Love Wins

by David C. Dawson

  The brown Mercedes set off from the hotel. It wove through the narrow streets of the town and out into the quiet Italian countryside beside the lake. Less than fifteen minutes later, it pulled up outside a discreet gated entrance. Manicured borders of flowers adorned either side.

  “We are here, signore. Would you like that I stay, or I come back later?” asked the driver.

  Betty stared through the car window at the high wooden gates. Beyond she could see the cream-colored walls of an elegant Italian villa. It was very grand and very beautiful.

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and looked down. What on earth had she been thinking? A tingle of icy reality chilled her spine. Deidre was right. Why would George Clooney open his gates to a cleaner from the Berkeley Hotel? Betty felt foolish and ashamed for contemplating this silly excursion. Frozen in indecision, she had no answer for the driver.

  The silence was broken by the tinkly theme from Love Story, Deidre’s ringtone. Grumbling, Deidre fumbled in her handbag. She glanced at the screen on the little pink phone before she answered it. She looked over to Betty. “It’s Charmaine.”

  Deidre answered the phone and listened intently for a few moments. She turned to Betty again. “You’d better speak to her, love. Something’s happened to Wilfred.”

  Betty’s stomach turned several somersaults, and her mouth felt dry. She took the little phone from Deidre’s hand. Sitting in the dark brown Mercedes outside George Clooney’s house in northern Italy, Betty felt foolish and guilty for even considering this pilgrimage. If Wilfred was hurt, or ill, or something worse, she would never forgive herself.

  Charmaine’s voice was calm and controlled on the other end of the phone.

  “Mum, you mustn’t worry. Everything’s all right. Dad’s just had a bit of a turn, that’s all. They think he was probably overdoing it, working on that bloody railway thing. I’m in Weston now. He’s in hospital, and everything’s fine. They say he’ll be out in a couple of days, and then I’ll take him home.”

  Betty continued to hold the phone to her ear but could think of nothing to say. She looked out the car window at the gates of the lakeside villa in front of her. As Charmaine continued to talk and reassure her, the gates slowly swung open. The unmistakable figure of a Hollywood superstar jogged out, wearing a tracksuit, baseball cap, and dark glasses. He jogged right past their car, followed at a discreet distance by a black BMW with tinted windows.

  The gates swung shut again as Betty heard her daughter’s anxious voice in her ear.

  “Mum? Mum? Can you hear me?”

  Betty cleared her throat. “Yes, love, I can hear you. It’s just a bit of a shock. Thanks for going down to Weston. You’re an angel. You know that, don’t you, love?”

  “Don’t be daft, Mum. I’m sorry I had to ring you today. Today of all days. It’s your big day with George, isn’t it? Have you been there yet?”

  Betty paused and looked at the closed gate opposite before she answered. “Oh yes, love, we did. But he’s not in. We’ll go and get a nice cup of tea before dinner. Give your dad a big kiss from me.”

  DAVID C. DAWSON is an author, award-winning journalist, and documentary maker living near Oxford in the UK. He has traveled extensively, filming in nearly every continent of the world. He has lived in London, Geneva, and San Francisco, but now prefers the tranquility of the Oxfordshire countryside.

  David is a mathematics graduate from Southampton University in England. After graduating, he joined the BBC in London as a trainee journalist. He worked in radio newsrooms for several years before moving to television as a documentary director. During the growing AIDS crisis in the late eighties, he is proud to say that he directed the first demonstration of putting on a condom on British television.

  After more than twenty years with the BBC, he left to go freelance. He has produced videos for several charities, including Ethiopiaid, which works to end poverty in Ethiopia, and Hestia, a London-based mental health charity.

  David has one son, who is also a successful filmmaker.

  In his spare time, David tours Europe on his aging Triumph motorbike and sings with the London Gay Men’s Chorus. He has sung with the Chorus at St Paul’s Cathedral, The Roundhouse and the Royal Festival Hall, but David is most proud of the time they sang at the House of Lords, campaigning for equal marriage to be legalized in the UK.

