by J. M. Snyder
“Aren’t they cool?” Remy asked. The tub was cast-iron, painted white inside and out, except for the clawed feet. The dark feet almost looked like socks.
Now Braden squatted by the closest leg of the tub and ran his fingers over the claws. “Yeah,” he admitted, almost grudgingly.
Finally, something about this trip he liked. Trying to hold his son’s interest, Remy asked, “What do you think they are? They look like lion’s feet to me.”
“They’re griffins, Dad.” Braden gave him a look over one shoulder as if he should’ve known better. “Like from Harry Potter.”
Remy didn’t know what a griffin was, and all he knew of Harry Potter was that the kid wore glasses and had performed in a Broadway play where he had to stand onstage buck naked with a horse.
Of course, he didn’t tell Braden that. “A griffin, yeah, right. That was my second guess.” He rubbed the top of Braden’s head, mussing his son’s already tousled hair. “I thought you had to pee.”
“I do,” Braden said, standing. He gave his father an ineffective push in the middle; Remy didn’t budge. “Out. Let me go.”
With a grin, Remy obeyed, closing the bathroom door behind him. The sunlight dousing the kitchen caught his eye—or, rather, the way the light winked off the spigot in the sink. Then he noticed the Keurig coffee maker, and thought how wonderful a fresh, strong cup of brew would taste. He could pour two mugs and take Lane his in bed. Then maybe get back to where they’d been when Braden had interrupted them…
But on his way to the kitchen, Remy passed the sliding glass door and stopped, mesmerized by how delicate the sun and frost made the world outside appear. The porch looked wet, covered in a thin layer of frozen dew that had just begun to thaw. The grill was covered, and the patio set looked abandoned, its umbrella folded and cinched in the center, the chairs stacked in one corner far from the table. Tiny footprints in the frost on the tabletop hinted at an early riser, a squirrel or chipmunk maybe, something searching for food before Remy had even woken up.
Pressing his face against the glass, he felt the chilly weather outside, such a direct contrast to the warmth and light inside the cabin. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and shivered; his bare toes grew cold. If he put his cheek to the sliding door, he could just barely see the stack of firewood already chopped and waiting to be used. A thin tarp covered the logs, and a long-handled axe rested against the porch railing. They would have to remember to bring some of that firewood inside at night so he wouldn’t have to go out in the cold in the morning to get any. A roaring fire sounded like the perfect way to start the day.
First, though, coffee.
Remy rubbed his hands together and blew into the palms to warm them up as he made two cups of rich, hot java. Lane liked his dark with a little brown sugar; Remy’s was more whole milk than coffee, none of that two percent or skim crap, and no sugar whatsoever. When he had both mugs perfect, he turned to carry them into his bedroom, one in each hand, and stopped when he saw Braden sitting at the kitchen table.
When had he come in?
Eyeing the mugs, Braden asked, “What’s for breakfast?”
Of course. Why hadn’t they picked up cereal when they stopped? Braden was old enough to fix a bowl for himself, but all Remy had on hand were eggs and bacon and toast. He couldn’t expect his son to make those, not with the cabin’s heavy cast-iron pots and pans.
“Let me give Lane his coffee,” Remy said, “and I’ll be right back to make you something good.”
“Like what?” Braden’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back—how had Remy not heard him sit down before?—and he followed closely behind his father, all the way to the bedroom. When Remy didn’t answer immediately, Braden asked again, “What are you going to make me that’s good?”
“Eggs, bacon.” Remy turned and raised his eyebrows as he smiled. “You like bacon, don’t you?”
Braden rubbed his belly and licked his lips. “Mm-hmm. I love bacon.”
“Then you’ll get lots of bacon.” He was going to ask Braden to go back to the kitchen—it was on the tip of his tongue, Just give me five minutes alone with my friend, okay?—but when he reached the bedroom door, it was shut. His hands were full. Nodding at the knob, he asked his son, “Give Daddy a hand here, will you?”
Braden opened the door and preceded Remy into the bedroom. Lane was still hidden beneath the covers, but when he saw Braden, he pulled them up to his chin and smiled. “Hey, guys. What’s this? Coffee in bed? You spoil me.”
