by Cooper West
The drive off of his property was risky in the dark, with no lights marking the way, but things improved when he got offthe private drive and onto the public road. He was halfway to town when he saw a sign for a restaurant that he forgot even existed and was surprised to find still around. Taking a left at the next lonely, empty intersection, Gary aimed for Brunhilde’s Restaurant. It was a landmark in the area, a place where Gary’s grandparents took their children for Jägerschnitzel and Rotkohl and, on the weekends, localbands played countryor bluegrass. Gary’s parents kept up the tradition until they died when he was seventeen. He had not been back since. It was almost something to look forward to, and he hoped, as he picked his way past altered landmarks and barely familiar road signs, that ownership had not changed hands.
The restaurant appeared before him, looking bigger and more ill-kempt than he remembered, but there were at least twenty cars in the dirt parking lot and a huge string of light bulbs surrounding the building, probably left over from some property improvement effort in the distant past. Now it looked hokey and oldfashioned and… comforting. Feeling sentimental, Gary parked and went in, waving off the young hostess (whose blond curls and buxom chest marked her as a direct descendant of Brunhilde herself) to sit at the bar. Given that it was a weeknight, he did not expect any bands to be playing, but he was still surprised by the lack ofa stage inthe bar area.
The bartender was about a foot too tall for her job, solidly built like an athlete. She wore the friendly face of the farmgirl next door with a few years on her, and Garysuspected she might be another ofBrunhilde’s many heirs. She was in the required Southern-redneck uniform of jeans and a Western-style cotton buttondown (snaps, no less) shirt, but it was very neat and tidy, as if she ironed her jeans straight out of the dryer. Gary ordered a boilermaker with draught ale and the well-brand whiskey, giving her points for not acting snide about his cheap order.
“Traveling through?” she asked, putting the drink infront ofhim.
“No, settlingin.” She nodded politely, turning to pamper her regulars down the bar. About the time Gary was halfway done with his drink and starting to relax, she came back to check onhim.
“You into antiques?” she asked, not bothering withsubtlety.
“No.”
“Huh. Well, seems that’s about the only reason anyone moves here, anymore. Open up a store, fleece the tourists.”She said the last part ina whisper and with a smile, waving a bar rag at some of the more wellheeled customers.
“Nope.”
She looked at him for a moment, her hazel eyes penetrating and hard, then she stepped back. “Harriet Lee’s nephew. I hear yougot the house.”
Gary nodded, rolling his eyes. No way to keep secrets in Holden, obviously. Not that he had expected to. “Got it inone.”
The hard look was gone, replaced by a genial smile. “Welcome home, then.”
Garyblinked at her, takenaback. His first thought was to announce that this was not home to him, but that would require “home” being somewhere else. He knew instinctively that he was probably out of Chicago for good, but home did not seem to be anywhere, and certainly not his dead great-aunt’s run-down farm house. He closed his mouth. The bartender tipped her head in confusion before shrugging and holding out her hand. It was weathered from use, but her fingers were almost obscenelylongand elegant, endingincrisp short, perfectlymanicured nails.
“Fran.”
“Gary.” They shook hands, Gary not the least surprised by the strength he found in Fran’s grip. This was a working woman in a hardworking town, and Garyknew that, bycomparison, he came up short.
“Good to have your people back in place. Aunt Harriet could not really manage that land by herself,” Fran said absently as she polished a glass, looking like every bartender in every television show ever aired. Garystopped himselffrompointingout that he was now managing the land by himself, failing to see how that was an improvement as at least Harriet probably knew what she was doing. Thenhe squinted, finallyregistering exactlywhat Fransaid.
“We related?”
Fran shook her head. “Maybe? Just everyone west ofHoldencalled her Aunt Harriet.”
Gary nodded wearily. Common enough. “Family’s family.”
