“Does it run in the family?” I ask.
He pokes me in the side lightly and I laugh.
“Well—” he starts to say.
“It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
“Thanks.” He pauses. “I think I’m more like my mom.” Philip exhales loudly and turns to me. “It’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Are your parents accepting of…us?”
His unresponsiveness rattles me. Then he says, “They’re old-school.”
I shrug. “Most parents are. And just a warning: my mother will chase you around the house for a hug. She likes handsome men.”
He pulls me into his arms. “It’ll take time for my parents to warm up to us. I think my mother is having more difficulty accepting me as gay than my father is, which I think is strange. Usually it’s the other way around. But they both know how much I love you. Whenever I talk to them on the phone, I tell them all about you.”
A wink. “All good things, I hope.”
Philip says, “Of course.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is. Sooner or later they’ll have to realize that we’re just two loving people in a happy relationship.”
“Don’t worry. My parents have always been closed-minded about homosexuality because of their religious upbringing.”
“Did you talk to them about being gay growing up?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? Nothing was easy growing up in my house.”
“And now?”
“They’ve come a long way.” Awkward silence. “I think.”
I smile at something Philip told me last year. Ten years is too long to pretend. I turn to him. “I love you, P.”
“I love you more, C.” He kisses the top of my head. “What about your parents?”
“It’s been a long haul for them as well,” I say. “But they were always supportive of me and R—”
There is an uneasy shift in the conversation.
Philip grabs my hand in his. “It’s okay to talk about him.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry. Russ was a big part of your life.”
“Was being the operative word,” I say.
“I’m not uncomfortable when you talk about your ex-boyfriend.”
“Another reason why I love you so much.”
I turn to the windowpane, listening to sleet pecking the glass. “We’re expecting twelve inches of snow by Sunday.”
Philip looks to the bedroom window and then over at me. “That means we’re going to be snowed in with our families.” My face must look stony scared because he says, “Hey, Chris. What is it? You look far away all of a sudden.”
“It’s the book tour my publisher has scheduled for me next week.”
He rearranges his body in a spooning position. “What does your schedule look like?”
I exhale. “Two days of book signings and lectures. But I’m going to be out of town for most of the time.”
“It doesn’t sound too strenuous.”
“I told my publisher that I didn’t want to travel too far from home during the holidays.”
“What’d she say?”
“She sounded put-off by my suggestion, but I stood my ground. I’m only going to be signing in three places. I start here in Milestone County at The Book Nook.”
“I’ll drop by to support you.”
I squeeze his hand. “If you can’t get away from work, I’ll understand.”
“I’ll be there, come hell or high water.” He hugs me.
“I appreciate it.” My smile is paper-thin as I think about the forthcoming weather. “Or snow.”
“Nothing will keep me away.”
I grin. “Then I’ll be at The Bookstore Plus in Lake Placid.”
“We haven’t discussed it, but will you need a lift?” he asks, his breath warm in my earlobe.
“No. The publisher is footing the bill for my transportation.”
He lifts his head, feigning aloofness. “Excuse me. I forgot that I’m living with a bestselling novelist.”
I jab him good-humoredly with my elbow, and with enough force to make him pull backward. “Don’t be ridiculous. Status doesn’t change who I really am.”
“I am very proud of you.” He nibbles my left earlobe.
“After Lake Placid, I’m off to Burlington where I’ll be signing books for an hour at Phoenix Books in Essex Outlet. That same day, I’ll be lecturing and signing at Barnes and Noble.”
He releases a whoosh of air. “When you come home, I’ll massage your feet and draw you a hot bath. Pour you a glass of your favorite organic wine.”
I glide my hand over his. “I dread all of this traveling and lecturing and book signing in just two days before our families arrive.”
“It’ll be worth it. You’ll sell lots of books. Meet your readers. I just wish I could be there for you.”
“Me too. I hate being on the road alone. Sometimes I think promoting a book is more work than writing it.”
“We’ll talk in between signings.”
I stare across the room to the bureau. “Hon, I have something for you.”
“Moi?”
I crawl out from under his arms and pad barefoot to the dresser and pull open the top drawer.
“What is it?” he asks, sounding like an enthusiastic child. I dig through our dress socks and boxer briefs and pull out the small wrapped package I purchased from Antiques & Lore.
Crawling back into bed, I hand him the small box.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Open it.”
He eyes me curiously, turning the silvery-white wrapped box around in his hand. “It’s not Christmas yet.”
“Just open it,” I tell him. “Please.”
“Okay. Okay. Fine. Geez.” As he tears into the festive wrapping paper I watch his eyes grow big as the taped edges come apart in his fingers.
The light from the lamp glints off the face of the watch and his eyes get teary. “If I had enough energy left in me tonight, I’d make love to you a second time,” he says. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. P. And just so you know, I’m a little sore from earlier.”
He leans over and kisses me.
After I come up for air, I say, “You’ve been talking about that watch for weeks.”
