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In honor of Father's Day here in the US, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential father figures. Some aren't necessarily a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, a memory, etc. The father figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Father's Day 2025, I chose 5 stories where the fatherly figure helped to shape the characters, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling. If you have any recommendations for great father figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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Summary:
Love Across Time #5
Soulmates across time. Two souls connected by destiny.
In present day, Jake, lonely and cut off from his parents, travels to the Chamberlin Inn in Cody, Wyoming to work on extra credit for his college seminar.
In 1932, Sebby labors at the Chamberlin Inn for pennies a day, wishing with all his heart for a better life.
While taking photographs in the room where Ernest Hemingway once stayed, Jake is flung back in time to the year 1932. There he meets Sebby who is living on the edge, half starving, a victim of the Great Depression. He’s been dodging rent collectors, getting behind on doctor's bills, trying to care for his ailing Pop.
Sebby falls hard for Jake with his movie star smile, but knows something is different about him. Jake wears strange clothes, talks too fast, and doesn’t look like he’s gone hungry a day in his whole life. He’s also the handsomest boy Sebby has ever seen.
Jake is drawn to Sebby’s dark eyes, shy smile, and gentle heart. Sebby is like nobody Jake has ever met. And though the year 1932 scares him to his very core, he needs to decide. Go home? Or stay and weather the Depression with Sebby, whom he has grown to love.
A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, true confessions, a shared bed, first time romance, the angst of separation, and true love across time.
Original Review October 2024:
Once again I've broken my read-in-order rule but that's okay, Love Across Time is a standalone series. So brilliant, such a great blend of humor, drama, paranormal, historical, sci-fi, and of course heart.
I really don't want to spoil anything and there is always something about time-travel that can be so easily spoiled by even the tiniest detail getting out, so this review is going to be shorter than others so as not to dampen others enjoyment .
I couldn't possibly imagine how Jake and Seby would find a HEA in this story or to be more precise, where and when it might occur. I needn't have been anxious because Jackie North pulled it off and brought the reader safely to that happy place, also known as HEA Universe😉. I will say that once again as it was with For the Love of a Ghost(#6 - and again the whole "read out of order" came into play), I expected a certain thing to happen but didn't and I'm kind of glad. Yes, had the author went where I feared it would have been equally entertaining but not going there just added to the adrenaline rush that can only come from the first time read. So it's all good! I know that's a bit ambiguous, some might even say "cop out" but just know it's entertaining to the highest degree.
Three down and three to go but with the next dozen weeks being some of my most hectic, reading, blogging, and holiday-loving time I am predicting unfortunately it probably won't be until 2025 that I get to the remaining entries. Instead of being sad about it I see it as having something to look forward to in the new year already and that's never a bad thing. However you read Jackie North's Love Across Time series, I highly recommend doing so and you won't be disappointed in all the emotionally charged entertaining time before you.
**I gotta send a HUGE THANK YOU to Jackie North for the inclusion of old radio shows(or current radio programs in 1932😉). My parents got me a cassette tape of Fibber McGee & Molly's first hall closet routine episode for my 10th birthday and I completely fell in love with it. When I got in to high school, I started collecting a variety of shows on cassette(and eventually CD), and I've purchased a few digital ones but my love of the format is the sole reason I have a script for SiriusXM so I can listen to the OTR channel in the car. The radio shows are often the pedestal I gauge a good audiobook narration on, if I feel the narrator creates an atmosphere that makes me feel like I'm listening to one of my fave old shows and expecting the sponsor to break in with a commercial than it's a winner. Anywho, I just want to say Thank You, Jackie North for adding that part of the era to the story, it's not something that authors often feature.**
Father's Day,2005 by Frank W Butterfield
Summary:Nick & Carter Holiday #12
Sunday, June 19, 2005
It's Father's Day and Nick Williams is a little sore and a little hungover from attending Mayor Jerry Brown's wedding in Oakland the day before with his ex-fireman of a husband, Carter Jones.
At the age of 82, who wouldn't be?
They're having breakfast later that morning with the two kids who've become like sons over the past couple of years.
After that, it's lunch at the Top of the Mark with even more friends.
Nick is looking forward to another big day.
And, given the holiday, it's hardly surprising when more than one father shows up.
Original Review June 2022:
Another delightful short glimpse into the world of Nick and Carter. Nice to see them in their later years. Having only read some of the shorts in the author's Nick & Carter Holiday series I still don't know the couple's lifelong journey and I will say I felt like I was missing a few things in regard to the other characters spending Father's Day with the pair. Even with that feeling of missing I wasn't lost by any means.
It only seemed fitting that I found these wonderful stories this year, especially Father's Day, 2005 as Dad's Day 2022 also falls on June 19, perhaps fatherly fate is at work😉. There really is quite a bit packed into this short entry with lots of fatherly influence that will make you smile, a little sad briefly but in the end you'll walk away happy. I don't really see saying that as a spoiler because knowing the emotions of the ending in no way spoils the journey. Once again Frank W Butterfield's glimpse into Nick and Carter's life makes me bump his original Nick Williams Mystery series another notch on my TBR list.
Bunny Hop Beau by Lacey Daize
Summary:Holiday Surprise #5
Saint Patrick's Day was the best day of Avery's life, the day after was the worst.
Avery left home for Valle Granja at the insistence of his instincts, and the urging of his mama, who'd always supported him. When he meets his fated mate, Cam, at the Saint Patrick's Day Dance he understands why. But joy is soon replaced with grief when only hours later he learns that his parents were killed in a car accident—having never heard that he met his mate and leaving Avery's five-year-old brother behind.
Finding his fated mate was like a dream come true for Cam, but their bond is immediately put to the test.
Cam knew that Avery was his fated mate as soon as he saw him, and he was excited to begin their lives together. However an early-morning phone call shatters the peace of their new bond. Suddenly he finds himself as the surrport for his grieving mate and orphaned brother, a position which brings up memories of his own.
Can new love survive grief and loss, and can they come together as a family?
Bunny Hop Beau is a 23K word , non-shifter, M/M, mpreg, omegaverse romance
Content note: Loss and grief play prominent roles in this book.
Original Review March 2024:
First off I'm going to say I found Bunny Hop to be a companion piece to Lucky Dance Date(Holiday Surprise #3) as the first chapters are a recap of Lucky but from Cam and Avery's POV. If you haven't read Lucky, I highly recommend doing so, not because you'll be lost in regards to what is going on but to some degree I would say it has spoilers for Lucky, not word-for-word but enough that I would not enjoy Lucky as much knowing what we see here first. For those who think the first chapters are wasted as "rehashing" they aren't, I was excited to see those events from Cam and Avery's POV as the friends of the MCs, not something you often get to see.
As for Bunny Hop, it goes from unbelievably happy happy to devastatingly saddy saddy in a heartbeat, which life tends to do once in a while. As heartbreaking as the death of Avery's parents is, the flip of a coin change in emotional fortune for the pair was in a way refreshing because of the reality of it. Hard to think in terms of reality when dealing with mpreg and omegaverse genres & tropes but the heartache leaves you even more emotionally attached to the characters than one often finds themselves. Let's face it, Cam has been handed the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card(for lack of better phrasing) but he doesn't bite and he shows Avery just how all in he truly is, yet another reason Bunny Hop is a heart grabber.
Once again Lacey Daize has once again proven mpreg can be both realistic and fantasy all at the same time. Can't wait to read more of her awesome stories.
