by Annie Harper
Copyright © 2017 Interlude Press
All Rights Reserved
Individual Story Copyrights:
“Gracious Living Magazine Says It Must Be a Live Tree” by Killian B. Brewer © 2017
“True North” by Pene Henson © 2017
“Last Call at the Casa Blanca Bar & Grille” by Erin Finnegan © 2017
“Halfway Home” by Lilah Suzanne © 2017
“Shelved” by Lynn Charles © 2017
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-47-4 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-48-1 (ebook)
Published by Interlude Press
www.interludepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Book and Cover Design by CB Messer
Photography & Vectors for Cover ©Depositphotos.com/
Rawpixel/sellingpix/Mariannette/ kontur-vid/ lazar
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Lex
Contents
Foreword
by Annie Harper
Gracious Living Magazine Says It Must Be a Live Tree
by Killian B. Brewer
True North
by Pene Henson
Last Call at the Casa Blanca Bar & Grille
by Erin Finnegan
Halfway Home
by Lilah Suzanne
Shelved
by Lynn Charles
Foreword
At the very first official Interlude Press meeting, we made a list of the stories we wanted to tell and the authors we wanted to work with. One of our founding partners, Lex Huffman, added “holiday collection” to that list. Lex loved everything about the winter holidays. He loved Hallmark Christmas movies, baking cookies and seasonal breads, and listening to carols. And every year, he put up and decorated twenty-seven Christmas trees. (No, that’s not a typo.)
It’s been nearly two years since Lex passed away in his sleep one August night, and it’s been nearly four years since he first added “holiday collection” to our “to publish” list. Since we began in 2014, we at Interlude Press and our young adult imprint, Duet, have published many books on that list—more than fifty novels featuring diverse casts of main characters whose sexual orientation and gender identity are not often represented in literature, characters who, as Lex once said, “deserve happy endings.” We have also had the privilege of working with most of the authors on that list—including all five of the novelists who wrote stories for this collection.
If the Fates Allow is a collection of five short stories set during the winter holidays. In “Gracious Living Says It Must Be a Live Tree,” author Killian B. Brewer takes us back to the charming town and characters he shared with us in his novel, Lunch with the Do-Nothings at the Tammy Dinette (2017). Still happily working at the Dinette, Marcus is determined to have a magazine-perfect Christmas with his boyfriend, local mechanic Hank—no matter what it takes.
In “True North,” Lambda Literary Award winner (Into the Blue, 2016) Pene Henson tells the story of pro basketball player Shay Allen’s reluctant return to her Montana hometown and the resurfacing of her old feelings for her high school crush, Milla. “Last Call at the Casa Blanca Bar & Grille” by INDIE award-winner Erin Finnegan is a story about loss and moving on, in which Jake Volarde visits an once-favorite bar and reminisces with the mysterious new bartender about the man he loved.
In Lilah Suzanne’s romantic comedy, “Halfway Home,” Avery Puckett’s bad luck begins to change when she rescues a stray dog and meets Grace, a beautiful and sweet employee at the local animal shelter. And in “Shelved” by INDIE award-winner Lynn Charles, library clerk Karina Ness, using the magic of books, plays matchmaker for her uncle and a library regular.
We hope you’ll enjoy this collection of holiday stories from five beloved Interlude Press authors. And, if you’re inspired to do so, please check out other works by Killian B. Brewer, Pene Henson, Erin Finnegan, Lilah Suzanne, and Lynn Charles at www.InterludePress.com.
We still miss you, Lex. This one is for you.
—Annie Harper
Gracious Living Magazine Says It Must Be a Live Tree
by Killian B. Brewer
Chapter One
Marcus Sumter dropped onto the turquoise pleather seat of the diner chair and let out a long, slow breath of absolute exhaustion. He propped his elbows on the speckled, blue formica tabletop and rested his head in his right hand. With his left hand, he yanked the hairnet from his head and ran his fingers through his coppery red hair in a feeble attempt to fluff it out of the smashed shape a day of toiling over the diner grill had created. The collar of his apron stuck to his neck, and a bead of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades toward regions below. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the honky-tonk piano sounds that drifted from the jukebox in the corner, letting Patsy Cline soothe his weary mind. As he took another deep breath, his exhaustion surprised him.
