by Josh Lanyon
It was confusing because he really liked Henry. Everything with Henry had been so…good. When he had let it be. So easy, so right. Too easy. Too right. He couldn’t trust it. It terrified him. He always felt compelled to fuck it up. Not consciously. But really, that made it worse. As if he just couldn’t help being a total shit to this very kind, very nice, very decent guy who was trying and trying to have a normal relationship with him.
There was no law that said, having messed everything up, he couldn’t try to fix the situation, right?
If it just hadn’t been for that note of finality in Henry’s voice when he’d said “so be it.” Like he was delivering the verdict in a trial that had dragged on for months. Which…was probably exactly how it felt to Henry.
Maybe Henry was feeling relief today too. Only in his case, genuine relief.
Henry had mentioned that Jared’s family had their Christmas dinner around two, so Parker figured Henry should be safely home by seven. He tried phoning Henry at seven thirty.
His call went straight to message.
“Hi, Henry,” Parker said to the machine. “I just want—wondered—hoped.” Well, that pretty much covered all of it, and with embarrassing frankness. He pulled himself together and said, “I forgot to tell you Merry Christmas. And I…miss you.”
The minutes passed.
Very long minutes.
When Henry was working, he didn’t always call Parker back immediately. It was possible he was still at his in-laws. It was possible he’d been called out to a crime scene. It was possible he couldn’t hear his phone ringing over the fantastic time he was having wherever he was. It was very unlikely that Henry was sitting at home listening to that message and deciding whether he was going to call Parker back or not.
But as the minutes ticked by, Parker felt more and more convinced that was exactly what was happening. Henry was trying to decide if he was going to give Parker one final chance.
And with each minute that passed, the odds were mounting against Parker.
He felt desperate enough to phone again, but managed not to. He didn’t want to scare Henry. He just wanted him to know…so many things. But they were things you had to say in person.
So why not make the effort to drive over to Henry’s and tell him everything he’d been thinking and feeling all day? About how he knew he’d been a fool and he wanted another chance. That what they had together, fragile and delicate as a Christmas ornament, was worth…well, deserved not to be dropped on the floor and smashed into pieces, at least.
Okay. Yes. He would do that. He would drive to Henry’s and tell him all that. But in the meantime, he waited for Henry to phone because if Henry wasn’t taking his calls, this was all beside the point.
But maybe that was the point. To, for once, make the effort without waiting for Henry to do it first.
Parker studied his phone, willing it to ring. The phone stayed silent. So okay. Henry would not sit here waiting for the phone to ring. Parker rose, found his wallet, shrugged on his coat, and opened the front door.
Henry stood on the other side of the security screen, hand raised as though he had been about to knock—or maybe punch Parker in the nose.
Parker said, “Henry?” Henry’s hand fell to his side.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. Gravely. Very gravely for Henry.
“I was just on my way to your place.”
“I was on my way over here when I got your call.” Henry was still looking very serious. Not like a guy brimming over with holiday cheer.
There’s nothing like an aborted launch. Parker felt off-stride, off balance. He unlocked the screen. Henry had not tried to use his key, which meant Parker’s instincts were correct. This was a mess. He pushed open the screen, stepped back, holding the door for Henry.
Henry stepped inside, and Parker caught a hint of Henry’s aftershave and his leather jacket.
Henry glanced around as though he hadn’t stood in that very room three days earlier. The only concession to the holiday was Henry’s own Christmas card perched on the mantel and the remains of a frozen turkey dinner sitting next to Parker’s laptop on the coffee table.
“Did you have a nice day?” he asked.
“Not really,” Parker admitted.
Henry nodded as though this confirmed something for him.
“I did. I actually had a really nice day,” Henry said. His eyes were blue and direct and unsympathetic.
Parker’s heart seemed to shrink a couple of sizes, like the Grinch in that Dr. Seuss cartoon. Only in the cartoon, the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes. He made himself say, “I’m glad. You deserve to have a really nice day.”
As a matter of fact, Henry deserved a lot of really nice days. He deserved for every day to be a nice day because he was a very nice guy.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “It made a pleasant change being with people who can occasionally look on the bright side, who aren’t afraid to hope or dream or just plan a goddamned vacation now and then.”
Henry was not raising his voice. He did not sound particularly angry, but he did sound…unrelenting. Like he had decided on his plan of action. And Parker was pretty sure he knew what that plan of action was.
He nodded because he could not find the words, and even if he had, his throat had closed. Like a steel trap clamping tight. So he nodded again.
“Jared’s sister Eileen brought a work friend to dinner. I didn’t know anything about it, but he was someone she thought I’d get along with, and she was right. We hit it off immediately. And if I wasn’t in this sort-of-relationship with you, I’d have asked him out when we left the house together…”—Henry looked at his watch—“forty-eight minutes ago.”
The fact that Henry knew to the minute when he’d said good-bye to this holiday blind date arranged by Jared’s sister hit Parker hard. He felt like Henry had punched him in the throat. He literally could not draw a breath. He sat down on the arm of the chair behind him because his legs wouldn’t hold him.
