by Willa Okati
“A finger in every pie,” David said with a grin. He looked at the old woman with real affection. “You take care, Doralee.”
“Only if you do the same.” She shooed him away. A customer had wandered up to her booth. “How about this, then? Real clover honey ...” he heard as she started on her spiel.
Smiling to himself, David tipped his new hat at her and walked away. He felt himself swaying with the beat of the crowd. Just like ocean waves. In the water, it didn’t matter if you were fat or if you didn’t know how to move. You just went with it.
This was his ocean.
Doralee watched David go, admiring the way the cowboy hat sat on his head. He does cut such a jaunty figure, she thought, wistful for her own youth. In times past, they would have sung songs about a highwayman, just after a glance at his face. Even the spectacles he hates so much set him off to a very T.
With a tap on her nose, Doralee morphed into Liam, who sat back kicking his legs merrily. The old woman would be due back from her vendor’s meeting at any moment. He shouldn’t have played such a trick in her likeness, but how could he have resisted? It had been hard enough to conceal his glee at seeing that David had come to the Fest after all. How better to celebrate it than giving him a blessing he would accept, and another kiss for even greater luck?
“There y’are, young man,” the real Doralee said, thumping Liam’s shoulder heavily as she sat down. “Did you take yourself a jar of that honey and a hat, like I said, for minding this place? Sorry it took me longer than I thought.”
“I did at that.” Liam stood, bussing her cheek, exactly where David had kissed him. “Good night and good sales to you, and may pretty fortune follow such a pretty lady!” Waving off her chuckles, he made his way through the Fest. He had one more errand to run, just to ensure the pieces were set in motion, then he would be able to rest.
David was special. He deserved the best Liam could give him.
Yes, David was worth more than the price of a Tear.
Chapter Three
One thing about Flea Fests like this, even the pricey ones -- you had the joy of sifting through the trash and the treasure. David had his eye out for the latter and not so much for the former, but he found himself stopping at almost every table he passed. Everyone had a story to tell, and he could take all night if he liked; besides, he loved to listen.
“You had to close down your store?” he asked the thin Mexican-American man standing behind a folding table filled with candy, potato chips, and a few things like spiral notebooks and Band-Aids. “I’m sorry, amigo. The tax man isn’t fair.”
“No, he is not.” Manuel shook his head. “You want to buy one of my goods? I make you a special deal. Two for the price of one. A man like yourself, he enjoys his candy, no?”
David forced down a flinch. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I do.” And it wasn’t like he could walk away after talking with the man for so long.
He scanned the rows of brightly-printed labels and, to his pleasure, spotted a kind of chocolate he’d seen Christian munching on whenever they visited each other outside of the Brotherhood meetings. There were also a few good gold-wrapped pieces, the quality candies ... Those would be nice for Quentin -- too often he forgot about eating and keeping his blood sugar up.
“I’ll take these,” he said, pushing them at Manuel with a smile and a folded five-dollar bill.
“I get your change.” Manuel began opening a small wallet, pitifully flimsy.
David pushed his hand aside. “It’s okay. Keep it.”
“I don’t take charity.”
Crap. David scanned the crowd, but of course there weren’t any children out this late. He held out the shopping bag he’d bought from a strolling merchant. “Fill it up, then.”
Manuel’s grin as he tossed in handfuls of candy was almost worth being loaded down with fattening treats. It’s okay, David consoled himself. I can give it all away. I don’t have to eat it. I don’t.
Manuel clapped David on the shoulder as they parted ways. “You’re a good man,” he said before turning to his next customer. David shook his head as he meandered away.
The next table held candles molded and carved into all sorts of amazing shapes. Thumbing his cowboy hat back a little to get a better view, he was impressed with the craftsmanship. There were dolphins, mermaids, simple columns with gold-leaf runes, and ... oh. He dropped one with a blush. Dear God, they were all dildos!
The vendor, a sharp-eyed young woman, leered at him. “You don’t want one of these?”
