Advent Calendar Day 1

Happy Holidays!

Welcome to my Annual Advent Calendar Holiday Extravaganza. ;-)

We've already received a couple of lovely fictional morsels for your enjoyment. Every morning there will be something to start your day off with a smile. Maybe I'll share a favorite holiday song or a lovely photo or maybe I'll give something away. Some days we'll have fiction, some days we'll have art, but one thing for sure, every day will have something for you to enjoy. 

There really is nothing for you to do but show up and enjoy. It's just my way of saying Thank You.

Today I'm giving away three signed copies of If Only In My Dreams. This is a print collection of my five Christmas novellas--most of them never in print before. Just share what you like best about the holiday season in the comment section below, and I'll randomly pick three of you to win a signed copy of If Only in My Dreams.

Christmas Coda 37

Appendicitis for Christmas.

That was even worse than a lump of coal. A lot worse.

“Ce n’est pas possible,” Colin protested, hand to his right side.

But yes, it was possible. It was probable. According to Monsieur Le Docteur, it was certainement. And if it wasn’t appendicitis, what the heck was making him so sick? Because he was sick. He had done his best to talk himself out of it, but he was feverish, nauseous, and the pain that had started out in his belly had had moved to his side and was steadily getting worse.

“I’m flying home for Christmas tomorrow,” Colin said. “Can you just give me something for the pain, and I’ll see a doctor in the States?”

Yeeeah. No. It didn’t work that way. In fact, what was going to happen was Colin was going to be prepped for surgery. Tout de suite.

“I have to make a phone call,” Colin said, trying not to show his mounting panic.

* * * * *

It took two tries to locate Thomas, who was in New York working a protection detail for an actress mostly famous for playing the love interest of dudes whose real costars were the souped-up cars they drove.

“Col, I’ll have to phone you back.” Thomas was regretful but brisk. He did not like personal calls when he was working, and Colin knew better. And as miserable as Colin felt, his face warmed with embarrassment because it was a point of pride with him that he was the first and only one of Thomas’s lovers who got it, who understood about Thomas’s job. Completely. Totally.

But this was an emergency.

“Thomas, I’m not going to make Christmas. You’ve got to let my grandfather know.”

And Thomas who rarely raised his voice and never swore said, “Damn it, Colin. You can’t do this. You cannot do this to that old man. You can’t just change your mind.”

“I’m not! I mean, I am, but it’s not my choice--”

But Thomas wasn’t listening. He said quietly, fiercely, “Do you really not understand what you’re doing? You can’t make promises and then break them.”

“I’m not. I’m--”

“Just because you’re not in the mood or it’s inconvenient or whatever the hell the excuse is going to be.”

The hell. Thomas was so angry so fast. It had to be because he had been expecting Colin to back out. And it was true that Colin was nervous and uncertain about going home again. He was homesick, but he was equally determined that this visit not turn into some kind of surrender, a retreat from all he had achieved since his move to France twelve weeks earlier. He had given his word. He had no intention of going back on it. It hurt that Thomas thought he would.

Well, they hadn’t known each other long. No. That wasn’t true. But they had only been together for a  month--much of which had, in fact, been spent apart. They were still learning each other. And apparently what Thomas had so far learned led him to believe Colin was the kind of man who chickened out from a difficult situation and broke his promises.

 Maybe because Thomas still thought Colin was a boy, not a man.

“What am I supposed to tell Mason?” Thomas was asking. “What excuse am I supposed to come up with?”

The ready anger was not the worst part, but it still rattled Colin. He was sick, scared and now in the middle of an argument he hadn’t seen coming. He had been expecting, seeking, sympathy, concern, reassurance. In the face of Thomas’s disapproval he was ashamed of his weakness.

“Tell him I’m sick. It’s true.”

Thomas made a sound of disgust. “If you’re that sick, you better see a doctor. And then you can make your excuses to Mason. I don’t have time for this.” He clicked off.

Colin slowly replaced the receiver.

