by B. G. Thomas
Table of Contents
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS!
About the Author
By B.G. Thomas
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Copyright
Setting for Eight, Dinner for Two
By B.G. Thomas
To overcome the bad ending of a relationship, Charlie Brooks and a friend plan to decorate his home for the holidays—including elaborate table settings like those made by local ceramicist Tory Phillips. The pieces are exquisite, but Charlie’s on a budget. So Tory convinces him to take his classes and try his hand at making his own dishes for the dinner party Charlie dreams of hosting. As they work together, they grow closer, and the fantasy gathering feels less important than what’s happening between them. When the big day arrives, it might be more magical than Charlie ever imagined.
Chapter One
WHEN THE doorbell rang, Charlie Brooks was able to get to the door before the deep, lovely Dong, ding, bing, bong, ding, bing, ding, dong! Ding, dong, bing, bong, bong, bing, ding, dong could finish.
After all, the sequence of notes was pretty long, and he was excited by who he thought it was. Who he was hoping it was.
He opened the door.
And—yes!
It was his best friend and boss, the fabulous Gay Aventură. She was the best friend a gay man could have, and working for her, a booking agent to the stars, meant he had the coolest job ever—especially for a gay man. Why just the other day he’d spoken to Connie “Jax” Jacques, the lead singer of the pop group Electric i (a group whose music he wasn’t all that familiar with but he knew was getting more famous every day). He’d had dinner with Academy Award nominee, Spencer Morrison. Gay told him the actor was flirting with him, but the idea was ridiculous. Why would such a gorgeous man flirt with someone as plain and boring as he was? And how could Spencer Morrison be gay? He was rumored to have dated or slept with everyone from Ariana Grande to Zoe Boyle. At least that’s what WE Weekly—the favorite magazine of doctor’s offices everywhere—said.
As usual Gay looked fabulous. Today the peacock was her theme. She was wearing a high-waisted tea dress covered in a peacock-feather print, a faux mink coat (she didn’t believe in killing), a shawl with a pattern that matched her dress exactly, and a stunning peacock beaded bag. Her outfit set off her pale, creamy skin perfectly. And then there was her jewelry—she wouldn’t be Gay without her jewelry. Today that meant a necklace of opals the iridescent color of the eyes of peacock feathers, with coordinating bracelets, earrings, and large rings on her hands. And that wasn’t even mentioning her hat, a buccaneer-style creation with a half-dozen-feathers of different lengths (yes, peacock feathers; what else?) swooshing back behind her.
“Avon calling!” she chimed in her musical voice, beautiful dark eyes wide with mirth. She let out her boisterous laugh, pressed the doorbell again with a perfectly, beautifully manicured finger (the selfsame color as her jewelry), and sang along: “Do mi re sooooo, do re mi dooooo! Mi do re sooooo, so re mi dooooo!”
Of course she knew the notes.
Charlie loved her voice, and he loved that music.
Gerald had hated it.
“It’s that stupid Beatles song, ‘Let ’Em In,’” he’d say. “God, I hate that song!”
“It was Wings,” Charlie would remind him, as usual. “And actually,” he would sometimes add, “it’s from the Westminster Chimes. The same one Big Ben uses.” Sometimes he’d even say something like, “Which comes from Handel’s Messiah,” although he didn’t know why he bothered. Gerald never paid much attention when Charlie shared the information he’d gathered his whole life. It bored Gerald. And it didn’t make him hate the notes any less. In fact, Charlie had come home one day, shortly after Gerald had officially moved in, to find he’d replaced the doorbell that had been a part of the house for decades (maybe since it had been built?).
It was that same obnoxious buzzer with its bleating—Brrrrzzzzzaaatttt!—Charlie had tossed out and replaced with the original doorbell a few days after Gerald moved out. It was Charlie’s way of reclaiming his home, a way to exorcise Gerald’s cheap, if not evil, spirit from the house. Thank goodness Charlie had liberated Aunt Charlotte’s bell from the garbage where Gerald had thrown it.
Just like he’d started going by the name Charlie after his aunt died. Before then, everyone had called him Charles, which was what his mother always called him. But his aunt’s dear friends always called her Charlie, and it made him feel as if he were living, or trying to live, in her honor.
That was another weird thing about Gerald. He always used “Charles,” even though Charlie was already going by his nickname when they met.
It had never bothered Charlie that much, because Gerald hated to be called Gerry or Ger. He figured it was simply that Gerald liked more formal names. But it wasn’t until after he left that Charlie realized that Gerald didn’t call Harry “Harold” or their neighbor Rob “Robert.” Why respect the wishes of people he hardly liked, but not me? There was so much he’d put up with. So much. And why?
Why did I put up with him?
He’d asked himself that question a lot since Gerald had left.
Because you were afraid of being alone, said an inner voice. You thought he was too good for you. That you didn’t deserve anyone better.
It was his aunt, of course. Or at least the part of her that would always live inside him. She seemed to pop up in his mind when he needed her, and she’d been popping up a lot lately.