In the six months since he had moved to Marathon, Georgia and begun working at the Tammy Dinette, his body had quickly become accustomed to the ragged pace of life in the busy little joint. He had mastered the meticulous square dance that he and the waitresses do-si-doed around each other in the cramped space of its kitchen. Having grown up moving from diner to diner with his transient mother and then working in diners for years as an adult, Marcus found nothing new in the short-order life. In fact, he preferred it to anything else he had tried. Hard work pleased him, and a day in the Tammy usually left him invigorated.
Even after a particularly busy Saturday brunch, the joy of cooking and the comforting presence of his newfound friends would have him floating out of the kitchen. He would settle in the corner booth to catch up on the town gossip with his new neighbors, the Do-Nothings, Marathon’s preeminent busybodies. After listening to the henhouse cackling of the women’s chatter, he would waltz out of the diner whistling one of the twangy country love songs from the jukebox. He would float down the small-town streets as he ambled the three blocks to Murphy’s Garage, all the way hoping his boyfriend, Hank Hudson, would be found bent over the engine of a car with his perfect backside on display. With the comfortable weariness of a good day’s work in his bones, he would place his arms around Hank’s shoulders, lay his head on his shoulder, and sigh in contentment. “Hey, Baby,” he would drawl, “it’s been a good day.”
But today had been like nothing he had ever experienced. Today he was tired—bone tired—the kind of tired that makes feet burn as if racing across hot coals and limbs drag with the weight of steel girders. His eyes and temples throbbed with the beginning of a headache, and his stomach raised a loud, rumbling protest at not having been fed all day. Since Frankie Jones, the youngest of the owner’s daughters, had flipped the lock on the front door and welcomed the first guests of the day, he had not stopped running for six straight hours. His head swam in the constant barrage of requests for more plates of turkey and dressing. Pot after pot of corn and yams and string beans and okra and black-eyed peas and collard greens blurred before his eyes. He couldn’t begin to count the number of golden biscuits he had pulled from the two ovens in the corner. Unlike a normal day at the diner that allowed for an occasional lull, today had been nonstop. Today had been the Tammy Dinette’s annual Thanksgiving Feed the Hungry, when the diner provided a free meal to anyone in need. Apparently, a lot of people in Marathon were in need.
So Marcus had worked hard. And
he was tired. And it felt better than anything he had ever known.
Marcus opened his eyes and raised his head as a hand brushed his shoulder. He glanced into the soft blue eyes of Francine Jones, the owner of the Tammy Dinette. She smiled lovingly at him and winked.
“Told you it was going to be a brutal day, Shoe Button,” she said and patted him on the upper arm. “Every year the crowd just gets bigger and bigger.” She pushed a few strands of her silver hair away from her face before tossing her apron on the table and flopping into the empty seat beside him. “But I cannot stand the thought of a single person not getting a good meal on Thanksgiving Day.”
“You know, Francine,” Marcus said and chuckled, “if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be thrilled to spend another Thanksgiving slinging plates in a diner, I’d have spit in your eye. But I have to admit, this felt good.”
“Oh, really?” Francine raised an eyebrow. She slipped her feet out of her orthopedic shoes and let out a long whistle. “My barking dogs think you’re full of it.”
“Yeah. Seemed almost normal to me. You know how my mama dragged me from town to town as a kid?” Marcus closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Mama always worked the holidays so she could get double pay. I can hear her now. ‘Baby, we need the money more than we need the hoopla.’” Marcus shook his head and chuckled. “I spent most of my Thanksgivings and Christmases tucked in a corner booth of some greasy spoon watching my mama sling plates and sass at customers. A couple of times she let me make a turkey picture by tracing my hand. You know what I’m talking about?” Marcus opened his eyes and mimicked tracing the fingers of one hand with the other.