He sat up and the blankets fell to his waist, exposing his strong, bare chest. Braden’s eyes went wide, but he only pouted and didn’t say anything. Lane reached out and took the offered cup from Remy’s hand. “Black?” he asked.
“One sugar, brown,” Remy said with a nod. “I know how you like it.”
Lane’s mouth curved into a leer, but before he could say anything colorful, he glanced at Braden and raised the mug to hide behind. All Remy got was a simple, “Thanks.”
Then Braden was tugging on Remy’s arm. “Come on, Dad. You said you’d make me bacon.”
“Mmm, bacon,” Lane murmured into his mug.
“Not you,” Braden snapped. “Me.”
“Hey, mister.” Remy glared at his son. “Don’t start that shit again. We went over this. You be nice or I’m calling your mom to come pick you up.”
Braden rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. She’s going on a cruise.”
“And you don’t think she’d turn the ship around just to come back here and smack your smart ass?” Remy countered.
Braden ducked his head; Kate was a firm mother, Remy knew, and the threat of displeasing her had always been the fastest way to curb his son’s bad behavior. Remy didn’t have his cell phone turned on, and he wasn’t sure Kate would even bring hers along for the cruise, but Braden didn’t have to know that. If Santa couldn’t scare the boy into being good, Remy would use any trick up his sleeve to see to it their vacation wasn’t completely ruined.
With a pout, Braden muttered, “Fine. He can have some bacon, too.”
“Thank you.” Remy shared a look with Lane that said, What the fuck?
Lane snickered, but disguised the sound by slurping his coffee. “Thank you, Braden,” he said. The boy frowned harder, unwilling to concede an inch. To Remy, Lane said, “Close the door as you go out so I can get dressed.”
“Eww, did you sleep naked?” Braden sneered.
Remy planted a hand on the top of Braden’s head and turned him around, then followed him to the door. “Yeah, yeah, you say that now,” he teased. “Wait another ten years or so. Come on, kid. That bacon won’t cook itself.”
Chapter 8
It wasn’t the scent of frying bacon and eggs that finally drew Lane out of bed; it was the laughter and joyful chatter coming from the kitchen. He pulled on a pair of loose lounge pants and a long-sleeve, button-down flannel shirt in a black watch tartan pattern. These were his “go to” pajamas, the first things he liked to pull on when he got out of bed on a cold winter’s morning.
Just as Remy favored sweats, Lane liked the loose, baggy lounge pants he could buy in a variety of designs and colors. The black ones he wore now were tame compared to some of the whimsical patterns he owned. His favorite were dark blue, covered with the television-screen logo from The Brady Bunch. He watched that show all the time as a kid, and used to tell people that was what had inspired him to become an architect. Maybe so—he had never known any real architects in life, and Mr. Brady seemed to do pretty well if he could buy a large home and provide food for such a big family. Those pants had been a gift from his sister many Christmases ago, and last year Lane had to fold them into the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he wouldn’t be tempted to pull them out and put them on. They had worn so thin from overuse and washing, they could no longer be worn. But he hung onto them anyway.
Lane took a moment to dig out the bag containing their toiletries. With that in one hand, and his half-empty coffee mug in the
other, he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.
Remy was at the stove, scrambling eggs. Braden sat at the table, laughing at something his father had just said. Lane saw the smile on Remy’s face when he turned, and it spread when he spotted his lover. “Hey, baby,” Remy cooed. “Pull up a chair. Breakfast is served.”
Lane left the toiletries outside the bathroom and came to join them. “Yum-o,” he said, pulling out a chair opposite Braden. Before sitting, he asked, “Is this seat taken?”
Braden shrugged, silent. His laughter was gone, and his face was once again closed and angry. Lane had deliberately chosen the seat farthest from the boy, so Remy could sit across from his son. He didn’t want to antagonize the kid any more than he already seemed to do.
“So,” Lane ventured, folding his hands on the table in front of him, “how’d you sleep last night?
