Father's Day, 2005 #12
Summary: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.
Gay Freedom, 1977 #13
Summary:Sunday, June 26, 1977
It's a foggy Sunday morning and Nick and Carter are hosting a breakfast brunch at their house on Sacramento Street.
It's the perfect way to start off a day that will include the Gay Freedom Day Parade which is promising to be bigger than ever!
However, Nick is running late and is still getting dressed when a friend from Florida knocks on the bedroom door.
Turns out he wants Nick to have a quick meeting with a client which ends up being quite surprising, to say the least.
It's the 70s and nothing is like it used to be...
But love is still love and, by the end of the day, Nick is in Carter's strong arms, and all is as it should be.
Independence Day, 1976 #14
Summary:Sunday, July 4, 1976
It's America's Bicentennial! And it's a day the whole country has been anticipating for a while.
The original plan was for Nick and Carter to take some of the old gang out for a cruise around the bay and watch the day's fireworks up close once the sun sets.
Unfortunately, it's July in San Francisco and the forecast is for fog to settle in and not budge.
Fortunately, Nick comes up with a new plan and moves the festivities to a vacant apartment in a building he owns on Russian Hill that's above the fog line so that everyone can see the big, bright explosions celebrating the nation's independence!
Problem solved!
So, the 4th of July should be a walk in the park, right?
Well... between breakfast with a famous French director and actress, a Soviet defector who really doesn't like Nick, and a completely unexpected visitor from the past...
There might be a few metaphorical fireworks before the sun finally sets on the Golden Gate.
Still, at the end of the day, it's America's Bicentennial! Don't miss out on what promises to be great fun!
Bastille Day, 1957 #15
Summary:Sunday, July 14, 1957
It's Bastille Day in France and Nick and Carter are hosting a party at their house overlooking the Mediterranean just outside of Nice.
They've flown in friends and family from San Francisco and Boston for the festivities and it's turning out to be a lovely evening.
Then, Carter gets pulled aside with the shocking news that a couple has crashed the party.
Who would pull such a high-handed and socially unacceptable stunt?
It turns out to be none other than the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.
What happens when the only man to have abdicated the throne meets the richest homosexual in the world?
Be sure to read Bastille Day, 1957 to find out!
Father's Day, 2005 #12
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.
Gay Freedom, 1977 #13
Original Review June 2022:
Yet another perfectly timed short for my Happy Pride Month 2022 blog posts. Normally I would probably have posted this as a Monday Memorial Moment post(though considering I turned 4 in 1977 it's hard to think of that year as historical😉😉) but as today is June 26, the same date as the story is set I couldn't not post today.
Now onto Gay Freedom Day, 1977.
Another excellent short in this holiday snippet series. Nick and Carter are strong as ever, happy, in love, and yet Carter seems to be having thoughts of mid-life crisis, at least that is what it seems like to Nick with all the heartachy music his partner has been listening to. When we discover the reason behind his choice of music, it's a highly heart-filled scene. Not having read the original series before experiencing these holiday shorts, probably lessened the connection for me just because I didn't have "first hand" knowledge of the facts but it didn't lessen the heart of the moment.
I love the blend of fiction and the real life events of 1977's Anita Bryant and orange juice boycot. That meshing of fact and fiction brings an interesting and emotional point in Nick and Carter's journey to life. Do they have it easier because of their wealth? Of course but that doesn't mean they didn't face road blocks too but it does allow them to help others find a piece of happiness.
Once again having a look into the window of Nick and Carter's journey has upped the original Nick Williams Mystery series a notch on my TBR List. As much as I'd love to jump in immediately, it looks like a long series(which I am always a big fan of as I'm very much a series kind of gal😉) and I know once I start I won't want to stop but right now real life keeps getting in the way of my reading time. One of these days I won't be able to resist and I have a feeling once I do, I'll revisit many of these holiday shorts to get the full-on Nick and Carter experience.
Independence Day, 1976 #14
Original Review July 2022:
Another great short in the holiday journey of Nick and Carter, though this is probably a tad longer than the previous ones I've read. In 1976, I turned 3(though only 2 1/2 at the time of this short) so the events of the time don't really stand out for me but Frank W Butterfield tells Nick and Carter's Bicentennial celebration in a way that you can't help but feel you lived it with the pair.
