While she was walking down the street, glancing in shop windows, Britt came across a gorgeous wool hat and glove set in blue and white. Exactly what a former Californian might need for an Oregon winter. She walked into the store and bought them.
The next day passed in much the same way for Britt. She felt Anne’s absence and wished she had at least thought to exchange phone numbers with her. It was two days until Christmas, and her mother called in the afternoon to remind her that Britt was on cookie duty.
“What’s the matter, Britt? You sound like you’re feeling down or something.” There was concern in her mom’s voice.
“Oh nothing, Mom,” Britt answered. “It’s just…this girl. I’m just pining a little bit right at this moment.”
“Ahhh. A girl. Is there anything your dad and I can do?”
Britt smiled. “No, but thanks for the offer. I’ll see you on Christmas, cookies in hand.”
“Okay, hon, you call me if you want to talk more about it, okay?”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
Britt was elbow-deep in cookie dough the next day when her apartment’s intercom buzzed. Every available surface of her tiny kitchen was covered in ingredients and racks of cooling cookies.
“Yikes, hold on!” she yelled, as if the person buzzing her doorbell could hear her two stories up. She finally found her kitchen towel and managed to clean one hand off enough to press the intercom button.
“Yes? Who is it?”
There was a pause. And then, “Britt? It’s me, Anne.”
Surprise and elation rushed through Britt as she pressed the button to unlock the front door.
“Come on up!”
In the fifteen seconds Britt had before Anne would arrive at her door, she washed the cookie dough off of her hands and dried them on a fresh towel.
A knock sounded at her apartment door.
She opened it to find Anne standing in front of her, wearing her coat, a shy smile on her face.
“Hi,” Britt said simply.
“Hi,” Anne replied. “I thought I would take a chance that you would be home. Ooh, what is that? It smells delicious.”
“My cookies! Come in, one sec.” Britt raced back into the kitchen to pull the cookies out of the oven.
“Wow, you’ve been busy!” Anne had followed Britt into the kitchen and was now regarding the fruits of her labors.
“I’m the designated cookie-bringer to Christmas dinner at my parents’ house tomorrow,” Britt said. “Would you like to try one? I have peanut butter, sugar cookies, and just plain old chocolate.” Without waiting for an answer, she held up a sugar cookie to Anne.
Instead of taking it from her, Anne leaned over and took a bite of the cookie in Britt’s hand. She made a soft groan, and Britt’s mouth went dry, her gaze immediately drawn to Anne’s full lips.
“Those are delicious,” Anne said. “I had no idea you were such a talented baker.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Britt blurted out.
A wide grin appeared on Anne’s face.
“I missed you. I know we haven’t known each other long—”
“I know what you mean,” cut in Britt, nodding. “I missed you too.” She found herself moving closer to Anne. They were mere inches apart, and the space between them seemed electrically charged.
Anne was gazing back at her, studying Britt’s face with hungry intensity. She had moved closer too.
“I just wanted,” Anne began, then stopped. “I was hoping…”
“Yes,” Britt replied.
“Can I—?” Anne was gazing at Britt’s lips now.
“Yes,” Britt said with relief and enthusiasm. “Yes, please.”
Anne closed the remaining space between them and put her hands on either side of Britt’s face. “Kiss me?”
“Yes,” breathed Britt before claiming Anne’s lips. They were just as warm and soft as she remembered. She held Anne close as they kissed. This kiss made their first kiss seem like an innocent peck. Anne panted as the kiss intensified.
Britt let out a low groan. She captured Anne’s lower lip between her teeth and gently nibbled on it. The sound of Anne’s gasp shot straight through Britt’s bloodstream to pulse at every nerve ending in her body.
“Britt.” Anne moaned. “I love kissing you, so much.” Her hands were in Britt’s hair now, and the gentle tugging felt so good.
They continued kissing for what seemed like hours, their bodies as close as possible, and their hands exploring the contours of each other’s bodies.
