by Nya Rawlyns
THE HOLIDAY TOAST DUO
THE CHRISTMAS TOAST
THE VALENTINE TOAST
By
NYA RAWLYNS
THE HOLIDAY TOAST DUO
Copyright ©2014 Nya Rawlyns
ISBN: 978-1-936827-65-7
First electronic edition published by PubRight
Published in the United States of America with international distribution.
Cover Design by Sessha Batto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE CHRISTMAS TOAST
THE VALENTINE TOAST
BONUS STORY: CURRY FOR ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE CHRISTMAS TOAST
By
Nya Rawlyns
Alan Randall Liebowitz is a man stuck in a pattern: right before the holidays his current significant other goes walkabout, leaving him alone … again.
Jacques Lambert is an up and comer chef with a bright future. Until his partner with benefits runs off, leaving him bankrupt and relying on the kindness of his family.
The local college holds night cooking classes, for seniors mostly. Jack’s sister talks him into applying for a teaching spot. Alan’s neighbor talks him into expanding his horizons.
When a lonesome foodie meets the chef of his dreams, more than the scallops are flambéed.
THE CHRISTMAS TOAST
Copyright ©2013 Nya Rawlyns
First electronic edition published by PubRight
Published in the United States of America with international distribution.
Cover Design by Sessha Batto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To My Dearest Friends
You deserve many happy endings
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One: Alan
Chapter Two: Jack
Chapter Three: Roll Call
Chapter Four: Dinner and a Show
Chapter Five: The Taste of Despair
Chapter Six: Tender Cuts
Chapter Seven: The Toast
Chapter One
Alan
Alan watched Edward stomp out the door, not even bothering to slam it shut. Why bother? He’d made his point, packed his few belongings, offered up a “fuck you” instead of a “sorry, man, too bad it didn’t … like … work out, you know?”
The toothbrush was gone. The cap from the toothpaste tube lay on the floor near the trash can. Near, not in. That more or less described that aborted relationship.
Always a fricking bridesmaid, never a bride. Seemed strange they didn’t have a cute saying when guys broke up. Close but no cigar. That was better, but wide of the mark since he didn’t smoke and didn’t plan to start.
Drink, on the other hand… That he could do. Or he could eat himself blotto like he always did when yet another prospect bailed. There was always a litany of excuses for cutting him loose: he was needy, he was distant, he was all about work, he was a dilettante, too quiet, too chatty-cathy, too too too… And boring. He couldn’t forget boring. Edward had added that to his laundry list of personality traits.
On the upside, the accusation … boring in bed … hadn’t crossed Edward’s lips. Maybe because short, bespectacled and paunchy Edward was wearing his fist before he got to that part. It was hard to talk with a mouth full of blood and cracked crowns. Edward gave it a good go before stripping the apartment of every available shopping bag to handle his stay-overs.
“No, I am not proud of myself, Mom.” He looked at the ceiling, as if her visage had parked itself in the acoustic ceiling tile … Saint Ann of Guilt and I-Told-You-So. A Jewish grandmother and a Roman Catholic mother made for a double whammy when it came to his love life and general lack of accomplishments.
With a sigh, he meandered into the bedroom and surveyed the damage. Edward had dribbled blood over the rumpled sheets while stuffing his boxers and gym clothes into a plastic bag. He stripped the bed and added the bundle of soiled sheets to the laundry basket.
“Way to go, Alan Randall Liebowitz. Way. To. Go.”
Letting the minutiae of mindless tasks occupy his brain, Alan managed to set his studio apartment to rights, except for the kitchen. That looked like it needed a major overhaul. Edward had run a few criticisms over the dividing counter. The least damning was how he, Allan Randall, couldn’t cook for shit, had all the manners of a junkyard dog, couldn’t tell the difference between Korma and Vindaloo curries, and was in all ways an oaf of the first rank.
The curry remark led to a dish connecting with the opposite wall. Others followed. If he were very clever, he might be able to piece together enough shards to make a place setting for one. Or he could take out his always overheated credit card and head to the big box store to invest in sturdier dishware. Heavyweight, microwavable plastic seemed like a reasonable alternative, especially since he was going back to shopping the meals-for-one, heart-healthy freezer section.
The cell phone played a mystery tune. He thumbed it awake without looking at the incoming and muttered, “Eddy?” I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better. You were right about the curry, the boring bit, the… “Oh, no, um, yeah.” It was his cousin Ruth. Ruth the Gossip. “No, nothing. Fine. It’s all good. Say hi…” Staring at the cell, hoping it would magically produce one Edward Spielmann, he was prepared to grovel. Not a lot, just a little bit.
“I can handle Thanksgiving alone. I can do that. But Chanukah and Christmas?” He shook his head. “I’m thirty-four years old. This happens every damn year. When do I get to have somebody to share the holidays?” He glanced at the ceiling again. “I’d take a plus one, Mom. A BFF gal pal, if necessary.” He’d settle. But what he wanted more than anything was to have the real deal. And not just somebody in his bed. What he needed was somebody in his heart.
