by David Connor
“It still feels cold.”
“Damn it! Not cold enough! They’re ruined.”
“They look okay.”
“Damn it!”
“Spenny, relax.”
“Calm down, Spence.”
The more people told him to take it easy, the more upset Spencer got. “How the fuck can I relax? They’re ruined! All twelve.”
“Eleven.”
“Technically thirteen. The extra grooms’ cakes are in here too, for Kevin and asshole.”
“Well, they don’t really need them anymore, do they?” Troy offered.
Spencer fell against the freezer wall. “It’s over. I blew it.”
“You didn’t blow it,” Getty said.
“There’s no time to remake all these cakes. None.”
“I don’t get it,” Troy said. “They’re still cold.”
“There are regulations, Troy, for retail food sales. If this cooler has been off since the power went out… How long has that been?’
“Eight… ten hours, I guess,” Troy supplied.
“I can’t sell any perishable food product that’s gone that long without refrigeration.”
“You’re not selling them. It’s a giveaway.”
“That technicality isn’t really going to cut it. We can eat them. They’re most likely safe, but I can’t even donate them at this point.”
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s also how it is.” Spencer had never felt so defeated. “I thought everything that could go wrong already had.” He closed the door and moved around to the side of the cooler, not even sure what he was hoping to find.
“Let me have a look,” Getty said.
“It hardly matters, Getty.” But Spencer did find something. He pulled on the cord, and there was no resistance. “It’s unplugged.” He held it in his hand. “It’s unplugged. How the fuck is it unplugged? Son of a bitch!”
Troy covered his face. He made a sound, one Spencer didn’t recognize. “I think I did it,” he quietly said.
Spencer tightened his grip on the neck of the power cord, because Troy was too far away. “You unplugged the walk-in cooler? Why?”
“I thought it was the blast chiller. I thought…” Troy’s voice caught. “I thought you would go to use it—the chiller—when the power came back on… and when it didn’t work, you’d call Getty. You wouldn’t even check the cord. You never do. You’d just call Getty. It’s the same reason I’ve been breaking everything else. Did you know if you swing a box of light bulbs over your head in a bag really, really, really hard you’ll break the filament or whatever in them without shattering the bulb itself?”
Spencer was speechless.
“I did it all. Even the window!” Troy put up his hands. “You were arguing, remember? Getty left. I needed him to come back so you could make up.”
“I could give a shit less about the window.” Spencer closed his eyes. He could feel them burn. He didn’t want to cry, and he really didn’t want to show his brother how angry he was. “Where would you ever get such a stupid idea?”
“There was this Hallmark movie with the little sister from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and…”
The cord left a mark in the tile. Spencer had thrown it that hard.
“Spenny… I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t Troy. It can’t be fixed.” Troy tried to catch him as he passed. “Don’t.” Spencer had to get out of there.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, but I want to be by myself a while.”
Troy caught up to him close to an hour later. Spencer was soaking wet, standing at the headstones that marked the graves of Laurie and Warren Holiday.
“Do you hate me?” Troy asked, fingering his Holiday turkey charm on the chain around his neck.
“Of course not.”
“I still have all the money from dad. It’s just sitting there. I want to put it back into the shop.”
“No,” Spencer said. “The bakery has always been my dream, one I ignored too long, because of other things. You have your own.”
“Maybe it’s the same one, though. We can use the money to hire extra help… outsource. We can get the cakes done.”
“You have baby on the way.” Spencer turned to face him. “Dude…” The truth of it all hit him hard. “You have a baby on the way!”
“Holy crap!” Troy said. Apparently it had smacked him upside his young, wet, foolish head too.
“Right?” Spencer finally smiled, and the brothers hugged.
“I wish I was drunk,” Spencer said. “So mom and dad could talk to me.”
“Holiday Brother’s Bakery.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know,” Troy said. “It just came to me. I’m a little drunk. Those three beers you had in the fridge…? All gone. I was sick of cocoa. I’d had eight of those. I was up most of the night.”