When they finally came up for air, they pressed their foreheads together. Britt was shaken, and mussed, and aroused and amazed. How could one woman cause so many feelings in her at once?
“I could do this all day,” she said, “but I will be in trouble if I don’t deliver on my cookie promise.”
Anne smiled. “Of course! Can I help you?”
“I would love that.” Britt got in one last good kiss, which turned into another five-minute-long make-out session in the kitchen.
They spent the rest of the afternoon mixing up cookie batter and kissing, and baking cookies and kissing. And decorating cookies and kissing. By evening, they were tired, more than a little stuffed from cookie tasting, and both still reveling at being close and their new-found intimacy.
“I actually came over to give you something,” Anne said after they’d put the last cookie in its festive Christmas tin. She went back into the living room, where she had left her bag, and pulled out a wrapped Christmas present.
“That reminds me. I have something for you too.” Britt retrieved the hat and gloves that she had inexpertly wrapped and handed them to Anne. “You go first.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything” Anne opened up her gift and laughed. She immediately put her new hat on her head. Just as Britt had imagined, it looked adorable and matched Anne’s blue eyes.
“It’s perfect,” said Anne. “And now I will be somewhat more prepared for when the next snowstorm hits.”
“I don’t know if we’ll see another one like that,” Britt said.
“Well, if we do, I hope that I can spend it with you again.” Anne gave her a warm smile. “Go on, open yours.”
Britt took the gift that Anne handed her and ripped the festive paper open. It was a brand-new copy of the RJ Cruse novel that George had destroyed.
She laughed and gave Anne a swift embrace and kiss.
“Thank you! I’m so glad I’ll finally know how the story ends.”
Anne kissed her in return, this time soft and lingering.
“I have a feeling,” she said quietly in Britt’s ear, “that this story is going to have a happy ending.”
CROSSROADS
by Ruth F. Simon
I was double-checking the formulas on my spreadsheet, trying to find the error, when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the display out of habit, but didn’t plan to answer. The greenhouse was closed, and I had vowed not to answer the business phone.
But my brother’s name and number showed on the display. I let out a long-suffering sigh. Thanksgiving, and my disastrous coming-out announcement at dinner, was three weeks behind me. Since then, Stephen was the only family member to call me. My fraternal twin was genuinely a good guy, but I wasn’t in the mood for family drama. I had enough accounting drama already.
So, I ignored my phone, but Stephen called again. The third call made me decide I’d better answer; he was never that insistent without a good reason.
“Hey, Steve.”
“You know I hate when you screen my calls, B.” I hated when he called me only by my first initial, and he knew that.
“Yeah, yeah. What do you need?”
“My, aren’t you grumpy tonight? Someone swipe a rare potted plant?”
I leaned back and took off my glasses to rub my
eyes. “No, I’m battling with numbers. My spreadsheet formulas went screwy, and I need to make a quarterly tax payment this week.”
He sucked a breath through his teeth, and it made an odd whistling sound. I knew that sound. Stephen always made it before announcing earth-shattering news. I wondered if it was good or bad news this time and grabbed the edge of my desk. “Okay, Steve: spill.”
“It doesn’t sound like this is a good time…” Steve was an actor, with a great voice. He made extra money reading audiobooks and doing other voice work. But his childhood stutter returned whenever he was stressed, and that simple sentence gave him fits. This was really bad.
“Little bro, everything you’ve done and said tells me there won’t ever be a good time. Just say it.”
He sucked in another whistling breath. “Did you notice Dad looking… frail… at Thanksgiving?”
My mind recalled my dad standing over my chair at the Thanksgiving table, thundering that I had to leave his house immediately. That he risked losing his congregation if they learned he had a dyke for a daughter. That I was to get out and not return until my heart and mind were right with our Lord, Jesus Christ.
