Josh Lanyon's Blog - Posts Tagged "josh-lanyon"

Perry and Nick from THE GHOST WORE YELLOW SOCKS
 
 
 
“You’ll like California.” Nick turned his head on the pillow and caught the shine of Perry’s eyes in the muted light, the gleam of his smile.

“I think so.” Perry sounded content. “I want to paint the beach.”

“There’s plenty of beach in California.”

“Yeah.”

They had dug the sheets out of the box Nick had packed a couple of hours earlier and made up the bed. Nick’s sleeping bag was unzipped spread out over them like a quilt. It was comfortable. Probably the most comfortable bed Nick could remember, though that had more to do with Perry lying next to him than clean sheets and a good mattress.

The snow, which had started falling while they were otherwise occupied, made a soothing shushing sound against the bedroom window.

“It’ll be good for you. California, I mean. The climate and everything.”

“Yep.” Perry still sounded supremely untroubled. Untroubled and young.

“You…don’t think you’ll be homesick?”

Perry chuckled. “Nope.” He wrapped his good arm around Nick’s waist and settled his head more comfortably on Nick’s shoulder. “It’s like my mom used to say. Home is where the heart is.”

Nick’s own heart seemed to swell with another surge of that unfamiliar emotion. He bent his head, his mouth seeking Perry’s, and Perry responded with that easy enthusiasm.

When their lips reluctantly parted he said astonishingly, “Don’t worry, Nick. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” Nick said gruffly.

“And I promise I won’t get in the way or disrupt your work.”

 “The hell you won’t.” Nick was smiling as his mouth found Perry’s once more.

Drew and Fraser from MUMMY DEAREST 
 
 
“What was that?”

“Thunder.”

“That didn’t sound like thunder to me.”

“It’s thunder.”

“We should have stayed at the monastery.”

“No we should not have.” Fraser’s hazel gaze met mine and I cleared my throat.

“Mm. Possibly not.” I was not about to let that smug look sit on his face one second longer than I had to. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?” My moan could barely be heard over the moan of the icy wind outside our tent. Our tent in the northern Nepal. You know: the Himalayas. Home to Meh-Teh. AKA the Yeti. AKA the Abominable Snowman.

Fraser grinned at me over the rim of his mug. His red-rimmed eyes sparkled in his ruddy, wind burned face. His teeth were white in the gold frame of his beard. “You always say that, but you know you love every minute.”

“Love every minute!” I spluttered.

“You have loved every minute of the past five years.”

“You’re starting to hallucinate. Move closer so we can conserve body heat.”

Not that we could really get any closer.

“Here.” Fraser held out the thermos and I let him top up my mug. “You have to admit, it’s a lot better than garden parties and the opera.”

“No I don’t.”

“I took you away from all that.”

“I’m not forgetting whose fault this is.”

“I saved you from a life of boredom.”

“I wasn’t all that bored.”

“Yes you were. And you’ll thank me for this in the end.”

“Which will be any minute now. They’ll find our mummified remains in an ice cavern. Beneath an avalanche.”

“Locked in each other’s arms.” Fraser continued to beam at me while I slurped my steaming cocoa. Not bad. The cocoa, I mean. Although the other was alright too.
In fact…

I took another cautious slurp and frowned suspiciously. “What’s in here?”

“Peppermint schnapps.”

“Schnapps? Are you trying to get me drunk?”
 
“Of course. Drunk and debauched.”

“Let’s just skip to the debauched part. The hangover isn’t so bad.”

He touched his plastic mug to mine. “Cheers, Drew. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christ—” I nearly dropped my cup at the boom of sound bouncing off the mountains around us. Fraser's blazing look of joy told me all I needed to know. “Hey. That was not thunder!”
 
 
 
 

Brett and Rafferty from THIS ROUGH MAGIC
 
 
Rafferty told himself he didn’t expect Brett to show.
Christmas Eve? Nah. There would be some swell Snob Hill party he was expected to attend or some wingding at the old plantation he’d feel it his duty to soldier through. And it wasn’t like Rafferty was ten years old and still believed in Santy Clause. It was a long time since he’d knelt by his cot praying for a pony or a long lost uncle. He was a big boy now and this was just another night in foggy old San Francisco. A little colder, a little darker than some—but Rafferty’d known colder and darker.

It was well after midnight when he poured a stiff drink, his second of the evening, and turned out the lights in the front of the house. He was lying in bed reading White Fangby Jack London when he heard the faint, familiar scratching at his bedroom window.

His heart sprang into life. He threw the book aside, unfolded from the bed, and shoved open the window. Brett stood in the alley. He grinned at Rafferty and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“I thought I heard the click click click of reindeer hooves,” Rafferty drawled.

“Merry Christmas.” Brett handed over the champagne and climbed through window with considerable agility, given that he was wearing evening clothes beneath a dark ulster. The ulster had a Persian lamb collar, so Rafferty had guessed right. A night on the town for young Master Sheridan.

He shoved the window closed behind Brett, yanked the curtains shut. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Brett gave him a level look, his eyes as green as spring. “I can leave if you’ve got other plans.”

“Of course I don’t have plans and of course I don’t want you to leave.” Rafferty took him in his arms. Brett’s eyes were shining and happy, his flushed face cold from the bitter night air. He tasted like champagne. 

“I got away as soon as I could."

“You should have told me you were coming. I’d have…” What? Fixed Brett a meal? He’d have had plenty to eat and plenty to drink wherever he’d been.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Rafferty was touched—and embarrassed. He would have been disappointed, sure, though he’d like to think he was better at hiding his feelings. “I’m glad you made it.”

Brett treated him to one of those rare, unguarded smiles. Six months they’d been…whatever they were, and those smiles still made Rafferty’s breath catch in his throat.

“Did you have a nice evening?” he asked, and he genuinely hoped Brett had because there weren’t nearly enough nice evenings in Brett’s life.

“Not particularly.” Brett reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a small parcel, a flat blue box with a white ribbon.