“It’s gorgeous. But you shouldn’t have.”
“You wanted it badly.”
“I was waiting for a sale,” he says.
“It may have not been there when you returned.”
He smiles.
“Merry Christmas, Philip.”
“I owe you big time, babe.”
“Just make me a promise that the holidays will go swimmingly.”
His lips navigate my face and neck, skimming my stomach and lower regions. En route, he reaches for the lamp switch, awkwardly, tumbling in the dark, immersing us into complete obscurity.
Round two.
Chapter 8
Monday arrives, and my two-day tour of book signings and lectures begins.
I arrive an hour early at Milestone County’s only mom-and-pop bookshop, The Book Nook, and meet up with the shop’s owners and longstanding friends, Ben and Sara Palters.
Staring at the bookshop’s picture window, I observe an elaborate display of paperbacks of my newest novel, Buried Secrets, piled on a display table in front of the store. A larger-than-life placard of the book’s cover hangs on the back wall of the room where I’ll be speaking.
I smile and look away from the display to somebody waving enthusiastically from behind the window. It is my friend Sara.
She motions me inside.
A tiny bell rings overhead as I step in to the warm and cozy bookshop. Sara offers me a hot cup of Earl Grey and two shortbread cookies.
“Today is a big day,” she says, hugging me, smelling of sweet perfume. “In the last week, we’ve received a scad of online preorders for your new book.”
“I have to say, this new novel is the most satisfying of all
of my works to date. Professionally and personally speaking.”
“Ben and I couldn’t be prouder of you. What does Philip think?”
“Totally supportive. I couldn’t have done it without him. But I will say, there was a period midway through the story when I didn’t think that the plot would pan out.”
“A writer’s life isn’t easy,” she says, smiling coyly. “I don’t envy you.” She wraps an arm around me. “Too many distractions getting in the way?”
I think about my answer before speaking. “The book delved into personal territory for me. Blood, sweat, and tears went into writing Buried Secrets.”
“Sounds scandalous. I can’t wait to read it. Come on. I’ll show you our new addition to the shop.”
She walks me to the back of the room where I’ll be giving my talk. It is impressive. “A cozy nook where browsers can read, drink tea, and chat,” she says.
“As long as they buy the books,” I say.
She pats my back, laughing. “No one is leaving here today without a copy of your new book.”
“I should hire you as my publicist.”
She throws her hands out to me. “Just say when.”
We smile.
I look outside to where snow is starting to fall hard. “I just hope the weather doesn’t keep people away. We’re supposed to get twelve inches of the white stuff by Sunday.”
“A snowstorm won’t keep the good people of Milestone County from coming out to support you.”
The pit of my stomach tells a different story, I want to tell Sara, but she slides her arm under mine and guides me to where she has put out coffee and sugary-glazed donuts for the book buyers.
An hour later, I am staring out into a crowded room of familiar faces. Sara is right: nothing, not even a snowstorm, can keep people away.
I sit in a deep-seated chair by the lectern before my lecture, and my grip is greasy with sweat and shaky on the chair’s arm. I gaze into a crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces sitting in front of me. I feel discombobulated and wrestle with the nagging question poking my inner thoughts: Why do I suddenly feel ill?
My answer arrives shortly after Sara’s brief pleasantries, welcoming everyone to The Book Nook, and her overzealous announcement of today’s events. Over an enthusiastic applause and a barrage of hoots and hollers, I stand and am enveloped in Sara’s arms.
Approaching the lectern, I gaze down at the cover of my novel. I feel myself shaking.
I look up at the many faces staring back at me. I force a smile and draw a deep breath.
I talk longer than I am supposed to, but everyone seems entertained by my lecture. After the closing remarks, I take a few minutes to answer questions from the generous folks, their arms jutting into the air, beckoning me to call on them.
Half an hour later after answering all the creative and spirited inquiries, I thank everyone and start to pack up my belongings and head to the front of the shop to sign books, when a booming voice from the back of the room asks, “Will there be a sequel?”
I stop in mid-stride, grip the book in my white-knuckled hands, and turn to the still-seated audience to find the enthusiastic individual: a tall, redheaded woman hovering in the back corner with a curious grin on her pretty face.
I turn around to adjust the microphone at the podium and look to where Sara is standing a few feet to my left. She nods, encouraging me to answer the question. But as I look back to the woman in the audience, I notice, in the small alcove of books beside her, the sheriff standing in the shadows, waving excitedly, his face beaming.
I smile. “I, um, don’t have any plans for a sequel. At least, not in the foreseeable future.” I pause. “It took me three years to write Buried Secrets. These characters have run their course.” I look to where Philip stands in the corner; a playful grin stretches across his handsome face. I wink back at him. I turn to the audience. “Thanks for the questions. Now shall we sign some books?”
My hour lecture turns into two, and scrawling my signature to the last loyal reader in line, I stand to leave, thanking Sara and Ben on my way to the front door to meet Philip. But I am interceded by Philip’s longwinded secretary, Cora Hastings.
