The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

  And maybe not just Jack’s dream…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Comfort Food

  Jack leaned over the counter, drawing a blank. Being on deadline sucked, not that he wasn’t used to it. But a lot was riding on the next three weeks, a make-or-break situation that had the potential for keeping him within spitting distance of taking control of his life. And pulling his financial weight when it came to paying bills and sharing equally in their future.

  It wasn’t fair to his lover, but he’d been feeling like a kept man. And that wasn’t exactly his style. Then Alan’s world collapsed and the burden to provide was squarely on his own shoulders, even with Ted’s generous offer.

  This isn’t helping…

  Alan shuffled out from the bedroom in bare feet, a terry cloth robe tied loosely around his solid frame. He never tired of watching his lover. The way he moved, how he squinted without his glasses, the high forehead with a widow’s peak accentuating thick, wavy light brown hair.

  “What’s doing?” Alan had been born and raised in the Bronx, but he’d been in the valley long enough to pick up the speech patterns. Mandy had proclaimed his lover “cute” and he wasn’t about to disagree, especially when his man gave him a devilish grin, his full lips in an uptick like he knew something he shouldn’t.

  “They called off classes today.” At Alan’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “Freezing rain. Everything’s shut down.”

  “Even the college?”

  “Yup, good thing too.” Jack scrolled through his file folders, then tapped a finger on the screen. “Morris offered me the fill-in class for Mondays and Wednesdays, starting next week. I need to get a syllabus together.” He backed against the sink and muttered, “Damn.”

  “What’s the problem? That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, except…” He spun the laptop for Alan to look at the list. “See that?”

  “Uh, recipes?” His eyes flicked over the screen, pausing… “This looks good. Paella. Could we make this tonight? Do we have the ingredients?”

  “No saffron. I looked.” He glanced at the refrigerator. The temptation to keep the delicacy fresh often led to storing it in the refrigerator, a sure-fire way to destroy the efficacy of the highly aromatic spice.

  Alan gave him a smug look. “I have a few threads left.” He pointed to the cabinet furthest from the stove. Jack opened the left door and searched the shelves. “Lowest, in the plastic container.” He mumbled an apology for not labelling the small sandwich-sized bin.

  With a smile, Jack said, “Well, I’m impressed. Not many people know to keep it light-and air-free.” Jack deliberately set his face in food snob mode, lips pursed and chin tilted up. When he tried going for the Gordon Ramsey glare, all he managed was prissy. That was the deck he got dealt so he made the most of it.

  “Are you saying I’m not as dumb as I look?” The man had a twinkle in his gold-flecked brown eyes, baiting him. It made his heart clench to know his lover and his friend felt good enough to tease and give back as good as he got.

  Jack reached over the counter and squeezed Alan’s chin. “You better not be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need help.” And that was no joke. “This class is not exactly in my skill set.”

  “I kinda doubt that.” Alan jutted his chin, his mouth set in a straight line. All teasing aside, he asked, “What’s it about?”

  “Comfort food.” Jack grimaced. “The slow cooked way.” He swept his arm in the direction of the stainless steel beast owning pride of place next to the stove.

  Looking perplexed, Alan muttered, “But, there’s nothing to it. You dump a bunch of stuff in the cooker in the morning, set it on low for six or eight hours, come home and … voilà, dinner’s served.”

  “Exactly. Goddammit, they don’t need me to teach this class. Mrs. McDonough could do it with her apron tied over her eyes!”

  Alan chuckled. “Her and Miz Samuelson… Probably better, too.”

  “Not helping, Liebowitz.”

  Sitting at the counter, Alan clicked through the list of folders. “How many classes do you have?”

  “Six altogether.” Jack walked around the counter to join his lover. They both contemplated menu selections designed to lighten restaurant patrons’ wallets, not warm their bellies and leave them sleepy. “And that’s not the bad part. Dean Morris is sending a dozen or so of the new culinary arts students to observe.”