I really won't say too much to the story itself but I will say I felt like had I read their original adventures I might know a few ins and outs when it comes to one of their surprise guests for the holiday. Having said that, I wasn't lost by any means, enough is revealed to the readers that details fall into place.
We meet old and new characters(well new to me not having read the originals yet) and together they all find a place to celebrate our country's bicentennial and as always, Nick and Carter have each other and they have yet again bumped up a notch on my TBR list.
Bastille Day, 1957 #15
Original Review July 2023:
As I've said with the other entries in Frank W Butterfield's Nick and Carter Holiday series, I have not read any of the other full length novel Nick & Carter stories but they creep closer and closer to the top of my TBR list. I mention it again because the only knowledge I have of the multitude of characters in the author's N&C universe is when they pop up in these short novellas so my familiarity is limited.
Those who are more familiar with this world will have a better understanding of Parnell and Leticia as to their positive and negative sides but I'll admit as far as Parnell goes I was surprised by the level of closeness between him and his son, Nick, or maybe I'm remembering things incorrectly from earlier shorts. Either way, it's lovely to see and certainly makes me want to find out more(so I'll know if my recall is playing tricks on me or not😉).
Truth is Bastille Day, 1957 is probably more of a Parnell & Leticia story as the bulk of it centers around unexpected drinks and convos with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Ever since watching Prince Charles and Lady Di's wedding when I was a mere 7 years old I have loved learning about the monarchy and will freely admit that I was taken in by the romance of Edward and Wallis but as I grew up and learned of his fascination with Hitler the rose colored glasses fell away. It was very interesting to see Parnell and Leticia navigate hospitality and courtesy with their true thoughts on the pair for the sake of Nick & Carter's special night. I don't know that I would have been able to do so😉.
Once again, Frank W Butterfield weaves fiction and history into a fun, thoughtful, and entertaining read with interesting characters, both fictious and real. The blending of reality and fiction to reveal a one-night event in the lives of Nick and Carter make Bastille Day, 1957 an enjoyable little gem.
Father's Day, 2005 #12
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."
Gay Freedom, 1977 #13
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, June 26, 1977
9:12 a.m. PDT
"Nick?" That was Ronnie Grisham, a private investigator who worked for us in Fort Lauderdale. He was also a good friend and, along with Tom Jarrell, his husband, were staying with us for a couple of days. They were in town for the Gay Freedom Day parade which was scheduled to start at noon.
"Yeah?"
I heard the door to the bedroom open.
"Are you in the bathroom?"
"Yeah. Just finishing shaving."
"You want me to come back, boy? Are you decent?"
"I try to be, Ronnie. Did you sleep well?"
"Sure did."
I turned towards the doorway as I ran my razor under the water. "Have a seat on the Chesterfield and I'll be out in a minute."
"Sure thing," was the reply.
Bending over the sink, I rinsed my face, feeling for any stray whiskers I might have missed just like my father had taught me to do.
"You sleep well?" asked Ronnie.
"Yeah. How about Tom? Did he like the Sapphire Room this time?"
"He never likes strange beds, but he did pretty well, all things considered." Ronnie paused. "I think that, of all three of them up there, that room is my favorite. No offense to your mama, but that Rose Room is way too pink for my taste."
I laughed, turned off the water, and then reached for a towel. As I patted my face dry, I said, "I never did ask you at dinner last night—how's Howie doing?" I was referring to Howie Kirkpatrick, another private investigator who worked in our office in Fort Lauderdale. Ronnie had trained him back in the 40s and 50s.
Ronnie sighed. It was big and dramatic. I could hear it even in the bathroom.
"Alright, I guess," came the reply as I splashed some aftershave on my face and grimaced just a little at the slight stinging sensation.
"Why just alright?"
"He's way too handsome for one thing."
"He's definitely a looker."
"He's just over 50, you know, but looks like he could be in his early 30s. Everyone swoons over him. He's the most popular gay man in Broward County." Ronnie laughed. "Hell, he's the most popular guy in all of South Florida. If he were to run against Anita Bryant, he'd win, hands down."
