by Josh Lanyon
Ricky-Joe put down his guitar and made a couple of notes. The new song was coming along. Not easily, because a drop of his heart’s blood was in every word, but it was coming. And maybe someday Don would hear that song on the radio—or more likely Spotify—and remember…
I’d shorely hold up the ceiling of the darkest mine shaft for you
I’m caving in, you cave in too
’Cuz diamonds come from coal, it’s true
I’m caving in, you cave in too
The meter was a little rough. Don had always said timing was Ricky-Joe’s problem. But it was no use thinking of Don now. Their second chance at love had gone up in flames with the fire that had destroyed the bonsai orchard. Don would never forgive him, and Ricky-Joe couldn’t blame him. Only a fool would leave his guitar in the bright sunlight where a cruel and random sunbeam might glance off those steel strings and spark a raging inferno. You only got so many chances in this bottomless mine pit of a world, and Ricky-Joe had wound up with the shaft. Again.
He wiped a tear away and made another notation on the chord chart.
The door to his motel room burst open, and Don charged in. Ricky-Joe flew to his feet.
“Don!”
Don looked exhausted beneath the grime and coal dust. Actually, it was smudges from the smoke, because it had been a long time since Don had worked the mines. Thank Jiminy Cricket for that, but was it really an improvement if he had to go back to being a butcher’s apprentice and killing baby cows? Beneath the weariness in his sapphire eyes was a twinkle.
“Ricky-Joe.” Don held up something in his big, strong, workmanlike hand.
Ricky-Joe’s eyes popped at the vision of the small and twisted plant. “Donnie, is that what I think it is?”
Don nodded solemnly. “Yonder little fellow survived that conflagration that took out all his leafy kinfolk.”
“A baby bonsai,” breathed Ricky-Joe.
“Babe, I know you feel to blame for what occurred in the orchard yesterday. I know you must be planning to run away to Nashville again. But this wee limb of greenery is the symbol of our love. A love that can withstand—”
“Something funny?” Jake asked.
“Hm? Oh.” I showed him the cover of the paperback. “I found it in the drawer of the bedside table.”
His dark brows rose. “A Coal Miner’s Son? I guess it makes a change from Bibles and phone books.”
“You ain’t just a-kidding.” I smiled at the green plaid flannel pajama bottoms he wore. We hadn’t had much time for jammies and such in our previous acquaintanceship. I kind of liked the, well, touch of domesticity official sleepwear brought to the festivities.
However brief their appearance would be.
Jake crawled into bed beside me. His skin looked smooth and supple in the mellow lamplight, his face younger. He smelled of toothpaste and the aftershave he’d worn at dinner.
“I thought that meal would never end,” I said. “It felt like we were sitting there for years.”
“There did seem like a lot of courses. The food wasn’t as bad as I expected, though.” Jake glanced at our hotel room clock. “Hey. It’s officially Christmas.”
“So it is. Happy Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” He nodded at the book I held. “Were you, er, planning to read for much longer?”
I tossed the book to the side. It made a satisfying thunk as it hit the wall. “No,” I said, and reached for him. “I shorely wasn’t.”
BABY, IT’S COLD: Jesse and Rocky
“God, my head,” I moaned.
Rocky, his own head buried beneath his pillow, muttered a laugh.
“How much did I drink?”
Muffled by down and flannel, he replied, “Too much.”
At least the bed had stopped spinning. That was an improvement. It had been a good party, though. A great party from the bagpiper through the oyster shooters.
Speaking of shooters…
“Why did I do that?”
He didn’t answer. We both knew why I’d got plastered at the annual Christmas Eve party at Bella Louisa’s. The Christmas card from my father. The first word I’d had from him in eight years. Deck the halls, glad tidings, etc. Except… It hadn’t felt like that at the time.
And two Italian margaritas, three glasses of wine, an unknown number of shots, and one Italian coffee later, it still didn’t feel like it.
