Frankie was having a hard time reconciling this acceptance with what he’d experienced in Saint Peter. “Wow. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
At this, Paul snorted. “Yeah, real lucky to be stuck in Nowhere, Minnesota. I don’t think people are accepting half as much as they’re resigned. When you live thirty miles away from a town only slightly less shitty than yours, you adjust your standards accordingly. Don’t worry. We have the same idiots who hang out in bars and think the highlight of a weekend’s entertainment is bashing some femmy guy’s head in.”
Frankie shivered, silently congratulating himself for passing up the bar that first night. Thinking of that, though, made him wonder about Patty. “Do you think we could swing by the café? Patty was so nice on the phone. I wouldn’t mind saying hi, if we had time.”
“Sure thing.” Paul seemed pleased that Frankie wanted to make the stop and smiled as he straddled the Ski-Doo. “Hop on. We’ll have lunch there too, our last hot meal that isn’t Marcus’s chili for the next few days.”
Patty was indeed at the café, and she hugged Frankie when she saw him. “Lord, I worried you were dead out there. As soon as you left I wished I’d gotten your phone number. But I see this rascal has you in hand now.” She slapped Paul playfully with a menu, smiling. “What can I get you boys?”
“Something that’s not chili.” Paul pulled off his coat and sat at the same counter Frankie had been at the night before. He glanced at Frankie, winked and added, “And some chicken for Mr. Fancy Minneapolis here.”
Frankie tried to complain that he wasn’t fancy, but that was when Paul started explaining to Patty about Frankie’s fancy ski coat with the astronaut lining. Patty smiled as she listened, pouring Paul coffee and getting Frankie a cup of bad tea without his even asking for it, and Frankie decided not to argue, only sat back and took his ribbing with more enjoyment than he probably should have.
ON THE WAY back to the cabin, Frankie and Paul drove down the road where the Festiva had gone into the ditch. It was a different road than the way Paul had taken into town, and Frankie was impressed and more than a little intimidated by the drifts that had already formed across the road.
“This is a real nasty stretch,” Paul called out as they slowed for a slick patch. “The back way’s better in a storm, but you have to know the area to find your way.”
“I think I’d have been okay without the moose.” Frankie saw a familiar line of trees and pointed. “There. I think this is where I went off the edge.”
The ravine looked more ominous in the full light of day, all the means for mangling and death clearly visible even in the blowing snow. Paul whistled as they stood on the edge of the road, looking down at the now completely buried hulk of Frankie’s car.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, you know?” Paul said. Frankie could only nod, hugging himself against a chill that had nothing to do with the air temperature.
It took them almost half an hour to dig their way to a door, by which time they were nearly numb with cold, and their faces were covered with frozen flakes. “Get what you need, and we’ll head back. I hope to God they have that stove going. Place should be toasty enough for us to run around in our skivvies if they do.”
The image of his three hosts in their underwear, especially Marcus, made Frankie drop the duffel he’d managed to pull out of the hatchback. Paul grabbed it for him and hauled it out of the car.
“Need anything else?” Paul asked.
Frankie scanned the interior, trying to inventory through the moderate mess he’d made during travel and by sliding down the side of an embankment. He had his shears in the bag, which as far as he was concerned were the only things of value to collect, car included. A large gust of wind rocked him, and he shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
After securing the duffel in the sled with their shopping, they got back on the road and headed for the cabin, where not only was the wood stove going, but the whole place smelled of food and home.
Arthur handed them each a steaming mug of coffee as they peeled out of their snowy gear. “Welcome back.”
“He takes tea,” Paul said, nodding to Frankie. Glancing at the kitchen, he added, “Marcus, if that’s your usual chili, we’re going to want to make another batch without meat or with this chicken we bought. Frankie can’t eat beef.”
Frankie went redder than the coals burning through the glass door of the wood stove. “Oh no, please don’t bother. I can pick it out.”
Paul ignored him. “Gets sick to his stomach. I can make up the other, if you remind me what spices you put in.” He paused and turned to Frankie. “Spices okay?”
