The Christmas Keeper (Laurel Holidays #6)

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

S tanding behind the bar sipping a ginger ale, I felt a warmth lingering in my chest that had little to do with the jalape?o relish I’d spooned over my burger at dinner.

I suspected that little glowing briquet was directly related to Kenan, who was now seated on a stool in front of the jukebox singing his heart out for the locals. Not one soul in the place, and there were quite a few, were talking. Every ear was tuned to the guitar man. Mine was as well, along with my eyes. To be honest, it was nearly impossible for me to pull my sight from him seated there, one foot on the floor, the other tucked behind a rung. His head was bent, curls tickling his scruffy cheek, his well-loved six-string, resting on his lap like a child.

He had done a few old country classics, including one by Willie Nelson called “Hello Walls” that actually made a few guys at the bar a little teary. He just had one of those voices that plucked heartstrings. Then he had played an original song, a devastating telling of a man who’d been close enough to heaven to touch the clouds and then fell, hard, like Icarus, the landing breaking more than his wings. The applause nearly shook the dust from the rafters. People were throwing cash into his guitar case by the handfuls. The man had talent. Far too much to be sitting in an alehouse in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere.

That one had to have been written about his addiction, or so I assumed, but what did I really know about him? Other than he was sleeping in his car, had a voice that should have won him a few CMA awards, and had eyes that could cradle a man for eons.

“Brann?” A woman’s voice tugged me from a soulful rendition of “Funny How Time Slips Away” played by a drifter sitting under a glowing menorah.

“Oh, Paula, hey, another pitcher of Molson?” I asked and got a nod of her silver hair. Paula and her girlfriends all worked at the courthouse. They usually gathered here for dinner and a pitcher of beer, then went home, but Kenan, it seemed, had kept them in their seats. Hell, they’d even called their husbands to come listen to the new barkeep.

“Yeah, please.” She leaned over the bar to whisper beside my ear. “Where the hell did you find him?”

“At the airport,” I replied before even thinking. She drew back slightly, confused. “We bumped into each other and started talking about bars and country music. He said he could pull a beer and sing a little so…” I shrugged, the lie bitter as rotten hops on my tongue, but I had no way of knowing what Kenan wanted to be known about him. Was he open about his past addictions, his time in rehab, and the fact that he slept in his car? I knew so little about him, yet here he was, switching into a country Christmas song about Santa looking a lot like some kid’s daddy. All the patrons were singing along. The air was now so festive I was expecting elves to appear and start rocking around the tree. Well, if I’d had a tree. Maybe they could rock around the menorah instead since that was the only holiday display visible.

“Huh, I thought maybe he was from around here. He looks familiar for some reason. Well, lucky for us, he needed a job,” she said, her head bopping to the upbeat tune. “I hope you keep him around for a while. This place needs something bright in here that’s not neon.”

I stared stupidly and placed her pitcher in front of her. She tossed me some cash and then boot-scooted to her table. A few younger women started dancing, even though there was no dance floor. Kenan played the hell of that old guitar, his dark eyes glowing like the lone candle in the multibranched candelabrum. The joy he brought to his music was infectious. My little alehouse was packed probably past maximum occupancy.

When Kenan slowed things down with a Waylon Jennings tune, the front door opened. I rolled my eyes to the open-beam ceiling. Al stormed in, his gaze roaming the packed pub until it found me behind the bar. I’d been waiting. To be honest, I was surprised that it had taken him this long, but he’d probably had to wait to close the hardware store.

Surprise showed on his face as he took in the patrons, then his shock morphed into a scowl as his sight landed on Kenan strumming his heart out, his black curls shining from the flickering candle resting above him in a small window nook.

“Brann,” Al said after weaving through the crowd, his jaw set.

“Al, where’s Glory? You should have brought her around to hear Kenan,” I said as I reached for a glass with one hand and the Miller Lite tap handle. “Your usual?”

“No, I am not here to drink.” He spun from scowling in Kenan’s direction to me. “Maybe just one. Glory’s mother is coming over for dinner tonight.”

I poured him a beer, placed it on a coaster, and took his fiver. “Tell Glory that we missed her.”

He downed the cold one in a long pull and then belched softly. “Yes, I will. Brann, we do need to discuss that candleholder in the window.”

“You said I should decorate for the holidays.” Innocence dripped from me like honey from a hive. Al opened his mouth to reply, but I had to leave him to take care of some customers. After I rang them out, I returned to Al, now looking a little less fractious.

“I’m not saying that the candleholder—”

“It’s called a menorah.”