David knew he’d turned dark red. “No, sorry, no.” He hastily backed away. He had been thinking of one for Liam and, truth to tell, even now that he knew what they were, Liam probably wouldn’t turn one down, but ... uh-uh. Besides, wax? Sounded kinky. He wasn’t all that sure about melting temperatures, either.
The woman laughed at him as he went. David shoved his free hand into his pocket, sinking into a light gloom.
If I’m a good man like everyone says, why do I invite so much trouble? First Tommy, then ... well, everything else that’s happened during the year. Micah and his diets, now this woman. I guess maybe I should read that book about why bad things happen to good people. But -- am I good? I don’t know.
I think I’m just David. Whoever that might happen to be.
With that thought in mind, David continued to drift from booth to booth, admiring all the handiwork. Looked like the jewelers were out in force this year. Some of them had such a delicate hand with the silver and gold they crafted.
He couldn’t help stopping to admire each one, no matter how long he was taking. The pieces didn’t have any collector’s value yet, but give them fifty years and they’d be prizes. Especially the cameos he saw at one table and the gorgeous mosaic pendants at another.
The beauty of the crafts lulled him into a good mood once again. By the time he hit his first “serious” vendor, he was revved up for a proper haggling session. Oddly, the place didn’t appear to have anyone in charge in sight.
“Hello?” he called, weaving his way between a tallboy and a roll-top desk. “Anyone here?”
No answer. A little puzzled, David began examining the antiques. Unless he missed his guess, these were worth a nice chunk of change -- and when it came to assessments, he was hardly ever wrong. A lot of Depression era glass caught his attention for a minute, but it was dusty and chipped.
Making his decision, he abandoned them for the wooden pieces. Those were what he really wanted.
What was that there, underneath a lace tablecloth that, while yellowed, looked handmade? David squatted on his haunches and pulled the cloth off, carefully folding it. Oh, the material was a prize. A definite buy. He knew how to make it snowy white again. And beneath it, just as he’d hoped -- a trunk.
David’s heartbeat sped up. Of all the things he ever found, trunks were his favorite. Were they empty or were they full? Sometimes people didn’t bother to look and just sold the entire thing wholesale.
This one looked old, too. It had leather straps and buckles on it, and seemed worn all to hell, as if it had seen hard use in its years. All the same, there were plenty of people who’d want it.
Caressing the scarred wood, David admitted to himself that he wouldn’t mind owning the thing. It’d go great at the foot of his bed. And, if it was full, that’d be double the pleasure, no matter what the contents held.
“Nameplate,” he muttered to himself, craning to peer at the small brass placard, and doing so made David feel as uncomfortable as he did when taking rubbings of old gravestones. It’d corroded almost beyond legibility. He thought he made out a J ... and a W ...
A voice startled him. “Hello! Oh, my God, an actual customer. Hey, there!”
David turned sharply, heart thundering in his throat, to see a man standing above him, wiping his hands on a craftsman’s apron.
David flinched violently, almost knocking the trunk off its mount, then steadied himself and stood up. “Whoa! I mean, hi.”
&
nbsp; “Did I scare you?” The man smiled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to. I was taking care of some business back behind the old iceboxes. Splinters, you know? They can be kind of dangerous.” He shook his head. “You’re a buyer, aren’t you?” Out came a hand. “I’m Jory. Westcott. Jory Westcott.”
David tried to make his own tongue work around shaping his name, but it refused to function. He stayed glued to the spot, staring up at Jory. Oh ... God. He’d never seen anyone cuter than this man, but he couldn’t call the guy handsome, not as such. Still, the instant attraction hit him like a fist to the gut. Took his breath away. Hard.
Jory was about David’s own height, with a little softness to him and no hard edges. Even his dark hair waved softly around his face, messy like David’s own, as if he’d been running his fingers through it while trying to price his load of wares. He had sweet hazel eyes warm with good humor, and a smile on his lips that invited more than just conversation. David could see himself kissing that mouth.
The image came to him much too easily.
