The Christmas Keeper (Laurel Holidays #6)

5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

S unday morning was usually a layabout day for me.

After I tended to Fred and Wilma, that was. One thing about having pets was that no matter what, you had to get up and take care of them. Hot, cold, rain. Weather didn’t matter, those critters needed attention. But this Sunday I was up at the crack of dawn, unable to fall into a deep sleep due to a severe case of jitters. I’d not had anyone over to my place, other than Mr. Blum, for years. And it showed. So after filling up water dishes and pools, the treat dish with half a head of lettuce—geese love the greens, especially in the winter when they can’t get to grass—and their feed bowl with waterfowl pellets mixed with some corn, I scurried back inside, grabbed a cup of coffee, and started cleaning.

It was amazing how much dust accumulated when you never dusted.

Three hours later, my little house was passable. My mother would condemn it, but she wasn’t here, so there would be no white glove treatment of the windowsills. I’d dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the stove. The kitchen floor had been mopped. After giving my hard work a perusal, I decreed my home fit for a guest. Mostly. A text came in a few minutes later from Kenan asking if I was open for laundry service. I hit him back, then jumped into the shower, found some decent clothes, and even slid a small hoop earring into my lobe. I generally just wore a silver stud, but today felt special.

“Because nothing spells romance like adding fabric softener to someone’s underwear,” I muttered at the stupidity of it all. We’d shared a few kisses. That was it. Sure, they were hot as hell and had left me tossing all night until I’d taken matters into hand, literally, to ensure I got a little rest. I was being stupid. And dumb. “They’re synonyms, Brann,” I told myself because I was now, it seemed, Mrs. Abrahms, my ninth grade English teacher. Were they synonyms? Fuck, who knew? Everything I learned in high school, I promptly forgot as soon as I got that diploma. Other than the things I learned about sex. Those lessons stuck. Sadly, it was all about het sex, so we didn’t get the inside scoop on how to prep for anal sex, which is silly since anal isn’t just for us gay guys. Still though, I did know how to roll a condom onto a banana, so thanks to Coach Slattery for that. It would have been fun to see the football coach who called everyone who didn’t perform up to his specs a flower petal flouncy boy have to explain to the class about how to rim a guy to get him ready for a good ass pounding.

The doorbell rang, jostling me out of my walk down memory lane. I rushed to the door, took a deep breath, and yanked it open. Kenan stood on my front step, cheeks pink from the cold, two fat duffel bags hanging off his shoulders.

“Good morning,” he crowed merrily, then gave me a huge hug with a kiss on the cheek. He seemed very European at times with all the hugging and smooching.

“Come in, please.” I stepped aside. He slid inside, stomped the light snow off his sneakers, and placed his bags on the floor. “You can leave your boots there on the tray.”

“It snowed overnight, just a little bit. The drive over here was magical. Slippery at places. My car needs better winter tires, but since I’m heading south, I should be okay.”

“South, yeah, it’s much warmer in the south.”

Oh my God, Brann, you enormous pudding head.

“So it is,” he concurred and hung his coat in the small closet by the front door. “I’m not a big fan of the cold but I must say a kiss of Jack Frost on your nose sure makes it feel like Christmas.” He gave my small but tidy home a once over then smiled. “This is a really nice place. It feels like you.”

I glanced at the couch, windows, and dollar store paintings I’d hung on the wall so that Nora would stop telling me I lived in a tomb. The place was pretty bereft of anything bright or personal in any way after the great Paulie Purge a few years ago. I’d thrown out everything he had ever touched, including holiday decorations, clothes, pillows, and the stupid oils he’d picked up at some antique store. He liked to fancy himself a trader of fine things. I just called him a traitor. Period.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Why don’t we get your clothes started?”

“Sounds good.” He hefted his bags from the floor to his shoulder. “I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, Brann. Not everyone would take in a stranger like you have.”

“We all have bad times,” I said as we made our way to the little offshoot hall next to the kitchen. “I’ve been there myself.”

He nodded in silence, filling the washer as I prattled on about whatever appeared in my head as I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the glorious shape of his nose.

Once the first load was agitating, we made our way to the kitchen and made coffee. I offered him a slice of a coffee cake I’d grabbed at the gas station on the way home last night.

