The Christmas Keeper (Laurel Holidays #6)

11. Epilogue

Epilogue

L yle eyed the blintz resting beside his burger, then threw me the most scathing look I ever got from a customer.

It was divine.

“You know I was kidding about these being on the menu, right?” He glanced at the others gathered in the alehouse for our new traditional Easter/Passover celebration. Kenan was off because it was Passover, but he was home whipping up some delicious treats for the family that we were going to pack into a hamper for a trip to Canada.

“Hey, don’t ever let it be said that Brann Argraves does not cater to his customers.” Everyone in the bar howled with laughter. “I’d tell you all where to go, but it’s a holiday.”

“Ignore them. These are to die for,” Paula said, cutting into her creamy blintz with her fork.

I thanked her. She had not been banned, but things between us were still cool.

“Yeah, Kenan has a good hand with more than just plucking a guitar,” I replied while filling two mugs with a stout Irish beer I’d brought in for St. Patrick’s Day last month and kept serving as people had loved it. Same with the slight change to the menu. Nothing drastic. Just a few new items for people to pick at while drinking. Kenan had suggested the new Irish beer, and the little batter-dipped mushrooms. And had advocated not to ban Paula. The man had a way about him that left me malleable as clay. Everyone at the bar giggled like teenaged girls. “No, not that way. You people are dirty. And on Good Friday. For shame. All of you.”

No one seemed the least upset. They all seemed really jovial at my expense. Whatever. I wasn’t going to let this pack of howling fools ruin my mood. I had two more hours to serve beer and then I was off for two weeks. Two . Two whole weeks . Kenan and I were going to spend a few days with the family up in Ottawa for another interfaith meal, then we were flying down to Daytona Beach to close on the sale of Mr. Blum’s cottage to Kenan.

Seemed Mr. Blum’s sister was not going to get much better, and he was loathe to leave her. So, being the gracious soul he was, he offered to sell the cabin to Kenan with one stipulation: Kenan was to always light his grandfather’s menorah in the front window. The selling price had been insanely low. In truth, the little bungalow was older than the town hall here in Whiteham, but it had a large chunk of land that went with it. Much of it was state game lands, so no one would be building on it anytime soon. Just like my cabin in that regard.

There had been a small sticking point with a down payment. I wanted to get a loan to help him out as I had pretty decent credit. Kenan would have none of that. And while we went back and forth over that, the interview about Lance Galloway was released. It started small, just a local piece, but it was soon picked up and spread, as things do, online. Mark had been true to his word and hadn’t mentioned where we were located but people talk. There was a hot two weeks right around the middle of March when fans began showing up at the alehouse. Most were super gracious. Kenan played at night, as always, and they had been mollified by hearing his voice a few more times. Then the fans moved on to other singers as they do.

On St. Patrick’s Day, during the height of madness with corned beef sandwiches and green beer—yes, the corned beef was also Kenan’s idea—a leggy redhead walked into the bar. The whole pub fell into silence when Margo Morgaine, her hairdresser, and a bodyguard the size of a Hereford bull with the same disposition entered our meager establishment. There was a moment of stunned silence as a hundred slightly tipsy buffoons in sequined green top hats gawked at the music superstar. Bing Crosby was crooning about smiling Irish eyes over on the jukebox.

Kenan stood behind the bar with me, sweaty, beer-stained, and stunned into utter speechlessness.

“Well, I have never in all my life seen two such handsome barkeeps,” Morgan said as she swept around the bar to embrace Kenan. I stood there with my teeth in my mouth, an empty pitcher in hand, and gawked.

Things kind of went nuts for a few minutes. Margo and her secret partner took a table that had been graciously vacated by gas workers. Kenan joined them after a look at me as if asking for permission. As if he needed that from me. The three of them chatted amongst themselves for several minutes, Margo holding Kenan’s sticky hand in her perfectly manicured grip. Mr. Bodyguard stood behind Margo, silently daring anyone to try it. No one did.

After Margo and Kenan bussed cheeks, Kenan and she sang one song. Her voice and his paired perfectly as they sang one of their duets. And then she took several selfies with her adoring fans before she left the alehouse much as she had entered. Like a well-rehearsed typhoon of grace. When I’d mentioned that to Kenan later that night, he had said that nothing Margo did was unrehearsed. His ex-agent had set up this reunion for her to show her humanitarian side to the world. If Margo could forgive him, then so could the rest of the world.

She had also placed a check into his hand before she had left. Dividends off their duets. It was a substantial amount of money. Way more than I could have gotten at the Whiteham Savings & Loan to help with his down payment.

“Are you sure you even want to buy that old cabin now?” I had asked, feeling rather small compared to the woman who had just knocked our small town on its ear. “You’ve got enough cash on hand now to build a new place or hell, I don’t know…go on tour.” He’d wiggled closer to me in bed. I stroked some dark curls from his face. His hair had gotten wildly long over the winter months. I liked it long. Gave me something to hold on to when we fucked. Also, it was as soft as a cloud when I buried my face in his hair.

