Chapter 9
“It will not be a white Christmas,” Frank informed the frogs. He figured they’d be relieved to hear that since they didn’t like the cold.
It was nearly noon on Wednesday, Christmas Eve Day, and Bing Crosby crooned on the radio while Frank relaxed in his armchair.
He’d made himself a big mug of hot cocoa, the first he’d had in years, and it was delicious.
In fact, he’d probably make another later on, once he felt like getting out of the chair again.
A small stack of books lay beside him on the end table.
He’d started out reading East of Eden but decided it was a bit too heavy for the holiday and set it aside for later.
He’d followed that with a collection of stories by a new-to-him author, Ray Bradbury.
Many of the plots and themes in that book weren’t exactly cheery either, but he found it acceptable in small doses.
Frank had gone to the market that morning, so now a small ham waited in the refrigerator.
He planned to cook it tomorrow, along with parsley potatoes, green beans, and cornbread.
He’d bought ice cream for dessert. It was a lot of food for one person, but he knew he’d enjoy it, and he would have easy leftovers for a few days.
Inspired by Sylvia, he’d also bought some cooked crab, which he was going to prepare in a salad for tonight’s dinner.
Just the thought of such feasting made him rub his stomach in anticipation.
“Today will be a literary day,” he said.
“For me, at any rate. You boys can enjoy the music instead. Tomorrow I cook. And Friday, maybe—just maybe—I’ll clean out the studio.
” Although attached to the garage, the small space got good light.
It was one of the reasons he’d chosen to buy this particular house.
He’d had visions of painting there evenings and weekends, producing artworks that found their way into galleries and museums. But although he’d spent a good amount of time setting up the studio exactly as he liked it, it was rarely used.
In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in there.
It was likely full of spiders, dust, and mice.
“I will clean it out,” he promised the frogs.
“And I’ll paint something.” He wished he could do a portrait of Carver, gloriously nude, but didn’t feel he could do his subject justice without him there to model.
But that was all right. Frank could paint something else.
Geraniums from his garden, maybe, or a formal still life.
Something to get him back into practice.
“No frogs, though. Sorry. I have enough of that at work.”
Then an idea struck: he could do a portrait of Paul and Lillian. It was too late to gift it to them for Christmas, but he could give it after the holidays, a thank-you for their care and friendship.
This concept pleased him so much that he set down the Bradbury book and reached for his sketchpad.
He’d do a few concept drawings now and sketch it out on canvas after cleaning the studio.
He owned a couple of photos of the Blanchards, souvenirs from family barbecues he’d attended, and those would serve as adequate references.
Frank put the sketchpad down and stood. “You know what? I’m going to start on the studio cleanup right now.” He’d turned off the radio and was deciding whether to change into old clothes when one of the frogs startled him with a loud croak.
And then the doorbell rang.
Although Frank’s heart wasn’t generally prone to theatrics, it did a little tap dance.
“It’s just a Fuller Brush man,” he whispered.
“Or maybe Mrs. Caron from next door wants to borrow a cup of sugar.” As he walked to the door, however, his heart continued to do its best imitation of Fred Astaire.
He felt very much as he had just before leaping out of airplanes, a dizzying mixture of anticipation and dread.
Without looking through the peephole, he turned the knob and opened the door.
Carver Reed stood at the threshold, grinning, a Santa hat perched on his head, a large paper bag in one hand and a wrapped bouquet in the other.
“You’re in Paris,” Frank said.
That only made Carver smile wider. “Am I? This looks a lot more like Burbank to me.”
“But—”
“I got as far as New York. I stood there in the middle of Idlewild Airport and thought, I don’t want to get on that plane. I don’t want to be in France. I want to be where Frank is. So I got on a different plane and flew home. Landed here early this morning. Then I got cold feet.”
“Why?” Frank asked, bewildered.
“What if you don’t want me here? What if our interlude the other day gave you as much Carver Reed as you wanted?”
“It didn’t,” Frank said hoarsely. Then he stepped aside and waved him in.
Carver stepped into the dining room, set the bag on the table, and looked around. “You got a tree!” He seemed delighted.