“I love coffee cake,” he said and sighed as he took a forkful. “Unless it’s talking to me.” I paused with my fork resting on my lower lip. He frowned slightly. “Sorry, that was a bad anecdote to share on a sunny day. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my years lost in K-land talking to baked goods.”

“No, hey, we’re able to talk about anything. We’re friends.” I gave him a wobbly smile while praying he didn’t ask me anything personal. “The big thing is that you’re clean now.”

“Yeah, I am.” His smile was bright, his lips covered with tiny bits of cinnamon and brown sugar crumbles. “So, when did you buy this house?”

“Mm, it was left to me by my grandfather. It was his hunting camp. I did some minor renovations and moved in about five years ago and opened the alehouse.”

“It looks like a camp, rustic and all. I like the open beams. What made you decide to open an alehouse?”

“I like beer.”

He chuckled softly. We spent a good hour just sitting in the kitchen as the meager winter sun shone on us, talking about nothing vastly important, feeling each other out in terms of what was discussable and what wasn’t. I veered away from any mention of old boyfriends and Kenan kept his addiction days to himself. After coffee and cake, and with the second load of wash chugging, we went outside so he could meet Fred and Wilma. We took more lettuce.

“Oh wow, they’re big,” he said as we stood on the outside of the small fence, each word steaming in front of us. “Rounder than wild geese. Can they fly?”

“Not really. I mean, they can run and flap, but they’re too heavy for flying like wild geese. They’ve been bred to be meatier,” I whispered behind my hand so they wouldn’t hear. Kenan sniggered. Fred waddled closer, lowered his head, and hissed.

“Ah, okay, that sounds like the wild geese I’ve met,” he commented, then held out some lettuce to the gander. Wilma eyed the lettuce but stayed where she was, in the sun, atop some warm hay, with her head tucked back under her white wing. “Here, buddy, come get some lettuce.” He waved the wilted leaf. Fred stamped to the fence in the classic goose ‘back off, fucker’ position. Kenan leapt back. The lettuce fell into the pen, where Fred gobbled it down. “Damn, okay, so he’s not at all in the holiday feels. Duly noted.”

“To be fair, he’s never in the holiday feels, be it Christmas or the Fourth of July. Fred is my spirit animal.”

“Goose gotta goose.”

“Exactly.”

He stared at me with a winsome little smile as the cold, cold wind tugged at his curls. “You really do love them.”

“They’re cool. Most people dislike geese, but you just have to understand them. These two aren’t lap sitters. They’re not down to be petted. I’m not sure what happened to them before I rescued them off the Kirby pond two years ago, but whatever someone did to them, they’ve not learned to fully trust yet.”

“Mm, so they’re quite a bit like you.”

I blinked, shook my head, and blew out a soft little sigh of resignation. “Maybe,” I confessed with a shrug. “Just one word of advice: don’t go into their pen. They don’t know you well enough and may act out.”

He slid his cold hand into mine, his long rough fingers gripping my hand tightly. “Not everyone is meant to be petted.”

I glanced down at his hand meshed with mine. I squeezed it, then leaned in to kiss him on his beautiful mouth. His lips were warm. His nose was chilly. No words could come out of me that would cover just how much I loved that he got me. I’d never been a gregarious person, not like Nora, and I’d always preferred to be won over slowly, from a distance. Wary. After the breakup with Paulie, my mistrustful nature grew. What it was about this man I’d not yet figured out. He was not pushy or boastful, perhaps. He knew pain, had lived through hell, and had somehow managed to hold on to his gentleness.

“We should go inside now,” I whispered when the kiss ended.

Kenan nodded, his eyes hooded. I led him through the back door, and we kissed again. The washer had spun out, but the dryer was still tumbling. I backed him into the door jamb, hands on his lean hips, and slid my tongue into his mouth. He moaned as his tongue curled around mine.

“I’d like to shower before this maybe goes any further?” he asked tentatively. “Not that I expect anything from you other than the kindness you’ve—”

I pressed my mouth to his softly, then pulled back so I could gaze into his dark eyes. “Going further sounds really good.” My dick was so hard it ached. “But I don’t want you to feel that we have to have sex in any way. You’re still my helper at the pub until you decide it’s time to go south.” Saying that hurt more than I would want to admit. “If we sleep together, it’s because we both want to, nothing more, nothing less. You’re leaving soon and I’m too mean to love.”