“Yes, the menorah. I’m not saying that it’s not lovely and that it’s not festive because Glory and I love the Jews. I’m just concerned that you’re displaying an open flame in a wooden window casing. Surely that can’t be safe. We don’t want our Main Street businesses to burn down two weeks before Christmas. For safety’s sake, perhaps a less flammable sign of the holiday would be better? Why not one of those little ceramic trees with the rainbow lights the gals make at the ceramic barn? That would be bright and gay!”

I thought to bicker. I probably should have, but Al would have run to Charlie, the fire chief and his poker buddy, and Charlie would have to come over to give me shit about open flames and exceeding a few fire safety rules.

“Okay, we’ll see what we can do about the open flame situation,” I replied.

“Good, good. Well, off I go. See you at the gingerbread house bake-off next Friday at the fire hall.” Off he went, pleased with himself for being an asshole.

Kenan played for another thirty minutes or so, then ended his set. The crowd was saddened to see him lay down his old acoustic, but they understood they were now sitting here past closing time. It took some time to get everyone out. When the last customer left, I rushed to the door like a linebacker and threw the locks shut. Kenan chuckled as he lifted chairs from the floor to place them on the tables.

“How did you do with tips?” I asked, joining him to clear the floor for the broom and mop. It was incredible how much of a mess an inch of fluffy snow can make. Not that I generally paid a lot of attention to the floor, mind you. But Kenan seemed to be a mopper, and who was I to argue with a man who wanted clean floors?

“Really good.” He beamed at me around sixteen wooden legs in the air.

“Cool,” I replied, standing there like a dipshit, trying to think of something to say. “So, about the candle,” I blurted out. He cocked an eyebrow in question before moving to another table. “I’m sorry we had to extinguish it.”

“Meh, it’s okay.”

“Well, no, it’s not really. Al was being a jerk. I mean that candle probably should stay lit throughout the seven days, right?” I hustled around to the next table.

“Only if a miracle is taking place.” He gave me a wry smile. “Generally, we blow them out before bed, but if we have to leave the house, out they go.”

“Oh, okay, well, that’s good. I thought it might be a big sin or something.”

“Nope, it’s all good.”

“Good. Cool.” And dead space. Ugh, why could I not word? “You get presents every night, right? I should have thought to get you something.”

He folded his arms over two spindly wooden chair legs, dark eyes searching my face. “Brann, that’s super kind but we literally have known each other for less than forty-eight hours.”

“Well…yeah but as your friend I should have been prepared for…what?”

His head had tipped to the side, just an inch or so. “Are we friends?” I stared dully. “I mean, we just met. You offered me a little gig to make money to fill up my tank. Friendship takes a little time to build.”

He had a point. My brain was stuck in tar while my mouth was rolling on a hamster wheel powered by a rodent on crack.

“I hope we can become friends before you head off on the next leg of your musical journey.” He nodded. I, feeling like a total baboon ass, kept talking. “So in that vein of us being potential friends, I’d have felt better about myself if I had gotten you a gift. Your religion must be pretty important to you if you carry a menorah.”

“Meh.” He shrugged before swinging another chair up and around. “As a kid, it was a weekly thing, sure, and I had my bar mitzvah and that was fun. As a teenager, when I went to college, I drifted, and I became adamant and rebelled against all things to do with Judaism. Those were my wild years. My grandpa used to say that all the time. ‘Kenan had his wild years but now God has brought him back,’ he’d say when I was straight enough to finally visit him in the nursing home. Pity my parents were about done with me by the time I stopped snorting ketamine up into my sinuses. Not that I blame them. I did some pretty terrible shit when I was high, blew some big chances.” He talked and worked. I worked and said nothing, eager to learn what I could about him before he saved enough cash to leave. “Anyway, the menorah was my grandfather’s. He left it to me. I guess he died hoping that if I had it, I would start settling down, find a guy, a nice Jewish man obviously, and we would start going to synagogue.”

We stalled by the jukebox as we had run out of chairs. “So your being gay upset the family?”

“Greatly. That was the first disappointing thing I did, or so my parents felt. My grandfather, though, lived through a lot in his time. He was the most accepting person I had ever met. Sometimes, when it’s a dark night, like dark in here,” he tapped his chest, “I wonder why he died and not…well, not other family members who weren’t quite so understanding.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I softly said, then dared to squeeze his shoulder. “And I’m really sorry for allowing Al to extinguish your candle.

“Meh, it’s fine. I still performed the mitzvah.”

“I have no clue what that means.”

He laughed, a soft rolling laugh that did wild and wooly things to me. “I could tell by the blank look on your face. I’ll explain while we sweep and mop.”

He talked and swept, and I listened and mopped.

