Christmas Coda 48

Christmas Coda 48

JEFFERSON BLYTHE, ESQUIRE: Jefferson and George

 

George had been definite. He could not make it make it back to the States for Christmas.

“You can’t ask for the holiday off?” I’d asked. Since George hadn’t been home in four years, I thought maybe he could reasonably make that request--and that it might even get a thumbs up from Corporate. Or whatever code name they used for CIA London. But nope. George declined to even ask.

Which sort of...hurt. We hadn’t seen each other since Merry Old E., and that had been five months ago.

Half a year. If we rounded up. Which is the rule in life as in math. Round up.

Was this more of George testing me, of me needing to prove I was really, honestly invested? Or was it George losing interest?

Coz it felt like George losing interest.

A couple of times I even thought I should ask him outright. Dude, are we through and you just don’t want to break my heart or something?

In my place, George would have asked outright. And if I asked outright, he’d tell me.

But I didn’t ask. I just kept hoping I was wrong. I needed something to hang onto, and poor George was it.

The deal I’d made with my parents was that I’d do a year’s apprenticeship with my dad in his architectural firm while I figured out where I was going to go to film school--assuming I could get in anywhere.

I could get in somewhere as it turned out. I could get in LFS. The London Film School. I’d applied for the following year. And I’d been accepted.

But was I going? I felt like it kind of depended on George. He hadn’t asked and I hadn’t told him.

My parents, of course, believed I’d change my mind about the whole film school thing. Also the whole being gay thing, which they attributed to ongoing upset over getting dumped by Amy and being confused and lost and generally…young. They figured I had turned to George because of timing and trauma.

It’s was the first time I ever heard that fighting bad guys could make you gay, but okay. Interesting take on law enforcement. Anyway, I had my stuff to work through and they had theirs.

It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought working for my dad. I didn’t hate architecture. Not at all. Architecture is a very cool gig, as a matter of fact. It just wasn’t how I wanted to spend my life. But, as everyone I talked to pointed out, there were worse ways to spend your life, and not everybody got to do what they loved for a living. That was the point of having a hobby.

My dad said the only thing that would really disappoint him was if I deliberately chose something I didn’t want for my future because I was afraid to talk to him. Which was a pretty solid 9.9 on the Dad Scale, grading from 1 (deadbeat dad) to 10 (rescues-kid-who-is-not-even-his-own-from-burning-building dad). Very nearly heroic, given how long he’d been planning on me joining the family firm.

So the hold-up was not my parents. The hold-up was George.

And then very casually my mom mentioned that Mrs. Sorocco had said that George was coming home for Christmas.

News to me.

And that sort of hurt too. But was also exciting because…George. On the same continent at the same time. We might talk. We might do something besides talk.

“So you are coming home for Christmas?” I asked George the next time we talked.

He swore and my heart sank. But then he said gruffly, “Damn it. I wanted that to be a surprise.” 

“It is. I didn’t think there was a chance.”

“No. Well…it’s not like I don’t have a stake in this too.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably the most promising thing he’d said yet. About anything.

That was Christmas Eve.

I went to bed that night trying to maintain in the face of my excitement that Santa was bringing me George.

 

Or sort of. Because George literally arrived around two o’clock on Christmas day,  and was whisked away into the family fortress. There was no opportunity for even a brush pass or whatever the hell the spy term was for a chaste hug hello. George waved at my window on his way into Sorocco HQ, and I waved forlornly back.  The Berlin Wall couldn’t have seemed more insurmountable in those five minutes than Mr. Sorocco’s tidy boxwood hedge. The geometric squares of snow-covered lawn and shovelled driveway in front of our separate embassies could have been no fly zones.

So George had dinner at his house and I had dinner at my house.

Diplomacy? Détente? Defection? I was more confused than ever as I tried to choke down turkey and gravy and stuffing.

“More stuffing?” my mom asked when I’d finally cleared my plate.

I almost asked if she was being ironic, but the front doorbell rang, and I practically knocked my chair over answering it.

George stood on the stoop, framed in twinkling lights and the two potted, beribboned juniper shrubs. The Spy Who Wasn’t Sure if He Wanted to Come in From the Cold. He wore a dark overcoat and his most severe horn-rim specs. Flakes of snow melted into his neatly combed hair. He looked handsome and serious in a sorry-to-have-to-revoke-your-passport kind of way.

