by B. G. Thomas
But then, as he had given up, thank God and the Jesus that the pastor had mistakenly thought was lost, he’d first laid eyes on the Lady in Lavender. Lavender and amethyst to be precise. Dripping in amethyst. Necklaces and bracelets and a huge brooch and a ring that reminded him of an old-fashioned glass doorknob—although it wasn’t that big of course. All in coordinated lavender. Along with a very broad-brimmed hat—yes, lavender—with a purple band.
All eyes were on her. How could they not? And if they were in awe—like he was—or if they were simply snooty, turning up their noses, there was no one who could say she didn’t have the chutzpah to carry it off.
As she grew closer, he saw that her handbag and cat-eye glasses matched her outfit as well, the glasses with purple stones instead of diamonds (faux or otherwise) at their corners.
She was stunning. He couldn’t begin to guess her age. There were only the tiniest of lines at the corners of her eyes that could have been the result of anything from laughing (which he soon learned was quite possible) to squinting (maybe she was a foreign news correspondent, serving in the Middle East?) to age. She could be anywhere from her forties to…. What?
She was ageless.
If I were female, that’s who I’d want to be.
That’s what he decided that dead, not-making-a-dime afternoon.
And then she reached his table. Apparently she hadn’t gotten the word that she wasn’t supposed to shop from him. Or didn’t care.
Tory came to find out it was both.
She stopped and her dark eyes did a quick scan and then….
She let out a high, loud, but musical—delightful—laugh that instantly warmed him from the inside out (and made him think those lines around her eyes were indeed caused by laughter). All his bad feelings for Pastor Easter Island, all thoughts about not making a dime and wondering if he should just pack up and go home were gone in an instant.
G.O.N.E.—Gone.
All he’d wanted to know was who she was. He wasn’t even concerned that she had apparently laughed at his art.
She pointed a gloved finger, dresser knob amethyst ring sparkling in the light, at a little set of shelves that displayed the only pieces that he truly didn’t mind her laughing about.
“Your elves!” she cried and laughed again, although this time it was more of a giggle. “They remind me of those Elf on a Shelf things, but yours aren’t evil looking.”
For some reason he blushed. “Thank you.”
“You know, I used to do ceramics. My mom taught classes right out of her studio, which was in her garage. Dad never got to put his car in there. I’ve painted everything from leprechauns to roosters to those Christmas trees that you stick the little lights through? And yes! Those little elves. But mine looked evil! I gave them away.”
Then he laughed. Yes! Those Elf on a Shelf figurines had always reminded him of Chucky, the doll that came to life and went on killing sprees in the Child’s Play movies. Or the possessed native pointy-toothed doll from that old Karen Black horror movie, the title he couldn’t remember that day.
“Or like in that movie, Trilogy of Terror.” The woman grinned. Great minds think alike. She stopped pointing and turned her hand into a claw and made a chomping motion. “Rawr, rawr, rawr,” she mimicked. “With that evil little doll.”
He smiled and was hooked on the lady whose name he came to find out was Gay. Oh! They laughed about that. “That means we’re both gay!” he told her.
She’d given him a shocked look. “Really? I’d have never guessed you were gay!” And then she reached out and tousled his mop of curls, which he had product-ed into a virtual tower of hair on top. “Looks like your hair has a hard-on,” she said.
Except it was more than that. Something tickling the corners of his mind.
“Your elves, though—they’re different.” She picked one up, adjusted her glasses, and studied it carefully. “They’re darling. They make me feel all warm and gushy inside.”
Which made Tory feel warm inside.
“It’s the eyes,” he replied. “I don’t paint them in that 1950s style.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
“I paint them after my friends actually. The one you’re holding is my friend Harry.”
“And this one?” she asked, picking up one with blond bangs.
“Hound Dog,” he said.
She took off her glasses and raised an eyebrow. “Hound Dog?”
“Most people call him H.D.,” he answered.
“Hmm…” was her reply. And gently, quietly, “Hound Dog and Harry have very pretty eyes.”
“Well, Harry would be happy to hear that,” Tory said. He might have had a bit of a crush on his bearish friend once upon a time, except Harry was too young. Tory was attracted to men who were thicker than his own (what he felt was) remarkably thin frame. Nothing he’d ever done had helped him put on some pounds. He could eat an entire buffet and get on the scale the next morning and have lost weight. Maybe that was why he liked bigger men. He’d found that most gay men were attracted to men who looked the way they wished they looked. He especially liked it when a man was at least a little silver on top.
Gay wound up buying three of his elves that day. She’d bought a new elf every year, and he’d bet she would come by today and buy this year’s version, which had one of his students’ eyes.
She’d bought a complete Nativity as well, including animals and a few extra sheep. “It looks more like a flock that way, don’t you think?”
He nodded. It was quite a sale. The African wise man with the carefully painted tribal designs on his robe had taken quite a bit of time, and he had to price him higher. What Gay Aventură bought pretty much kept the weekend from being a disaster.