“What’s this?” Rafferty took the box.

Brett shrugged out of his ulster and draped it over the bed post. The first time he’d done that, Rafferty had woken during the night and, thinking someone was looming over the bed, nearly shot the coat. “Open it,” Brett said, and turned his attention to the champagne.

Rafferty recognized that blue box and he wondered uneasily where the hell Brett had found the money to buy whatever was inside. Hopefully Brett and Kitty weren’t back to pawning family heirlooms.


By the time Rafferty had fumbled open the box, Brett had uncorked the champagne and poured it into the only two clean coffee cups left in the house.

“Hell.” Rafferty stared down at the gold pocket watch. He swallowed hard. “I got you a book.”

Brett laughed. “Did you? What book?”

Rafferty’s face felt hot. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but really what the hell had he been thinking? “Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

Brett laughed again, an indulgent chuckle. He had put his mug of champagne on the steamer trunk that served as Rafferty’s bedside table and was shedding his clothes with quick, unselfconscious grace. His skin was pale and smooth like warm marble. He said, “You’re a romantic, Neil.”

Maybe. He was Irish. It was pretty much the same thing.

Rafferty removed the pocket watch from the fancy box. It was a beauty. The nicest thing he’d ever had in his life. He glanced at Brett now climbing into his bed, and mentally corrected himself. The second nicest thing he’d ever had in his life.

“Thank you,” he said, and he wasn’t talking to Brett.
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Ridge and Tug from JUST DESSERTS
 
 
It was a good thing Ridge was mighty fond of Tug or he’d probably have killed him by now.

As it was, it had been touch and go for a little while that morning. But killing your lover on Christmas morning was so…so…heterosexual. Ridge had exerted superhuman strength and managed to refrain from conking Tug over the head with the nearest Yule log.

Well hell.

Ridge knew he was behaving like an ass. An all expense paid holiday trip to Montreal? A four-course meal and performance by burlesque icon (if you paid attention to such things – which Ridge did not) Scarlett James at Old Montreal’s Hotel Nelligan on New Year’s Eve? And they’d be staying at the Hotel Nelligan as well, so no hassling with snow and crowds and transportation for Ridge.

Tug had every right to expect his wonderful gift would be appreciated.

The Hotel Nelligan was just the kind of place Ridge loved. Used to love. The perfect mix of Old World and modern convenience. Tug had burbled about the comfy beds and spa tubs big enough for two and rooftop dining on French cuisine.

He didn’t mention disabled access, but that went without saying.

Tug had talked and Ridge had gotten quieter and quieter until Tug had finally stopped talking and said uncertainly, “You don’t--?”

“No, I don’t,” Ridge had snapped out and rolled his chair away from all the candy cane and tinsel Christmas cheer of the front room, down the hall – newly renovated to accommodate his wheelchair – and out onto the deck that overlooked the ocean.

There he had sat, freezing his ass off while the wind churned the water into white caps and blew a wet salty spray into his face.

Tug did not come after him, which meant even Tug knew how much Ridge was in the wrong this time.

Well, it surely couldn’t be that much of a shock to Tug, who had been dealing patiently with Ridge’s moods and outbursts all through the autumn and now through the winter. Even Tug with his unfailing good nature and powerful sense of humor had to know by now what an ungrateful, selfish shit Ridge was.  

But why did Tug have to keep pushing him? Why couldn’t he just accept that Ridge didn’t—couldn’t—
The French doors opened and Tug came out onto the deck. “You still mad at me?”

Ridge glanced at him, struggled inwardly, and admitted, “Mad at myself.”

“I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.” Tug leaned against the railing so that he was facing Ridge. The cold wind ruffled his fair hair and turned his nose pink.

He looked awfully cute and awfully repentant, which should have been a relief— it gave Ridge the upper hand in any negotiations that might follow—but mostly what Ridge felt was guilt. Because Tug wasn’t wrong. Ridge was.

Ridge said impatiently, “Why shouldn’t you have? It was a nice gift. A lovely gift. I never had such a nice gift.”

Tug’s eyes brightened, his cheeks flushed with pleasure—or maybe that was the cold again.

Tug's relief encouraged Ridge, though he was afraid to examine why, to go even further. “I used to love that kind of thing.”

“I know. You will again, honey,” Tug promised.

Ridge shook his head. “I don’t want to travel like this.”

“In a wheelchair.”

Ridge looked away and nodded.

He expected Tug to give him the usual pep talk, but this time Tug didn’t say anything. When Ridge looked back at him, Tug said with uncharacteristic gravity, “All right then, honey. We won’t go to Montreal. We won’t go anywhere. We don’t have to travel to have fun together. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Complete capitulation.

Victory.

Funny how much victory tasted like defeat.

Ridge stared at Tug and Tug gazed right back at him with those big guileless blue eyes.

Not do anything that made Ridge uncomfortable? Well hell. This whole relationship made him uncomfortable. Loving somebody as much as he was starting to love Tug was an uncomfortable business. Living was an uncomfortable business, when you got right down to it.

He stared at Tug. Tug stared back at him.

“We’ll always do just exactly what you want,” Tug assured him.  Ridge opened his mouth to object. Of course he didn't want--or expect--that much captitulation. Tug persisted, “But can I tell you what I want most for Christmas?”

A tiny doubt took root in Ridge’s mind. It bloomed into suspicion as Tug’s boyish face creased into a lopsided but mischievous smile. The funny thing was, Ridge didn’t mind.  He didn’t mind at all.
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Swift and Max from COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS
 
 
 
 
Police chiefs don’t get Christmas Eve off.

But Swift was used to that. He had been used to it even before the relationship between him and Max had become official. Being a night owl, it was no hardship to wait up for Max. He took his time preparing every detail of what felt like their first Christmas Eve together, although it was not technically their first. Not at all.

