Russ let out a contented sigh.
“I swear it just gets better with time,” Stephen said.
Russ kissed him. “Me too. I had no idea married sex would be so good. If I did, I might have been more eager to get married when I was younger.”
Stephen chuckled.
Stephen slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him even closer as he studied his face. Russ’s expression was soft but there was a little edge of worry in his gaze.
“It will,” Stephen said, knowing he was talking about how becoming parents would change their sex life. He ran his thumb across Russ’s cheek. “We’ll have additional responsibilities and stressors. Much less privacy. But it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’ll be tougher but that doesn’t mean we can’t find some benefits along the way.”
“Like what?” Russ gave him a curious, inquisitive look.
“Like … it may bring us even closer.” He took Russ’s hand and brought his palm to his lips. “It may deepen our relationship further.”
“I think going into this with our eyes wide open is our best chance of success. We need our relationship to stay solid so we can give whoever we bring into our lives the best, most stable home we can. Which means working together to solve problems.”
“Agreed,” Russ said.
Russ gave him a wry grin. “Got it.”
“Hey that’s not just a reminder for you,” Stephen said gently. “I’ve pushed you away at times too. And I think this will probably bring up a lot of baggage we both have about the ways we were raised.”
“True.” Russ’s expression turned serious.
“So we can’t let that overwhelm us. Or come between us.”
“Absolutely.” Russ hesitated. “Are you excited about this at all though?”
“About the idea of becoming parents? Yeah, I am,” Stephen said. “I remember how satisfying it was to see Evan grow into himself and he was an adult and only with us for a month and a half. The idea of being able to watch that growth over years in someone who needs it even more … well that’s a challenge I never expected to take on. But I am excited about it.”
“Me too.” Russ grinned. “I am really looking forward to calling my sister and telling her she’ll be Aunt Addie.”
Stephen chuckled. “I look forward to that as well. Jeremy is going to be shocked. That should be fun.”
“We do.” Russ pulled him in for a kiss and Stephen went willingly. “Thank you for making this a very happy Valentine’s Day.”
“You know, if someone had asked me five years ago how I’d feel about making the person I’m married to a father, I would have kindly assured them they were very, very confused,” Stephen said drily.
Russ’s laugh was loud and genuine. “I would imagine.”
“And yet …” Stephen couldn’t quite finish the thought. His heart was too full.
Russ smiled as if he understood. So Stephen leaned in to kiss him again. They had the whole night ahead of them to celebrate this happiness. Why not take the time while they had it?
Their lives were about to change in a very big way.
Open Hearts by K Evan Coles
“What do you think, Zac?” Mark asked. “Have we got anything in Owen’s magic bag to give Jae’s outfit a little lift?”
“Certainly. I think Jae looks perfect as he is, however, as well as very, very tall. Neither of which is unusual.”
Their friend and co-worker, Zac Alvarez, stepped in for Jae’s hug and kiss. He’d dressed in dark colors too, which made his beads and the temporary tattoos on his toned arms even more vibrant. A suntan warmed Zac’s olive-toned skin and he looked relaxed and happy, his grin broad beneath his dark beard.
Fondness washed over Jae. He and Zac had reconnected upon his return to Boston as if no time had passed at all. It was through Zac that Jae had befriended Mark and the trio of young men who would round out their Pride party today: Aiden, Owen, and Emmett, who had moved back from Maine at the beginning of May without his partner, Sean, and was now very, very single.
“Ignore Mark,” Zac said to Jae. “He forgets that not every gay man over forty wants to broadcast a zaddy vibe.”
Jae and Mark exchanged a glance before they each cracked up laughing.
“This is not to say we don’t have some festive doo-dads for you too,” Zac said over their cackling. “The guys made party packs for everyone.”
“Great, thanks. Less so that you just said ‘doo-dads’ the way my Grandma Kay used to.” Jae let out a soft ‘oof’ as Zac elbowed him gently in the ribs.
“Smartass,” Zac murmured before he looked around. “Will your man be joining us today?”
Jae aimed a mock glare at him. “Sal already had plans. Besides, you know he’s not my man. Sal and I strictly friends.”
“Who share a big side order of benefits,” Mark chimed in, admiration written all over his face. “I remember the days when I could say words like those about myself with fondness.”
Zac snickered. “Mmm, I remember those days, too. They were before you met Owen and fell head over heels in love.”
“That’s why I remember them with fondness and not nostalgia,” Mark replied with a smile.
“Where is Owen, anyway?” Jae asked. “Out walking with my favorite dog and the guys?”
Mark shook his head. “Popcorn is hanging with my sister today.” He and his boyfriend, Owen, had found their big, white mutt at a campground last year, lost or abandoned and sweet as can be. “It’s not easy wrangling a dog his size through crowds like this, and we thought he’d enjoy a play date with his aunt and uncle and new cousin instead. Popcorn is already best buddies with my nephew, Ethan, so you know they’re having a fantastic day.”
“As for the guys, they went off into the park to buy cold drinks,” Zac said, his tone fond. “Aiden’s been on an ice cream kick this summer and I’m betting they’ve stopped at every cart they’ve passed. They should be back any second.”
The soft expression on Zac’s face made Jae smile. In the years they’d known each other, he’d never seen Zac so gone for a man the way he was with Aiden.
“That reminds me, I meant to grab a coffee on my way down here,” Jae said. “I could use the jolt.”
“We’ve got some soda if that’ll help.”
Jae’s whole body hummed at that voice. “I’d love some.”
Turning, Jae met Emmett’s dark blue gaze. He tried very hard not to stare at Emmett’s shirtless torso, too, but literally stopped short as he got a look at Owen whose tight dark curls, normally tipped platinum, glowed fuchsia in the sun. “Owen, your hair is pink!”
“Yes, it is!” Owen exclaimed. He and Aiden were just as bare chested as Emmett and all three were chuckling at Jae’s wide eyes. “It’s supposed to be just for today, but honestly, I might keep it.”
Mark cast a loving look at Owen. “Of course, you’d want to.” He ran a hand over his partner’s shoulders, stroking golden brown skin that shone with flecks of multi-colored glitter. “Are there any trinkets left for Jae, love?”
“Oh, yes.” Handing his cup to Mark, Owen shrugged a rainbow striped drawstring bag from his shoulders. “We’ve got buttons, beads, and wristbands, and a visor like Emmett’s if you want a break from the sun.” He withdrew a second bag from his own and handed it to Jae. “There’s also a fan in there, plus sunglasses, tattoos, body glitter—”
“And condoms with travel-sized lube,” Mark put in. “My man does not let his friends go unprepared.”
Jae laughed. “I’ll remember that.” Opening the bag in his hands, he peered into its depths, but looked up again as a second pair of hands came to rest by his own.
“Here—you browse while I hold.” Emmett’s grin was easy. “Can you grab drinks from my bag, A?” he asked over his shoulder. “Zac’s water is in there, along with soda for anyone who needs one. Diet Coke for you, Jae, or do you want full sugar?”
“I’ll take the sugar, thanks.” Jae tried not to ogle his stupid hot friend, keenly aware the effort was a lost cause.
Like Owen and Aiden, Emmett’s skin sparkled with glitter. He stood a few inches shorter than Jae, but he was the broadest man in their group, his chest lightly furred and muscled without being bulky, a combination Jae had always loved. Emmett radiated heat as he huddled over the bag too, his shoulders golden-pink and freckled, and he smelled of citrus and suntan lotion, a mixture Jae found endlessly appealing and a clear indication that he needed to get a fucking grip.