I laughed at that as I cleaned up around the sink. "Run for what? She's not in government, is she?"
"Hell, no, boy," replied Ronnie. I walked out of the bathroom and crossed over to the dresser to grab a t-shirt.
"That's what I thought. Did you know—?"
"Jesus, Nick!" exclaimed Ronnie. "You're hairier than ever. Must be all that Welsh blood."
"Guess so," I replied, feeling myself blush. I pulled the t-shirt over my head.
"You'd never know it by all that fog out there, but it's gonna be a warm day, I hear."
I turned to glance out the window. There was a low fog that was maybe a hundred feet above the twin towers of Grace Cathedral. I then walked over to the window, leaned over, and looked at the sign above the Huntington Hotel. The sky was clear beyond.
"Whatcha lookin' at?"
"The fog." I turned back to Ronnie and added, "It'll be gone by about 10."
Standing, Ronnie turned and looked across at the cathedral. "I don't know that I could fuck Tom if I knew that church as lookin' in the window. It's a good thing we couldn't see it from upstairs."
I was sitting on the bench at the end of the bed and pulling on my sneakers by then. I laughed.
"That's been there all of my life. I forget about it most of the time."
Ronnie crossed his arms and stared down at me. "How'd that thing survive the 'quake?"
I laced up my left shoe and said, "I'm not that old. The first stone wasn't laid until 1910. It was still under construction, more or less, until '65, when—"
I was interrupted by music blaring over the speaker in the corner of the room.
Ronnie grinned over in that direction and said, "The Marshall Tucker Band. Must be Carter."
I sighed and laced up my right shoe. As I did so, I pulled on the laces so hard that the part in my right hand broke. "Fuck!"
"What's goin' there, boy?" asked Ronnie.
Holding up my lace, I said, "I really hate this song."
"'Heard It in a Love Song'?"
"It's Carter's anthem to his mid-life crisis."
Ronnie laughed, staring at me as I walked back over to the dresser and knelt down to open the bottom drawer. "Mid-life crisis, huh?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied, digging through a stash of patterned handkerchiefs that I hoped Ronnie wouldn't notice as I looked for the spare pair of laces I'd seen Gustav put in there back around Memorial Day.
"I just turned 60 in April and I think Carter's just a few years younger—"
"He'll be 57 on the 2nd of August." I found the laces. As I pulled out the pack, two hankies came tumbling out of the drawer.
"What have we here?" asked Ronnie, bending over and snatching up the hankies before I could stuff them back in the drawer.
Deciding not to be coy, I said, "What do you think they are?"
Ronnie stood, grinned, and walked over to the window. "Let's see. Mustard and gray."
I closed the drawer, stood, and walked back over to the bench. Pulling out the broken shoelace, I asked, "Do you know what they stand for?"
His lips pursed in amusement, Ronnie said, "Hell, yeah. I may live in Florida, but I don't live under a rock." He examined the mustard hanky. "So, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that this one must be Carter's and he wears it in his left pocket since his is a lot longer than 8 inches from everything I hear."
"You've seen it in the pool, Ronnie. You know how big it is."
Ronnie chuckled and then said, "This gray one must be yours and you wear it in the right pocket since we all know how things are between you and Carter." He waved that hanky in the air. "I can't imagine you callin' him 'master' though."
I reached up to grab the hanky but he held it up in the air so I couldn't reach it. He was about an inch taller than Carter at 6'5".
"In fact," he said, "I know he calls you 'Boss', so this is rather confusin', if you know what I mean."
"And I call him 'Chief'," I said as Karen Carpenter began to sing all about how 'All You Get From Love Is A Love Song'.
Ronnie walked over to the dresser and began to fold the hankies. "Is this the radio?"
"It's a reel-to-reel that's playing in the cabinet by the bar in the dining room."
"So, Carter purposely chose this song?"
"Yeah," I said as I sat down to pull on my right sneaker and lace it up.
Ronnie sighed. "I see what you mean. This is a song for single people." He sighed again. "Or people who're divorced." He knelt down, opened the bottom drawer, and put the hankies back. He then chuckled. "Black. Of course. There should be two of those in here."
I couldn't see him from where I was sitting but I knew what he would find.