Spring Rains by RJ Scott
Summary:Whisper Ridge, Wyoming #3
When love is on the line, the only way to move forward is to challenge ghosts of the past and find a place to belong.
High School Teacher Chris, an amputee since his teens, has wrestled with darkness and emerged victorious. He’s a pillar of strength in the classroom, deflecting his overbearing family by day and yearning for love by night. Yet a recent reminder of his fragility at the Lennox ranch has stirred spectres of his past. Enter Noah and his son, Fox, who bring a glimmer of hope into Chris’s life, igniting a fire that dares him to fight for love once more.
After big-city pastry chef Noah inherits his great aunt Lilly’s diner in the small Wyoming town of Whisper Ridge, he can finally escape the painful memories and media fallout of an abusive marriage. He wants to rebuild their lives in a safe place, but starting over isn’t easy when money is running out, the rainbow flag in his window draws the attention of the local fire-and-brimstone pastor, and the past rears its ugly head. Through it all, Noah must decide if he’s ready to open his heart again, especially to his son’s teacher.
Noah and Chris fall in love, stand up for what is right, fight their demons, and find a happy ever after despite the odds.
Original Review May 2024:
I didn't let this one flounder on my TBR list for years like the second book and I'm so glad too. Spring Rains is a beautiful tale of healing, starting over, life never keeping you down. I was going to say second chances but generally second chances in the fictional world tend to refer to people getting a second chance to get it right but Chris and Noah are strangers when the story starts, they are both looking for a second beginning or starting the next chapter of their lives but not quite the usual definition of the "second chance" label.
Noah is an amazing father and despite Fox's initial reaction to living in Whisper Ridge, he actually settles in quite nicely and he too is healing, starting over, and becoming a better person. Now that's not to say he wasn't already a great kid because he is as we see through Noah's internal thoughts and fears and truth is the reaction to the move is quite typical for a teenager. I'll admit I was surprised at the choice of friends RJ Scott gave Fox as I was expecting him to be closer involved with the two boys we got to know in Summer Drifter up at Lennox Ranch but then I suddenly remembered they were younger and then I was pleased as punch with the young man's friendships.
The cute meet that set off a tidal wave of chemistry between Chris and Noah was short but powerful. Chris barging in thinking more vandals were messing about in the old diner shows the kind of man he is and Noah first thoughts of protecting his son went a long way to show his character as well. I love the natural progression of the relationship in Spring Rains, especially considering Noah recently having escaped an abusive marriage and Chris's fears what being an amputee could mean to a significant other. So real, so beautifully scripted. Just all around yummy.
As for the amputee and Chris' fears about intimacy. I'm going to bring up a couple of personal points of my family here to address my review point. My grandfather, though he had both legs he lost use of them as the MS took over his body but it never dampened my grandparents love for each other. My mother too has both legs but her health has weakened their strength along with other changes to her body. She went through a 3 week outpatient pain clinic about 12 years ago to help adjust to daily life with chronic pain without narcotics and one of the courses was managing intimacy. Now, this is a subject I don't want to think too much about in terms of my grandparents and parents but my point is that the way the author deals with Chris's fears is believable, honest, and flat-out realistically heartwarming. A short moment in terms of wordage and pages but a hugely powerful moment in storytelling. Thank you, RJ Scott, for once again touching on things too often glossed over.
Simply put before I start revealing too much(wink wink): Spring Rains is deserving of it's place in Whisper Ridge, Noah and Fox have earned their place in the community, and Chris is a perfect example of staying where you're comfortable isn't out of fear of venturing into the world but knowing where you feel at home. They have all found a home in this reader's heart
RATING:
The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart
Summary:Never take an elf’s cookie… even if it is for a good cause.
School teacher Alger loved his job, his town, and his volunteer work at the local children’s hospital. That is until he loses it all with one mistake: he gave away the wrong cookie. Now cursed to be a Krampus and scare children into behaving, he is miserable. Beyond miserable. At least there’s an out to his curse: Find unconditional love. If only it were as simple as that.
Widower single father Jordan is not a fan of Christmas, not since his alpha’s accident. Each year Jordan fakes it, slapping on his best Christmas Cheer persona in the hopes of making it special for his son. Each year it gets a little bit easier. Who knows… maybe one year the holidays will be merry and bright.
When an unexpected blizzard comes to town, Alger and Jordan end up trapped together and learn that there really is magic in Christmas snow.
The Omega’s Krampus Christmas is a super sweet with knotty heat MM Mpreg Holiday retelling of the fairy tale Beauty and the Beast featuring an alpha who accidentally pissed off the wrong elf, an omega who sees the heart within, more Christmas cookies than anyone should eat in a lifetime, a magical sleigh ride that leaves more than just Santa’s bag being filled, the cutest cat ever…as in ever, Christmas wish lists a mile long, a Christmas miracle or two, including an adorable baby on the way. If you enjoy true love, fated mates, a little bit of whimsy, and your mpreg with heart, download The Omega’s Krampus Christmas today.
I gotta start by just saying: WOW!!!
Christmas romance with a twist✔️
Fairytale with a twist✔️
It's that "with a twist" that gives The Omega's Krampus Christmas an extra special level of holiday yummyness. I've always been intrigued by holiday stories that go outside the box by having Krampus involved and Lorelei M Hart really brought the intrigue to the table here. I should add that not only did I find this story to be my favorite of this holiday season's reading but it is also my first mpreg, first omegaverse, and my first Lorelei M Hart read. That's a lot of firsts to venture into especially with a holiday story.
Alger, aka Krampus, and single dad Jordan have an instant connection but after decades of a lonely existence, Alger has built a wall around his heart. Will he let Jordan and his daughter Thea in? As you can probably guess my answer: you'll have to read this one for yourself to discover if Alger opens up. I will say that I couldn't help but love every character in the story, each one played a part, nobody was extra, nobody was page filler they all added to the story and to Alger and Jordan's journey.
There is really not much more I can add without being tempted to divulge too much of the story. I will say that if you aren't fond of mpreg, I still highly recommend this Christmas tale because The Omega's Krampus Christmas is so much more than mpreg. This is a story about seeing beyond the surface, letting someone in, and opening one's heart which is something we all need to do more of and not just during the holiday season. Definitely a delightful, heartwarming holiday gem.
Hemingway's Notebook by Jackie North
Chapter One
When Ernest Hemingway checked out of the Chamberlin Inn, Sebby was on duty to take his luggage to the motorcar that was waiting for him. This included carrying a rod and reel case, a rifle case, two leather suitcases, a hefty steamer trunk of lures and gear, and a thickly-packed leather briefcase, all of which were heavy or bulky or both. But that didn't matter, Sebby was happy to help as Mr. Hemingway had been nice to his Pop yesterday and had sat on the back steps with him to talk about Babe Ruth and the Yankees. The day had been sunny, and Pop had taken the opportunity to get some fresh air and, tucked inside his pea coat, had been able to chat with the great man.
Now, of course, the day was howling wind and cold. Pop was safe in the apartment, though it was chilly without enough coal to heat the place. Sebby had been up since six, hauling luggage, washing dishes, gathering dirty laundry, all the while getting yelled at by Mr. Blair, the hotel's cook and manager, who always thought Sebby was too slow.
"You got those bags, boy?" asked the uniformed driver as he waited by the rumbling Studebaker motorcar that was big enough and sturdy enough to carry seven people and everything they could think of to bring with them. The trunk was open and the driver pointed to it. "You're taking your time, eh? Mr. Hemingway doesn't have all day, I'll have you know."