  Website: www.davidcdawson.co.uk

  Blog: blog.davidcdawson.co.uk/#home

  Twitter: @david_c_dawson

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/david.c.dawson.5

  LinkedIn: uk.linkedin.com/in/davidcdawson

  E-mail: contact@davidcdawson.co.uk

  Love Over Lotto

  By Jude Dunn

  Craig Batson and Tom Rendelle have plenty of joy together but not so much money. Determined to improve their finances, Craig borrows a library book on the secrets of winning the lottery and empties their rainy-day fund to buy dozens of lottery tickets. Tom explodes when he finds out, leaving Craig to wonder if their love can survive.

  I.

  Monday evening

  TOM PULLED into his driveway and killed the motor, closing his eyes while the engine sputtered to a stop. C’mon, Sal. Hang on till Friday. I can take you to Mack’s when I get my first check. A whump on the door startled him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Rendelle,” said Keith, the young boy who lived next door. He grabbed his basketball and ran back to the hoop in his driveway.

  “’S okay, Keith,” Tom said. He ran his fingers through his hair and got out. “Just be careful, okay?”

  As he went through the front door, the strong aroma of mac and cheese with tuna hit him. Tom wrinkled his nose.

  Craig stepped out of the kitchen. “Hi, love.” Tom quickly forced a smile. “Got a surprise for you tonight.” Craig returned to his cooking. Tom put down his lunch pail and followed.

  Craig was tending a pan of bubbling yellow elbow pasta frantically crashing into chunks of tuna as he stirred. Tom hugged him from behind and nuzzled his neck. “You’re getting cheese on the edge of the pan.”

  “So?”

  “So it might drip on the burner.”

  “Who’s cooking here?”

  Tom tried to sound cheery. “You are.”

  “Hard day?”

  “Yeah, but dinner smells good.”

  “Smells like ‘not again,’ you mean.”

  “Smells like food. Food’s good.” Tom turned to go. Craig spun around and pulled out his shirttail. “Craig, I—” Tom let out a little cry as Craig ran his fingers up his belly and tweaked a nipple.

  Craig kissed the back of Tom’s neck, then turned him around. When Craig pushed against him, Tom stepped back.

  “Hey,” Craig said as he rocked forward. “Can’t a guy get a little action after slaving over a hot oven for his man?”

  “It’s ‘hot stove.’”

  Craig stuck out his tongue.

  Tom’s smile was tight, and he hoped Craig couldn’t tell. “And of course you can.” He pulled Craig close. Craig put his hands under Tom’s shirt again and danced through the thick hair on his belly as they kissed. He turned them around once more and pressed forward. Tom’s butt hit the edge of the stove, and the pan brushed his bare back. He yelped and pushed Craig away.

  “Wha—”

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Tom pulled his shirt up and twisted to look for the cheese stuck to him.

  Craig ran cold water over a dishrag. “Turn around.” He knelt behind Tom but didn’t use the wet cloth. He smirked and said, “Don’t you worry, sweetie. Daddy’s going to make it all better.” He licked the offending bit of dinner from Tom’s tanned back.

  Tom moaned and flexed his butt as Craig licked his way lower, then turned around and said, “Dinner’s going to burn if you don’t—”

  Craig began kissing his belly.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s what you love about me.” Craig took the waistband of Tom’s jeans with his teeth.

  Tom put his h
ands in Craig’s dirty-blond hair and squeezed. “We can’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why not?” Craig asked, slipping his fingers into Tom’s jeans.

  Tom pulled Craig’s head back. “Because I’m not going to let you burn dinner.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.” Craig wiggled his fingers.

  “You know we can’t afford to waste food.”

  Craig stood and stuck out his lip. “Spoilsport.”

  “Besides, I stink to high heaven. Gotta shower.”

  Craig heard a frying sound. “Nooo!” Wisps of smoke were rising with the steam from the pan. Craig stirred frantically, and a glob of cheese hit his thigh, just below the hem of his cutoff jeans. “Damn it!” he said as he hopped on one foot to reach for the wet rag.