Awfully Glad by Charlie Cochrane
A makeshift stage. An audience. An entirely male audience, in khaki. A high sense of anticipation. The Macaronis concert party about to perform. Music starts, curtain is pulled across—to an outbreak of applause—revealing a group of men in evening dress, who take up the tune. The show begins.
They’d reached the part where the comic had finished his rendition of “Gilbert the Filbert,” leaving the stage to guffaws of laughter and thundering applause, and the tenor had come on to the opening strains of “Roses of Picardy.” The audience settled down, lulled by the familiar tune but with the first buzz of expectation starting to rise. They’d been briefed about this concert party by a couple of the officers whose friends had seen them perform before. So far, the advance information had been correct—good singing, good jokes, a couple of things slightly near the knuckle but not going too far.
And now, the much-vaunted and long-awaited “Roses of Picardy.” That song could only mean one thing—the imminent appearance of the lovely Miss Madeleine.
Second Lieutenant Hampson nudged his fellow officer in the ribs. “She’s on her way. I wonder if she’s really as hot a piece of stuff as they say.”
Lieutenant Browne shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve been looking forward to this a long while.”
An agitated “Shh!” from somewhere along the line of spectators put a stop to conversation as the tenor’s rendition of the verse began. The holding of breaths within the audience became palpable, especially when the curtain to one side of what passed for a stage twitched slightly. The chorus came, and with it Madeleine, gorgeous in a lavender dress to match her eyes and a sumptuous hat, worn at a coquettish angle. An outbreak of wolf whistling, a single shout of “Cor!” and more “Shh!”s, mainly from the colonel in the front row who’d leaned forward to get a better view of the trim ankles that appeared as she sashayed across the stage.
“What a peach,” Hampson whispered, staring up at the stage, spellbound.
“Not bad at all.” Browne tipped his head to one side to set up a better line of observation of the trim waist, the pert backside, and the well-proportioned décolletage. Those curves were just what you wanted in a woman.
The song came to an end among rapturous applause, whistling, and stomping of feet. The tenor kissed Miss Madeleine’s hand and led her upstage, where she prepared for her solo, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at the colonel. She looked like a nice girl, dressed like a nice girl, was rumoured to have no truck with any of the officers who beat a path to her stage door, but there was a roguish twinkle in her eye which belied all of that.
The first few bars of “Home Fires Burning” welling up from the small orchestra stifled any expectations of a saucy song to match the saucy twinkle. Her voice was clear, bell-like, incredibly moving. By the time the song had finished, sleeves were being drawn across faces and noses blown. Even Hampson, who had never been known to show much in the way of emotion—apart from getting worked up over a shapely, slim-waisted form—had a tear in his eye.
“Marvellous,” he said, clapping wildly. “And think. We’re the lucky blighters who’ll get to meet her afterwards.”
Browne laughed. “She’ll never look twice at you. Not with that shock of hair—she’ll think a scarecrow’s come in.”
“Is it that bad? Could you lend me a comb?” Hampson tried—in vain—to flatten his locks into submission.
“We’ll have you turned out like the Queen of the May.” Browne grinned. “Now hush.”
Madeleine had been joined by the tenor for a haunting love duet, one which soon had the audience thinking of home and happier times, far away from trench foot and whiz-bangs. They’d be back to that soon enough, but for now they had a glimpse of something heavenly, and not just in the form of Madeleine’s shapely arms.
The Fortune Hunter by Bonnie Dee
Drawing up in front of the Needham house on the curved driveway, Hal felt as if he ought to be arriving in a carriage and four rather than Margaret’s Daimler motorcar. The sprawling limestone house was a convoluted collection of roof peaks, turrets, and wings added on over the years. It looked like a castle, proclaiming nobility dwelt within and an outsider like him would never belong.
Hal didn’t resent the upper class their wealth, power, and prestige. He merely wanted to become one of them. Was that so awful? A friend had once come to Hal’s flat begging a sanctuary to spend a night or two. The stay had turned into something more like two months. But Hal certainly understood that desire to lay down the burden of constant struggle to survive and find a quiet, comfortable resting spot.
Margaret would be his safe place, and he would be hers, making certain she never wanted for companionship. In return, he’d have a nice house, good food, and a fine wardrobe. He would guard her fortune as if it were his own, spending wisely and increasing it shrewdly. He wouldn’t be a burden but a life companion in an easygoing, if chaste, arrangement.
He got out of the passenger side of the car, and Margaret came around to join him. “What do you think? The house may appear grand, but don’t let the battlements fool you. Inside, it’s quite shabby. Despite a respectable family name, my aunt and uncle aren’t wealthy by any means.”
Hal tucked her hand through the loop of his arm. “I’m not nervous. I’m quite ready to meet them and explain why I’ve fallen in love with their one-of-a-kind niece. This must have been a wonderful place to grow up with all those nooks and crannies to explore.”
“It truly was. Mother and I could have afforded to stay in our own home after Father died. But I’m so glad we came to live with Aunt Agnes and Uncle Harold; otherwise, I never would’ve had brothers like Julian and James.” She frowned. “After nearly two years, I still have trouble thinking of James in the past tense.”
Hal recalled James had survived France but died in the influenza epidemic almost immediately upon his return home. He put an arm around Margaret and hugged her. “You must miss him terribly.”
“His passing has been difficult for me but nearly killed my aunt and uncle. They’re still mourning. And Julian…” She shook her head.
“Misses his brother and perhaps blames himself for being alive,” Hal guessed. “I understand that feeling, having lost many comrades at the front.”
Margaret stopped at the doorstep and turned to him, eyes shining. “You survived because God had more for you to do in this life. He brought you to me, for which I am ever grateful.”
Hal hated himself just a little more at her declaration. When he’d begun this plan, he’d imagined landing a wealthy older widow who knew the score and didn’t mind so long as she had a handsome young husband to show off to her friends like a trophy. But then he’d met Margaret. He’d been so taken with her blend of sweetness and assertiveness that it had seemed possible to make a sham marriage work. Now he was stuck with the plan he’d devised.
The door opened before they knocked. A stooped older man with a paunch swelling his waistcoat greeted them. “Welcome home, Miss Margaret.”
“Hello, Grover. You’re looking very dapper today. I’m so glad to be back. I’ve missed home these past months. May I present my fiancé, Mr. Halstead Wiley.”
The butler bowed. “Good day, sir. Welcome to Barton Park.”
Hal almost returned the bow, then recalled his proper standing and nodded politely instead. “I’m happy to be here.”
Grover escorted them to the drawing room, where Mr. and Mrs. Needham and Julian were already gathered. Hal assessed the room before following Margaret inside. Pale blue walls and rug offered a sense of tranquility and the room was not overly cluttered. The dark, heavy pieces of furniture from an older century didn’t fit the pale color palette that suggested a more chic, modern décor.
Margaret’s aunt and uncle rose to greet him. The outdated style of Mrs. Needham’s gown didn’t detract from her aura of grace and refinement as she offered her hand. “Mr. Wiley, we’re pleased you could come. Darling Margaret is the daughter we never had, and we were eager to meet the man she’s chosen.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Needham said.
