The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

  That panel consisted of a moderator—the Sand’s head honcho—plus three chefs from the Valley’s toniest restaurants. He’d watched both Jack and the department head go into raptures when the panel had been announced. That was just before the enormity of what was riding on the show sunk in. The college’s reputation, the students’ resumes, egos all around, hopes and dreams … and Jack’s career.

  Alan had had to make two runs to the pharmacy to keep Jack supplied with antacids. For himself, he’d taken to slugging down apricot schnapps when Jack wasn’t looking. It was no shock to know that whatever his lover was suffering, Alan had it in all its sympathetic glory.

  Mandy turned to her mother and asked, “Where’s Dad, I thought he’d be here by now.”

  Alan swung around enough to exchange a look with Marie. Ted wasn’t there for a very good reason. He’d been sucked into a version of the Spanish Inquisition at the behest of his attorney and his fleet of accountants. Ted had accepted Alan’s report, and tentative conclusions, and put it to work. It hadn’t taken long, when they knew what to look for, to pin down the two culprits running a sophisticated form of shop-chopping. It had extended beyond inventory and pricing irregularities to the new service manager fudging trade-in numbers.

  The meeting that evening was geared not just to finding out the particulars, but also the why behind it. Jack had been the one who suggested that there might be interested buyers waiting in the wings to make an offer at garage sale prices. Apparently that’s what had happened when he’d been forced to close his restaurant. When Alan relayed that suggestion, Ted Mayer’s eyebrows had nearly hit the ceiling. He’d left Alan’s office nodding his head and mumbling, “Good work, Liebowitz. I’ll take it from here.”

  Alan was squirming in his seat wanting to know what was going on. Fate had decreed double-booking on two significant events in his life. When Ted had included him in on the meeting, he’d had to decline. Jack was his priority now, not the job. He’d been there, done that, had the pink slip to prove it.

  Mark nudged Alan’s arm. “Looks like they’re ready.”

  Stagehands made quick adjustments, the sound tech did his thing and the contestants filed onto the stage. The director mouthed, “Three, two…” and filming began.

  Jack was the last one to walk out on stage. Alan nearly swallowed his tongue. Jacques Lambert was every woman and man’s wet dream. Tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous, he moved like an elegant panther dressed in form-fitting black jeans, a cashmere cream-colored turtleneck and tan wool sports coat.

  Alan would have given a king’s ransom to have been in the downtown men’s shop while Marie and Mandy picked out Jack’s wardrobe for his television debut.

  Mrs. McDonough orchestrated donning the caps and matching aprons while Jack explained the rules and assigned the teams to their cooking stations. With one eye on the director, Jack took his cue and wished each team good luck. He then faded into the background while the cameras panned in on each station. Alan was impressed at the voice-over. Jack hated the limelight, but at this he was proving to be a natural. His voice was like smooth chocolate ganache, and Alan smirked when he saw quite a few heads in the audience turned toward his lover instead of focusing on the action in the center of the stage.

  After demonstrating and explaining their choices for ingredients, the students took on the next challenge: plating the ratatouille. The seniors had chosen oversized Italian ceramic bowls into which they ladled and arranged the vegetables. The culinary arts students had selected pure white ramekins, stacking the slices precisely and alternating by color and variety.

  Alan saw Jack hold his breath when the college team removed the steamed crème brulee cups and applied the torch to the surfaces. To Alan’s relief, the kid with the mismatched dreads stayed back while his teammates handled the final step.

  The judges were located to the right of the stage. Each team captain introduced his or her members to the jury, then placed individual servings in front of each judge. The audience went silent, holding their collective breaths while the jury sampled every offering, made notes, and conferred among themselves. When they finally handed the head chef the verdict, Jack approached and joined the man as the results were read.

  Lavishing praise all around for everyone’s efforts, the moderator gave the nod to the culinary arts students for their ratatouille, based on presentation, taste and preparation skills. To the ladies, he presented the award for best dessert, the cherry cobbler winning the hearts and taste buds of each jury member. Alan imagined he could hear his mother screeching all the way from the Bronx.