He wound a few Christmas lights around the bookshelves and statuary, lit the strategically placed red and white candles, and set up the Christmas tree. The latter took all of five minutes. It was an small artificial tree from the 1960s which he’d picked up at a flea market the first winter he’d spent at Stone Coast. The tree was white as were the star-shaped lights. The scratched and faded bulbs were red and silver. It was about as kitschy as Christmas could get, and Swift dearly loved it.

He spent the rest of the evening cooking and listening to music. Mostly Christmas Time With Motown, Max’s favorite holiday record. It took a fair bit of time to get their midnight repast ready and prepare for the following day’s meal. Not that Max would have Christmas day off either, but they would get to spend a portion of it together and Swift had learned to make every minute count.

Swift could not sing to save his life, but that didn’t stop him humming along with Smokey Robinson.

Well I wish it could be Christmas every day

When the kids start singing and the band begins to play

Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day

So let the bells ring out for Christmas

Tomorrow he was doing a full on traditional feast with a small roasted goose stuffed with chestnuts and cranberries among other goodies as the centerpiece. He was even doing a figgy pudding which he had attempted just for laughs, but the pudding had turned out to be astonishingly delicious after a liberal dosing of cognac and rum. That was tomorrow taken care of  – and probably a number of nights to follow because there would be a ridiculous amount of leftovers.

Tonight’s meal would be relatively light: bacon-wrapped scallops, spinach, fennel and citrus salad, and wild rice, all set off to perfection by a nice white wine.

After the cooking and clean up was done, Swift had a glass of the nice wine while he sat in front of the fire and jotted down some notes.

 At a quarter after eleven, Max’s key scraped in the front door lock, and Max let himself in. Snow dusted his dark hair and the wide shoulders of his sheepskin coat.

“You’re early.”

“Doesn’t feel early to me,” Max said, bending over the sofa to drop a kiss on Swift’s neck.   “Working?”

Swift shook his head and tossed the legal pad aside.

“Something smells great.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”
Max followed him into the kitchen talking about what had been a relatively crime free Christmas Eve and watched Swift dish out the food.

“Do you want eat at the table or in front of the fire?” Swift asked.

“Fire.”
>They returned with their plates to the warmth of the fireplace.

Max stopped talking and devoted himself to the food. Swift watched him, smiling. He enjoyed Max’s heartfelt appreciation of his cooking.

At last Max set his empty plate aside, heaved a deep sigh of relief and smiled back at Swift. “Christ, it’s good to be home. I thought the night would never end.”

 “Maybe we’ll get snowed in.”

“Maybe we will.” Max’s gaze grew thoughtful. “Are you sorry you didn’t go to your mother’s?”

“No. I wanted to spend Christmas with you.”

“If I could have got away?”

“No.” It wasn’t easy to explain without sounding hardhearted, but if anyone understood, Max did. “Too many memories. I want more new memories, new…traditions to balance against the old before I try that. I’ll see her in the spring.”

Max nodded.

“You want another glass of wine?”

“I’ll switch to beer.”

Swift rose to refill his glass and get Max a beer from the fridge. When he returned to the couch Max was looking at the legal pad. Swift resisted the instinct to take the pad from Max. They had no secrets from each other.

Max looked up and there was something in his expression, a softness, a light. It took Swift aback, that funny regard.

“Are you writing again?”

Swift’s face warmed, though that could have been the wine. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just playing around with words right now.”
>Max looked down at the page. “‘The first bell is winter. Frozen breath of cold blue streets.’ What’s it mean?”

Swift laughed. “Probably nothing.” He took the pad away, tossed it on the table.

Max reached out and Swift moved into the curve of his arm. He put his head back, staring up at the open ceiling beams. He was smiling.
“Happy?” Max asked softly.

Swift assented.

There was a smile in Max’s voice as he asked, “What do you say to working on another of those new Christmas traditions?”

 
 
 
 

James and Sedgwick from THE DICKENS WITH LOVE
 
 
“Your mother hates me.” I said when Sedgwick joined me on the terrace.

“No.” He brushed away the powder of snow and joined me, leaning against the blue stone wall and gazing out at the moonlit shingle beach. His broad shoulder felt solidly comforting against my own. 

I smiled, though I don’t suppose Sedgwick could see it in the dark. “Oh yes. Every times she looks at me she sees a line of unborn grandchildren. Your father can’t look at me without wincing.”

I didn’t bother to go into the cool and courteous disbelief of the younger brother, the two older sisters and even the nieces and nephews. All right, perhaps not the nieces and nephews. Perhaps I was reading too much into their clear, curious gazes.

“They don’t know you, James.” Sedge put his arm around me. “Once they know you, they’ll realize that I’m the lucky one. They’ll love you. As I love you.”

My throat tightened. To answer was impossible.

I had been to church that morning, the first time in my adult life I had gone to church with a purpose beyond attending a wedding or a funeral. I had stood next to Sedgwick in the family pew and refused to let myself think beyond the words on the page of the book Sedge held for both of us. I was  taking it one word at a time.

The breeze carried the scent of ocean and marshland and curry, the latter thanks to the spice grinding facility in the Rye Harbourindustrial estate. It smelled foreign. Alien. Which made sense as I was half a world away from home.

No. England, East Sussex to be exact, was my home now. These politely stricken strangers were my family. 

Into my pained silence Sedge qualified, “Well, not exactly as I love you, but in their own restrained and familial way.”

That got a snort out of me. Sedge’s arm tightened, hard and reassuring. He bent his head and, breath warm against my ear, whispered, “Don’t let them spoil things, Jamie. I love you so much. We’ve waited so long.”

I shivered. 
A year. That’s how long we’d waited, what with one thing or another. A whole year of waiting, dreaming, planning. I’d given up everything, my entire life to be with Sedgwick Crisparkle.

And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

“They’re horrified about what I did with your book.”
“Your book,” Sedge said firmly. “Anyroads, there you’re most definitely wrong. They all think you’re bloody brilliant. As do I. You’ve kept The Christmas Cake in the family yet still managed to get the money I needed to open the school.”