"Yep. And there are." He closed the drawer, stood, and then leaned against the dresser. Crossing his arms, he looked at me with a lascivious grin and asked, "So do y'all have a dungeon somewhere? I mean I know this house gets bigger every time we come and visit." His grin widened. "Hell, it could be in the attic above where we were last night."
I shook my head. "We use the attic for storage. That used to be where Doris lived when she lived in." She was our cook.
He nodded and wiggled his eyebrows. "So where do y'all do your thang?"
I patted the big post on the corner of the bed closest to the window. "Here."
He tilted his head and then walked over to stand next to me. Reaching out, he grabbed the post and tried to shake it. It didn't budge, of course. "Solid."
I stood. "Yeah. My grandfather built a bed so sturdy that his grandson's husband could throw me around however he wants to."
Ronnie frowned a little. "You're the grandson, right?"
I laughed as I moved the bench out of the way and got down on the floor. "Yeah."
Ronnie leaned over. "Whatcha doin' now?"
I looked up at him. "My Uncle Paul left me all sorts of things when he died."
"Oh?"
I reached under the bed and pulled out an old wooden chest. "Yeah."
"What in the world is that?"
I patted the top. "It's something Carter and I picked up in Paris back in '56 after Uncle Paul's best friend passed away."
"What's in there?"
I opened the lid and said, "A century of depravity."
Ronnie knelt down and looked inside. He picked up a set of iron manacles. "Are these old timey handcuffs?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Kinda rusty, aren't they?"
I grinned at him. "Makes 'em more fun that way."
He laughed and then put them back in the chest. He then pulled out something else. "What the hell is this?"
I cleared my throat, suddenly realizing what I was doing and, for the first time, remembering Grace Cathedral was staring at us through the window.
"Never mind," said Ronnie as he looked more closely at it. "I wonder if Tom would like something like this."
"It's for looking at only," I said, the rush of embarrassment getting stronger. Right then, Barbra Streisand started singing about how the feeling was gone and that her heart belonged to her.
Ronnie nodded and put the thing back. He stood and rubbed his hands together. "Everything in here is clean."
Nodding a little nervously, he pointed to the bathroom and asked, "You mind if I wash up?"
"Sure."
While he ran the water, I put the chest away, wondering if I should have just kept it hidden away. Only a few people knew about it and what was inside. I knew Ronnie could be a little gossipy at times, but he was a good private investigator and knew when to keep his mouth shut.
As I stood and pushed the bench back into place, Ronnie turned off the water and began to dry his hands. "Hearin' this song, you'd think that you and Carter were on the rocks or somethin' like that."
"I know," I replied, thinking we really needed to get downstairs. There was a small crowd gathered for a pre-parade breakfast buffet and, for a variety of reasons, I was late getting down there. I could smell all the good stuff Doris and her team of helpers were cooking for everyone and my stomach was starting to rumble.
Ronnie walked out of the bathroom. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Nope," I replied, mostly confident I was right. "Like I said. It's just a mid-life crisis."
Ronnie leaned against the bed post. "He seems a little old for that."
I nodded.
"And these sad songs don't sound like his normal kinda thing." Ronnie grinned. "Remember Albany? Right after his mother passed?" He rubbed a bare arm. "I still get goose pimples when I think of him dancin' to all that Motown music."
I nodded.
"Any other symptoms of a mid-life crisis?"
I grinned. "He wants to go visit the French station down in Antarctica."
Ronnie's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What?"
"If we go, we can't go until December since it's winter down there right now."
Ronnie nodded as if I was crazy. "Sure. Yeah." He ran his hand through his hair. "And I guess it's dark, right?"
"Definitely."
"The French station? Why not American?"
"Remember, we're citizens of both. And when we met with President Giscard d'Estaing"—I mumbled through his name like I always did since my French was terrible—"right after he was elected in '74, he promised Carter we could go."
"Of course," said Ronnie. "Why, just the other day I was talkin' to President Carter about goin' to the moon." He rolled his eyes.
Independence Day, 1976 #14
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, July 4, 1976
6:05 a.m. PDT
"Nick?"