  It wasn’t until they were ready to leave that Alan realized Ted had joined them. The big man mouthed, “Tomorrow,” to Alan’s quizzical look. He hated waiting to find out the outcome of the meeting, but now wasn’t the time or place. They had a celebration and a dinner to attend. He could worry about his future in the morning.

  Now that Ted had dealt with the issues facing his dealership, it was quite likely he wouldn’t need his accounting expertise any longer. While it wasn’t his dream job, it did bring in enough to keep him and Jack afloat while he schemed to find a way to put his life partner on a solid financial footing.

  Life partner.

  He liked the sound of that. So much so he’d sacrifice most anything to make it happen.

  Saturday morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  ****

  Pulling his jacket on, Jack apologized, his voice belying his weariness. “Sorry I have to run off. The director and the editor want me there while they put the finishing touches on the program.” He shouldered his messenger bag and headed for the door. “The producer also wants additional voice-overs too, so I’m not sure how long this’ll take. Might be late. Run out for pizza later?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be at work until four.”

  Alan watched his lover leave, then cleared the breakfast dishes and rinsed them before setting everything in the dishwasher. The knock on the door surprised him.

  He shouted, “It’s open, Rae. Come on in.” He finished pouring a go-cup of coffee and turned to greet his perky neighbor … and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “Uh, sir? Ted?”

  “Sorry to barge in like this.” Ted sat on the stool and flicked a finger at the coffee pot. Alan poured a mug and reset the sugar and creamer next to it.

  Alan asked, “Is there a problem? Did the meeting…?”

  Ted took a sip and motioned for Alan to join him. “Went fine. Just like you suspected. We were being targeted by an acquisitions group. And not just me. At least three other medium-sized dealers in the valley were under the financial gun using the exact same tactics.”

  “So, what happens next?”

  “First off, I need for you to find me a new service manager, somebody experienced. And somebody I can trust. After that, I let the legal beagles have at it. We’re going to keep this on the QT, at least for now.” His eyebrows lifted, the question clear: did Alan understand the need for discretion?

  The answer to that was a resounding yes. They’d plugged the leak in the dyke. Repairs would take time, out of the public eye, and with no loss of confidence in the dealership’s long term viability.

  The other matter wasn’t so clear cut, so Alan asked, “Um, about finding a new service manager? I’m not exactly the right one for that task, sir. I’ve never…”

  Ted chugged the rest of the coffee and pushed the mug away. “You know how to use the computer. I assume you can dial a phone number. Get on the horn with the employment agencies and find us candidates. Can you do that?”

  Alan swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Right. And for now you’re going to be doing double duty. I’ll get Maudie crunching numbers. She used to be a bookkeeper back in the day. That should free you up, am I right?”

  Alan gave up on trying not to look as grateful as he felt. He desperately needed the work. That he was taking on a shitload of extra responsibility wa
s nothing new. In fact he relished the challenge.

  On a whim, he asked, “Will that include a raise? For the extra work?”

  Grinning, Ted said, “You strike a hard bargain, Liebowitz.” He named a figure that made Alan weak in his knees. Even if it was temporary, with a little belt tightening, he might manage to set a few plans in motion.

  He stood up. “I’ll be ready to leave in just a minute. Let me…”

  “Hold up … Alan.” The man shifted in his seat. “There’s one other thing.”

  Uh-oh. Alan’s belly did a flip-flop. “D-d-did I do something wrong, sir?”

  “It’s Ted. And the answer’s yes and no.” He pointed to the stool. “Sit down and listen. It’s a one-time thing and goes no further than you and me.” He glowered, waiting for Alan to agree.

  Boss. Sir. Ted. Brother-in-law. From hell. Maybe.