  Tom shook his head as he headed to the bedroom.

  “ALL DONE,” Tom said.

  Craig looked up from the trash. He stopped frowning at burned macaroni and brazenly ogled Tom, who wore nothing but thin gym shorts. As Tom toweled his hair, Craig put his arms over Tom’s shoulders from behind and stroked his chest hair.

  “Let’s have you for dinner,” Craig said.

  “Let’s have dinner for dinner.” Tom removed Craig’s hands. “How much were you able to salvage?”

  Craig’s smile faltered. He turned to the fridge. “I know how much you hate tuna, so I decided on a chef salad instead.” He put a head of iceberg lettuce and a pack of American cheese slices on the counter. “I’ll need to boil eggs, but that won’t take long.”

  Tom fought to sound relaxed. “It’s okay, love.”

  “Um, we’re out of eggs, so—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Craig hung his head. “And we’re out of ham too.”

  “Craig….”

  “In fact, the only thing we do have is milk, lettuce, and cheese, besides the macaroni I just scorched.”

  Tom hugged him from behind. “I get my first paycheck this Friday. We’ll stock up at the Piggly Wiggly then.”

  “But it’s Monday. What’ll we do for the rest of the week?”

  Tom kissed Craig’s neck. “We’ve got peanut butter. I read that the Army bought nearly fifty percent of all the peanut butter produced during World War II for field rations. If it was good enough for our men in—”

  Craig leaned against Tom. “Why do you put up with me?”

  “Because you’re the most beautiful, sensitive, and caring man I’ve ever met.” He nibbled Craig’s ear.

  Craig turned and put his forehead on Tom’s chest. “There’s no way I deserve someone like you.”

  “I know.” Tom grinned.

  Craig feigned surprise and swatted at Tom but missed.

  “Hah!” On his way to the table, Tom said, “Now let’s have that delicious Chef Craig salad.”

  TOM RAN a finger through the bright orange dressing left in his bowl and popped it in his mouth. “That hit the spot.”

  Craig was lining up cheese fragments around the edge of his bowl.

  Tom put a hand on his arm. “C’mon, it really is okay.”

  Craig dropped his fork. “I know it is. That’s the problem.” He pulled away.

  Tom kept his voice steady. “How is that a problem?”

  “You’re so damn… understanding and forgiving. You never get angry, and you… you—”

  Tom tightened his jaw. “Okay, when’s the last time we fought?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Breakfast last Tuesday. I wanted the last granola bar, and you wouldn’t let me have it.”

  “Yeah,” Craig said, perking up a bit. “I wrestled you for it, and we ended up on the couch.”

  “And I pinned you good and pried it out of your greedy little hands.”

  “Not before I pulverized it. All you had was granola dust when I finally let you have it.”

  “Let me have it? I took it from you.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Craig stuck out his tongue.

  Tom stuck out his. “C’mere, you,” he said. He reached for Craig again, but Craig pulled back.

  “But that doesn’t count,” Craig said. “We were just playing.”

  Tom clenched his teeth.

  “It wasn’t a real fight,” Craig said. “Real lovers—”

  Tom slammed his palm on the table. Craig jerked backward. “You want a ‘real’ fight?” Tom said. “Okay. Let’s start with the fact that you just burned our last decent meal because you wanted to get flirty instead of taking care of the one thing I need from you while I’m at work.”

  Craig’s mouth dropped open.

  “I’ve got two weeks to prove I can do this job before they’ll take me on permanently,” Tom continued. “Do you have any idea what that does to your head? I have to watch everything I do.” He stood and paced. “Mr. Mann says I learn fast, but I can tell he’s watching to see if I pick up speed. I’ve never done assembly-line work before, Craig. Putting mobile homes together is nothing like carpentry. By the time I get home, I’m not just exhausted, I’m OD’ed on stress. All I can think about is filling my belly and—”

  Craig stood. “You think it’s easy for me? I’m supposed to be painting glorious masterpieces with all my free time. But do you know what Mr. Sanders said to me on the last day of school?” Craig spoke with a thick Southern drawl. “‘Budget’s going to be awfully tight next year, Craig. I’ll do what I can, but you know art’s one of the first things to go when the school board has to start cutting. And Hamilton’s not exactly a cultural center. We tell our kids they can be anything, but the truth is most of them will wind up—’” Craig made a sound of disgust. “Do you have any idea what that kind of stress is like? Not knowing if—”

  Tom yelled. “It’s not a damn contest, Craig. It doesn’t matter which of us has it the worst. What matters is that we each do our part.”

