Advent Calendar - Day 17 Fiction from Byron Beach

 

YAY! Byron Beach is back this year with a holiday coda for Out of the Blue. Byron's coda picks up after Coda 61 (written in 2020). I love, love, love the photos and the attention to historical detail (among other things)!

The Return Voyage

December 1927

First class on the RMS Majestic

They were singing carols again.

Cowboy heard them drifting down the passageway before he saw a single tinsel-covered soul. “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” sung in accents from half the ports the RMS Majestic had ever touched, and all of them just a shade too cheerful thanks to the legal booze now that they’d cleared American waters. The beloved Magic Stik was rocking easy in the winter swell, and the brass rails under his hand were cold enough to remind him he was very far from Texas.

Up ahead, Bat stood frozen by the porthole, staring out at the dark Atlantic like he meant to take a running jump.

Bat had tells, little ones. This was his biggest.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Cowboy said.

Bat didn’t turn. “Doing what?”

“Starin’ like you’re fixin’ to swim back to New York.”

Bat’s shoulders went stiff, the way they always did when he felt caught. In the glass he looked every inch the English gentleman: clipped blonde hair parted just so, Kings College tie in a perfect double windsor, cheekbones sharp enough to cut tin cans. Handsome, yes. But wound tighter than a fresh lasso.

“If I were to jump, Cowboy,” he said coolly, “it wouldn’t be into the North Atlantic.”

“That’s not a denial, darlin’.”

The way he flinched at the endearment twisted something in Cowboy’s chest. In Texas or New York, “darlin’” had made Bat light up like dawn. Here, surrounded by bankers, duchesses, and stewards trained to hear scandal through steel bulkheads, the word yelled danger.

“Come inside,” Bat muttered. “Before Mrs. Vanderbloodybilt expires unexpectedly.”

Cowboy followed him into the stateroom—Bat’s, though the adjoining door between theirs was propped open, same as always. Bat never shut Cowboy out, not really. Not even now, when he thought he should.

The room was all gleaming wood and polished brass. Only the Heiß and Kalt on the bathroom taps 

 betrayed the ship’s German birth as the S.S. Bismarck. A tiny Christmas tree stood on the writing desk, brave little baubles shining as the ship rolled. Cowboy smiled at it. Bat had lit up when the steward brought it.

“Fittin’ they’re singin’ that hymn,” Cowboy drawled, leaning in the doorway. “Faithful as they come, that’s you.”

“To what?” Bat snapped. “Family duty? Creditors? A crumbling estate?”

“Your family,” Cowboy said evenly. “Your departed brothers. Archie.”
He hesitated, then added, “Me.”

Bat didn’t like hearing that last truth spoken plain. Cowboy could tell—Bat’s shoulders rose just a fraction, like he was bracing for shellfire.

Bat fiddled with a Christmas bauble, voice tight. “I’m dragging you back. From Texas. From New York. From being yourself. And now you’re to play estate manager and… fairy godmother, sprinkling your inheritance over Denforth Castle so the tenants can eat goose at Christmas.”

Cowboy snorted. “Pretty sure you callin’ me a fairy godmother won’t go down well at your club.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.” Cowboy stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. “You’re the one treating my choices like they’re the blessed gifts of the Magi.”

Bat’s laugh cracked. “Aren’t they? ‘Welcome home, Aubrey, and who is this mysterious American who has singlehandedly saved your estate?’”

“You introduced me as a mysterious American long before I earned the title,” Cowboy reminded him gently. “And in England, I’m just your war chum who needed a job. No one’s gonna think twice about us. Anyone who could is dead—may they rest, so none of them are gonna be writin’ to The Times.”

Cowboy saw Bat’s jaw work. That hit somewhere deep.

“In New York,” Bat said softly, “that first night – Tony at El Fay—”

“Which Tony?” Cowboy grinned. “Texas Guinan’s Tony? Bartender Tony? Cole-Porter’s best “friend” Tony?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Bat’s mouth. Cowboy treasured that flicker; it felt like seeing a wild bird settle on an open palm.