  The man confounded Alan. On the one hand, he respected the businessman who cared about his employees and his customers. But the flutter in his gut also reminded Alan that Ted Mayer terrified him. Yet in spite of that, in spite of the mixed messages he gave Jack and himself … he liked the big guy. Marie and the kids loved him. So perhaps he needed to pay attention, listen to what Ted had to say. It cost nothing to hear him out.

  Alan nodded and folded his hands.

  “Okay, here’s the deal…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Toast

  Jack kicked at the door with his boot, too exhausted to shift the two boxes of pizza to find his keys. He braced against the doorjamb, wondering if Alan had made it home yet. They were both working killer hours and while he enjoyed pizza, this was the fourth time that week they’d reverted to take-out instead of preparing something at home.

  Alan opened the door and grinned. “Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch.” He took the pizzas and padded into the kitchen.

  Jack mumbled after Alan’s retreating back, “Got one meat supreme and one veggie.” With barely enough strength to bend over, he slipped his snow-covered boots off and carefully set them on the mat. He hung his jacket on a hook and followed Alan into the kitchen. “Not sure how hungry I am, late as it is.” He’d left the studio at nine-thirty, though his internal clock acted like he’d just stepped through a half dozen time zones. And not in a good way.

  Alan asked, “Did you eat lunch?”

  Jack shrugged. The producer at the television station had kept them closeted in a dark room with the editor for nearly six straight hours. Their only sustenance had been bad coffee and stale bagels. His throat hurt, his voice sounded like a three-pack-a-day gravel pit, and he could barely focus after staring at the monitor and synching the voice-over with the action on the screen.

  “Then you’ll eat. Even if I have to force feed you.” Alan set two slices on a plastic plate and shooed Jack to the couch. “Put your feet up. You look like death warmed over.”

  “That good, huh?” He accepted the food gratefully. Alan could be a mother hen at times, but the man was his mother hen.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Beer?” Alan shook his head no. “Do we have any wine left?”

  They kept their small stash under the kitchen counter in a rack Alan had built to fit in the space. He ducked to look and grunted, “Shit, just that red we were saving to foist on somebody as a house-warmer.” He set it on the counter. “The larder is bare. Officially. Good thing tomorrow is a short day for me. We can go shopping. My list has a list.”

  “I’ll take the red. This was my last day as independent consultant. Next week I have one more set of night classes.” After that, I’m out of a damn job. “Is that the local red?”

  “Chambourcin, yeah.” Alan puckered his brow and recited, “The jewel of the valley, this grape has found a home in our climate. Hints of cherry and blackberry, it has a soft velvety finish.”

  “How do you remember that shit?”

  “Same way you remember what goes in bear sauce.”

  Jack laughed out loud and nodded for Alan to join him. “You know, if I wasn’t so beat, I’d give you a soft velvety finish. Rain date?”

  “More like snow date. I think we’ll need skis to get around tomorrow.”

  Instead of joining him on the couch, Alan paced to the kitchen and back, first with the plates, then the wine. When he ran out of excuses to head back to the kitchen, he turned the TV on and clicked through the channels.

  His lover was fretting about something. He wasn’t the easiest person to read, so getting to the bottom of what was bothering him was a bit like navigating the Grand Canyon on a tightrope wire. There were times when it was best to leave him alone to work it out. But occasionally, all he needed was a nudge to start talking. This seemed like one of those times, so Jack asked, “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  Right.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing from where I’m sitting. Come on, Liebowitz, spill it.”

  Alan turned to look at him, his face flushed. Guilt, or something like it, was riding him hard and threatening to put him away wet. Jack smirked inwardly. There were several ways he could think of to put his lover away wet. Just the thought made him hard. He set the plate on the coffee table and shifted to relieve the pressure in his jeans.

  Guess I’m not as exhausted as I thought.

  Jack’s stomach dropped when Alan said, “We need to talk. I, uh, need to tell you something.”

