Summary:
’Tis the season for a second chance at love.
Stillman King likes his life in the small rural farming community of Rockmount, Pennsylvania. It’s a different pace of life than Philly, but Philadelphia was where his heart was broken, and he was happy to leave. He might be lonely, but he’s settled and has even managed to win over his snooping neighbors. Overall, his days as a small-town sheriff are peaceful with only the occasional traffic accident, drunk and disorderly conduct, or a random meandering cow to deal with. That was until the day the mayor announced that Rockmount was going to be the filming location for a Christmas romance movie starring the popular soap opera star, Tony Gugliotti. The same Tony who’d left him right after college graduation and headed west to the bright lights of Los Angeles without even a goodbye.
Hearing his former lover’s name shatters all the merry bucolic vibes that usually fill Rockmount, at least for Stillman. He’d not seen or spoken to Tony for over twenty years and had no wish to ever again. But, suddenly, here Tony was, looking just as good as he did way back when with his killer smile and movie star jawline. Hollywood descended on Rockmount and Stillman did his best to balance keeping the peace while maintaining a polite distance from his ex. Pity it’s such a small town packed with incredibly meddlesome people. All it takes is one stake out, a night stuck in the courthouse’s basement, and one kiss wound in a lighted pine tree to reignite the passion both men thought they’d left far behind.
The Christmas Extra is a standalone small town, forced proximity, gay second chance Christmas romance with all the glitter of Hollywood, two mature men who never really got over each other, a village packed with holiday cheer as well as inquisitive neighbors, a well-meaning cast and crew, and a tinselly happy-ever-after.
Summary:
A grumpy pub owner is about to have his chilly heart warmed by a down-on-his-luck country singer.
Brann Argraves has never left the charming village of Whiteham before nor does he wish to. As the owner of the Whiteham Taphouse, he is content to spend his life serving drafts of beer to the locals, shooting darts with his buddies, and shutting himself away in his cabin for the duration of the holidays. Who needs all that ho-ho-ho, any who? His sister, on the other hand, not only yanked him out of his happy yet somewhat solitary bubble, but she’s also reveling in it. Planning a winter wedding was plain foolish, Brann feels, as is making people fly to some frozen wasteland in Canada to tie the knot. Now, he’s never been happier to return home after the wedding and get back to his bar, his darts, and his little home on the outskirts of town.
Landing at a wintry airport smack dab in the middle of a nasty snow squall, Brann and his weary fellow flyers are entertained by a handsome, rumpled man busking outside the airport. There’s something almost magical about the man’s dark, sad gaze as well as his angelic vocals. Perhaps it’s the residual merry-merry of his sister’s nuptials, or maybe he recognizes a lonely kindred soul, but Brann steps way out of his comfort zone when he offers the man a warm place to sleep above his bar. Kenan Gardet settles into the pub with ease and Southern grace. The down-and-out singer quickly proves himself an asset to Brann’s business as a good barkeep and as a nightly draw on stage. What he didn’t expect was Kenan capturing his heart one plaintive song and gentle kiss at a time.
The Christmas Keeper is a standalone grumpy/sunshine, hurt/comfort, insta-love, gay Christmas romance with a bah-humbug bar owner, a recovering country crooner, a small town tavern chock full of unique townsfolk, two geese who are not feeling the Christmas spirit, a gingerbread house bake-off, and a sweet as plum pudding happy ending.
Content warning: This story has references to past substance abuse.
The Christmas Extra #5
Chapter One
“No, hey, Edgar, youcan’t park there,” I called to Edgar Murphy, an old dairy farmer who’s been retired from farming for well over twenty years now, as he pulled up in front of the Rockmount High School in his rattletrap Ford pickup. “This is a no parking zone and look down here!” I pointed at the fire hydrant I stood next to.
“What?” Edgar shouted, parked, and slowly extricated himself from his truck. “I come for the town meeting Mayor Milquetoast announced in the paper.” I snickered under my breath. Everyone called our mayor that even though they knew full well his name was Bradley Milkhouse. “When did that fire hydrant get put there?”
“Oh, about 1940 I’d guess,” I replied, reaching up to push my hat back on my head, glad for the gentle fall breeze. This year, November in the hills of Pennsylvania had arrived on a warm rustle of falling leaves. I feared it would go out on the back of a wintry gust, as it so often did. Edgar shuffled up to me, his “Eat Corn” ball cap frayed along the brim. “Edgar, you can’t park here. Also, while we’re talking real nicely, I think I explained to you that you cannot drive your farm truck around.”
“Why not? She’s a good runner. I bought her when Doris had our last boy, Timmy. Nope, that’s not right. Timmy sold that to me after his first boy was born. Yep, that’s right. Angus, his name is, married that Stottlemeyer gal from over in the holler.”
I nodded along as he relayed the history of his grandchild’s marriage. The parking lot was filling up rapidly. It seemed most folks were eager to hear what this big and exciting news was that our mayor had crowed about in the weekly Rockmount Gazette. A rather large part of being in law enforcement in an incredibly small town was being patient. “...then she had a baby girl. Named that poor child some damned foolish name from some dragon show. No one can pronounce that baby’s name. Well, guess she ain’t exactly a baby no more.”
“Edgar, as much as I’d love to stand here and chat, you need to move your truck in case of a fire. Also, when you drive home, make this the last trip you take that truck off the farm. It hasn’t been inspected since Clinton was in office.” I pointed at the sun-bleached PA inspection sticker clinging, miraculously, to the interior lower left of the windshield.