“That night,” Bat continued, “no one stared. No one whispered. You put your hand on my knee and I didn’t think once about my family or… the law. I just breathed.”

Cowboy’s voice went soft. “Hell of a thing, breathin.’”

“And now we’re going back to a ninety-four-room mausoleum where everyone watches and whispers and the vicar suggests suitable girls—”

Bat stopped himself. Cowboy stepped forward and set his hands on Bat’s shoulders, steadying him as the ship rolled.

“Look at me.”

Bat tried not to. But he knew the exact moment he lost that battle—those blue eyes of Cowboy’s never blinked, and the whole world narrowed into understanding.

“I like New York,” Cowboy said. “I like not watching every touch. I like Broadway. And I like that waiter Tony who gave you free drinks ‘cause he liked your smile.”

Bat murmured, “He liked yours.”

“Hell, he liked both of us.” Cowboy chuckled. “But New York will keep. We’ll go back. Right now, we’re goin’ to Kent. To that cold pew your great-whatever built. And we’ll pretend to sing hymns while hummin’ ‘Noël, Noël’ from Sixth Avenue.”

Bat choked out a small laugh. “You’ll scandalize the verger.”

“Only if I get to sit next to you. M’ Lord”

The tree ornaments chimed as the ship rocked.

“It isn’t fair,” Bat whispered. “Your inheritance could build you a ranch or a mansion in Dallas or buy you every car in Texas. Instead you’re… wasting it on Denforth Castle.”

That hurt Cowboy more than Bat knew.

“First off,” Cowboy said quietly, “most of that money came from a forgotten ranch my mama,  owned out in Wortham that turned out to be sittin’ on an ocean of oil. My daddy, God rest him, ain’t got a vote anymore. Unless you want me staying in Dallas?”

“Aloysius—”

“And second,” Cowboy went on, “I ain’t marryin’ your estate.”

Bat startled like he’d been struck.

Cowboy softened his voice but kept it honest. “When I wired that money to Coutts & Co., I was telling the Bank of England, the good Lord, and whoever else was listening that Lord Aubrey Bryant, Denforth Castle, and young Archie, Earl in the making, were standin’ steady. And I was tellin’ you: I’m yours. For good.”

Bat’s breath trembled.

“You think Texas is easy?” Cowboy asked quietly. “Two bachelors running a ranch together? Neighbours smilin’ but never askin’? Me making excuses every time you visited? Bat, nowhere’s easy for men like us. Home is where you are. Always has been.”

That broke something loose in Bat. Cowboy heard it in the breath Bat let out—long, shaky, like he’d been holding it since France.

“You’ll have to call me ‘my Lord’ in public,” Bat murmured. “And we can’t touch at dinner.”

“I’ll still be waking up next to you most mornings,” Cowboy replied. “Ridin’ your fields. Learning the names of your tenants. Hearing that woman in the village tell the story of how you rescued her cat—”

“It was a very large tree,” Bat muttered.

“Tallest damn tree in Kent.” Cowboy grinned. “And at night, I’ll walk that long draughty corridor and into your room, and you’ll give me that look that says ‘this is mad,’ and kiss me anyway.”

Bat turned, opened his leather case, and pulled out something small and ornate.

Cowboy recognized it immediately—an old iron key, worn smooth by a century of Bryants.

“This is the key to the west door,” Bat said. “Only the family uses it.”

Cowboy’s throat clenched. No outsider had ever been given such a thing.

Before he could embarrass himself with tears, Cowboy dug into his pocket and produced a shiny brass key.

“And this one’s to the apartment in New York the lawyer’s fixin’ up for us,” he said. “Top floor, big

windows, real ugly wallpaper you’re gonna hate. I wired him yesterday from the wireless room to say we’d take it after Easter.”

Two keys. Two homes.

One life.

They stepped close, hands closing together, the keys chiming between them. Cowboy kissed him—slow, sure, nothing held back.

“Fear’s easy,” he murmured. “We take it together. I wasn’t in that club in New York for any of the Tonys. I was there ’cause you were. Same goes for your drafty old pile. I’d rather be freezin’ with you than warm anywhere else.”

