by Eli Easton
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Nope. Only child.”
“Christie is an unusual name. Is your family Swedish or something?”
Christie laughed. “Pretty all-American, really, though my dad has Swedish roots. It’s Christopher on my birth certificate, but my mom started calling me Christie when I was little, and it stuck. I tried a couple of times to get people to call me Chris, but it never lasted.”
It brought back a wave of memory—himself in high school trying briefly, and pointlessly, to be more butch. But trying to change his name just made him more of a target, as if he were admitting shame about who he was. In the end he was just grateful if the other students didn’t call him faggot or fairy.
“I like it. Christie. It’s… foreign-sounding. Italian maybe, like something in Latin.”
Christie looked at David curiously. “Are you serious?”
David shrugged, his cheeks going a little pink. “Do you see your parents much?”
Christie was very careful to keep his voice light. “No. We’re not close.”
David looked like he wanted to ask why not, but he didn’t. Thank goodness he wasn’t as blunt as Christie himself.
“What about your mom?” Christie asked.
“She lived with us for a while when the kids were little, then her older sister’s husband passed, so the pair of them moved to Florida together. She loves it down there.” David looked at Christie thoughtfully. “Did you go to college?”
“Art school. I’m a graphic designer.”
“Oh? Well, I can see you’re very creative in the kitchen.” David’s gaze lingered on the earrings in Christie’s ear. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met a real artist before.”
Christie laughed. “You make it sound like I’m an aardvark or something. A person can be artistic in all sorts of ways.”
“I s’pose. And you look nothing like an aardvark.” David smiled wryly, and Christie thought, He has a sense of humor after all. “What do you do as a graphic designer?”
Christie talked about his job for the advertising agency. David wanted to see some of Christie’s work, so he pulled out his phone and showed his sketch of the field with the cow and farmer. “This is for a campaign for a dairy company.”
David took the phone and looked at it for a long moment while Christie ate his food. “I like the way you did the soil, with all the lines and rocks and beetles. Well, it’s all good. You’re very talented.”
For some reason the compliment meant a lot to Christie. Maybe it was because David didn’t seem like the type who said things he didn’t mean. “Thanks. You might recognize the barn as yours. I had to guess some of the details. I can’t see it very well from my house.”
David handed back the phone. “You’re welcome to come over anytime if you need to sketch something close up.”
“That wouldn’t be intrusive?”
“Nah. What are neighbors for?”
“That would be great. So what all do you raise here on the farm?”
David shifted in his chair, sighed. “This farm’s a hundred acres, and I lease another hundred down the road. I raise conventional crops—corn, wheat, soy, alfalfa. I have a small dairy herd too. I sell the milk to an organic co-op. Then I run a chemical-free CSA with my daughter Amy during the summer. We grow the vegetables and herbs for that in a small field by the barn.”
“By conventional crops you mean nonorganic?”
“Yup.”
“Why not organic?”
David shook his head with a grimace. “Money. A farmer’s always got to be looking into what’s selling and adapt to that. Raising organic crops is very labor intensive, and it takes years to get certified too. It’s a big investment for no extra return until you’ve got the official paperwork. On the other hand, organic dairy is not that hard to convert to and earns twice that of nonorganic. We switched over six years ago.”
“Sounds complicated.”
David looked embarrassed. “Well. I could never do what you do. I meant what I said. You’re welcome to sketch whatever you like here. And you don’t have to always bring food either, though this is a wonderful meal.” He hesitated. Then his gaze met Christie’s head-on. “Thank you for offering to cook something special like this. I want you to know I appreciate it.”
There was so much warmth in his eyes it was like being handed gratitude in a brightly wrapped gift box. All the excuses and platitudes that came into Christie’s mind felt trivial by comparison. It’s fun for me. I like having help paying for groceries. I like having company. I like your company. Damn it, he so did. He shouldn’t, but he did. Hell. He was crushing on David Fisher.
He mumbled a “you’re welcome.” And for a while, they focused on their food.
The Indian food was excellent—better than David remembered from his few restaurant visits. Sharing the meal with Christie was nicer than he expected too. Very nice.
There was a hot feeling in David’s chest that grew over the course of the meal and took him by surprise. He genuinely liked Christie Landon. He didn’t normally take to people so easily. Even at church he tended to keep to himself. He found himself wondering about it as he savored the meal.
He was flattered, if he were honest with himself. Christie was a smart, interesting, and attractive young man—not as young as David thought, but still considerably younger than him. He imagined Christie would have no trouble finding people his own age who desired his company, especially young women. Yet here he was, spending time with David. He asked a lot of questions, looked directly into David’s eyes a discomforting amount of the time, smiled and laughed at the things David said like he was actually paying attention.
It struck David that it had been a long time since anyone truly saw him. To Amy and Joe, he was just “Dad.” They asked him how the farm was doing, or about his health, but that was about it. And when Susan was alive, they’d gotten far too comfortable with each other. She was always wrapped up in her sewing or church work or books. She’d ask what he wanted for dinner or talk about the kids or people they knew. But he couldn’t remember the last time she’d really looked at him.