“For better or worse.” Fran nodded vigorously with a slightly evil grin and got back to work. Gary sipped his drink and took to looking around again. It was odd not to see a small, dinky stage in the corner, but the rest of the place had not changed at all. The bar was dark wood, and it was the nicest piece of furniture inthe building, rumored to have beenshipped over from “the Motherland” by Brunhilde herself. Everything else was low-end restaurant seating, crammed together to allow for the most customers who could be served, fire marshal restrictions be damned. It was all so familiar he could almost imagine that he was still a teenager, sneaking sips out of his father’s beer. He finished his drink with an eye on the clock, figuring he would sit out for a while before daring to get behind the wheel again. Then he spied a case propped up behind the bar which, from the shape of it, almost certainly held a banjo. He waved Franover and pointed.
“Youplay?”
“Every day,” she answered coolly, as if testing him. Gary had been through much more violent pissing contests inChicago, so he just smiled.
“So do I.”
Francocked her head.
“That’s what I do: play guitar. You know any bands around here?”
“Lookingfor work?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Mostly looking for the scene.” He nodded back at her. There was always a “scene.” He knew that, and a long time ago Brunhilde’s had beenthat scene.
“A few small groups. One jazz band, plays up at the Chez Pierre patio on weekends. Otherwise mostly countryand bluegrass, and nothingofficial.”
“Anythingregular?”
“The Lower Forty—backwoods shack out back.” Fran jerked her thumb to indicate the back of the bar.
“Damn, theyfinallydid somethingwiththat barn?” Gary laughed, remembering the ramshackle cow barn that spent years fallingapart behind the restaurant.
“Uncle Harv renovated it when he took over.” Fran answered, as if she assumed that Gary knew who Uncle Harv was. He didn’t, but guessed it was the latest ofthe heirs to manage the place, so he nodded.
She eyed him speculatively. “Bands every Friday and Saturday night, some local, some traveling through. Hosts music night every Thursday. If you play, you should come out. It usually goes late. Most of the good musicians inthe area take part.”
In Chicago, “music night” was meaningless or worse—karaoke—but here in Gary’s homeland it meant one thing only: traditional musician jam session. Gary nodded, accepting the glass of water she offered, not letting the chill that ran down his spine show. In Chicago it was a very poorly kept secret that his career was in the dust due to performance anxiety. It wasn’t too serious when he was younger, and he made it through college to get his BFAin music, but then he got hooked by Roger, and every insecurity he ever had about music, being gay, or living in Chicago came to the fore. Bythe time he was twenty-eight, playinginfront of any stranger was nearly impossible because he would get cold sweats and the shakes, neither of which benefited a guitar player. His manager, Tally McGuire, begged him to get counseling or god or shock therapy, but something had slipped and broken deep inside Gary’s spirit. He was stuck with studio gigs for years. Tally blamed Roger’s pathological need to pretend he was not actually gay, Roger blamed everyone but himself, and Gary had no idea who to blame, but the end result was he was shoved to the back of the line in the music industry. Bands did not want him if he was unable to performlive, and he could not make a go as a solo artist just by uploading recorded tunes to MySpace alone. As a studio musician he was well respected in the jazz scene, but his career was permanently stalled. Fran was staring at him, so he decided ona fast change oftopic.
“What’s the job scene like here?”
“What job scene?”
“Oh, damn.
”
“That’s about the size of it. I work three jobs: here, one of the hotel bars on the weekend, and private parties, and honestly I just about inherited every one of them. Turnover is low. What canyoudo, anyway?”
“Aside frommusic? I serve a meancappuccino.”
“Because Holden is in such need of talented baristas.” She said the last word with an exaggerated sneer, and Gary got the point. His services were not in high demand. Fran’s expression softened a bit. “Didn’t Aunt Harriet leave youanythingbesides the house?”
Gary blinked and stared at her, but she did not look the least bit apologetic about the question. Givingit up, and used to worse in Chicago, where every secret was blog-worthy, Gary shrugged. “Not so much. I hear rumors that the pecans might bring in some money but not enoughto live offof.”