It was plastic, only about two feet tall, and had been in a special display at the market, seemingly focused on procrastinators and the desperate.
Although not yet decorated, Frank had considered hanging a few small sketches on the spindly limbs.
Honestly, it looked a bit pathetic in its spot atop the sideboard, but he liked it anyway. “The frogs asked for one.”
“Smart frogs. Do you have a vase for the flowers?”
Frank didn’t, so Carver used the juice pitcher instead, setting the bouquet in the middle of the table. The result was lovely: white roses, blue delphinium, and bright greenery, and it smelled wonderful. But it wasn’t the floral aroma that made Frank dizzy.
“Carver, why are you—”
Frank didn’t get a chance to finish the question.
Carver swept him into an embrace and kissed him so thoroughly that it made Frank’s knees weak.
“You taste like chocolate,” Carver whispered into his neck.
He followed up with a tongue swipe across Frank’s pulse point, and it was really a good thing his arms were around Frank; otherwise, Frank would have swooned right onto the floor.
And— Oh, to hell with it. Frank kissed him back. Carver tasted like wintergreen, as if he’d just brushed his teeth.
It was wonderful, but they couldn’t kiss forever. Eventually, Carver took a half-step back, although he still kept one hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Cookies,” he said.
“What?”
Carver removed three cardboard bakery boxes from the bag and set them on the tabletop.
They were white, tied with string. “Mom likes to bake. It’s…
we don’t get along all that well, my parents and I.
We never have. It’s nothing tragic or horrible, just different personalities.
But we do see one another at Thanksgiving and speak on the phone now and then, and every Christmas Mom sends me a bunch of homemade cookies, which I guess is her way of saying she loves me.
And I always call and tell her how they’re better than anything I can find in LA—honestly true—which is how I say I love her.
” He stared at the boxes as if they confused him a little.
“That’s very sweet, actually,” said Frank.
“Well, she sent them like always, and they arrived yesterday morning right before I left for the airport. I put them in my kitchen.” While he spoke, Carver took a penknife from his pocket and used it to cut the string on each box.
“And the entire way to New York, I was thinking about those cookies. How they were going to be stale by the time I got back from Paris, and how it was a shame to waste something given as a labor of love. I couldn’t get my mind off those damned cookies. ”
He paused, and Frank said, “I thought you returned for me.” He kept his tone light, though, because he knew there was more to the tale.
“That’s the thing. By the time I reached Idlewild, I realized I was sublimating—don’t make that face; I played a psychiatrist a couple of years ago—and what I was really regretting was leaving you.
” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders like a man expecting an argument.
But then he seemed to remember the cookies.
He opened the top of one box and shoved it against Frank’s stomach. “Have a spritz wreath,” he demanded.
Frank obediently took one and had a bite. “Delicious.” And it was, but what really had his attention was the vulnerability in Carver’s eyes, which the little show of belligerence wasn’t masking.
“All of my mom’s baked goods are delicious. Here. Rugelach.”
Frank ate one of those as well. “Better than I used to get at the bakeries in New York.”
“Isn’t it?”
Carver reached for the third box, but Frank grabbed his arm. “Stop distracting us with sugar. Why are you really here?”
Instead of answering, Carver pulled his arm free and marched into the living room, where he spent a good five minutes looking at the frogs, the record collection, the books on the end table, the framed art on the walls, and the unremarkable view out the picture window.
Almost all of which he’d examined during his previous visit.
Frank waited, leaning back against a wall with arms crossed. He figured Carver would get to the point eventually, and in the meantime, Frank could enjoy watching him.
At long last, Carver halted in the middle of the room.
His posture was stiff, hands balled at his sides, but that softness remained in his eyes.
This was a man, Frank realized, who was never quite convinced he was good enough.
Despite the fame, the adoring fans, the awards, at heart Carver was still that fifth son of six, the one his family didn’t understand.
Perhaps the man spent his life being other people because he didn’t believe his real self was worthy enough.
Frank wanted to take him into his arms. Or better yet, show Carver the drawings he’d made of him, in hopes that Carver could see himself through Frank’s eyes. Instead, he asked again, very softly. “Why are you here?”