But today was not a day to think about his ex. Today was a day to think about his friend.
“I come bearing gifts!” Gay cried.
Charlie grinned and forgot all about Gerald. Who knew what Gay could mean when she said “gifts”? It could mean anything from wineglass charms in the form of little plastic men wearing speedos, to trips all over the country. After all, she was a booking agent. She could write it all off. It drove Gerald insane, Charlie getting to travel like that, even though she’d paid to bring him along more than once.
Whatever the word “gifts” meant today, it would be something that would make him smile. He needed to smile. The empty house, although better than the alternative, seemed especially empty today. He was lonely. If he didn’t distract himself, he might find himself missing Gerald.
A stupid thing to do.
“Entrez, madame,” Charlie said with a bow.
“Only with your help,” she replied with a theatrical wave of her hand toward a bag and a box on the porch at her side.
Whoa.
This wasn’t going to be wineglass charms.
He grinned, stepped out onto the porch, and picked up the box, roughly the size of a record crate (he was old enough to remember storing albums in crates.). He leaned against the screen door so Gay, carrying the bag, could enter, and then followed her inside.
“Now be careful of that,” she called behind her. “Breakies in there!”
Breakies? What had she brought him?
She pulled out another chair. “I think that should be okay here,” she said, indicating the box he carried (which was making a pleasant rattling sound).
Goodness, he thought, watching her examining the autumn-themed dinnerware he had placed on the table. Dinnerware for which he’d been trying to find a complete set of eight place settings. It couldn’t be…? She couldn’t have found…?
“Stand back,” she cried. “Stand back!”
She opened the bag and then, teasingly, started to pull something out of it. Stopped. Started again and… stopped. And then finally, with a cry of “Voilà,” pulled out a plate that matched the four on his table exactly.
“Gay!” he cried in delight.
Lovely, and somehow not as expensive as they looked, they were white with gorgeous orange, red, and yellow fall leaves painted on them. He had only been able to find four place settings, and this made five. But then she pulled out another plate. Six. Yes! Not the desired holy grail of eight place settings, but he would take what he could get.
“Gay! However did you manage it?”
She laughed, rolled her eyes, tossed her head, and said, “By going to just about every Dollar Store in Kansas City!”
What? “But-but when did you have time?”
“When do I ever have time?” Gay answered with one perfect raised eyebrow. She smiled and pulled out two more plates.
“Oh my!” he squealed. He had his holy grail! An eighth place setting.
Gay laughed and did a little twirl.
Charlie was so happy! If only he’d had the plates last week for Thanksgiving. Not that it would have done any good. It wasn’t like he’d actually had anyone over. If Gay’s husband hadn’t invited him to go with the both of them to his family’s house, Charlie would have spent Thanksgiving alone.
“You won’t believe it. My hubby was the one who found the plates.”
“Jandro?” Charlie asked, amazed. He didn’t use her husband’s true name, even though it would have been okay with her (and her husband). People used a host of different nicknames for the man—Alejo, Jano, Alex, Lex—but Jandro was the one he preferred. Therefore that was the name Charlie used. His full name was just too… personal.
Gay nodded, and for a moment her eyes seemed to go far away. Another nod, and then, “My Alejandro,” she whispered with a smile, her voice musical again. Charlie knew the meaning of those notes. Even though he suspected he’d never know them himself. At forty-nine years old, he’d never known them.
That’s love. True love.
But he had dishes! And now he had a setting for eight.
“Oh, Gay, I can’t believe it!”
She laughed again, so loudly the windowpanes fairly rattled in their frames, and then focused on him with her deep dark eyes. Waggled her brows. Took a deep breath. “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
“Huh?”
It was all he could say. There was more? Oh! Of course. The box!
She whirled around him, stopped at said box, and asked, “Ready?”
He gulped. As ready as he could ever be when dealing with Gay Aventură. He nodded. Ready or….
“Ready or not!” she squealed, opened the box, and bent over it so he couldn’t see what she was doing.
Then pulled out another plate.
It took him a second to get it.
Why…. Why, it was a lovely, very light green plate. So light that at first it had appeared white. And it was decorated all along its edge with a holly pattern. A beautiful holly pattern.
“You remember I told you that it was good riddance when Kill-Joy”—she used the nickname his friend Harry had started for Gerald—“took the Spode dishes?” she said, her voice absolute music.
He nodded. Yes. He remembered. It had near killed him when Gerald had taken his beloved Spode dinnerware. The very expensive Spode dinnerware. Charlie had collected it piece by piece over the years. Four place settings at first, because they weren’t cheap, not by any means, but you had to have the basics if you were going to have anyone over for dinner. Then two more settings the next year, salt and pepper shakers the next, then a gravy boat the next, flatware the next, a napkin holder the year after, serving pieces next, and another two place settings after that. The collection grew year by year.
And just when it was nearing complete and total perfection, Gerald had left and taken the Spode, even though he’d never liked it. Had more than once scoffed at it, even as he’d bought them for Charlie as Christmas and birthday gifts. Then claimed that he had paid for them, and he was taking them, even though they were presents, each and every one.