  “Oh.” Alan was quick to see the implications. “I’m guessing this is sort of a tryout, interview, firing squad thing?”

  “If I can’t come up with five two-hour classes of new and unique and tasty slow-cooked dishes? Firing squad.” He didn’t bother voicing the fact that if he lost the community college teaching gig, he’d been knocking on doors, applying for dishwasher positions. Or worse yet…

  Hi, my name is Jacques and I’ll be your server. Our specials for this evening are…

  Folding his arms over his chest, Alan tucked his chin and chewed his lower lip. Even though they’d been together only a short time, Jack recognized an idea brewing. Sometimes he forgot Alan was an accountant, used to fudging numbers all day long. It never failed to surprise him how good at brain-storming Alan was when challenged. He saw patterns no one else could fathom and put them together in novel ways. Jack suspected that’s why his old boss had kept him close. Alan was an asset.

  Jack was willing to stand by that conviction, and the fact that the tall man was also his asset was just icing on the cake. If anything, Alan Randall Liebowitz had the chops to become a really good chef. As it was, when they worked together in their miniature kitchen, they moved as a team, with Alan assuming the duties of sous chef like he’d been born to it.

  Jack had often thought that if Alan had been younger, he could have gone all the way. In fact, if he’d had the wherewithal, when Alan was laid off, he would have broached the subject of his lover going to a culinary institute. Baltimore and his own alma mater were too far away, but the Big Apple was a bus ride and a few subway stops to Canal Street. Or if he drove, the Holland Tunnel would drop him close enough, though parking was still a bitch in that part of town.

  “Jack?”

  “Uh, sorry. What did you say?”

  Shaking away the cobwebs, and trying to put aside pie-in-the-sky dreams for a future that wasn’t ever going to happen, was enough to kick start his anxiety level about the looming class. There was nothing so comforting as knowing Monday was the start of not just a new week but also his inevitable downward slide into culinary oblivion.

  “You’re your own worst enemy, Lambert.” The words whispered over his ear lobe, a sigh of exasperation.

  Alan wasn’t telling him something he didn’t already know. It could have fueled anger or resentment, but his nerdy, geeky accountant had that something extra—kindness, caring, ESP—he didn’t have a clue. But whatever it was, the man was sensitive to every nuance, and he cored right down to the truth, however painful it might be, without ever letting him hang in the wind. The accountant with the heart of gold had his back.

  Like right that minute…

  Somehow, Alan had circled the wagons by gathering him into strong arms and parking his cheek in the crook of his lover’s shoulder. His own exposed skin warmed with a pulse that thrummed like the comfort food he was supposed to be conjuring.

  Jack mumbled, “Shit,” into the notch where bone and tendon stretched invitingly.

  Alan said, “Pot roast.”

  Jack could feel the laughter bubbling in his lover’s chest, now bare as his wandering fingers spread the robe apart. Temptation warred with the need to stay on message, and as frustrated as he flet, it wouldn’t take much to distract him in the direction of the bedroom.

  Alan proved to be the more resolute. “Nuh-unh, buddy. No hanky-panky until we get your little problem figured out. Come on. Let’s do this together.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Jack followed his lover into the kitchen. They stood shoulder-to-shoul
der, holding hands, and surveyed the slow cooker.

  After several seconds, Alan spoke. “Are the ladies going to be in the class? I mean, in addition to your jury panel.”

  Jack ran through the list in his head. Alan jotted down the names on a notepad that magically appeared from the kitchen junk drawer. All but two of the regulars had signed up, but mercifully not his teeny-bopper fan club. Having them would have presented a level of difficulty far and above the necessity to make a crap cut of meat not just tasty but visually appealing. Tasty he could handle. Plating it to impress his boss … that might be another story.

  Chewing on the end of the ballpoint pen, Alan nodded, his lips moving silently. Finally he said, “Mrs. McD does the potluck for the RC church off of Hecktown Road. She’s good for pork loin, hamhocks and sauerkraut … maybe even stuffed cabbage. I know she’s good with the pork loin.”