Flushing again, David managed to put out his hand and shake the other man’s. God. The guy even had great hands. Square and broad, but with long artist’s fingers. Rough and dry, as if he worked hard for his living. Exactly like David’s own. And when he touched Jory’s flesh, David felt a snap of static electricity ... or was it? He’d never felt such a spark from anyone before.
Jory tilted his head aside. “You’re staring at me. Do I have something on my face?”
“What? I -- oh, man -- sorry, no.” David felt his ears begin to burn. “I didn’t mean to stare. Sorry.”
The man was wiping at his mouth. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said with a rueful grin. “I’ll ’fess up. I wasn’t getting rid of splinters. Just having a snack back where no one would see me.” He gestured at his body. “I’ve been trying to diet, but when you’re nervous ...”
“Boy, do I know.” David shared a grin of fellow-feeling with Jory even as his heart began to beat faster. He loved the sound of Jory’s voice. Warm, like Liam’s, but even better for the soft southern accent that made it sound lazy and sweet as the best Kentucky bourbon. “Something messy?”
“You know it.” Jory licked his lips. David caught a glimpse of a red-stained tongue. “Popsicle. It’s hot out. You’d think it’d be cooler nights, but sometimes it gets even muggier.”
“I know.” David found himself sweating a little. Nerves, he told himself. Don’t go all flaky, now. This is an ordinary and nice guy. You haven’t met too many of them lately. You shouldn’t scare him off. Maybe this man can be a ... friend.
“... your hat,” Jory was saying.
When David looked at him, puzzled, Jory touched his own head. “I was just mentioning that I like your hat. Did you get that from Doralee?”
“You know Doralee?”
“Everyone does. I think she came around to investigate every single table to give it her stamp of approval before the Fest kicked in.” Jory cocked his head again and looked past David. “Oh! You found the trunk. Mind if I join you? Come on, crouch down, that’s the way.”
Before David had a chance to get more rattled, the other man dropped into a kneeling position beside him. “This is seriously old,” he said soberly. His fingers stroked the scarred wood with something close to awe. “All of these things have been in my family for a long time, but I don’t know how to fix them. I figured I’d be better off selling to someone who knew how to take care of the stuff, then go in for Formica.”
They shared a quiet laugh. “How old is this?” David wanted to know, touching the corroded name plate again.
Jory looked thoughtful for a moment. “Civil War -- I mean, that’s my best guess.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, there’s this.” Careful fingers directed David to a small patch on the lid. “Tiny print. Took me a while to figure out what it said, but I think it’s ‘Twenty-Second Richmond.’ Must have been a company sometime during the War Between the States.” He shook his head. “Not like I’ve ever been able to get it open, though.”
David perked up with interest. “You mean it might still have things inside?”
“For sure. Here, lift it.” Jory moved to one end. After a second’s startlement, David followed suit. “One, two, three!”
They struggled together, managing to lift it a few feet. Jory gave the box a gentle shake, then lowered the box with David’s help. The contents -- lots of them -- had rattled.
“Who knows what’s in there? Books? Letters? Maybe some actual clothes from the era. Probably mildewed all to hell, though -- this isn’t exactly airtight -- but it could be anything.”
David had to laugh. “You know, if you’re trying to sell me on this, too late. It’s already a done deal.” And it was. No way could he turn down a prize like this. It wouldn’t go to the Antique Barn, though. No way. This would be a part of his private collection and sit at the foot of his bed, just like he’d envisioned before. The mental image made him feel a deep contentment, as if this were meant to be.
One thing, though ... “Why haven’t you been able to get it open?”
Jory winced. “Don’t call me sentimental, okay?” He pointed to the lock on the trunk. It had long since rusted shut. “No key, and I didn’t want to break it.” For a second, he squinted. “Kind of hard to see. I need a pair of glasses in the worst way.”
David self-consciously nudged his own higher on his nose. “You have problems with seeing?”
“Only when I read.” Jory rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not a problem, honest.” He turned to David with an open grin. “I can see you just fine, for example.”