And not, God forbid, go to my grave alone and forgotten…
“Thank you, Bobeshi, for reminding me I’m gornisht. Nothing. Nobody.”
He sank to the floor, his back against the refrigerator and contemplated his options. The narrow shelf held a small selection of medium-priced whites, a rose and one red in a cardboard container. The vodka looked promising but it needed to be properly chilled in the freezer, and he was looking for instant gratification to cure what ailed him. Rum? “Nuts, I’m out of coke.” The tequila could do in a pinch but he wasn’t completely on board with the inevitable passing out, praying to the gods of porcelain and a world-class headache.
This wasn’t his first rodeo at the breakup corral. Reaching for the cardboard container, he fondled it, feeling bemused that he was reduced to guzzling alcohol from what amounted to a milk
cartoon on scarred linoleum in a kitchen smaller than a walk-in closet in the fine state of Pennsylvania. Ironically, a part-Jewish boy on the outskirts of Bethlehem, Christmas City. Alone. Going nowhere fast.
He toasted the ceiling tiles. “Here’s to losers, Ma. Guess you and Grams weren’t wrong after all.”
The rap on the door was distinctive, tap tap tippity tap. “It’s open, Rachel.”
“You okay, hon?” Rachel was on the long side of twenty going on fifty. And she was from Philly so everyone was “hon” to her. He, on the other hand, was from the Bronx so “Yo, girl,” rolled off his tongue easy as goose grease.
The girl was at best a sprite, five foot nothing and change, plumpish, hair a wild tangle of red curls in a white girl’s fantasy of an afro.
“See you ditched the cornrows, Rae.”
She slide down the stainless steel surface and parked her derriere next to his. He offered the container. She accepted, took a healthy slug and handed it back. “What are we drinking to tonight, babe?” “Babe” also came with the territory.
“Eddy left.” He rolled the tartness around his tongue, swallowed and grimaced. It was the good stuff. “We had a fight.”
Rae waggled her fingers. “Gimme. So.” She sipped and stared at the box. “You didn’t let it breathe.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“It’s brassy. Kinda tight, ya know?”
“Huh.” The wine’s not the only brassy thing in this kitchen.
“You don’t usually stray off the California stuff. Where’s this from?”
“Argentina.” He reached for the box but Rae had a two-hand grip on it. “It’s Maipe Malbec.” He squirmed in irritation. He needed alcohol, even if it was his special for him and Eddy three week anniversary vintage celebratory… “Shit.”
“Ah, hon, it’s not that bad.” She grinned. “Actually, ya know what?”
Uh-oh, here it comes.
“It’s got a … what? Cherry. Chocolate maybe. What else?”
“Not bad, girl. If you stop swilling it and let it nestle for a bit, you’ll find vanilla and spices.” She handed him the box and he took a long pull. “Ah, and a playful spank of white pepper at the finish.”
“You’re shitting me, Alan. You just made that up.”
“Nope. Hand-to-God.” He gestured just to emphasize his special relationship to a deity he rarely spoke to. “I read about it in a travel magazine. Thought I’d try it.” At nearly thirty bucks for a three-liter box he’d been assured that “red wine lovers would be pleased.”
Rae laughed. “Come on, hon, the only reason you bought this crap was the spanking shit. Am I right?”
Alan blushed, the heat spreading to the tips of his ears. He was too acutely aware of the thin walls separating his bedroom from Rae’s, so he’d tried to keep his extracurriculars as quiet as possible. Unfortunately, he tended to vocalize when in the throes of passion—not his term. Not Eddy’s either, but someone in the not-so-distant past had pointed out yet another shortcoming to his database of Loser-Alan-Liebowitz personality traits.
Shifting to cross his legs, he bumped thighs with the petite girl. “You know what? I could get in trouble for this.” He cradled the cardboard container to his chest. Rae was technically a minor.
“Huh. I’m not gonna tell. Besides, my twenty-first is next week.” She arrowed a steely-eyed glint in his direction. “You’re still coming, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“To my bash. We’re heading down to the Brew Works right after classes.”
“I dunno, Rae.” When it was him and Eddy, the answer had been “of course” because he had a date, a man three years older, an almost significant other that would keep him from sticking out like a sore thumb.
“Besides, sweetie, you might meet someone new.”
Oh God, no no no no! The last thing he needed was another pickup from the University cauldron of too-young metrosexuals and intellectuals.
“I’m too old to be running with your crowd, angel.”
“Old? Oh hon, you are not old.” She brushed his unruly mop of light brown hair behind his right ear. “You’re … mature.”
The carton was significantly lighter, his tongue infinitely thicker, and the thought of finding another stranger in his bed was about as appealing as chewing razor blades. He did what he usually did. He waffled. “We’ll see, okay?”
“Sure.” She gave him a devilish grin. “You’ll still give me a present, won’t you?”