“Gay,” Charlie gasped.
“You. Can’t. Even. Guess…,” she said.
“Wha…?” was all he could manage.
“I don’t want to mess up everything, but would you mind terribly clearing your table back a bit?”
Mind? Of course not.
So, he gathered the two closest settings and moved them down to the other end of the table and then….
Gay pulled out glasses and put them where the autumn dishes had been. Then coffee cups. Then bowls. Then salad plates. Then dinner plates. Every one of them in the holly pattern.
He trembled. Tears sprang to his eyes.
“Nine place settings,” she said in a tone almost reverent, almost too quiet to hear. “The best. Because this covers breakage.”
Nine place settings. In case of breakage. Because dishes break. And nine meant you were covered if something happened.
“Oh my God. Gay. This…. This is just too much!”
He couldn’t imagine the expense.
She smiled and she stepped forward and touched his face. “It wasn’t too much. In fact, I hope you’re not insulted.”
Insulted?
“Each piece only cost a dollar.”
“A dollar?”
“I shit thee not,” she said, a phrase she used that never failed to make him smile. She grew up Nazarene. That meant she could get away with the word “shit,” but you’d never hear her take Jesus’s name in vain. “You didn’t think I went to every Dollar Store in Kansas City and the suburbs for those few autumn dishes, did you? No! I saw these when Alejandro found your plates.” She pointed at his autumn dishes. “I knew you were so upset about the Spode, and while these weren’t expensive, I couldn’t believe how lovely they were.”
Not expensive? Maybe not Spode prices. But even at a dollar a piece—he tried to do the math in his head—that meant at least fifty bucks. Hardly a small gift.
“The first one I went to only had glasses and dinner plates and one bowl,” she said. “But that meant there must be more, right?”
And then she went on in that breathless way of hers, rushing faster and faster, words tumbling from her mouth in her enthusiasm. A manner that had served her well in her business.
“So off I went on my quest. Store by store, piecing this set all together. A coffee cup here—I didn’t realize those even existed when I first discovered the design—two there, another over here—three bowls there, and gee whiz. Along the way I discovered salad plates! One here, more there, a few more over there. And finally, I did it! I got them all. And now, if you’re not embarrassed to use them, you can have that little holiday dinner party you’ve talked about that I knew you were dreaming about. It can all come true.”
Tears fell from his eyes now.
“You couldn’t host Thanksgiving, but now you can do something even better. You can do Christmas!”
Christmas. God. He could. He could!
“But wait,” she cried. “You haven’t seen the true pièce de résistance!”
That was when she pulled out the serving bowl. A lovely ceramic serving
bowl that looked as if it were made of big holly leaves. It was stunning. And went perfectly.
They both understood the way most people couldn’t.
He threw his arms around his friend and pulled her close. “Oh, Gay!”
Sometimes Christmas wishes, even made as far back as July, really did come true.
Chapter Two
TORY PHILLIPS loved doing shows. It was the setting up and tearing down he didn’t like so much. For one person it could be exhausting, carefully bundling his ceramic pieces in bubble wrap, boxing them up and then lugging them to his SUV—and thank goodness he’d lucked into a phenomenal deal on that—loading it, unloading it, hauling everything into whatever art show or gymnasium or church celebration or mall event and setting everything up.
Well, no, he liked setting up. Or at least setting out. Arranging and piling and placing things just right—which could be a challenge when you were promised three tables and only got two. Or one instead of two, or the tables were card tables when you were expecting long tables. He rose to that challenge, though. Loved it in fact.
This weekend’s venue was good, however. He had plenty of space. He had an extra table! Someone hadn’t showed up, and the people who had organized all this gave it to him for a steal. And it meant he had a whole corner. Corner setups were few and far between, and money in the bank. Customers liked corner setups for some reason. It had allowed him to put out much more than he usually could. Yes, he lived for shows like this one, called Bells, Bows, and Beyond. The sign outside said, “Prices so low, you’ll think we’re Holicrazy!”
He didn’t promise his prices would be low, but they would be fair.
As long as this weekend wasn’t something like that fall show a couple years back, an outdoor venue, where it started snowing! That had sucked big-time.
Oh! And the one at the “super church,” to which he had been assured he was welcome, but then had to fend off a “heavenly” host of people asking him if he had “found Jesus” and did he know that with the Lord’s help, he could be cured of his homosexuality?
When he assured their pastor that he, one, didn’t know Jesus had been lost and, two, the top doctors in the world—plus Father Merrin—had declared him incurable, he was met with a glare and a mouth that turned into a rigid straight line. Tory saw that it took a moment for the man to get The Exorcist reference, but when he did, that face transformed into one resembling one of the Easter Island statues. And about twenty minutes after that, every shopper going up and down the aisles of vendors suddenly, as they passed his table, got expressions just as Easter Islandish as the pastor, and his sales had stopped dead. It was too bad because he’d brought some gorgeous Nativities, his best, because he knew that the affluent Johnson County housewives who attended the church could easily afford his most expensive sets.