Her forehead creased in a slight frown. “Then you’ll be hearing fromthe Everetts soon enough. Try to do business with Chuckie, the son. Old Man Everett… he’s got his quirks.”Fran’s smile was thinand hard, and Garysat back a little but nodded.
“Okay.”
Fran nodded toward the corner of the bar area. “Chuckie’s the one with the touch of gray, not that I ever said that.”
Gary twisted a little in his seat to spy several men enjoying beers at one of the low tables. They were all clearly related, their sharp features and lean bodies all closely alike, but two were younger with long darkgolden hair. The eldest was a bit weathered, his hair crew-cut short with gray peppered through it and facial scruff that was too short to call a beard. He was laughingat the younger men, his smile broad and daring. He was good-looking in a rough way, and although he was lounging back in the chair, his body was wired for tension. It was like staring at an amalgam of everything Gary liked in a man, a model of masculine maturity and physical confidence, and it was a blow to Gary’s libido that he had not felt since long before the breakup with Roger. Porn was one thing, and Gary loved porn, but this was real, sitting twenty feet and a whole world away, and it almost hurt. Pulling his eyes off before Chuck noticed Gary staring at him, he looked into Fran’s perceptive gaze.
He felt himself blush, but she laughed. “Welcome home, stranger.”
ChapterThree
Gary’snext trip into Holden happened the following
afternoon, and was, ostensibly, a job hunt. He did not hold out much hope after talking to Fran the night before. A morning spent reading the “help wanted” listings in the localpaper he picked up at the gas station nearby (mostly to avoid more vacuuming) lost himwhat little hope he held.
In town, there was one chain coffee shop, which surprised him until the manager explained that it survived offthe antiques-based tourismindustry and the highschoolthree blocks over. He also explained that he had a waiting list of sixteen people looking to serve coffee, and that while Gary’s experience counted for something, it also meant he was overqualified.
“You are joking.” Gary stared at the stocky sandy-haired man. His name was Joey, and he smiled a little too broadly. Gary was reminded of a used-car salesmanina greenapron.
“No, really. I can’t afford a big-city-trained expert barista.”He nodded earnestly.
“I’ll take whatever starting pay you’ll give me. I have estate taxes.”
“Right right, old Mrs. Lee’s place. Yeah, I’m sorryabout her. Mycondolences.”
“Whatever youpay, I’lltake it.”
“Sorry, I’m really sorry. You’re just overqualified. You might try down at the inn. Josie sometimes needs wait staff.” He nodded again, and Gary understood the conversation to be closed. He ordered a triple-shot large caramellatte, surprised when Joey sold it to himat employee rate. “Courtesy. You’re new in town and all,” he said, and Gary felt dirty, as if he took a payoff. He walked out of the coffee shop to look up and down Main Street, which was actually fairly busy for a small Southern hamlet, so at least the antiques trade was holding steady. The shops he noticed in his first drive through lined up one after another invitingly, so he decided to at least enjoyhimself like a proper gay man for a few moments and go window shopping. Unfortunately, it did not derail his fatalistic trainofthought at all.
He knew he could rent out the pecan groves, somehow, but Fred George had not explained the logistics of that during their one and only and very rushed meeting. He knew it would not cover all his bills, anyway. It was the only viable idea on the table, though, which was almost more depressing than the fact he was unlikely to find a job within the next year or so. He trudged down the sidewalk, examining the storefronts dispassionately, sucking on his latte and lost inthought.
Most of the antiques were beautiful, and most of the stores very small. He asked a few times about parttime work, but after a while, he gave up. A position might open up once every few years, but clearly this was not Gary’s year.
Whenhe got to the dregs ofhis coffee, he entered a kitschy store full of bric-a-brac and a wildly bizarre mixture of handsome, expensive antiques, inexpensive junk, and framed posters. Normally that kind of store would send Gary screaming, but he found himself picking through piles of dishware and old magazines. The difference, he realized as he held up a Depressionera blue and white ceramic bowl, was that, despite the purposefully countrified and tacky atmosphere, the place was runbysomeone who actuallyhad taste.