I smiled. I was rather proud of what I considered a master stroke. Rather than selling the lost Dickens Christmas book that had brought Sedgwick and me together almost a year to the day, I’d had the book copied and republished as a pricy, exclusive and very limited edition just in time for Christmas. Sedge would have all the money he needed for his school.

But again, Sedgwick didn’t see the smile and he misread my silence. He burst out with uncharacteristic fury, “Goddamn them.”

 “Sedge—” I was genuinely startled. He swore so rarely, lost his temper so rarely.

“How fucking dare they hurt you? They know what you mean to me.” He turned as though to go back and do battle with them, my own personal and highly incensed archangel. I grabbed him back, laughing -- at least in part I was laughing.

“Don’t do it. Don’t say a word to them. They’re doing the best they can. I’ll win them over. I can be very charming when I try.”

He let me hold him, but I could feel his heart banging with righteous wrath against my own. “I know you can,” he said seriously, as though I might need reassurance on this score too.

I really was laughing then. “Sedge, it’s okay. It really is. So long as it doesn’t matter to you, do you think I care about what any of them think?”

His spectacles glinted in the moonlight. “Is that true, James? I wanted you to have a real fa--”

I interrupted, “I know. And maybe we’ll get there yet.” I drew his head to mine. “In the meantime...Happy Christmas, Professor Crisparkle.”   
 
 
  
 

Sam and Rhys from A GHOST OF A CHANCE

 
 
 

“All you have to do is say yes,” Roger said.

We were the only two people sitting in the waiting room. There were chairs draped in dust covers and some back issues of Haunted Times and TAPS. I looked at the front desk. The receptionist smiled at me and went back to her filing.

“You’re curious, right?” Roger pressed. “This is the truth you’ve spent your life pursuing. You wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”

“No,” I said slowly. He was right. Sort of. I was a history teacher by trade. The paranormal studies were mostly a hobby. A hobby I was passionate about, but not exactly my life’s work.

“So say yes.”

“That’s it? I don’t have to sign any paperwork? No…waivers?”

Roger laughed. “No. You just have to want it.”

“I see.” I didn’t though. Not completely. In fact…this was so weird. I couldn’t quite remember why I was there. It must have been Roger’s idea. But then that was sort of strange too because—

“You’ve been thinking about it a lot since Sam died.”

My heart seemed to stop. “Wait.” I could hardly form the word. I felt frozen, stiff. “Sam’s dead?”

Roger stared at me as though I were insane. “Rhys, Sam has been dead a year.”

“No. That can’t be.” My heart began to bang in slow, heavy beats. Cold sweat broke out over my body. “No. I would know.”

“You do know.”

 I shook my head.

“Rhys. What’s the matter with you? Sam died Christmas Eve. He was driving down from San Francisco. You were going to spend the holiday together. There was an accident. He never regained consciousness.”

“No.” I jumped up. “No. That’s wrong. I know that’s wrong.”

“Not this again,” Roger groaned. “You’re in denial because you never told him how you felt. You were too afraid to take a chance after C.K.  You feel guilty about it and so you’ve blocked it out.”

I began to pace around the laboratory as though I could walk away from what he was telling me. “I was going to tell him. I was going to tell him that weekend.”

Roger rose too. He held up a test tube. Green liquid bubbled up. “Exactly! But don’t you see? You can tell him. You can tell him now.”

“But he must know. He has to know. It was just the words. I tried to let him kn—” I had to stop. I was going to be crying in front of Roger and his lab assistant in a minute. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes.

“No. He doesn’t know. You have to say the words,” Roger said. “Like now. You have to say the words.”

I lowered my hands and stared at Roger’s kindly face. His watery, near-sighted blue eyes gazed earnestly back at me. He smiled. I had never noticed how yellow his teeth were – or that he had such sharp incisors. In fact…

I asked slowly, “Wait. Do I know you?”  

 ~ooo~

 

“Wake up. Wake up, Rhys. You have to wake up now.” Sam’s voice was raspy with weariness. “Rhys, I’m talking to you. You need to listen. Wake up.” That insistent tone was starting to hurt my head. He could be such an asshole sometimes.
>“Please, Rhys. Come on. This isn’t fair.”


Add captionYeah, but life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair when he used that soft coaxing voice either. That voice that made me want to give him whatever he was asking for even when I knew it was probably a bad idea.

“Rhys, I’m telling you to WAKE THE FUCK UP.”

My eyes snapped open.

Instantly there was a confusion of bright light and noise. Chaos. What was happening? Something was really wrong. I couldn’t swallow. No. Worse. I couldn’t seem to breathe. There was a tube in my mouth, a tube filling up my throat and pushing air into my lungs while I was trying to exhale. When I tried to free my head, it hurt like hell.

“No, Rhys.” Sam kept me from clawing out the obstruction choking me. “Don’t fight it. Lie still. You’re okay. They’re going to take it out.”

More noise, lights, commotion… 

 ~ooo~

 

Someone was holding my hand. A warm, hard grip. I squeezed back reassuringly. Took an experimental breath.

That was better. That was the way it was supposed to work.

“Rhys?”

I opened my eyes.

Better here too.

Quiet.

A soothing lack of light. Like twilight only…

Sam was leaning over me. I could make out that big, familiar blur. I was lying flat on my back in a room that was not my own. Not Sam’s either. A hospital room. What the hell?

“Rhys?”

A rusty voice answered for me. “My…glasses.”

An electric silence followed this request, and then Sam said in a shaky voice unlike his own, “Your--? Yeah. Of course. They’re here somewhere. How the hell you didn’t break ‘em…”

My head hurt. My ribs hurt. My back hurt. I was taking slow, painful inventory as my glasses settled on my nose and Sam’s face and the room behind him drew into sharp focus.

Yes. A hospital. I was in a hospital bed. Hooked up to a bunch of machines. There was fake garland around the window and a miniature Christmas tree in a pot on top of a cabinet in the corner. And there was Sam, grim and craggy and so important to me that I couldn’t seem to hold all that feeling in my heart.