Bat swallowed a sob. “You ridiculous man.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

They stood that way, two men in a warm cabin on a cold ocean, holding on while the Magic Stik carried them toward Christmas.

Finally Cowboy pulled back. “Come on. They’re stringin’ lights on deck. I wanna see you pretend you don’t like ’em.”

“Cowboy—”

“And after,” Cowboy added, low and wicked, “you can inspect the adjoining accommodations.”

Bat straightened, dignity returning. “Cowboy, the White Star Line has no idea what’s about to happen in their first-class Georgian suite.”

Cowboy grinned. “Merry Christmas.”

Bat slipped both keys into his waistcoat, right over his heart.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

 

Advent Calendar - Day 16 Fiction from Byron Beach!

 

Happy Monday! 

Even the Mondays are a bit nicer this time of year, I think. Right? Everyone's a bit cheerier. A little more hopeful that THIS is the year they finally get their pony. 

I figured Monday was the perfect time to share this bit of holiday sweetness from Byron. Today we're checking in with Griff and Pierce of Stranger on the Shore.

 

"Pierce Discovers Costco"

 

Griff was finishing his morning run, and as he turned onto their street, he couldn’t help but marvel at the vibrant fall colors on Long Island. The leaves seemed even more intense than in Wisconsin, and winter’s snow wouldn’t arrive quite as early. While he missed parts of his life in the Midwest, being close to his grandfather—and, of course, to Pierce—made him feel truly at home. Nearing their house, Griff was filled with a sense of contentment: health, love, and the promise of a hot cup of coffee.

 

Despite the wealth now at his command, Griff still believed that the simple, frugal values he’d grown up with were the clearest path to happiness. Pierce, Jarrett, and most of Syosset, however, would politely but firmly disagree.

 

Unlocking the front door, Griff was greeted by six large packages piled in the foyer, another testament to the festival of excess their upcoming wedding had become. For the most part, he and Pierce were aligned on the important parts of “The Event,” like vows and tone, but minor details—guest lists, appetizers, music— were part of an incessant demand for decisions. Griff had made countless concessions, mostly to make his grandfather, Jarrett, happy, but also for Pierce’s family. Lately, though, he was beginning to feel just a bit—not annoyed, not angry—more like overlooked. It was fine with him if it made Jarrett happy to spend a disturbing amount of money on a single afternoon and evening; Griff would still be married to Pierce at the end of the extravaganza, and that was what truly mattered. But there was a limit, and with the holiday season approaching, Griff felt that line drawing near.

 

The run had cooled his temper, but earlier that morning, he’d found himself nearly snapping at Pierce over something that seemed simple enough: how to decorate their home for Christmas. Pierce’s “Don’t you want it to be nice?” comment had gotten under his skin, as if only expensive decorations could be “nice.” He understood, though—for Pierce, Christmas decor had never been personal or intimate. His parents hired a designer every year to transform their mansion with enormous trees, sparkling lights, and exquisite ornaments. Pierce saw no reason why this year should be any different, but Griff had other ideas.

 

“Why hire someone when we can do it ourselves?” Griff asked as they stood in their spacious, mostly empty living room.

 

“I don’t have the time,” Pierce replied in a clipped tone, signaling he was ready to push his case. “And neither do you, considering you were up until 2 a.m. working on your new book.”

 

Griff opened his mouth to respond, but Pierce cut him off. “What’s the big deal? It’ll be lovely. You can ask for any special touches, and it’ll all be done by the end of the week.” Griff, bit back a few choice responses and let it go for now deciding a run would clear his head.

 

Griff walked into the kitchen, where Pierce handed him a cup of coffee with a smile. He knew cost wasn’t the right angle to approach this, so he chose a different tactic. Growing up, Christmas hadn’t been lavish, but it was the one time of year he felt truly close to the woman he’d considered his mother. They baked cookies, made their own wrapping paper and ornaments, and created a world where, for a short time each year, Griff felt safe. No designer could recreate that feeling—not with all the German blown-glass ornaments and brocade ribbon in the world.

