Chapter Eleven #2
“No, no, Mother was busy with other things. Cook Margit was the one who not only invited me into her kitchen but also spent hours showing me how to cook. She always had time for me, which my parents did not. As the youngest, I was many times forgotten as my eldest brothers were…well, they were more important in some ways.”
“I cannot believe that your parents felt that way. Most times, the youngest is the spoiled one,” I replied while fishing out a chunk of carrot with my spoon. Della sat on her bed, ears up, watching us like a lion watches a gazelle, just waiting for someone to drop something so she could pounce.
“True, and in some ways, I was given a gentler hand as a young man. As I grew up, my tendencies began to become apparent and that forgiving way the baby is granted began to erode rather quickly.” He tore off a hunk of bread, crusty and messy, and handed it to me.
Della watched the bits fall to the floor but deemed bread flakes were not worth getting up for.
“You being queer,” I supposed out loud and got a nod filled with bouncy curls. He dunked his bread into the gravy before taking a bite and chewing. “I’m sorry things went that way for you. Are your brothers as rigid in their thinking?”
“No, not really. They are younger after all and are more accepting. My mother is a bit of the waffle.” I cocked a confused eyebrow. “Damn, uhm, she waffles. That’s the correct saying.”
“Ah, okay, so she’s sort of okay with you being gay but not all the time?” I dipped my bread into the bowl and hurried to get the dripping hunk to my mouth.
“More or less. She loves me deeply, and I think if my father were not so determined to be such an unwelcoming asshole, she would be more open. But she was born to a conservative family who raised her to be who and what she is so bowing to her husband’s wishes is all that she knows.”
“Shit, that sucks. I’m sorry. I hope your brothers can take over the family business one day and welcome you back into it.”
Damn, I was being such a sneaky Steve. It was not sitting well, to be honest. Poking and prodding seems much more fun when you’re doing it to some vile murderer in Victorian England.
“The family business. Well, my eldest brother Frode will inherit the mantle, as they like to say. My other brothers and I are backups in case something happens to Frode. Which leaves us to pursue things that we enjoy more than Frode was ever able to do since his fate was sealed when he was the firstborn.” He sat hunched over his stew, the bowl resting on his thigh, talking with ease about his family dynamics.
Dynamics that, to me, sounded pretty damn outdated.
“When things got bad at home, I could leave, something Frode wouldn’t be able to do without a major shakeup that would upset the entire country.
So, in that way, I am happy to be over here in America, seeing the country that I read so much about.
If not for my father being such a dick, I wouldn’t have met you.
And that would have been a terrible loss as I am quite fond of you. ”
I looked up from the tater I’d been trying to spoon to find the most unfeigned look of attraction imaginable. All thoughts of stew, him being a mobster, or whatever clever nosy thing I could think of flittered away. I pressed my beefy lips to his.
“I’m fond of you too,” I confessed in a soft whisper.
And with that, I knew I’d have to turn in my junior detective badge that I’d found in a box of cereal when I was six.
It sat in my dresser drawer, more than a little worn from me flashing it at other kids as I tried to solve made-up cases at school.
Falling for a suspicious, sexy man was not at all what a good private eye would allow to happen to them.
But here I was, falling faster than the snowflakes tumbling down outside.
***
I’d just finished a tricky job on a weed eater that Dominque Delany had insisted be completed before the holiday and was pushing into the craft shop with my knitting bag in hand.
The usual chatty suspects were all gathered in a semicircle, needles knitting madly, discussing the very same person who had made me late.
They all glanced up at my arrival, Franny’s perusal a bit intense as I dropped down into the lone seat reserved for me.
“Mitch,” they all said in greeting. “Did you hear that Dominque went into the Purple Pansy Boutique over in Campbell Valley and raised a stink? Seems she ordered a dress from Pauline, who we all know is a marvelous seamstress, two years ago. She tried to get into it for the Christmas Bazaar at the church this weekend, and lo and behold, it didn’t fit.