  “So you’re doing yours, but I’m not doing mine.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did,” Craig snarled.

  They glared at each other across the table. Then Tom started for the front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  Tom slammed the door behind him.

  Craig yelled, “All you’re wearing is gym shorts!” Then he whispered, “Idiot.”

  He was trembling. “Damn it,” he said hoarsely, wiping tears with the heel of his hand. “Why can’t I do anything right?”

  He turned toward the bedroom, and his leg touched the edge of his chair. “God damn it.” He kicked it and bruised his bare heel, then buried his face in his hands as he sank to the floor. “Fuck you, Tom Rendelle,” he growled.

  TOM OPENED the front door carefully. The sound of water spraying against aluminum drew him to the kitchen.

  “Hi,” Tom said, leaning on the kitchen doorjamb. Craig kept his eyes down, fiddling with a dish towel as he dried his hands. “Listen, I… I shouldn’t have—”

  Craig threw the towel on the counter and marched into the bedroom. Tom stared at his feet. He heard the bedroom door open and Craig’s voice from the hallway. “You coming to bed?”

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  They undressed with their backs to each other. When Tom couldn’t bear the silence, he said, “Craig—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Craig said in a monotone. “It’s rough for both of us, okay?”

  Tom was dumbstruck. He had expected an explosive torrent of words. It was how Craig got rid of negative feelings. Such a quiet reaction meant he had wounded Craig deeply. Nothing he thought of came anywhere close to the right thing to say. There is no right thing, is there?

  “Yeah.” Tom wanted more than anything to fix the situation, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. He went to the bathroom to drop his clothes into the laundry hamper.

  Craig was fiddling with the last button on his shirt as Tom passed him. As he pulled it off, Tom impulsively embraced him.

  “I’m sorry, okay?
I was completely out of line. I didn’t mean a word, okay? It’s the stress, Craig. You know I’d never hurt you on purpose. I know what you do is important.”

  Craig stood silently, his arms limp by his sides, his head down. Tom was shocked again. This had never happened. Craig was the sensitive one, always eager to make up after they fought. Tom’s apologies were always genuine, but he’d never initiated reconciliation. He had no idea what to do now.

  Without thinking, he dropped to his knees and hugged Craig’s waist. “Fuck, Craig. You’re the most important person in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Tom took a ragged breath. “If anyone here doesn’t deserve to be loved, it’s me.”

  Craig slid to the floor and took Tom’s face in his hands. He stared into Tom’s clear emerald eyes for the longest time, then said quietly, “You’re the biggest asshole in the world, Tom Rendelle. But God help me, I love you.”

  They hugged. Craig wept while Tom stroked the back of his head. When Craig calmed, Tom pulled back and kissed him tenderly. “I promise I’ll never do that again. Ever.”

  Craig wiped his eyes. “Hey, tomorrow’s another day, right?” he said shyly. “We get to start over. Who knows what’ll come our way?”

  Tom smiled. “Yeah. Who knows?”

  II.

  Tuesday morning

  “SOMETHING’S NOT right.”

  “I dunno,” Craig said, “seems fine to me.”

  Tom lifted a Waterford Crystal highball to the sun, delighting in the delicate clink of ice gliding through single-malt scotch put up before he was born.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Tom nodded toward the ocean. “It’s coming from out there. And it’s getting louder.”

  Craig turned over on his towel and grabbed a handful of paper-white sand. “You mean the song?” he said as he drizzled it across Tom’s chiseled abs. “You asked for it.”