Another shrug, and Braden stared past Lane out the sliding glass door. So they were playing that game, were they? Part of Lane wanted to throw it right back at him. You don’t want to try that with me, buddy, he thought. I spent most of my childhood arguing with my sister. I’m a master at the silent treatment.
But that was childish. When Remy leaned over from behind his chair to place a plate of steaming eggs and crispy bacon in front of him, Lane pressed his head back against Remy’s chest and blew his lover a quick kiss. “I should have you make me breakfast every day,” he joked.
“Are you kidding? We’re taking turns,” Remy told him. “You’re up tomorrow. I’m expecting French toast and sausage.”
“You buy it, I’ll fry it.” Lane waited until Remy set down the other two plates—one at the spot beside Lane, the other in front of Braden—before he looked at Remy’s son and asked, “Do you like French toast?”
Braden glared at his plate and didn’t answer.
Pulling out the chair next to Lane, Remy sat down and scooted forward. He must have nudged Braden with his foot under the table, because the boy’s chair wiggled a bit. “Hello?” he asked, frowning. “Earth to Brae. Lane asked you a question.”
Into his food, Braden mumbled something that might have been yes, or might have been go fuck yourself. Lane wasn’t sure which and, given his demeanor, thought maybe the latter option was the most likely one.
“Excuse my son for being so damn rude,” Remy said. “He doesn’t get it from me, and you can be sure he doesn’t get it from his mother, either. Who’s going to get a full report of his bad behavior when I see her next, believe you me.”
Braden’s pout deepened, and his lower lip trembled, but he stayed silent.
Hoping to diffuse the situation, Lane looked out the sliding door at the brittle, crystalline world beyond and suggested, “Maybe he’ll feel better after he helps us pick out a Christmas tree.”
Braden’s eyes went wide. He glanced around the cabin quickly, as if he hadn’t noticed the lack of decorations before. “We need a tree,” he said, earnest. “Santa won’t know where to leave the presents.”
“I thought you said Santa wasn’t real,” Remy reminded him.
Emotions warred across Braden’s face. Lane smiled as he ate, remembering all too well how tenuous his belief in Santa had been, too, when he was Braden’s age. Too old to really believe, but not old enough yet to want to give up the magic of the season. Besides, as his sister had warned him many times, the moment he stopped believing would be the moment he stopped getting gifts. From Braden’s worried look, Lane knew that had to be foremost on his mind, as well.
“We’ll get a tree,” Lane promised. He pointed at the sliding door with his fork. “Lots of good ones out there. We can go out and take a look after we eat.”
Braden looked out, as well. “Those aren’t Christmas trees. Those are just regular ones.”
“We’ll cut one down,” Lane told him. “Bring it inside, pretty it up. You’ll see.”
With a look of disbelief, Braden asked, “What?” He turned to his father, confused. “He can’t cut down a tree. Can he?”
“Can and will,” Remy assured him, exchanging an amused look with Lane. “There’s an axe outside by the wood pile. Have you actually done this before?”
“Me, no,” Lane admitted. “But when I was little, our family holiday tradition was to pile into the car on the second Sunday of Advent, and my dad would drive us to this little, out of the way library in the middle of nowhere. Because it was Sunday, it was closed, see?”
This last bit Lane directed at Braden, who seemed to forget he didn’t like his father’s friend. He stared at Lane with a mixture of scorn and interest, wanting to see where the story would go but ready to dismiss it when it ended.
Lane continued. “A huge forest of pine trees lined the back of the library’s parking lot. Now I’m thinking it was probably a tree farm or something—”
“They don’t farm trees!” Braden cried with a laugh, as if the very thought was absurd. He looked at his father for confirmation. “Do they?”
It was Lane who answered. “Yes, they do. Where do you think Christmas trees come from?”
“The store,” Braden replied. “Though my mom’s comes out of the attic.”
“That’s a fake tree,” Lane told him. “But the live trees for sale at the store come from somewhere, don’t they? Someone grows them specifically to make them pretty enough to be Christmas trees.”
Remy grinned. “And your dad snuck onto a tree farm every year and chopped one down without permission?”
