A Peace Offering

by R. L. Merrill

  He stirred his spoon around in the soup she’d made and exhaled. “No, of course not. But do I just leave well enough alone? Do I apologize and ask to be friends?”

  “Are either of those what you want?”

  Dover didn’t have to think too hard this time. He knew what he wanted. Another chance with Landry, which would have to wait until he was better. Unfortunately.

  “No.” He wanted more.

  AFTER A week, Dover saw his primary care physician and was told he needed another week of rest. He had the leave at work, that was no problem, but Dickens started next weekend, and his booth wasn’t quite ready. He went over with his father, but he was in too much pain to do anything other than look around.

  “How the heck am I supposed to work, Dad?”

  “You’re going to let your old man cover for you, son. Let me take this weekend. You need the rest. Just show me what’s what, and we’ll make it work.”

  He hated admitting defeat. He refused to accept it would be for longer than the first weekend. Dover gazed across the aisle to the booth he’d wanted for himself and knew instantly that the organizers of the event had made the right choice.

  Landry had created a wonderland for his customers. There were settees for his guests to lounge upon while waiting for their measurements to be taken, or for their family members to be comfortable with a glass of wine or champagne while they took their turn in the windows. Dover smiled to himself. Landry was a genius, and Dover knew the purveyor of fine period garments would make a killing.

  So Dover went home to recuperate and put his control-freak tendencies aside as his father handled his business for him.

  Chapter Eight

  Opening weekend

  Landry

  “WHO’S THE guy over in Dover’s booth?”

  It was opening morning of Dickens Fair, and the crowds had just been let in after the promenade. The exhibition barns of the Cow Palace were decorated to the hilt with holiday festivity, and the sounds of Christmas carols echoed through the bays. Landry already had a full booth, and he’d conned Sam and Trudy to take their turns in the windows for the first session. They really made a lovely pair. Perhaps life would imitate art for his friends.

  “I don’t know,” he answered Terrence, who’d also volunteered to work the first weekend and help them host their customers. “I’m guessing he brought someone else since Miranda can’t work.”

  Landry had been trying all morning not to search for Dover, but two weeks hadn’t been enough time to erase his desire for him. The night of Dover’s gig hadn’t gone at all as he’d hoped, and Dover had walked away from him, but he still held out hope something, anything, might happen to change Dover’s mind. He’d even stupidly hoped maybe Dover would call or text him, but he should have known better.

  “That’s his father,” Gwen said as she passed by. “Dover hurt his back.”

  Landry swung around and dropped the pair of pantalettes he needed to bring to a guest in the dressing area.

  “What did you say?”

  Gwen raised an eyebrow and nodded. “The night of the gig. After you left. I heard from Jennifer over in the Family Parlor that Dover’s father was taking over until he’s able to work. Sounds like it was pretty bad.”

  Landry turned to gaze across the aisle and, actually, now that he was looking, he did see there was a family resemblance. Unlike Dover, however, his father smiled quite a bit. He had the same nose and jawline and was a little bit taller than Dover.

  “Maybe you should go talk to him?” Gwen stood at his side and nudged him. “We’ve got things under control here.”

  He looked down at her with a sad smile. “And say what? ‘Hello, Mr. Billings, you don’t know me, but I’m completely enamored of your son. He has told me in so many ways to leave him alone, and yet I can’t get the hint and move on. Would you put in a good word for me?’ Because we both know that’s the truth. Dover doesn’t want anything to do with me, and yet I can’t walk away. I have problems.”

  Gwen looked at him and gave him one more gentle nudge in the direction of Dover’s booth before walking away.

  He took a deep breath and crossed the aisle.

  “Hello! Welcome to Cliffs of Dover Designs. In the market for a new writing apparatus? Perhaps a glass for reading the fine print on personal documents and contracts.”

  How adorable. Mr. Billings was quite the thespian; his British accent was spot-on.