 

“What would make this Christmas special for you?” Griff asked softly, taking the coffee and meeting Pierce’s gaze. “If the right designer would give you that feeling of love, comfort, and home, I won’t stand in your way.”

 

Pierce’s face softened. “You didn’t tell me this was going to be a dirty fight.”

 

“It’s not a fight. I don’t want to fight,” Griff said earnestly. “I want us to do things we love together, things we’ll remember year after year. And I don’t see why that has to cost tens of thousands of dollars.”

 

Pierce, now certain that he’d been bested, wrapped his arms around Griff, kissed him, and whispered, “Anything you want, as long as we do it together.”

 

Griff seized the moment. “We can get everything we need from Costco. Make it our own. It'll be fun.”

 

Pierce arched an eyebrow, adjusting the collar of his cashmere sweater. “Costco? Really? Isn’t that like a discount Whole Foods or something?”

 

“Are you serious? You’ve never been to Costco?” Griff tried not to laugh.

 

“I’m pretty sure I own a fair amount of their stock,” Pierce replied.

 

“Definitely not the same thing,” Griff chuckled. “You’re in for an adventure.”

 

The next day, Griff checked his pockets for his holy trinity: keys, wallet, and phone before locking the front door. Pierce was already waiting in the driveway, revving the engine of his sleek Porsche Boxster.

 

Griff raised an eyebrow. “You do realize we’re going to Costco, right? How exactly do you plan on fitting anything in here?”

 

Pierce winked. “Adventurous spontaneity, my love. That’s what today’s about.”

 

Griff laughed as he climbed into the passenger seat. “This is definitely not what I meant by ‘adventurous,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

 

As they sped down the road, Pierce asked, “So, what exactly do they sell at Costco that has you so excited?”

 

Griff grinned. “Everything. Toilet paper, Christmas trees, and—of course—wine. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

 

Pierce made a skeptical face. “Christmas trees and toilet paper in the same store? This should be interesting.”

 

When they arrived, Griff grabbed them each a cart. The moment they stepped inside, Pierce froze, taking in the vastness of the warehouse. Rows upon rows of bulk products stretched into the distance, and the air buzzed with a scattered choreography of high-performance shopping. 

 

“This is… comprehensive,” Pierce muttered as they passed a display of 90-inch TVs.

 

Griff chuckled, leading the way toward the Christmas section. “Welcome to the real world.”

 

As they wandered the aisles, Pierce marveled at the oddities. “Who needs a five-pound bag of peanut brittle? And why would anyone want a six-pack of mini waffle makers?”

 

“Here, try a mini quiche,” Griff said, holding out a sample. “Eating samples at Costco is part of the experience.”

 

Pierce eyed the quiche warily but took a bite. “Hmm… not bad.”

 

The real test came when they reached the Christmas trees.

 

“So,” Griff began, pulling out a slim, 7-foot artificial tree from the display. “This one looks great, right? We can decorate it together.”

 

Pierce stared at the tree, his expression unreadable. “It’s… small.”

 

“It’s personal,” Griff countered with a grin. “And easy to set up. Plus, no pine needles all over the floor.”

 

Pierce hesitated, and for a moment, Griff thought he’d lost him. Then Pierce spotted a towering 15-foot tree. “What about this one with the lights already attached? We could get one for the living room, one for the kitchen, and maybe this smaller one for the bedroom.”

 

Griff laughed, nudging Pierce playfully. “With that setup, we could camp out in our Christmas forest. Maybe even zip our sleeping bags together.”

 

While Griff picked up decorations and a few office supplies, he let Pierce wander on his own. By the time they met at checkout, Griff found Pierce with a cart loaded with wine—not just a few bottles, but enough to stock a small vineyard. Alongside the wine were 480 frozen mini quiches.

 

Griff raised an eyebrow. “Planning a party I don’t know about?”

 

Pierce grinned. “This place… it’s unexpected. They had an excellent selection of French Bordeaux and a Château Neuf-du-Pape. I thought we could stock up for holiday visitors.”