Hal wasn’t certain if he was meant to shake Mrs. Needham’s hand or kiss it. The customs of the gentry weren’t familiar to him. He gave a polite press before letting go, then turned to offer a hearty shake to Mr. Needham. “The pleasure is mine. Your niece is a prize.”
“Yes, she is.” Mr. Needham gave Hal an assessing look with gray eyes very much like his son’s.
Hal scanned the rest of the room to find Julian standing near the window. Sunlight burnished his brown hair with golden highlights. His well-cut profile with its straight nose and strong jawline was haloed in light. When he turned his stern gaze toward Hal, a little hum of anticipation awoke within him.
Hal squelched this reaction to a man he considered an adversary. Needham had invited him here to poke holes in his story, so he must be on guard every moment not to give himself away. If this wedding were to be called off, he’d be jobless and desperate again. One would expect work to be plentiful in the aftermath of the Great War with so few veterans returning, but the economy was in shambles. Odd jobs were all Hal had been able to find, spurring him to his mad scheme to land a wealthy woman.
He offered a bright smile. “Good to see you again, Mr. Needham.”
As much as it wasn’t, it actually was. Needham intrigued Hal, not only his physical demeanor but his affectionate manner with Margaret and his magnetic presence. Had they met under other circumstances, he and Julian might have been friends—or probably something more than friends, for Hal guessed “confirmed bachelor” Julian shared his attraction to men.
Hal dragged his thoughts away from the sorts of activities they might have gotten up to in another time and place, as he sat beside his betrothed on a sofa. “You have a lovely home,” he complimented his hosts. “Its history must be fascinating.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Needham said. “Barton Park was built in 1640 and belonged to several families before the Needhams took possession.”
Her husband added dryly, “You may learn the entire history on every second Wednesday of the month, when the house is open. I daresay the tour guide is more educated on both the history and the architecture than we are.”
“Tours?” Julian abandoned his spot by the window to stride across the room with long-legged grace. “When did this begin?”
“Surely I mentioned this in one of my letters. A company that arranges tours approached us this past summer,” Mrs. Needham explained. “At first, your father refused to speak with their representative, but when we learned other owners of other estates were allowing tours, we decided to give it a go. It’s a respectable way to share one’s heritage and is little trouble at all. Thus far, the tourists, both domestic and foreign, have been orderly and respectful.”
“Not at all annoying having strangers troop through one’s home,” Mr. Needham continued in his sub-Saharan tone. “And you’d know about this if you paid the least attention to what your mother writes, or if you came for a visit every so often.”
Julian stood before his parents, scowling. “You did not mention this in any of your letters. I’d no idea you’d reached such a…” He glanced at Hal and seemed to reconsider airing his family’s financial business. “That you were considering such a thing.”
“It has become quite common these days for historical houses to be on display,” Mrs. Needham pointed out. “As you’ve said, times are changing.”
“More’s the pity,” the elder Needham growled.
Hal sat very still, wishing he were someplace else and not witnessing this family argument. He’d had no idea the Needhams were in such difficult straits until today. Apparently, their children hadn’t either. Surely Margaret would want to offer financial help, which would cut into the inheritance from her father’s side. He was a horrible person to immediately consider how the Needham family’s misfortune might affect him and his plans.
“Honestly, I think it’s rather brilliant to open the house to tours.” Margaret smoothed the folds of her modish knee-length dress. “Tourists enjoy seeing grand houses from a former century. The building should earn its maintenance at the very least. But if you require more financial assistance, please let me know. I want to do my part for the family.”
Julian Needham quickly added, “I can offer help as well. My investments are doing well enough.”
“We’re not quite destitute, although apparently our home has become a museum artifact to be gawked at by strangers,” Mr. Needham said.
“Thank you, my dears, for your generous thought. But such a discussion is most inappropriate at this celebratory occasion.” Mrs. Needham turned her attention to Hal. “Tell us how you two met.”
“We were both browsing at a bookstore. I shared a recommendation with Hal, and we talked for hours. You can see how that conversation ended.” Margaret turned her beaming smile on Hal. “Or never ended, for we always find something to discuss.”
“I was taken with Margaret from the moment we met. She manages to be both imaginative and levelheaded at the same time. One doesn’t let a quality woman like Margaret slip away.”
“Your family approves the arrangement?” Mr. Needham probed.
Hal seized a quick breath before plunging into his embroidered history. He hadn’t tried to pretend to Margaret that he came from any sort of gentility, instead inventing middle-class parents of modest means.
“My parents have passed, and I have no extended family. But I’m certain both Father and Mother would have welcomed Margaret with open arms.”
“Tell us about your parents,” Needham senior pushed.
“My father owned several shipping concerns. But in one year, a freighter was lost at sea and another seized by pirates. This put a great strain on his fortune and took a toll on his health.” Hal patted his chest, indicating possible heart failure or a broken heart. Let them decide which. “He passed away within a year, and my dear mother followed soon after. I believe she couldn’t face life without him.”
Mrs. Needham gave a soft murmur, and Margaret reached to pat Hal’s hand. He bowed his head, hoping he wasn’t overdoing the drama.
“Were you left penniless then?” Julian’s tone was cool and less than sympathetic.
“Julian!” Mrs. Needham exclaimed at his shocking ill manners.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Needham. It is quite reasonable to wonder about the stranger your niece has brought home. I should have followed custom and asked permission for her hand.” Hal offered an apologetic smile, then continued trying to reassure them he had nothing to hide.
“I invested the small inheritance I received and have increased it over the years, so I live quite comfortably. I won’t pretend to be more than I am. I come from a middle-class background, and I’m in love with a woman who is clearly above me. But I care for Margaret very much.”
The last part at least was true. Hal took her hand, gazed into her eyes, and prayed his selfish intentions could be forgiven.
Margaret smiled. “As I care for you.”
Julian made a small sound that might have signaled either acceptance or disgust.
Hal darted a sharp glance at him.
“It’s a lovely afternoon. I should like to take you on a tour of the land before supper,” Margaret said.
“Perfect weather for an invigorating walk,” Hal agreed and blessed her for freeing him from the relentless questioning.
“I’ll go with you.” Julian had not taken a seat during the entire conversation, and now he started for the door. “I should like to see how the farms are doing.”
They bid their elders goodbye and entered the hallway. Margaret excused herself to change into proper attire.
Hal had brought no walking shoes and lingered awkwardly with Julian, who scanned him up and down.
“You’ll want a pair of Wellingtons. The fields and woods are muddy. And a drover’s coat to cover this fine wool.” He fingered the lapel of Hal’s jacket, tailored for a gentleman and discovered by Hal in a secondhand store.
Julian stood so near, Hal felt the heat of his body and inhaled the scent of his shaving lotion. Did Julian mean to be intimidating? Probably, because he stared at Hal with the assessing eyes of judge, jury, and executioner.
When Julian at last stepped back, Hal took a deep breath. Unfortunately, the man wasn’t only a barrier to breach, he also unleashed attraction such as Hal hadn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps Julian sensed his desire and was baiting him to make an impulsive move.
But Hal wouldn’t reveal himself so foolishly. Nothing could come between him and the quiet, calm, comfortable life he craved. He must convince this doubting Thomas before he derailed Hal’s matrimonial plan.
The Christmas Pundit by VL Locey
Chapter One
“…said to him that there was no way he clumb all the way up to my property just to track no deer! You know what he said to me then, Mayor?”