“Hello, Jeffer--”

I heard his oof as I knocked the wind out of him with my hello hug. Possibly more of a hello tackle.

“God, George. I can’t believe you’re here.” Not dignified, I know. But sincere.

“Hey,” he said in a very different tone of voice. His arms locked around me and he hugged me back. Hugged me the way you’d expect to be hugged after you return from deep space exploration. “Hey,” he said again.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to get here.” I wasn’t just talking about arriving for Christmas, and I think he knew it because when I raised my head, he kissed me.

He kissed me like he’d thought he was never going to get there either, and it made up for a lot.

When we broke for air, he drew me out onto the step, pulled shut the door, and led me around the house and out to the backyard and up into the tree house.

My teeth were chattering--I hadn’t had time to stop for my jacket--and George took off his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, and then wrapped his arm around me for good measure.

“Poor old Jefferson. Has it been tough?” he asked sympathetically.

“It’s been h-hell,” I replied, snuggling closer. “But not because of my family or friends or anything. That’s been…weird, but mostly okay. A lot of it has been good. Better than I expected.”

He kissed the top of my head--like he was kissing my five year old self--and I said, “George, don’t.”

Behind the severe glasses, his eyes were guarded.

“You’ve got to listen to me,” I said. “Because this is unfair to both of us, and you’re going to wreck any chance we might have.”

That expression I knew well. The lordly George of my teens. The George who firmly believed he knew best. Knew everything.

Well, he didn’t. Not always.

I headed him off with a quick, “No, listen, George. I know you’re doing what you think is best for both of us. You don’t want to hurt me and you don’t want to get hurt again. I get all that. But there is no insurance policy for this. Maybe it’ll work out for us and maybe it won’t, but it sure as hell won’t work out if we don’t try.”

He opened his mouth again, but I kept talking.

“And this…cooling off period or whatever it’s supposed to be isn’t realistic anyway. If this is supposed to be for my sake, then it really doesn’t make sense because you’ve set up a scenario where I can’t move on. Because I’m still waiting for you.”

“You’re not supposed to be waiting for me!”

“But I am, George.” I couldn’t help the tears that sprang to my eyes. “Because I love you. You. And until I know for sure it won’t work, of course I’m waiting for you, of course I’m waiting for this stupid, ridiculous, fucking holding pattern to be over!”

“Jefferson.” He sounded soft and regretful.

“If you know for sure it’s not going to work, that you don’t feel enough for me to really try, then tell me.”

“I don’t,” he broke in.

My heart stopped. I stared at him.

His face twisted and he said, “No, I mean I don’t think that. I would tell you if I thought that. I…want it to work. I want it to be right. But wanting it won’t make it true.”

“Yeah, but it’s a start.” I had to wipe my face. I was so cold, I hadn’t even felt the tears falling until I was tasting them. “I don’t know why I ever agreed to this because it’s the worst idea ever. It’s completely illogical. The only way we’re ever going to know if it might work out for us is if we actually try.”

He was silent.

“We’ve already put in half of the year you wanted.”

“Five months.”

“Close enough for government work.”

His head bobbed, acknowledging a point.

“I can’t take it, George.” I just didn’t have it in me to pretend anymore. No more of the cheerful, optimistic, adulting Jefferson of the last five months worth of phone calls. I could hear the weariness in my voice, and I think he could too. “If it’s a test, then I fail. I’m sorry. I just feel like you’re coming up with excuses not to be with me.”

“I didn’t know you felt like this,” he said finally.

I said a little bitterly, “You didn’t want to know.”

He seemed to be thinking that over. “That’s not true,” he said finally. Ever the intelligence analyst.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” I said. “Except that I’m done. And if anyone ought to understand that people aren’t predictable, it’s a spy, George.”

He gave a funny, wry little laugh. “Maybe you have a point.”

I sighed and rested my head on his shoulder. I could feel him thinking. I could practically hear the gears turning.

“Okay then,” he said finally. “How do you see this working?”

“I want to move to London and start LFS next year. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t want to live together that’s okay, but I would like to--”

“I would like to try living together,” he said.

I raised my head to stare at him. “Well, George, if you were going to give in so easily what have we been waiting for all these months?”

He was smiling. A sort of silly, sort of self-conscious smile that looked an awful lot like the George I’d used to know once upon a time. Before he became a secret agent and learned to hide everything he felt. Maybe even from himself.

He said, “I think maybe…this. Maybe for you to see that I was always going to give in the first time you asked--and really meant it.”