  Jack objected, “You’re Jewish.”

  “Half. The other half is Roman Catholic, remember? That makes me officially non-denominational when it comes to cuts of meat.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. You’re telling me this because…”

  Alan cut him off. “Mrs. Silverman, on the other hand, is your go-to chicken soup with matzo balls.” He scribbled something on the notepad. “Oh, oh… and, geez, can’t recall her name, the short lady with the blue hair…”

  “They’re all short and they all have blue hair.”

  “She wears the seventies pantsuit, sits in the second row. Can barely see over the table.”

  “Mrs. Tauber?”

  “Yeah, fine, that’s perfect.” Before Jack could ask again, Alan said, “Each of these ladies has a specialty. Mrs. McDonough is good for two classes, Alice’ll be thrilled to bits to do the soup and Miz Tauber will be over the moon if you ask after her curry.”

  Chewing his bottom lip, Jack saw where Alan was headed. Audience participation would up the interest level and probably his evaluation at the end of the class. Plus it offered the culinary students a look at cooks who had not just a lifetime of experience but could also bring some culture and history to the table. So to speak.

  Jack grinned. “What about the freshman culinary students?” He wasn’t above putting them in the hot seat and forcing them to produce along with his old hands.

  No pun intended, ladies. Y’all have more meals under your flowered aprons than I’ll ever manage in a lifetime.

  “How many are there?”

  “Ten, as of last count.” And the department head. The one with the gun. Aimed at his ego.

  Alan was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a charming sight given the robe hung loose, freeing up all the interesting bits and bobs on his lover to move in ways that shot his libido through the roof. Jack had already rocketed way past hanky-panky and was veering left into this isn’t legal in some states territory.

  He was about to reach for the object d’ distraction when Alan chortled, “Make it a contest. Divide them into teams, the ladies against two or three of the freshmen. The rest of the class can be judge and jury.”

  While Alan perused the instruction sheet for the combination cooker, Jack fleshed out his syllabus on the computer. The trick would be organizing the contest so that it contained an element of spontaneity without having it seem like a set-up. The ladies were not shy, not a one of them, and making sure everyone felt they could participate equally was key to making the class an enjoyable success.

  If the department head planned on attending every class, then the man was the logical choice as final arbiter, along with one of the senior class members. He looked up at Alan, his heart doing double-time in his chest. That was followed by a waterfall of guilt. He’d been so focused on his own problems he’d completely forgotten Saturday was Ted-Day. Alan was walking into a new job, one he had little training and experience for, with a boss who had the capacity to drive him batshit crazy.

  And there was another concern. Alan had a temper. He’d smashed to smithereens a kitchen cabinet full of ceramic dishware in a shouting match with his former live-in. And broken the man’s nose. Over curry. The sores on Alan’s knuckles had healed, but Jack still remembered the nights kissing away the bruises. And despite Alan’s claims to the contrary, those bruises had gone more than just skin deep.

  If you’re sensitive about curry, lover, I’m not sure what’s going to happen when Mr. Potty Mouth lets loose with Tedisms.

  Whatever went down at the dealership over the next few weeks … to have his lover go mano-a-mano against his brother-in-law? Well, he’d pay good money to see that.

  “Paella?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” He really needed to pay attention.

  “We can make the paella in the crock pot.”

  “Yeah, but… Um, I was going to show you…” Alan held up a finger and gave him a look that melted his bones into a puddle.

  “One pot. Set it to slow cook for four or six hours. Nothing else to do on a snowy day.” Alan rubbed his palm over his pecs, tweaking a nipple.

  Jack felt saliva pool in his mouth as his erection pressed painfully against the zipper. He muttered, “Fuck me,” and looked away quickly as Alan’s handsome face split into a devilish grin.

  “Patience, grasshopper. Now, list of ingredients, please.”

  Jack wanted to whine, but I don’t wanna wait, except for the fact that the joy of watching his lover prepare the meal under his direction was right up there with foreplay as one of his favorite things to do with the man in the terry cloth robe.