“I’m assuming that he explained in a polite manner that he had indeed climbed up to your property to track the doe?” I replied, looking from one old farmer to the other, both men nearly indistinguishable from the other save for the wear and tear of their Carhartt work coats. Looked like Berger Mason had bought a new one in the past year whereas Carson Oats had worn his for years. Into the cow barn if the smell of manure wafting off him was any indication. Of course, the poop could be on their mucky boots as well. Seemed neither of the dairy farmers deemed a trip to city hall was worth changing out of their chore clothes. Mara, my executive assistant, was sitting beside me taking notes of the impromptu meeting with a hankie over her nose. I had said during my first speech on the night the results had come in that my office door would always be open to the good citizens of Cedarburg. I’d just assumed they’d scrape the cow shit off their boots before coming to the courthouse…
“That’s right, Mr. Mayor, I said exactly that,” Berger replied, his big nose red with frustration. It tended to glow like a certain famous reindeer whenever he was upset. “I told him that my arrow nicked a branch and the shot was low. Then the doe bounded over the fence, and I asked real politely like if I could track her. He got all belligerent and told me to haul my fat ass back down the ridge where it belonged. Then he called me an encroacher and a defiler of his scarecrow! Which is pure horseshit! I didn’t never touch that stupid scarecrow!”
“Yes, you did. I know you dressed it up to look like my wife. Even give it a big squash nose!” Carson shouted.
“Okay, let’s settle down.” I lifted my hands while speaking up over the din. I was a politician, so I was good at speaking loudly. “Now is this the scarecrow incident of ’92 that you’re referring to, Carson?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” both men replied at once before slipping back to silent glowering.
I had assumed so. I tossed Mara a pleading look. She deftly shook her head and hid behind her lilac-scented hanky. I suspected the older woman was sniggering into the folds of silk over her nose and mouth.
“Right, okay, well, I remember that incident well. I was ten. Didn’t Officer Blakeman deduct that it was local kids who dressed up your scarecrow like Dolores?” I pointedly asked Carson, who had the good grace to at least look a little contrite. He bobbed his head but continued to mutter to himself. This feud between the Mason and Oats clans had been raging since the fifties when old Booger Oats had taken up with Marlene Mason. It had been a torrid affair, at least by fifties standards. Booger had run off to Canada leaving Marlene in a delicate condition. The child of that scandalous liaison had been breastfed on the stories of how dastardly the whole Oats clan was and he then carried the nonsense on, passing the hatred along to the next generation like an heirloom pocket watch.
“I did stop and ask, Mayor, truly I did. Then he got all up on his face and—”
“In your face. He got in your face, Berger.” That made me smile just a little. Bless the older generations. They were trying. Well, some of them were. Others not so much. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call WCO Carlota over in Silverwood and ask him to come over to escort Berger onto your land to fetch his deer. If they can track the doe and find her, then you two will split the venison fifty-fifty. How does that sound?”
Both old codgers grumbled and hemmed but in the end they nodded briskly.
“I’ll go call the game commission now,” Mara said into her square of silk then rose and hurried out of my cramped office. If it weren’t a blustery October day I’d open the window to let some of the manure smell out. But it was too dank and chilly in the hills of Pennsylvania on this early October day to crack the window let alone open it. This old courthouse was damp enough as it was even on a sunny day.
“There, see how nicely things work out when we compromise?” I asked, pushing to my feet to offer my hand to Berger. He eyed it warily but finally gave in, slapping his palm to mine. We shook in a most manly fashion, which I suspected he was shocked about. I’d run into lots of that kind of crap while I’d been campaigning against the incumbent mayor, Ralph Kitterman. Everyone in my hometown knew I was gay. I’d been one of the first of “them vocal gays” in the county to come out and wave my rainbow goodness proudly way back in high school. “So, if there’s not anything else, I’ll let you two go meet WCO Carlota and tend to that doe, and I’ll get back to work on the Christmas Carnival fundraising committee work.”
Oats got to his feet, offered me his hand, shook, and then crammed his red ballcap back onto his bald head.
“Told you he was a smart one,” I heard Berger mumble as they left my office.
“Kitterman was smarter,” Carson replied with his usual obstinance.
“Kitterman was a horse’s ass,” Berger fired back.
I chuckled, shook my head, and then let Mara handle them in the outer office. Shutting the door behind my warring constituents, I sighed, stretched, and gave my sanctum a pleased perusal. There wasn’t much to peruse. A desk littered with papers and a desktop that took forever to load up due to the dreadful internet we had up here in Northcentral Pennsylvania. One window but you had to stand on a chair to see Main Street, a chair in front of my desk that was here when Eisenhower was in the Oval Office and two flags. One the American and one the state, shoved into one corner while a filing cabinet lurked in another corner and a rickety coat rack hid in yet another. The fourth corner had a stand with brochures about Cedarburg and a picture of my parents who lived five minutes away. I flopped down into my one new extravagance, an office chair from the mall up in Corning, New York. I no longer felt like fiddling with the dismal numbers on the fundraising reports. Maybe my aide would be calling in from home with better news. Like more money news. If he could get his damn cell to work out in the boonies, which was never a given. God but we needed new infrastructure out here.
That had been one of my top five running points when I’d gone up against Kitterman. Infrastructure, updating wastewater practices, working on creating the right kind of rural roads, pushing for new ways to lure businesses into our community thereby creating jobs that will keep the young people in Cedarburg, and adding more housing choices for our rapidly growing elderly population. Oh, and a new fence around the elementary school. All those problems, plus hundreds more, were mine now.
Those five platforms had appealed to the four thousand people in my town, and they’d been able to overlook the fact that I was a little light in the loafers. I’d been rabidly pushing our nearest cell provider to build two new towers for us as well as begging Harrisburg for some road and bridge work next summer. The capital wasn’t keen on hearing about my little issues all the way up by the New York State border. They were more concerned with what Philadelphia and Pittsburgh needed, which was total bullshit.
There were farms in the outlying areas of my town that still had no internet accessibility, or it was so poor students couldn’t run videos for homeschooling or homework assignments. I ran a hand over my face. I bet they all had highspeed access in Harrisburg and the two big Ps. I scrubbed at my face even harder.
There was so much to do. Kitterman had been a stick in the mud. A hard-as-nails stickler for law and order, apple pie, and the good old days. He also was an obnoxious ass who’d been stunned to learn that a queer had beaten him by over three hundred votes back in May. Guess the people of Cedarburg were tired of living in nineteen forty-nine. Or at least the majority were. It had been a stunning upset win given the county was as red as a Honeycrisp apple and I was as blue as a Smurf. Imagine that! My blue democratic gay ass beat the good old boys republican red incumbent.
Reaching over my head I padded around my desk to stretch my legs. My knees tended to crack and creak whenever it rained. Thirty-eight was a rough age. Not quite forty yet according to the calendar but feeling about sixty whenever rain was on the air. Old baseball injuries I liked to say when my knees locked up, but those who knew me knew I’d never actually played baseball for the Cedarburg Cardinals. Not that I’d not tried, but my membership in the LGBTQ club made Coach Knight’s lips flatten whenever he looked at me during tryouts. I ended up warming the bench for every game. He kept a sharp eye on me during showers that first year after I’d come out. I took it all in stride, even the few knockdown fights I’d had with a few of the school jerks.