I shuddered at the memory, and Rocky heaved around in the bedclothes and put his arm around me, trying to draw me close.
“Don’t move me,” I begged. “I have internal injuries.”
He started to laugh, the heartless bastard.
“I think my skull is fractured,” I persisted.
He ignored my pleas for mercy and hauled me over into his arms. He was not the most comfortable pillow in the world, but he was warm, and the velvety bristle of his jaw and nuzzle of his soft lips against my forehead felt kind of nice.
“I’m probably going to be sick on you,” I mumbled into his neck.
“You don’t have anything left to be sick with.”
I shuddered again. Moaned. Loudly.
Rocky’s chest jumped with a silent laugh. He nuzzled my forehead again and said, “You’re glad he’s okay, though, right? You were worried after the attacks in Paris.”
“Of course I’m glad.”
My father had moved to France eight years earlier to start a new life—and a new family. It still hurt. I still didn’t understand it. Oh, I understood starting a new life. But I didn’t understand why there was no room for me in that life. I never would.
I never would—and I had got used to it being that way.
But now he’d sent that card. Joyeux Noël. And a note. If I send you a ticket, will you come to Paris?
“I’m not going,” I said.
“I’ll drive. You can sleep on the way. You’ll feel better in a couple of hours.”
“I don’t mean Big Bear. I mean France.”
Rocky didn’t say anything.
I said with a burst of energy, “I mean, it’s too late. Eight years? If he cared, he should have said something like…oh, say, six years ago. Six years ago it would have still meant something. Four years ago it would have still meant something.”
“Jess.”
“No, I mean it.” I opened my eyes and glowered into the soft gloom of the cocoon shaped by sheets and blankets and Rocky’s arms. “I don’t even know why he’s doing this now.”
“Yes, you do. Come on, Jesse.”
I shook my head. Closed my eyes.
Rocky’s breath was warm against my face. He’d had too much to drink the night before too. But I didn’t mind. I was glad we were comfortable with each other now. At home with each other—even when we weren’t at home. “He’s doing the best he can with the tools he’s got.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He can be. That’s for sure. But he does love you. This is proof of that.”
“Is it?” I said bitterly. “Even the way he did it. A note on a Christmas card. Not even a phone call.”
“He’s afraid.”
I growled, “He oughta be afraid.”
I expected Rocky to laugh. Instead, his arms tightened, and he said, “You’re okay, Jesse. I got you. I love you.”
I don’t know why, but it made my eyes sting, made hot prickle beneath my eyelids. I shook my head, rested my face against the pulse beating at the base of his collarbone. Slow, steady, solid thumps.
Rocky said, “He’s afraid you’re gonna feel like you feel. He’s afraid you’re going to turn him down. He is an asshole, but he’s your old man. And if you want a relationship with him, you got to accept that and go with it. And if you don’t want a relationship, then that’s okay too. But…”
He didn’t continue. I opened my eyes, looked at him. “But?”
His green eyes met mine. “If what you’re thinking is you do want a relationship with him, but you’re still mad and maybe not ready to forgive him yet…wel
l, you can’t predict the future. These last few weeks prove that.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I muttered because his words struck home, filled me with a vague dread. Nowadays the world seemed like a frightening place a lot of the time. Unsafe. Uncaring. Unknowable.
Rocky was smiling at me, his expression wry with understanding, and I thought but not here. Here was safety and caring and acceptance.
“Maybe,” I said gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” Rocky said. That time his kiss was brisk and businesslike. “Now I’ll make you a nice hot breakfast, and we can get go—”
I moaned.
Classic Cannelloni
Cannelloni is one of those classic dishes served at Italian holidays. The recipe comes from a site called Cooking with Nonna, and it’s WAY out of my league. But I would love to be the taste-tester.