* * * * *

He opened his eyes to artificial gloom and a medicinal smell. A hospital room. In the dull light he could make out a tall, motionless figure sitting beside the bed.

Thomas. Recognition should have brought relief, happiness, but something had happened between himself and Thomas. The thought of Thomas was a weight on his heart. The sight of him…

Thomas, gray-faced and weary, asked quietly, “How do you feel?”

Colin closed his eyes. Thomas’s large, capable hand covered his, and he didn’t have the strength to move away.

He took slow and uneasy stock. He felt cold and still queasy, but the pain in his side was gone. Or was different anyway. He knew he’d had the surgery. He remembered…well, not a lot. Not about the surgery. He remembered Thomas hanging up on him. He remembered the things Thomas had said. The removal of his appendix seemed trivial compared to the other things he had lost.

It was weird how you could yearn for someone you never wanted to see again.

Thomas was saying nothing, but there was strength and warmth in his touch. He was communicating, but Colin did not want to hear it.

 

* * * * *

He was released on Christmas Eve into the protective custody of his grandfather, who had flown into Paris the previous evening. Thomas was there too, of course.

Not the Christmas he had planned, let alone the Christmas he had wanted. But there would be other Christmases. Colin, still feeling shaky and weak, tried to stay stoic in the face of Mason’s unconcealed anxiety.

“Really, I’m okay now,” he must have said a dozen times before they even made it back to his little flat was above the boulangerie. “This would have happened either way.”

“But at home you wouldn’t have been alone.” His grandfather, as fragile as bundle of dried twigs, insisted on helping Colin up the narrow staircase--and Thomas followed close on their heels, ready to head off what must look like the imminent plummet to their deaths.

But they made it safely to the flat, where it turned out Santa and his elves had been very busy. The rooms were fragrant with cooking smells: herb roasted turkey and baking, and very warm--Colin’s heater must have been cranked to maximum for hours on end to achieve that summery temperature. The small kitchen table was piled with delightful wrapped parcels of food and gourmet goodies. Bottles of wine and cheese and nuts and…just so much stuff. Buche de Noel -- a butter cream frosted Yule log on a decorative white platter--and a small roasted turkey swaddled in tinfoil, sitting in an old-fashioned roasting pan. Where had they come up with a roasted turkey at such short notice?

There was a little Charlie Brown-sized Christmas tree too, sitting in front of the window that looked out over the gray slate roofs and rain-shiny chestnut trees. There were many--too many--red, green and silver gaily wrapped packages surrounding that tiny tree.

This was Mason’s work, of course, aided and abetted by Thomas, but Colin felt only resignation. His grandfather should not have done all this, and Thomas should not have allowed it, but he understood that the gifts, all of it, were motivated by love. His grandfather was trying to make amends, ironically by doing all the things that had made Colin feel he must put some space between them in the first place.

But…he loved the old man, and seeing how frightened he still was at what he perceived to be Colin’s close call, Colin did his best to reassure and comfort. After all, had he made it back to the States as planned, it would have gone pretty much the same way. So he faked hunger for food he had no appetite for and delight in presents that made him feel overwhelmed and cornered.

Thomas knew. Thomas knew how Colin really felt about this. Thomas knew Colin so well--and yet he didn’t know him at all. Why did that hurt so much? But it did. And every time Colin looked at Thomas--usually to find Thomas watching him with a serious, hard-to interpret expression--Colin had to look away. He didn’t know what to do about Thomas, didn’t feel strong enough to sort through his troubled feelings. And Thomas knew that too because he stayed very much in the background, hadn’t kissed Colin, didn’t attempt to touch him except to offer unobtrusive and impersonal help with getting in and out of taxis and climbing stairs.

Colin was grateful for Thomas’s understanding--and it made his heart ache.

After their small but sumptuous feast, his grandfather walked around the tiny apartment studying Colin’s paintings. Colin was braced to hear any number of concerns and criticisms. The right teachers, the right training might make the necessary difference. Or…Paris was a dangerous place these days, and Colin spent too much time wandering back alleys and lonely streets sketching the encroaching shadows.