“Gideon Pierce,” I muttered as I dropped into my ergonomic seat and picked up my now cold cup of coffee. Whenever I thought of those who had made my childhood harder than it had to be, his damn face popped up in my mind’s eye. Taller than me, bigger, dark-haired, and brilliant green eyes to counter my strawberry-blond and blue-eyed self, and certifiably meaner, Gideon had always been a festering sliver under my skin. Way before anyone knew I was gay, hell before I was even fully aware of why Shawn Hunter appealed to me way more than Topanga on Boy Meets World, Gideon was being a jerk.
Then suddenly one day he just wasn’t there on the playground anymore. He wasn’t even in school, or the state. Rumor had it that his parents had divorced after a pinnacle domestic squabble that the town cops still talked about. The Pierce’s always fought. It was a standard thing every weekend. Mr. Pierce would end his work week at the tannery over in Silverwood and hit the nearest bar where he’d leave most of his paycheck.
Gideon was taken to Seattle to live with his mother, so the story went. Mr. Pierce disappeared and was found dead in an alley in Buffalo one week after his wife and son had left the state. Cause of death was suicide. What he had been doing in Buffalo no one seemed to know. Gossip ran rampant for about two weeks and then the town moved on. I, for one, was thankful to see Gideon gone but the circumstances surrounding his leaving were chilling to say the least.
“The big bully.” I took a swig of coffee, grimaced, and put the mug down beside my cellphone lying on the blotter. Mara came hustling into my office in a cloud of lilac perfume and big round eyes.
“The bus from Elmira just arrived,” she panted, one hand on her rather substantial bosom, the other still holding her cellphone.
“That’s good.” I smiled, wondering why she hadn’t knocked before barging in. Not that I’d been doing anything. At all. But still it was odd. Her blue eyes were huge behind her glasses. I sat back into the firm cushion of my chair, folded my arms over my blue dress shirt and dark blue tie, and raised an eyebrow. “What? Did they bus in zombies?” She shook her head strongly, sending her recently dyed red-orange hair swaying. “Vampires? Werewolves? More Democrats?!”
“It’s Gideon Pierce,” she whispered as if saying his name would make him appear before us like some evil wizard. My mouth dropped open. “It is. Mollie from the beauty parlor just called Sue-Ann at the fabric shop who called me. You know Sue-Ann worked in the cafeteria at the W. B. Kitterman Elementary school for forty years before she retired and opened the fabric shop which was always her dream but what with Pearly getting sick and all she always stayed in the school because it was full-time and—”
“Mara, focus.” She tended to get off-track when riled. She bobbed her head, ran her hand over the front of her dark brown dress, and pulled in a deep breath. I gave her my most appealing smile, the one that all the girls had liked so much back in college. Pity they never could get more than a smile from me but alas. “Good. Okay, so are we sure it’s Gideon? I mean, why on earth would he come back to Cedarburg on a Greyhound from Elmira?”
“Well, the bus from Elmira is the only one that runs from the airport,” she calmly explained.
“Yes, I know, Mara. I wasn’t asking that literally I was just…” I waved it off and stood. My left knee cracked like tinder wood. Damn knees. “Are you sure Sue-Ann had the right glasses on. You know she has one pair for reading the tape measure and another for long distance.”
“Go look!” She flapped a hand at the chair in front of my desk. Feeling rather sure of myself and my rational approach to the supposed return of Gideon Pierce, I walked around my desk, grabbed the chair, and hauled it over to the window. Up I climbed, smirking at the silliness of it all.
Rising up to my toes, fingers biting into the cold cement casing that held the rectangular window, I cranked it open. A blast of wet air that reeked of fallen leaves hit me in the face, making my nose run instantly. Balancing precariously, I pushed my nose closer to the weathered screen and turned my head to the left. Yes, the Greyhound from Elmira was indeed setting beside the curb by the village green, and yes, a few people were milling around. Well, actually two. One looked like the bus driver in a gray-blue sort of uniform and one was a tall lanky man in a stylish coat that was rippling around him like a superhero’s cape.
It was hard to say who the dark-haired man was from this distance. Nose chilled, I was about to climb down and suggest to Mara that she tell Sue-Ann to check which glasses she had on when the new arrival turned and looked right at our tiny white courthouse. I drew back, stunned. There was no mistaking him. Gideon Pierce had grown up to look just like his father. It was like seeing a ghost. I took a step back, my mind whirling, setting the chair off balance. Down I went to my ass. Mara squealed and fluttered around like a manic goose. I groaned at the impact as well as the fact that as soon as Gideon Pierce showed up in Cedarburg, I was down on my ass again.
Hating to look like a coward, I walked out of the courthouse with my chin high at exactly four p.m. sharp. Just like every day. The bus from Elmira was long gone and praise be to the gods who looked over little bullied gay boys, so was Gideon Pierce. Jamming my hands into my coat pockets, I pounded down the white marble stairs. The clouds overhead were riotous, thickening over the past few hours to blot out the sun without compunction. Rain had fallen on and off, making the colorful leaves on the elms and maples that lined Main Street droop.
I moved at a good clip, the thunderous rainclouds welling up adding speed to my step. Usually, I ambled home, stopping to talk to constituents who would approach me on the sidewalk or call from front porches. That was one of the blessings of being a small-town mayor. I got to talk with the people in my town on a daily basis. I’d grown up here, and so knew most of them or their kids, and the newcomers who had filed in were vocal in politics. My aide, Benton Aubrey, was one of those new arrivals. A young man coming into Cedarburg was a rarity, most kids hightailed after graduating as there was little work here aside from a tannery in Silverwood and a community college in Fisher Lake, a close adjoining county that sat below us. I’d stolen Aubrey from the community college where we’d been working after meeting the bright, energetic black man at a monthly town hall last spring. I’d terribly needed someone to help coordinate my campaign. Most candidates had wives or a small staff. All I’d had was a dream to make my hometown a better, more inclusive, more modern town, and a winning smile. Aubrey had leaped on the chance, him being a political science degree holder like myself, and soon we were thick as thieves. The only black man and the only out gay man in the whole town of Cedarburg were on a mission.
Within a month, I’d announced my candidacy, and we never looked back. Well, a few times we did when we’d been out stumping and knocking on doors. Who knew domestic turkeys could be so mean? Thinking of looking back, I tossed a quick glance over my shoulder, saw nothing, and then returned to my speed walk home. How silly I was being. Gideon was not going to run up behind me and push me to my face. We weren’t in third grade anymore. Plus, the harder I thought about it the more I felt that the man I’d seen earlier wasn’t Gideon at all. Just some passing stranger stopping in our small town, probably rented a room at the Big Buck Motel across from the Shopper Mart and was now about to meet with a local realtor to buy a hunting camp. Perhaps he resembled Mr. Pierce, strongly, but that was all it was. Yep, that was it. A case of mistaken identity.
I turned off Main Street onto Alberton Avenue. My parents’ home was the first house off Main on Alberton, and I hustled up the slick stone path to the front door and let myself in, turning to shuck off my coat and wet shoes before stepping onto the new rose carpeting. The smell of roasting meat tickled my nose. My stomach rumbled. Guess the apple that I’d forced down during a meeting with Pastor Nichols from the Presbyterian Church had worn off.