And Gary bet that, whoever the manager was, it was not the woman behind the counter, staring at him with bright amber eyes highlighted by garish green eye shadow and drawn-on eyebrows. She was at that inbetween stage, not quite old but not young, and Gary mentally pegged her for “somewhere in her fifties and fightingit.”
He noticed the music playing in the store after a while, a low-key and eclectic set of bluegrass and traditional tunes, heavy on the fiddle. He recognized a couple of songs, but he could not place the artists. There was a small bluegrass movement in Chicago, but it was separate from pretty much every other musical community, and he had not known many of the people involved with it too well. Of course he grew up playing traditional music with his father and his uncle, but that was a part ofhis life he ran out on at Mach speed when he headed north for college after his parents died. From that point on, it was classical and jazz, with rarely a look back.
Bluegrass brought out the nostalgic inhim, though, and more than once, during a friendly jam session at a friend’s house, he found himself jazzing up a traditional standard for everyone to futz with. He always blamed the beer, although he knew better. Mostly his paying job playing bass for jazz and rock bands took up enough practice time to keep him from really exploring anything else, and Roger hated bluegrass anyway. Most of Roger’s friends listened to pop or (so stereotypically it almost hurt) show tunes, so Gary got used to not knowing much about what was happening in the world of traditional music over the years. Mainstreamcountry he avoided like the plague and was all he expected to hear anywhere inHolden, but he knew that the music he was listening to was off the beaten path, despite (or perhaps because of) the high caliber of musicians. It was easy for him to keep digging into the eclectic selections of random stuff while listening to the unique mix, so it was nearly an hour later before he finally went up to the counter. The woman had not broken eye contact once, as far as Garycould tell.
“You have a trash can?” he asked pleasantly, holding up his empty cup. The woman looked at himas if he was not speaking English. “Just, it’s empty, and I want to throw it away.” Gary shook it again, and the woman finally stood up from where she had been hunched over the countertop, and pointed to the corner at a small almost-full wastebasket that lurked there. “Oh, thanks.” Gary threw away his cup and turned back to the last pile he was digging through, a selection of random shot glasses. Some were art deco collectibles, but others were tourist crap, and Gary wondered again who really ran the place. He looked up to see Chuckie Everett walk in. Gary noticed this time that he was tall and scruffy in the way a man gets when he works outside a lot. He was carrying a violin case, hard covered, which looked well used and slightly
beat up. Gary knew it was Chuckie’s own, because a musician carries his instrument differently than anyone else does, and he immediately spotted the comfortable protectiveness Chuckie had for the case. Chuckie glanced at Gary and nodded politely when he saw him inspecting the instrument case. The edge of his mouth curled into the hint of a friendly smile before he turned to the womanbehind the counter.
“Elba, Miss Ellenis callin’ for you.”
“She should be here. Her turn to mind the store.” The woman tried crossing her arms over her ample bosom, failed, and finished bysniffingloudly.
“But she ain’t here, and she called for you. Git.” He smiled at her as he talked, but his eyes were clear and hard.
Elba glanced at him, nodded quickly, gathered up her quilted patchwork lamé purse that hung offthe chair behind her, and walked out without another word. Gary saw the man tap the counter a few times, as iffrustrated or impatient, before walking behind it himself to settle into the chair. After placing his violin carefully under the counter, he crossed his arms and looked over at him.
“Findin’ what you like?” he asked, again politely and distantly.
Gary thought hysterically that yes, he had found exactly what he liked, although his survival instinct warned that it was too dangerous a line to use. Instead he held up one of the better shot glasses. “Lots of nice collectibles here. A real mix up. Seems some of the better stuff is hidden.” He smiled back, trying to be friendly, and wondered if his comment might come off as a bit insulting. Chuckie cocked his head, and the slight smile returned, but he looked as if he was not a man who smiled often. His eyes were ice blue and startling to look at, so Gary glanced back at the shot glass inhis hands.