"Leave him be," came a voice from behind Sebby as he struggled with the two suitcases. "The boy is doing what he can. We have time. It'll only take a couple of hours to get to Clark's Fork anyhow."
Placing the suitcases next to the car so the driver could load them into the trunk, Sebby turned to see Mr. Hemingway waiting on the sidewalk. He stood beneath the grey eggshell sky, hands in his pockets, wearing his broad brimmed felt fishing hat, sturdy jacket, and brown woolen trousers. With a scarf around his neck, he looked plenty warm, though his breath fogged out before him in the cold air, speckling his dark mustache with frost.
"That package go out, Sebby?" asked Hemingway, using Sebby's first name, like he did with everybody, making it sound like the two of them had been friends for years. "I'd have taken it myself, but we've got to get a move on."
"Mrs. Chamberlin took it to the post office this morning, Mr. Hemingway," said Sebby. "First thing, right after breakfast."
"She's a good woman," said Hemingway. He eyed Sebby up and down with his dark blue eyes as if measuring him for a fight. "You're good to carry my luggage. Is this all of it?"
"Yes, sir," said Sebby, counting the items in his head. "I double checked the room, and this is all of it, every last piece. And I think the weather should get warmer soon."
"I hope so," said Hemingway, slowly, as if giving the few words his full consideration. "If it gets any colder, those trout'll drop too deep in the pools of the river to catch." After a pause as he puffed a breath and watched the frost form in the air in front of him, he looked at Sebby again. "When did you last eat, son?"
Feeling as though he'd stepped in front of some very unwelcome headlights, Sebby froze. He'd had breakfast, it was true, but it had consisted of a single cup of tea. There was no sugar and no milk. Sebby had made Pop take the last slice of bread, and then said he wasn't hungry. This was a lie, of course, as he was always hungry, only there was nothing he could do about it. The money he'd earned over the last few weeks only went so far, and there was the doctor's bill to pay on top of everything else. While he knew that other twenty-year-olds probably didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders, there was nothing he could do but struggle on.
"This morning, sir," said Sebby, though it was terribly hard to lie to Mr. Hemingway.
"I told you to call me Ernest," said Hemingway, the irritation plain in his voice, though it was easy to see he meant the words to be a joke. "How many times did I tell you?"
"Several times," said Sebby, smiling, though he was shivering as the wind whipped past him as he stood there in his shirtsleeves. "Yes, Ernest."
"You and your Pop aren't going to last a Wyoming winter." Hemingway lifted his chin as he looked at Sebby.
"Excuse me?" asked Sebby, stopping himself by sheer force of will from rubbing his arms to keep warm. He didn't want Mr. Hemingway to think he was weak at all.
"With that cough your Pop's got, and you without any meat on your bones, you won't last the winter. It's too tough up here for both of you." Settling his hat on his head, Hemingway nodded at the driver, who was practically dancing with impatience to be away. "You ought to get out while you can."
"Yes, we will." Sebby nodded to reinforce the words, but they were a lie too. The whole conversation was settling in his belly like unwanted rocks.
"Here," said Hemingway as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out a shiny fifty-cent piece. "Thank you for everything, and tell your Pop I'm sorry for what I said about the Babe."
"I couldn't." Blinking fast, Sebby tried to keep the horror of accepting charity from showing on his face.
"It's a tip, son," said Hemingway. "It's not for nothing. You helped get my package mailed. You carried my luggage. I had a great conversation with your Pop. All in all, you deserve it, so take it."
If Sebby didn't take the money, Mr. Hemingway might get irritated, or there might be an argument. Then Mr. Blair would hear raised voices and come out, and find Sebby at fault for all of it. The coin glinted in Hemingway's hand. Sebby's mouth watered at the food that it could buy. There didn't seem anything else he could do but take it.
"Thank you, Mr.—I mean, Ernest." Sebby clasped the coin in his hand, still warm from Hemingway's touch, and thought, in spite of himself, that there were a million uses for the money, even though fifty cents wouldn't go very far. "I appreciate it."
"That's good, then."
With a tip of his broad-brimmed hat, Hemingway got into the waiting motorcar and waved at Sebby as the driver steered the car into the road. In a chuff of exhaust fumes, the motorcar went up the street, then turned on Sheridan Avenue, headed towards the mountains and the road that would take him north to Clark's Fork to go fishing. He'd invited Pop to go with him, but with Pop's bad cough, it would be impossible for him to be fly fishing in the middle of a swiftly running, icy October river.
Going back inside, Sebby shivered at the relative warmth of the lobby. Down the hall that led to the kitchen, he saw Marie, the youngest maid, carrying a sack of dirty laundry.
She was headed to the stairs that led to the basement, where the laundry was stored out of sight until Sebby could take it to the laundromat, except Mr. Blair, with his large shoulders, was blocking the way. He was dressed in his cook's apron and hat, his black-dyed hair slicked back with Brylcreem, as though he imagined he'd be going to a fancy dress ball later, and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes.
He said something to her in a rough tone. Sebby could hardly hear her response, but her hunched shoulders and blushing cheeks were enough for him to know Mr. Blair was being his rude self. It was one thing for him to order Sebby around, it was another for him to proposition a young lady who only wanted to get on with her work.
Though he wasn't big enough to take Mr. Blair in a fight, Sebby knew he needed to do something about it. Fists clenched, shoulders tight, he strode down the hall like he had someplace to be that required him to not look where he was going.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sebby as he bumped, hard, into Mr. Blair's back. "Didn't see you, Mr. Blair. Are you taking that laundry to the cellar for me, Marie? Thank you."
With these words, Marie was released. Going as fast as she could, black skirts and white apron flying, she headed with her bundle to the kitchen where the door to the cellar was. There, her mother, Janina, the assistant cook, was busy at work, and maybe her sister Serena was as well. All of whom would help to protect her, but left that Sebby standing in the hallway with Mr. Blair glowering at him. He couldn't get away fast enough for Mr. Blair grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"What do you think you're doing, you clumsy idiot?" asked Mr. Blair, shaking him. "Why don't you look where you're going?"
"I only meant to—" Sebby stopped, as yet another lie was rising before him, and he was heartily sick of it. "You shouldn't talk to her that way, Mr. Blair, it isn't right."
"What are you saying?"
"She hardly speaks any English at all, but she knows what you're saying to her." Sebby stood his ground, shoulders back, chin thrust out. "You need to have better manners around her, her and her sister Serena both."
"I'll do as I damn well please with either of them. They're just fucking Polacks, taking good jobs from people who deserve 'em. And as for you—"
Before Sebby could even blink, Mr. Blair hauled back and backhanded him, hard, flinging Sebby against the doorjamb of the communal bathroom. Eyes watering, ears ringing, face on fire, he struggled to stay on his feet and stand up to the man who'd been his constant tormentor almost from the day Sebby and Pop had arrived at the hotel.
"Another word out of you about this and I'll give her twice what I just gave you. Hear?"
Gasping, Sebby couldn't answer. When Mr. Blair raised his hand again, Sebby pushed back against the doorjamb as hard as he could and then ducked low. Which only made Mr. Blair even angrier, but since Mrs. Chamberlin had come out of her office, perhaps to find out what the ruckus was, there was nothing Mr. Blair could do but back down. And nothing Sebby could do but wipe the blood from his chin with the back of his shaking hand and pretend nothing had happened.