“That’s a dumb rule. I bet the current president come up with that law. Nothing wrong with that truck, Stillman.”
“I’m sure she’s a good truck but she’s not safe.” I shifted from one foot to the other, my sight touching on the families circling up the drive to enter the high school. My deputy was at the front door talking to the sister of a girl he was dating. “I don’t want to have to ticket you.”
“Fine, I’ll leave her home next time but it’s too far for me to walk what with my gout,” he informed me.
“Okay, you give Teddy your keys at the door and tell him Sheriff King wants him to move your truck around the back. Watch that curb.” I took his thin arm to aid him up to the sidewalk.
“You’re a good man, Stillman, even if you are light in the loafers.”
Off he toddled. I ran a hand over my beard, wondering, not for the first time, if the old folks in this county sat around making up terms for gays. I’d heard them all during my twenty years here, more frequently during my last ten or so, after I had come out. There had been some upset when the voters heard I was gay, but after the initial shock, they’d come to realize that even though I dated men, I was one hell of a law enforcement officer.
A few people had rebelled strongly, but over the years—and my winning every election overwhelmingly—the haters had stopped being so vocal. They were still around, but they’d shut their mouths. For the most part. Most were not willing to go toe-to-toe with me over my sexuality. Some people said that I was intimidating. Good. My chunky frame and height had served me well over the years with those who wanted to push the pansy sheriff. Trust me, most didn’t push too hard or too far. The only thing that pushed me steadily was Paul Whittle’s damn bull. That bastard and I had a long history, one that usually ended up with me hauling my beefy ass over a fence at breakneck speed while Milford visited all his neighbors up and down Whittle Fork Road. It had been a month. The son-of-a-bitch was due to break out and wreak havoc on people’s yards any day now.
I kept an eye on Edgar until he reached the front doors. Teddy spoke with him and then glanced at me. I nodded. My deputy smiled at the old gent and then jogged away from the sprawling stone-and-mortar building that housed grades seven through twelve toward me.
“Hey, so now we’re valet parking?” he asked, waving at the Armstrongs, who were creeping by with their four kids in the back of their burgundy minivan. Town meetings were big occurrences in Rockmount, especially when the city council was being so secretive.
“You’ll learn that being a small-town cop means doing all kinds of things they didn’t teach you at the police academy. I’ve had to help a cow give birth on more than one occasion,” I tossed out, enjoying seeing his bright blue eyes widen. “Valet parking is a breeze compared to being shoulder deep in a Hereford.”
“Yeah, that’s a hard no from me,” he countered and jogged around the old truck, taking a moment to point at the expired inspection sticker.
“I’m aware. Just pull it around back.” I could give old Jasper a citation, but why would I do that? He was an old, old man who thought he was getting something over on the sheriff. Maybe it made him recall his youth. Rumor was that the Murphy boys were quite the firecrackers way back when. He was the only one left out of the five wild Murphys, so as long as the truck wasn’t too much of a hazard, I could turn a blind eye. There were more important hills to die on, at least for me. My deputy, fresh out of my alma mater, had yet to learn to chill the hell out. Not every infraction required the hammer of the law to fall down on a person. He’d learn. Life and policing ran at a slower pace in a rural community.
I waved a few cars past the front of the high school, then when it was closer to time for the town hall, I moseyed inside, stopping to chat with Camryn Daniels, who owned the sporting goods store in town. He and I had hit it right off when I’d first arrived. He had been a wrestler in college, just as I had been through high school and also for Drexel when I was there studying criminal justice. Go Dragons!
“Any clue what this big news is?” Camryn asked as we made our way to the auditorium.
“Nope, but knowing Bradley, it’s something that’s going to be a major pain in my ass,” I replied, which got a knowing nod from Camryn.
The last time Bradley had summoned the town to an unscheduled meeting, it had been to announce that he’d invited a traveling circus to perform at the fairgrounds. A circus. With elephants. Of course, this was about fifteen years ago when people weren’t as attuned to the plight of captive elephants. All was well until someone forgot to tether the elephant and it went for a stroll down Main Street, blithely knocking down streetlamps and crushing our cute little redwood planters. Yep, that was a hoot. Then there was the time when he thought having a wild animal park would be a major boon to tourism. Which, sure, probably, but if he thought trying to corral a placid, old elephant was bad, just wait until the mountain lion they wanted as part of the park’s attractions broke loose. Or the buffalo. Or the baboons. I’d fought that one hard, and finally, clarity had won the day. Fucking baboons. I could just imagine the bedlam of a herd of fucking baboons in the movie theater.
“Bradley is a moron,” Camryn whispered before taking a seat next to his wife, Peggy. Couldn’t argue with that. How he was voted in time and again was one of those unsolved mysteries. He did have charm. I would give him that. Perhaps that was why the good people of Rockmount liked having him in charge.
I smiled at Peggy and made my way to the stage. I wasn’t on the council as it would be a conflict of interest, obviously, but I did like to hang out in case things got heated. And sometimes the voters got pretty hot under the collar at these things. Especially since raising taxes was on the docket and seeing how the mayor had been catty about the news he was sharing...it was just better to hang out and be seen looking growly. Taking a spot at the corner of the stage, I sat down with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day and my feet were tired of carrying around my two hundred twenty pounds. I shrugged out of my winter coat, draped it over the back of my folding chair, and then crossed my arms over my tan uniform shirt. My badge glinted in the bright lights shining down on us. Bradley liked the spotlight. I could do without it personally.