Are you happy, David?
When was the last time anyone cared if he was happy, as long as he continued to maintain the farm and put money in the bank for school, clothes, and food?
That isn’t fair, he chided himself. Amy worried about him, he knew. And Joe was a good kid. His family loved him, but he still felt invisible most of the time.
Then again Christie was just a stranger making small talk. It didn’t mean anything. Still, the company was stimulating. He liked the fact Christie spoke his mind, like he’d done about religion and his parents. He didn’t pull punches or give what he thought was the right answer, or simply quote scripture. David was both taken aback and admiring of that fact.
After they ate David put the leftovers in the fridge and started dishwater in the sink. He washed the dishes and Christie dried.
“How old is this farmhouse?” Christie asked as he took a wet plate from David.
“The main house was built in seventeen fifty-three. That’s pretty much the front two rooms.”
“No shit! Can I take a look after we’re done here?”
“Sure.” David wasn’t used to the profanity, but Christie didn’t seem to mean anything bad by it, so he decided it didn’t matter. It made Christie seem even more worldly and mysterious in David’s eyes.
After Christie’s bag was repacked with clean and empty containers, David led the way to the front of the house. The front two original rooms had high ceilings, old-fashioned crown moldings, deep windowsills because of the thick stone walls, and a huge fireplace. Susan had turned them into a formal parlor and a study, but they were rarely used even when Amy and Joe lived at home. These days David spent all his time in the kitchen, where a small table and TV served his needs. It was easier to heat too. Which meant the front rooms were tidy but could use a good dusting.
Christie
wandered around looking at everything. He ran his fingers over the fireplace’s old lintel and ended up in front of the bookshelf with its shelves of magazines. “Someone likes National Geographic.”
“Those are mine.”
Christie turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “What do you like about them?”
David hesitated. It wasn’t something he talked about much, but he felt an urge to show Christie he thought about things other than the farm and the next crop. “I like to learn about other places. It’s my way of traveling, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Christie’s smile was soft. “What’s your favorite issue?” He trailed his long, thin fingers over the spines.
David immediately knew the answer to the question, but he felt a twinge of doubt. Probably Christie would think he was ridiculous. He hesitated then reached out, pulled a magazine, and handed it to Christie.
Christie looked at the cover. “Polynesia?”
“Yeah. Maybe because we’re so landlocked here, but I like islands. Polynesia has the best ones, like Bora Bora.”
The magazine was still in Christie’s hands. David carefully turned to an oft-viewed page. The double-page title spread had a gorgeous picture of a white sand beach, a turquoise ocean, and little beach huts built right over the water. How many times had David looked at this picture and tried to imagine himself there?
He looked up at Christie from under his lashes, ready to back off the subject with excuses and dismissal.
But Christie grinned. “Oh yeah. That’s gorgeous! I love beaches. I haven’t been to Polynesia, but I’ve been to Cancún. The beaches there are fantastic.”
“I have an issue on Cancún.” David scanned the titles and unerringly pulled the issue. He found the page quickly and handed it to Christie. “More than a third of all Mexican tourism dollars come from Cancún. That’s a lot when you consider the size of the country. They call it the ‘Mayan Riviera’ in that article.”
Christie got a curiously amused frown between those blue eyes. “You know these magazines backward and forward, don’t you?”
David shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m not much of a TV watcher. I prefer to read, and facts stick in my head. That is, they do if I find them interesting.”
Christie flipped through the Cancún article. “Have you been able to travel much yourself?”
David laughed. “No. It’s hard to leave a farm. When Joe was in high school, I could trust him with the place for a few days at a time. I went to a farming conference up in State College and another one in Washington DC. I enjoyed that. I have a guy who works part-time for me now, but I still need to be here myself.”
He remembered the excitement of that trip to DC. Time had made the details fade, but he clearly remembered standing in front of the massive Lincoln Memorial and thinking how much bigger and realer it was in person. It was as real as the bark on a tree or the shingles on the farmhouse roof when he repaired it one sweltering summer, as though, if he touched it, some residue would come off on his skin and be there forever. And all the time Lincoln’s Memorial existed out there—massive and real and solid—heedless of whether or not a man named David Fisher ever went to see it, or that he even existed at all.
Head in the clouds. Daydreaming never got a lick of work done. Yup. Just like his dad always said. Maybe daydreams didn’t get work done, but they sure helped pass the time. His thoughts were his own in a way nothing else was. They kept him company while his body was busy doing repetitive tasks.
Christie was watching him with a penetrating gaze, as if he could see all of David’s thoughts and secrets. It felt intimate and yet comfortable, which was a bit unnerving in itself. Christie was a stranger only this morning, but he didn’t feel like one now. In fact, David couldn’t remember the last time he’d connected to someone like this.
He cleared his throat. “So. You ready for that sorbet? I can put on some coffee. And if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear about your Cancún trip.”
“Deal.” Christie turned away and the strange moment ended. David carefully put back the magazines.