  Tapping a fingernail on the counter, Jack reeled off the list. “Chicken, either the boneless thighs or breast. Whatever we have. And the bag of frozen shrimp.” Alan grimaced. “I know, I know. But if we don’t want to clean the car off and schlepp our way to the store, we’ll use what’s on hand.”

  Obsessive to a fault, Alan arranged the ingredients on the counter. He handed Jack the knife. “Here, you chop the pepper and onion, and crush the garlic cloves while you’re at it.” He fondled the chorizo suggestively. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “The sausage, dammit.” Rolling his eyes, Jack tried not to look. It was a losing proposition.

  When Alan reached for the frying pan to sauté the sausage, Jack said, “You can do it in the cooker. It browns too.”

  “Cool beans.”

  Alan listened carefully as Jack instructed him in layering the ingredients, starting with the brown rice, and adding the smoky paprika, turmeric and sea salt. He topped it off with the canned tomatoes and chicken broth. Satisfied with his efforts, he adjusted the lid and set the timer for five hours.

  “What about the saffron? I thought that was a staple.”

  “We’ll let the smoky paprika substitute since I’m not sure about how slow cooking will affect the flavor. I actually never tried making it this way before.”

  Alan picked up the frozen bag of shrimp and put it back in the freezer. “This goes in last, am I right?” He opened and closed a drawer. “We’re out of carrots.”

  “Are we really? Fancy that.”

  Jack eased around the counter and grasped Alan around the waist, making sure his lover felt his interest.

  Alan chirped, “I have a large cucumber.”

  “So do I, lover.”

  Alan held it up, his eyes crinkled with mirth at the corners. “As big as this one?”

  “Why don’t you come and find out?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ted

  Alan stared glassy-eyed at the vast expanse of parking lot and the “all hands on deck” call to clean off the vehicles sitting in ordered rows in front of the showroom. Snow-covered vehicles. Being the tallest, other than Call-me-Ted, he had the remains of a paintbrush on a stick with which to attack the errant flakes.

  They’d started street-side first, probably not the wisest choice. The infamous Auto Mile traffic was still high, with slush being kicked to the side in riotous abandon. The two adjoining dealers on eit
her side had had the wherewithal to engage in a judicious retreat when the weather turned nasty. Those lots sported a two vehicle wide empty space at the street edge, avoiding the icy sludge pummeling Ted’s high end sedans.

  The reason for the oversight was Ted had been personally supervising Alan’s indoctrination into the intricacies of the accounting system, and no one on the floor saw fit to sound the alarm. Alan was going to point out it was the lack of initiative of the sales staff, not his being a distraction taking up the boss’ valuable time, that was at fault.

  Unfortunately, he’d been in the direct line of fire when Ted understood the nature of the crisis and spewed, “Let’s see if you can handle a broom better than…” The man didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t have to.

  Alan could see regret pouring off the boss man in waves—regret he’d taken on a rank novice, someone he’d have to babysit in lieu of doing more important tasks like glad-handing the customers and running roughshod over the service department staff. And it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume he also had regrets over taking on his queer brother-in-law’s lover, just because.

  It hadn’t helped that they’d come to loggerheads early on. Alan had had the temerity to suggest a customer not be approved for financing. That decision was based not just on a credit score but a few other troubling markers Alan had found when exploring the buyer’s credit history. Those numbers didn’t add up, nor did the entire system of irrational calculations required to snare a customer into leaving with the deal he couldn’t say “no” to.

  So far, he gotten a raging case of heartburn and a feeling he was missing something that should have raised a red flag somewhere along the line.

  He was mumbling to himself about smoke and mirrors when the receptionist nudged him out of the way so she could get by. She smiled and spoke kindly. “Don’t mind him, hon. He’s like that with everybody.”

  “Is he, now.” He glanced down at the small woman, happy to have someone to talk to. In his experience with the church groups he patronized when loneliness took its toll, older women who called him “hon” usually had his best interests at heart.