“I thought you…were dead,” I got out in that creaky voice.

“Me?” Sam’s face was so gaunt. His eyes glittered. He looked ill. No wonder I’d thought…but no. That didn’t make sense. Sam was okay.

“What…happened?”

“You’re going to be fine now.”

Now.

“What happened?” It was tiring to talk. “An accident?”

He nodded. “You were driving up Friday night so we could spend the weekend together.”

I remembered. “I was staying. Through Christmas.” Our first Christmas together. Important. A turning point. When you started spending holidays together, that meant something.

“Right.” Sam’s voice was funny. So husky. So gentle. But Sam was gentle. People didn’t see that. He wasn’t in a gentle line of work. Being a cop didn’t call for gentleness, and Sam was so big and so rough looking…but he was very gentle. When he trusted you.

Had we reached the point of trusting each other?

Sam was still talking slowly, still watching my face  “A trucker fell asleep on the Grapevine. You were caught in a five car pileup.”

I swallowed. My throat felt scraped and raw. My mouth tasted horrible. My ribs hurt. My right leg…  Maybe I’d better save the inventory for later. I was starting to scare myself.

“Everyone…okay?”

I could see by Sam’s face and the way he made the decision not to tell me whatever it was that made him look like that, that everyone was not okay.

“You’re okay,” Sam said. “That’s all I care about.”

“Did I…miss it?”

He stroked my hair. “Did you miss what?”

“Christmas?”

His smile was so broad, so bright, it made my tired eyes blink. “No. No, this is Christmas Eve. You got back in plenty of time.”

I couldn’t match that smile, but I did my best. “Good.” My eyes were closing whether I wanted it or not. “I have to…tell you about my dream.”

“Okay,” Sam said softly. His mouth brushed mine. “And then I’ll tell you about mine.”

 
   
    
  
 
 

Today is a very special holiday treat. LB Gregg, Harper Foxand ZA Maxfield are all writing Christmas codas for their characters from the His for the Holidays anthology. Just follow the links to see what everyone is up to one year later.

 
 
 
Noel and Robert from ICECAPADE
 
 

 
Coffee.

Noel’s nose twitched. He pried open his eyes, tried to focus.

Robbert stood beside the bed cradling a yellow mug of coffee in his big hands.

“What day?” Noel croaked.

“Tuesday. Merry Christmas,” Robbie replied. “How do you feel?”

Noel sat up very cautiously, prepared for that dismaying, sickening swoop of giddiness that had defined the last feverish week.

Thank God. Thank you Baby Jesus. And Father Christmas and Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden and anyone else who might have had a hand in this Christmas morning miracle. He was okay again. The vertigo had passed. He could sit up without falling over. He could smile reassuringly at Robbie and reach for his coffee without spilling a drop.

“Happy Anniversary,” he said in a flu-raspy voice. He cleared his throat, took a mouthful of coffee.

Robbert sat down on the edge of the bed. He wore his wool plaid bathroom and he was already shaved, his dark hair neatly combed despite the fact that it was six o’clock in the morning. Noel liked to tease him about sleeping in a suit and tie, but it wasn’t quite that bad. Although maybe it had been back when Robert was Special Agent Cuffe.

“I thought our anniversary was New Year’s Eve?”

Noel shook his head. Barely a twinge of dizziness. He really was on the mend. He smiled widely at Robert. “No. Last Christmas Eve was when we really got together.” He took another sip of his coffee, tasting the bite of whisky and the sweetness of Bailey’s. Deja vu. A year to the day.

Robert watched him and observed, “True.” He added, "You look a lot better. You certainly sound a hell of a lot better."

Noel made a noncommittal noise and hid his face in the oversized mug. Flu for the holidays was bad enough, but he’d developed an inner ear infection that had literally knocked him on his ass. He hadn’t been able to sit up without help or take three steps without hanging onto Robert for support. It had been up to Robert to take care of everything, including running the stables. Something he knew nothing about and cared for even less. Noel had been as helpless as a baby perched precariously on a spinning ball, and that feeling of powerlessness had culminated yesterday afternoon in something that had probably looked all too much to Robert like a bout of hysterics. Robert had dealt with the tears -- which had been embarrassingly more like sobs -- as coolly as he'd dealt with everything else that week. He'd held Noel, told him he was okay, he was going to be fine, that it was just the fever making him feel like he’d reached the end of his rope.


Noel wouldn't have blamed Robert for packing his bags and hightailing it after that. But no. Here he was, shaved and combed and calm as ever.

The ironic thing was the flood of tears had seemed to open Noel's sinuses or maybe the antibiotics were finally working their magic. Whatever it was, by last night he’d been able to turn over in bed without feeling that the bed was rolling over on him. And today…Noel felt almost back to normal.

 But poor Robbie. What a shitty holiday season for him. Noel risked a look.

Robert, as grave as ever, said, “Want to see what Santa brought you?”

Noel stepped into his slippers. Robert brought his robe and Noel shrugged into it. He didn’t need help to walk anymore, but he was still surprised and grateful for the warm hug that went with the robe. He hugged Robert back so fiercely he nearly knocked him off balance.

Noel muttered, “Sorry for this. I didn’t even have a chance to pick up your Christmas present.”

“I don’t care about presents.”

“I do.”

“I know you do.” Robert sounded amused. “Don’t worry. Someone obviously thought you were a good boy this year.”

No lie. There was a landslide of gaily wrapped parcels beneath the ten foot tall silver spruce tree dominating the front parlor. The fireplace was ablaze and crackling. A tray with more coffee and pastries sat on the table before the sofa. Noel could smell the wonderful aroma of roasting turkey from the kitchen.

“You did all this?” Noel sat down heavily on the sofa. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t have done a nicer job of preparation himself. It was all the more touching because he knew Robert didn’t give a damn about the trappings of Christmas.

Robert had done all of this for Noel.

Noel swallowed hard.

“You okay?” Robert frowned. "Maybe you shouldn't be up yet."