He reached up to cup my face. “You are the least mean man I have ever met. Show me to your shower.”

I was more than happy to oblige. My house was all on one floor, so the bathroom was just across from the main bedroom. I had a second bedroom, much smaller, and it pretty much just held shit from the alehouse in a sort of limbo storage since the pub’s basement was packed with kegs.

After I had the light on, I motioned him in, his hand still in mine, and stood there staring at this beautiful man as if I’d lost all sense, which I kind of had. Something had taken root as I’d stepped into the bathroom, with him following behind. Fear. I was scared. The last time I’d felt this strongly about someone, he’d hurt me so badly I’d spent weeks moving around in a dark, dark fog where I worked and then went home to weep. It had been a bad time. Extremely bad. And I’d sworn I would never allow myself to feel those feelings ever again.

“You look terrified,” Kenan whispered. “If you’re not ready, please just say so. I can shower all by myself. I’ve been doing it since I was seven.”

He was trying to make light of the tension threatening to overwhelm us. I floundered for what to say, then decided to just kiss him some more. Let our bodies talk as they were. They certainly knew what to say when we didn’t. We began peeling off clothes as we tasted each other, his hands roaming over my bared back as I cradled his skinny ass with both hands.

My hand left his tight ass for a mere second to crank on the taps. When we had our briefs off, he took hold of our cocks and led us into the shower. I stubbed my toe on the tub as I tried to step in and over yet not lose the magic of his prick resting next to mine.

“Ouch, damn toes hanging on the end of my foot,” I hissed before burrowing my nose into his long throat. His laughter was brief as we stepped under the flow of the water. My hands went back to massaging his glutes, my middle finger teasing the tempting crack of his ass. We melted into the hot water, both of us rutting into his strong grip. My balls tightened up far too soon, and I came embarrassingly fast. Kenan followed, his slim body tensing as he shot all over his hand. I couldn’t get enough of him, his taste, and I licked his shoulder, then back up his neck to his mouth as we rode through our orgasms.

“Good God,” he panted when I finally let the man grab a breath. “That was…”

“Magnificent?”

He chortled gruffly, gave us both a nice long stroke, and then, sadly, released our cocks. I gently spun him to face the showerhead, my fingers tracing wet paths over his skin, my lips starved for more of his flesh. He leaned into me, head back, eyes closed. I feasted on him until we were both hard again. He spun to face me, slid his fingers into my sodden hair, and licked into my mouth. We rutted against each other, wet wanton hands stroking and caressing, his long, lean cock jabbing at my belly. Hips rolled, fingers delved, and when I blew apart for the second time, his finger was deep inside me just as mine was buried in him.

The water was lukewarm now, so we had to rush to get washed. I worked shampoo into his curls, amazed at how long it took to rinse all the bubbles. He washed my back. I lathered his long legs, kissing his knees, which made him giggle like a teen girl. When we left the shower, we toweled off, side-eyeing each other timidly, our gazes wanton and bold even if our thoughts were on the shy side.

I wanted to say something clever, erudite like someone on some fancy romance show would say to the man they’d just frolicked with in the shower, but all I could do was rub his hair with a towel and marvel at the texture of it as it dried.

“I think you have the most beautiful hair,” I whispered. He blushed a little, stole a kiss, and carded his fingers into my wild mass.

“And I think you have beautiful hair too. I love the color and the way it falls over your brow.”

“Mutual hair admiration society is now called to order.” I nipped at his lower lip. The awkwardness was still in the air, along with some lingering steam, but I felt less uptight now. “Lunch sound good?”

“It sounds incredible.”

He padded out to the dryer to pull on clean clothes while I hurried to dress in my bedroom. When my ass was covered, I fluffed up my two pillows and ran my hand down over the comforter. All clean and ready for a new lover to tumble into them. The thought of falling all over each other in the shower—twice—had never entered my mind, so I’d readied the bed. I even went so far as to buy lube and condoms, just in case. Be prepared and all that.

When I met him in the kitchen, he was wearing old jeans with torn knees, an oversized sweatshirt with a yellow monkey on the front, and thick woolen socks.