The words he dreaded didn’t come.

When Mason said quietly, “This stay has been good for you, Colin. Good for your painting,” it felt like a huge concession. A corner had been turned, a milestone had been passed.

It almost made up for the fact that things were probably over with Thomas.

At last Mason said it was time for him to leave. Thomas said he would see Mason back to his hotel, helping him on with his coat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my boy,” Mason said, hugging Colin very tight.

“See you then,” Colin said. He felt Thomas’s gaze and looked his way.

Thomas said, “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Colin said--and even now it wasn’t easy, “I think I’m just going to go to bed. I’m pretty tired.”

Thomas eyed him thoughtfully. “All right.”

He hadn’t misunderstood, hadn’t missed what Colin was actually saying. He accepted it without argument. Colin wasn’t sure if he was genuinely glad about that or not.

 

It felt like days later, though it was only a little before midnight when Colin woke to the sound of knocking at his door. He sat up and snapped on the light.

He knew who it was. Had been expecting this, had in fact been dreaming of the coming confrontation. An awful dream where he and Thomas said awful things to each other.

But dream or reality, it had to be faced. And now was as good as any time. Colin untangled himself from the nest of blankets and pillows, made his way barefoot across the wooden floor.

Thomas had a key but he always knocked, always gave Colin plenty of warning. It irritated Colin a little, but mostly because he knew in his heart that Thomas was right. If he woke to find someone in his room he would experience a moment of paralyzing panic before he recognized, realized that it was only Thomas.

Thomas, who made a point of not interfering with Colin’s wandering the streets of Paris at night, was absolutely determined to protect him from a few preventable seconds of terror. So…the minor annoyance of being dragged out of bed to admit his lover, which was never really an annoyance. Not even tonight when he was dreading what they would say to each other.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and yes, no surprises. Thomas. Tall, ruggedly handsome in jeans and brown leather jacket, unsmiling

“I know you’re tired, Col, and I know you’re not feeling well, so we don’t have to talk long. But we do have to talk,” Thomas said.

Colin hung onto the door frame. He really didn’t feel up to this. He didn’t know what he felt, beyond hurt and confusion and disappointment. He knew he didn’t want to deal with it now. Knew he was liable to say things he didn’t mean.

“Thomas--”

“I know you’re hurt. I know you’re angry.”

Colin sighed and turned away from the door. Thomas entered the apartment, closing and locking the door. The heat was fading, and Colin was too cold and in too much pain to try and sit at the table. He went into the bedroom, climbed into bed and braced against the pillows and brass headboard, pulled the blankets up around his shoulders.

Thomas did not remove his jacket. He sat down on the foot of the bed. This silent respecting of the new boundaries eased some of Colin’s tension.

“I’m sorry, Col. I misread the situation and I misjudged you.”

Colin nodded. That was pretty much it. Thomas zeroing in on the heart of the matter so fast it was disconcerting. He had yet to work through what he was feeling and Thomas was already summarizing.

“I didn’t listen and I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I apologize. Sincerely. I’m very sorry.”

And he was. That was obvious. There were new lines in his face and his eyes were shadowy with regret and guilt. He felt bad. Clearly.

So…all better now?

Colin didn’t feel all better. He appreciated the apology. But he still felt…chilled and sick. 

Thomas was waiting for him to say something, and he didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t even that he was still mad. The apology defused a lot of the anger. But there was still this big painful emptiness.

He said, “I don’t know. I don’t understand--”

Thomas waited. That was one thing about Thomas. He really did listen. He listened to what you said. He listened to what you didn’t say. That’s part of why he was so good at his job.

Colin’s mouth was unexpectedly dry. The words sticking in his throat. “What feels wrong to me is that you think that I would do that. That I would give my word and then back out.”

Thomas seemed to think his reply over. “I knew you were worried and nervous about the trip. I did think you might come up with a reason not to go.”

“To back out. To break my word.”

Thomas’s gaze was troubled. “Yes.”