  “Mr. Billings? I’m Landry Malcolm.” He stuck out his hand, and the older man shook it with vigor and a huge smile.

  “Derrick, please.” Dover’s father gave him a once-over and his smile shifted. “Ah. You’re the tailor. Your garments are quite dashing.” He dropped the accent and leaned in a little, still holding on to his hand. “My son speaks highly of you.” He winked as he let go.

  Landry was nervous all of a sudden. His hands were so clammy, he inauspiciously wiped them on his trousers. “How is Dover? I heard he was injured?”

  Derrick whistled through his teeth and glanced at a few passersby. “He’s better than he was, but he’s still in a lot of pain, and stubborn to boot. He’s not happy to be missing opening weekend. I don’t know whether to take that as he doesn’t trust me fully to run things or if he’s merely sorry he can’t watch your shop across the aisle.”

  Landry wasn’t prepared for that last comment. He smoothed his hair back. “He… he mentioned me? Really? I’m surprised. Our last encounter was less than positive.”

  Derrick rolled his eyes. “My son. So serious. He talked to my wife a bit, but I know my son. Look, you didn’t hear it from me, because I really do try not to meddle in his affairs too much, but Dover is… sensitive. He hates the spotlight, even if he was born for it, if you ask me. He’s so damned talented. Anyway, when it comes to matters of the heart, he’s always shied away from getting involved seriously with anyone. He’s had a lot of suitors pass through, but he manages to chase most of them away.” He winked at Landry and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t be easily deterred.”

  And with that, he was back to the actor, greeting new customers. He gave Landry a sly smile before turning his attention to their purchases.

  Landry took a look around. Dover’s crafts were works of art. It was obvious he put his heart and soul into each and every piece he created. The pens were lovely, just the right shape and weight. He’d even made more of his speaker boxes out of lovely wood with various stains. He ran a finger across one in particular that spoke to him. It had a deep reddish stain and had a heart burned into the top. The speakers were on the sides, so from the top it looked like a jewelry box or a place for keepsakes. The wood was so smooth, it seemed too perfectly made to have been crafted by hand. There was a small signature in the bottom corner, and Landry smiled. So unassuming. He took it over to Derrick and paid for it. How could he not? It was perfect.

  Dover might try to stay out of the spotlight, but Landry saw him for the talented man he was. He wanted to give him something that would let him know Landry saw him, that he was special and deserving of praise. And given his current situation, Landry had the perfect idea. As soon as the weekend came to a close, he’d get to work on the perfect way to express to Dover that he saw him, and that he liked what he saw.

  Chapter Nine

  Dover

  HE HADN’T been expecting any deliveries this week, so when the FedEx guy knocked, quite loudly, at 8:00 a.m. on Friday morning, he’d been surprised.

  “This one’s heavy. Shall I just put it inside for you?”

  Dover held the door open farther, and the guy hefted the box and placed it on the floor near the door.

  “Thank you,” Dover said, frowning. The box was addressed to him, from his father.

  “Dad?”

  Derrick Billings came out of the kitchen in only pajama pants, with a cup of coffee. “Oh good! It arrived.”

  Dover didn’t trust his peppy attitude.

  “What did you do?”

  “Replaced your lathe,�
�� Derrick said. “You can’t very well be without one.”

  Dover growled. “Dad, I was going to buy one after the season was over. You didn’t need to do this.”

  “Consider it a Christmas gift, son. You need it to stay in business.”

  “But, Dad, I don’t want you cutting into your savings for me.”

  “I didn’t! I’ve been working.”

  Dover’s eyes bugged out. “What? Why? I thought you told me you guys were in good shape to retire down there.” His father was young yet, only sixty-two, but still. “Dad, if you needed money—”

  “Please. Son. When have you known me to sit still? I got a sweet gig teaching part-time at the community college down there. One class a semester, and it doesn’t interfere with my retirement. But even without the extra money, I could still afford to buy my son a new lathe for his business. Now shut up and give me a hug.”