Baby Makes Three by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Chapter One
Jared
February
I hated waking up to a Ten-sized space in bed but in the last few weeks it had become the norm. Missing the early morning snuggling was one thing, but knowing that my normally unflappable husband woke every day with his thoughts in a twist was hurting my heart. As I tugged on sweats and a T-shirt and resolved to hunt him down, I didn’t know what I’d find.
Day one of waking at dawn I’d found him running hell for leather on our treadmill, day two it was weights, day three he was slamming pucks at the net in our large backyard, then day four we were back to running. It was twenty-one days since we’d gotten the letter from the Harrisburg Central Family Agency, and I had no idea what Ten could be doing today. Hockey players were a superstitious lot, but I was convinced this new daily ritual he’d formed was less about helping his game and more about escaping his worries.
I grabbed coffee and the specific protein shake Ten had on game days and went searching for him, finding him in the home gym. Only he wasn't running, or lifting weights; he was sitting on the treadmill, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was a sight for sore eyes, his dark hair soft and messy around his face, his Railers T-shirt with his number was old and worn and hugged him like a second skin, and his shorts meant that I got a good peek at his long legs and spectacular hockey thighs. But it wasn't any of that that I focused on—it was the look of misery on his face.
The Railers were on top of the division by five points, he’d played with a fire that blew away the opposition, and the team was on a high. So I was sure it wasn't hockey that was playing with his mind. Also, he’d only just had another checkup so I hoped it wasn't his brain that was causing him issues. He had headaches sometimes, moments when words didn’t immediately come to him, but that was a small non-issue according to the specialist, just remnants of the trauma.
I was sure it was tomorrow that was messing with his head, but then it was a big day for us both. Stress and worry frustrated him, and that was why he’d reverted to routines.
“Babe?” I called from the door.
He glanced up at me. “Hey,” he murmured.
“You worried about Philly?” I knew he wasn’t, and also knew full well what his answer would be. At least it would raise a smile.
He huffed. “The day I worry about playing hockey is the day hell freezes over.”
“Good.” I deliberately didn't push him to tell what the actual reason was, always kept it to hockey, because one day he’d tell me the truth. I almost left him to his thoughts, but it appeared that today was the day he’d decided to share.
“Jared? It’s not hockey, it’s all these worries about what we’re doing.”
My stomach fell. “About trying for a baby?” We’d made the decision together, on Christmas Day, and had talked the issue to death until we were both completely sure we were on the same page. Ten wanted a family with me, I wanted a family with him, and at the end of it we’d hugged and agreed that the time was right.
“No, not that.”
“What about then? Do you want to talk?”
“You’re going to think I’m stupid,” he muttered and rubbed his eyes.
“Never.”
“Well, what if our surrogate hates us?” he blurted.
And there it was. Twenty-one days ago we’d had an email confirming a potential match from our choices, and twenty-one days ago Tennant Madsen-Rowe had begun to lose his shit. I instinctively knew that was the thing messing with his head, but it was up to him to process it all and let me in when he reached a point where he couldn’t keep it inside anymore.
I handed him the shake, and settled next to him on the treadmill, bumping elbows. “What is there to hate?”
“Where do I start?”
I winced at the resignation in his voice. As his coach I needed his head in the game today, but as his husband and lover I wanted to make everything right for him. “You know she picked us from the list, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts, babe. We ticked all the boxes, same-sex married couple, sportsmen, annual income, family history, your injury and recovery backed up by doctor letters, my divorce, Ryker, wills, trusts, suggestions for contacts, references, there was nothing we left off, so if she chose us then she made decisions based on facts.”
“She can still pull out of it all.”
I put an arm over his shoulders and tugged him close. “She could, and you know what? We’ll deal with that if it happens. Together.”
“What if we go all the way to the end and—?”
“Stop thinking ahead. Let’s take each day as it comes. Treat it like hockey and take each day on its merits, where each win and loss forms a tapestry of content to get us to the finals.”
He laughed, and I knew I’d broken the fears for the moment. “Dude, did you just use the word ‘tapestry’ in a sentence about hockey?”
“I have mad English skills,” I said with a smile and pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek. He faced me and the kiss changed from a peck to a full blown hello and good morning.
Ten would be fine and we’d make it through the game, and then hell, we’d rock the meeting tomorrow with the potential surrogate.
Together.
Isobel Mackie was thirty-one, a beautician, married to Eddie, and with a twin brother, Adam, who was gay. Isobel had signed up with the agency when her brother had been going through the same process as us to become a dad with his husband. In a selfless exchange of love, she’d offered to become a surrogate because her brother was now the father of twin boys by using the same method. That was one of the things that had drawn her to us the most; that she knew what the process had been like for the brother she adored, and that her family supported her one hundred percent. In fact, her husband, Eddie, was with her today as her advocate, and there was so much love between them that it was like looking in a mirror at Ten and me. The four of us were ushered into a plush room to sit at a round table with the agency owners and a young woman called Michelle who was there to take notes.
We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, all very formal when all I wanted to do was hug Isobel until she squeaked. Of course that would be after I explained to her that Ten was sure she was going to back out, and then begged her not to.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you in real life.” She smiled broadly.
“And you,” I said when Ten stayed quiet. I knocked my shoe against his, but he was focusing on the paperwork in front of us.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Isobel asked with an open smile, and I knew Ten had a thousand, but again, silence.
“This is the time to discuss the finer points,” Lloyd, the owner of the Harrisburg Central Family Agency encouraged, but Ten seemed tense.
“Ten?” I murmured, “You want me to—?”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I’d prefer this meeting to be just the four of us in here, with Michelle as our case manager,” Ten interrupted.
“For a high profile situation we usually oversee,” Lloyd said.
“Actually, we’d prefer it to be Michelle,” Isobel murmured.
Lloyd glanced at his wife, Jennifer, the other half of the ownership team, but Jennifer shrugged.
“Okay, if that’s the way it has to be, then Michelle has this,” she said, and pushed back her chair. “Michelle, make sure you detail everything.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michelle murmured, and opened the pad in front of her, making a big deal of writing the date and time at the top of a fresh page.
We waited in silence until Jennifer and Lloyd had left, and as soon as the door closed behind them I could see the tension leave Ten in a rush.
“I hope that wasn’t rude. I wanted it to be us so we can get to know each other better,” Ten admitted.
Eddie nodded. “Totally understandable,” he said. “But, then I thought maybe they’re all sniffy because you’re high-profile clients.”
Ten dipped his head, he hated the celebrity part of what he did, and out in Harrisburg he was recognized more often than not. “I don’t want them staring at me as if I don’t deserve to be here, or that we won’t be the best parents.” He glanced at Michelle who was still in the start position waiting to write, but who returned Ten’s glance with a level stare.
“Believe me, I have noted, and fully understand your concerns,” Michelle said, and that was all we were getting. Only there was something in her expression that spoke of a deeper understanding of Ten’s worries.
We knew they were the best local agency, and from the first meeting the owners had made it clear that they supported our choices. But they’d also insisted we didn't publicly post about our progress or make what we were doing into a media circus. They called it reasonable discretion, but I felt as if they were implying we were going through this process to get an accessory to our lifestyle and not because we wanted a family. I was probably wrong to even think that, but still, the concern had been there on my list of pros and cons.
I liked Michelle though, a quiet woman who appeared to respect what we were doing.
“Actually, can Jared and I have you as our specific case officer and put it in writing?” Ten asked Michelle.