Frankie wanted the carpet to swallow him up. “Spices are fine, but seriously, I can just pick—”
“Where’s the chicken?” Marcus demanded, looming over Frankie. Unable to meet his gaze, Frankie held up the bag with his chicken and tea and toothbrush. Taking it without a word, Marcus headed into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter before fishing cans out of a cupboard.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Frankie murmured to Paul. “Now he’s mad at me again.”
This made Paul laugh. “He’s not mad at you. But he would have been if he’d found out his chili made you sick and you didn’t tell him beforehand.”
The idea of Marcus being grumpier than Frankie had yet seen made him shudder.
He helped Paul put away their things and draped the sweatpants he’d worn by the stove, which was indeed pumping out significant heat. Even so, he wrapped himself in his quilt as he settled into a corner of the couch, whose bed had been carefully tucked away. Paul sat in the recliner by the fire after handing Frankie a new mug, this one with the tag to one of Frankie’s new tea bags draped over the side.
“So tell us more about yourself,” Arthur prompted as he took up the opposite side of the couch. “Can’t spare the generator to run the TV, so we’ll have to make do with each other.”
“There’s not much more to tell. I’m a stylist from Minneapolis who was born in Saint Peter.” Frankie cradled his hands around the heat of the mug. The fireplace was going too, and between it and the wood stove, the place was very snug. “Why is there a fireplace and a stove both? Is that usual?”
“Nah. I bought this place from a guy who used it as a hunting cabin, but he didn’t like the fireplace so he added a wood stove. Normally you put the stove in the fireplace when you do that, but our George, he’s an idiot, and he put it out one of the windows by the kitchen. Which is just as well I guess, because sometimes I like a fire, sometimes I like the stove. Comes in handy during storms like this. We don’t have to burn up the generator as much, not just for heating but for cooking.”
“Do you get a lot of storms up here?”
Arthur shrugged. “Usually get plenty of snow, but not quite like this. Biggest problem is we lose power a lot. This snow might keep us off the grid almost all the way to Christmas, depending on how many homes are out. Little cabins up north tend not to be a priority, so we make do.”
“I keep thinking we should get a wind turbine,” Paul said.
“When you win the lottery, you go right ahead.” Arthur eased deeper into the cushions before poking Frankie’s leg with his foot. “Come on. More about you, hon. You got a boyfriend in the city?”
Frankie grimaced. “God no. I suck at boyfriends.”
“Well, if you sucked on them, you might do better,” Arthur suggested.
“Arthur,” Marcus snapped from the kitchen, and Frankie jumped, making his tea slosh.
“There, look what you did, you big brute. You made Frankie wet himself.” Laughing at his joke, Arthur pulled a bandana out of his pocket and handed it over. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. You’re not burned?”
“I’m fine.” Frankie took his time dabbing at the tea on his pants. “No boyfriend, not looking.”
“Why not? You’re a cutie. I bet they’d line up around the block for you.”
“Yes, well, I don’t want for drinks in a bar, I
guess, but I’m not really one for tricks. When I was younger, that was fine, but I’m not twenty-two anymore.”
Paul frowned. “How old are you, anyway? Because I thought you were twenty-two.”
“Really? No. I’m twenty-nine in February.” Frankie sipped at his tea. Raspberry Zinger, always so good. “What about you guys?”
“We ain’t twenty-two either,” Arthur said.
Paul rolled his eyes. “Arthur and Marcus are thirty-eight. I’m thirty-seven in June. I was two years behind them in school, watching them get into trouble.”
“And blowing me in the locker room,” Arthur added mildly around the rim of his mug. Paul tossed a pillow at his head, and Arthur laughed.
Frankie couldn’t help laughing too. “I still can’t get over how accepting everyone is here that you’re gay. I had a horrible time in high school. If they’d had those It Gets Better movies back then, I’d have been watching them like a lifeline.”
Arthur grunted. “Oh, high school. No, nobody accepted shit in high school.” He nodded at the kitchen. “Hell, Marcus didn’t even tell himself he was gay until he went to college. Took girls to the prom and the whole thing.”