  Dover wrinkled his nose. “Maybe when you put a shirt on.”

  His dad was not to be deterred. He crossed the living room dramatically, and Dover cringed. “Dad, remember. I’m injured.”

  Derrick hugged him and laughed heartily. “That young tailor Landry came by to see about you.”

  There was a second knock at the door. Dover looked out the window and saw a UPS driver walking away.

  “What the heck is going on?” He opened the door and started to bend to pick up the package, and he sucked in a breath.

  “Ah. Why don’t you let me handle that, old man?”

  “Funny guy,” he sneered at his father and lowered himself carefully onto the couch.

  “It’s for you. Open it.”

  “What did you do now?”

  His father chuckled and shook his head. “Not me. Not this time.”

  The return address was Oakland, but Dover didn’t recognize it. He used one of the letter openers he’d made at the very beginning of his artistic journey. He’d kept it because he’d messed up with the handle a little, and it wasn’t perfect, but it stood the test of time. He cut through the tape and marveled at how light the box was. Inside was a thick covering of tissue paper. He lifted out an envelope with an old-fashioned wax seal on it with the initial M.

  Dover,

  I am terribly sorry about your injury. Word travels quickly at fair, I’m sure you’re familiar with how things work. I wanted to do… something. I made this garment for you, you can wear it or not, but I wanted to explain some of the special features. It is built specially to support the lower back without looking like a bulky back brace. I’ve also created pockets on the inside to place heat or ice packs to help with your recovery. The lining on the inside is also removable and machine washable in case you want to use any sort of pain-relieving liniments. I used my best judgment to size it. Regrettably I wasn’t able to get your exact measurements, but you can adjust it to fit comfortably and I can alter it if necessary… and if you decide it is useful. Consider it a peace offering. Here’s to your speedy recovery. You are missed at Dickens by all.

  Warmest Regards,

  Landry Malcolm

  Dover was speechless.

  After everything that had happened, after he’d done everything in his power to push Landry away, he’d gone above and beyond to make something special for him. Consider it a peace offering. If anyone should be offering peace, it was Dover.

  A sticker with the same print as Landry’s seal held the tissue together in the middle. He carefully opened it and gasped at what he found inside.

  “What is it, son?”

  Dover carefully lifted the corset from the tissue paper. It was an underbust-styled corset with a masculine form and was made from a deep maroon spot broche fabric with silver loops and pins as well as silver antique buttons on the front. It was absolutely breathtaking: a garment so stylish Dover would never have considered wearing something like it before, but now? With the back injury, he was tempted to see if the garment would provide him some relief. He knew many actors over the years who’d sworn by the comfort and support afforded by a little shaping, and he’d always laughed it off before, choosing to wear his modest linen dress shirt and vest with slacks. But this garment would be best worn with trousers and perhaps a cream silk shirt.

  Before he got too carried away with whether he would actually wear the thing, he opened it up and, sure enough, within the panels of the corset, between the boning, were slots in the fabric where he could indeed place hot or cold packs. He kept charcoal packs for his hands during Dickens. The back barns were freezing cold for most of the run of the show, and his hands were somewhat arthritic from years of crafting and playing guitar. The heat packs helped to keep him comfortable during the long days of the fair. They would definitely help him get through a day of work.

  “That’s quite a handsome corset. I never needed to wear one myself, of course. Always kept a trim figure.” Derrick stretched his arms out and then ran his hands over his slender physique. Dover snorted. They were built nearly exactly the same, though his father had a couple of inches on him.

  “I can’t believe he made this for me,” Dover breathed, so touched by the gesture. “I was pretty awful to him. Why would he do this?”

  Derrick sipped his coffee. “He seems quite smitten with you.”

  “Derrick.” Hillary had joined them and gave Derrick a disapproving headshake. “Don’t stir the pot.”