Quickly, he backpedaled. “Not that I’m staring at you like some kind of a stalker checking out his prey, mind. It’s just that you’re close and I couldn’t help but get a good look -- ah, Christ. Sorry.” He shook his head, turning faintly pink. “Open mouth, insert foot. I have it down to an art form.”
“It’s okay,” David found himself whispering. He found himself winking at the man. “I blush easily, too. I won’t tell.”
“You’re a good guy.” Jory stood and offered David a hand up. “So. You want the trunk. Anything else? That lace cloth?”
“Is it handmade?”
Jory nodded, running the material through his good workman’s hands. “I know for sure this is pre-Civil War. It belonged to my ... great-great something or another. She made it with her own hands. Maybe you’d like it for your girl?”
David took a step back. “Uh ... don’t so much have a girl. Unless you count my truck. She’s a great ride.” He stopped, mortified. “That came out a lot different than I’d intended.”
Jory laughed, but didn’t seem to have a mean streak about it. “Well,” he said, reaching for an old pocket watch David had missed among the Depression era glass, “what about this? For your guy?”
“My gu-- I don’t --” David lowered his voice. “Honest to God, do I have a sign on or something?”
Jory shook his head. “Nah.” His eyes twinkled. “A man can hope, that’s all.”
“Oh.” David blinked. “Oh?”
“Well, yeah.” Jory caressed the watch. “This is old, too. And I’m just keeping you here talking about all this stuff because I love the way you love it all. And because I like talking to you.” He shook his head. “Man, I’m sorry. It’s just been a long time. I’m not used to -- y’know. Flirting.” He peered at David. “How am I doing?”
David’s mouth felt dry. “Not bad at all,” he managed. “I’d give you an ‘A’ for effort.”
“No gold star? Do they still do gold stars?” Jory toyed with the watch. “I’m wishing this was your hand in mine,” he admitted. “Metal is nice, and it warms to your touch, but it’s nothing like someone else’s fingers.”
Glancing around, David found the small vendor’s arena to be empty. He moved a bit closer. “You’re working your way up to the gold star,” he said, a little shocked at his own daring. “Effor
t counts.” He half-grinned. “It’s been a while for me, too.”
Jory blinked, as if surprised. “You’re kidding me. You? Really?”
David felt something in his middle tense up. “Yeah.” His tone was more clipped than he’d intended, but he couldn’t help it. “Come on.” He gestured at himself. “Look at me. I’m not that popular with the guys.”
“Damned hard-body culture.” David stood up straighter with shock as he felt the pressure of Jory’s hand on his arm. “I hate that about this day and age. If you’re not a perfect ten, you’re not worth going after.” The other man squeezed David’s bicep gently. “In my book, you’re at least a nine.”
David’s grin grew broader. He couldn’t believe Jory’s words, but if he wasn’t playing from the bottom of the deck ... “Gold star,” he said. “You’ve definitely earned it.”
“Good.” Jory moved in a little closer, or was it David himself who’d shifted position? Did it even matter? They were face to face now, close enough to kiss.
David gazed at Jory’s boyish face from his new vantage point and found that, more than anything, he did want to kiss those cute lips until they were pink and swollen.
He cleared his throat. “Can -- can I?”
“Really wish you would.” Jory dropped the watch. “Is anyone looking?”
“I don’t care,” David said, and meant it. He dipped his mouth to Jory’s, just an inch difference between their heights, and brushed his lips over the other man’s. He tasted sweet, like cherry Popsicles and powdered sugar.
David wasn’t sure who moaned -- maybe him, maybe Jory -- but the other man’s arms came up around his middle, hands locking behind his back.
When they pulled away to breathe, David realized that he’d gotten hard off a simple kiss. And, if he was any judge, so had Jory. “Sorry.” He apologized with a deprecating chuckle. “It really has been a while.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Jory looked as if he were torn between what he wanted to do and what common sense dictated he should do. “Do you want to ... hell, does it have to end here? Just one kiss, I sell you the trunk, and we say goodbye?”