“Lord, yes.” Francine giggled. “I’ve had more of those damned turkeys stuck on my fridge than I can count.”
“Anyway, Mama let me draw them on the back of the paper placemats and hand them out to customers. She made me a black construction paper pilgrim hat to wear, too. Then we’d go home and eat whatever leftovers she stole from the diner.” Marcus shrugged and sighed. “Not really Norman Rockwell, but it’s what I was used to. I knew other kids got fancier holidays, but I was with Mama, so…” His voice trailed off, and his mouth curled in a half-hearted smile. “Hell, a big old family dinner on Thanksgiving is about as strange to me as Chinese New Year or Ramadan.”
“Oh, Shoe Button.” Francine patted the back of Marcus’s hand. “I’m sorry you never got a real Thanksgiving. Not that today was a real Thanksgiving by any means.”
Marcus shook the memory from his shoulders and smiled meekly at Francine. “When I got out on my own, I volunteered to work on the holidays too. By then I’d learned what Mama meant about the extra money. It never really bothered me. You learn not to miss what you think you’ll never get.”
“But now I feel bad for asking you to—”
“Francine,” Marcus interrupted her, “hush. Today was wonderful. I actually felt like I was doing some good. Plus, you know you and your girls are almost like family to me. I wish they’d stuck around for a minute at least.”
“Oh, please. As soon as I said they didn’t have to help with the dishes, you couldn’t have kept them here.” Francine shifted her gaze from Marcus to the flickering blue and yellow lights of the jukebox as the song switched to an upbeat two-step rhythm. “Dang-it, Paulette was supposed to switch out the records in the jukebox for the Christmas songs.”
“I can do it.” Marcus shifted forward in his chair and groaned. “As soon as my feet remember how to work.”
“No.” Francine grunted as she rose. She shuffled past the row of stools along the counter. “I’ll do it. You get on out of here.”
“Yeah. I need to get over to Hank’s, or he’ll think I’m the biggest turkey of the day.” Marcus remained seated. “Though I’d be perfectly fine with sitting in this chair until Christmas.”
“Well, at least you’ve got tomorrow off.” Francine paused with her hand on the plug of the jukebox and winked at Marcus. “You and Hank can stay in bed all morning if you want.” Her eyes shifted over Marcus’s shoulder toward a banging sound on the glass of the diner door. “Can’t people read? I turned the closed sign over half an hour ago. We’re closed!” she yelled toward the door.
“Francine,” a woman’s voice called through the door. “Open this gee-danged door!”
Marcus turned to look through the glass. From the light of the streetlamp, he made out two women huddled close together. One woman was waving her arms in exaggerated conversation, while the other stood with her arms crossed and shaking her head. The women banged on the glass again and looked through the door. Seeing the two faces pressed against the glass, Marcus broke out in a broad grin. “It’s Inez and Priscilla.”
“Oh, shit.” Francine’s wide backside wiggled under the tight fabric of her pink uniform skirt as she waddled to unlock the door. “I forgot they were coming by.”
The bell over the front door rang, and the two women, deep in a heated conversation, bustled into the room. Priscilla Ellington’s towering bouffant of gray hair wobbled above her plump face as she vigorously shook her head. “And I said if you were going to make me park in that spot by the parking meter, then you were going to have to be the one to put the money in it.” The pewter cross that hung on a chain around her neck bounced against her large chest as she raised her arm to shake a finger at the other woman. “If that nitwit Deputy Randall gives me a ticket, then I’m not going to be the one to—”
“Priss, you are such a pain in my ass.” Inez Coffee shoved Priscilla’s finger out of her face. She tugged the hem of her dark-blue Atlanta Braves T-shirt back over the waist of her pants and adjusted the lime-green fanny pack that was buckled around her waist. “It’s a national holiday. You don’t have to feed the stupid meter on a national holiday. I swanee, I should’ve ridden over here with Helen. At least then I… Oh! Hello, Marcus, Sweetheart! I didn’t think you’d still be here!” Inez scurried across the room and wrapped her arms around Marcus’s neck. Her overly dyed black hair tickled his temple when she bent to give him a peck on the cheek. “I figured by now you’d be trotting off to Hank’s place, ass swinging like church bells on Easter.”