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Release - Jefferson Blythe, Esquire

It’s here again. All the fun and excitement of getting ready for a trip to Europe. There’s special excitement, of course, because this is going to be a special kind of trip, but then every trip abroad is special.

—Esquire’s Europe in Style, 1960

 

 

To celebrate Monday's release of Jefferson Blythe, Esquire, we've got two launch parties going this weekend. One over at my Facebook fan page and one over at my Goodreads group.

Both parties feature games and giveaways. The giveaways are always cool--mugs, key chains, t-shirts, audio books, you name it--but we've got some especially neat stuff this time around. Two vintage style compasses, a couple of copies of Esquire's Europe in Style, a framed retro map of London...

Very--in the word's of Jefferson's grandpappy--groovy stuff.

If you haven't purchased the book yet, here are a couple of convenient buy links:

Amazon

Barnes and noble

Kobo

iTunes

Audible (the audio book is coming 12-14)

So enjoy the parties--and enjoy the new book!

And so on and so forth

Today's post is a day late because yesterday the SO and I did something we haven't done since January. We took the day off in order to have lunch and go to a movie.

The movie was Sicario and it was an entertaining way to spend a couple of hours. I always like Emily Blunt. Lunch was okay. I am increasingly bored by chain restaurant food. I don't miss the lesson afforded by it, however, and that is that in a world full of tired, harried people, opting for the tried and true--even if the tried and true is mediocre--is frequently the best, or at least the usual, choice. This is just as true in publishing as elsewhere, which is why "discoverability" is such a challenge for writers. And why they spend so much time talking about writing rather than actually writing.

This has turned out to be a very strange year. Granted, the only real unexpected turn of events was buying a new house. Everything else was planned out last year--and went pretty much according to plan. But buying a new house...I had no idea how time consuming and complicated that would be. We're still not completely moved out of the old house, and I am increasingly nervous about the items that were left behind. Like all my Christmas stuff. All the vintage Christmas ornaments handed down through my family...that stuff worries me. The other stuff...well, I can't say I'd rejoice at losing several years worth of tax papers, but it wouldn't break my heart the way losing those 1950s mica Christmas angels would.

Once upon a time a couple of novels and two short stories would have been considered a productive year. Now days...not so much--despite the distractions of moving house, two trips to Catalina, the uproar resulting from connecting my real identity to my pen name, and a trip to Scotland. That's a pretty big year with almost no "down" time.

The one creative casualty was my story intended for an anthology to benefit the Trevor project. Unfortunately I ran about a month behind on Jefferson Blythe, which meant that I was packing for Scotland and dealing with emails from readers when I should have been writing my story for charity. Now, I can--and will--donate the cash the story would have earned to the Trevor Project. That's not an issue. But I wanted to write that story--and I hate not fulfilling my commitments. I'm sorry to disappoint those of you who were looking forward to my contribution, but the anthology is still going to be terrific. Please support the effort of these wonderfully generous and talented authors and others! I'll keep you posted on the release date details.

I'm reluctant to commit to anything for next year.  Which is to say I've already committed to a huge and complicated non-fiction project and beyond that...there are two novels contracted to Carina Press: Murder Takes the High Road (Scottish tour bus who-dunnit) and Fair Chance (3rd and final story in the All's Fair trilogy). I know what I would like to do--and that's a number of tightly written mystery novellas in the vein of the things I wrote early on--but we'll kind of have to wait and see.

As for what is still coming this year...

Well, the release of Jefferson Blythe, Esquire (as an ebook and in audio). That's November 16th.

Several audio books including Winter Kill, Murder in Pastel, Dark Horse White Knight, Baby, it's Cold,  and the M/M Mystery and Suspense Box Set are still to come.

I'm contributing an essay on James Colton (Joseph Hansen)  to Curt Evans for his untitled but upcoming book on LGBT mystery to be published by McFarland Press next year.

jbe-inspired artwork for coloring book

There are a number of Italian and French translations in the works for a 2015 release. Lone Star in Italian. The Dark Tide in Japanese. A Dangerous Thing in French. The Darkling Thrush in Italian...  I'm sure I'm forgetting other titles!

 There will be a Josh Lanyon coloring book called Love is a Many Colored Thing, illustrations by Johanna Ollilia. If you love coloring books for grown ups, there's a good chance you'll enjoy the art and excerpts in this one.