Michelle appeared startled, but then stared down at the notebook. “You can request whomever you want,” she admitted after a short pause.
“We request you as well,” Isobel said, and Eddie added his agreement.
“Okay then,” Ten said with enthusiasm, “can you write that down. Number one, Mr. and Mr. Madsen-Rowe request Michelle as the official case manager.”
“And Mr. and Mrs. Mackie,” Isobel added.
Michelle was flustered at first, and then she pulled on her game face and sat back in the chair a little more relaxed.
“Let’s get down to business then.”
The next few hours were spent working through the surrogacy structure, the financial and emotional investment from both sides. We spoke at length about why Isobel was ready to do this, and she spoke so eloquently about her twin. Some of it was technical and dry, the fact that we would have an anonymous egg, with Ten’s sperm, and that Isobel was our gestational surrogate. The rest? That was laughter, and getting to know each other, and finally ending up leaving the agency with the four of us going for lunch. We’d signed reams of paperwork and Michelle was collating and copying and sending our contracts.
Everything in writing even this early before conception was an issue. We’d already had a home assessment, criminal and records checks, and Isobel had been screened alongside us. There were extra NDA pages to sign so that Isobel didn't go out and sell our story to the media, and even though I wanted to say blindly we trusted her, we had to have that level of protection.
I had to keep my family safe.
Isobel had us sign anonymity forms, and our own type of NDA that we wouldn't out her as our surrogate unless she chose to reveal it. Michelle appeared to have every eventuality listed, and lawyers had prepared everything. It was reassuring, and overwhelming all at the same time.
We had an egg donor chosen, no name or identification, but we had enough information and we’d asked for very little in the way of qualifying data. We didn't care about some of the more specific stuff like hair color and eyes, because who knew what genetics would play a part in the baby we would end up loving? Yes, we crossed all the Ts and dotted all the Is but now we wanted to know Isobel, the person.
She was lovely, there was no other word for it, and even though we knew the dry details, I wanted to know more about her, but she beat me to it.
“At sixteen we fell pregnant,” she blurted out, and Eddie squeezed her hand. “We’d been dating since eighth grade, and I knew I’d be with him forever. But me getting pregnant was the final straw for my parents. They not only had a gay son in my twin brother, but they had a daughter who was expecting a baby outside of marriage. Let’s just say both myself and my brother were encouraged to leave home.”
Of course we’d read all of this in her profile, but to hear her say the words and know that her parents had rid themselves of two children at the same time, was heartbreaking.
“She didn't need them,” Eddie said, “both Isobel and Adam moved in with my mom and we did okay.”
“We got married, and our first son, Dale, was born just after my seventeenth birthday, and our second, Austin, when I was nineteen. We worked for Eddie’s mom in a salon in town and we were a family. When my twin, Adam, met his husband and wanted a baby, I offered to carry a baby for them.” She glanced at her husband. “We offered. But it worked out better for all of us to have anonymity, and I promised myself that we would help another couple who couldn’t have children. When we read your profile, we knew it had to be you.”
“Thank you.” Ten was choked.
“Of course, when we matched and they revealed who you were we nearly rethought it,” Eddie said, and my chest tightened. “Only because I’m a New York fan.”
“Someone has to be,” Tennant deadpanned, and like that, the ice was broken.
I knew we were in good hands. She was very open about why she was willing to carry our baby, using the money to fund her education and to give her kids a good start in life, and I wanted to hand everything over to her there and then. Ten relaxed as lunch continued, and we were done. We hugged her goodbye, thanking her so much she was scarlet with pleasure. We headed back to the parking garage, and Ten tugged me into a dark corner, and held me as if he’d never let me go.
“We’re doing this,” he whispered in my ear.
I grinned and held onto him. “We’re so doing this.”
The disappointment was real when the first cycle didn't work. February was a hard month mentally and physically for us both. The Railers were fighting tooth and nail in a close division, tensions were high on ice, and the call from Michelle to explain there would need to be a second try rocked our safe little world.
“We get everything so easy.” Ten grasped my hand hard after the call ended, “I just expected this to be easy as well.”
“We don’t get everything easy,” I said, and tugged him to sit next to me on the couch. “We work hard at everything, and this is no different.”
We entered the second month with renewed hope, and the day we would find out if everything had worked was the day after a brutal game against Brady’s Boston Rebels. Ten had been slammed into the boards in so many different ways that he was a mess of bruises, and he was exhausted. We’d slept late, but at least when I was woken by my cell phone dancing on the bedside table, he was curled up next to me.
I reached for the phone, connected the call as soon as I saw it was Michelle.
“It’s good news. Isobel is pregnant.”
And in that single instant as Ten and I hugged each other, we knew our lives were about to change in the most dramatic way.
Bring it on.
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas by Anna Martin
The walk from the train station to his mum’s house was normally about fifteen minutes, but tonight it took longer due to the amount of snow on the ground. A lot longer. But Brandon really didn’t want his mum driving out to pick him up, not in this weather.
Even if his shoes were wet and his toes were cold and the frosty wind kept getting stuck in his throat.
There was something very reassuring and very familiar about this trudge uphill through the village. Even though it was dark out—it got dark by four in the afternoon at the moment— Brandon was pretty sure he could make the journey with his eyes closed.
His mum still lived in the same house Brandon and his sisters had grown up in; a terraced house behind the High Street that almost backed on to the bakery. When they were kids, Brandon had thought of the alleyway that connected the shops to the houses a secret passage. Along with Saffron and Olive, he’d played many games of Super Secret Spies back here.
Brandon let himself in through the back door because that was just the way things were done. Knocking on the front door was for guests and the postman. And he already knew he’d find his mum in the kitchen, at the back of the house.
“Hi, Mum.”
He shut the door behind himself quickly to keep the cold out, then leaned down and hugged her close, not pulling away until she did.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
“Sit down,” she said, ushering him into a chair. He still took his shoes off first and left them by the door, and hung his coat up on the hook. His bag could wait until later. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but if you’ve got something you need me to get rid of…?”
That made her laugh. “You want a cup of tea and a bit of cake?”
“Mum,” he said seriously. “I really, really do.”
Letting himself be fussed over was easy. Brandon knew he didn’t come home as often as he should; partly because his mum came into London fairly regularly with her friends and she always took time to stop by and see him. But that meant coming home was always a treat, and despite being thirty four, Brandon didn’t mind the attention from his mum.
Within ten minutes of walking through the door Brandon had a cup of tea and a piece of yule log chocolate cake in front of him. His mum sat opposite him at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around her own mug.
“How’s things?” she demanded. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy,” he said. “Always busy. How are things here?”
She stilled, and Brandon was suddenly nervous. “Bran, there’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” he said around a mouthful of cake.
“We sold the bakery.”
Brandon swallowed hard. “You sold it?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
His mum squirmed. “August. I’m sorry. I thought you were coming home in September, then you didn’t because of that big contract at work, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“That’s okay.” He knew the bakery had been up for sale for a while, but he hadn’t thought to ask if anything had happened. That was probably self-preservation rather than self-interest. If he didn’t ask, he didn’t have to know. “Who has it now? Are they going to turn it into flats?”
“No,” his mum said emphatically. “A man bought it—he’s your age, actually. His name is Alex. He just picked it up and kept going.”
“So it’s open? Like it used to be?”
She nodded. “Yeah. People around here are really pleased, too. Alex is a good person, and a good baker. He’s been able to keep the tradition going.”