 

Griff laughed. “Good thing they deliver the trees. The Boxster’s going to be maxed out just with this—you might have to leave me behind.”

 

Pierce winked. “Dream on. I’m never leaving you behind, not as long as we both shall live.”

 

Advent Calendar - Day 11 Fiction by Byron Beach

 

I--we--are so lucky to have so many willing victims contributors to this year's Advent Calendar. The generosity of reader-friends with their time and talent is truly one of the nicest things about the calendar. 

This morning we have another coda from Byron Beach. This time we're taking a sneak peek at what Adrien English and Jake Riordan just might be up to... 

Young Mr. Gracen Explains it All.

 

The staccato rhythm of Jake's fingertips tapping nervously against the steering wheel filled the car, pricked at Adrien like a persistent mosquito. Adrien knew his husband better than anyone, he understood that Jake’s thin veneer of tranquility was in danger of cracking.  This meeting had kept getting delayed and pushed off. First for Jake’s work, or his travel then for any number of vague excuses but after more than two months, time was running out. Christmas was next week and nothing in the legal world ever happens in the week before New Year’s, so if they were going to get their documents in place Adrien had to force it to happen. A key to their relationship was their ability to navigate each other's boundaries. Knowing when to push, when to gently nudge the other outside their comfort zone, and when silence was the best medicine.  Adrien had pushed, but now, this was a time for silence with Jake.

They exited the 210 East and Jake guided the Subaru past the holiday decorations on Lake Street. Turning at a 30-foot gold modernist Christmas tree with stainless steel and gold balls, and he dived down into the concrete darkness of the Union Bank building's underground parking lot. The dimness momentarily stole Adrien's sight, a niggling reminder that maybe it was time for glasses. They say the forties were the starting point of failing eyesight. Well, better eyesight than the heart, he mused. Adrien felt fitter than he had since he was a kid. He swam regularly, and his personal trainer, Scout, ensured his cardio sessions were punctual. Plus, Jake had evolved into an ardent health freak, championing the cause of green smoothies and disturbingly frequent vegan meals.

As they exited the car, Jake muttered in a curt tone, “You'd think they'd have better parking facilities. It's so cramped; our doors will get dented.”

Adrien cast him a glance, a hint of grin on his face. They were just here to discuss some paperwork, not make definitive decisions, it should be easy, but Adrien knew that Jake didn’t grow up with this and probably didn’t understand in a meaningful way what he was walking into. As they moved around the car, Adrien slipped his hand into Jake's, squeezing it reassuringly. "Thanks for driving, my mind is preoccupied," he said, peppering a quick kiss on Jake's neck.

"Anything for you, baby," murmured Jake, "Let's go check the fallout." Adrien, shook his head in amusement. 

“Adrien, thanks for coming in. And I presume this is your husband, Jake?” Stanton Gracen, Old Mr. Gracen’s movie star handsome grandson and the new managing partner at Hitchcock & Gracen, greeted them. He gave Adrien a warm smile that echoed their first meeting and reenforced Adrien’s feeling that the family law firm was now in more progressive and friendly hands for couples like them.  Shaking Jake's hand, he remarked.  “Jake, I’ve heard plenty about you from Lisa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gracen. Considering what Lisa might have shared, I assure you it wasn't all my fault,” Jake replied, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

 Gracen laughed, “Call me Stan. And you're underestimating Lisa's admiration for you.”

 He led them into the modern conference room, with its avant-garde lighting fixtures and a panoramic view of the San Gabriel Mountains. "Would you like any coffee or water?" Stan offered gesturing to an oddly lavash spread of coffee, tea, muffins, fruit and sugar cookies in H, G and & shapes covered in red and green sprinkles.

“How many lawyers are we expecting?” murmured Jake looking over the table.

Adrien, shook his head then thanked Stan, requesting only water, knowing that Jake would need something to fidget with during the ensuing conversation. While his administrative assistant brought in bottles of Hint water, Stan produced a hefty pile of folders as Adrien and Jake took their seats at the sleek glass table.