“Inez!” Priscilla chastised, “watch your language. Today is about saying thanks to God, not saying filthy words.” She patted Marcus on his head and ruffled his hair. “Happy Thanksgiving, Little Man.”
“Hey, Miss Inez. Miss Priscilla. Happy Thanksgiving!” Marcus said as he ducked away from Inez’s attempt to pinch his cheeks. “I’m heading over to Hank’s in a little bit. But I need my daily dose of Do-Nothings first. Speaking of, where’s Helen?”
“She’s right behind us.” Priscilla shrugged. “She probably took the time to find a legal parking spot.” Priscilla plopped her ample frame onto a chair and grunted. She reached down to roll the tops of her knee-high stockings toward her bright white tennis shoes. “Unlike some people.” She rolled her eyes at Marcus.
“Drop it, Priss.” Inez shot an angry look at the other woman before turning back to Marcus. “You know Helen has to go do the whole family thing with Raff and his wife. And Skeet got back into town last night. She was just about to spit, she was so anxious to see that grandbaby of hers.” Inez jerked a chair out and sat. She unhooked her fanny pack from her waist and tossed it onto the table, causing the sugar dispenser and napkin holder to rattle. A pack of cigarettes poked out of the open zipper, and Inez fumbled it back into the bag. She shot Marcus a guilty grin, then placed her finger over her pursed lips to shush him.
Marcus turned toward the entrance as the bell over the door rang again and Helen Warner swept into the diner. An orange chiffon scarf tossed around her neck fluttered behind her as she hurried to the table. “Oh, thank heavens, you girls are here! If I had to spend another ten minutes with that nitwit daughter-in-law of mine, I’d be calling you to bail me out of jail for murder. She had the nerve to serve dressing made from a box. Can you imagine? Dressin
g from a box!”
“Oh, Helen.” Inez swatted at the other woman’s hip. “It’s not like Raff would know the difference. He grew up eating your cooking, after all.”
Helen stuck her tongue out at Inez and wrinkled her nose. “Why don’t you act like a turkey and stuff it?” Her shoulders shook as she laughed. She patted her bobbed silver hair and winked at Marcus. “Hello, Darling. I didn’t realize you’d still be here or I would’ve brought Skeet with me to see you. He was dying to come up here all day, but his mother told him Thanksgiving was for family and he could see you and Hank tomorrow. I should’ve made Francine give you today off so you could’ve joined us Warners.”
“Hey, Helen,” Marcus drawled as he stood and pulled her into a hug. The warmth of her hug, the soft fabric of her silk blouse, and the familiar scent of her magnolia perfume made Marcus hum in delight into her shoulder. Helen had been the first of his grandmother’s friends that he had met, and her doting over him had become one of his favorite things. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Why are you still here?” Helen twisted her upper body away from Marcus and looked him in the eye. “I’m sure Hank is waiting on you.” She turned to Francine. “I can’t believe you made this boy work on Thanksgiving and wouldn’t even let that absolutely scrumptious boyfriend of his come with him. Poor man has been alone all day.” Helen cut her eyes at the other women and tried to hide a grin.
“I tell you what,” Inez said and winked at Helen, “no telling what he’s up to without you around.”
“Girls, don’t ruin the surprise,” Priscilla hissed and waved the women away.
“What do you dames know?” Marcus knitted his brows in mock annoyance. “Come on. Spill it.”
“We know nothing,” Helen chirped and raised her eyebrows. “We’re just not used to seeing you without him. We thought y’all were joined at the hip.”
“With hips like Hank’s, wouldn’t you want to be attached to them? No, I forbid him from being here today. Marcus here,” Francine said as she poked Marcus in the shoulder, “well, he can’t concentrate none too well when that man is around, and I needed his mind on work today. And I don’t regret that decision for a minute. They kept us hopping from the minute I opened the door until Marcus finally shuffled old Delores Richards out into a cab. Didn’t they, Honey?”