Several members of the council were already seated, our mayor waiting backstage to make an entrance. He did that. All the time. Politicians. Go figure.
When the auditorium was full, Bradley made his entrance. He was a tall man, pleasant enough to look at with his blond hair and blue eyes. I preferred my men darker, but I wasn’t dating the mayor. He was too ambitious for me and far too straight. I’d fallen in love with a man who had grandiose dreams once. I was content being a small-town sheriff and had no desire to see my name in lights or hear the applause of the masses. Helping out where I could while keeping the streets safe was good enough for me.
“Okay, everyone, if you could simmer down,” Bradley said, grinning out at the townsfolk who, to my sight, were sitting on their hands. “I know we’re all excited to get to the big news, but we have to do things by the book.”
And so we sat through all the blah-blah-blah of opening up a town hall. My deputy had returned, sneaking down the aisle to plant himself in a chair beside Melinda Pinkham, his new steady gal. Did kids do that anymore? Go steady? Probably not. Man, I age myself more and more every day. Wriggling down a few inches to get my weight off my tailbone, I stifled a yawn as my sight flickered over the stage. We had a small council compared to some larger towns. Just four members plus the mayor. Kevin Decamp was the president, Jane Arnold the secretary/treasurer, Joe Fahey the solicitor, and Owen Dyer was the fourth member newly elected just this past year. Owen ran the feed mill and was quite the catch. He’d never been married and after I came out, the rumors swirled that we were a thing. Nope, we were not.
Owen liked women just fine, and he was just a confirmed bachelor. Couldn’t hold that against him. I was too, it seemed. Not really by choice exactly. The dating pool in this neck of the woods was kind of limited. Actually, it was non-existent for a man of my age and life station. Not that I was unhappy. But the long, cold winter nights would be a lot less cold if my bed had someone else in it. As that was unlikely to happen despite what all the love gurus on daytime talk shows claimed—I was not at all sure romance could strike at any age—I was content. That was enough, surely. Many people wished to be as satisfied with their existence as I was. Who needed all the drama that came with a relationship? I’d pass even though I yearned for a warm body to curl up next to when the snow blew around my little home.
“...now that we’ve gotten through all the minutes from last time, thank you, Jane, we can get to new business.” Bradley beamed at his constituents. The man looked about ready to burst. I’d not seen him so torqued since the governor had visited two years ago on a reelection campaign stop. We’d made the poor man pet a cow. Nothing against Bertha, she’s a lovely Holstein and winner of a blue ribbon, but the governor had not worn cow-friendly shoes. “I know that I’ve spoken about trying to find ways to increase the city coffers. Several of my ideas have been true blockbusters!”
“Name one!” someone who sounded a good deal like Edgar shouted from the back. I smiled inside but remained stoic on the outside. Bradley, the consummate politician that he is, never missed a beat.
“This time Rockmount is about to become famous!” Bradley shouted into his mic, feedback flowing out of the speakers. “Sorry, sorry,” he quickly said as he moved his mic back from his face. “I’m just so darn excited!”
“I got calves to feed. Get to it!” a deeper male voice called from the right side of the room.
“Okay, simmer down, everyone.” Bradley patted the air in front of him. “We’ve just finalized a deal with Life Loves Studios to film a holiday romance movie right here in Rockmount! Yep, that’s right! Next week people will be arriving to begin filming! I’ve been told that six to eight weeks should be enough for them to do all the scenes they want here in Rockmount, so our local businesses will be thriving at a time when sales are needed most. We all know that most of our income rides with hunters coming into camps, but once they leave after the end of deer season, it’s a rough go. Not this year! This year our tills shall runneth over!”
We all blinked at the announcement. Wow, that was...wow. That was big news indeed. I nodded in appreciation of such a big score for the town. We’d have a ton of income flowing in, as well as hundreds of people. I stretched my legs out in front of me, crossing my right ankle over my left to try to alleviate the ache in my ass. Damn hard chairs. That influx of cash was great for Rockmount, but it might be a bit of a nightmare for Teddy and me. Maybe I should reach out to the state police to see if they could give us a hand while filming was taking place.
“And that’s not all,” Bradley announced. “The stars of Tinsel Kisses for Santa are two of the biggest soap opera stars on the planet, and they’ll be right here in town!”
“Who is it?” a woman a few rows from the front asked.
Bradley stood up. Huh, must be big names if he was going to his feet. I didn’t do daytime TV as a rule, so I’d not have a clue. I was at the courthouse most days, either in court or in our tiny little broom closet that they dared to call an office, or out policing the county. If I were home due to sickness, I might watch a game show, but if I was not working, I was either out fishing or hiking, anything outdoors as opposed to sitting inside. I spent enough time at a desk or staring out the windows of our lone courtroom on the second floor wishing I was outside. Besides, I did my best to avoid soap operas and those who starred in them.
I reached into a back pocket to pull out my phone and start making notes. A big rush of movie people was going to require some major planning ahead of time. Something that I was sure Bradley hadn’t bothered with. He’d shove that off to others as he normally did while basking in the limelight of his coup. First off, I’d have to make sure they had all the required permits and then I’d have to try to figure out where the hell these people were going to park because along Main Street was not going to happen as we—
“The stars of Willow Dale. Sasha Faye and Tony Gugliotti!” Bradley crowed. More than half the crowd seated on the bleachers squealed. I gaped at our mayor, my phone sliding from my now numb fingers to the floor as several men in farming caps asked who the hell Tony Gugliotti was. If only I could ask that question. I knew far too well who the man was...