So, instead of being honest and admitting she might have gained a few pounds, she goes over to the boutique to bitch a fit at poor Pauline, citing poor workmanship.
Can you believe?!” Maggie asked. We all nodded.
“She’s really difficult,” I said while pulling out a last-minute scarf project I’d decided to make for Anders.
He really needed one when he was out biking in the cold, or so I had decided while working madly all afternoon.
“She insisted that I get her weed eater running properly before the holidays. I asked if she planned on whacking weeds anytime soon. Boy, did she get snarky then. Told me that it was none of my business if she was or not, she wished to have the work done yesterday. So I had to push a few seasonal jobs aside to get that damn new trimmer head replaced. Did it need a new head? Yes, certainly, her son busted it to bits. Did it need to be replaced in late December? I don’t think so. ”
That got the gals wound up. I sat back, nodding along, as they cited every wrong Dominque had committed since she graduated from high school in 1974.
Small towns never forget a slight. Everyone was deep into the scandal of ’87 when Dominque and Buster Forks, a local politician, were caught canoodling in the back of the local theater—long since closed, sadly—by his wife when I felt the heat from an assessing eye.
Glancing up from the dark blue scarf that would match Anders’ luxurious coat, I found Franny eyeballing me.
“Did I miss a stitch?” I asked and looked back at my scarf. No, it was a nice, neat Suzette stitch.
“Where have you been haring off to from noon until two every day this week?” Franny asked, and the chit-chat about Dominque fell off instantly.
Well shit.
“I’ve been going home to eat lunch,” I lied like a liar with flaming pants.
She cocked a silver eyebrow. “Your house is the other direction.”
Well, double shit. All eyes were now glued to me, many stalling in their knitting. What did Franny do? Stand in her window and watch the world go by with her birding binoculars? Shaking my head, I forced out a gruff, nervous chuckle.
“True, it is, but I’ve been feeling a little blue of late as I do in the winter,” I said and looked around. The Woolverines knew I felt down when the days got shorter. It was no secret. “So I’ve been going for a drive to see the sun a bit. It’s a nice detour out by the Titterman chicken farm.”
They all nodded. All but Franny. She leaned over the pair of booties she was making for the bazaar table to try to peer into my soul.
“You drive all the way out to the Titterman poultry farm?” Franny enquired.
I nodded vigorously. “Then where do you go? Last I talked to Larry Kingman, that road was dead-ended for bridge work that the state couldn’t get to last year.
So, if you went that way, the only thing to do would be to turn around at the chicken farm or go down Parkers Grave Lane. ”
Oh shit. I’d forgotten about the bridge being out. “Yes, that’s right. I travel Parkers Grave Lane to pick up the shortcut to Miller Street.”
Now they were all gaping at me. “But Parkers Grave Lane has no winter maintenance,” Lorna pointed out. “Don’t you get stuck out there?”
Shit. Damn it. Poop. Yes, that route was less traveled than most so the township never plowed it. “Nah, I have a Subaru!” I announced gleefully and expertly led them back into a rousing round of tittle-tattle about the mayor and his wife’s new coat.
The only one who wasn’t talking about a garish yellow coat was Franny.
She was watching me like a hawk watches a mouse.
I swallowed, gave her a wide smile, and lowered my head to attend to the scarf for Anders.
I’d have to be a bit more sneaky from here on out if I wanted to keep my lunchtime rendezvous a secret.
Why I felt that they had to be hidden, I wasn’t sure.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to admit to the world that I’d found someone new.
Maybe if I did announce a new beau, everyone in town who had known Katie forever would think I was being disrespectful of her memory.
Maybe I was scared of being openly queer in this tiny town in a very red part of the state.
Maybe I was all the above, plus a few other things.
I put all my attention on my gift for my secret lover and tried not to think too hard about all the maybes in my life.