Noel shook his head. Found a napkin on the breakfast tray and gave his nose a good hard blow. 

“You want some more coffee?”

Noel shook his head. “I got you a pony,” he said.

“Finally.”

“Really.”

“I know. The owner of White Rock Farm called when you didn’t show up to pick up the horse.”

Noel met Robert's dark eyes. “You know, I thought last year was the best Christmas of my life, but this year is better.”

Robert made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a splutter. “Maybe you are still feverish.”

Noel laughed too. “I think so.” But then honesty compelled him to say, “No. I know it sounds…it’s just…I’ve never had anyone. To depend on. Like this.”

“Yeah.” Robert poured himself a cup of coffee. “I know.”

“I never wanted to depend on anyone.”

“I know. Safer that way.”

That wasn’t how Robert Cuffe had grown up, though. He was the product of a loving family and a responsible job. He had lost both those things, but somehow losing them hadn’t changed him from the kind of person you could rely on, count on, lean on.

Noel had loved Robert Cuffe from practically the first time they’d met, but he wondered if he had ever really truly and completely understood him -- or even trusted him -- until last night.

He looked at the avalanche of presents beneath the tree and said, “I wish I had something to give you right now.”

Robert answered sounding genuinely amused. “You do. You have. You gave me the last year and you gave me today and you’re giving me all the days and nights ahead. You don’t really think a pair of cufflinks or even a new car would make me any happier than I am right now, do you?”

“For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health?”

“Well? That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is for me.”

“It is for me too.”

A light went on in Noel’s brain. “Robbie,” he said slowly. “How do you feel about diamonds?”

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  

Tim and Jack from CARDS ON THE TABLE
 
 
 
“Where the hell have you been?” Jack yelled before I even closed the front door.

“Sorry,” I apologized, shrugging out of my jacket. “Sorry I’m late. I swear to God it couldn’t be helped. I’m mostly packed. We can be on the road in half an hour. Promise.”

He caught my arm as I was brushing past, heading for the bedroom. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus, Tim. What happened?”

I said quickly, though I should have known by then there was no heading off the inevitable lecture, “It looks a lot worse than it is.”

“Really? Because it looks like a split lip and a black eye.” He followed me into the bedroom, watching, angry and at a loss, as I grabbed my suitcase and threw it on the neatly made bed. The bed sloshed in warning.

“Sorry,” I said again, automatically. That would be all we needed. A leak in that fucking waterbed as we were about to take off on our trip up north. We were heading to San Francisco to spend Christmas Eve with Sam, one of Jack’s best friends from his police academy days, then on to Mendocino to spend Christmas with my family then back to Los Angelesso Jack could be back at work on Thursday. I was just grateful Jack’s parents had moved to Florida so we didn’t have to try and include them in the holiday endurance run.

“What happened?” he asked in an ominously quiet voice. “Did you have a seizure? Were you driving?”

“Hell no, I didn’t have a seizure!” I’m not sure why that incensed me so much because though I’d been seizure free for six months, I’d only been driving for one, and it still felt pretty new to me. I knew Jack was still worried about the thought of me behind the wheel if I did have another seizure.

“Well, you didn’t walk into a wall!” He was yelling at me again. It was so unlike him. I couldn’t understand it. I wasn’t that late and he was mostly used to my unpredictable schedule – as a cop, his own wasn’t much better.

“Look, the interview didn’t go smoothly. Mayer punched me. And I, er, punched him back.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. Which I guess was better than having him flap it at me.

Reminded of my injuries, I noticed how much my mouth and eye were smarting. A lot. I abandoned the suitcase and went to the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was not reassuring. The fact that I was wearing a suit and tie almost made it worse.

I turned the cold water tap on.

Jack appeared in the mirror behind me. His face was stern. His gray eyes looked dark and there was no evidence of dimples. “I can’t take this,” he said.

It felt like being punched all over again. I gripped the side of the sink. “What does that mean? What are you talking about?”

“You’re so goddamned reckless!”

“You haven’t even heard my side of what happened.”

“You’re a reporter and you punched your interviewee. Is there another side to that?”

“He punched me first!”

“Great. That’s your side of it? We’ve had this conversation, Tim. How many times? You take stupid, reckless chances. And I can’t deal with this anymore.”

He walked out of the bathroom leaving me to gape at my battered reflection. After a second or two, I bent and splashed cold water in my face, thinking.

Once, and not that long ago, I’d have charged back in there and we’d have had an argument that probably would have ended with one of us – me -- walking out the door. But I’d learned a few things in the past months. Learned them from Jack, as a matter of fact.  

I turned off the faucet, dried my face, and went into the bedroom. No Jack. I went into the living room and he was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, massaging his forehead.

I sat down beside him. He didn’t look at me. I said, “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t take stupid, reckless chances. Not anymore. Because of you. Because I don’t have to prove anything anymore. Mayer is a thug and the interview fell apart, but I’m telling you, I did not provoke him. I was protecting myself, that’s all.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to guys like Mayer. He’s scum. He’s a killer.”

“It’s for the courts to decide if he’s a killer. And interviewing him is my job, Jack. I don’t give you a hard time when you come home with a few bruises.”

He burst out, “Why do you have to—why can’t you--?”

I stared at him. “What? Write a society column? What are you talking about?”

He massaged his head some more.

“You wouldn’t be saying this to me if I was a girl.”

He raised his head. “What?”

“Who gives anybody this kind of a bullshit hard time over their job now days?”

“You know your situation.”

“Yeah, better than anyone. And you know that I am taking care of myself and being responsible about my health. You know I haven’t had a seizure in half a year. And when was the last time I came home with a black eye? What’s really going on here?”

Nothing from Jack.

I didn’t know what his expression meant. I said slowly, “Should I finish packing for Sam’s or should I grab a cardboard box?”

He shook his head.

I put my arm around him, pressed my forehead to his. “Don’t be mad at me. It’s Christmas Eve.”

To my relief, Jack turned to me, kissed me. He put his arm around me and pulled me closer. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry. Just don’t take dumb chances.”