***
My house was a tiny little fifties bungalow that used to be a hunting camp tucked back at the end of a winding dirt road.
There was something magical about my long driveway and it wasn’t just the fact that wildflowers lined it or that wildlife was frequently seen darting across it. That stretch of smooth gravel signified the end of the workday. Most of those workdays were pleasant enough, even if some did tend to run long. Today’s had been a real kick in the balls. Pity too because it had started off nicely enough with Teddy bringing in doughnuts with my favorite jelly-filled variety that the local bakery generally ran out of first. You would imagine a day that began with jelly-filled would end up on a good note. Nope, not this one. Perhaps jelly-filled had lost their magic? Whatever the cause, this day had not only taken a wrong turn, it had veered off the road and right over a cliff, flew downward to crash into jagged rocks, and then burst into flames in a garish Hollywood style.
I parked my black SUV with the big golden star on the door in my drive, turned off the engine, and simply sat there staring at my humble abode. It had been well over an hour since the bomb had dropped. Tony was coming here. To Rockmount. To act. In a fucking movie. About romance.
Fuck. Me.
He did. Many times. Remember?
“Nope, not going to take that stroll down memory lane,” I growled at myself. I’d worn that fucking path down to the Earth’s core over the years, and what had I gotten out of it? Blisters and an everlasting heartache. Staring at my front door as if I could mentally command it to open, I barely noticed the tuxedo cat waiting on the porch. Ellery stretched, meowed, and then sprinted to the car. I opened the driver’s side door for him. Up he leaped into my lap, making muddy cat tracks on my trousers. “Hey, buddy,” I whispered, running my hand down his back. His purrs were deafening. “Let’s go have a beer.”
He gave my chin a bonk with his head and then he jumped down to the cold ground. October had a firm chilly grip on things, frosting the grass as well as the pumpkins for the past few nights. The leaves were now mostly fallen. If you drew in a deep breath in the morning, you could taste the bitter touch of winter. It was coming. We’d been known to have snow by mid-November, a real boon to deer hunters.
And holiday movie sets. Real snow. How romantic!
“Nope, once again, we are not thinking about romance.” I stalked to my front door, opened it, and followed Ellery inside. He darted to the kitchen as I untied my black tactical boots and left them on the boot tray. Working where I did one needed good boots. I locked the front door and removed my duty rig from around my waist and then flipped on the light.
“Alexa, play the After the Gold Rush album,” I called, and she rewarded me with Neil Young’s amazing voice. The fire in the woodstove needed some wood, so I did that before padding around my rustic home, my head a million miles away given the fact that when I went to reach for the dry cat food, I still had my gun belt in my hand. “For fuck’s sake.”
Ellery was too hungry to put off, so I placed my rig on the counter, fed him, and threw a frozen meal in the microwave. Then I carried my belt into my bedroom, placed it on the dresser, and stood there staring at myself in the round mirror over the bureau. I looked pretty much the same as I always did but nothing like I had when Tony and I were together.
I’d been younger, leaner, still burly but not quite as husky, and with far less laugh lines and gray hairs. And Tony had been...well, Tony had been incredible. A fun-loving extrovert theater major who tended to offset my less-than-bubbly personality. Tony was beautiful. Tall, rangy, with dark hair and eyes so brown they appeared to be onyx. Olive skin from his Italian parents and a laugh that lifted a soul. Tony had wanted me just as much as I’d wanted him for some weird reason. To this day, I could not reason why. He was so stunning, so vital, so personable. He could have had any man on the Drexel campus, but he chose me. The big, lumbering wanna-be cop who wrestled to pay for his tuition. The poor kid from the rough side of Philly who somehow managed to get a sports scholarship to get him out of the grimy city streets. Tony was from Society Hill, a whole different world compared to the badlands where I’d grown up. Rich boy, poor boy. One dreams of acting, while the other dreams of walking a beat. We shouldn’t have worked, but we did. Until we didn’t.
I got my degree, and he got his. He left me for California. Not another man or because we didn’t jibe. He left me for the glamour of Tinsel Town, something that I could not compete with even if I had wanted to. Once he had left, I found my dreams had shifted slightly. I no longer wanted to work the streets that had claimed my older brother and, in a way, had also killed my parents for when David had been gunned down, they’d died as well. Day by day, until they were gone within a year of my younger brother. Tony had been the only reason I would have stayed in Philly, but when he climbed onto that jet bound for LA, my heart and soul withered, just like my folks had.
I left the city behind, applied for jobs in small towns throughout the commonwealth, and finally settled here. And I was happy here.
“You are happy here, Stillman,” I told myself. The man gazing back didn’t look particularly joyous. To be honest, he looked like he had swallowed a porcupine. Ellery arrived with a soft little squeak as he landed on my dresser. He paraded back and forth, his tail tickling the underside of my chin. “We’re as happy as clams, aren’t we, Ellery?”
He purred a bit more loudly, then jumped to the bed, eager to curl up on the duvet to warm his little pink beans. I had a moment where I too thought crawling into bed with the covers drawn over our heads would be the cat’s meow. But then that stubborn side of Stillman pushed aside the woe-is-me with a hearty shove.
“We are not going to do this again,” Stubborn Stillman announced. Ellery glanced up from cleaning himself, rear leg in the air, to stare at me as I pointed a finger at myself in the mirror. “We are not doing this again. The past is just that, the past. He’s a big TV star now. You’re a small-town sheriff. We’re going to do our job, be professional as hell, and not give two fiddly fucks about the man. Remember, he left you, not the other way around. You have nothing to be ashamed of and no reason to be fidgety. It’s only six to eight weeks, then he’ll be gone, headed for sunny California just like before, without a thought for you or what we had.”