There will possibly, probably, be a Christmas story, but again, I'm leery of making promises.

And there will most likely be a number of Holiday Codas.

And that's all I want to commit to just at the moment. It seems like a lot to me, but compared to other years...well, the only less productive year I've had from a writing standpoint would have to be the year I took off. My sabbatical year. ;-)  But it's been a really good year. A really satisfying and productive year from a personal standpoint. A year of growth and change--a year that gives me a lot to write about. And that is always a good thing.

Sneak Peak: JEFFERSON BLYTHE, ESQUIRE

“That is a brilliant disguise.”

I glanced down and met the bright blue gaze of a girl. She was about my age, or maybe a little older. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? Masses of curly platinum hair, a fierce nose that was too big for her thin face, a wide mouth painted tangerine.

I smiled. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but something about her reminded me of Amy, if Amy hadn’t been…Amy.

No, that wasn’t fair because Amy was pretty and this girl really wasn’t, although she definitely had something. She looked at me with bright expectation, and that was confusing because girls like her did not expect much from boys—men—like me.

That’s not a complaint, by the way.

Anyway, we were standing in the middle of Heathrow Airport, and I was trying to figure out where I was. I mean, I was in London, obviously. England. But it was like I’d stepped off the plane into a different world. Onto a different planet. A very busy, very noisy planet. Where the natives did not speak my language. That’s because people in England do not speak English. Or at least, not the same English that you and I speak.

Of course, in fairness, no one can ever understand anything being said over airport loudspeakers.

“A bowtie would have been even better,” the girl offered. Her smile was sly, knowing. “A bowtie would suit you.”

Okay, so now I knew she was making fun of me. I smiled again, to show I could take a joke, tugged down the brim of my hat—which I was already feeling a little self-conscious about; I’m not really the kind of guy who wears hats—and started walking. She walked with me.

People passed us, coming and going, lugging guitars and backpacks or wheeling luggage and children. Heathrow is one of the busiest airports in the world.

“Where are we going?” The blonde girl asked.

“I’m improvising.”

As a matter of fact, I did have a list. A partial list which included, in no particular order:

The British Museum

Soho

The Victoria and Albert Museum

Ministry of Sound

Claridge’s

The Savoy

The London Eye

The Tower of London

The Globe Theatre

Since I only had four days in England, there was no way I was going to get to everything. But that was okay. The idea was to explore, investigate, broaden my horizons. Or at least get the hell out of Dodge for a while.

She put a hand on my arm. “I think we should go somewhere quiet. Don’t you?”

I paused. Looked at her in alarm.

Surely not? Her makeup was kind of dramatic, and her lacey black top was pretty sheer, but no. No, she was not professional. Just persistent.

“Actually, I’m meeting some people,” I said apologetically, though I’m not sure what I was apologizing for.

She laughed outright. “I should think so!”

This was getting strange. ER. Stranger. I said, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Her brows drew together. “What are you…” I missed the rest of it as, overhead, a blurred female voice delivered some vital piece of information that no one could make out. There was no mistaking my new friend’s expression though. She looked alarmed and then increasingly angry.

“…suitcase, you’ve got the hat,” she said as the voice above us cut off. “If you’re planning to…” Another overhead announcement. This time the voice was male, but the message remained garbled.

I thought it might be a good idea to bounce, and I smiled, nodded, and turned away. Tightly clutching my suitcase, I hurriedly resumed my search for the Underground.

According to the Heathrow website, the Piccadilly Line provided the most cost-effective rail route between Heathrow Airport and the capital. The capital being…Central London? The trip was supposed to be less than an hour, with trains showing up every ten minutes or so even off-season. And July was not off-season. According to legend—and the website—there were three London Underground stations, but it took me a while to find even one because I kept looking over my shoulder for the girl who sort of looked like, but was definitely not, Amy.

Once or twice I thought I spotted her a few yards behind me, hair like a white bush and a look of fierce concentration on her pale face. Each time she was lost to view.

Assuming she was there at all and not busily accosting some other international traveler.

Finally I found a station, boarded the “Tube” seconds before the doors whooshed shut, and staggered to a seat. I sighed and wiped my forehead, knocking off the hat that had drawn so much unwanted attention. I looked around uneasily, but there was no sign of pursuit. People had out maps and brochures and electronic devices and snacks. No one was paying me any attention.

I picked up my hat, brushed it off, and set it on the seat beside me.