“You look so cute,” I said as I wrapped my arms around his middle. “I’d like to cook you something really fancy, but my culinary skills stall after burger flipping and deep fryer lowering.”

“If you have eggs, I can whip up a pretty nice omelet.”

I pecked his nose. He purred like a cat napping on a sunny walk. Then we set into making an omelet filled with green pepper, onion, and covered with sharp cheese. I made toast and coffee, and we carried our brunch into the living room where we sat on the sofa, plates on our thighs, silently eating while stealing peeks at each other. Hand to God I felt fourteen all over again. Fourteen without pimples or algebra homework. Could it get any better?

***

As it turned out, things could get better.

My general vibe of lie around Sunday won out after we were filled with eggs. We curled up on the sofa to watch movies. Now I was a standard action spy guy, but Kenan had other ideas about what made for a lazy winter Sunday flick fest.

He cued up a movie that I’d never seen before, his lovely brown eyes lighting on me as I made faces at the promo on the screen.

“Seriously?” I asked because…seriously?

“It’s funny.”

He was a cute little wheedler. I gave one of his curls a tug. “This isn’t really my favorite genre…”

“Give it a thirty-minute no thank-you watch.”

Cute but persistent. “I thought that was a no-thank-you bite.”

“Same rule applies. If you dislike it after thirty minutes, we’ll watch something else.”

I sighed as theatrically as possible, then folded. It was those brown eyes of his.

“Okay. Thirty minutes, then we find John Wick or Jason Bourne.”

“Deal.”

And that was how I spent the next few hours watching Will Ferrell as an elf. To be fair, it was cute, in places. Over-the-top holiday sweet, enough to give me cavities, but overall, the movie was entertaining. Not even close to the Terminator or Red series, obviously, but the movie made Kenan laugh aloud throughout. And that alone was worth giving up explosions and bullets for a little while.

The day sped by amid folding wash, kissing, and cuddles on the couch. We tucked Fred and Wilma into their coop for the night to keep them safe from predators. If they slept outside, a random fox or coyote would love a nice fat goose for a late-night snack. They wouldn’t get too cold since they were wearing down bodysuits.

When dinner time arrived, I was loathe to leave my sofa, but Mr. Blum had texted earlier to double-check we were coming. We’d said we were, so we had to go. Kenan pulled on a dark blue sweater with some black jeans. I followed suit with a sweater Nora had mailed to me for Christmas a few years back and a newish pair of Levi’s.

“Okay, so I know this is going to be a stupid question,” I said as we stood by the front door tying our winter boots for the short walk up the lane.

“There are no stupid questions,” he replied with a playful wink.

“Oh, trust me, there are,” I replied, tugging my laces tight and straightening them.

“Name one.”

“Is a sleeping bag a nap sack?”

“Okay, I stand corrected. To be fair, that’s pretty funny.”

“Thank the internet. My brain stores dumb things that I see online.”

“Well, that was a good use of your brain storage.” He rose from his crouch, kissed my cheek, and pulled on his coat. “What was your question?”

I tugged a toque onto my head, a gift from Antoine that bore his team colors and logo.

“Okay, so please don’t think I’m stupid, but what is required of me for this dinner at Mr. Blum’s?”

Kenan looked confused. “Uhm, you’re supposed to eat and make small talk?”

“No, I mean…” I pointed to my toque. He shrugged, totally lost. “Do I have to wear a yarmulke?”

“Oh. I was really lost there. No, not unless you wish to wear a kippah during a prayer.”

“Okay, so next dumb question. Is there a box in the closet filled with headwear for those of us who don’t own said proper headgear? Like a lost gloves box, only this is filled with…” His quirking lips answered my question. “Right, okay, moving out the door now.”

“You may want a coat. Also, just so you know, any headwear is acceptable so your toque would be fine. Unless Mr. Blum cheers for a different hockey team, then there may be fists flying.”

He snickered all the way to Mr. Blum’s little house tucked back amid the pines. We walked at a relaxed pace despite the cold, elbows brushing, exchanging the kinds of knowing looks that lovers did. The night was dark, the sky clear, and a thousand stars glittered overhead. That was one thing about living in the boonies that drew stargazers from all over. Little to no light pollution for novice astronomers. There was even a state park close by where star lovers from around the state gathered for viewing parties. So yeah, the skies were just that breathtaking.