When we said goodnight and I went out the back door to get to my car, I was resigned to track down an electric menorah somewhere in this damn county, and I would find eight little gifts.

I was calling it holiday spirit. And if that spirit stuck it to Al while making Kenan smile then ho-ho-ho call me Old Saint Nick.

***

“How is it possible to have a town filled with stores and not one of them has an electric menorah?” I asked Fred and Wilma as I was chopping ice out of their pool with an axe. Yeah, winter farm chores were fun. Not. Fred eyeballed me as Wilma nibbled at the strings of my boots. Small bits of frozen goose water flew into the early morning rays of sun. The clear skies overnight had sent the temps plummeting into single digits. Fa-la-la-la-fucking-la. I stopped to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. Sweating this heavily when it was four degrees out was sacrilegious or something. “Speaking of religion,” I huffed as I placed my hands atop the axe handle, two impatient geese telling me in goose to hurry the fuck up so they can get a drink. “I need an electric menorah and some little gifts.”

Fred deposited a steaming pile of goose shit on the fresh hay I’d covered their snowy pen with. They had the run of the fenced-in yard during the day, but in the winter I liked to put bedding down so they could keep their little webbed feet off snow and ice.

“Are those your feelings about the holidays?” I asked Fred and got a loud honk. “Yeah, me too, but Kenan is alone and on the road so showing a little cheer to the guy won’t hurt.” Fred was not buying it. Wilma was too busy trying to pinch my ass to get me moving to care. “Ow, hey, that’s not the way to be. I’m just trying to find something for the guy for Hanukkah.”

“You’re taking too long to get them some water,” I heard from behind me. Twisting to avoid another ass pinch, I saw Mr. Blum smiling at me over the pen fence. He tossed some corn into the full feed dishes, which made both geese very happy. He was a lovely old fellow, with a thatch of wild silver kinky hair, thick glasses, and dark gray eyes. His back was bowed, his skin deeply wrinkled, and his walk slow, but he never missed his morning stroll even if it was so cold your nose hairs froze. “Did I hear you say something about Hanukkah?”

“Morning. Yes, I have a new helper at the alehouse.”

His eyes lit up. “A Jewish lad?” I nodded. “Well, well, that makes two Jews in the whole of Whiteham. I’ll have to come down and introduce myself.”

“Oh, are you Jewish?”

“I am.” He tugged down his knit stocking cap to cover his rather large ears.

“Ah cool. I never see anything in your windows around this time of year.”

“I prefer to keep my religion to myself. Lots of people in small towns tend to have small minds.” Yeah, that was a truism. “Now my Betty, she was always so proud and vocal, but when she died, I fell into myself more than usual. You know how that is.”

I did. Sadly, I did not know Mr. Blum had lost his wife. Shit, I hadn’t even known he was Jewish. Guess I’d fallen into myself so deeply I didn’t even care to find out the basics about the people I interacted with all the time. Christ, maybe Nora was right about me. “So, this young man of yours—”

“He’s not mine. I just met him at the airport and he was down on his luck, so I offered him a place to sleep and some hours at the alehouse.”

That made my neighbor smile so widely his craggy cheeks obscured his eyes. “Now that is the truest form of good cheer to men I have heard in quite some time. So, tell me about him.”

“Well, he’s about my age, I think, tight curly hair, dark eyes, tall, very lean, can sing like an angel, and handles himself in a bar very well.” Mr. Blum nodded along as I began gushing, the nips at my thighs from two thirsty geese not stalling my ramble at all. “He’s southern, plays guitar, and carries his grandfather’s menorah as a memento. We had it lit last night in the little sign windows of the bar, but Al came over to complain about the candle.”

“Al would complain if he were hung with a new rope.” I stared. “It’s an old saying. So Al complained about the menorah?”

“Well, he said it was the open flame, which, okay, I sort of get, but we all know it was the candelabrum.” Mr. Blum bobbed his head. “So, you know me. I’m now on the search for an electric menorah to put in the window. I might start handing out dreidels at the door.”

Mr. Blum laughed a hearty laugh that got my geese to stop pulling at my pant legs for a moment. But just for a moment. They really had no patience.

“I’d love to back that promotion.” Mr. Blum chuckled.

“I doubt it would ever get off the ground as I can’t find a damn electric menorah anywhere in town, let alone a case of dreidels. I could order one online, but it would take days to get here.”

Mr. Blum patted my arm. “I have an old electric one stashed away in the attic. I’ll go fetch it for you.”