Colin gave a short, humorless laugh. “And that’s why I think this is…not easily fixed. Because you don’t know me. The person you think I am is someone neither of us would like.”

“No. That’s not true.”

“Yes.” Colin’s sense of the injustice of it all swept him up again. “You think that I could break my promises to you. You think I could hurt my grandfather like that.” He stopped. There was probably more, but that felt insurmountable enough.

Thomas didn’t rush to reassure him either. He continued to regard Colin with that dark, troubled gaze. His face was grave.

“You don’t trust me,” Colin said. That was the full realization hitting him. That was why this hurt so much. Why it felt they probably weren’t going to be able to get past it.

“I do trust you,” Thomas said. But it wasn’t very convincing.

Colin shook his head and stared out the window. Through the glass he could see the moon caught in a net of colored Christmas lights strung through the neighboring chestnut trees. A very old ornament handed down through the generations.

“I do trust you,” Thomas repeated. “But I’m also a realist.”

Colin turned his gaze back to Thomas. “Which means you don’t trust me.”

“No, Colin. It means that I know everyone has their vulnerabilities, their breaking point. And I thought this trip might be difficult for you.”

“Difficult enough that I would break my word and let you and my grandfather down.” Colin’s resentment, his sense of having been wronged was hardening.

Thomas admitted, “Maybe. That’s what this job does, I guess.”

Colin shivered, pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders.

“All right,” Thomas said with sudden crispness. “But I’ll tell you what. I did think you might panic, but not for one second did I consider that a…a deal breaker.”

That surprised Colin. He hadn’t considered this angle. And his surprise must have showed because Thomas said with renewed certainty. “I underestimated you. I judged you unfairly. But it did not for one second change my feelings for you, change my certainty that together we have something worth fighting for.” He added, “That’s the other side of being a realist.”

He smiled with a wry diffidence Colin had only seen once before: the morning Thomas had missed his plane, stayed behind to tell Colin he might be falling in love.

Thomas said, “I know you could screw up because I screw up sometimes. Like the day you phoned.”

And it should work both ways. Right? Couldn’t Colin accept that Thomas might screw up occasionally?

“But that’s a big one,” Colin protested, still feeling aggrieved, wounded. “If you think I’m someone who could let you down like that--”

Thomas moved--the bedsprings squeaked and pinged--closed the distance, wrapped his arms around Colin. Colin told himself he wasn’t sure he wanted to be held, wasn’t sure they had reached that stage of negotiation. But the fact was, it felt better with Thomas’s arms around him, even if they were going to keep arguing, it felt better to argue like this in the warmth and safety of Thomas’s arms. He could be angry and still find refuge here, that was Thomas’s unspoken promise.

Thomas said against his ear, “Sometimes the age difference frightens me. Sometimes I think you don’t see me like I really am. A middle-aged guy with a job that takes up too much time and too much energy that should rightfully be yours.”

“I don’t think that.”

“And I worry that one day you’re going to wake up and notice that you got the short end of the stick.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I don’t think it all the time.”

“You shouldn’t ever think it.”

“But it could be a little bit of why maybe I was too quick to believe you were backing out on a commitment. Because I wasn’t sure if it was a commitment I had maybe pushed you into making.”

They weren’t just talking about the trip back to the States. Colin said, “I wasn’t backing out. I’m never backing out. I love you, Thomas.” He raised his head, found Thomas’s glinting gaze and repeated, “I love you.”

From across the frosty, chilly distance floated the silvery chime of Christmas bells.

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

    

 

 

 

Advent Calendar Day 5

Today I'm going to try something different for the Advent Calendar.

I don't know if it will work or not, but hey. A big part of the holiday season are the happy surprises that seem to pop up during the month. So let's go for it. Something surprising both for me and for you.

A story written during 2016 to your specification. A writing prompt--BUT you have to do some of the work too.

Now, as I type these words, I'm filled with doubt. I'm not a huge fan of writing prompts, to be quite honest, but they can be great a great way to flex creative muscles and readers seem to love them, so...