“Tell your own fucking stories, Artie,” Marcus called, his voice clipped and short. It made Frankie’s hair stand on end, and he thought he’d gotten a window into what angry Marcus did in fact sound like. Even so, when Arthur silently mimicked Marcus, lifting his hands and flopping them over, and making mincing motions as he did so, Frankie had to cover his mouth to stop his laugh.
“There’s plenty of homophobia up here, don’t get me wrong,” Paul went on, though he was smiling at Arthur’s antics too. “I think it’d be different if we’d left. Marcus had a hard time when he first came back, but that wasn’t because he’d come out. I think up here it’s more an outsider thing, like if you leave, you betray your kin or some bullshit like that.”
Frankie clutched his mug a little tighter. “If they don’t like outsiders, were they just being nice to me today because you were along?”
“What? Oh, no.” Paul shook his head. “No, when outsiders come here and like it, they go crazy. Like I said, we’re all outcasts up here. Anybody who wants to come be in the backwoods with us gets gold stars. Marcus got looks because he’d been down in the big city and come back, like we weren’t good enough for him. Which, honestly, this place ain’t good for much of anything.”
“Marcus, you lived in Minneapolis?” Frankie asked, turning toward the kitchen.
Marcus glared hard at Paul as he said, “I did.”
Paul’s eyebrows lifted, and some kind of silent communication seemed to pass between the two of them. Whatever was said ended with Paul’s curt nod, and he deftly turned the conversation away from Marcus and back to Frankie. “So, no boyfriends. What about friend-friends? You know all about us now. Tell us about your life.”
Frankie would argue he didn’t know much at all about their lives, especially Marcus’s mysterious and taboo time in the Twin Cities, but he indulged them all the same. “I have two roommates, one a few years younger than me, one my same age.”
Arthur grinned and nudged Paul. “Just like us.”
Except we don’t have raunchy sex all night so loud they can probably hear it in Canada. Frankie cleared his throat. “Josh works for Target Corporate, and Andy’s in grad school at the U of M for his MBA. We’ve lived together for about four years now, and they’re my best friends, I’d say.”
“Have wild parties together, do you, with all your hot young city friends?” Arthur prompted, looking eager.
Frankie almost felt bad for disappointing him. “No, not really. We had a Halloween thing a few years back where somebody had weed, but that’s about as wild as we get.” He thought about Josh’s porn fetish and bit his lip. “I suspect Josh wouldn’t mind stepping things up on occasion, but Andy would probably flip out if he did it in the condo.”
Arthur looked devastated. “You mean you’re right there in the middle of all those clubs and bars, surrounded by gay men, and you don’t do anything about it?”
“Do anything?” Frankie frowned. “Well, we do go out, I guess. There’s a bar down the street we go to every now and again and have a pitcher of Sam Adams.”
Arthur threw up his free hand and leaned back on the sofa, staring helplessly at the ceiling.
Paul patted his roommate’s leg and winked at Frankie. “You have to forgive him. He hates that he has to drive to Duluth or Grand Rapids to find anyone in the Scene, and even then it’s sparse.” He stopped, considering. “Well, there is that guy over in Hibbing, but he’s just weird.”
“Scene?” Frankie repeated, feeling lost.
“BDSM.” Arthur gave the clarification proudly, almost defiantly. Paul seemed to watch his reaction too, and something told Frankie the grumpy gaze from the kitchen was on him as well, judging his reaction.
Frankie took a moment to mentally double-check his response. “Sure, right. I forgot that was the terminology. Josh took me to a BDSM club once.” He hoped he sounded casual and accepting, no trace of the fact that he’d been in the place for all of three minutes, legs crossed tighter than a virgin’s before Josh had relented with a sigh and taken him home.
Apparently he’d done too good of a job because Arthur beamed and leaned forward. “Oh yeah?”
Frankie paled, opening and shutting his mouth a few times as he tried to think of how to deflect this, but Paul came to his rescue. “Down, boy,” he said, poking Arthur. “You’ve been to clubs too, a lot more than this one, I’ll bet.”