  Alan sat on the coffee table, his elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasping and unclasping. He was distressed, the kind of upset that was bad news. The kind that would turn their world upside down and inside out. Like when Carmen bolted, just fucking deserted him without a word, and leaving him with nothing. That had been bad enough, but one thing he learned from that experience. As much as it had hurt, this was going to be worse. Because this time he was in love, and whatever hit he took, it was going straight to his heart.

  Prepared to beg, Jack nearly choked on the words. “Alan, please. Don’t do this. I don’t know what I did, but I’ll make it…”

  Alan jerked his head up, his face incredulous. “What? Wait … no. That’s not it!”

  “You aren’t… Y-you aren’t l-leaving me?”

  “Fuck, no. Why would you think that?”

  Confusion, hope and despair warred inside his chest, making breathing awkward, each rasp a testament to how much he cared about the man he would spend the rest of his life with, if given the chance.

  His brows knit tight with concern, Alan pressed for an answer. “What gave you that idea? Tell me.”

  What was there to tell? If he said the words, his lover would leave? Was that even fair to project his own past, his own stupid mistakes, onto Alan? The problem was with him, not the boyish geek with the heavy black frames and a heart of gold. A man who respected family and wanted him, Jack Lambert, to create a new family, with just the two of them.

  Finally he blurted, “I thought it was because I never said it, the words. And you told me it was all right to say them. You said you loved me…”

  Alan closed his eyes and sighed. “With all my heart. Yes, Jack. I do. And I don’t need to hear it back. I don’t work that way…”

  Jack tugged at Alan’s hands, drawing him to the couch and wrapping his arms around the man who was his reason to get up in the morning, his reason to face each and every day. He traced the crease at the corner of his lover’s mouth, following the line to his strong jaw, relishing the feel of rough stubble and knowing, later, that his flesh would ache for that rasp across his overheated skin.

  Alan murmured into Jack’s shoulder, “This is a heck of a Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”

  “Shit, I forgot all about it. I didn’t get you anything.”

  He was about to launch into a litany of sorry, sorry, sorry … but Alan said, “I have something for you. And before you start with the ‘you shouldn’t have’ crap, I need to explain…” Alan stood abruptly and barked, “Fuck it. Just wait there. I’ll be right back.”

  Be
fore he could register that Alan had left the room, he was back, with a legal-sized envelope in his right hand. Jack took it gingerly and turned it over and over, at first clueless as to what the contents might be.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  The air in the room took on weight, a solidity that spoke of crossroads and decisions that would alter the course of his life. Suspicion dawned that he held evidence of a man’s sacrifice and belief and faith in his hands. It was a gift he couldn’t possibly deserve. He removed the piece of paper and stared at it, dumbfounded.

  “Alan, I don’t understand. You don’t have this…” He waved the check. It tumbled from his fingers and settled on his lap. “I can’t accept this.”

  His lover chewed his lower lip for a few moments, then came to a decision. “You can, and you will. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but there’s no way you’re going to buy my story.”

  “Story.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. Ted’s keeping me on until I decide otherwise. Whatever you might think of your brother-in-law, one thing he isn’t, is cheap. We’re going to be more than comfortable for a while, even with the cutbacks at the college.”

  That struck a nerve. As much as he loved Alan, the prospect of having the man support him didn’t sit well. In fact, he’d been waking up in the middle of the night, pacing the living room, his gut on fire, trying to come up with a solution to his employment dilemma.

  Alan pointed to the check. “Some of that’s mine, most of it is from Ted. We want you to find a property and start your own restaurant. If we’re lucky there might even be a turn-key place that’s for sale, so the start-up costs won’t be so high. I can help you with that.”

  Jack was flabbergasted. All he could say was, “Ted?”

  “He said you aren’t as dumb as you look.” Alan’s lips quirked. “I told him it was your suggestion to dig around for investment sharks. I don’t think either of us would have pinned it down without your help. He said … and let me see if I can remember the exact quote. Oh yeah. It went something like, ‘The fucking idiot saved my business, so this is the least I can do.’ And he’s right, Jack. That’s exactly what you did.”