I found the picture below (by Conrado licensed through Shutterstock) and I was taken by the mood and the setting and the pensive but relaxed expression on the face of the model. I thought...I want to write a story about that moment.

So I will. I will write a short story and dedicate it to the person who comes up with the plot scenario that suits this photo and most appeals to me.  So, again, a short story written during the course of next year, and one of you gets to pick what it's about. Write your ideas in the comment section below and--assuming any of them click for me--I will write that story to your (general) specifications.

If nothing else, I bet a lot of you will have fun with these imaginings over your morning coffee (or evening cocktail)!

Hmm. What's he thinking about?

Sneak Peek A CASE OF CHRISTMAS

Soooooo a while back a friend and I were hoping to co-write a project. It was a good idea, in fact, I still think it was a GREAT idea, but the pieces just didn't fall together for whatever reason--that's the thing with creative endeavor; the stars don't always conveniently align when you need them to.


Anyway, I hate to waste anything and since I loved the characters I came up with, after a bit of tweaking I figured out a different story for them--and that will be The Mermaid Murders. But I still had this prologue from the original idea. It didn't fit the new story or who those characters had become, but I wanted to do something with it. I thought it was such an intriguing opening. But to what story?


In fact, for about two years now (has it been that long?!) I've been batting around various scenarios and then I was lying in bed the other night worrying about whether my current Christmas project--Slay Ride--might be just a bit noir-ish for the holidays (multiple shootings, car jacking -- that's the trouble when you based fiction on true crime) and I suddenly realized I already had the beginning to what could perhaps be a kooky little Christmas story maybe a bit more festive in tone.


Which is how A CASE OF CHRISTMAS came into being.


Reworked but otherwise absolutely unedited  PROLOGUE

Cleared for duty.

Shane stared in disbelief at his cell phone.

The magic words. The good news. And the bad news.

But mostly the good news because there had been times over the past month that he’d worried he was on the beach for good. Not that this wasn’t a nice beach to land on, and not that he didn’t have faith in the system or trust in due process--how ironic would it be if a special agent for the FBI didn’t believe that justice would prevail? But the circumstances of the Fallon case were complicated. Or at least had appeared complicated to his superiors at the Bureau once the Fallon family had launched their lawsuit.

Yeah, he had been worried. In fact, the longer this administrative leave had stretched, the more he had feared he--or at least his career at the Bureau--would end up as collateral damage following an out-of-court settlement. Not a damn thing he could do about it either. He had gone on the record, he had told the truth, given a full and complete accounting of the facts…and been sickeningly aware with each passing day that none of that might make a difference. The Fallon family was absolutely convinced Shane had stolen a 15^th century samurai sword from the weapons recovered in the sting operation he had been in charge of back in December.

 Beyond the fact that his great-grandfather possessed an impressive and priceless collection of Japanese militaria, there was no reason to suspect him. But suspect him the Fallons did. They believed the Yasumitsu sword had been part of the recovered haul--a suspicion based solely on the word of Denny Green, one of the two defendants in the case. Green already had two burglary convictions and wouldn’t know a katana from a Klimt, but the family wanted to believe the sword had been in his possession because that meant there was a chance it might eventually be returned to them.

 The sword had not been there. Had never been there. But Shane had begun to wonder if that would ultimately matter.

Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of hell--the last two weeks made bearable only by Norton.

And then just like that the case was dropped and he was cleared for duty.

Shane shaded his eyes from the glare of the spring light bouncing off white sand and the whiter hulls of the pristine boats bobbing on the choppy blue water of Santa Catalina’s Avalon Bay. Overhead, gulls mewed plaintively as they circled, ever hopeful, ever hungry. A ship’s bell rang out across the sun-dazzled water.

This welcome news meant, come Monday, he’d be back in San Francisco. Spring break was effectively over. Really, he should book his flight for today. But if he held off until Friday he’d still have the weekend to get ready for his return to work and that would leave him two and a half days to spend with Norton. Who…should have been here by now.