“I didn’t know at the time,” Lane admitted. “I thought it was a forest. Every year my sister and I sat in the car with my mom while my dad chopped down our Christmas Tree. Until I turned ten.”
Remy smirked but said nothing. Lane kept quiet, too, wondering if Braden’s grudge against him would deter the boy’s natural curiosity. After a moment, Lane started on his eggs again, his story finished.
Or was it?
When Braden couldn’t wait any longer, he blurted out, “What happened when you were ten?”
He clamped a hand over his mouth, as if embarrassed he’d said anything at all. But his eyes stared at Lane, begging for the rest of the story.
“When I was ten,” Lane told him, “we got in the car same as always. Second Sunday of Advent. Drove out to the library. Parking lot was empty. We pulled all the way around to the back, where we always parked. My sister and I were in the back seat, and my dad’s axe was between us on the floor. But do you know what we found when we got there?”
Braden shook his head.
Leaning across the table, Lane whispered, “Someone had put up a fence.”
In spite of however he might have felt about Lane, Braden laughed. “A what?” he shrieked with delight.
Lane nodded. “To keep us out. A fence ten feet tall, with barbed wire at the top. We sat there in the car for a good five minutes, not saying anything. Just staring at the fence. Then finally my dad turned the car around and drove us home, but not before we stopped to buy a tree. No more live ones for us. After that, my mom kept our Christmas tree in the basement.”
“Ours is in a box,” Braden said. Then he remembered he didn’t like Lane and clamped his mouth shut.
“Ours was decorated year round,” Lane told him. “My mom just threw a sheet over it the rest of the year, then brought it up in December, already ready to go.”
Braden hung his head over his plate, back to being sullen and moody.
Remy winked at Lane. “I guess that makes you our resident Christmas tree expert. Which means I’m not the one who’s going to have to chop it down.”
* * * *
After breakfast, they dressed and met at the sliding door. Lane and Braden were in jeans, Remy still in sweats—Lane grinned at his lover’s insistence on staying comfortable over the holiday. Seeing the grin, Remy asked, “What? I like these.”
“I like you in them,” Lane replied. “Nothing sexier than a man in sweatpants. It just all hangs out.”
Remy punched him playfully in the arm. “Not in fr
ont of my kid.”
Confused, Braden looked up at his father, then at Lane, then back at Remy. “What’s hanging out of your sweats?”
“Nothing,” Remy said, a little too quickly. “Come on, let’s go find a tree.
Outside, it was warmer than it had been when they arrived the night before, but they still needed coats. Lane felt a little nip in the air and wondered if that meant they might get snow, but he kept his mouth shut; he didn’t want to get Braden’s hopes up, and the nip could have been nothing more than their close proximity to the campground’s lake. In the sunlight, the lake’s surface rippled like silver coins cascading over each other. It looked serene and calm now, but Lane could easily imagine how busy the place got in the warmer months.
Remy squinted at the lake. “Look how pretty that is. The water’s rippling but I don’t feel a breeze.”
“Probably water moccasins,” Lane said. “It’s warm enough out, and sunny.”
Remy’s grin returned. “Listen to you, Mister Biologist.”
“Water moccasins?” Braden gasped. He took an involuntary step closer to his father. “You mean snakes?”
“They’re migrating,” Lane told him, reaching for the axe. It was heavy and awkward in his hands, and he wondered if he could manage chopping down a tree without cutting off his leg in the process. “If we stay out of the water, they won’t bother us. What kind of Christmas tree do you want?”
Braden was so caught up in the excitement of the moment, he seemed to forget he didn’t like Lane. “A big one!” he shouted.
“Something we can carry,” Remy amended. “Nothing too big.”
Suddenly a cardinal fluttered to land on the top of the wood pile. Braden pointed at it. “Daddy! Look!”
At his words, the bird took off again, perching next in a nearby tree. Braden’s gaze followed it, and his eyes grew larger until Lane thought they might fall right out of his head. “No trees with birds in them,” he said seriously. “Or squirrels, or any other animals. You have to check before you chop it down.”
Lane had to fight back a grin at how intense Braden could be. “Sure. You can check with me, if you want.”