I nodded at my reflection with authority. There. I told me.
It would be fine from here on out. I was one hell of a pep-talker.
Surely it was time for that beer now.
The Christmas Keeper #6
Chapter One
“Did I ever show you the last photos of my Kelli’s baby?” I forced myself to stare at yet another picture of another wrinkled little prune wearing a pink knit stocking cap. “This is Diaphony. I honestly do not know where you kids nowadays find these oddball names. Whatever happened to using down-to-earth names like Helen or Margaret or Gypsum.”
My gaze widened. My great-aunt Priscilla blinked at me from behind thick bifocals.
“Gypsum?” I asked loudly because I had to in order to be heard over the band playing “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty” a mere hundred feet away. Also, Aunt Prissy never wore her hearing aids so conversation with her was always bellowed.
“Mm, yes, that was my dear departed Edgar’s father’s mother’s name.”
I studied the old, old gal on my left. “Her name was Gypsum. Like in the gypsum used as a fertilizer in your garden? That kind of gypsum?”
“No, I don’t garden anymore. It’s too hard to get up and down, although I did have a lovely tomato plant in a container. Kelli planted it for me. I have a picture…” Dear God, please save me from another old lady with a cell phone. “Hmm, I don’t know where the pictures went.”
“Let me go find Kelli for you,” I rushed to say, shot to my feet, and hightailed it across the packed dancefloor of older folks, my parents among them, shaking their booties as if doing the hustle was going to save the world from some sort of catastrophe.
I had no clue who Kelli was, what she looked like, or if she was even here in Ottawa. All I knew about my incredibly distant cousin was that her kid looked like that dog that had starred in Deadpool and Wolverine, and she gave tomato plants as gifts. Didn’t matter. It had gotten me free from another nosy relative asking when I was going to get married because I wasn’t getting any younger and my baby sister had beat me to the aisle. Oh, the shame!
As if I cared Nora had found her prince charming before me. I was happy for her and for Antoine. He was a good guy. Much better than that dickhead she had dated back home. The guy had done her wrong so badly that she had moved from Pennsylvania to Canada to start over as far away from the asshole as she could get. If he’d not run like a scalded cat the moment he’d been caught cheating on my sister with her ex-bestie, I would have stuck him to the wall of my bar with a handful of darts and then punched him in the face. Repeatedly. No one hurts my little sister. I had warned Antoine about that the first time we’d met, and he had taken me quite seriously. Sure, he was a hockey player who had about six inches and fifty pounds on me. Didn’t mean I couldn’t get a fast, cheap shot in before he beat me to a pulp.
I elbowed my way through a pack of Ottawa hockey players to get to the bar. Free bar, so the two tenders were hustling to fill orders for over three hundred people. Antoine was really famous, universally liked, and had a French-Canadian family that numbered in the thousands, or so it seemed. My order was an easy one. A double shot of Irishman’s Grand Reserve with a stout German lager, preferably Guinness. The barkeep was cute and pulled a good beer. I tipped well, took a sip of my cold beer, sighed, and glanced at my watch to count down how many hours were left before I could feign a headache and leave the reception venue unseen by my sister or mother.
“There you are!” Nora slid in beside in a cloud of joy and Estee Lauder Modern Muse. Her bright brown eyes, the same color as mine, were shining as she reached out to take my hand. “They’re going to play the song for our dance next.”
“I didn’t know that there was a dance for the bride and her brother,” I replied and tossed back the shot. It burned nicely.
“They do when the bride asks for one.” With that, my tiny little sibling tugged me from the bar. I quickly tossed a ten to the cute bartender before grabbing my beer. “Plus, you’re not just my brother, you’re the brother of honor, so that calls for a special dance.”
Knowing I would lose this battle—I always lost with Nora—I followed along in her white lace wake, smiling at people I didn’t know, beer in hand. We reached the bandstand before she turned to check me out. “Where is your tie?”
I dug into my tuxedo jacket pocket, pulling a knowing smirk from the guy playing bass. He was cute too. There were so many good-looking guys here. Probably most were straight, or if they weren’t, it wouldn’t matter as I was leaving as soon as the newlyweds drove off with cans clattering behind them or I could sneak out unseen. Knowing my sister and mother, who had eyes like hawks, I’d not be making my break anytime soon. Nora yanked my tie from my hand with a tsk that sounded so much like Mom’s that I had to snicker.
“Your nose crinkles just like Mom’s,” I teased.
“Honestly, Brann, you look so handsome in this tux,” she chided, reaching up to retie the dark green bowtie. Forest green and white were the colors, holiday-themed, or so the wedding planner had explained to me as if I were a halfwit. “You should keep the tie tied and work the room. I’m sure there are some guys here who would love a dance with you.”
“I don’t dance in case you forgot.”
She tugged the bowtie tightly. “You do now. You should learn. Dancing is a great way to meet new people.”
The band stood above us, ending the previous disco song, and the lead singer stepped up to the mic with a rehearsed smile.
“Where would I slow dance with men back home? They closed down the dance hall right after World War II.”
“I’m not talking about dance halls, dork. I mean at the bar.”
“Right. So many of the patrons would love to see two guys slow dancing during Monday Night Football. You’ve been in this big liberal city for too long if you forgot what rural Pennsylvania is like.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I moved to get away from the toxic masculinity BS.” She patted my now righted bowtie with a tiny, French-manicured hand. “I just want you to be happy. You hermit up at home with Fred and Wilma, then spend all day in that bar, wasting your nights with the guys throwing darts at a corkboard, and go home alone.”