Shane glanced at his phone. No messages, and yes, Norton was definitely running late.

Which wasn’t really like him. Scruffy and offhand, Norton might be, but Shane had noticed he wasn’t nearly as disorganized as he let on. And he sure as hell wasn’t forgetful.

Maybe Shane had misunderstood. Maybe they were meeting for lunch and then going sailing?

Or maybe Norton was just running late. Yeah, that was probably it.

Shane turned from the beach and started back along Crescent Avenue, crowded with passengers from the cruise ship which had dropped anchor outside the bay. The floating cities arrived every Monday and Tuesday during the month of March.

Better to skip sailing all together and talk. Time to come clean. Maybe past time, given those little jokes Norton made about being an international art thief. Norton didn’t like sharing personal details anymore than Shane did, and Shane respected that. He did wonder about Norton’s day job. Norton never seemed short of cash. Which meant he didn’t earn his bread and butter as a painter--even if he hadn’t been, well, a really lousy painter.

Shane probably should have laid it on the line that first night, but he knew from experience that FBI tended to have a chilling effect on potential romance. Not that he’d exactly had romance on his mind when he’d first met Norton in the bar of the upstairs courtyard at Mi Casitas. That had been about sex, pure and simple. But thirteen days later--and they’d been pretty much inseparable for most of that time--he owed the guy the truth. And if Norton still wanted to…pursue the options, that was okay with Shane. More than okay, if he was strictly honest.

Kind of a surprise given that Norton, with his goofy sense of humor, shaggy blond hair, and baggy Hawaiian shirts was really not Shane’s type. He wore a pirate-style earring, for God’s sake. He wore clogs. His “paintings” looked like they were done by a preschooler possessed by demons. He joked about things like having underworld contacts. But even more of a surprise because Shane had never been interested in pursuing any possibility but the most obvious and immediate. But there it was: Norton was different. In ways that Shane found both unsettling and exciting. In ways that Shane found downright bewildering.

It wasn’t just a matter of owing Norton the truth, Shane wanted to share this news with him. Wanted to hear what Norton had to say.

Shane wove his way through the throngs of sightseers in sunhats and shorts, pushing strollers, carrying shopping bags, eating ice cream cones. Yellow and blue and brick colored umbrellas dotted the beach where tourists lay baking their goose bumps. It was March, after all. Despite the bright sunshine, the wind off the ocean was chilly and the shade cast by the palm trees and beachfront buildings was deep.

He mentally ran possible scripts as he turned right on Clarissa Avenue.

I have good news and I have bad news. Which would you like to hear first?

So…remember that night you said you hated cops. Was that a firm hate or just a strong dislike?

Or there was always the classic opener: Are you or have you ever been a member of the communist party?

Yeah, not really a conversation he was looking forward to. But he knew he wasn’t imagining that powerful connection. Kinetic energy. Something had sparked between them that very first night. So they would talk. Really talk. And hopefully work something out. He wanted it to work out.

Norton was renting a dusty blue and white two bedroom cottage across the street from his own. No yard to speak of, just a small potted tree on the brick walkway. A spyglass weathervane swung indecisively in the breeze. Shane walked up the two steps to the brightly painted red door. The blinds in the front window were lowered and shut tight, which was strange.

He knocked on the door.

A woman was sweeping the porch of the bungalow on the left. Shane nodded politely to her.

He knocked again. Firm and brisk.

No answer.

The woman stopped sweeping and leaned over the porch railing. “He’s gone,” she called.

“What’s that?” Shane called back. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard correctly.

The woman, about sixty, slight and wiry in a flowered pink house coat, repeated, “He’s gone. He left on the first ferry.”

“You mean…” Shane tailed off because even he wasn’t sure what the question was. Norton hadn’t said anything about going to the mainland last night. Last night? Hell, he’d been in Shane’s bed just four hours ago. They were going sailing and then they’d have lunch and then they’d come back to Shane’s cottage or Norton’s cottage.