I stretched and opened my eyes. Carter Jones, my tall ex-fireman of a husband, was looking down at me. Somehow, in the muted light of the foggy dawn, the blend of white, red, and blond hair was highlighted all over his beautiful body.
And, from where I lay in bed, he appeared to be wearing nothing but a pair of red shorts with a white racing stripe down the side. It was a tight pair and showed everything.
I figured he was also wearing his usual pair of white Adidas sneakers (with matching red stripes) and white athletic socks with a red trim. I leaned over to look and confirmed that I was right.
"This is the red workout set," he announced.
"Is the jock red?" I asked. During the previous couple of years, Carter had started wearing a jock strap when he worked out. That was a new thing for him.
He pulled the band of his shorts out a little with his thumb and showed me that it was white. "I'm not completely nuts, Nick."
I put my hands behind my back and grinned. "You coulda fooled me."
He rolled his eyes.
"The only reason you're dressing this way is because of the Russian kid you and Ferdinand are parenting."
Carter frowned. "Parenting?"
I rubbed some sleep out of one eye as I nodded. "Yeah. I'm convinced he defected because he saw a photograph of you back in..." I paused. "Where's he from?"
"Kiev. And he'd be the first to tell you that he's Ukrainian, not Russian."
I shrugged. "It's all Soviet to me."
Carter leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Brushing his lips over my cheeks, he asked, "Did Doris tell you what she's making?"
"Poached eggs served on a mushroom and rice pilaf. Waffles. Bacon. Ham and cheddar quiche."
"Sounds good. Anton is coming over in a minute. We're working out and then it'll be time to get ready for company."
I kissed him back. "I'm going back to sleep then."
. . .
"Parisians?" asked Uncle Paul as his ridiculous monocle glittered in the sunlight. "In my brother's house?"
I snorted. "Yes," I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. "There've been Parisians in that house before. Whole gangs of them, in fact." I looked out at the ocean. We were standing on the deck of our house up in Sonoma County.
Uncle Paul turned to look out at the ocean. "And, yet, you could be here instead."
"Ben asked us to host a brunch," I replied, "so we are."
"I find the entire idea of brunch to be one plainly devised by the bourgeoisie. Don't you agree, Nicholas?"
I didn't reply. There was nothing to say.
"The weather will be quite nice up here while you entertain your new friends in the dampness of the fog."
He was right. Even though he was dead, he was right. Even though he was annoying, he was right. The weather in the City was predicted to be miserably cold and damp and the bay would be socked in. So much for the Bicentennial fireworks.
I turned to look at him. I wondered how, with all the wind, his top hat stayed perfectly perched on his head. "Did you come all the way from the other side just to give me a weather report?"
He smiled. His mustache (which came and went, depending on his mood) was out in full force and twirling on its own like it sometimes did. "No, my dear Nicholas, I brought you here to remind you of the tale of Jacob and Esau."
I frowned. "That's from the Bible, right?"
His eyes danced with amusement as he replied, "Ask Carter all about it."
. . .
"Nick?"
I sat up.
Carter was sitting on his side of the bed, his back covered in sweat. He was peeling off his athletic socks. Without turning, he said, "Time to get up."
"Jacob and Esau..." Feeling like an idiot, I suddenly remembered who they were.
He stopped moving. "What about them?"
Jacob, the older of the two, had shot me on the front steps of The Ritz Hotel in Nice in July of 1957. After trying to kill me, Jacob had shot himself.
Thinking about that day made the spot in my shoulder where the bullet went in begin to throb a little. According to Carter, there was barely a scar there. And I rarely ever thought about what happened that day anymore. It had been 19 years, after all.
Although the bullet didn't do much damage, I lost a lot of blood, went into a coma, and had a weird dream where Uncle Paul took me to see myself at some point in the future. The future me had looked old, wrinkled, and shrunken.
I'd come through the experience with nothing more than a small scar on my back, but Jacob's father, Jean-Louis Auguste Tremont, half-brother of my own father, had a kind of mental breakdown afterwards. However, last I'd heard, he was still going strong and still as much of an asshole as he'd been in '57.
Turning to look at me, Carter asked, "Why'd you ask me about them?"
"I had a dream. Uncle Paul mentioned their names."