"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chamberlin, running her fingers down her string of pearls. "Only do keep it down, Mr. Blair, and Sebby, you too. Some of our guests are still waking up and checking out of their rooms. Make some room in the hallway, if you please. Sebby, that laundry will be ready for you to take in another hour or so. Are you set for work?"
Mrs. Chamberlin, the owner of the hotel, meant this in a kindly way, or at least it seemed so. She didn't think he was lollygagging, but, more, wanted to know if he knew what task needed doing next.
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby. "I'm going to wash the dishes while the girls finish up the rooms, and then I'm going to wipe the tables and sweep and mop the dining hall." Both of these were big, messy tasks. It was better for the hotel, as Mrs. Chamberlin had explained to him, if the girls, who were in public view, looked nice and tidy while they cleaned the rooms.
"Very good," said Mrs. Chamberlin. "Would you tell Janina that if she needs more cabbage, or any onions and such that she needs to give me a list before I head to the post office in half an hour."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sebby, but his heart sank. He'd told Mr. Hemingway specifically that Mrs. Chamberlin had taken his package of letters and whatnot to the post office right after breakfast and here it was almost ten o'clock. Or maybe she'd already gone and come back and was going again? No, that wasn't right. She seemed pretty organized and would only make one trip. Thus what Sebby had told Mr. Hemingway was yet another lie, one more to stack up on top of all the others.
"And Mr. Blair, be sure Barbara counts those keys correctly after checkout. Yesterday she lost track of one, and they are expensive to replace."
"My daughter didn't lose any of the keys," said Mr. Blair, barely able, it seemed, to keep the growl out of his voice. "One of the guests must have taken it."
As Mr. Blair glared at Sebby, he seemed to be saying without words that perhaps Sebby was to blame. But since Sebby only watched the desk sometimes during lunch and maybe after all the guests had checked out for the day, and hadn't at all for the past few days it couldn't have been him. He didn't say anything, though, because that would only start Mr. Blair up again, and give Mrs. Chamberlin more to cluck over as she stroked her pearls.
"If it happens again, I'm afraid I'll have to take it out of her pay."
Mrs. Chamberlin seemed firm about this, but Sebby wondered whether Mr. Blair would be able to sweet-talk her out of it, or maybe threaten her out of it. Or perhaps she would forget, because all in all, Barbara Blair seemed to think she'd been born with a spoon of gold in her mouth, and didn't want anyone to forget it, even though she had to work like everybody else at the hotel.
When Mrs. Chamberlin went back into her office, hopefully to get Mr. Hemingway's mail to take to the post office, Mr. Blair was distracted and Sebby was able to slip down the hall to the kitchen. There, in the warm, steamy room, Janina, the assistant cook to Mr. Blair, was at the counter, slicing potatoes. She was a slight woman with dark hair and eyes, and always wore a sensible black dress and plain white apron that came down to the dress's hem.
When she heard him come in, she turned, and her face was white, her eyes dull. Obviously Marie had told her what had happened, but just as there was nothing Sebby could do, there was nothing she could do, either. Mr. Blair was a bully through and through and any word against him brought down the threat of losing her job, and she knew it.
"I'll take care of these, Janina," said Sebby as he went to the sink, where a pile of pots and pans and dishes and silverware and all the rest of it waited for him. "Then I'll get on the dining room and clean up from breakfast, okay?"
"You watch, yes?" she asked, and while her English was broken it was a damn sight better than Sebby's Polish. "I go to Marie now."
"Sure," said Sebby as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was glad to do it, if it meant that Janina could go comfort her daughter. "I'll say you just stepped out for some fresh air."
With a nod, she opened the door to the cellar and disappeared into the black depths.
Sebby got to work, doing his best to shave off the thinnest slivers of soap into a sinkfull of hot water. There wouldn't be many bubbles, but with elbow grease and good can-do attitude he knew the work would go fast. And maybe Janina would loan him a bit of ice for his jaw, which, as he bent over the sink, brought a low-grade pounding up to its fullest degree.
Living over the hotel's garage and working in the hotel was hard, and the pay wasn't much, but it was a job. It was an arrangement that kept them off the streets, and he was glad to get it. It meant that he could take care of Pop.
Just as it began to rain really hard, coming down like shards of ice, he was finishing up with coal deliveries to Mrs. Chamberlin's office, the reception area. His last stop was the kitchen, where he washed his hands at the sink, relishing the hot water and soap. It made him angry to see Janina at the stove, putting in a sheet of sugar cookies in the oven, her mouth curved down, eyes dark and sad.
They were all in a bad spot because Mr. Blair was a bully who said what he liked and did what he wanted, and all the while Mrs. Chamberlin seemed oblivious. None of them, not Janina or her daughters, or Pop and Sebby could do a thing about it without risking losing their jobs. Thus nobody said anything about it, and every day seemed to go on as this one was, with Sebby having a quick wash before going back to the apartment. There, Pop would working hard to cut strips for Mrs. Johnson to make her braided rugs with. He wanted to stay in the kitchen, but he couldn't, as it wasn't his place. And besides, he couldn't leave Pop on his own.
"Yes, Serena?" asked Janina, as Serena came into the kitchen, holding out a small blue notebook.
"This things," she said waving the notebook at her mother. "It is left. The man with the—" She stopped to motion at her own mouth, drawing her fingers down as if she'd suddenly sprouted a growth of hair. "Bushy face and the eyes, blue."
"Which room?" asked Sebby, even though he felt he already knew, as there was only one guest who'd checked out that morning who might have cause to carry a well-used, hand-sized notebook with a denim blue cover on it.
"The 18," said Serena. She gestured with her hand as though to indicate that the notebook had been beneath something else. "Near the bed."
Both Janina and Serena looked at Sebby for the solution to their problem, which was to find a way to return the notebook to Mr. Hemingway, the proper owner.
"I'll take it," he said, holding out his hand. "He's coming back after his fishing trip, though Pop mentioned he might stay at the Irma Hotel."
"Good," said Janina, her gratitude seemingly way out of proportion with the very small good deed.
It was only a second later he realized the issue. If Mr. Blair saw her or one of her daughters with it, he might accuse them of stealing it, possibly with the hope of getting a reward. The worst part of this was not that Sebby was now on the hot seat, but that he could so easily figure out how Mr. Blair would handle himself. Being able to see into the heart of such an evil man made him feel wounded and sore. He longed to be far away from Mr. Blair but it just wasn't possible. Everything, every bit of their survival, was reliant on what they had at the Chamberlin Inn: the small apartment, the meager pay Sebby brought in, and the kindness of a doctor who was allowing them to pay him a little each week.
Hurrying, he went outside and crossed the small alley between the hotel proper and the outbuilding where, upstairs, he and Pop had been living for the past few weeks. The rent was free, on account of Mrs. Chamberlin's charity, but there was no heat, barely any hot water, and only a pot-bellied stove to make tea on and heat their potato peel soup.
As quietly as he could, he snuck up the narrow staircase and let himself into the apartment as though he was a burglar of some kind, closing the door with a silent snick.
Pop was in his armchair, which was as close to the pot-bellied stove in the corner as it could possibly be. Not that it made any difference, as they only had one lump of coal a day and it had to last through the night, all the way to morning. Still, they had the semblance of being near a warm fire, and could make do if they wrapped themselves in blankets and pretended to be of good cheer.
