Foothills Pride Stories, Volume 2

by Pat Henshaw

  While Abe and Mitch settled in to argue about steak house competition, Con turned to me.

  “So, big brother, how’re you doing? This is a huge life change you’re going through.”

  I knew what he meant. “Tell me about it. One minute I’m fed up with dating women and fixing it in my head that I’m going to be a bachelor for life. Then practically before I can catch a breath, Mitch is kissing me, and I’m liking it. Next thing you know, we’ll be married.”

  We laughed.

  “If you want to talk about it, you know I’m open anytime,” he added with a smirk.

  I gave him a horrified look.

  “Shit no. I don’t want sex ed from my little brother.”

  That set him off with a belly laugh. But as I thought about it, he made a lot of sense. Who better than Connor, who’d been honest with himself since he was a baby? I understood why Abe hadn’t known he was gay. He’d been too busy keeping the family together after our grandfather and dad died.

  But me? What’d happened to me that I hadn’t had a clue I was bisexual, tending more toward gay, for so many years? Why had I made myself so miserable when if I’d sat myself down and really thought about it, I would have known right away? Or was it Mitch? He’d fired me up and had burned through my obliviousness. Had I needed his sudden heat to awaken and recognize the love around me?

  I don’t know. All I knew was I was finally at peace with who I was. With Mitch I felt deep down happy and content. My guy had found me asleep and woken me with a kiss.

  To Jake, Becca, Sarah, and Jill, without whose help and love, I would have given up long ago. Thank you all so much. I love you!

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU, F. E. Feeley Jr., for suggesting the title for this book.

  1

  “HEY, FEN! Welcome back, buddy. What can I get you?”

  Stonewall Saloon owner and chief bartender, Guy Stone, stood like a rock fortress behind the elaborate bar. I was stunned that even though it’d been over five years since I’d last been in, he remembered my name.

  Stonewall, an historic roadhouse that gave visitors a glimpse of the Old West, stood like an anchor in Old Town Stone Acres, California. Since I’d come in there the last time I’d been in town, I’d gotten to know its primary bartender and proprietor, Stone, pretty well. While he looked like the ultimate biker daddy—tall, bald, and extremely muscled—he’d acted like my five-foot-three-inch height, the ivy tattoo running up my neck, my pierced eyebrow, and my green-tipped hairstyle were commonplace. And he remembered my name.

  “I’ll have a Fat Tire Ale. How’ve you been, Stone?” I slipped off my jacket, stuffed my cap in my pocket, and letting the coat be my cushion, sat.

  He turned and bent over to rummage through some bottles in the low fridge along the back wall. I admired the scenery and waited for his response.

  “Pretty good, actually. What’ve you been up to? You graduate?”

  He stood and swiveled, a bottle in one hand. He twisted off the top, then slung a glass over the long neck and slid the drink gently my way.

  “On the house.” He grabbed the towel hanging over his belt and wiped away the little moisture that marred the pristine mahogany bar top. “So you’re back.”

  “Uh, thanks. Yeah, I just graduated. Dr. Fenton Miller, PhD.” I give him a courtly little bow and a salute. “Doctor of horticulture. Gonna cure the problems of the world through plants.”

  Stone shook his head. “Good for you. Don’t think I know many doctors that aren’t, you know, doctors.” His mouth quirked into a sassy grin. “But I think we need more of ’em if they’re nice guys like you, Fen.”

  Then his gaze flitted over my head, and his grin became the happiest smile I’d seen since I’d been home and talked to my mother a week ago.

  “Hey, babe,” Stone crooned, and I turned to see who he was talking to.

  He leaned over the bar as a medium height, thin, brown-haired guy stretched forward toward him. Their kiss was short, but hot. They took a second to stare at each other before the guy on my side of the bar eased up and started taking off his ski jacket and his suit coat.

  Stone pointed quickly at me before he poured what looked like a white wine, then handed it to the guy next to me.

