, liking him very much. “Penance,” he said, eyes twinkling. “For all the bad deeds you’ve left to do.”
Hector laughed again, and Nate felt an unfortunate stir in the pit of his stomach. No. No. Not this. Not this, that had kept him aloof from his fellows through school. Not this, fear of seeing the sun on a cheekbone, filtered through someone’s eyelashes, or the shadow of a jawline, and feeling . . . this thing. The thing that poets spoke about, but not like this. Not for the girls at the dances with their shy smiles and sturdy prettiness but for the boys, milling about on the other side of the room in navy shirts and red ties, looking, by turns, bored and nervous and happy.
“I haven’t done anything truly bad yet,” Hector said, chuckling low and evil. Then he kicked Joey’s chair. “I’ve got an albatross around my neck keeping me from all the wickedness!”
Joey cast him an irritated glance. “Yeah, and it’s called a dame in the States. Now gimme two more seconds, and we can go do some PT before we go up!”
“I’ll go change,” Nate said, because his camera equipment was flawless, as it always was, and because whoever thought of doing PT before a mission had been inspired. Getting the blood flowing and the muscles pleasantly exercised took away some of the feeling of confinement in the small space of the cockpit, and some of the restlessness, as well. Not too much—not enough to tire one out—just enough to make the body easier at rest.
And it was a perfect excuse to get away from Hector and his bronzed skin and square face and the way his brown eyes seemed to invite everyone in on the joke.
Nate was buttoning up his loose khakis and lacing his softest boots when he decided to check under the pillow for his letter. Ah, yes, there it was. A good-bye to his mother, and a passing nod to his father.
His throat tightened.
Was that all he wanted to offer? His father was a reserved man, certainly—open affection had never been his way. But was Nate’s enmity an adult feeling or the leftovers of childhood resentment? Nate frowned at the envelope, made of some of the best paper stock Joey had been able to smuggle out of the officers’ supply cabinet, and wondered if he shouldn’t write another letter. Something more genial, more neutral. Something, perhaps, asking his father to believe he was worthwhile, that he was capable of worthwhile things. Something apologizing for not being Zev.
Nate’s conscience was perfectly clear about the things he’d done in the war thus far. The tally of things that bothered him or made him question his faith at this moment equaled the number of times his father had ever kissed his cheek in affection: zero.
He heard a ruckus behind him as Hector and Joey entered, pushing on each other and laughing. No time to rewrite the letter now. He shoved it back under the pillow and ran after his roommates for a round of pop-up in the field by the airstrip. None of the other pilots or officers joined them—they never had. Many of the residents were RAF, for one, and the rivalry was not always easy to transcend. For many, the mix was too different. The spic, the Mick, and the Jew—it was the beginning of a joke with no good punch line. Nate, who had never had a peer group through school, had finally managed to find one, and they were as isolated unto themselves as three as Nate ever had been as one.
But at least they were three.
Maybe next leave, Nate would go with them and let Hector try to find him a woman. Maybe those moments of thinking Hector Garcia was as beautiful as sunlight would fade.
*****
Nate had a notion that being inside a real mosquito was probably much quieter than being inside of a de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito—wooden sides or not. The airplanes were versatile—light bombers, tactical bombers, day or night missions, and, of course, converted photo-surveillance planes. While the top sported the squadron insignia, as well as Captain Thompson’s personal insignia—a mosquito wearing a flowered dress with a purse—near the cockpit, the bottom of Miss Mossy (as the captain called her) had been painted dark gray to blend in with the nighttime cloud cover. Still, Nate had always been surprised that every plane that went flying over German airspace hadn’t been shot down.
“Stuttgart,” Nate said resignedly into the intercom as the plane took off. “Five shots at the coordinates. We have ten flares.”
“I know the mission,” Captain Thompson stated flatly. “I know the mission, I know the risks. Do you need me to hold your hand?”
“Only if it would help you feel better,” Nate replied just as flatly.
Thompson grunted, the sound translating over the intercom as a crackle of static. “Not bloody likely. Do you have anything else obvious you’d like to tell me? Do I take a right or a left to get to Germany? How’s that? Can you tell me how to fly this boat to Germany, you uppity shit?”
“I assume you point it east and go,” Nate snapped. “Wake me up when we get there.”
But Nate had no intention of sleeping.
The view through the cockpit window wasn’t ideal. Nate had thought more than once that he wished he could fly facedown on a clear platform so that he could see everything—the countryside, the farms, the smokestacks, everything. Because even with the hum of the Mosquito in his ears, when he gazed down on the sleeping mass of Europe, he knew he wasn’t seeing the complete vista, and the artist that he was hungered for the whole picture.