At night, they put the lump of coal in the pot-bellied stove, lit it, and slept on blankets on the floor in front of it. It was a damn sight better than the alternative, which was being homeless and on the streets in such foul weather, but it broke Sebby's heart every time he thought about his Pop and his bad cough and the number of strips he had to cut for a penny apiece, just to help pay the doctor's bills.
As he thought, Pop was asleep, so Sebby straightened the blanket around Pop's shoulders, and put the scissors on the table, the box of cloth and strips on the floor. The more rest Pop got, the faster he would get better. Besides, Sebby had fifty cents so he could buy them a little food. It couldn't be all bad as long as they could eat. As to what Sebby would tell Pop about taking Mr. Hemingway's charity, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was headed out to pay the doctor's bill and, with what was left over, buy them a little food to eat.
Father's Day 2005 by Frank W Butterfield
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, June 19, 2005
7:04 a.m. PDT
"Boss?"
Nick opened his eyes and said, "Yeah?"
Carter sat down on the bed next to him. From what Nick could see, his husband was wearing nothing but a green pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt that was light blue. He'd obviously been working out at his gym below the pool that was located on the other side of the garden behind the house. With a smile, he said, "Rigo's gonna be getting you up here in a minute. Yesterday was a big day at the mayor's wedding with all the dancing and all the drinking. How're you feelin'?"
Nick licked his dry lips. "A little sore, I guess." He licked his lips again. "And a little hungover."
Carter laughed. "Well, I have one of my pick-me-ups right here if you want it."
Nick rolled his eyes. "How nasty is it?"
"Not too bad. There's fresh papaya in it."
Nick sighed. "Fine."
Carter reached his arm under Nick's back and, almost effortlessly, pulled him into an upright position. That was when Nick saw the glass of bright yellow liquid sitting on the table next to the bed with a glass straw sticking out of it. Carter grabbed it, held it up for Nick, and said, "Here you go."
Taking the glass, Nick had a tentative sip. He nodded. "Not bad. Kinda sweet, kinda grassy."
"Drink it all if you can. It'll put even more hair on your chest."
Nick took another sip and then asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"
"Bob and Mario will be here for breakfast at 9."
Nick nodded. "Good. What else?" He took another sip. The yellow goop wasn't half bad.
"Then, after some pool time, we're all going to lunch in the private room at the Top of the Mark. David and Ricky are joining us with Anita, who just turned 3, by the way, and David's parents."
"Tell me their names, again."
"His name is Dr. Peter Jansen. Her name is Marie Markham. He used to be a professor down at UC Santa Cruz and even taught Bob when he was there. She's the writer."
"Right," said Nick as he remembered the fact that he'd optioned her latest novel a couple of months ago to make it into a movie at some point. "Did you ever read her book?"
"I'm the one who suggested you buy the option, Nick."
Looking into his husband's emerald green eyes, Nick said, "Some days are better than others."
Carter grinned. "There's a lotta history rolling around in your head, son. I don't expect you to remember everything." He reached over and ran his hands through Nick's hair. "Besides, this isn't a sign of dementia. You've never remembered stuff like that. That's why you keep me around."
Nick snorted and handed the almost-empty glass back to Carter who put it on the table. "I keep you around, fireman, because you're the most handsome man on seven continents."
Carter leaned forward and kissed Nick on the lips. "Wanna know why I keep you around?"
Nick kissed him back. "Sure."
"It's that famous right hook of yours."
Chuckling, Nick said, "Why? Afraid I'd land one on you if you ever left me?"
It was Carter's turn to snort. "Hell, no, son. I keep you around so I can threaten folks. I tell 'em that, if they ever cross me, I'll send you out after 'em."
"That's ridiculous, Carter Jones."
"Really?"
"You haven't threatened anyone since you told Ronald Reagan to go to hell in 1986."
Carter looked a little forlorn as he nodded and sat up. "You're right about that, son."
Bunny Hop Beau by Lacey Daize
Chapter 1 - Avery
~January~
I side-eyed the fax machine as it picked up a piece of paper and started printing. The thing was a constant thorn in my side, but no matter how often I tried to convince my bosses that it was obsolete, they insisted that we keep it.
Apparently some people still preferred to fax documents, no matter how secure and convenient the web portals we offered.
I blinked as it picked up a second sheet. The spam adverts that it usually printed always fit on a single page, which meant that it was one of the rare real faxes. I snagged the cover sheet and noted the number of expected pages, and whom in the office I needed to hand it over to.
I smiled when I saw that José—a handsome alpha mortgage broker—was the intended recipient. It gave me an excuse to talk to him.
I’d met José six months earlier, when I first arrived in Valle Granja, and my instincts had immediately insisted that I get close to him. The urge was almost as strong as the one that had made me move there.
I didn’t question it at first. My mama had always stressed that the universe knew what it was doing, and that it guided us through our instincts. But after months of flirting, and him seemingly oblivious, I was starting to wonder if that inner voice had been wrong.
Once the fax finished printing I checked to make sure that it had all arrived properly, then took it to José’s office.
Unfortunately, several minutes—and even an invitation to lunch—later, he still seemed as immune to my flirting as ever.
I forced a smile as one of the other mortgage brokers, Morgan, headed towards me, and passed him as I walked to the break room.
I was almost there when I realized that I’d left my cell phone at the front desk. I turned around to grab it, but stopped when I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.
“...I ran into my old highschool boyfriend, and… I’ve still got it bad for him,” Jose said
“From high school?” Morgan asked. “Man, you’ve gotta move on. It’s been more than a decade, right? Why not give Avery a chance? He’s obviously interested.”
I plastered myself against the wall. Listening was wrong, but I needed to know.
“No omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice,” José replied. “They deserve a mate who looks at them, and knows that there could never be another. We owe them that much since all the consequences of a failed mating falls on them.”
“I didn’t say mate him, just date him.”
“That would be leading him on, and I’m not down for that.”
“Whatever man. Your loss, but maybe you should let him know so he can move on too.”
Jose sighed. “You’re probably right.” There was a pause, then he continued. “So what did you need?”
I stepped away and decided to return to the break room without my cell phone rather than walk past the open office door and give away that I might have heard the conversation.
I needed to think. How had my instincts been so wrong to lead me to a man who was in love with somebody else?
∞∞∞
I flopped on the couch and removed my glasses. I rubbed at a spot with the hem of my shirt until I was satisfied that whatever it was was gone, then I started to put them back on. It was then that a lock of blond hair decided to fall in front of my eyes. I huffed and smoothed it back into place, making a mental note to get a haircut, then put my glasses back on. Finally I picked up my phone. It was time for my weekly call with my parents, and I really wanted to talk to my mama.
José’s words had echoed in my head for days. “No omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice…”
There was a finality in the statement. He would always love his high-school boyfriend, and it would never change. Anybody else would be the backup option.
I knew in my core that the universe wouldn’t pair me with an alpha who would forever carry a torch for somebody else. But I still had a strong urge to be near him.
I blew out a breath and tapped my parents’ number from my contact list.
“Avery! Sweetheart!” my mama said as she answered. “How are you doing?”
I smiled. Somehow just hearing Mama’s voice always lifted my spirits. “I’m good, Mama. How about you?”
She laughed. “Busy as always. You know how it is.”
“I know. But you’ll have to slow down at some point.”
“Ridiculous!” she replied. “Only death itself can slow down your dad and I.” “Somehow I’m not surprised,” I laughed. “How’s Eric?”