He said, foolishly, “But he’s coming back, right?”

The woman shrugged. “Couldn’t say. He had all his luggage with him.”

 From the bell tower overlooking Sugarloaf Point, silvery chimes began to toll the hour.  

.

Advent Calendar - Day 19 EXCERPT

From LONE STAR, part of the Men Under the Mistletoe holiday anthology.

Blurb:

Growing up in rural Texas, Mitchell Evans's ambition to be a dancer made him a target. Though he found success in New York City, Mitch is at a crossroads, and heads home for the first time in twelve years to figure things out. When what appears to be a reindeer jumps out in front of his car, he drives off the road and into the path of the one man he hoped to avoid.

The last person Texas Ranger Web Eisley expects to see four days before Christmas is his first love. He hasn't seen Mitch since they quarreled over coming out to their friends and family years ago. Though he's not in the closet now, Web has worked hard for the respect of his fellow officers, but he still regrets the loss of Mitch in his life. And his bed.

The attraction between them is as strong as ever, and it doesn't take long for the men to pick up where they left off. But is love enough to keep Mitch in town in the New Year?

 EXCERPT:

A lone star blazed in the midnight blue sky.

It looked like the Christmas star, which was appropriate seeing that it was four days till the holiday, but with Mitch’s luck it was more likely a crashing jet plane headed straight for him.

Incoming.

Yeah, that would be about right. On the bright side it would spare him driving any more miles down this long, dull stretch of memory lane. Texas looked only minimally better at night than it did in the day. Nothing but rugged, ragged landscape. Igneous hills of limestone and red rock as far as the eye could see—which wasn’t far, given the darkness beyond the sweep of the rental car headlights.

Mitch rubbed his bleary eyes. This was more driving than he’d done in years. He didn’t even own a car anymore. New York had decent public transportation and when Mitch wasn’t working he was—well, he was always working, so problem solved.

Prickly pear, yucca, and juniper bushes cast tortured shadows across the faded ribbon of highway. A mighty lonesome stretch of country, as they’d say out here. Cemeteries were more plentiful than towns. He wasn’t entirely alone though. Outside of Fredericksburg a pair of headlights had fallen in behind him and they continued to meander lazily along a few miles back. Some cowboy moseying on home, though not in any hurry to get there.

That made two of them.

It was six months since Mitch had got the word his old man had keeled over and he’d have happily waited another six months—or six years—before dealing with what his father’s lawyer euphemistically called “the estate.” But after the blowup with Innis, Mitch had desperately needed time and space. And one thing Texas had in plenty was space.

Speaking of space, the star twinkling and beaming up ahead could have fallen right out of the state flag. It was the biggest star in a night field of stars. A beacon burning in the night. Mitch blinked tiredly at it. He hadn’t slept on the plane, hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours. Not since he’d walked into his dressing room to catch Innis with his pants down. Not a euphemism, unfortunately. Innis’s excuse —

Up ahead Mitch caught movement in the middle of the road. Headlights picked out the gleam of eyes. A deer. A very large deer with a huge rack of antlers. An eighteen point—no, not a deer. Mitch’s eyes widened. A caribou. In Texas?

What the hell?

A caribou…in Texas…wearing a red leather harness with bells?

A reindeer?

He was asleep. He had fallen asleep driving.

Mitch wrenched the wheel. The tires skidded off the road onto the rocky shoulder. He tried to correct but over-steered. Instinctively, he slammed on the brakes, the car spun out. It did a wild fouetté across the highway, tipped over the side, and rolled once. The airbag exploded from the dashboard. The car landed upside down in the sand and gravel beneath the embankment.

Dust and powder from the airbag filled the interior. The engine died as the car rocked finally to a stop. The passenger door had flown open. Mitch could smell oil and antifreeze and cornstarch and singed juniper. The airbag hissed as it deflated. Or maybe that was the radiator leaking. Or the sound of four tires simultaneously going flat.

“What was that?” He wiped the airbag talc residue from his face. His eyes and skin stung.