Bombs would be dropped on some of the towns down there; devastation would follow. What would that look like? Who would be killed? He was skilled with the specialized camera and the twenty-four-inch lens that allowed him to take shots from the plane, although the pictures he usually shot needed a room full of intelligence officers with magnifying glasses to pinpoint exactly what the photo targets were. What he was not skilled at was understanding the distance between the plane, at fifteen thousand feet, and the people on the ground. Empty space? The handbreadth of God? What made it so someone such as he could determine whether people he would never see or touch would live or die?
The silence in the plane became oppressive, and Nate scanned through his viewfinder to keep himself from sleeping in earnest. The shiny, roiling mass of the ocean sat underneath them, but the horizon of France and Germany was not that far away. Oh, hey—a town, smaller than Stuttgart, right across the black silver of the channel.
“Hello, what’s that?” Nate murmured to himself. “Do you see that?”
“I don’t see it!” Captain Thompson snapped back, but Nate was too preoccupied with what looked to be large smokestacks coming from the ground, just north of the tiny city below, to respond to his tone. That couldn’t be right, could it? There would have to be an installation underground. He couldn’t see in the dark—or without his camera.
“Captain, give us a candle drop—”
“Those are saved for the—”
“I know, but we’ve got ten. We’ll only need two. I just want one.”
“I don’t like it—we’re hours away from Stuttgart.”
“Do you see anyone, Captain? There’s no one out tonight, and that . . . that thing down there. It looks like a plant. It wasn’t there the last time we flew up this way, and it just feels wrong—it’s something important, can’t you feel it?”
“Could give a shit what you feel, you fuckin’—”
“Captain, do you really want to finish that sentence?” Nate asked, his skin chilling underneath his voluminous flight suit.
“Yes, damn it!” Thompson snapped, but he didn’t. “Candle dropping. Where do you want to go?”
“That town below us—it’s small. You see the outskirts of it to the east a little. Yes. There. Go.”
“Count off,” Thompson snarled, and Nate held his breath. There. They were close. Close. Close.
“Launch candle in ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two— Candle launch!”
Thompson hit something on the dash, and the flare cascaded out of the plane, falling, falling, falling before exploding harsh and white, lighting up the sky around them.
Nate was ready.
He clicked the shutter furiously, all of the settings ready for nighttime pictures. One, two, three, four—the light began to stutter—five, six.
“Shit!” Thompson cried, and Nate finished his last shot and looked around. Oh hell. Sure enough, framed against the clouds by the stuttering flare was a pair of Messerschmitts.
“Can you—”
“Shut up and let me call for backup,” Thompson barked, and Nate heard him radio for a couple of bulldogs to come take care of the Messers on their tail.
And then Captain Thompson did what was best for everyone involved and flew that little plane as fast as it could go.
The Messerschmitts weren’t going anywhere. They stayed on their tail, firing occasionally but lacking the necessary range. Miss Mossy had a lead on them from the very beginning, and if Captain Albert knew one thing, it was how to fly quick like zoom.
“Where’s the bloody bulldogs?” Captain Thompson snarled. “What’s the good of having planes out with guns if they can’t shoot that bloody lot out of the fucking sky?”
Nate wisely didn’t answer. He changed the film in his camera in tense silence, putting the canister in the cargo pocket of his flight suit and readying the camera for Stuttgart on faith.
They didn’t make it.
The Messerschmitt Bf 110 was a superlative night fighter, and Miss Mossy, who was fitted out with cameras all around, had no guns. Her cooling system had been modified to keep the cameras and the pilots from freezing during the high-altitude missions, and when pushed too hard, her engines tended to get hot. Even while Nate despised Captain Albert, he knew the man was flying a fine line between outrunning the enemy and cooking their engines with speed.
Their one hope was that the call for backup would be answered and some dogfighters would appear over the horizon around them.
Nate kept lookout, and when the first bursts of fire spurted from the newly appeared specks behind them, acute relief almost stopped his voice.
“Friendlies!”
“Brilliant. We might not die up here.”
“I am not overwhelmed with optimism,” Nate muttered, but either Thompson’s voice was lost in the engine noise or he didn’t deign to answer.
Below, the various lumps and smokestacks of Stuttgart appeared. Very few lights—all sides had learned the trick of the blackout to confuse bombing raids—but Nate had flown over and taken pictures before. He knew the shape, the basic landmarks—and although he knew their support was behind them and if they couldn’t outrun the Messerschmitts before the bulldogs got there they were in real trouble, for some reason the city gave him comfort. It wasn’t featureless, wasn’t blank. He recognized the landscape, and they weren’t lost.
And just as he figured it out, tracers of antiaircraft fire passed to his right, shattering his peace.
“They’re closing in!”