Carter looked at me for a long moment, his emerald green eyes searching my face. "What do you think it means?"
I shrugged and then reached over my shoulder to try to scratch the scar, which was beginning to itch. "Dunno. What do you think?"
He watched me struggle for a moment and then stretched out on the bed and patted his belly. I lay across it, feeling how sweaty it still was. Carter began to scratch the skin and rub the scar at the same time.
I purred a little. "I forgot how you used to do that, fireman. That feels good."
"I wonder whatever happened to Ésaü?" He pronounced the name like the French did.
"I don't have a clue."
He continued to rub and scratch. After half a minute, or so, of doing that, he said, "Actually, Nick, I think I know what happened to him."
I was too relaxed to care enough to ask.
. . .
After we'd showered, shaved, and dressed, I was leading Carter down the hallway to the stairs, when the doorbell rang.
"That should be Ben and Carlo," said Carter.
"Yeah," I replied.
By the time we got to the bottom of the stairs, Gustav, our butler and valet, had opened the door and let them in. Ben was looking pensive while Carlo was grinning.
We said our hellos and exchanged hugs. Gustav asked about drinks. We all put in for coffee. With that, he disappeared into the kitchen and I led everyone into the great room.
"How was the penthouse at the Mark Hopkins?" I asked.
"Nice as always," replied Ben. "We really could have stayed here, but we didn't make it into town until almost midnight."
"And we didn't need to stay in the penthouse," added Carlo.
I shrugged and got a good look at both of them.
Carlo, who was a little taller than me, never seemed to age. He had classic Italian features, including beautiful black eyes. His wavy hair was still black. I knew we were around the same age—53—so I figured he'd found someone in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood to make sure his hair stayed black. He also, somehow, had no wrinkles, other than little lines around his eyes when he smiled. I wondered if he'd had work done. They lived and worked in Hollywood. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit.
Ben, who was a little shorter than me, had visibly aged over the years since we'd met back in '53. His wispy blond hair had long ago turned white. And his face was full of wrinkles. In fact, he looked older than the rest of us even though we were all about the same age. I was probably to blame for that since he worked for me, managing Monumental, the movie and TV production company I owned.
"So," said Ben as we all stood around the fireplace, "I see nothing really changes around here."
I asked, "What do you mean?"
He pointed to the roaring fire. "It's the 4th of July."
I laughed as Carter pointed to the open doors which led out into the garden. "That's why."
"Never see anything like that at home," said Carlo.
Carter grabbed the poker. As he pushed a log back and let some sparks fly, he asked, "So Hollywood is home now?"
"We've lived there for 20-odd years, so yeah," replied Carlo.
Gustav arrived right then with coffee.
. . .
Once we all had our cups, Gustav retreated to the kitchen. Carlo and Ben sat next to each other on the sofa. I took the chair facing the front door. Carter put his cup on the coffee table and walked behind me, squeezing my shoulder as he passed by. "Music," was his only comment.
"Did you make a new tape?" I asked.
"Yep."
Carlo looked up at the ceiling. "Did you install those speakers we were talkin' about in April?"
"Yep," replied Carter as he knelt in front of the reel-to-reel tape deck he kept in a cabinet next to the bar in the dining room. "The whole house is wired now."
"Nice," said Carlo as he glanced at Ben over his cup of coffee.
"No, Carlo Martinelli," said Ben in a sour tone of voice, "you may not install speakers all over our house. I don't want to see a mess like that."
I looked at Ben, trying not to grin, and said, "All the wires are hidden."
"I don't care," said Ben as "Philadelphia Freedom" by Elton John began to play.
Carter walked over, grooving a little as he did. When Elton started singing, Carter began to lip synch.
Carlo put down his coffee cup, hopped up, and, in front of the fireplace, held his hand over his belly and made a sliding move.
Carter met him and the two did the bump a couple of times as Ben and I laughed.
"Can you follow?" asked my husband.
Carlo nodded and took Carter's offered hands. "Sure."
The two of them began to do a kind of modified boogie fox trot. Carter led him to the other side of the fireplace. Once they had the room to make the move, he dipped Carlo, quickly brought him back up, and then spun him around once.