But when she showed up the next day with her mother—who Gay had told him had a stunning collection of crèches from all over the world—including one from Africa with elephants and zebras and tigers instead of camels and goats and sheep—they all got the shock that cemented them together. All three of them together, really.
He also figured out why Gay’s name had stuck in his brain.
It turned out that her mother—a beautiful older woman named Paloma with snow-white hair—was the lady whom he had taken classes from and eventually bought her business when she retired. Almost everything from molds to kilns to kiln furniture to glazes and stains. The coincidence was simply stunning. She had mentioned her daughter back in the day, and he remembered getting a private chuckle over her name because he clearly saw that Paloma hadn’t had one clue that he was gay and there was no point in even making a joke about it. He knew of course that Gay was a woman’s name, but he had never met one.
Gay wound up not only taking classes from him—for old time’s sake—but becoming a dear friend as well.
Sometimes Christmas miracles really did happen.
Chapter Three
CHARLIE REALLY didn’t know how Gay talked him into things.
A craft show?
One called “Bells, Bows, and Beyond”? It would be bleak! He would want something way too expensive and wouldn’t be able to afford it.
As a booking agent, she made good—damned good—money. And her husband, who repaired huge mail-inserting machines, made more than a comfortable living as well. She could afford pretty much whatever she wanted.
But Charlie? While he certainly made more than peanuts, Gerald (who was fifteen years his junior) had brought in more than half the income of the household. Now it was all Charlie could do to pay the property taxes on the house his aunt had left him. And the utilities. She’d left him the house, but all her other beloved relatives, kids, nephews and nieces, and even friends had gotten most of the furniture, appliances, collectables, and knickknacks. In the end he’d inherited a nearly empty house.
It wasn’t long after that that he met Gerald at a party, and to his surprise, he soon realized they were dating. Somehow the whole dating thing had always eluded him, mostly because the kind of men he was most at
tracted to didn’t ever seem to be interested in him. So he found himself truly dating for the first time at thirty-eight. And the fact that Gerald was so much younger than him had gotten Charlie more than his fair share of raised eyebrows. But then, most of his friends were younger than he was. Men his age acted so… old. Acted as if being in their late forties or early fifties made them Methuselah or something. Why act old when these days fifty was the new thirty? Wasn’t that something else the magazines in doctor’s offices claimed?
Six months later, even before Gerald moved in, the two of them had, piece by piece, begun to refill the house with furniture, mostly secondhand, mostly at garage sales.
Including the table he’d fought to keep.
The table that right now had a conglomeration of both autumn and Christmas dishes, and of utmost note, a gorgeous ceramic bowl. A bowl that she had bought just that morning from a friend of hers at a holiday sale down on Grand Avenue, not far from his house.
“It’s why I was late. I thought I could get in and out of there fast. An hour at the most. But I lost track of time.”
She did that a lot. It made him wonder how she was so exactly spot-on perfect with her schedule at work. Maybe the sheer importance of being exactly on time, all the time, meant she had to relax and let things go the rest of the time?
“But I really would like you to see his things. And he’s such a cutie. Just your type.”
As if he were looking for someone!
“Early thirties, pug nose, the most beautiful eyes!”
Early thirties? Hell no! If he ever allowed himself to be with someone, he vowed it wouldn’t be a younger man again. No way!
First, Gay had suggested that he should go and check things out himself, then offered to take him, and finally insisted they go together. “Right now!”
“But our movie,” he countered.
“We’ll go to the next showing.” she replied and put on her coat. “It’s not like there’s only one showing!”
Apparently, it was a fait accompli. So many things were with Gay.
Five minutes later they were halfway there.
“I can’t wait for you to see his wares,” she said, gesturing with such excitement he worried about her keeping her hands on the wheel of her classic 1955 red Thunderbird convertible. The hardtop was on today of course. It was well into November and pretty chilly after all.
Charlie nodded. He was nervous suddenly, and he had no idea why. It wasn’t her driving. She was a good driver. Maybe it was the price sticker on the bowl that Gay had forgotten to remove? He made sure she didn’t see it. But God, thirty-five dollars? That was almost the price of the whole dish set it was meant to go with.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking. His pieces aren’t a dollar a piece. But he’s an artist, baby. His things aren’t the ceramic version of Bob Ross’s paintings. He can’t whip them out like that. He takes his time. His pieces are beautiful.”
They were. The bowl really was beautiful. He was in love with it. And it wasn’t like Gay didn’t pay him well enough. She did. And thank God he didn’t have a mortgage. But even so, it was hard to live in this world with only one income. How did people make it?
Yes. Thank goodness he didn’t have a mortgage. Maybe a roommate was the thing to do? The house did feel so empty. It would be nice to have someone around.
“He teaches in his basement in the house he rents. A little place barely on the right side of the tracks.”
Of course, most of the people he knew, people he would want living under his roof, were partnered, with their own places.
“You’d be amazed at how affordable his classes are. I don’t know how he pays his rent!”
So he was just going to have to control himself! Put a limit on how much he spent. A salt-and-pepper-shaker set. Gay said he had one, right? They couldn’t be more than the bowl, could they?
Twenty-five dollars, maybe? He could do that. He wasn’t exactly poor after all.