  A flicker of hope wavered in Dover’s heart. Could he possibly receive that second chance? Did this gift mean Landry might—

  “You are going to work this weekend, are you not?” his father asked him.

  “If you’re there to help me, yes. I’m not sure how much I can do, and while I’m on these drugs, it might not be the best time for me to be running a business without oversight.”

  Derrick patted him on the shoulder. “Of course. I’m here for you, son. Now, why don’t you model this for us.”

  With a little help, Dover was fastened into the corset and immediately felt an improvement in his pain level. He studied himself in the mirror, liking the way the corset seemed made for him. He especially liked the buttons. They looked handmade.

  “A chip off the old block,” Derrick said as he stood behind him in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll have to have the young man make one for me. Can’t let you have all the fun.” He turned and yelled, “Hey, Hillary. Think I should get one of these?”

  Hillary stuck her head in Dover’s room and pressed a hand to her chest. “Sure. But maybe not the nipple piercings.”

  Dover laughed and ran a self-conscious hand over his chest.

  Derrick took a look and winced. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I still can’t believe you got that done. Tattoos I get, but the piercings…?”

  Dover shrugged. “They’re not for everyone.” He turned back to look at Landry’s handiwork. It must have taken him hours to make something so incredible. Dover began formulating a plan. He wanted to create a peace offering of his own for the man who was patient enough to put up with him. Now that his father had replaced his lathe, he knew just what to make for Landry. He’d get on it this afternoon. Now that he had the extra support, his back should be able to handle a couple hours of work.

  Chapter Ten

  Second weekend of December

  Landry

  LANDRY WAS detained by a very touchy-feely woman who was overly excited about her new corset design. He was late to call for the Postcards show and wondered for the umpteenth time why he’d signed on for the additional commitment when the shop was taking up all his energy. The show was fun; he’d ended up being needed to perform rather than understudy, and that was all fine, but he felt like he was running on fumes.

  What kept him going, however, was that Dover was back… and he was wearing the corset.

  Landry’s tongue had fallen out of his mouth like a cartoon character when he’d caught his first glimpse, and he’d been distracted ever since. Dover wore the corset paired with charcoal trousers and a new cream shirt. He’d obviously taken care with his appearance, and Landry
was nearly panting. The stubborn man was so damn sexy, and he didn’t even seem to be aware.

  “Hurry up! Your pose is coming up,” Trudy scolded. She helped him out of his clothes and placed the laurel wreath on his head. Directly after this evening’s show, they were doing an after-hours show for the fair folk, since the vendors couldn’t exactly all walk away from their booths and come watch.

  “You got your thong on?”

  “Yes. I forgot it last week and had to run back, so I threw it on this morning. It’s been riding up all day, thank you very much.”

  Trudy giggled. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” She patted him down with powder to give him the alabaster sheen of the statue he was imitating.

  “Oh, pipe down. All right. Everything in place? Ready to go?”

  She gave him a once-over and touched up a few spots. “Looks good. Nothing hanging out.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.”

  He hurried to his spot and was getting into place when the screen was illuminated to show his nearly naked form in the famous pose of the discus thrower. The audience cheered loudly and applauded, a few familiar voices making catcalls. He fought the urge to laugh, holding his pose for several long moments while the actors made their jokes, and then it was time for the next actor to take their spot.

  Back in the dressing area, he threw on a robe to ward off the chill before he went and did his pose again for the next show. Trudy did her part and then joined him, laying out some snacks she’d brought for them.

  “Peanut butter and jelly never tasted so good,” he said, moaning. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast as the shop was too busy in the middle of the day for him to sneak off.

  “You’re welcome. It was all I had to throw together.”

  “And it hit the spot perfectly.”

  They went out for their bow and then returned backstage as they waited for the Victorian London to clear out of fairgoers. Then it was time for the bawdy songs, which he knew by heart by now. They came out at the most ridiculous times. He caught himself singing one while making a deposit at the bank the past week, and the teller gave him the strangest look.