“Not them! It’s another group! Hang on and spot the bastards!”
Calmly, Nate placed his camera and lens in the case and buckled it shut, using his stomach muscles and thighs to keep his seat as the plane began a series of vicious evasive maneuvers that might have made his stomach rebel when he’d first started to fly. When the camera was safely stowed, he grabbed hold of the grips on either side and did what Captain Thompson had ordered: held on and spotted.
“Three o’clock, Cap. Two planes closing.”
“Dive roll. Don’t puke.”
“They’re following, following—lost them. Not puking.”
“Don’t be a bloody arse! Fire from six o’clock. G roll.”
Oh hell. The negative-G rolls—Captain Thompson’s specialty—were Nate’s least favorite aerobatic. He held on and didn’t puke—his first time up in the cockpit, he had puked, and had to live in it for hours. Never again.
“Nine o’clock, Cap—friendlies.”
“Fucking firing! Blast it and bugger God’s arse!”
The blasphemy didn’t faze Nate, but the fact that they were stuck between friendly fire and enemy fire without guns themselves was starting to wear on his hard-earned calm.
“Evade, Captain. Friendlies engaging!”
“I am evading, you stupid kike. Shut the fuck up and let me work!”
Oy! Now they get to the bottom of Captain Albert’s hostility? “For heaven’s sake,” Nate muttered, but Thompson let out another round of cursing, and the plane jerked, shuddered, and rolled some more. They had flown past Stuttgart now, beyond the borders, and dropped their altitude in an attempt to evade. The featureless landscape loomed below them, a black trough of rural woods.
“Holy God, there’s more!”
“You had to stop and take a fucking picture!” Thompson snarled. “We had one lousy job to do, and you had to stop and take a fucking picture, and we’ve got these buggers following us from fucking everywhere!”
“Well, that means whatever was there was pretty damned important, don’t you think?” Nate shot back, because that was the truly frightening thing. Stuttgart was a big city, pretty close to the border of France and Germany; there should be important things in Stuttgart. But that smaller city, on the tip of land across from England, the Axis shouldn’t be making anything there, should they?
“We’re not bloody likely to find out, are we?”
They executed a barrel roll evasive maneuver then, the horizon spinning dizzily and leaving Nate gasping for breath in the hopes that he wouldn’t throw up and wouldn’t pass out. Captain Thompson swore again, and the plane suddenly lurched in the middle of a barrel roll.
“We’re hit!” Thompson screamed. “We’re hit! And I’m going to die because a bloody kike Jew had to jerk off his camera!”
*****
Later, it would occur to Nate that for all his shortcomings as a companion, Albert Thompson was an amazing pilot. The plane heaved level, which saved his life, and descended at a terrifying, dizzying speed. Too fast to jettison, even if bailing out of a Mosquito was possible at this altitude, but slow enough to keep the plane from disintegrating on impact. Maybe.
The wood under his feet trembled, and the plane skittered and rattled, shaking Nate like a yolk in its shell. Something exploded behind him, the force of air blowing Nate forward, then back, until he cracked his head on the window and the world detonated into the blackness inside his skull.
Helena Stone can’t remember a life before words and reading. After growing up in a household where no holiday or festivity was complete without at least one new book, it’s hardly surprising she now owns more books than shelf space while her Kindle is about to explode.
The urge to write came as a surprise. The realisation that people might enjoy her words was a shock to say the least. Now that the writing bug has well and truly taken hold, Helena can no longer imagine not sharing the characters in her head and heart with the rest of the world.
Having left the hustle and bustle of Amsterdam for the peace and quiet of the Irish Country side she divides her time between reading, writing, long and often wet walks with the dog, her part-time job in a library, a grown-up daughter and her ever loving and patient husband.
Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
My characters are sexy, hot, adorable—and often filthy—alphas and omegas. Feudal lords with dark secrets, lonely omegas running away from their past, and alphas who refuse to commit.
Lurking in the background are kings, mafia dons, undercover agents and highwaymen with a naughty gleam in their eye.
As for me? I dictate my steamy stories with a glass of champagne in one hand. Because why not?
Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
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.
Amy Lane has two kids who are mostly grown, two kids who aren't, three cats, and two Chi-who-whats at large. She lives in a crumbling crapmansion with half of the children and a bemused spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance--and if you accidentally make eye contact, she'll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She'll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.
Helena Stone
EMAIL: helenastoneauthor@gmail.com
Lorelei M Hart
EMAIL: Lorelei@mpregwithhart.com
Jordan Castillo Price
Amy Lane
Equality by Helena Stone
Blind Date for Father's Day by Lorelei M Hart & Colbie Dunbar
Hat Trick by RJ Scott & VL Locey
The Bells of Time Square by Amy Lane
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