“No, I didn’t notice him ‘looking frail.’ He seemed as full of fire and energy as always. He had his tent-revival voice going strong when I walked out the door.”
“He wasn’t full of energy after you left.” Fatigue filled Stephen’s voice. I could picture the way he ran a hand along the back of his head, brushing the hair the wrong way, when he was upset. “He sort of… collapsed when the door closed behind you. Mom and I caught him and got him to the couch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“I thought it was just stress, you know?” Steve’s voice was apologetic. “Plus, I figured you were upset enough. No reason to feel guilty that he got so worked up. I guess I… thought it was his own fault for freaking out like that.”
“So, what changed?” I grabbed my stress ball and gave it a squeeze. Steve telling me this now meant something else had happened, something worse.
“He… Mom said he didn’t seem to regain his energy after Thanksgiving. She just thought it was… guilt and mourning. You’ve always been Dad’s favorite, Brandy. She thought he was just…”
“Blaming himself for my being gay. For raising a tomboy who turned out lesbian.” I thought about that, and I had to chuckle a bit. Dad had taken me fishing when I was a kid, and we’d played catch with a football or our baseball gloves a lot. Stephen had always preferred spending time with Mom in the kitchen; he was now an accomplished amateur chef.
Dad used to say Mom would turn Steve “funny” if she taught him to cook, but he didn’t seem to share that concern about our time together. Now, Steve has a lovely wife who is expecting my first nephew. And I’m the gay family member with a degree in horticulture, managing a greenhouse. It’s a weird world.
“Yeah. Well, Dad collapsed in his office three days ago while writing a sermon.”
“What?” My mind couldn’t grasp the idea. “That’s not possible.”
“The head deacon, Mr. Sanders?” Stephen’s words brought the image of a smiling, grandfatherly man to mind. “He found Dad and called for the paramedics. Dad was admitted for tests.” Stephen’s voice grew muffled.
I knew he was rubbing his face this time, trying to figure out how to tell me the rest. “Just spit it out, Steve.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I’m sure he heard the quaver in it; it’s a twin thing.
“He… Brandy, it’s cancer.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know.” We sat in silence, and I felt a fleeting rush of relief that it had been Steve who had made this call. If Mom or our younger sister Stacy had called, I would have felt as if I had to say something comforting right now.
But it was Stephen on the line, and he wasn’t expecting me to be the eldest child with all the answers and a plan to manage whatever the crisis was. He was just letting me get my head around the idea that our father was ill. Sometimes, I thought he should have been the firstborn. He had the right temperament for it.
“Do they know…? What stage is it?” I didn’t want to know, but I did. The words came off my tongue more smoothly than I had expected, as if I asked this question all the time. I actually hoped he wouldn’t be offended by my businesslike tone.
“Not yet. They need more tests for that.” He was quiet for a long moment. “She’s… Mom isn’t doing well. In some ways, I think she’s in denial. She acts like Dad: she fusses at him to get feeling better and get out of bed, so they can go home—as if he has the ability to leave the hospital whenever he wants.”
My mom is a small-statured and meek woman, completely dependent on my father for everything. Anytime Dad gets a cold, she flutters around the house, picking up objects and studying them as though they hold some mystical knowledge she needs. Then, she sighs in frustration, puts the item down, and wanders around the house until some other item catches her eye and she repeats the process. I imagined her communing with the TV remote in Dad’s hospital room and stifled a sound that was partly a sob and partly a laugh. “Christ.”
“Please, Brandy. Your language. Right now isn’t the time…”
“Sorry, Stevie.” My brother was a devout man, and I didn’t mean to upset him. “What can I do?”
“Well, you see,” Stephen’s stutter came on stronger, and I realized he was about to ask me to do something unpleasant. “Dad doesn’t… he’d rather…”
“He doesn’t want me there.” My tone was flat, and the room shifted around me, as though I were on a carnival ride. No wonder I didn’t get a call sooner. Even with this crisis looming, they didn’t want me around. It hurt, but I tried to push the pain away.
