Chapter 7
Clayton vaguely remembered eating beef noodle soup, and he vaguely remembered going back to the guest room, but he didn't remember turning off the light, getting into bed, or falling asleep.
But it was morning, and he was standing next to the bed where he'd slept so soundly it barely looked like he'd disturbed the bedclothes at all.
Through the half-drawn blinds over the long window, he could see that it was still snowing.
Sideways. A vague grey glow came into the room, and though it might have cast a chill over the air, it was obviously struggling against a very good furnace, because Clayton was warm.
Even barefooted, he was warm. Where the hell were his socks?
Wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, he stumbled out of the guest room, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went down the dimly lit short hallway to the kitchen.
Where, in a blaze of warmth and comfortable smells, Kyle was standing at the white stove, which was a gas range, as evidenced by the blue and orange flames.
He'd obviously shaved and showered, for his face was clean and clear, and there was a bit of a nick along his jawline, and drops of water clung to the ends of his shaggy, russet hair. He was cooking something in a pan, and there was an honest-to-god pot of coffee percolating on the stovetop.
"I hope you like oatmeal," said Kyle, looking up at Clayton with a smile on his face. "I was going to make pancakes, but it seemed like the morning for this, so here we are."
"Are you making bacon, too?" asked Clayton as he came a step closer.
"Yes," said Kyle in a way that made it seem as though Clayton was a crazy person for questioning this. "Of course. Bacon, oatmeal, coffee, and fresh oranges. What better breakfast is there than that?"
"None that I can think of," said Clayton.
He'd evidently stepped into a dream state where everything was so carefully thought out it was almost unreal.
Normally his mornings consisted of running out of his small apartment to grab something from the nearest fast food place, and then doing the same during the day while driving his rig from location to location.
Shaving time on each delivery in every way he could, which included not sitting down at a table to eat.
Which was, evidently, the very thing they were going to do that morning.
"Go on and sit down," said Kyle.
"I should help," said Clayton, though he didn't have the first notion of what he could help with.
"The kitchen is small enough that I can manage, thank you," said Kyle. "You may note the abundance of food, which is due to the fact that Brent and Richard were supposed to be here, and aren't able to make it, and so—"
"You have enough to feed four people," said Clayton, as he sat down, his bare toes curling on the linoleum.
"And I've been looking forward to this," added Kyle. He brought over a plate of bacon stacked high enough to feed a small army of giants. "I don't get many visitors, and was looking forward to playing host. You know?"
"I guess so," said Clayton. He thought about how brusque he'd been over the phone when he'd been driving, and while he had been very honest, he'd not been very kind. So he amended what he'd said. "That is, I don't really know what playing host would be like, but that bacon sure looks good."
"You should start eating it," said Kyle.
He began ladling out the oatmeal into two large bowls, and brought those over to the table, then the pot of coffee, which he placed on a round brass trivet.
This was followed by a pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar, a jar of raspberry jam, and a squeeze bottle in the shape of a bear full of honey.
"Eat up, I mean it," said Kyle. He pointed to the woven basket of oranges that still sat on the counter. "The table is full of food for you to enjoy."
"And you," said Clayton, gesturing to the other seat. He couldn't abide it if Kyle stood around serving him for the entire meal.
He snagged several pieces of bacon and put them on the little plate that was by his bowl. Then he added butter and sugar to his oatmeal while Kyle poured a cup of coffee into a thick china mug. When he took a bite of the oatmeal, he nearly moaned.
"Wow, this is really good."
"I cook it slow," said Kyle, his mouth full of bacon. "That's the best way."
They were silent as they ate. The room was full of good smells, of coffee and crisp bacon, tinged with the sweetness of butter and sugar.
Outside the kitchen window over the sink, the snow was coming down hard, still, a slanted curtain of white on white, grey along the edges and glowing in the center as if backlit by some distant light.
The heat from the furnace churned steadily through the metal grates in the floorboards, and it was as cozy a setting as Clayton had experienced in a long, long time.
When they were finished, and the last bit of bacon had been eaten, Kyle stood up and started clearing the table. Clayton helped him as best he could without getting in the way, and handed over dishes to be put in the dishwasher. Which, when Kyle turned it on, churned in a low, satisfying way.