“I’m not alone. Fred and Wilma are there. You just said so.” Her lips flattened. “What? You just said it. Geese are wonderful company.”
“Ask Wilkes about how wonderful they are,” she snapped back like a rubber band.
“Wilkes should have known better than to go through the front gate just to deliver the damn gas bill. I have a sign.” If people choose to ignore the BEWARE OF THUG GEESE sign on my little picket fence, then woe onto them, and that applied to Wilkes Lilly.
“You’re lucky he didn’t mace Fred,” she said as she battled to keep a straight face.
“Fred was just protecting his lady love,” I argued as I had with the postmaster after that whole butt pinching fiasco last spring. I’d lost the battle and now had to collect my mail at the post office due to a ‘dangerous poultry situation’ at my home. Some people are so delicate. One little goose pinch never hurt anyone. Well, okay, it did hurt, but the bruise faded in a week or two. Fred pinched me at least once a year on the backside, generally in the spring when hormones were high, but it didn’t require a trip to the ER, for goodness sake.
“Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time with people other than the mill workers and your geese, Brann. You’re turning into a real Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Ow. That one stung. I wasn’t a Scrooge. I just didn’t like people or Christmas.
Oh wait…
I downed my beer as she waited for a reply, hands on slim hips. I was about to recite my famous “You can worry about a lot of things, but I’m not one of them” line when the band struck up the song she had chosen for this special moment. My grin was wide when I heard “You Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story. We’d loved that film as kids, watching it over and over on rainy days. I placed my glass on the bandstand, bowed, and took her into my arms.
“You’re such a dork,” she said as her eyes grew misty. I pulled her close, kissed her beautiful brown hair, and led her around the dance floor until her new husband claimed her. I moved aside, melding into the crowds of athletes, their wives, and family members from both sides. My gaze stayed on Nora, my throat tight as she beamed at Antoine. They’d be happy together. He adored her and she him. They would have a wonderful life here in Canada, him playing hockey, and her working for a charity that her hubby was devoted to. I’d done my duty as big brother extraordinaire.
“Brann, oh my goodness, I’m so glad I found you,” Mom gushed as she raced to me, the hem of her lovely red mother-of-the-bride dress up to her knees. Dad trailed after her, smiling in that whimsical way of his whenever my mother was up to something. Nora was the spitting image of my mother, whereas I was a mish-mosh of my parents. Brown eyes for both of us kids but my hair was totally ginger thanks to Dad’s side of the gene pool. Mom’s thick hair was a lush brunette with highlights shot through it. No gray hair dared to peek out of her mane lest it be plucked or dyed on sight. Dad, on the other hand, was more cavalier about his silver. It made him look distinguished, he liked to say, and it did. “Paula Prescott, she’s the lady sitting beside Antoine’s aunt Marie, has a son—”
“Dad,” I whined piteously, throwing my sire a plaintive look. “Can you reel your wife in please?”
“Carmen, you promised no matchmaking at weddings,” Dad said, which got a pout from my mother, who thought it was her life duty to see both of her children happily wed with children before she could pass over. She got that from my great-grandmother, a beautiful woman of ninety-two years. A war bride, Nonna, came to the US from Italy with a very Scottish man with flaming red hair. Nonna was still kicking it in a senior center in the same Boca Raton retirement center my parents now called home, her fingers always in the mix when it came to pairing off anyone not in a committed relationship under the age of thirty. Nonna ran family matchmaking like a mafia Don, only her displeasure was shown in withholding the annual holiday card with ten dollars in it as opposed to a horse’s head in your bed. I’d not gotten ten bucks in a card for over three years. Nonna’s upset was large. Even flouncy men could get married and have children now, she would announce on the family Zoom calls every fourth Thursday.
“If not here, where?” Mom asked, settling her gaze on me as couples bounced around on the dance floor to a Bruno Mars song. “If not now, when? We only see you once a year, twice if we’re lucky, and there is never a man on your arm when we see you.”
“That’s because I’m happy being single,” I argued.
“No, you’re not.” I threw a sour look at my father. “You’ve just let all this silliness on social media taint your thoughts on relationships. Not every man you meet is going to be so extra as Paulie.”
“Mom, I don’t think extra is used in that way,” I explained as Dad shrugged. “Paulie was not extra in any way other than being an extra-large dick.”
“Brann,” Dad chided. Mom rolled her eyes.
“Well, he was,” I childishly replied, folding my arms over my chest just as I had when I was six and my parents did not let me have a llama for my birthday. “My life is good. Honestly.”
Mom opened her mouth to parry but Dad slid in, calm and cool, to deflect. “Carmen, I’m sure that Brann will find the right partner someday, on his own time. Just like Nora has. Speaking of Nora, I think she’s looking for you.”
Mom’s sharp assessment of her poor, lonely gay son flew across the room to her youngest. Nora, feeling that maternal gaze, met our looks with confusion. “Looks like she needs help with her hem,” Dad lied.
“I told her it was coming undone. She should have bought it from Cousin Sophie and had it shipped instead of buying it from some unknown shop in Canada with no Italian seamstresses.” Off Mom went with a full head of steam, leaving me to ponder on how she knew the ethnicity of a gown maker in Ottawa when she was in Florida, and what difference it made.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
“Anytime. She means well, Brann. She just wants to see you happy.”