The redwood cedar siding, exactly like what covered my house, was somber without the touch of the sun on it, but the warm glow of candlelight from a menorah in the front window cast the dusting of snow on the ground in rich gold. The tiny candles, two of them now, flickered invitingly.

“I see he dug out more than that old electric one,” I commented as we made our way up his neatly shoveled and salted walk.

“Sometimes it’s good to let go of past hurts,” he said offhandedly, or so I felt he wanted it to sound like, but I suspected the comment had been aimed at me.

I let it slide. There was no point in getting into a squabble with the man over something that would not change. I’d been eviscerated on a holiday. I now hated that holiday. Sue me. If my boyfriend had cheated on me on National Chocolate Ice Cream Day, I’d hate chocolate ice cream. Okay, no, that was a lie. I will always love chocolate ice cream. The point stands, though. What made Christmas so special? Other than the whole birth of a baby in a manger in Bethlehem thing. And since I didn’t do religion even that meant little to me. Christmas was a commercialized mess where people overspent to the point of crippling debt to outdo their neighbors and friends. What may have been a charming little holiday ala Jimmy Stewert, angels, and tinkling bells was now a fraudulent corporate sham to bilk people out of—

“Welcome!” Mr. Blum yelled as he opened his front door before we could even knock. “Come in out of the cold. Take your boots off here in the foyer. Yes, good, now give me your coats. I’ll toss them on the guest bed while you make yourselves comfortable.”

Off he toddled, leaving Kenan and me to drink in the small but comfy home. It was a tiny place, also a former hunting camp, but it looked loved, whereas mine looked like a hunting camp with better plumbing. There were pictures of family everywhere, knitted throws on the back of a long sofa, scattered rugs on the softly buffed hardwood floors, and of course, the menorah which sat proudly on a side table in the front window.

“Nice house,” I commented while Mr. Blum was talking away in another room.

“Very homey,” Kenan added.

Our host arrived then. “Why are you lingering here? The floor is cold. Go into the living room. Come now, we have all kinds of appetizers. It took me some time to go through all of Betty’s recipes, but I found a few.” He waved a hand at a coffee table that was bowing under the platters of food. A few he said. A few dozen was more like it. “It’s been several years since I entertained. Our son is on the other side of the world working for a relief charity, so he rarely visits in person.” A sadness flickered on Mr. Blum’s face before he shook it off.

“This looks great,” I said in earnest. Kenan nodded, wide-eyed, as he perused the dishes.

“Now, of course, Kenan, you know what most of them are, but for our gentile guest let me explain what we have. Obviously, we have challah bread which might still be warm from the oven. There are latkes, kugel which will not be as good as my wife made but should pass with a push, some brisket which I suggest you use the challah to soak up the juices, applesauce, and of course…” He waved at a plate of jelly-filled doughnuts.

“Okay, I know doughnuts,” I chimed up all sorts of proud.

“Also known as sufganiyot,” our host said with a kind smile.

“This all looks amazing, Mr. Blum. It’s been a long time since I had such a traditional meal. Thank you,” Kenan said.

“It’s my pleasure. It’s good to have some young people in this old place. Grab a dish! Serve yourself whatever you wish and don’t be shy. Oh! I forgot wine.”

“Can we help?” Kenan offered and got a snort as a reply. “Guess that means no.”

“Guess so.” I lifted a plate from the stack, then eyeballed all the food spread out in front of us. Soft music played off in another room, just audible out here.

“Here we go!” Mr. Blum appeared, wobbling toward us with three glasses of dark wine in delicate flutes. “This was my wife’s chosen drink for the holidays. She loved Manischewitz, and I prefer moscato, but since these recipes are hers as is the menorah, I thought we could enjoy the grape to honor her.”

We all raised our glasses to Betty and then toted our food to a small square table in the corner. A card table that had been covered with a white cloth. After Mr. Blum was seated with a plate, Kenan and I sat, shook out our napkins, and paused as Mr. Blum lowered his head. We followed suit. The prayer was in Hebrew, so I was lost.

“Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of the universe, who brings bread from the earth,” Kenan whispered before the amen. Mr. Blum had on a skullcap, Kenan and I did not, and that all seemed cool. Another prayer of thanks for the wine followed.