“I like it—the name. If you’re sure.”
“Totally!”
“It’s something we’ll still have to discuss. I mean, I can’t eat up a big chunk of your money giving away free wedding cakes.”
“Business has been up.”
“Yes. But… We’ll have to weigh the pros and cons, get out the calculator and figure out investment verses profits.”
“Yuck!”
“True that. I was hoping that would be your thing,” Spencer said. “Running a bakery ain’t all butter and flour. I just can’t imagine disappointing everyone—the grooms, the people who gave us money for no good reason. That’s the worst part.”
“People understand.”
“You think? Even Stefan? He’ll probably give me a hug too, huh?” Spencer caught a chill. “‘Don’t you know enough to get in out of the freezing rain?’”
“You were here first.”
“Wasn’t me.” Spencer leaned in and whispered. “I think that was mom.”
“Let’s do what she says, then.”
The pair headed home.
Chapter 9
Getty wasn’t at the bakery when Troy and Spencer returned. Spencer wondered if he’d left already—for good. “I’ll make the hot chocolate. I’ll spike it with something. Go put on dry clothes.”
“Pajamas?” Troy asked.
Spencer laughed. Troy was still a kid sometimes. “Sure. Why not?” Spencer was going to try to be one as well. “We’ll call it a snow day. Only since we’re men, we’ll celebrate it with booze.” And drown their sorrows as well, he figured.
Even without power, the bakery kitchen warmed quickly. Spencer turned on one of the large gas ovens and opened the door just a bit. He slipped off his jacket and sweater, then struggled with his sopping wet T-shirt, which had molded itself to his torso, front and back, and refused to let go. It was part way over his head when he heard the jingle bells out front, and was still stuck on his arm when he heard footsteps approach.
“Can you give me a hand?”
Getty pulled from the bottom, as Spencer yanked from the top. Finally, the thing was off.
“Thanks.” Spencer turned. “Oh.” It wasn’t Getty.
“No problem.” Noah Netherland stood there with a cameraman. “You thought I was your partner.”
“Wow. You’re good.” Spencer dried his hair with a thick dishtowel, and then offered two fresh ones to Netherland and his colleague. “We only became partners a few minutes ago.”
“Maybe officially.” The newsman wiped off his glasses. “But the way he was looking at you when I was here the other day, he’s been into you a while.”
Spencer cringed. “You’re not talking about my brother, are you?”
“I’m not. He’s cute as hell, but The Supreme Court better never come out in favor of that kind of union or the bigots will never shut up.”
Spencer chuckled. “You meant Getty.”
“The older hottie? Mr. Fix It?”
“That’s him,” Spencer said.
Netherland took his phone from his pocket. “Here. L
et me show you something.” He cued up the news report featuring Spencer’s hideous, super-gay voice. “Wait for it…” He was right at Spencer’s side. “Wait for it… Riiiiiigggghhhhtttt there.” Netherland paused the stream. “Check out the look on his face as he’s listening to what you’re saying.”
Spencer gently pushed Noah Netherland’s arm away. “I see it.”
“So we want to do a follow-up,” Noah said. “We were out capturing footage of the storm for tonight, and since we were in the neighborhood, I figured why not drop by? We’d like to feature… Getty, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s here. Our producer is all for playing up the romantic angle of you two with that of the weddings. Yuletide sweetness all over the place. Hell, you know what would be perfect… if you two announced your engagement.”
“Sorry. Getty’s not here. And The Twelve Gays of Christmas story…” Spencer poured two extra mugs of chocolate. “Just like me and Getty, sadly, it won’t have much of a happy ending, either.”
Spencer proceeded to tell Netherland much of what happened, starting with the tree on the van, and ending with the cooler mishap. “Those grooms—the whole cause—I’m sorry, but it’s all gone to hell. You can tell your producer… your viewers, I guess, I let everyone down.”