“I know, I do, I know, but love comes when it comes, and for some people, it never comes at all,” I tossed out. He studied me for a moment, then bobbed his head. “I’m truly happy with things the way they are. And no, my being alone has nothing to do with Paulie.”
“Okay, I never said it did. Will we see you for Christmas?”
“No, I’m sorry.” I caught the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “I’d love to fly down, but I shut down the bar for a week for this.” I waved a hand at the festivities. “I can’t do that again in two weeks or I’ll never crawl out of the hole. The holidays are my busiest time. Then there’s the headache of lining up goosesitters…”
“Sure, sure, we understand. Nonna will be sad.”
“I know. She won’t send me ten dollars again.”
That made him snicker before he gave me a quick side hug and fell in behind Mom.
Nora made a face at me that spelled pain in my future. I ducked behind a potted fern, stole a flute of champagne from a passing server, sipped, gagged, and went to sit in the corner until the newlyweds left for a night of passionate consummation. I did not sit alone. I spent the remainder of the reception celebrating with mugs of Moosehead and shots of Canadian Club to show love and support for all the non-Italian Canadian wedding gown makers in the Great White North.
Cheers. To the bride! To the groom!
When I staggered to my hotel room after the blushing bride and her hulking hubby raced off to some remote cabin, I was still humming “Satisfied” from Hamilton. I had concluded that Canadians not only made fine wedding dresses, but they brewed some hellishly good lager. Their whiskey wasn’t too bad either. I fell into bed, with my top hat and tails still on, belched loudly, and drifted off to have randy dreams about getting frisky with a few of the founding fathers.
***
The next morning’s flight out at the crack of fucking dawn was ugly.
Well, to be fair, it was me that was ugly. The flight was okay. I spent most of it, and the hour-plus layover in Detroit sipping coffee to wash down more acetaminophen tablets than were recommended. My connecting flight back to the small airport an hour from Whiteham was far from okay. We took off into some strong headwinds and snow, nothing too bad, but enough to make the small jet thump around as if it was running over a washboard in the sky.
Each jolt made my stomach lurch and my head pound. Since the turbulence was so nasty, no smiling attendant was handing out shortbread cookies and ginger ale. They were all buckled in just as we were, which was fine, but man some ginger ale for the hungover ginger would have been nice. Coming into the rural airport was fun. Not. Intense snow squalls had raced over the state, creating whiteout conditions that not only made driving perilous, it made landing a plane dicey. The runway was cleared but icy in spots, and the wind was brutal and filled with snow. When the wheels touched down, a collective sigh ran through everyone on board.
No one was happier than me—perhaps the flight crew might have been—to disembark and head to the single luggage conveyor belt in front of the lone car rental kiosk. It was midday, but the sky was so dark and heavy with snow that it appeared to be evening as I glanced through the thick glass walls overlooking the parking lot.
I briefly noticed a man sitting on a round stuffed seat as I followed the other passengers to baggage claim. Just a fast glance as you do when you’re surrounded by strangers with a headache and a gutful of sour. He was leggy, that much I’d clocked at a glance. Long legs, thin, Jack Skellington legs that were crossed at the knee, a ratty six-string on his lap. A headful of dark curls bowed low over his instrument as we filed in, cranky, with only one thing on all of our minds: how shitty it was going to be driving home in this white crap. Or maybe that was just me. Snow sucked. Sure it was pretty but unless you were seven and getting a day off from school, which the poor kids didn’t even get anymore thanks to internet classes, snow was nothing but a nuisance. It meant shoveling, plowing, skidding off dirty roads that weren’t cindered, slow days at the bar, and clearing out a goose pen for Fred and Wilma. White Christmases? Bah-humbug. I’d rather have a clear day in the 80s. People drank lots more beer in the summer.
So the guitar man had been just that. Some dude waiting for someone, probably. It wasn’t until he began to play that I lifted my sight from a text I was sending my neighbor Mr. Blum to ask if he had placed bedding in the pen for the geese to lie on. Everyone around me quieted when he began to sing and strum. His voice floated over the small terminal, pure and clear, with a slight twang that spoke of southern roots. A deep baritone, filled with emotion, that pulled me into the country song he was singing. It was a voice reminiscent of Luke Combs, not that I personally was into country but when you ran a small pub in a rural town, you listened to country all day long, either on the radio or on the old Rock-Ola jukebox in the corner. Whoever this guy was, he certainly could have been on any modern country station. Hell, he was better than most of the singers I heard while washing glasses or shooting darts. His empty case sat at his scruffy sneakers, open, with a sign asking for holiday donations.
My gaze touched on his hands, long fingers, skilled, moving over the neck of his guitar as he did a cover of “Welcome to My World” that left me speechless. Inky dark eyes framed with thick lashes met my awed stare. A smile pulled at sensuous lips. His curls twisted around his ears, tickling some thin silver earrings in his lobes. His face was stunningly handsome, a proud nose that spoke of some Middle Eastern ancestry perhaps, and a slim strong jaw covered with unmanicured scruff. The clapping of the dozen or so passengers pulled me out of the fog his voice and face had launched me into.
“Thank you,” he softly said, sparing no time before starting on a holiday song about a hat made of mistletoe. The passengers tossed bills into his case as he sang, his ratty blue scarf hanging open to reveal a long neck inside a thick sweater. His coat was used, and used well, with small tears on the elbows but that took nothing away from him. He was beautiful. I took a step closer, then another. The sound of the suitcases tumbling down to the belt was white noise when his gaze met and held mine. My mouth opened to let something fall out when two airport security guards arrived, looking quite pissy. The music stopped dead. The passengers, now intent on getting their bags and going home, paid little attention to what was going on.