Ingredients
For the Ragout
1 pound of quality chopped meat (should be half veal and half pork)
1 pound peeled tomatoes
1 small carrot
1 small onion
1 stalk of celery
Extra-virgin olive oil
For the Stuffing
1 pound of chopped meat as above
½ pound fresh ricotta
6 ounces grated parmigiano cheese
1 egg
Nutmeg, salt & pepper
For the Besciamella
8 ounces butter
3 tablespoons white flour
1 quart hot milk
Salt, nutmeg
For the Pasta
1 pound white flour
3 egg yolks and 1 whole egg
Pinch of salt, warm water, if needed (hmm?)
Directions
Ragout Preparation
In a casserole put a few tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil (enough to cover the bottom). Finely chop the onion, carrot, and celery. Sauté until the onion is soft but before it changes color. Add the chopped meat. Salt and pepper as desired, and sauté for a few minutes until the meat turns color. Add the tomato puree, stir, and bring to a boil. Add one cup of water, cover, and lower the heat. Cook for about two and a half hours. SERIOUSLY. Stir occasionally. The sauce will turn brownish and thick.
Besciamella Preparation
In a small saucepan melt the butter at very low heat. Add the flour while mixing with a whip. Make sure it becomes creamy. Slowly add the hot milk. Bring to a boil at low flame. Add salt and nutmeg – the Besciamella should be thick and creamy.
(Like Jesse, this is the part where I give up and go eat dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant.)
Cannelloni Stuffing
Sauté the chopped meat—note: there are two batches of meat in this recipe—in a frying pan at low flame. Salt and pepper to taste. Remove from the flame when the color of the meat turns brownish. Wait until it cools, and put it in a bowl. Add the ricotta, parmigiano, nutmeg, and one egg. Mix well, and put the bowl in the fridge.
Pasta Preparation
On a wooden board make a fountain with flour – in the middle put the eggs and salt. Mix and work the dough well. Add a touch of warm water if needed. The dough will become smooth and compact. With a rolling pin or with a pasta maker, make strips about ⅛-inch thick. Then cut them in squares 4x4 inches. Boil some water and put the pasta squares (6 at the time) into the boiling water. Boil for one minute, remove the pasta squares from the hot water, put them in cold water, and then on a tablecloth to dry. Repeat the process for all the pasta squares. You should have about 20 squares.
Cannelloni Assembly
(It’s going to help if you have all the main components in front of you and ready to go—the pasta squares, the stuffing, the Ragout, and the Besciamella.)
Cover the bottom of the oven pan with a layer of Besciamella and a layer of Ragout.
Make sausage shapes from the stuffing, about half the length of the pasta squares, and put in the center of the pasta. Roll the dough and fold on both sides. Place all the cannelloni in the pan.
Cover all the cannelloni with the Besciamella and then with the remainder of the Ragout. Sprinkle a generous dose of parmigiano on top.
Now pop ’em in the oven and cook for 20 mins at 400°F.
I have no idea how many this feeds. PROBABLY NOT ENOUGH FOR THE WORK INVOLVED.
THE FRENCH HAVE A WORD FOR IT: Colin and Thomas
Appendicitis for Christmas.
That was even worse than a lump of coal. A lot worse.
“Ce n’est pas possible,” Colin protested, hand to his right side.
But yes, it was possible. It was probable. According to Monsieur le Docteur, it was certainement. And if it wasn’t appendicitis, what the heck was making him so sick? Because he was sick. He had done his best to talk himself out of it, but he was feverish, nauseous, and the pain that had started out in his belly had moved to his side and was steadily getting worse.
“I’m flying home for Christmas tomorrow,” Colin said. “Can you just give me something for the pain, and I’ll see a doctor in the States?”
Yeeeah. No. It didn’t work that way. In fact, what was going to happen was Colin was going to be prepped for surgery. Tout de suite.
“I have to make a phone call,” Colin said, trying not to show his mounting panic.
* * * * *
It took two tries to locate Thomas, who was in New York working a protection detail for an actress mostly famous for playing the love interest of dudes whose real costars were the souped-up cars they drove.