Spencer was shocked to see it all on the news the next morning when power had finally returned. He stood in the living room in pajama pants and no shirt, and on TV in wet jeans, bare chested as well.
“Bro,” Troy shook his head. “Chippendales called. They want you for their over fifty Vegas crew.”
“I swear I had no idea they were filming me. That camera dude is stealthy. It’s a violation, I tell you!”
Troy had pulled out his phone. “Facebookers love it. ‘Hot as fresh biscuits!’, ‘Forget the butcher and the candlestick maker, all I need in my tub is the baker.’” He swiped some more. “‘I know what I want under my tree!’ ‘Take off the pants!’”
“It does not say that.”
“Sadly, it does. See?”
One post actually did. “Enough.” Spencer handed back Troy’s phone and turned off the TV too. “We should dress and get down to work.”
“Right behind ya, bro.” Troy gulped the rest of his coffee and palm fed his face a quarter of a bagel.
“Wait.”
Troy turned back. “What?” It sounded closer to the sound a goat makes.
“Did you hear from Isabelle?”
“Quick text last night. She was going to bed early. Nothing yet this morning. How about Getty?”
“Pretty much the same. Something about an early day today. Figuring on lots of repairs.”
“Here or around town?”
Spencer shrugged. “Didn’t say.”
“I could break something,” Troy offered, and when Spencer frowned, he apparently took it as a scolding. “Sorry.”
“No. I’m over it. People know now. That was going to be the worst part—telling everyone. Not knowing I was doing it made it easier. Now we just wait for the fallout. Besides,” Spencer nudged his brother playfully, “there’s nothing left to break. Oh. Guess who I did hear from.”
“Who?”
“Kevin.”
Troy stomped like I child. “I don’t like him.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t like him dating you.”
“Well, we won’t be. He and Stefan made up.”
“Yuck.”
“Totally. Their wedding is back on… poor Kevin. He hopes I didn’t throw away their cake. I guess they didn’t see the news last night.”
“Maybe he’ll take it as an omen. Maybe our bad luck—and my stupidity—were all part of the universe’s message to Kevin. ‘Don’t marry that raging moron, Stefan!’”
A fine mist was still falling outside. It didn’t stop a throng from gathering outside the shop. “Do you see any pitchforks and torches?” Spencer asked.
“No. I don’t see anything in the display cases either, so I don’t know what we’re going to feed them.”
“Hey. Karl and John are out there.”
They smiled at Spencer through the glass.
“They don’t look mad.” Spencer opened the door and let the crowd of nine folks inside. “We don’t have much to offer, but there’s free cocoa and—”
“And no free cakes, like you promised.” Unfortunately, Stefan Noir had been out there as well. “You can’t just pull out of a deal.” Kevin tugged on his fiancé’s arm, but Stefan was relentless. “I’m suing.”
“Just add it to the first one.” Spencer turned his attention to Karl and John. “I’m so sorry it didn’t work out. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to figure out how I can make eleven cakes in ten days. One wedding is in two days, then two the day after that. There are five on Christmas Eve, and even though the last couple aren’t until the week after,” he raised his hands, “I came up with nothing. It’s impossible.”
“How about if you had another cake artist at your disposal?” Karl shoved a really tall guy with a graying goatee forward.
“Hi,” the guy said. “Bertram Talbert.”
“Spencer Holiday.” Spencer shook Bertram’s hand, who didn’t utter another word after that. He seemed as shy as he was large.
“Bertram worked where we tried to order our cake this summer, when we were going to get married in the fall. Then we pushed the wedding back to next spring, then made it winter because of the state, then we met you.”
“Anyway,” John picked up the explanation. “Bertram quit rather than work for a bigoted creep. And he’s not even gay. He wants to help you out.”
“That’s awesome,” some total stranger in a yellow rain slicker said. He introduced himself as Paul Clark, who owned a shipping company. “I saw about your van on the news. Tough break, kiddo. We have a fleet of refrigerated trucks. If you can make the cakes, we can ship them.”