“He and Mom talked and…” Stephen still couldn’t complete a sentence through his stutter.
“No, that’s fine. I wasn’t coming home for Christmas anyway. Not after…” It was my turn to trail off.
“You have to come home for Christmas. Dad’s sick. It might be…” The phone clattered on his end, and I heard a muttering of voices.
“Brandy?” My sister-in-law, Renee, was also an actor, and her voice always sounded like warm caramel to me. I could listen to her read a stereo manual, and right now her honeyed tones soothed me. “Listen, I know things got… ugly, but your dad—and you—need to set that aside right now. This is more important than his bigotry. Whether or not they want to admit it, Mom and Dad need you here. And we think you have a right to be here.”
“We?” I knew Steve and Renee would want me there, but I wasn’t so sure about Stacy. “Listen, I appreciate it but…”
“Stacy agrees with us. She… We all need you here. You’re the rock we look to when Dad can’t be strong.”
What I wanted, more than anything, was to be my dad’s right hand through all this. But his impromptu Thanksgiving sermon still rang in my ears. Could we set that aside and stand strong as a family, or was the cut too deep and new? Would my going home help him or make things worse?
I sighed. “When will we know how bad it is?”
“Friday.”
I looked at the calendar on my desk. It was Wednesday, and the tax payment was due Friday. I could drive upstate to my parents’ place Saturday morning if it was bad news. That gave me a couple of days to talk to the greenhouse’s owner, set up the holiday schedule for my team, and review the pressing tasks with my assistant manager.
“I’m not promising anything, but I might drive up on Saturday. If I must.”
Her voice quavered, making me think her eyes were filled with tears. “We all hope it won’t come to that. Steve or I will give you a call on Friday once we know more.”
We signed off with some “I love you’s” and extracted promises to distribute hugs to family members. I set down my cell phone and stared at the numbers on my spreadsheet. None of them made sense. Savi
ng my work and shutting down my computer, I resolved to start fresh in the morning.
The knot of fear in my belly was unavoidable, even as I leaned back in my chair and stretched my feet forward, trying to relax. Whether I was afraid of losing my dad or seeing him again, I wasn’t sure—probably both.
I thought about calling Jason, my closest friend. I decided to wait until tomorrow evening. I knew he had a big project due at work the next day. He’d drop everything for me if I asked, but I wouldn’t do that to him. Tomorrow evening would be soon enough to tell him.
I rolled my neck and tried to decide what to do with the evening. I’m not much of a drinker, but a glass of wine sounded really good at that moment. But both of my grandfathers were alcoholics, and since I was craving a drink, I told myself I couldn’t have one. I didn’t want to start down that path, not after seeing those men battling their demons.
Instead of heading to a nearby bar, I gathered my belongings and locked up for the night. I needed to eat dinner but had no appetite. Nevertheless, the ingredients for a chicken Caesar salad waited at home, and I headed in its direction.
The house was dark and empty, just as it had been since November first. That was the irony of my estrangement from my parents. Liz and I had lived together for three years. She had been to their house for a few small get-togethers, and they seemed to like her. My siblings figured out the situation between us the first time they met her, but either my parents were unobservant or they were willfully ignorant; they had claimed to think we were just roommates.
Granted, I never told them she was more than a roommate, which caused some friction in our relationship. But she hadn’t introduced me that way to her parents either, and I’d celebrated three of her birthdays with them. We didn’t make any proclamations partly because we had started out as roommates. Our romantic relationship developed later, and we still hadn’t completely defined it when she moved out.
Anyway, I’d made my formal declaration at the Thanksgiving dinner table because she’d left me on Halloween, our anniversary. Dad insisted that we all state something we were grateful for after he said grace. I had nothing to say, other than I was glad she left the cat with me when she moved out.
Do You Feel What I Feel. a Holiday Anthology Page 11