It wasn’t that he had taken Henry for granted. Not for a single second had he taken Henry for granted. He had known from the beginning, the first time Henry had kissed him, that he was only in remission. That eventually—and sooner rather than later—he would be alone again, struggling to get through the nights and trying to convince himself there was a reason to look forward to the days. Beyond the satisfaction of his work, that is. Because he did, as Henry had pointed out a few times, live for his work.
Which made a certain amount of sense, given that he’d nearly died for it.
Yes, he had always known this day was coming, but that didn’t make it any less painful. In fact, despite his preparation, he hadn’t really comprehended just how painful it would be. In a funny way, it hurt worse than getting stabbed in the chest. In a funny way, it felt more like a mortal wound.
But the one thing he still had was his pride, and pride made him say, “So I guess it was just as well I didn’t go with you today.”
Henry laughed. It was not a happy sound. “Right. That’s what I’m saying to you, Parker. Thanks for not spoiling my Christmas by having any part in it.” He shook his head.
Parker said, “What you’re saying to me is you tried for eight months and you’re tired of trying. And I don’t blame you. You’ve met someone, and that’s… You deserve to be happy.”
“That’s exactly right,” Henry said. “For eight months, I’ve tried. The problem is, I love you. I really do. And I’d be willing to keep trying forever if I thought there was any point. But I don’t think there is. Or I didn’t. Until this.” He took out his phone, stared at it for a moment, then pressed the screen and held it up so that Parker could hear his own tinny voice sounding as choked and desperate as a kidnapping victim.
“I forgot to tell you Merry Christmas. And I…miss you.”
Henry said, “I listened to that three times before I walked up to your porch. I wasn’t sure if I was hearing what I wanted to hear—or if you’re really trying to tell me that
it matters to you that we weren’t together today. That it would matter to you if you didn’t ever see me again.”
“Of course it matters,” Parker cried, rising to his feet again. “I don’t want to lose you. But I don’t know how to do…this. And I know it shows. And I know I’m wearing you out. I’m wearing myself out. I was going to tell you—”
He stopped because suddenly Henry was looking at him like he was a ghost. The Ghost of Christmas Past, or the Ghost of Christmas Future? It was such a weird expression that he actually glanced over his shoulder.
“You’re wearing your coat.” Henry’s voice sounded odd too.
Parker glanced down at himself. “It’s cold out.”
Henry said slowly, as if he was doing some elaborate computation in his head, “You’re still holding your keys. You were on your way out?”
“I was on my way to your place,” Parker said.
“You were coming to see me.”
“I do sometimes.”
“Yeah, but.” Henry was still staring at him in something like amazement. “Not after an argument you don’t. I wasn’t sure you’d even notice I wasn’t here.”
“I do notice,” Parker said wearily. “I always notice. I like it when you’re here. I wish you were here all the time. I love you too. I didn’t think I ever would again—feel this way. I just…”
“Just what?” Henry was walking toward him, and Parker couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Henry’s. He braced for impact.
“Think that I’m not easy to be with.”
“That’s for sure.”
“And you can do better.”
“So I’ve heard. But maybe I like a challenge.” Henry smiled, but there was something a little sad in the back of his eyes.
Parker understood. He was never going to love anyone the way he had loved Ricky. Henry was never going to love anyone the way he had loved Jared. But that was okay. It wasn’t a competition. Or a test. Whatever was between them had lasted eight difficult months. It was real, and it was tenacious.
Despite the shadows, Henry’s eyes were kind again. Warm.
And seeing that light in Henry’s eyes, Parker’s heart did the Grinch thing once more, expanding three sizes and then another size for good measure.
When Henry reached for him, Parker met him halfway.
The Do-it-Yourself Club Sandwich
Ingredients
⅓ cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard
12 slices whole wheat bread, toasted
8 lettuce leaves
8 (¾-ounce) slices of Sharp Cheddar cheese
½ pound thinly sliced deli ham
8 slices tomato
½ pound thinly sliced deli turkey breast
8 slices cooked bacon
Directions
Combine mayonnaise and mustard in bowl; mix well. Spread about 1 teaspoon mayonnaise mixture on one side of each toast slice.
Layer 1 slice toast, mayonnaise-side up, 1 lettuce leaf, 1 slice cheese, 2 ounces ham, 2 slices tomato, 1 slice toast, mayonnaise-side down. Spread 1 teaspoon mayonnaise on toast. Top each sandwich with 1 slice cheese, 2 ounces turkey, 2 slices bacon, 1 lettuce leaf, and 1 slice toast, mayonnaise-side down.
Cut into triangles. Secure with toothpicks. Makes four sandwiches.
MURDER BETWEEN THE PAGES: Felix and Leonard
The clocks were chiming when I landed on Felix’s doorstep.
I could hear them through the tall, white front door of the Colonial farmhouse. All fifty-three of them. Ding-donging away. Chiming out the hour in ten long notes.
Maybe that’s what was taking him so long to come to the door. Maybe he couldn’t hear me over the clocks. Or maybe it was the rain rattling on the windows and roof—and the ragged leaves of the little palm tree plant I cradled in my arms—that deafened him to my knock.