“I don’t. I promise.”

He nodded.

I looked past his head at the clock and said, “We’ve got to get moving or we won’t be there until late.”

“We’re not going.”

“What? Why not?”

Not that I minded. I’d have killed for an early night in my own bed with Jack. I wasn’t all that crazy about Sam, a big, dour bruiser of a cop, although I liked Rhys, his boyfriend, a lot. Even if he was a little obsessive on the topic of the afterlife.

 “Rhys is in the hospital. He got into a car accident driving up Friday.”

“My God. Is he okay?”

Jack nodded. “Sam says he will be, but I guess it was touch and go. He was in a coma for a couple of days. He’s out of it now. Sam says he keeps talking about some guy named Roger.”

I laughed. “Good for Rhys.”

Jack gave me a sour look, but I could see the dimple trying to make an appearance. He was holding my hand, or more exactly my wrist where I wore the snazzy sterling Medic Alert bracelet he’d given me. His fingers absently stroked the silver links.

“So…it’s just you and me tonight?”

He nodded. His gray eyes were still a little moody, but he was finally smiling again. “That okay with you?”

I pumped my fist. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!”

“Merry Christmas.” Jack’s mouth found mine. “And don’t call me Virginia.”

 
  
  
 
 
 
 

 
Wyatt and Graham from PERFECT DAY
 
 

It started to fall apart right before Christmas.

Everything had been fine up until then. Better than fine. Graham and I were seeing each other a few times a week, talking almost every day – talking about moving in together, in fact. It was relaxed and easy and I started to believe in it, trust in it, count on it.

And I know Graham did too.

Ten months. Almost a year. But then along came Christmas.

Not an easy time of the year to be alone. Not an easy time of the year to be in a relationship, either, at least not a new relationship. Not with all that potential for disappointment and comparisons and miscommunication.

But I really did think –

Part of learning to be a couple is figuring out the way through all those different, sometimes conflicting, holiday traditions.

“Do you go home for Christmas?” I asked Graham.

It was a Sunday morning and we were having brunch at Metropol Bakery.

“I haven’t seen my parents in eighteen years,” Graham replied, calmly picking the cranberries out of his smoked turkey breast sandwich. “Not since I told them I was gay and they told me to get out.”

I was shocked and I don’t think I hid it very well. Graham had mentioned his parents a few times and I’d never had any hint that he wasn’t on polite if distant terms with them. It underscored how much we still didn’t know about each other.

“Did you want to go to your parent’s for Christmas?” he asked.

“If you do.”

“If Bill and Dana don’t mind, sure. I’d like that.”

“Mind? They’ll be thrilled.” My parents loved Graham. They absolutely believed he was my Mr. Right. He talked sports and gardening with my dad and cooking and politics with my mom.  He was clean, polite, and employed. You bet they loved him.

Graham grinned and that was that.

“What did you want for Christmas?” he asked a couple of evenings later.

“Me?”

He laughed. “Yeah you. Can you give me a few ideas of something you might like?”

“You mean a list?”

That was apparently even more amusing. “If you want to make a list.”

I didn’t want to make a list. I wanted him to surprise me with something he’d chosen particularly. Having to come up with ideas seemed too much like handing over a grocery list and asking him to remember to pick up a bottle of milk. I didn’t want him to give me a list either – and, in fairness, he didn’t offer one.

“I don’t mind surprises,” I told him, hoping he’d see what I was getting at.

“I don’t want to get you something you already have.”

A reminder that for all the time we spent together, and the discussions about moving in together, we didn’t live together, didn’t really share a life.

“What did you do these last couple of Christmases?” I asked later that night. “Did you spend the day on your own?”

We were at Graham’s, in bed. We’d finished making love and we were lying there, quietly. Not talking, just holding hands. Looking at the stars through the skylight.

I can’t say that Graham tensed, but I could feel something changed. He said, “I spend Christmas with friends.”

“Oh.” I knew a lot of his friends by now. He knew a lot of mine. I was wondering which friends he’d spent the holiday with.

He said abruptly, “I usually spend Christmas with Jase’s parents.”

“Oh.”

Until that moment I had never given a thought to Jase’s parents, or to the fact that Graham might still be close to them, that they might – probably did – regard him as another son. That Graham probably loved them too. That he might prefer to spend Christmas with Jase’s family over mine.

And even if he didn’t prefer Jase’s parents to mine, I couldn’t help feel guilty – awful, in fact – that I was taking Graham away from these people who had already endured the worst thing that could happen to parents.

Graham turned his head my way. I knew it was too dark for him to read my expression, just as it was too dark for me to read his.

 I said hesitantly, “Did you want to—?”

“No.” He said it with finality. So much so that I didn’t feel I could question it. But I did question it, and although he probably meant to reassure me, I didn’t feel reassured.

It all came to a head over the Christmas tree.

I usually got my tree the first weekend in December. That’s what we did when I was growing up and I continued the tradition when I had a place of my own. I like Christmas. I like it all. The music, the decorations, the presents, the special feeling in the air – the fact that most people are a little nicer, a little kinder, a little more generous this time of year.

This year I kept putting it off getting the tree until the weekend before Christmas. Graham went with me to the tree farm. We were tying the tree onto the roof rack of my car when he said, “You’re going to a lot of trouble when you spend most of the time at my place anyway.”

“Maybe we should set it up at your place?” I was partly kidding. Partly not.

Graham barely hesitated. “Okay. Sure.”

“Do you have a tree stand? Decorations?”

“I’ve got everything.”

That was the truth. He had everything from tree skirt to tree stand to boxes of ornaments – all neatly organized and labeled. Labeled in handwriting that wasn’t Graham’s.

When I saw that square, legible writing I knew I had made a mistake. But it was too late by then. So we dragged out the boxes and set up the tree. We strung the lights through the fragrant needles. And then we began taking the ornaments out, one by one. There were a lot of very old bulbs and beautiful handmade ornaments. Someone had taken their tree trimming as seriously as I did. Graham, who had said very little from the time we set up the tree, stopped talking altogether.

