by David Connor
“Dude!” Troy waved from the front counter, and Spencer fought his way over to him, through handshakes and pats on the back from regular customers and people he had never seen before. “You okay?”
“What was that?” Getty asked. “About plenty of time?”
The bakery was quite noisy.
“Nothing,” Spencer answered. “Turkey! I’m fine.”
“He’s got paperwork to say so,” Getty said.
“What’s going on here?” Spencer asked.
“It’s been like this since opening.” Troy hugged him. He smelled like vanilla. “People love you, Spenny, because of the whole Twelve Gays of Christmas thingy!”
“Troy…” Spencer offered a subtle sideways Holiday “Shut up” glance.
“No, bro. They love it… the gays. They’re all calling it that.”
Spencer was stymied. “I don’t get it.”
“The newscasts,” Getty explained. “People saw the story.”
“Oh. That seemed like days ago.”
“Nope. Just last night.”
“Oh crap! The window…” Spencer slapped a palm to his forehead.
“I called them,” Troy told him. “Channel Seven. And I sent them the video of the front window we took for insurance back in summer when it was smashed. They had to edit out all your curse words, but they played it on the news and made the correction, explaining how the bigot assholes did it then, and how the same ones are sending notes and threats online now.”
“Oh. Good boy.” Spencer patted his brother curls.
“Woof! Now get out of my way. I have to get back to work. We’re making a fortune.”
Spencer turned. The shelves were nearly empty, but the cash register wasn’t.
“Did you bake?” It came out rather harshly.
“Yeah, Spenny, I did.” So did Troy’s response. “I can read a recipe. I don’t always need them read to me.”
“I didn’t read. I have them memorized.” Spencer toned it down. “It’s awesome you tried.”
“Fuck try.”
“Troy.”
“Here. Taste this.” Troy grabbed a scone.
“Hey!” Mr. Savoy balked. Troy had grabbed it right out of his hand.
“Come back for another one after lunch,” Troy told him. Mr. Savoy was a regular. He was retired, and one of the sweetest people to ever grace Holiday Bakery’s doorstep. “Are they good, Mr. Savoy?” Troy asked.
“Delicious, as always,” Mr. Savoy claimed. “Different, but delicious.”
“Better than Spenny’s?” Troy’s eyes lit up. If it was a contest, his handsomeness would win.
“Equally good. A tasty new variety I hope becomes a permanent fixture on the menu beside the delectable original.”
Maybe Spencer still had some handsomeness left as well.
“See,” Troy said.
Spencer took a bite. It was good. “It is,” he told his brother. “Sea salt?”
“Damn! You’re good. Other than that I stuck to the simple things and took orders for fancy shit.”
“Rule of thumb for food retailers… don’t call your product shit,” Spencer said. “And I’m sorry I doubted you. The scones are delicious.”
“We got orders up the wazoo for Christmas. I hope that’s cool.”
“It’s awesome, Troy. That was the whole goal here.”
“And donations. A few hundred bucks in person and a couple thou online.”
“Donations for what?”
Troy shrugged. “I don’t know. People just want to support us, I guess. Not us… gay rights… love.”
“Wow.”
“Seriously wow, bro. Now if you’re up to it, can you hit the kitchen before the after lunch crowd gets here.”
Spencer smiled. “You got it.” From the kitchen door, “Hey Troy,” Spencer said, “good going.”
Chapter 7
By closing, Troy, Spencer, and even Getty, who had put in a full day in the front of the store, were exhausted. “We set up for morning?” Troy asked. He’d been up to his showy biceps in dough right beside his brother.
“I think so. You really impressed me,” Spencer said.
“Surprised you, you mean. Shocked you.”
“No. I just didn’t know you were even interested in the bakery. You majored in business. I thought…”
“The bakery is a business, numb nuts.”
“I know. Good job, Turkey. Thank you.”
Troy stretched, baring his gut. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. The belly hair proved it. “You’re welcome. Can I get out of here now? I need a shower real bad.”
Spencer laughed. “Yeah you do. Put down your arms.”
“You’re no peppermint torte yourself, pal.”
Troy was probably right. “Sure. Go. We’re in good shape for morning.” They were. Beyond that, however, was a different story, one Spencer kept to himself. “Big plans with Isabelle?”
“Plans,” Troy said. “How big?” He shrugged. “We’ll see. We’re trying.”
“Try really hard.”
Troy hugged his brother, and then mussed his hair, leaving it white on top. “Aging before my eyes,” he joked, but then he turned serious. “Come upstairs soon. You just got out of the hospital.”
“I will.”
Troy giggled. “You said hard.”
“And be careful out there if that storm comes.” Spencer chuckled too.
He opened the back door the moment he was alone and looked up. It was way past four—hours and hours past—and though the sky was overcast, nothing fell yet from the clouds, though all the weatherman still predicted it would start very soon.
Meteorologists overreacting as usual, he thought. Spencer went to the cooler next, where Rex and Charlie’s wedding cake was. Spencer wanted to reinforce the wrapping for travel.
“What are you doing?”