“Hot damn, Christian!” She grabs my arm lightly but eagerly. “I’ve got to tell you, this has got to be one of your best novels yet. I’m not sure if you noticed, but during your lecture, I was sitting in the corner, reading a snippet of the book. I got an earful of your talk, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the story.” Exuberantly, she announces, “It reads like a memoir, it is deliriously good. I’m taking it back to work with me.” She smiles and shows me her coffee stained teeth.
I look outside to where Philip stands by the curb next to his marked car, holding the passenger door open for me. “Which bears the question, Cora: Who is manning the police station?”
She catches me staring at the sheriff and looks back at me, winking. She shrugs and scoffs. “Deputy Samson. Milestone County should be worried.” She waves a hand between us. “Your book is more important.”
I point inside the bookshop to where the display table holds my books. “It looks like today was a rousing success.”
“Well deserved. But the problem with reading one of your books, is that I have to wait two or three years for the next one.”
I pat her on the shoulder. “Thanks, Cora. But I need a break before I start writing my next book.”
“That makes me sad. I wish you’d write faster.” To Philip: “See you at the station!”
He waves in what looks like a salute. “I’ll be there shortly.”
We stand on the sidewalk and Philip leans into me for a kiss. He opens the door of his cruiser. I smile and ask, “What will people say, Sheriff?”
“That I’m one lucky bastard. Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Chapter 9
In our driveway, we sit and stare out at a blustery cold day. The wet, packed snow collects under the oscillating windshield wipers.
“Looks like today was a success,” Philip says, sliding his hand over my leg.
We kiss.
I melt into his savory lips. “It was,” I say. “Thanks for being there.”
He pulls away and turns to dig around in the backseat for something. He asks, “Will you sign it?”
He is holding my book.
I pause. “Of course.”
He hands me the book. “Is something wrong, hon?”
I nod, but cannot look him the eyes. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Was it my snoring?”
“No. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Well, hurry up and get inside. Get some sleep.” He kisses my forehead. “I love you.”
“Do you mind if I sign this later?”
“Not at all. I have to get back to work anyway.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime, babe.” He winks and I lean in for another kiss.
Then he grips me in a hug. Holds me for a few minutes.
“Can I bring you anything for lunch?” I ask him.
“I have a few meetings in Sultan today. So I’ll grab something to eat there.”
“In this weather?”
“Crime never takes a holiday.”
“Drive safely. Call me when you get there.”
“I will.” He kisses me. “Take care of yourself.”
I reach for the door handle and a burst of snow blows inside. “Be careful on the roads.”
“Thanks. See you tonight.”
I watch as Philip makes a U-turn out of the drive and drives away toward the interstate. Standing in the sweeping gusts of snow, I stare down at the book in my hands and wonder: How the next couple of days will go?
Chapter 10
The next morning, over my second cup of black coffee, I kiss Philip goodbye and wish him a happy, productive day.
“And you as well,” he says over the dog-eared corner of our local newspaper, The Milestone Review.
I empty the last b
itter dregs of my coffee into the sink and have to stand on my tiptoes to see past the edge of the skeletal birch trees in our front yard to where a black BMW—my transportation for the next ten hours—idles in the driveway, waiting for me.
“Nice set of wheels,” Philip says, coming up behind me, nuzzling me on the neck with his scruffy beard.
“Thank goodness my publisher is footing the bill and not me.” I whirl around and wrap Philip in my arms. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’ll be back home soon. It’s one of the sacrifices of a writer’s life.” The way he says sacrifices jostles me out of his arms. I look up into his blue eyes, grabbing his hand in mine. “Is something wrong, Philip?”
“Mmm?” He shakes his head. “No. Why?”
“You sound—” I shrug. “I don’t know…different?”
A headshake. “Everything’s fine.”
I look to where a copy of my book lay closed on the marble countertop. I recall my inscription to Philip: To my muse, with all my heart. C.
I look up at Philip and smile encouragingly.
A car horn blares.
“You better get going,” Philip says.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
His long arms hang at his sides and a fleeting smile crosses his face. At the door I tell him I love him. “See you tonight. Good luck today. Be careful.”
He waves limply. “Always, sweetie. Call me when you get to Lake Placid.”
Hanging halfway out the kitchen door, I say, “I’ll call en route.”
He nods. “Knock ‘em dead, baby! Sell lots of books!”
“I’ll put on the good old Christian River’s charm.”
Philip laughs and winks. “It works on me every time.”
I bid him goodbye and close the door behind me.
As I trudge through the ankle-high blanket of snow and slide into the leather backseat of the BMW, I recall my inscription to Philip in Buried Secrets and yearn to be back in his arms.
Chapter 11
On my way to Lake Placid, I make idle conversation with my driver, Antonio, a wisecracking liberal with a penchant for French fries.
We have already stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru in less than twenty minutes after leaving Milestone County.
The Light Between Us Box Set Page 7