  “Babe, this is Fen Miller, Beth and Kate’s cousin. He was around four or five years ago when they were setting up the nursery. He just graduated college. Fen, this is my fiancé, Jimmy Patterson.”

  Fuck me. Stone was engaged? Neither Beth nor Kate had said anything. For Stone Acres, this was big news. Then it hit me that maybe nobody else knew. Great. On his second day in town, Fen scoops the town busybodies. Ha!

  Jimmy had turned to me with his hand out, so I grabbed it and shook.

  “Congratulations, you two! Nobody told me. It’s good to meet you, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, well.” Stone looked embarrassed.

  “This big lug doesn’t want to make an announcement until after the holidays.” Jimmy sounded amused, like he felt free to tease Stone and get away with it.

  What I remembered as Stone’s habitual frown and eagle eyes cutting through customers had been supplanted by a huge grin that made him look much younger. So I guess things could change in a place where it looked like time stood still.

  Jimmy sat next to me, and we chatted while customers came and went. Tonight seemed pretty calm. When guys stared, either Stone or Jimmy introduced me. A couple of them I remembered from the last time I was here, and they recognized me.

  One guy smiled and said, “Don’t change much, do you?”

  I grinned and shook my head. I held myself back from saying he hadn’t changed much either except to look at least fifteen years older. Why make the guy feel bad, right?

  “If you just graduated,” Jimmy asked after we sat for a while, sipping our drinks and letting the ambience roll over us, “why’re you working at the nursery?”

  “I can’t decide which of two jobs to accept, so because Beth was having trouble finding competent help during the busy holiday season, my mom convinced me I should pitch in since I’d helped set up a lot of the procedures.” I sighed. “It’s not too bad being back. I’ve got about a month and a half to accept one of the job offers. This gives me thinking time without a chance to obsess over the decision. Beth and Kate can postpone hiring and training someone until January when the place isn’t overrun. As a bonus I can go snowboarding at Tahoe if I get a free minute. Win-win, sorta.”

  “Makes sense.” He nodded at Stone. “Hey, Guy, can we get some peanuts and pretzels over here? Just because it’s Tuesday doesn’t mean we don’t need some nourishment.”

  Stone nodded and brought the bowls over personally. I thought maybe they’d smooch again, but Jimmy just grabbed a handful of pretzels and waved Stone away.

  “You work around here?” I asked Jimmy. I didn’t remember him from five years ago.

  “Yeah. I own the coffee shop, Penny’s Too, down the street, and another Penny’s in the mall by the highway.” He took a huge handful of peanuts and downed them. Stone was watching him and looking concerned.

  “Oh, nice place and great coffee.” Then our conversation dried up, and a group around a small table called Jimmy over.

  I said good night to Stone and asked if I could put up a Seeking Room to Rent notice on the bar’s bulletin board. After his nod, I donned my ski jacket and knit hat and gutted up to walk out into the cold.

  “Say ‘hi’ to Beth and Kate for me, and tell ’em I’ll give ’em a free drink the next time they come in,” Stone yelled after me.

  I nodded, waved, and then pinned my notice to the corkboard. As I did, my eye caught another notice, this one lettered in a precise, architectural-looking capitalized handwriting:

  ROOM FOR RENT

  BLUE COTTAGE, MAIN STREET

  MONTHLY WITH YEARLY OPTION

  J. BARTON

  Under the name was a phone number. Fucking wow. It was exactly what I wanted. I ripped down my note and the Blue Cottage
one too. I was stoked. Just to make sure I was remembering the right place, I decided to drive by on my way to Beth and Kate’s and take a look, but I was sure it was the house I’d lusted after the last time I was here. Damn, yes, I was interested in a monthly rental there.

  I put on my gloves. When I opened the door, the cold slapped me in the face. It didn’t sting like it had when I walked up to the bar. I wasn’t sure I could get used to real twenty-four-seven winter days, but I would be more willing to try if I was living somewhere hot like Blue Cottage.