It was just an ordinary hat. Your basic Peter Grimm paper fedora. The kind of thing a lot of guys wore. Not guys like me, maybe. Or not like the old me. But I wanted to be the kind of guy who wore a hat if he felt like wearing a hat. And where better to test the look than on another continent where you wouldn’t have to face anyone again if it didn’t work out?

And then there was that half-heard reference to my suitcase. What was that about? I looked over at my suitcase. It was old, it was battered. That was kind of what I liked about it. It had belonged to my grandfather. Like the book, that tweed, striped suitcase had traveled with him to Europe in the 1960s. It was starting to show its age, sure, and more so after the trip across the Atlantic and down a couple of conveyor belts…so, come to think of it, maybe it hadn’t been the wisest choice.

Especially if it was going to trigger outbursts from crazy English girls.

I looked cautiously around once more.

All clear.

Relax. It hadn’t been the greatest start to my trip, but it was already in the past.

Speaking of the past…

I fumbled around in my backpack and took shelter behind The Book. Esquire’s Europe in Style.

My grandfather had regarded this book as a kind of talisman when he’d made his grand tour fifty years ago. It had been his idea—after the thing with Amy—that I should go abroad for a couple of weeks. He claimed his trip had been a turning point in his life, and there was no question that I was at a crossroads.

I studied the battered cover, decorated with cheeky orange and purple cartoons. I opened to my bookmark.

To be able really to dig Britain, you must be the sort of person who prefers the quiet and subdued to the noisy and strident, and who’s more comfortable with old leather, varnished wood and polished brass than with chrome and plastic. It helps to have a slight allergy to bright colors, loud talk and high-pressure operations in general…

Due out this November. Preorder now:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

What I Did on My Winter Vacation

This post is a little overdue -- mostly because I wasn't sure what I was going to say!

Generally, around this time of year I share my writing plans for the months ahead. With various degrees of accuracy. Midway through last year I was planning on 2015 being a very busy and very prolific year (much like 2014 was turning out to be with three full-length novels, two novellas, and an Advent Calendar as the end score).

However, as the year wound down and I began to evaluate the past months, I came to the conclusion that it was time to consider long term strategy.

The thing about publishing right now is we're all -- at least those of us without seven figure advances to keep us afloat -- on a hamster wheel. We're writing constantly in order to keep up that steady influx of cash. Which a lot of the time is fine for someone like me who really doesn't know what to do with myself if I'm not writing.

But this is a different kind of year. I plan to travel and I want to buy a new house. And those are both time consuming -- thought consuming -- things.  But more importantly, last year I was ablaze with creativity and the drive (need) to write. I don't feel that at the moment.

I'm not burnt out -- I know only too well what that's like -- but I'm just not ready to write. I suppose part of it is just the projects that I do have planned for this year are a little more complicated. They require more research and more prep than usual.

And that's a good thing. Both for me and for you.

So...fewer but bigger projects for 2015.

Winter Kill (Spring/Summer)
Jefferson Blythe, Esquire (Fall/Winter)
A charity short for the Trevor Project

And...that's about it as far as for-sure projects this year. And once upon a time, two full length novels would have been a very reasonable year's output.

Not anymore.

Are two lonely little releases reasonable during a year when I will have unusually high expenses? I really had to stop and give that some thought because how much I earn is dependent on how much I produce. New release equals big influx of cash. No new release means long stretches of juggling.

What I concluded was...quality of life and quality of work have to be paramount. Always. Also there's no point in being self-employed if I have no more control over my fate than when I worked for someone else.

But there's more to it than that. There is the ever-present and looming shadow of the hamster wheel. We (every indie writer I know) are all on it and most of us are running at top speed and going nowhere. We're not looking beyond selling lots of books in the short term followed by vague dreams of eventual "mainstream success" (whatever that means -- I don't think most writers have a clue).

There has to be a long term strategy. We all need a long term strategy. And I think, as with financial investments, the key here is diversity. I need space in this year's schedule to try (or at least consider) other possibilities. Non fiction? Other fiction? I have no idea. And I have no idea because I never have time to stop long enough to think about it -- but thinking about it, mulling over the possibilities is half the fun. That's the root of creativity right there: what if?

So this is my What If year. There will be stories -- probably more than I anticipate at this moment (because, like I said, I basically don't know what else to do with my time besides write) -- and I hope they'll prove as satisfying to read as I believe they will be to write.

We shall see what we shall see...