“I mean…” Brandon knew he needed to reassure her. Selling the bakery had been a huge deal and had caused plenty of arguments. But his mum didn’t want to keep it open on her own and neither Brandon nor his sisters wanted to move back to Newton Green to take it over. “We’ve known for a long time this was going to happen. I’m not upset,” he said, reaching out to give his mum’s hand a squeeze.
Later, when the cake was gone and his plate washed up, Brandon wandered through the house. He couldn’t help but appreciate that his mum had decorated for Christmas, like she did every year, even though there was no one but her to appreciate it.
Then again, that was probably not strictly true. Brandon knew his mum had a busier social life than he did; she was the treasurer for the PTA at the local primary school, having never given up her spot even after all three of her kids had left. She worked with a local children’s charity too, and volunteered at the food bank, and had been a member of the local Women’s Institute for donkey’s years.
That was part of the reason why Brandon didn’t feel quite so bad that neither he nor his sisters lived in Newton Green any more.
Bits and bobs had been rearranged on the mantlepiece above the fire to make room for two wicker reindeer sculptures that Brandon had bought for her a few years back. In the middle of the two reindeer were a hodge-podge of different school and graduation photos, and in Olive’s case, a picture from her wedding.
He picked up the frame and smiled.
Brandon looked more like Olive and their mum than Saffron and their dad. Both Brandon and Olive had thick, dark hair that got frizzy when it was humid out, and brown eyes that had hints of hazel. Saffron, on the other hand, wore her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair almost to her waist.
Olive was practical, a born scientist, and it made perfect sense that she now worked for the Scottish government advising on climate change. Brandon hoped that one day she’d move back down here, but she’d made a life in Edinburgh with her husband. Brandon set the photo back on the mantlepiece and made a mental note to book flights to go see them soon. Maybe by the time he got round to it, the baby would be born.
That was another thing that got his stomach all knotted up—Ollie getting married was one thing, but having a baby so soon after the wedding was another. Brandon had thought that she would want to wait, to dig further into her prospering career. But Thomas loved kids, and it seemed like he was going to be the stay at home parent when Olive’s maternity leave was over. It was all very 2020 of them.
Both his sisters had big, exciting things happening in their lives; Ollie with the baby, and Saff out exploring the world, and Brandon couldn’t help but feel jealous. When he’d moved to London it had been such a big thing in their family—he was the first to go to university, the first in the family to get a degree, and it had felt, at twenty-two, like the world was at his feet. Having a flat in Lambeth meant he could walk to his job in Soho, if he wanted to, and London life suited him.
Now, twelve years later, the city was exhausting. The past year had been a lot, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else waiting for him. A new relationship, a chance to move abroad and live somewhere exciting, maybe. Just… something.
He got out of bed around three in the morning when he really couldn’t pretend to sleep any more. Everything about being in this house was so familiar, and so strange at the same time. This bed—the one he’d slept in for the last few years before he left for uni—was nowhere near as comfortable as his one back at his flat. Things were quieter here than the constant hum of traffic he was used to; any noise muffled more by the falling snow.
Very quietly, Brandon got up and got dressed in jeans and a hoodie, thick socks, and a knitted beanie hat that covered his ears. He knew how to sneak downstairs and avoid the stair that always creaked, and, leaving everything else behind, he snuck down the alleyway to the bakery.
He didn’t have a key, but there was one behind the loose brick next to the door, and the new owner either didn’t know about it or had kept the hiding place because the old key was still there.
Brandon let himself in and carefully shut the door.
And found himself standing in his dad’s kitchen.
Nothing much had changed, and that was confusing to a part of his brain that knew this place belonged to someone else now. Technically he was trespassing. Brandon wasn’t sure what he was expecting… just… not this. Maybe a new lick of paint, or the old cookbooks on the shelf to have been taken down, or even for the aprons hung on the flour-dusty hooks to be different.
But it was the same as he remembered, right down to the little details, and his heart suddenly ached for all the things that he’d never be able to do again.
His dad had died eighteen months ago, just weeks after his diagnosis with prostate cancer. Brandon sometimes thought it was a good thing that his dad had never really suffered or been in any pain, but losing his dad was one of the hardest things he’d ever experienced. Their family had owned the bakery—this bakery—going back generations.
Brandon had worked here ever since he was tall enough to reach the counters. After school he’d come back and help his mum clean down the shop area and then help his dad set up for the next day, earning his pocket money. His early life had been lived in these rooms, and the relief that someone hadn’t decided to rip it all out and start over sank deep into his bones.
He didn’t bother turning a light on; the moon was bright outside and he could move around in here with his eyes closed. There was a big island in the middle of the bakery that had a marble top—for making dough and pastry and cake decorating. The ovens lined one side of the room, all off now, and the racks for cooling and preparing were filled with the stock for tomorrow.
Brandon moseyed over and had a look. A lot of it was familiar and predictable: gingerbread biscuits, gingerbread cake, stollen, mince pies… no, two different types of mince pies, already filled with glistening, jammy fruit.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was breaking and entering into the bakery in the middle of the night. There was nothing stopping him coming by in the morning, and if the new owner was as nice as his mum seemed to think he was, Brandon might even get an actually legal tour back here.
But that wasn’t really what he wanted.
When he was really little, and “helping” his dad mostly meant just getting in the way, Brandon would sit where two counters met in the corner of the room, right next to the window. It meant a huge waste of counter space, but it kept him out of the way and meant he had a good view of the tree outside and the birds that lived in it.
For very childish, heartsore reasons, Brandon toed off his shoes and hoisted himself up onto the counter. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
Alex often thought of this time of day as “ungodly o’clock” in the morning. And he was a morning person.
Sometimes, during the very peak of summer, he would walk to work when the sun was coming up, and that was a nice feeling. He liked the idea of starting his day when the world was stretching and yawning and coming to life with him. Those days were long gone though, and wouldn’t be back for a while yet.
There was something very satisfying about midwinter too. Just not when he started work at four in the morning and at this time of year, put in a solid twelve hour day.
He let himself into the bakery and stopped short.
Because there was a man sleeping on his counter.
There was a man, asleep, on his counter.
A few things flashed through Alex’s mind at the same time: stranger! Thief? Homeless person looking for shelter? Runaway? Stranger!
He froze, entirely unsure of what to do next. But he must have made some kind of noise, because the man looked up, and jumped out of his skin.
“Holy shit!”
“Woah.” Alex held his hands up and took a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
“Shit,” the man said again, and pressed his hands to his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Alex carefully took a step back, towards the door, just in case the guy turned violent and he had to run. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” He slid off the counter and looked around for his shoes. “I really am sorry.”
Now Alex could see him better, the stranger didn’t seem so intimidating. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and very deliberate stubble on his jaw. He didn’t look like a homeless person. He was wearing nice clothes and a heavy hoodie.
“I should go,” he said.
“You want anything first?” Alex gestured to the stacks of food. “Help yourself.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Shit. I suppose I should explain.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Brandon. David’s son.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. “You’re Brandon,” Alex echoed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I won’t do this again, I promise. I suppose I just wanted to come in here one last time, before….”
“It’s fine.”
Alex really wasn’t awake enough to fully process everything that was trying to find space in his head. It was still so damn early.
“You want a coffee?” he said quickly.
Brandon froze. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Hot bean juice. I need some.”