“That would be amazing. Thank you so much.” He grinned in a mischievous way. No one liked Al, not even the cardboard Santa. “Now I just have to figure out what to get him. Any suggestions? Ow! You little shit, Fred!” I rubbed my ass where the gander had just given it a hard pinch. “I get it. Work faster. Damn feathered taskmasters.”

“You best get them happy or your backside will be a solid bruise. I’m going to go muddle around in the attic. I might join you for lunch if you’re accepting?”

“Of course. My treat.” Mr. Blum gave me a curt nod of acceptance, tossed more corn to the geese, and slowly made his way back around my house to the road. I snuck after him, careful not to be seen, to ensure he didn’t slip on the ice anywhere as he returned to his tiny home under the pines.

Once I saw him duck inside his bright red front door, I went back to watering the geese before there was a webbed-footed coup attempt. I would not put it past them. When I was back inside thawing out with a cup of hot coffee and an English muffin with peanut butter, I scribbled out a shopping list to fill before I went to work.

I had some holiday shopping to do, which was outlandish in its own right. I’d just finished my muffin when I got a call. Seeing that it was my sister, I wiped my fingers on a paper towel before answering.

“Why are you calling me?” I asked and got a raspberry from Nora, who looked as if she had just rolled out of bed. “You’re on your honeymoon.”

“I know. I just wanted to check on you. The last time anyone saw you, rumor was you were lit.”

I sighed dramatically. She made a face. “I’m a big boy, Nora. Now why the hell are you yakking at me when you have exactly one day left with Antoine before he has to return to playing hockey and making millions?”

“I miss our morning talks,” she replied sadly. “Tell me you’ll still send me stupid texts every morning.”

“I promise I will send you stupid texts every morning.” She sniffled. I leaned down to stare at my phone propped against my empty coffee mug. “Nora, are you crying?”

“Yes.” And just like that, the waterworks began. She’d been doing this for about a month now, ever since she’d found out she was pregnant. Hence the quick wedding ceremony in the middle of hockey season. Seemed Antoine had some very strict and very religious grandmothers who would have died a thousand deaths if he had not married my sister. Not that they hadn’t been planning a wedding anyway, they had been. It was just that the vows had to be said before Nora was showing, or so the elderly matriarchs of the Bolanger clan had decreed. “I can’t help it. I’m so happy!” Ah. Okay, as long as they were happy tears. If Antoine had made her sad, I might just have to fly back to Canada to kick his ass. “Tell me something happy that happened to you today. I can’t stand it if I’m happy and you’re still so sad.”

Well, shit. I glanced down at the scrap paper in front of me. “I’m going to buy some Hanukkah gifts for my new friend Kenan.” I waved the list in front of her now red nose.

“Wait. What?” She dabbed at her leaky eyes with the sleeve of the ridiculously oversized hockey jersey she was wearing. “You. You’re buying holiday gifts? For a friend? Is this friend a guy?!”

Wow, it was amazing how rapidly her moods shifted. Poor Antoine. “Yes, he’s a guy.” She squealed so loudly my eardrums wept. “No. Stop that. Do not squeal. It’s not like that at all. He’s just a nice guy who’s helping at the alehouse for a few days, or maybe weeks, depending on how long it takes him to make enough money for gas to move onto his next stop.”

“Weeks? How much gas is he buying? Does he drive a tank?”

“No, he drives a beat-up—it’s not even important.” I huffed and she glowed, the little imp. “It’s just a thing is all.”

“Is he cute?”

“ Nora …”

“He is! I can tell by the way your eyebrows get all droopy.”

“He’s not…okay, look, he’s not ugly.”

“He is so cute.” She was bouncing in her seat. “He is just adorable. I can tell you think so. Antoine! Wake up! Brann has a new friend named Keifer, and he’s buying gifts for him!”

My new brother-in-law mumbled something in French from just out of view.

“His name is Kenan. I’m only buying small gifts for each day of Hanukkah. Do not wake up Antoine to relay inconsequential information.”

“This is huge. Huge! Send pictures of Kenan. I love you, big brother! Antoine, wake up ! Brann has a Jewish quote-unquote friend!”

“Magnifique,” Antoine grunted just as the call ended.

Jesus. I ran my hands over my face. You’d think I never had a friend in my entire life. I had plenty of friends. There was Mr. Blum and…

Did geese count?

Oh! And the guys in the dart league. So many friends. Too many to count.

My phone buzzed. I eyed it like the cell was an adder. It was my mother. Nora was to blame for this. I would get her back somehow, somewhere, someday. I ignored the text as well as the call that followed. I had other things to do this morning. Like buy little gifts at the thrift shop outside of town for my friend. Friend . Just a friend. A passing acquaintance. A temporary coworker.

Yep, this was just me being a nice boss.