Mama sighed happily. “He’s good. He’s at a birthday party for one of his classmates right now.”
I chuckled. “And you were worried that he wouldn’t make friends.”
“All the other parents are your age or younger!” Mama protested. “Your dad and I are in our fifties.”
“I don’t think anybody cares about that,” I argued. “What they care about is Eric, and what they see is a happy and healthy five-year-old.”
Mama sighed happily. “He reminds me so much of you at that age. Full of energy, and so kind to everybody. I bet he’ll even look like you when you grow up. He’s got the same blond hair and slight frame. Just missing the glasses, though the pediatrician’s keeping an eye on his vision. I just wish you’d have been born closer together.”
“Life does funny things. It just decided that I needed a baby brother to keep you busy until I have kids of my own.”
“That it does, and we’re happy to have him around.” Mama paused. “Did you want me to call in your dad?”
I licked my lips, trying to decide.
“Ave? Honey?”
“Mama?”
“Yes dear?
“Do you remember when I moved out here, that I felt that my instincts were pulling me?”
“Of course.”
“Did I tell you about the alpha at my work?”
Mama hummed as she thought about the question. “You mentioned that there was a handsome alpha there, but that was all. Are things going ok?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. My gut says to stay close to him, and I thought that meant that I was going to end up with him at some point. But I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Oh honey, what happened?”
I took a deep breath. “I overheard him talking to another mortgage broker at the firm. Apparently he’s still in love with an omega he dated in high school.”
Mama hummed. “Ok…”
I paused. “Mama… he said something that I can’t get out of my head.”
“What was it?”
“He said that no omega should ever be an alpha’s second choice.”
Mama sighed softly. “He’s right.”
I blinked. “Mama?”
“He’s right. But it goes both ways. Nobody should ever be the second choice, alphas or omegas. You want a partner who looks at you and can’t imagine anybody better.”
“What’s it mean though? Why are my instincts insisting that I get close to him if I would only be second best?”
“Just because the universe says to get close, doesn’t mean they’re supposed to be your mate. I don’t think it’s ever really discussed, but if we can have fated mates, then surely we can have fated friends.”
“Fated friends?”
Mama laughed. “Why not? If the universe wants people to be close, it doesn’t have to limit it to romantic partners.”
I was silent as I thought about it. Was I meant to have José as a friend, not as a mate? Somehow it felt right.
“Did that answer your question honey?”
I smiled. “It did. I feel better now. Thanks Mama.”
“I think you already knew the answer, but sometimes it helps to talk things out.”
“You’re probably right.”
Mama laughed. “Only on good days. Let me call in your dad so he can talk too.”
“Ok.”
She set down the phone and I closed my eyes, running over our conversation while I waited for my dad to join her.
Mama always knew just what to say to make me feel better about myself, and I couldn’t imagine life without her.
Spring Rains by RJ Scott
Chapter One
Noah
Sitting in the car with the engine idling, I stared through the car window at Lily's Diner, halfway down Main Street, in the small town of Whisper Ridge. The windows were covered on the inside with broken down packing boxes and a solitary rainbow cling was stuck between the cardboard and the glass. Peering through the windshield, which was being covered by a thickening layer of snowflakes, I reached for the controls and flicked on the windshield wipers. The blades moved back and forth, clearing away the snow, so I could get a better look.
“It’s strange seeing it like that,” I said to Fox, nodding toward the diner.
My son, with the requisite shrug of not caring about anything these days, glanced at me, then back down at his phone.
The wipers continued their rhythmic motion, swiping away the snow that was falling heavier now. We sat in silence for a moment, the gentle patter of snowflakes against the car so pretty.
“It used to be so full of life,” I added. “It’s a shame to see it all boarded up like that. Well not boarded. I mean, with flattened boxes, cardboard I think. What do you think?”
Fox grumbled something under his breath, but I was used to that— he hadn’t forgiven me for leaving Columbus for this trip down memory lane, whatever the reason.
I stared back at the diner and couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. It was something from my past, memories of happier times before everything imploded. Despite its abandoned state— Lily had been gone for over a year now— the place was part of Whisper Ridge's history, a reminder of better times.
Thank you, Aunt Lily. I wish I’d come back sooner. I’m so sorry.
Out front, the Lily’s Diner sign, with its open white flower and my great-aunt's name, swung gently. For some reason, she'd left the place to me, so Aunt Lily’s little piece of Whisper Ridge was mine now, and even sitting here in my car, staring up at the sign, I didn’t know if I deserved it. The town was smaller than I remembered, or maybe I felt bigger, older, weighed down by everything that had happened since I was last here. Not least the divorce, which was still a fresh hurt, and one of the reasons I’d decided not to sell the property, but to reopen the diner.
Somewhere new for us.
Safe.
A fresh start for me and for my son, Fox, because there was no way my ex, Briggs Lewiston, MLB pitcher for the Columbus River Kings, would be seen dead in the-middle-of-nowhere Wyoming.
Not to mention, it might give me a chance to get my head straight and stop jumping at shadows.
Fox, slouched in the passenger seat, was the spitting image of his dad, Briggs, with his dark brown eyes, blond hair falling in a curtain over one eye, and that stubborn tilt to his chin telling me he was pissed. He’d been tapping away on his phone, as he had been doing the entire three days and change hotels and driving it had taken to get here, and now, as he stared at the diner, his brows were knitted in a frown that seemed to be his default expression these days. Fourteen was a wonder of mood swings and surliness and boy did Fox ace every facet of being a teenager.
“Why here, Dad? I mean, look at this place.” Fox’s voice was flat, his gaze not leaving the screen.
At least he was back to calling me Dad. There had been a shaky few months after I’d left Briggs and gotten custody of Fox, when he’d decided I didn’t have to be called Dad. Never mind that I’d brought him up since Briggs and I married when Fox was six. I’d been the one ferrying Fox to school, attending events, helping with homework, teaching him to swim… me. I loved Fox. I was his dad in every way possible.
Hell, I’ll take Fox calling me Dad again as a win in a very long battle.
I sighed, my fingers wrapping around the cool metal of the diner keys. “It’s a fresh start, Fox. For both of us.”
He snorted, finally checking out the diner. “A fresh start in a freaking ghost town. Great.”
“Language,” I murmured without heat.
Fox rolled his eyes. “I hate Papa, but at least we had a life back there.”
The implication scared the hell out of me— was Fox thinking we shouldn’t have left? If Fox ever chose to go back to Briggs over me, that would be his decision. Biologically, he was Briggs’s son, but I’d have run away to a country with no extradition rights before letting Fox anywhere near his dad until he was old enough to decide for himself. Thankfully, Briggs’s indifference to his son, and some of the things Fox had seen his dad do to me, meant he was with me. There was so much I could’ve said about why his father’s world had no room for us, but the words caught in my throat, tangled up in the heartache and betrayal.
Instead, I stared at Fox, really looked at him, and part of me hoped the things he’d seen were forgotten, because I didn’t want him carrying fear and hurt around forever. But to suggest moving back with Briggs? “Fox, your papa… he’s got his life, and it’s not one that’s good for us. Not anymore, you know that.” The DUI charge, gambling, throwing games, filing freaking bankruptcy… the everything messing up Briggs’s former charmed life, was a hateful place for anyone to be, let alone a fourteen-year-old kid abandoned by one of his parents.
“Whatever,” Fox said, trying for sullen, but the weight of sadness in his tone was overwhelming.