“Dig in, please. I need to be reaffirmed that it’s all good. I was in that kitchen for three days! No wonder Betty was always so tired.” He chuckled warmly while slicing his brisket.

“We would have gladly helped,” I hurried to say.

“Guests don’t help cook. Betty would haunt me if I had company making the food I served them,” Mr. Blum replied, so I let it drop but still felt bad that this old man had worked so hard to feed us. I resolved to eat lots. It wasn’t hard to fulfill that vow because everything was absolutely delicious. By the time the meal was over, I was so full I could barely breathe.

“I should have worn jogging pants,” I whispered to Kenan as we helped clear the table. Mr. Blum was looking pretty worn out by then, so he did relent to let us tote platters into the boxy kitchen while he sipped his wine and listened to a best of George Gershwin CD that was filling the little home.

He patted my belly. A flare of lust ignited then sputtered out as the three jelly doughnuts I’d ingested smothered any thoughts of passion until I could digest properly.

“I know what you mean,” he said while we scraped scraps into a plastic bucket that Mr. Blum would toss out to the crows along with some corn. This practice was discouraged by the game commission since it drew bears, but, as Mr. Blum would say, the bears have to eat too. Still, he only did that during the winter when the bears were sleeping since the game warden had given him a firm lecture or twenty. “I’ve only been in Whiteham for a week and my pants are already tight.”

I reached over to rub his flat stomach. “A few pounds looks good on you.”

With his free hand, he cupped the back of my neck. I moved into the kiss willingly, eager to lick the sugar off his lips. He was a heady mix of tastes that made my blood run hot.

“Boys, come out here and look at this,” Mr. Blum called. Kenan moved back an inch, rubbed his nose against mine, and then looked into my eyes.

“This has been the best day I’ve had in years. Thank you, Brann.”

I stole another kiss because how could I not then we moseyed back into the living room to sit on either side of Mr. Blum on his couch and page through an old scrapbook. We spent a good two hours looking at black and white images of a much younger Mr. and Mrs. Blum and their son David as he grew from infanthood through his college years. Several dogs had come and gone throughout the years, and Mr. Blum recalled each dog’s name and bad habits.

After several big yawns that our host couldn’t hide, Kenan and I made our excuses after a vow that we would reciprocate the dinner date next week by having Mr. Blum over to our place.

Our place. Mr. Blum had called my place our place, as in mine and Kenan’s. Both of us fell over each other to correct him.

“Bah, semantics. I know two souls who belong together. Betty and I were the same. The looks that we snuck when we thought no one was watching, the stolen kisses in the kitchen while the old timers sipped sickly sweet grape wine and the tiny ones spun dreidels. I know.” He gave his nose a tap and went off to gather our coats from his guest room.

“We’ll let him think what he wants,” I whispered as we tied our boots in the foyer.

“Sure, yes, that’s fine,” Kenan concurred with little objection.

“No point in correcting him about it. Back in his day, everyone who kissed probably ended up getting married, so you know…”

“Yeah, totally.”

We were still playing along with the darling old dude’s antiquated thoughts about love and other outlandish things ten minutes later as we were walking home, hand-in-hand, sharing hot glances under the bright moon and a hundred thousand points of light. Maybe back in the ?60s, a guy could fall in love at first sight. That kind of stuff didn’t happen now, and certainly not to a man who had no heart left to give. But hey, if it made Mr. Blum happy who was I to yuck his yum?

When we stepped into my place, which looked barren in comparison to the lovely home we’d just left, I turned to Kenan, his hand warm in mine.

“It’s really late. You might as well spend the night here. Then we can ride to work together. Save gas.”

“Oh, okay, yeah, that’s great. Yeah, totally we should carpool. Lower our carbon footprints and all that.”

Yep, totally, that was why I invited him to stay. We were young men looking to help the climate crises however we could. Carpooling. Check. Washing in cold water. Check. Sharing a bed to save on fuel oil use. Check. Spooning your bed partner to ensure your thermostat was set lower. Check.

See. It was nothing silly like Mr. Blum’s old-fashioned silliness about love at first sight. We were just a couple of Gen Z eco-warriors doing our part to save the planet.