It was an impressive thing to watch. Ben and I got up and both applauded. I tried to whistle. It didn't come out right. But no one seemed to notice.
Carter led Carlo to the other side of the room. He spun him around twice and then pulled Carlo in close. The two held tight and boogied in place.
Out of nowhere, Anton, dressed in his waiter's uniform, appeared and began to dance like he was on Soul Train. I knew he'd been watching the show religiously so he could figure out how to dance like all the kids his age did. I had to admit he knew his moves.
As all this went down, Ben and I were both dancing (neither of us were very good, to be honest) and clapping along with the rhythm of the song (or trying to).
Right then, Carter glanced over at me and let Carlo go. Carter said something I couldn't hear because of the music. But Carlo and Anton both nodded and then the three of them formed a line and began to do a synchronized move that reminded me of seeing The Spinners on TV a couple of years earlier. It was amazing and gave me a nice, warm feeling to watch my husband do another one of the thousand things he was naturally good at.
Then the song was over. Ben and I both applauded as Carter, Carlo, and Anton held hands and bowed. That was when I heard other people applauding. Turning, I saw Gustav, Ferdinand (his husband and our gardener and ersatz chauffeur), Doris (our cook), and Rachel (her latest girlfriend) all applauding. Doris whistled and then said, "Y'all should take that act on the road!"
We all laughed at that.
Bastille Day, 1957 #15
27, chemin du Phare
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat
France
Sunday, July 14, 1957
Early evening
Nick Williams was grinning as he and Antoine Descombes stood by the wall at the bottom of the lawn of his and Carter's house. Their backs were to the Mediterranean as they faced the pool and patio in the distance and the house beyond that.
Nick and Carter were hosting a small party for Bastille Day. They'd flown in friends and family from San Francisco and Boston. Everyone was gathered for a buffet dinner before the fireworks started above Monaco, a few miles to the east.
Somehow, Nick had misunderstood and had scheduled the get-together for the night of Bastille Day. So, it had been a big surprise the night before when the fireworks over Nice (to their west) had suddenly exploded while he and Carter were having dinner by the pool with the small group of friends who were staying at their house. Apparently, the city of Nice did their big show on the 13th.
Even though they'd been living in Nice the summer before, neither Nick nor Carter had remembered that the fireworks show, which was set off right in front of their hotel, the Beau Rivage, had been on the 13th in '56. And, in all the bustle and confusion connected to the preparations for the hotel's grand opening following more than a year of renovations, none of their staff had thought to mention anything about it.
Nick had been promised, however, that the fireworks display over the palace in Monaco would be just as dramatic. The view wouldn't be as good, but Nick figured no one would care too much.
Antoine continued with his story. "So, I say to him, 'Jacob, you must close your eyes in the catacombs. I will guide you'."
Antoine, who was French and just about as big as Carter, was talking about his lover, Jacob "Jake" Robinson, Nick's American attorney in France.
"And this was in a part that tourists never see?"
"Oui."
"How did you two get in there?"
Antoine gave a classic Gallic shrug. "I know many secrets of Paris."
Nick laughed. "I have no doubt about that." He shifted his weight on the grass. He really needed to get back over to the house and mingle some more, but he always loved hearing Antoine's stories. Nick felt like he was seeing the real Paris through the other man's eyes. "So, what happened next?"
Antoine put his hand over his head and ducked down a little. "The ceiling, you know, is small."
"Sure."
"And la lampe..." He frowned. "How you say?"
"Lamp?"
He shook his head. Using his hand, he pretended to be holding something that he was swinging back and forth. "For seeing in the dark?"
"Oh! Flashlight?"
He nodded. "Yes, this."
Right then, Nick saw Carter standing by the pool and waving.
Nick waved back.
Carter made a summoning motion with his hand and didn't look happy.
"No good, I think," said Antoine. "We go, no?"
"Yes," Nick replied as the two men strode over in that direction. As they walked, Nick could feel a knot forming in his stomach.
Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.
Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.
Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.
Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.
Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.
The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.
Saturday Series Spotlights
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.
From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.
Saturday Series Spotlights
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.
Father's Day, 2005 #12
Gay Freedom, 1977 #13
Independence Day, 1976 #14
Bastille Day, 1957 #15