“I’m… I’m overwhelmed,” Spencer said. “The extra help… the deliveries… I still only have so much work space, though, and so many hours.”
“That’s where I come in.”
“H ow so, Mr. Raginini?”
“Since we only open for dinner, I was thinking you could use our kitchen early mornings and after hours. You have to admit it’s convenient, seeing as if it’s right next door. We don’t have everything you need, but we have a mixer, counter, space, and an oven.”
“And grunt workers,” Raginini, Jr. said. “We’ll do all the cleaning before and after, even over here.”
By ‘we’ Spencer assumed the kid meant him and his eight Raginini siblings.
“Spenny, there’s a truck out back filled with baking supplies. Flour, sugar… some babe wants to donate it all.”
The babe was Kim Cunningham, from Cunningham markets headquartered a couple hundred miles away. “I saw the news late last night. Please accept our contribution.”
“Your offers are all incredible. Yes!” Spencer said. “Yes! We can do it. And I’ll make sure you all get credit.”
“You started this,” Mr. Raginini said. “We’re all just happy to be a part of it. I mean, come on.” He turned to the front window where a less supportive crowd had gathered, this one with signs and a rhyming chant. “I don’t think a fairy should have the right to marry.”
“Wow,” Troy said upon hearing it the first time. “Clever. Jerks ought to be writing greeting cards.”
“This anti-gay marriage stuff is just stupid. Love won,” Raginini said loudly. “Get over it.”
The disparaging crowd was still chanting, by the time Getty arrived, though their numbers had dwindled a bit. “I figured I better plug in that cooler,” he said, the glint in his eye that came with his teasing not quite as sparkly as usual.
“Did you hear the news?” Spencer asked.
“I heard it on the news. I saw you. You’re becoming a local celebrity—a studly one.”
Spencer cringed once more. He’d purposely avoided the TV all morning, and even mad
e Troy do most of the talking when Noah Netherland and his shifty camera operator showed up again around 9 a.m. “I actually pulled the thing out—me, Troy, and Mr. Raginini—and plugged it in myself,” Spencer boasted.
“With your sore ribs?” Getty reached out, not quite far enough to touch. “So you don’t need me anymore?”
Spencer froze with one of Troy’s premade dry ingredient blends in his hands hovering over the mixing bowl. “I didn’t hear from you much. You left without saying goodbye—forever—I thought.”
“I would never do that.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You should have.”
Spencer added the mixture. “I did,” he said. “I’m sorry. I did know that.”
“I’m sorry too, Daddy.”
Both men turned to the voice the words had come from. Some of Spencer’s batter makings fell to the floor. He’d thought they were alone back there.
“Isabelle,” Getty said.
She stood in the doorway with Troy. “I need to talk to both of you… about the other night.”
“I love him, Isabelle,” Getty declared. He took his daughter by the wrist. “I’ve loved him almost my whole life, more than anyone except two other people. Your mother and you. I don’t know how to walk away from him, Tinkerbell. I’d have given it my shot… I think I have…”
“I know, Daddy. And you shouldn’t have to anymore. I haven’t been fair either. Mom and I had a long talk last night. We were looking at pictures—recent ones on her tablet and older ones in books. Then we saw you on TV.” She touched her father’s cheek. “Thanks for getting the generator going. Mom never can.”
Spencer smiled. That’s where Getty had rushed off to.
“I mentioned the arguments to mom.” Isabelle turned to Spencer. “The ones I told you about the other day… about the way you looked at Spencer.”
Getty looked Spencer’s way then, and Spencer threw back a slight smile, one that went away when he turned to Isabelle. “I’m sorry.”
“Tinkerbell, it’s not something I even realized I was doing.”
“They can’t help it, Izzy.”
“I know. Just listen. Men… Geeze!”
The three stood there chastised.