Think how nice they would look on the table. What people would say. He grinned. Simply thinking about it made him think he really could do it. He could have his Christmas dinner. He was sure Harry and Cody would come. Neither of them were going to see family after all. Cody because his mother and sister were horrible people, and Harry didn’t have any family left.
“And here we are!” Gay announced. “I am about to show you beauty and wonder. Let’s go.”
And stomach in knots, Charlie got out of the car.
Chapter Four
IT WAS Gay’s hat that Tory saw first. Or the peacock feathers anyway, rising above the tallest shopper meandering through the aisles. She was back? Well, what do you know? Maybe she’d brought her mom? That brought a smile to Tory’s face.
The crowd parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses, the way crowds did when she was going wherever she was going. They stood back, stared, and let her pass. She had that power.
Tory’s smile broadened. What could she have up her peacock sleeve? It was always something worthwhile.
It was only when she was mere feet from the table that she turned and Tory saw the man with her. She waved at the man with a flourish by way of introduction and quite suddenly… she disappeared.
Not really. Tory knew she was there.
But for the moment, he only had eyes for her companion.
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, and whoa…. Who was this?
And…. Tory thought he looked strangely familiar, but where would he have seen someone like this and not flirted with him?
From what seemed like a far-off distance, he heard Gay say, “Tory, I would like you to meet my dear, dear friend Charlie Brooks. Charlie, this is the artist I told you about—the adorable one, I might add—Tory Phillips.”
The man stood about five nine, a few inches taller than Tory (the better to tilt his head up for a kiss), had the softest, kindest, brown eyes (with a sexy bit of shyness as well) with just the beginnings of lines at the corners, and that dusting of silver in his hair that always sent a shiver down Tory’s spine. And such a sweet, unassuming (shy?) smile! He couldn’t help it. Tory couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss that mouth and—
Whoa!
Those eyes. They’d gone so wide! His mouth slightly ajar.
Tory could only hope that it was a good sign. Please let it be a good sign and not that he’d intimidated the man. He could do that. Had done it.
He smiled at the man—Charlie, Gay said his name was Charlie—and held out his hand. “Why, hello, Charlie,” he said (resisting the urge say, “Well, hel-lo, Charlie!”). “I’m pleased to meet you. Any friend of Gay’s is a friend of mine!”
And then, goodness gracious, he thought he saw panic in the man’s kind brown eyes, and for one long moment, Tory was afraid he was going to bolt for it.
God! Was he trembling?
It was the tremble that made Charlie look even more familiar.
What did I do?
Chapter Five
A SURPRISING crowd was gathered in the auditorium of the building, which from the façade, cornices, frieze, and quoin features outside, Charlie figured was built in the twenties. The inside had been renovated, he could see that, although probably a good twenty years ago.
There were a heck of a lot tables inside, and it almost made him dizzy trying to take it all in, especially when Gay was obviously not shopping. She was on a mission, and look out everyone when Gay was on a mission.
She wanted Charlie to meet her friend. The guy who made the gorgeous bowl.
The one who was just his type.
“Early thirties, pug nose, the most beautiful eyes!”
But no! There was no way. He’d made the younger-man mistake already. More than once, in a way. As in all those crushes he’d gotten on men who weren’t even slightly interested in him. And he sure wasn’t interested in anyone right now. Love had only left him hurt and lonely.
But weren’t you hurt and lonely when Kill-Joy was with you? came his Aunt Charlotte’s voice
.
The thought shocked him enough that he stopped for a moment and almost lost Gay in the crowd. He had to jump forward, excusing himself a dozen times. The crowds didn’t part for him the way they always did for Gay. You had to stay at her side to benefit from her superpowers.
Suddenly she came to a stop, and he almost crashed into her. Would have if she hadn’t abruptly done a little half spin and pointed at him with a sweeping wave of her hand.
“Tory,” she said in a loud voice, as if introducing an act on stage. “I would like you to meet my dear, dear friend Charlie Brooks.” She turned her head and looked at him. “Charlie, this is the artist I told you about—the adorable one, I might add—Tory Phillips.”
With a sigh, Charlie turned from her and looked at the slim young man behind the table, big tousled hair, oversized Christmas sweater, and….
“Why, hello, Charlie! I’m pleased to meet you. Any friend of Gay’s is a friend of mine!”
Charlie froze.
He couldn’t breathe.
He was looking at about the cutest. sweetest young man he had ever seen. He—Gay said his name was Tory, and what a nice name—was about five foot five, a few inches shorter than Charlie (something he loved in a man; all the better to lower his head for a kiss—God!). And those eyes! Bright, flashing eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were green or brown, as if they were some wonderful new color. He’d have to get closer to see exactly what color they were, and he didn’t dare do that (and God. even his eyebrows were sexy, thick and brown—who knew eyebrows could be sexy?) with a head of hair just as thick, piled high like soft-serve ice cream (what had made him think a silly thing like that?). And oh, that smile! So sweet. Everything about Tory (even his name) sent a wonderful little shiver down Charlie’s spine.