  The house, misnamed a cottage, was one of those stately old Victorians, two stories with all the curlicues and fancy wood detail. Porthole windows dotted the façade here and there among the regulation tall four-paned windows. A front porch wrapped around to the left. A gable and, best of all, a round, two-story tower on the right made it my dream house. It was painted a medium sky blue with white trim on the shutters and front door. A white picket fence enclosed it, and a painted sign hung in the arc of the trellis above the wooden gate: Blue Cottage, 1896. Its next-door neighbor was the city park. With trees and bushes sheltering it, the cottage was my idea of perfect.

  Ordinarily, if I was staying for such a short time, I wouldn’t rent somewhere but would live the whole time with Beth and Kate. It’d only taken me one night to remind myself what a mistake living with my cousin and her wife was. Sex and cuddling I like. In fact, I love them. Listening to my cousin and her wife go at it? Not so much. As a gay man, hearing two lesbians last night—even though they were obviously trying to be quiet as mice—had made me shiver and flinch. If that weren’t enough, having to push aside drying bras in order to take a shower this morning made my hands itch. I had to get out of there.

  So going back for what I hoped was the last or next-to-last night, I tried to cheer myself by driving slowly past Blue Cottage, taking in the details. With the snow mounded around it and flakes swirling in the air, the place looked like the setting for a snow globe. A plastic family should be standing on the sidewalk, waving to me.

  No question. I’d fallen in love with Blue Cottage again, just as I had the last time. I was definitely giving J. Barton a call.

  Now if I could only afford the rent.

  2

  “BARTON.”

  After a hectic morning, I’d finally gotten a chance to phone Blue Cottage’s owner a little before lunch. He’d answered almost on the first ring. His last name, a one-word greeting, rolled over me and nearly brought me to my knees, it sounded so beautiful. God, I love baritones. His deep, husky voice soothed me. I could live under this landlord. I refused to giggle at my joke.

  “Uh, hi. This is, uh, Fen Miller.”

  “You want to see the apartment.” His tone said not to waste his time. I could hear the sounds of pots and pans rattling around in the background.

  So I launched into my schedule.

  “I’m off at five Tuesdays through Fridays, work half days on Saturday morning and Monday afternoon. Are any of those times good for you?” He wanted serious, I could do serious.

  “Tonight at five thirty,” he growled.

  “Okay. See you then.”

  On my way to work, I’d driven by the house, paused in front of it, and taken a picture with my phone, then sent it to Mom in Davis.

  Hey, Ma, what do you think?

  Oh, honey, it’s you. All yours or sharing?

  Renter if it’s not too expensive. Taking a look tonight.

  Good luck. Call me afterward. Love you.

  U2

  Mom taught English composition at a community college and was just as organized as I was unorganized. When I was growing up, she’d been tough, never wasting the sporadic childcare payments that my virile, sports-mad dad sent. I never doubted her love. In fact, she’d made my coming out the most anticlimactic in the history of gay mankind.

  I had to choose which permanent, grown-up job to take. She’d put in her time and deserved more from life than parenting the “perfect” child.

  THAT NIGHT I stood freezing at Barton’s door, admiring Blue Cottage. The snow drifts piled on the lawn made the house look greeting-card perfect. I searched for a doorbell. Instead, a lion-headed knocker snarled at me. I grinned. Every house needed an intimidating guardian, right?

  A man who looked about my age and height opened the door and slipped out, shutting it behind him. I was curious to see inside, but I got that the guy wanted his privacy. No problem.

  “Hi. I’m Fen.”

  He looked me over, then turned to the left along the shoveled porch. As he walked, he played with the keyring, bouncing a key in his hand. Did I make him nervous? If so, was that a good thing?

  “This way.”

  Okay. I took a breath and followed his pert ass and brisk steps as we rounded the porch to a steep staircase. From my brief glance at his face, he seemed okay. I was still slightly put off by his brusque manner. But hey, I reminded myself, I was renting from him, not fucking him.

  In silence I followed him up to a small porch and a solid-looking back door, which he opened after only a little fumbling.