“No tours, no big fancy mansions. I just want to be here getting my life in order. All of that shit is in my past. My future is here, in Whiteham, with you if you still want me in your life.”

I then showed him, twice, how much I wanted him in my life. How what had been a kind of love was now a full-fledged love.

“…see if I can get my wife to make these,” Lyle was saying when I returned to the present.

“I’m sure Kenan will be happy to share it. It was one of Mrs. Blum’s recipes.”

I was positive he would pass it along. The man had given this small town his everything. He’d bared his soul, his painful past, to these people and they’d taken him in as one of their own. Sure, Al had questioned Kenan if he had plans to put lamb’s blood around the doorway of the pub, but after Kenan replied that he would simply hang up a banner that read “Dear Angel of Death: You’ve got the wrong house, please pass over. A dank—A Faithful Hebrew” above our door, Al had slunk back to his hardware store to slap up a giant pink rabbit waving a screwdriver set that was on sale. Because nothing says my lord has risen like a sale on Phillips head screwdrivers.

“Thank you for taking Fred and Wilma,” I tacked on as Lyle plunked his final bite of blintz into his mouth. “I know they can be difficult…”

“They’ll be fine. We have a nice big barn. As long as they can get along with Festus, our donkey, all will be well.”

“Maybe Festus will teach Fred a thing or two about respecting boundaries.”

“Could be. He’s a crusty old turd, but I love him. Wife says me and that cantankerous mule are similar asses.”

I chuckled. “Kenan says the geese and I are birds of a feather.”

It was then that Kenan appeared, smiling, his light jacket of bright pink setting off the rosy tone of his cheeks. Early April could be downright chilly here in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Everyone called out his name, much like Norm on Cheers , and Kenan stopped to chit-chat or gossip with them all. I couldn’t help but smile as he made his way behind the bar to steal a kiss.

“I thought you were working on the world’s most magnificent seder plate,” I said after the smooch ended.

“I was, but I ran out of horseradish.”

“Ah, well, you better not fart around in here too long. The grocery store will be closing at six instead of eight today.”

“Oh right, small town hours. I keep forgetting. Looks pretty busy. Are you sure—”

“I’m sure. It’s a holiday for you. Also, seder plates don’t make themselves. Nora is dying to dig into it. Of course, she’s been on this horseradish and sour cream dip kick for the past few weeks.”

“Pregnancy will do that to you. I’ll be sure to get extra horseradish. Do you need anything from the store? It’s a long drive.”

“Babe, it’s like seven hours if we don’t stop. I think I can manage. Now go finish your seder prep. I’ll see you when these knuckleheads go home.”

Kenan cradled my face in his hands. They reeked of horseradish. He kissed me on the mouth with such passion I had to hold on to the bar to keep from melting to the floor.

“I love you so much,” he whispered when the kiss broke.

“I love you too,” I breathlessly replied. His smile was brilliant as the bright spring sun shone through the pub windows. “Now go. I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Yep, I’m off. Thanks for taking the geese, Lyle. I can get them some of the out-of-date bagged salads if Penny is working the produce section when I—”

“ Go !” a half dozen of us said in unison. Kenan laughed and rushed out of the bar, a cool wind coming in as he left, making all the little paper Easter eggs and Happy Passover cardboard decorations hung from the ceiling sway.

I got back to serving beer and blintzes followed by daydreaming as I washed pitchers, mugs, and glasses behind the bar. I had no clearcut idea what would happen when, say in a year or more or maybe less, Kenan and I possibly decided to live together. Would he sell his place? Would I sell mine? Was I putting my horse way in front of my cart? Probably. I did tend to worry about shit that was several years down the road. Having a home of his own was massively important to his recovery efforts. So while I disliked him not being in my bed every night seeing him living a clean, healthy life as a steadily employed taxpaying citizen made me incredibly proud of him. We’d sort it all out when the time came. For now, we spent nights at my cabin and then at his, swapping out places as the mood suited.

“Hey, I’m going to head home. Check on your geese and Festus, and then snuggle up with the missus for the rest of the night. You closing up soon?” Lyle asked as he pushed an arm into his jacket sleeve.

“Yeah, I have to clean the kitchen yet, but after that, I am out of here. Well, once I roust all the boneheads out, that is.”

Lyle chuckled. “Ah, you like us deep down.” I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m glad to see you heading out to be with Kenan. He’s a good man. We all can see how happy you are.”

I nodded, touched by his tenderness. It wasn’t a trait that many men displayed. Me included. Since I wasn’t good at being nice, I fumbled about for a reply that would express everything I felt for Kenan without making me look too sappy.

“He’s a keeper,” I replied and felt that described it all. I was no poet. Then I shouted out last call. Several dart players moaned. I told them to take the damn board with them and just get moving.

It was time for me to head home to my man. We had a holiday to celebrate. One of hundreds I hoped we would see side-by-side. The silver band hidden away in my sock drawer for next Christmas would hopefully be the start of a joyous lifetime spent together as partners in all aspects of our lives. Who would have thunk it? Me, Brann the Grump, putting joyous and holiday in the same sentence. Amazing what love could do for a man.

THE END