Frankie gave in and nodded. “Sorry, BDSM isn’t my thing. It’s hot to watch, sometimes, but I’m definitely not in the Scene. Josh isn’t either, but he’s fascinated with it.”
Arthur’s eyebrows rose, and his face took on an almost predatory eagerness as he settled back in his seat. “Next time you get stranded at our house, you bring your roommate.”
“Jesus, you horn dog.” Paul shook his head at Arthur with more affection than annoyance. To Frankie he said, “You’ll have to forgive him. This is kind of his passion.”
Frankie could imagine it was hard to yearn for something but have no way to live out that part of himself. “You should go to the Cities,” he suggested.
Arthur grunted. “No chance. I went once. Club’s are fine, but Duluth’s about as big a city as I can take, and not for long. Minneapolis just drives me insane.”
“Really?” Frankie tilted his head to the side and tucked his knees closer to his chest, digging his toes under the quilt. “Why’s that?”
He listened as Arthur went into a graphic rant about city living, how it was crowded and lonely in the middle of strangers, how everyone was putting on a face and no one was real. Some of it was overblown, but some of it was, interestingly enough, the same kind of complaints Frankie had made to Josh. Because as much as Minneapolis had been a refuge from Saint Peter, sometimes it made him feel lonely in a whole new way. Frankie didn’t commiserate out loud, though, only let Arthur carry on with his soapbox, nodding when it seemed appropriate, noting when Paul felt the need to countermand his friend or agree with him. It was, Frankie realized, one of the most fun conversations he’d had in a long time, and one of the most engaging. When Marcus appeared beside him with a bowl of chili, he startled.
“Oh! Thank you.” He peered into the bowl, which was fragrant and gorgeous, a white chili with carrots and generous hunks of browned chicken breast. Frankie blinked at his dinner, then looked up at Marcus, impressed. “Oh my. This is amazing. Thank you so much for taking the trouble to make it for me.”
He wasn’t even surprised this time at Marcus’s single-grunt response, but he did notice that while Marcus had brought Frankie and himself a bowl, he only nodded at the others and told them soup was on. The gesture might have been part of the man’s grumbling sense of obligation, but Frankie chose to see both the meal and the delivery as a kindness. A small one, but at this rate with Marcus he’d take what he could get.
&
nbsp; They chatted more through dinner, though Frankie, Paul, and Arthur did the talking, Marcus listening except for very occasionally interjecting a comment or reminding the others not to discuss his past. Marcus’s recalcitrance made Frankie that much more curious about why he didn’t want Frankie hearing about his time in Minneapolis, and he wondered what it was Marcus had done there. Had he been a drug runner? Stripper? God, if he had been the latter, Frankie was going to kill himself for not getting to see the show. Something told him, though, that it wasn’t that exotic, only something uncomfortable that Marcus didn’t want aired to a stranger.
Also, despite the kindness of the dinner service, Frankie still was pretty sure Marcus didn’t like him much.
He became even more convinced of this when Paul stood to volunteer for dishes and Marcus took his place, almost forcibly. When Frankie tried to help, to earn his keep, Marcus shooed him away like he was a plague. So Frankie settled in for more bawdy tales and twenty questions from Arthur and Paul, relieved when Paul started to yawn and suggest they head to bed.
“It’s still early,” Arthur pointed out.
“Yeah, but snow makes me tired.” Except Paul had a look about him that said he wasn’t really tired at all.
“Oh. Right,” Arthur said, clearly picking up on the same look Frankie had seen.
Frankie tried to keep his sigh of resignation internal.
It was at this point Marcus reappeared from the kitchen, more growly-looking than ever. “I shut off the generator for the night, so we’re on the yellow/brown toilet system.”
“Yellow let it mellow, brown flush it and refill the tank with the gallon jugs lined along the tub,” Paul clarified for Frankie’s benefit.
Marcus pointed at the bathroom. “No showers until the morning either. You can wash your hands at the sink if you’re fast, but we’re down to what’s in the pipes for water until we turn the pump back on with the generator in the morning. There’s wet wipes there if you need them.”
Let It Snow Page 5