Spencer jumped higher than he had in the ensemble of West Side Story in high school. “Not good for my heart, Getty. Jesus! I thought you went home.”
“And I thought, ‘There’s no way I can trust him.’ Guess I was right. You’re intending to drive that cake over, aren’t you?”
“Just like I planned a couple of days ago, yes. Just a few hours later.”
“Spence…”
“It’s not doing anything out there, Getty. The roads are fine, and my paperwork said don’t drive for twenty-four hours. It’s been twenty. Close enough.”
“I still think you should hire someone.”
“And I answer the same—with what?”
“The register is full of cash, checks, and credit card receipts.”
“And if it wasn’t for the free cakes, all of that money would look great in our account.”
“Take some of the donation money.”
“No way. I’m not keeping that money. It’s for some charity. We’ll figure out what one later.”
“Then let me deliver it.”
“It’s my responsibility.”
“Damn, you’re stubborn! At least let me come with you.”
“I want my father to be happy… just not with him.”
“It seems like we can’t really spend more than five minutes alone without that happening.”
“Not a good idea.” Spencer touched Getty’s sleeve. He didn’t dare go for skin. “I depend on you way too much. I may as well get used to not having you around now.”
“Spence, I—”
“Look. If the storm even starts, it’s moving north to south. I’ll be driving away from it,” Spencer said.
“Until you turn around and come home.”
“It’s a six hour trip. The storm will be winding down by then. Maybe it’s better I’m leaving later. If you really want to do something… one last thing… maybe you can help me load the cake. And then go home and get some sleep.”
Spencer won the argument. At least he figured he had, until halfway through the trip, just as the precipitation began pinging against the roof of the van, he noticed the same truck ha
d been following him a while. “Son of a…!” Spencer dialed Getty on his Bluetooth device.
“Yes, Spencer.”
“Is that you?”
“I said yes, Spencer.”
“Damn it. I should have known you gave up too easily.”
“Does Troy know where you are?”
“I promised to call him every hour.” Spencer turned on the wipers. “Does Isabelle?”
“She’s at her mother’s.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Spencer turned on his high beams.
“Lows are better in this weather, at least for now.”
“You’ll be sure to tell me when to switch over,” Spencer said with an edge, flipping the lights back down as the sleet came right at him, like meteorites in some video game or in Star Wars 3-D.
“Just concentrate on the road.”
“What about you with the country Christmas music crap I hear in the background.”
“I need some holiday spirit.”
“I keep forgetting it’s Christmas. It feels more like silent night, wedding night, or carol of the wedding Bells…”
“For the twelfth gay of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”
“Twenty-four golden riiiiiings,” Spencer sang.
“This would have been more fun if we were riding together.”
Spencer jacked up the heat in the van. “It’s getting chilly.”
“We’ve run out of small talk? We’re down to comments on the weather already?”
“How about you tell me about your new place.” It seemed as good a time as any to bring that up. “Guess I have to find a new handyman and a new…”
“Kevin?”
“Hardly.”
Getty was quiet after that for a long stretch of highway. As they entered Rex and Charlie’s hometown, Spencer checked his GPS for the hotel’s location. He’d happily just listened to Getty breathe and hum along to Faith Hill, Blake Shelton, and a few performers Spencer didn’t know. Country music wasn’t really his thing. It was kind of cute that Getty kept the line open. “We’re almost there,” Spencer said. “Shiiiiiiit!”
“Spencer!”
Vans weren’t supposed to go sideways. Maybe he’d made the turn to the hotel’s side street too quickly. Whatever had happened, Spencer was no longer in control of his vehicle.
“Spencer! Are you okay?”
The van skidded. It spun around three times, and then there was a crunch. “Son of a bitch!” Then the pain came, as the delivery truck finally came to a stop against the trunk of a huge, old oak, its canopy sagging under the weight of the ice already accumulated on its leaves, unaware they should have dropped by now, even though the weather had been warm to that point.
“Spencer!” Getty was at his driver’s side window.
“The cake!”
“Spencer!”
“I’m okay.” He hurt like hell. “Check the damned cake.” Pain shot through him—ribcage to ankles—and it was pure agony when he went for the door handle. Getty held out his hand, and the support was most welcomed. “Fuck!” Still, Spencer slipped as he set down his second foot. The roadway was precarious, and his leg was quite shaky.
“It’s changing over to snow,” Getty announced.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not supposed to snow here.”
“That’s what the weatherman who predicted a foot kept saying,” Spencer said through gritted teeth as they approached the van’s back door. “He doesn’t know I’m jinxed, I guess.”
“You should call Troy,” Getty said. “It’s been almost an hour.”
“Eleven songs on your CD player.”
“You into it yet?” It was obvious Getty was going for distraction.
“Not even close.” Spencer sighed in relief. The cake was still upright when they opened the swinging doors. “I’ll text him.” He went back to Troy. “When you talk to Isabelle, not a word about the crash, Getty. I don’t plan on telling Troy.”
“No need to worry them. That thing’s in there good and tight.” Getty went back to the cake, though Spencer went somewhere else in his head.
“Damn right.”
“Will the van move?”