Clayton could only watch as Kyle wiped down the counters and the table, as there only seemed to be one sponge in sight. Then, when Kyle started sweeping the floor, Clayton was overcome with a dose of just-about-too-much domesticity.
"I probably should shave and get dressed and go dig out my car," said Clayton, as he scratched his chin with his fingers.
"You could shave, for sure," said Kyle as he rinsed the sponge in a stream of hot water and began wiping down the sink. "But you'd be one foolish mountain man to imagine that it'd make a bit of difference to start doing that when it's not yet stopped snowing."
Finished at the sink, Kyle placed the sponge on a small wire rack near the sink, and took a paper towel to wipe his hands, turning to Clayton.
"But until it stops snowing, which might take a few days, they won't plow the road to the interstate," said Kyle. "And that can take a whole day."
"What's today?" asked Clayton, having completely lost track.
"It's Christmas Eve Day," said Kyle with that blue-eyed expression Clayton was coming to know reflected Kyle's every intention was to be kind, even while he was delivering bad news. "Christmas is tomorrow."
"I'm going to miss it," said Clayton. His voice came out utterly flat, and the weight of broken promises and missed chances came at him like a blow. "I'm really going to miss it. I tried so hard—"
"You did, and you are, I'm sorry," said Kyle. "I'm sorry you're stuck here with me in the middle of nowhere. Yeah, Nowheresville, U.S.A."
Kyle reached to take the coffee pot back to the stove, and there was a small sad quirk to his mouth that spoke volumes to Clayton.
Kyle had friends that were planning to come out, but they couldn't make it.
And now he was stuck playing host to an idiot of a mountain man who definitely wanted to be someplace else.
Had Clayton not needed shelter, then at this very moment, Kyle would be on his own staring at all the food that would go to waste, and standing in the middle of a decorated living room that nobody but him would ever see.
On the other hand, with as bad as the weather and the drive had been the day before, Clayton would have ended up being stuck in some un-Christmasy motel in the middle of nowhere, rather than in this bounteous house full of joy and warmth and Christmas cheer.
Kyle had saved him from his own bad choices, so now it was time for Clayton to be a good guest. The best guest Kyle had ever had.
"Hey," said Clayton. "Let me tell you something."
"What?" asked Kyle. He leaned against the sink and poured himself a cup of coffee and stirred some sugar into it, letting the spoon clink along the inside of the mug.
"My sister Sarah married a guy six months ago, and I didn't go to the wedding on account of family stuff, but he's a great guy. His name is Luke."
"And?"
"And he said last night that he'll wait Christmas for me, however long it takes," said Clayton, putting as much earnestness into his voice as he could.
"My nephew Shawn will get to open a couple of presents every day, so he won't have to wait for that part.
" Clayton gave a little laugh and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, which he realized was practically standing straight up.
"They're going to hold everything till I get there, so I'm not going to miss a thing. In the meantime—"
Kyle was standing there with the white china mug halfway to his mouth, his eyes so very blue and wide that Clayton wanted to stare at them and do nothing else for a good long while.
"In the meantime, you saved my bacon last night, and this house—" Clayton stopped and waved his hand at the bright and cheery yellow and white kitchen, and then to the living room where the tree and decorations gleamed in the low morning light.
Even unplugged, they promised good cheer and peace among mankind, just like they ought.
"This house is amazing. I think your friends, Brent and Richard, are missing out, and I think they know they're missing out. So why don't you and I do what you'd planned to do with those guys. What was that? What was the first thing?"
"We were going to—" Kyle stopped and held his own face in the palm of his hand, as though overcome with the idea of it all, even though he must have been planning every moment of his friends' stay with him down to the minute.
"We were going to pop popcorn, and string it to put around the tree while watching every single version of A Christmas Carol. "
"Even the Mr. Magoo version?" asked Clayton, his eyebrows rising.
"Of course," said Kyle with some emphasis. "That's the best one, really."
Kyle shrugged as he put the coffee mug in the kitchen sink, as if he expected Clayton to mock him for this.