 “Today should be straightforward, although there will be quite a few signatures required. Based on our discussions, Adrien, I've prepared all the necessary documents. But before we delve into them, I suggest we discuss an overall view of everything. Does that sound okay?”

 “That sounds fine," responded Adrien, casting a reassuring smile at Jake, who seemed be sizing up his chances of escape by making a desperate run from the room. Adrien squeezed Jake's hand under the table, feeling him relax slightly, while Stan looked on with a knowing smile.

 Stan resumed his professional persona. “As you know, Adrien, your grandmother left her estate to you with the final half to be disbursed after your 40th birthday. Just to clarify, this only pertains to the trust fund set up by your grandmother and has no relation to the irrevocable trust your father established for your mother, for which you are the residual beneficiary." 

Adrien nodded his understanding as Stan continued his overview. But Jake, visibly tensed, stiffened further in his chair.

 "Since your first disbursement, twenty years ago, the funds have been wisely, and I might say, quite successfully, invested in a diversified portfolio," Stan continued in his soothing tone. "The portfolio includes blue chip and technology equities, bonds, industrial real estate, and some legacy investments, such as the ranch in Basking. The only liability is the note you signed when Lisa transferred ownership of the Porter Ranch house. Today, we will resolve that note and transfer the ownership to both of you."

 Jake cut in abruptly. “No, that's Adrien's house; it should be in his name.”

 Adrien interjected, "Jake, we've discussed this. It's ours — well, ours and Scout's and Tompkins'. No point in distinguishing when our lives are intertwined." He added, "In fact, that's the main point of today. We make decisions together. This is an equal partnership, with no reservations."

 Jake started to shake his head, but Stan chimed in with a softer tone, "Jake, in this, I agree with Adrien. Adrien has always been adamant that he wanted to share this inheritance as community property. Having dealt with numerous estates and sadly complicated family dynamics, I can assure you the most successful and happy couples work as teams, with neither partner holding the financial upper hand."

 "So buckle up, Riordan. I'm doing this for both of us. We're in this for the long haul," Adrien said, laughing, as Jake closed his eyes in disbelief as if that would make it all go away.

 Stan, reverting to his formal tone, proceeded with the estate details as Jake listened in tense silence. “We’ll start with the industrial distribution warehouses in La Verne, which are part of a limited partnership” Stan’s tone turning almost gleeful “And this is the neat part, as a passive partner your income from these can be quite happily is offset by depreciation and losses from other investments decreasing the tax-load on the current year’s net profit.” Stan smiled like a kid opening presents as Adrien nodded in agreement and Jake froze closer to absolute zero. He continued “The current value of your partnership share is around sixteen million, but more to the point the after tax distributed cashflow is ___”

 Later, deep into their second round of double frozen margaritas at Mijare’s, Jake's petrified expression began to thaw. "You should've told me,” He repeated shaking his head. "You really should’ve told me. My parents scrimped and saved to buy their house for $59,000, even taking a second mortgage for Danny's college. Who am I to have all this?" 

"You're the same gallant man I fell for when you strutted into my bookstore, convinced I was a killer," Adrien said gently. "Money doesn't change anything, apart from being able to finish the remodel of the ranch and building you a true and proper workshop at Porter Ranch." He paused for a moment, and with a soft kiss and a raised eyebrow, adding, "We could also consider a New Year’s vacation? Just you, me and a feather, in an overwater bungalow in Tahiti, with no swimsuits or commitments?"

As reluctant smile spread across. Jake’s face he leaned in for a kiss whispering "Merry Christmas, Baby.  Anything you want--just ask your millionaire hubby."

*Apologies to Byron! I accidentally cut off his last line. OUCH. 

Advent Calendar - Day 3 Fiction by Byron Beach

 

Our friends have been extraordinarily generous with their time and talent this year. We have a delightful abundance of codas to share. We're going to kick off with Byron Beach and a lovely coda about Rob and Adam from Winter Kill.