“Col, I’ll have to phone you back.” Thomas was regretful but brisk. He did not like personal calls when he was working, and Colin knew better. And as miserable as Colin felt, his face warmed with embarrassment because it was a point of pride with him that he was the first and only one of Thomas’s lovers who got it, who understood about Thomas’s job. Completely. Totally.
But this was an emergency.
“Thomas, I’m not going to make Christmas. You’ve got to let my grandfather know.”
And Thomas, who rarely raised his voice and never swore, said, “Damn it, Colin. You can’t do this. You cannot do this to that old man. You can’t just change your mind.”
“I’m not! I mean, I am, but it’s not my choice—”
But Thomas wasn’t listening. He said quietly, fiercely, “Do you really not understand what you’re doing? You can’t make promises and then break them.”
“I’m not. I’m—”
“Just because you’re not in the mood, or it’s inconvenient, or whatever the hell the excuse is going to be.”
The hell. Thomas was so angry so fast. It had to be because he had been expecting Colin to back out. And it was true that Colin was nervous and uncertain about going home again. He was homesick, but he was equally determined that this visit not turn into some kind of surrender, a retreat from all he had achieved since his move to France eleven weeks earlier. He had given his word. He had no intention of going back on it. It hurt that Thomas thought he would.
Well, they hadn’t known each other long. No. That wasn’t true. But they had been together less than a month—much of which had, in fact, been spent apart. They were still learning each other. And apparently what Thomas had so far learned led him to believe Colin was the kind of man who chickened out from a difficult situation and broke his promises.
Maybe because Thomas still thought Colin was a boy, not a man.
“What am I supposed to tell Mason?” Thomas was asking. “What excuse am I supposed to come up with?”
The ready anger was not the worst part, but it still rattled Colin. He was sick, scared, and now in the middle of an argument he hadn’t seen coming. He had been expecting, seeking, sympathy, concern, reassurance. In the face of Thomas’s disapproval he was ashamed of his weakness.
“Tell him I’m sick. It’s true.”
Thomas made a sound of disgust. “If you’re that sick, you better see a doctor. And then you can make your excuses to Mason. I don’t have time for this.” He
clicked off.
Colin slowly replaced the receiver.
* * * * *
He opened his eyes to artificial gloom and a medicinal smell. A hospital room. In the dull light he could make out a tall, motionless figure sitting beside the bed.
Thomas. Recognition should have brought relief, happiness, but something had happened between himself and Thomas. The thought of Thomas was a weight on his heart. The sight of him…
Thomas, gray-faced and weary, asked quietly, “How do you feel?”
Colin closed his eyes. Thomas’s large, capable hand covered his, and he didn’t have the strength to move away.
He took slow and uneasy stock. He felt cold and still queasy, but the pain in his side was gone. Or was different, anyway. He knew he’d had the surgery. He remembered…well, not a lot. Not about the surgery. He remembered Thomas hanging up on him. He remembered the things Thomas had said. The removal of his appendix seemed trivial compared to the other things he had lost.
It was weird how you could yearn for someone you never wanted to see again.
Thomas was saying nothing, but there was strength and warmth in his touch. He was communicating, but Colin did not want to hear it.
* * * * *
He was released on Christmas Eve into the protective custody of his grandfather, who had flown into Paris the previous evening. Thomas was there too, of course.
Not the Christmas Colin had planned, let alone the Christmas he had wanted. But there would be other Christmases. Though still feeling shaky and weak, Colin tried to stay stoic in the face of Mason’s unconcealed anxiety.
“Really, I’m okay now,” he must have said a dozen times before they even made it back to his little flat above the boulangerie. “This would have happened either way.”
“But at home you wouldn’t have been alone.” His grandfather, as fragile as a bundle of dried twigs, insisted on helping Colin up the narrow staircase—and Thomas followed close on their heels, ready to head off what must look like the imminent plummet to their deaths.