A tree branch made an answer irrelevant. It snapped, the sound like a gun shot, then landed on the front of the van, smashing the windshield. Spencer stood there astonished, and then, he started laughing. Getty joined him. They were side by side. Actually, Spencer was pretty sure Getty was holding him up. “I quit!” Spencer said. “Fuck you twelve gays of Christmas! Fuck you weddings! Fuck you love! I’m done. It’s over! I quit it all!”
“Now… calm yourself down.” Getty turned him so he leaned against the side of the truck. “We have less than a quarter mile to go. We’ll take it up in the back of the pickup.”
“Oh, sure. Icing loves rain.”
“Spencer, the frigging thing is wrapped like King Tut. It’ll be dry as bone. We’re the ones getting soaked.”
“Yeah. Why the hell is the snow melting to water the second it hits us, yet it’s piling up on the ground?”
“Temperature difference.”
“That was bitchy and rhetorical, Getty. There was no need to answer.”
“And that was just bitchy.” Getty walked away. Spencer wouldn’t have blamed him had he left, but he climbed back in cab of his Chevy, and then backed it right up to the van. “Watch your step.” Getty almost fell, and then he warned Spencer, as together they pulled, lugged, and balanced, finally setting the cake on the tailgate.
“Be a hell of a thing to get this far and then drop it.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Getty said.
They made it to the Hotel, Getty white knuckling it the rest of the way in silence, no Reba belting out “Holly Jolly Christmas” or Wynona singing “Oh Holy Night”. It took them a good five minutes to inch their way up the ramp Brian Boitano could skate on. Then they settled the cake unsteadily, while Spencer wrestled in his pocket for the keys.
“Alarm system,” Getty suddenly said.
“Fuck!” Spencer hadn’t thought about that.
“They didn’t give you a code?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe they disconnected it? Maybe there isn’t one on this door?”
“Come on,” Spencer grumbled as he struggled to line up the keycard with its slot. “Damn it!”
“It’s like sex in the dark. Feel your way.”
“Incredibly helpf— Oh. I got it.”
“See.”
Spencer regained a secure grip on the two hundred pound work of art. “So far so good. Let’s get it inside.”
There was an alarm pad just beside the door.
“It’s green,” Getty said. “Green is good.”
“Maybe the card shuts it off.”
“Could be. Let’s get this thing in the cooler and get out of here.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The cake barely fit the height of the hotel’s refrigerator, but they made it. Spencer set a notecard he’d written in front of it—a bit wrinkled from his pocket—wishing the hot, happy couple many wonderful years. “Done and done,” he said. “Let’s get back on the road, so I can crawl under the—”
The siren was deafening.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Whaaaat?” Getty asked.
“I said… Never mind. Shit!”
“I heard that.”
“Enjoy your hearing while you can. We’re both going to be deaf in ten more— Oh.” The siren stopped as suddenly as it had started. “That’s better.”
“Why’d it stop?” Getty asked.
“Like I know. Let’s book.”
Getty was first to the door. “Um…”
“It’s frigging locked, isn’t it?”
“Naw… Just frozen, maybe… from the storm.” Getty tugged.
Spencer yanked.
They pulled with both hands.
“Mother fricker!”
“It
probably locked as part of the alarm setup.”
“I don’t see a keycard slot on this side.” Spencer ran his hand down the wall.
“Nope.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Yup.”
The telephone on the other side of the kitchen rang, scaring the crap out of Spencer. He jumped, then he hurt from the impact of the crash. “Should we get it?” he asked, his hand still on his chest.
“It’s probably the alarm company. If we explain what happened, maybe they can let us out digitally from onsite.”
It sounded like a good plan to Spencer. Unfortunately, the alarm company rep, who was probably a billion miles away in India, wasn’t going for it. “We had permission to be here,” Spencer told her. “But we forgot to get the code. I dropped off a wedding cake, and now I’m ready to—”
“Please hold.”
“I’m on hold,” Spencer relayed. “Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire.’”
“There’s a song that screams yuletide.” Getty warmed up by the heat duct.
“It’s not Christmas in Mumbai.” Spencer shifted from foot to foot.
“I think it is.”
“Oh.”
The alarm tech came back to the phone. “We’ve confirmed with the owner that there was to be a late night delivery.”
Spencer raised a victory fist. “Yes! Ow. That’s me. Give me the code, and I’ll let myself out.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to do that, unfortunately.”
“She’s not allowed to give out the code,” Spencer told Getty.
“In fact, since the alarm went off,” Jennifer stated, “the old code will no longer work. Hotel employees will receive a new code by text between four and seven a.m.”
Spencer groaned.
“In the meantime, I would be most happy to send a representative out to you who can let you out once you present him with proof you are who say you are.”
“Fine. No problem. I’ll show him my drivers’ license and my frigging bakery business card.”
“Please allow me to set that up. Thank you for your patience and cooperation.”
“I have none of the first and no choice on the second, but I shouldn’t take that out on you.”
“I understand.” Jennifer was way too nice. “I see here we can have someone out to you in three to seven hours.”
“Three to seven hours!”