I knocked again and rang the doorbell for good measure. Where would he be on Christmas morning? Hopefully nobody had wrung his scrawny neck while I’d been away.
I was just starting to get nervous when the door suddenly flew open.
“Well?” Felix demanded. His thin face changed. Black eyes narrowing, lip curling. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Hell, yes, it’s me. Who were you expecting?”
“Not you.”
“I told you I’d be back.”
“Ha!”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
His throat jumped as he swallowed. He said haughtily, unpleasantly, “Don’t you have somewhere more important to be?”
“No.”
His lashes swept down, then flicked up. He gave me a funny, crooked smile. “No?”
“You know I don’t.”
“I thought they loved you in Hollywood.”
“They do. But it’s not home, is it?”
“It could be. If you wanted it to be.”
“I guess so.”
He frowned. “You’re shivering, Leonard.”
“I’m freezing to death.”
“You’re not used to our weather anymore.”
“I could be. If you wanted me to be.”
Felix studied my face. “Hm. Well, maybe you had better come in, then.”
I came inside, handing over the little palm tree and the bags of oranges and almonds. “Anyway, Merry Christmas.” I took a deep appreciative sniff. “Something smells great.”
“It happens that I’m making ham and eggs for breakfast.”
“My favorite,” I said.
“Is it?” As if he didn’t know. As if he hadn’t cooked it for me plenty of times. He started to turn toward the kitchen, and I caught his arm, pulling him toward me.
A tinge of color pinked his cheeks. “Leonard, you’ll crush my palm tree.”
I laughed and kissed him. He closed his eyes and kissed me back, and the oranges and almonds rained down around our feet.
* * * * *
I don’t think he believed I’d be back.
Nah. He had to know. Maybe he thought when I did come back, it would be to pack my suitcase and grab my hat.
I don’t deny it crossed my mind as that train had clickety-clacked its way over deserts and cornfields, through small towns and mountain ranges, over the rivers and through the woods…
I liked California. I liked the palm trees and the orange trees and the Technicolor blue of those always-sunny skies. I liked the hustle and bustle of movie studios and doing business beside a swimming pool. I liked the money to be made in California.
I liked the fact that nothing shocked people in Hollywood. And that everybody but Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons minded their own business.
But what Hollywood and California didn’t have was Felix Day.
The one thing I couldn’t live without.
The Best Ham & Cheese Scrambled Eggs
This one comes from a site called Butter with a Side of Bread. So you know they’re on the right track.
Ingredients
6-7 eggs
½ cup diced ham
1 tablespoon water (or milk, but water makes the eggs fluffier)
1 heaping teaspoon Ranch dressing
(Ranch dressing wasn’t invented until the 1950s, but buttermilk dressing has been around forever, so I think Felix could still come up with this.)
½ cup shredded Cheddar Jack cheese
Salt, pepper & chives to taste
Directions
Heat a frying pan on medium heat. Spray with a bit of non-stick cooking spray and add in diced ham, stirring occasionally.
Crack eggs into a bowl. Add in water and Ranch dressing. Whisk until combined.
Pour eggs into frying pan with ham. Using a rubber spatula, mix gently. Allow to cook, turning eggs occasionally. Once eggs are nearly cooked, add in half the cheese. Stir to combine. Remove from heat once completely cooked (time will vary depending on how soft you like your scrambled eggs.)
Top with remaining cheese and serve.
A LIMITED ENGAGEMENT: Adam and Ross
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br /> “Tell the story about how you two got together again,” someone called from down the long, linen-covered table.
Who?
Marta? Angelique? I couldn’t tell who. There were always so many people at this annual Christmas Eve luncheon. Over the years they had all started to look—and sound—alike.
“It was twenty years ago,” Ross began, and our guests settled down to be once more amused and entertained by the master. Only Ross could make blackmail and attempted murder sound like the meet-cute opening of a Rom-Com.
They all sipped their wine and listened and laughed in the right places. Everybody loved the story. After all, the course of true love and all that.
No one had gone to jail. No one had gotten hurt.
Well, maybe Anne Cassidy. Hard to know how seriously she’d taken it. Still waters. Anyway, she was a decade underground now.
Strange to think…
Ross had reached the climax of the story and was quoting me. “‘You could kill me,’ Adam said, ‘and it wouldn’t hurt as much as watching you marry someone you don’t love.’”
Awww, everyone said, as they always did.
* * * * *
“I wish you wouldn’t tell that story,” I said that night.
Ross, wearing his red silk dressing gown and slippers, was reading the New Yorker by the fireplace. He glanced up and smiled.
“It’s a great story.”
“I hate it.”
He laughed. At sixty he was still handsome, still debonair, still charming…still the love of my life. And he always would be.
“Come here, you.” He laid aside the magazine, held out an arm, and I joined him beside the hearth, leaning against his chair—at forty-plus I was a bit old for curling up on his lap. I rested my head on his thigh. His fingers gently played with my hair.