Finding the perfect tree

 

The snow fell lightly, covering the mountain forest in a serene, white blanket as Adam Darling sat at the kitchen table. A cup of steaming black coffee warmed his hands, which were half-frozen since he’d forgotten his gloves on the long walk down the drive for the Saturday mail. Among the letters and advertisements was a cream-colored envelope thick and elegant, with a Washington state return address. He opened it, revealing the announcement of Tucker Lance's upcoming wedding to Elliott Mills. Adam felt a twinge of nostalgia; he had cared about Tucker, thought he might be ‘The One’ but deep down, he always knew they weren’t right for each other. Their similarities were too similar and misalignments, were not the kind that offset each other. It was different with Rob. From the moment they met, he felt that he knew Rob.  His heart knew Rob was his Rob. His brain took a few months to get over the belief that it would never work out for him.  But if a crazy, hard-ass, driven guy like Tucker could find his forever, well the world was full of surprises.

As Adam read the invitation, Rob Haskell entered the kitchen, wearing a red flannel shirt, gray fleece sweats and his usual jovial smile. "What's that?" Rob asked with a slight hint of nervousness, nodding toward the envelope.

"Wedding invitation," Adam replied, passing it to him. "Tucker and Elliott are getting married."

Rob studied the invitation, his eyebrows flattened, and his voice sounded controlled, "In Seattle? I bet it'll be a big, fancy city wedding. You said Tucker's always been about his career and doing things up right."

Adam caught the note of what, not worry, but uncertainty? in Rob's voice. He set his coffee down and reached for Rob's hand. "Rob, you know Tucker and I weren’t a good fit. I love you, I love our life here, the peace, the dogs... everything."

Rob smiled, "Of course you do, with all of this...” he smiled as he gestured to their dogs and the forest, “how could the excitement of the city compete” but despite casual laughing tone, Adam could hear something underneath.   

Adam shook his head. "Yep, the big city, I miss the traffic and the smog, and the jerks who cut you off and the $23 cocktails, if only I could go back." He murmured as he drew Rob down for a kiss

“I mean, if you want to go we could make a trip of it to Seattle and you could get your city fix and be all networky with all those Feebs” Rob suggested.

Adam rolled his eyes. “If you are so into it you go, I’ll stay here with the dogs and catch up on my sleep and explore the sights of Southern Oregon I have yet to experience. You go be ‘networky’ – is that even a word? And sit though the agony or a big wedding”

The tension eased from Rob's shoulders. "What, don’t you like big weddings?” before Adam could start an answer Rob continued “Speaking of what we have here in majestic Southern Oregon, today is Christmas tree day.  I declare it an official Darling/Haskell holiday. The snow's perfect, and Guinness and Ms. Lopez could use a good run."

Adam grinned. "Now that, sounds perfect. Let me grab my coat"

“Oh good, get out that fancy North Face sub-zero artic special one of yours.  It’s about time it got a little roughed up and some sap on it” called back Rob. “I’ll get my trusty, workman’s Columbia Puffer.”

“I had no idea that I was entering this cult of Colombia sportswear when I moved up here, and there is nothing wrong with my North Face jacket”

Rob peaking his head around the corner chirped in, “Nothing wrong at all assuming you like to pay three times more for Big City fashion”

Adam threw a glove which would have hit perfectly if Rob hadn’t quickly shut the door to the garage and started singing, I Love LA.

Out the back door, they called the dogs. Guinness bounded ahead, his tail wagging furiously, while Ms. Lopez trotted behind, her ears perked with curiosity as snowflakes drifted lazily down from the sky. The four of them set off into the woods, the crisp air biting at their cheeks, filled with the fresh scent of fir and the quiet crunch of snow beneath their boots.

Rob had gotten Guinness for Adam the previous Christmas, though it was clear from the start that Guinness was always going to be Rob’s dog. When they went to pick him up, a small sister of his wiggled her way between Adam's legs and turned on the charm, leaving them both helpless to resist. On the drive home, they decided to name her Harp—a perfect half and half match for Guinness. But over the year, while Guinness remained steadfastly himself, Harp’s name evolved as her mischievous personality emerged.