“And this diner, it’s a piece of family, of history, and maybe it can be a good thing for us, a fresh start somewhere new.” He shot me an incredulous stare, as if I’d said I was happy we’d moved to the moon. “We could’ve stayed in Columbus, then I wouldn’t have had to leave school. Seb is having a party this weekend, and I’m missing out.”
I schooled my features into sympathy, but all I could think was thank fuck he was missing any party with those asshole kids he’d hung around with. To say I wasn’t fond of the friends he’d had at the academy was an understatement. The school and the pupils were obsessed with materialism, constantly surrounded by the best and most expensive things— nothing in their lives had any authenticity. I didn't want Fox to be a part of that.
I pressed on, trying to connect with him by changing the subject. “You know, my Aunt Lily used to show me how to make the most awesome pies right in that kitchen. It’s where I learned to love her craft, and that’s why I chose to be a pastry chef.”
Fox was unmoved by my statement, taking in the weathered facade of Lily’s Diner. “That’s your ancient history, Dad. It’s not mine.”
“It could be yours too,” I murmured, more to myself than to Fox. Memories of Aunt Lily’s warm laugh, the scents of her baking, and the summers I’d spent here until I was eleven… those short weeks each year were some of the happiest times of my life. Until, just like that, they were gone. My parents divorced, my dad heading off to find himself and never coming back. Then, Mom remarried and moved herself and me to France, and an entire ocean between me and this tiny town had severed any connection I had to Whisper Ridge.
I placed a hand on Fox’s shoulder, feeling the tension in him.
“I know this is hard on both of us, but how about we give it a chance, Fox, see how it goes, and if in six months you want to go back…”
He turned a hopeful gaze to me. “For real?”
What did I do? We couldn’t go back to Columbus, back to the media gaze, and Briggs, and the River Kings fans who didn’t believe their beloved pitcher had done anything wrong at all.
“Give me six months, to the end of the summer, yeah?”
He narrowed his gaze. “August is eight months, not six.”
“Eight months then.”
He grimaced, frowned, then faced the diner again, his shoulders tight. That was all I was going to get— an agreement to try at least for a few months, albeit a frustrated, angry silent one. I knew that was as much as I could ask for the time being.
I could only hope this chance I’d taken would be enough for us, that we’d open the old diner, make a go of it, find our place in this town, and then stay. I felt for a moment things could get better for us both. I had to believe that for Fox and for me. This diner wasn’t only a building; it was a link to my past, and maybe it was a foundation for a new beginning if I could manage it. Everything might go wrong. I might fuck everything up, and Fox might end up hating me, but I had to try.
“Okay, you want to go inside and check it out?”
He shot me his patented do-I-have-to stare, but then he nodded. “Okay, then coats on, gloves, hat, scarf; it’s cold out there.”
Fox muttered something about knowing how to dress in the cold, and we bundled up to brave the bitter iciness of this mid-January day in the Wyoming mountains. As we stepped out of the car, the crisp, cold air hit me, sending a shiver down my spine, and freezing my breath. I pulled my scarf up to cover my face, and saw Fox had done the same, his eyes wide at the shock of ice. Whisper Ridge was a stunning white canvas, the peaks of the Wind River Range barely visible, shrouded by heavy, dark clouds. Snow blanketed everything, smoothing out the rough edges of the landscape and draping the trees lining Main. The streets were deserted, but then, it was three in the afternoon on a Saturday, and I thought maybe I’d seen one or two people, but I imagined the whole town had decided to huddle indoors, away from the biting cold. The buzz I remembered of everyone going about their business was absent, replaced by a hushed stillness only a heavy snowfall could bring. With each faint crunch of my shoes against the snow-packed ground, I left a crisp imprint behind.
I paused for a moment, taking in the serene beauty of it all. The way the snowflakes danced in the air before settling, the soft outline of the stores under their snowy roofs, the quiet— it was all breathtaking. The harshness of the cold was undeniable, but so was the beauty it brought.
“It’s a winter wonderland,” I mumbled into my scarf, but a gust of icy wind stole my words, and Fox didn’t hear my fanciful nonsense. We headed for the door.
“Aunt Lily’s legacy to us,” I said a little louder.
“She’s not my Aunt Lily,” Fox muttered, his voice muffled by his River Kings scarf. He was right— she was my mom’s aunt, no blood relation to Fox, a bit like me, but the link through me was unshakeable.
He was a step in front of me, his reluctance showing in trudging through the banked snow, scuffing his boots as he stuck in his ear buds, but at least he’d headed out.
The key turned, and as I went inside, I waited for the jingle of the bell sounding like a welcome home, but there was nothing, the metal kick plate bent back to stop the noise. The inside was a stark contrast to the warm, buttery smells that had greeted me each morning on of those summers long ago, in the original diner. The life in this new place had surely faded since Lily’s passing, and it felt like a photograph from an old album— frozen in time, colors dull— and the sound of our footsteps was the only noise as we closed the door behind us. Despite shutting out the snow, it was as icy cold inside as it was out.
There were still scuff marks on the worn linoleum floor, and we followed them in. By the glow of my phone, I located and tried the lights, but there was no electricity, which was another thing on my to-do list. Instead, I eased out the loose hooks and took down the cardboard blocking the window on that side of the restaurant. The sudden appearance of the pale sun bounced off the snow filtering inside to give us enough light to find our way.
I inhaled sharply as old memories flooded my thoughts and left me feeling something between the grief of never having come back to Whisper Ridge and a manic happiness at being here now. It was the oddest sensation, and I wondered how much of it was bound up in leaving Briggs and feeling free for the first time in eight years.
“Look!” Fox exclaimed.
I followed his finger, which was pointed toward the back wall, where, in bright neon orange, there was a crudely drawn cock and balls. Vandals had been inside, and I glanced around, searching for more damage, but couldn’t see any. Stools were pushed haphazardly under the counter. The red vinyl seats had small cracks and creases and were more of a sad looking thing than a reminder of the people who’d sat there. On one of them, the stuffing peeked through the cover, and I poked at it with a finger.
“This is so sad,” Fox said with a sigh, pushing open the door to the kitchen. Above the counter, a menu board hung without the descriptions of daily specials, and every corner of the place sat empty of life.
“What am I doing?” I asked the empty space, given Fox had vanished. I was worried for a moment. Then, recalling the layout of the place, knew there wasn’t much space for him to get lost in. There again, were there knives in the kitchen? “Don’t touch anything sharp!” I called out.
“Doh,” Fox replied, his voice dulled by the closed serving pass.
Doh was another word that Fox used a lot, specifically when I asked him to watch out for something, as if I hadn’t had to take him to the emergency room when he’d climbed the tree in the yard.
The teenager handbook, page 5, doh. Page 6, whatever. I had an entire list of things I could add to the book. Talking of lists, I took off one of my gloves and pulled out my phone. Top of the to-do list was to enroll Fox into the local middle/ high school in nearby Collier Springs. Next was visiting the bank, third was a lawyer. I scrolled down and added a new line, electric to the diner, then pushed the glove back on before my fingers froze.
Our new home.
It needed a breath of life, a new beginning, but with the apartment above, this could be what we needed. The U-Haul wouldn’t be here until Thursday, so, in the meantime, we were booked into Ridge Hotel, which, if I remembered right, had barely more than eight rooms on a good day. Plenty of time to roll my sleeves up and get the apartment in shape for Fox and me. Time to get the electricity back on because this place needed to be loved again. And maybe, just maybe, Fox and I would be the ones to bring it back to life.