“God, I’m going to have to run six miles tonight to burn off that tikka masala,” Christie groaned, patting his stomach.
“You’re welcome to swing the hay bales around in my barn if you want to.”
Christie laughed. “Nice try.”
Chapter 7
Everything changed after that Sunday. Nothing earth shattering happened during that comfortable fall afternoon when Christie took Indian food over to David’s house. And yet something shifted between them in a fundamental way. Christie had enjoyed David’s company, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
Christie wanted more—more exotic cooking, more shared meals, more time in David’s company. It was an itchy feeling that gave him little peace until he indulged it.
On Tuesday Christie went over to the farm in the morning with his sketchbook. He walked around the barn until he found a vantage point he liked—one with the big white silo peeking over the front of the barn and two big windows facing him. It was so quaint it made his teeth ache. He took a chair from David’s porch and carried it to the spot, sat down, and opened his sketchpad. It was a little cold to be drawing outside, but not so cold he couldn’t stand it. He drew a line sketch first and then started to fill it in with the woodcut swirls he’d established as the style in his other drawings.
After an hour or so, David came by and brought him a travel mug full of coffee. They chatted for a few minutes about the weather and the features of the barn. David said it was several hundred years old and was called a “bank barn” because it was built on a slope. The back of the barn could be driven up to for delivering hay and feed to the second story, while the lower level opened onto the pasture and was where the animals were kept.
“Well, I should let you get back to work. And me too,” David said after a bit.
Christie smiled. “Have a good afternoon.”
David looked like he was about to walk away, but he hesitated, gazing at Christie. He clenched his fist, then left abruptly. It was weird, as if he were resisting an impulse to ruffle Christie’s hair or something.
Christie mused over it as he worked on his sketch, a low warmth in his belly. Had David really wanted to ruffle his hair, maybe the way he’d buttoned up the coat? Or perhaps touch his shoulder? Brush the hair out of his eyes? Kiss him?
Don’t get excited. It’s probably a paternal instinct, if anything at all. Yes, because it would be just his luck if the hot farmer next door saw him as a son substitute.
And yet… that didn’t explain the little frissons of tension Christie sensed there sometimes. Though admittedly those frissons could be entirely one-sided.
He loved that things with David were so… not blatantly sexual, actually. Christie had been getting jaded; there was no doubt about that. Picking up men was so easy in the city: flirt for ten minutes, have sex, and it was over. But being back in the country, being around Aunt Ruth’s things, and David—definitely David—it felt like he’d shifted to a simpler, more innocent time. It was softening his cynicism like stiff leather soaked in brine.
It reminded him of where he’d come from, of who Christie Landon was before he became fierce Christie Landon, Manhattanite. He’d left small-town Illinois with a lot of anger. He earned it, bitter drop by bitter drop. He never fit in either at school or at home. And he hated the church his parents dragged him to, mostly because he knew they’d hate him if they knew who he really was. He understood from a young age he was gay, and even though he didn’t come out ’til right after high school, he’d stored up slights like broken shards of glass. Didn’t they say living well was the best revenge? Christie had lived well in New York. A little too well. But maybe… possibly… when he left his small-town home, he threw out the baby with the bathwater.
Maybe there was something to this simple life after all, especially if it included a guy like David Fisher.
That night Christie made blue cheese stuffe
d burgers with grilled mushrooms and herbed sweet potato oven fries. When it was almost ready, he debated with himself and then sent a carefully worded text:
Dinner is ready. You’re welcome to eat with me over here or just pick it up.
He didn’t want to make assumptions or give David the impression he had nothing better to do. But the answer came back quickly.
Might as well eat there. Be over in a few.
Christie smiled and hurried to set the table.
“Oh my God. That was too good. I’m going to get fat.” Christie pushed back his chair and patted his stomach. It looked flat to David, if maybe slightly full. It was hard to tell under the blue sweater Christie was wearing, especially since he didn’t allow his eyes to linger.
“You always say that, but I haven’t seen you gain an ounce yet,” David remarked, scraping some peanut sauce from his plate with his spoon. Tonight Christie had made pad thai, a salad with spicy sliced beef called “crying tiger,” and tom yum soup. He even played some instrumental music from Thailand on his phone, which was new. It helped make the food taste even more authentic. “Anyway, you have a long way to go before you have to worry about getting fat.”
“A long way to go is right. I’m going to have to run a couple of extra miles tomorrow. Thank God it’s Saturday.”
“How far do you normally go?”
“Four miles during the week, but I like to go longer at least one day on the weekend. I might do six tomorrow. I don’t suppose you need to worry about getting out of shape.” Christie smiled at him indulgently.
“No. But I see the appeal. I used to run track and field in school. I liked it a lot.”
“Oh yeah? Did you compete?”
“For a few years. The private high school I went to had a track team.”
It was one of the things David liked best about school. He traveled around the area for track meets. His team didn’t go as far away as the bigger public schools. Never to New York or Boston or even Philadelphia. But it was still a treat just to visit someplace new, to get away for a while. He had to fight his father to stay in school as long as he did.