“Come on, you can’t do that inside. Take it outside,” an older man in a dark uniform told the singer. The musician, to his credit, immediately started to gather his tips, all the while nodding along with the rousting he was getting.
“Can I play in the vestibule? My car is just so cold,” the singer said, his tone respectful as he was hustled along like he was some sort of vermin. The lady at the car rental kiosk was bobbing her orange head, her nose crinkled as if she’d just sniffed a skunk’s ass. “I won’t touch anyone coming in or out. If you can just let me stay for another hour or two, I can afford a room at a motel.”
“Sorry, you’re outside or we call the cops and they arrest you for soliciting.” Older guard gave the singer a gentle shove to the revolving doors as the check-in clerks behind the two airlines that flew out of here watched in morbid fascination.
“Okay, no, okay, it’s fine. I’ll play outside,” the singer, cowed now, said as he was herded to the doors.
My feet moved on their own, propelling me past the old bat in the car rental desk, and planting me in front of two tired TSA agents.
“It’s five degrees outside and the snow is blowing sideways,” I chimed in, getting a look of utter shock from Curly as he juggled his guitar case and a small duffel.
“That sucks, I get it, but he can’t play in here. I suggest you get your luggage, sir, and let us do our jobs,” the younger burly fellow informed me. Getting into it with airport security was not on my to-do list, so I lifted my hands, palms out, and gave Curly a “I tried, dude” look that got me a soft smile of thanks that made me forget how to walk properly.
I stumbled into a trash can as my sight stayed on the busker being shown the door. Wind right off an iceberg blew in as the door spun, flakes as big as my hand rushed around the singer, lifting his curls from his high forehead. His shoulders rose to his ears. When he turned to look at the guards, they motioned him to move from the doors. So he did, his face into the wind.
I grabbed my lone bag from the conveyor belt, shot the guards a dark look, and stomped outside into a squall that robbed the air from your lungs. I saw Curly crossing into the short-term parking lot, and I followed, my old suitcase thumping behind me.
“Hey!” I shouted, the word lifted and blown into the next county. Curly paused, looked back at me, and then walked toward me. “Hey, listen, I don’t know why they did that but tossing anyone out into weather like this is shitty.”
“It’s how it is. Thank you for trying to help.” A flash of white teeth set off a total mental shutdown the likes I had not felt since…forever. “I should get to my car. It’s parked on the street over there, and if I don’t get back to it by six, the city will tow it and all my possessions are in it.”
“You live in your car?” I asked and instantly regretted how terrible my emphasis on car had been. “I mean, it’s really cold to be sleeping in a car.”
“Yeah, it’s chilly, but I have blankets.”
I stared at him as snow swirled around us. Tiny white specks of frost clung to his eyelashes and whiskers. I couldn’t stop admiring the way his nose sat on his face so perfectly. That was probably why my mouth started making offers that my brain would eventually be horrified about.
“I have a spare room above my bar that you can sleep in,” I blurted out as the speakers that usually announced flights leaving and arriving was now playing Christmas carols. Dolly Parton, to be exact. Curly stared long and hard at me as if weighing whether to accept or run for the guards inside the airport. “I’m not after…I’m just…” And there I floundered because I had no fucking clue why I had just offered this stranger a room above the alehouse. “I don’t want anything. I swear. I just wanted to help. To be…helpful.”
“Right. Look, I’m busking, not hooking, so whatever you think is going to happen isn’t.” A fire lit in those mahogany eyes of his.
I felt my face ignite with shame. “What? No, no, I’m not trying to hook up. Shit, no, not at all. I’m totally the opposite of that guy.” Snow attacked us…like it honestly assaulted us. My nose was starting to run. “I’m not after anything other than…”
“Than what? My spleen?”
“I…spleen?! God, no, I’m not after your spleen. I’m just trying to be kind. Just a kind offer to a fellow human being two weeks before Christmas. You can turn me down, and to be honest, I would turn me down too.” I pulled my sleeve under my runny nose. This cold was crippling. “I’m trying to do a good deed. That’s all. I’ll be sleeping at my place, which is not near my bar.”
Nora’s off-handed, or I hoped it was off-handed because who wanted to be a Scrooge, had cut deeper than I would ever admit to her, or this man. Maybe I was a little puckery about the holidays, and human beings in general, but I wasn’t some old dude who hated everyone.
I just hated certain people. The ones who pissed me off, which was mostly everyone sure but…well shit.
He appeared to be contemplating. I wished he would contemplate faster. My balls were now nestled inside my body and my toes were brittle from the cold. If I wiggled them, they’d snap off.
“I’m not sure I should be that close to temptation, but hey, maybe it’s a test from the big man?” He pointed skyward. I glanced up to see a large plastic St. Nick and two wobbly reindeer secured to the roof of the canopy over pick-ups and drop-offs.
“Santa?”
Dark eyes flickered upward. Lush lips, wet from melted snow, twisted at the corners before his sight dropped back to me. His dark gaze stayed on me for ages before he nodded, just once. I could not begin to explain how happy seeing him bob all those curls made me. Obviously, I was suffering from some sort of alcohol-induced mental slip. What other reason would I have to do what I’d just done?
“Thank you. I guess the Christmas spirit isn’t as dead as people say it is.”
Oh right, Christmas spirit. Yeah, that was me. I was just full of holiday cheer. So not.
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.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
The Christmas Extra #5
The Christmas Keeper #6