She had a habit of singing before eating, her head thrown back as if performing for an invisible audience, which led them to start calling her Lyre. Soon after, Lyre became Liar, thanks to her penchant for stealing socks and hiding them all over the house like a furry bandit. From there, Liar morphed into Liar/Flyer, then simply Flyer. But it didn’t stop there. One day, after another sock went missing, Rob laughed and declared, "You’re the greatest fly girl ever. You must be Jennifer Lopez!" JLo felt too informal and was, after all, already taken, so Ms. Lopez it was—and the name stuck, much to her 

 satisfaction.

As they hiked deeper into the woods, Rob became increasingly particular about finding the right tree. "It has to be tall but with character," he explained, his voice carrying an edge of determination. "Pretty but not too perfect. We want it to be tall but not too wide."

Adam chuckled. "Are you sure you're talking about a tree and not your ideal partner?"

Rob laughed, but it was softer than usual, almost forced. His gaze swept over the trees, his eyes narrowing as he examined each one with a thoughtful, almost anxious expression. He was quiet in contrast to his typically easygoing demeanor.

Ms. Lopez darted from one tree to another, her excitement palpable, but each time Rob considered a tree, he would shake his head. Even the ever-calm Guinness seemed to pick up on Rob’s mood, sticking closer to his side than usual.

Adam frowned slightly, studying Rob. He considered and discarded a few witty comments, realizing that this was important to Rob, though he couldn’t quite understand why he was being so intent about a tree. "Haskell, I didn’t realize Christmas Tree Day was a holiday to celebrate indecision," he teased lightly, though concern leaked out in his tone

Rob glanced over, "Christmas Tree Day is a sacred quest, Adam. There’s no rushing perfection, just ask King Arthur.

"Didn’t Arthur’s best friend sleep with his wife, and they all die in the end?" Adam countered, trying to draw out more of Rob’s usual humor, but also probing, hoping to understand what was really going on.

Rob's response was quick, but firm, almost defensive. "You read too much, Adam. In this quest, Arthur and Lancelot only cross swords in harmony—and they do that a lot."

Adam studied Rob for a moment longer, feeling the unease. Something was definitely off. This was supposed to be Rob’s favorite day, but he was far from his usual relaxed self. Was it the mention of Tucker? Or maybe the subject of a wedding? Adam was certain that he and Rob would make it official one day, but a big ceremony had never seemed important to either of them. So why was Rob so on edge today?

Stepping closer, Adam wrapped his arms around Rob from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. "Let’s expand Christmas Tree Day into tomorrow. We can go home now and do some extended research into sword crossing…"

Rob’s body stiffened for a brief moment before he relaxed slightly. "Sacred quests, my knight," he murmured, his voice softer, tinged with something Adam couldn’t quite place. "Sacred quests." Then, with renewed determination, Rob pulled away gently and continued forging ahead. 

Adam considered and discarded a few witty comments, he realized that this was important to Rob, but he couldn’t understand why he was being so intent about a tree.

After a while, they came upon a stand of trees, and Rob came to a sudden stop. Adam noticed the way Rob’s shoulders squared, a hint of relief softening his face, and a slight grin easing the tension that had been lingering there all day. Following his gaze, Adam saw Rob pointing to a Douglas Fir that stood a little apart from the others. It was around eleven feet tall, just the right width, with branches that were sturdy and symmetrical yet had just enough quirks to give it character.

As Ms. Lopez circled the tree with increasing excitement, Rob nodded approvingly. "This is the one."

Adam moved closer to examine the tree, noticing a small red box with a ribbon hanging from one of the branches. His heart skipped a beat as he turned to Rob, who stood watching him, his eyes full of hope.

Realizing what was happening, Adam took the box, his fingers trembling slightly. He opened it to find two rings nestled together inside. Overwhelmed with emotion, he looked at Rob,

Rob’s eyes filled with tears, "Forever," he whispered.

The dogs barked excitedly, circling around them as if they understood that Christmas Tree day was now and for all time the greatest holiday of the year.