And fix us in the process.
The Omega's Krampus Christmas by Lorelei M Hart
Prologue
Alger
Once Upon a Time
Teaching school paid next to nothing, but I had cheap lodgings and some of the families made me meals from time to time, which helped keep body and soul together. Some did not consider teaching a man’s job, one that could support a family, but at least for the time being, my pleasure in helping to form young minds superseded any other factors.
Especially at the holiday season. On the last day of school before the Christmas vacation break, we suspended regular classes to bring all the classes together in the decorated auditorium for a holiday recital and festivities before sending the children to their frolics until the New Year.
This year, our class would be singing a selection of Christmas carols and I, dressed in the red suit of Saint Nick popularized by Clement Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas or A Visit from Saint Nicholas would appropriately read that story to close the event. As I prepared for my reading, a little sadness tugged at my heart. It was easy to pretend I had enough time with these children during class terms, but on holidays, when they were with their real families, the loneliness seeped in. Maybe I should have aspired to another career.
Sitting in the armchair placed at the front of the stage, with my students seated on the floor around me, my heart warmed. Sometimes the poverty many of them lived in daunted their spirits, but now smiles of pride at their performance lifted the corners of their lips. They’d indeed done well, and Santa Claus might have taken notice from his North Pole residence. I cleared my throat, bemused at my suspension of logic. Christmastime always made me sentimental, reminded me of my parents and brother, grandparents, all those who’d already departed this realm. They would celebrate the birth of the Christ Child with the angels in heaven, while I sat in my rented room eating whatever someone thought to bring me from their holiday table.
Even my landlady, who often included me in her holidays, would be away. I’d put her on the train myself, this morning, laden with presents and baked goods she’d prepared. I didn’t resent her good fortune this year. Her married daughter had remembered she had a mother for the first time since my arrival and invited her for the festive season. Mrs. Dougherty’s excitement had been contagious, buoying my spirits as I waved until the train disappeared down the tracks.
Such a good soul, she deserved happiness. A tug on my trousers reminded me of where I was, and I began the poem. I recited more than read the beloved verses, putting as much heart into them as possible. My gift to the children whose faces I gazed into every school day, who learned their letters and numbers at my tutelage.
I taught the youngest of them, tasked with giving them a love of learning as much as any specific knowledge. If they had that love, they would do well going forward.
Finishing the reading, I closed the large book on my lap and chuckled as I thought Saint Nicholas might have before going up the chimney after laying out the gifts for the children of the house in the story.
Silence for a moment had me worried I’d not done justice to the tale, but then appreciative applause reassured me. The book was one my mother read the same story to me from, precious in its faded covers and holding just as much magic now as then. After I finished, the headmaster stood from his seat at the back of the stage and made a short speech. The same speech, word for word, as last year and the year before. But it suited the occasion and sent everyone off with a smile and a wave.
A few other teachers and I supervised some of the older boys putting the auditorium to rights before closing the school for two weeks. When we were done, and all the handmade decorations removed, it looked so dull. But clean and ready for the events of a new term.
As we were leaving, I spotted a bit of litter near the stage, so I bid the others goodbye, said I would lock the doors as I went, and crossed the room to pick it up. Alone, I looked around again. Just an hour or so ago, it had been filled with singing and laughter and bright colors both in the decorations and the students’ and their families’ holiday best attire.
Now, there was just me, in my brown jacket and trousers, not one sprig of greenery or red ribbon in sight. And since we’d turned down the furnace, the warm air in the room was being replaced by a distinct chill.
Time to go home.
I was about to leave the building when I saw a small boy sitting on a chair by the door, kicking his feet and staring at the floor. Little Timothy from my class. All by himself. I approached him and took the seat beside his.
“Timothy, did your fathers leave without you?” All the families were invited to the holiday recital, filling the auditorium with their appreciation for their children’s performances.
“No, Mr. Bobell.” His legs slowed their kicking but did not stop. Nor did he look up from his focus on the black-and-white tiles.
Oh. “They were unable to attend today, then.” He looked so sad.
“They never come. Like they didn’t come on Meet the Teacher night. Or our spelling bee or...or anything. Sir.”
I didn’t always get to speak to every parent when they came. Some were shy or just never made it to the front of the room for one reason or another. But from the children’s reports, nearly all their parents or guardians attended when we invited them. Making the invitations was always a fun and popular activity for our art class the week before, and I had some very talented artists in my room this year. Timothy was one of the best. “Sometimes parents are very busy with their responsibilities and cannot take time to enjoy themselves. It’s a shame. But we must try to understand.”
He did lift his eyes to mine at that point, and they held all the pain and disappointment no child should have to experience.
“I have to lock up now, Timothy. Can you see yourself home?” Some did, and some others had a parent or older sibling to walk them.
“Yes, sir. I always go home alone.”
Alone. I had a feeling he often arrived into an empty house. His worn shoes and everyday clothes had stood in stark contrast to most of the other children’s holiday outfits, but poor didn’t mean abused or neglected, and not all had new clothes. But his sad loneliness said it all. How had I not realized just how bad things were? Maybe because we were not allowed to interfere with students’ outside of school, and parents had absolute authority there. Knowing they had it rough made it even harder to do my job and treat all the children equally.
Still.
Timothy stood and started for the door, but on a whim, I stopped him with a question. “Timothy, what is your wish this Christmas?” If it was within my power to grant it for him, I would, even if it meant I skipped a meal or two.
“A cookie,” he replied. “Like my grandma used to make before she died.”
My heart squeezed so hard, I gasped for a moment before recovering my breath. My mind worked furiously. Where had I seen cookies? A big cookie on a plate! “Timothy, do not leave. I will be right back.”
I dashed down the hall to Mr. Samberg’s class where, on his desk, sat a plate with a large, perfect, dark-brown molasses cookie. A single delight that might bring a smile to a young man’s face. Mr. Samberg was gone already, and by the time we returned from our holiday, it would be gone anyway, food for a stray mouse.
Timothy was still there when I returned, and I gave him the cookie, thrilled to see the sadness retreat from his expression while he studied the marvel in his hands. “This is all for me? This whole cookie?”
“Merry Christmas, Timothy.” I held the door open, turned off the lights, and followed him outside. “Be a good boy, and I’ll see you after New Year’s.” I locked the door and by the time I turned to leave, the little boy was nowhere in sight. I wished I had so much more to give to this child and to the others who might have less-than happy Christmases for different reasons this year.
Like me, many had lost relatives in the Spanish Flu epidemic a few years before, others had folks who were out of work or had debt that made it impossible to buy things for a festive meal or gifts.
Saddened by the thoughts that not all the children I taught would have what all children should have for Christmas, I trudged away from the school building.
“Hey, you. I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Teacher.”
That couldn’t be...but it was. An elf.
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Lacey DaizeLacey lives in New Mexico with her four critters. She’s a Jill-of-all-trades by day, but loves writing in her spare time. She dabbles in a variety of pairings, but jumped feet-first into the deep end of omegaverse the first time she read it. She loves the play on social expectations and the different ways to express romance.
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.
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 ;).
Jackie North
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com
Frank W Butterfield
Father's Day, 2005 by Frank W Butterfield
Bunny Hop Beau by Lacey Daize
Spring Rains by RJ Scott
KOBO / WEBSITE / GOODREADS TBR
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