Handing Rae the last sip, he smiled, though it didn’t quite reach that inside spot where the mist coated his innards with regrets and longings he no longer had words to describe. He had to give Rae credit, though. She had a way about her. Impish, naughty, bright as a copper penny, she never failed to lift him from his funk. Except this funk wasn’t going away quite so easily.
Struggling to his feet, he swayed and extended a hand. The tiny imp popped to her feet and gave him a hug. “It’ll be all right, Alan. Eddy was … um, what do call wine you won’t even cook with?”
“Swill.”
“Yeah, there ya go, hon. He’s swill. Not worth your time.” She threw the carton in the trash and said, “Hang on a mo. I’ll be right back.”
Hanging onto the counter seemed like a decent idea. They’d consumed a substantial amount of wine in a very short time, with perhaps more of an emphasis on “he” than “she.” Come morning, he was going to have the mother of all headaches and no one to bitch and complain to.
Damn, I miss him already. And I didn’t even like him. What the heck does that say about me?
“Here ya go, hon.” He stared at the pamphlet, too woozy to reach for it. “It’s for the community college.” She fanned the pages, then stopped about midway through. “Here. This will be just the ticket.”
Curious, he took the booklet and tried to focus. “My glasses?” Rae hunted around the living room, picked something off the floor and returned to hand him his reading glasses. “Cooking school?”
“Well, not the real deal. But they have a really good program. Guest chefs and stuff.” Rae pointed toward the bottom of the page. “You’re always saying how you need to learn more about … uh, about…”
“A Mediterranean diet?”
“Yeah, that. Anyway, they offer non-credit evening classes. All themed shit.” He grinned at his little imp’s colorful language. “This one’s on how to prepare a special holiday meal.”
That whole subject of food reminded him why he and Eddy had that spat and subsequent episode of target practice with his good ceramic plates. For all his failings—and he was reasonable about fessing up to a least a few of the sobriquets thrown his way—being a crap cook wasn’t one of them. In fact, he prided himself on knowing his way around a kitchen. Eddy had hit him hard, right where it hurt, accusing him of misdemeanors that simply weren’t true.
He didn’t mean to sound grumpy—after all, the kid was only trying to help. “I already know how to cook a fu— I can do a turkey.” And fancy fixings. He could also throw together a credible matzo ball soup and mouth-watering latkes. And in his family, it didn’t matter if you were an electrician or a neurosurgeon. You learned to appreciate food and all the traditions that went with it. He’d gone the extra mile and truly embraced cooking as his avocation. It made up for the mind-numbing dead end job that paid the bills and allowed him to indulge in high end wines and specialty ingredients for his meals.
Except, now I have no one to cook for. Shit.
Still staring at the page and the small print, with nothing registering, he was startled to have his laptop shoved under his nose, fired up and homing in on the community college website. Numbly he watched Rae’s fingers fly over the keyboard.
“You have your credit card handy?”
“In my wallet.”
“Which is where?”
“Dresser…” She was gone and back before he had the next words formed.
“Okay, Chef Alan Randall Liebowitz, you’re all set. Tuesday and T
hursday evenings from seven to ten.” She tapped on the screen. “Here’s the list of stuff to bring with. Class starts next week.” He shuffled his feet as her index finger sat poised over the “enter” button. “Aw, sweetie, you need to get out of this apartment. Do something different. Something you love.” She gripped his finger and hovered it over the key. “I feel really good about this. Whadya say, huh?”
“I guess…” Then it was done. Rae clapped her hands, kissed his cheek and minced toward the door.
“Gotta go, hon. Have a midterm in basket weaving under water first thing tomorrow.”
Alan laughed out loud, wished her luck, then turned back to the computer. He scanned down to the instructor’s bona fides.
“Jacques Lambert, former head chef of blahty-blah in center city Philly, sous chef, Kansas City and Denver. Co-owner, Le Bistro, Seattle. Masters from Stratford College in Baltimore.”
He had credentials. It wasn’t Le Cordon Bleu but it was a highly regarded program, at least according to the college PR blurb on their website. Alan shrugged. He wasn’t planning on getting a degree, just some new insights into culinary techniques and to fill up empty hours he’d otherwise use to abuse his body with alcohol and junk food.
“I’d be better served going to the gym.” He looked at his softening middle. It wasn’t quite love-handle territory, but he was no longer the lean, mean, fighting machine of his callow youth. At six-one and a runner, he’d gotten away with a few metabolic transgressions, but age and a sedentary accounting job had put paid to his once athletic build.
Weaving toward his bedroom, he reconsidered. He’d torn the sheets off and failed to replace them. The yawning expanse of queen-sized and empty didn’t appeal. Changing direction, he went into the bathroom and set the shower spray to hot, stripped and ducked under the soothing warmth. While his cock usually responded well to the routine, this night was different. Between getting half-drunk, half depressed and half disgusted with himself, he was having a tough time doing the math and convincing his errant prick to show him some respect.