  I was greeted by the stuffy, closed-up odor of a place long left undisturbed.

  “You’d be my first renter. It’s furnished, but I can store anything you don’t want.” He made quick eye contact with me. The words erupted from him like I made him uncomfortable or something. Maybe it was my piercing and the tattoo, or maybe the hair color. I tried a smile, but he blushed and turned away, gesturing to the rooms.

  Even though the air inside was chilly, I looked around and fell even more in love than I had when I’d first seen the house. The 1940s era furniture and knickknacks turned what could have been sterile rooms into my kind of home. I exhaled, letting the ambience settle in my soul as I wandered through a country kitchen, tiny dining room, sitting room, two bedrooms, and a classic bathroom, ending eventually at a circular tower room. I fell even deeper in love along the way as I touched the scratched kitchen table, a velveteen-covered parlor settee, a solid-looking four-poster bed, and the needlepoint-cushioned window seat in the tower.

  If I were Barton, I’d charge thousands a month for this place. I prayed he wasn’t me and was relieved when my prayers were answered.

  “You want to keep the furniture?” He still didn’t look at me as he bent over the kitchen table to fill out the rental agreement. Who needed him staring? I could live with letting his voice pour over me and seeing his kissable lips.

  “I can’t imagine living here without all of it.” Or maybe even you, I thought, eyeing his pert butt wiggling at me as he wrote.

  He stopped, stood, and eyed me for a few seconds before bending and going back to writing. I hadn’t said that about his butt out loud, had I?

  As I was daydreaming about his ass and the scarred table, he stopped writing, looked over the form, and finally twisted it toward me. “Sign here, initial here, and date it. Then I need your rent for the month.”

  I was signing before he changed his mind. The rent was ridiculously cheap. “No deposit?” There had to be a catch, right?

  “No.”

  I glanced up. He was gazing down at the table, or maybe at my hands. Or my groin? I signed as fast as I could and wrote a check to John Barton, the name on the rental agreement. So he had a first name, and we had a deal.

  I DROVE back to my cousin’s house whistling. Within an hour, and with Beth and Kate’s help, I was moved in. Having only clothes and electronics made the move a one-trip job. Then I went food shopping for breakfast stuff and frozen dinners. We all celebrated by eating a late dinner outside town at a diner called the Rock Bottom Cafe. Renting a place with a wonderful kitchen hadn’t automatically taught me to cook.

  Even with an enigma for a landlord, my life was perfect.

  3

  DURING THE first week of December, celebrities and sightseers asking for impossible additions and subtractions to their odd purchases strolled the aisles of Cuttings Nursery. I got home every night both physically and mentally exha
usted. Every day I was feeling less and less like a successful doctoral graduate and more and more like a dropout.

  One night after work, I walked past the Silver Star restaurant on my way to Stonewall Saloon. Inside, the gourmet eating place buzzed like a busy hive, with a handsome blond pointing at waiters, his mouth moving a mile a minute. I glimpsed my landlord, the nearly silent John, standing behind the beauty.

  John stood in a doorway with what looked like a kitchen behind him. He wore a very stained apron and still looked pretty good to me. As I watched, he nodded, glanced quickly over his shoulder, and then strode up to the blond and said something to him. John wore an air of authority that would be fun to explore in bed. I just wished he’d talk more, so we could get to know each other.

  The morning after I moved in, he had knocked on my door and asked if I needed anything. I told him no and invited him in for coffee, which he declined. Then he left, and I hadn’t heard from him since. No noise rose from downstairs. I might as well be living in the house alone. I loved it but kind of wanted to see him now and then without having to hang outside the Silver Star like some lovesick Romeo.

  THE FOLLOWING week, I asked John to meet me at Stonewall Saloon for a beer a couple of times, but he repeatedly said no. He didn’t seem to be into making friends—at least with me—which I thought was weird since we had a connection in size, age, and the house. But whatever. He was my landlord, after all. Maybe he didn’t befriend tenants.