 After hearing my too cheerful, too loud voice break the silence a couple of times, I had nothing to say either. 

Graham finally, mercifully went to turn the stereo on. When he came back I was holding two clay  ornaments, one red, one green. They were imprints of small hands, a child’s hands. I turned them over and read JASON KANE, age 5.

I looked up, saw Graham’s face, and looked down again.

He said in a muffled voice, “Why don’t I get take out for dinner?”

I nodded.

A second later the front door shut.

Graham didn’t come back. He didn’t phone. It got later and later. I decorated the tree, put the boxes away, and went home.

 
 

He didn’t call the next day either. Or the next.

I could have called him, I guess.
I didn’t.

I drove up alone to my parents on Christmas Eve.

“Where’s Graham?” they both asked.

“Not coming.” I couldn’t leave it like that though. “I don’t think things are going to work out with Graham.”

“Oh no!” my mom exclaimed. “What happened?”

My dad came to the rescue. “Wyatt’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

But no. I didn’t think I’d be able to talk about it. Not that trip anyway. I lay awake that night wondering what Graham was doing. Wondering if he was lying there in that big empty bed staring up at the stars and grieving for Jase.

My heart felt like a lump of coal.

It was still a good Christmas, though, and if I did occasionally think about Graham, who was probably once again spending the day with Jase’s parents, I didn’t let my preoccupation spoil the day for my own folks.

We had reached the turkey sandwiches and coffee part of the evening when the doorbell rang.

“It can’t be the mailman today,” my mother said cheerfully as I went to answer it.

Graham stood on the doorstep, hands shoved in the pocket of his navy parka, snowflakes in his dark hair.

 “Hi!” I know I looked and sounded dumfounded. I was.

“Wyatt.” Graham’s eyes were somber, his expression a mix of pain and embarrassment. He was wondering what the hell he was doing there. Which made two of us.

“You’re…” I didn’t finish because yes, he was obviously there and yes he obviously hadn’t come for dinner. “Come in.”

“No. I don’t—that is, I wanted to see you. To talk to you.”

And whatever he had to say wasn’t going to work in front of an audience. That I understood perfectly. “Hold on.” I half closed the door, grabbed my coat off the hook on the wall rack, and yelled, “I’ll be right back.”

I closed the door on the inquiries of where I was going. Graham turned and we walked by silent agreement away from the house toward where his jeep was parked.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” he said. “I only know I couldn’t let another day go by, this day go by, without trying to talk to you.”

“You could have called. You didn’t have to drive all this way.”

He didn’t answer.

I stopped walking.  “Graham.”

He stopped walking too. “Why did you leave that night?”

“Why did I--? Huh? So you could come home!”

“What are you talking about?”

I was already sorry for that flash of bitterness. “Look, we both know you didn’t want me there.”

“You’re wrong, Wyatt.”

I laughed shortly. “No. I don’t think so. The last person you wanted or needed to deal with that night was me.”

He put his hands on my shoulders, gazed intently into my eyes. “Wyatt, you’re wrong. I did want you there. I always want you there.”

Why did he have to say that? I pulled away and wiped my eyes on my coat sleeve. “I know you care about me.” Exasperatingly, my voice shook. I steadied it. Took a deep breath. “But the fact is, you still love Jase. You were right. You’re not ready to move on. I’ve been pushing you the whole way.”

“You’re wrong.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not. I saw your face that day. Not just that day either. It’s exactly what you said at the start. You miss him all the time.”

“Yes, I miss Jase. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you and want to spend my life with you.” Graham’s hand was a warm weight on my shoulder. He turned me to face him once more.  “I wanted you there that night. When you left like that, without a word…I figured you were angry or hurt or both. I thought maybe I should give you some time. And I was…embarrassed, I guess.”

“Embarrassed?”

His face twisted. “I feel like I’m always breaking down in front of you. It’s not fair to keep putting you through that. It’s a strain on our relationship. I know that. But sometimes…something will get to me. That night…was tough. But having you there helped.”

“You didn’t come back. You didn’t call. It didn’t feel like I was helping.” I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Graham believed he was always breaking down in front of me. He was one of the least demonstrative guys I’d ever known. Not cold, but not effusive. Not by a long stretch.

“All I can tell you is when I got home and saw you were gone…” The pain in his eyes surprised me. “I thought I’d better give you a little space. I hoped you’d call. I thought you would.” He glanced automatically toward the house.

Seeing the situation from Graham’s standpoint, I felt a stab of remorse. It had never occurred to me he would feel anything but relief at being let out of spending Christmas day with my family.

“I was waiting for you to call. I felt like it was your move.”

“Why would it be my move? Aren’t we in this together?” He was frowning.

I wanted to believe him. I did believe him up to a point. But if he was wrong? I wasn’t sure I could take it. Something inside me seemed to snap. I blurted, “I feel like I can’t live up to Jase, to what you had with Jase.”
>
Graham looked stunned. I rushed on, afraid if I didn’t get out now I never would. “I feel like I can’t compare. Like you’ve already had the best there is and anything I can offer is just going to be second best.”

“Sweetheart. Wyatt. Stop.”

I stopped. That had been way more than I had ever meant to say. And Graham thought he was always falling apart?

 Graham pulled his glove off and rested his warm hand against my face. “Listen to me.” His gray gaze held mine. “Everything is completely different with you, completely new. And I’m glad. I don’t compare you to Jase. You’re nothing like him. That doesn’t take anything away from either of you. I loved Jase but he’s gone. You’re here now and I love you with all my heart.”

“Is that true?”

“You must know.”

I looked into Graham’s face, into his unguarded gaze, and I did know. I could see the depth of his emotion, the emotion he kept so firmly in check, regardless of what he thought.

“When  I see you, I see the future,” he said. “I don’t know what that future holds. I just know I want it.”

I began to smile. “I’m pretty sure one thing that future holds is a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee.”