It had happened so fast. So fast there hadn’t even been time to be afraid. And at the same time it had seemed to occur in slow motion. Like watching a film or seeing it happen to someone else. Really weird. Maybe that out-of-body sensation was shock.

In movies, of course, flipped cars promptly burst into flames. That didn’t seem to be happening here, which was good news. He took quick stock.

Neck and shoulders felt wrenched. No surprise. The web of seatbelts was cutting into his chest and hips. Other than that, he seemed to be unhurt. Shaken, bruised, but nothing serious. He could safely move without risking further injury; and probably the sooner, the better.

Reaching around, Mitch fumbled with the clip, and unlatched his seatbelt. He wriggled free of the shoulder strap, landing awkwardly on the ceiling interior. He crawled under the gear box and beneath the passenger side, scrambling out the door.

The dry, cold desert air was a jolt. Mitch drew in a deep lungful and it tasted as sweet, as fresh as his first ever breath. He was alive. Maybe his luck wasn’t as bad as he’d been thinking.

Climbing to his feet, he stumbled up the embankment to the highway. He was relieved to see the vehicle that had been tagging along behind him for the last thirty miles pulling to the shoulder, tires crunching gravel. Mitch waited in the glare of the headlights.

The door of the large white SUV swung open and Mitch glimpsed official insignia. Public Works? Parks and Wildlife? Highway Patrol?

But no, the man coming toward him wore a cowboy hat and a leather coat with a sheepskin collar. The headlights illumined his tall, rangy silhouette; it was too dark to see his features. He moved well, though. He moved like a cowboy—a real cowboy, not the movie kind—a long, easy stride with the little swing to it.

“Howdy, friend.” The cowboy had a deep, unhurried voice shaded by that familiar homegrown accent. “You need an ambulance?”

“I’m okay. I think my car’s a goner, though. Did you see what happened?” Mitch hugged his arms to try and stop his shaking. The temperature couldn’t be much above the low thirties and his jacket was somewhere in the wreck below.

“I saw you swerve and then lose control.” The cowboy was already sidestepping down the embankment to get to the crashed sports car. “Was there anyone else in the vehicle with you, sir?”

Not Water and Power, by the look of it. But not regular police. Even in Texas the regular police didn’t swagger around in jeans and boots and cowboy hats. Mitch might have forgotten one or two things about the Lone Star State, but not that much. Unless he was very much mistaken, it looked like he’d snagged the attention of a real life Texas Ranger.

“No. No one. I’m by myself.”

The cowboy wasn’t taking his word for it. He reached the flipped car and knelt, checking the interior. He rose and went around to the other side. Mitch lost sight of him for a moment or two. When the cowboy returned to view he had the rental car keys.

He scaled the ascent in a couple of long strides and returned to his own vehicle. The dome light flashed on and Mitch could see him speaking over the radio. He hugged himself tighter, waiting. He should have known what a mistake this trip would be.

When the cowboy had finished his report he ducked out of the cab and started back toward Mitch. “You have your license with you, sir?”

“Yes.” Mitch added – because he felt he had to say something and the cowboy didn’t seem to be the chatty type, “Did you see the deer?”

“The deer? Is that the story? You were avoidin’ a deer?”

The story? Mitch glanced at the empty road. “ That’s what happened. I saw the deer and swerved. I…It must be someone’s pet. It was a wearing a—a—”

 “A what?”

Mitch wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. He hedged, “A collar, I think.”

“A collar?” The cowboy repeated politely as he reached Mitch. Mitch was six feet, tall for the average dancer, but the cowboy was taller by a few inches. It was a very long time since Mitch had needed to look up at someone to speak to them.

“Er, yeah.” He wished he could read the other man’s face.

 “You thought you saw a deer in a collar? What kind of collar would that be, sir? A rhinestone collar? A fur collar?”

Great. Maybe you couldn’t always find a cop when you needed one, but there was never a shortage of assholes. “There’s a deer farm around here, right? There used to be. It could have escaped from there. It was wearing one of those—”

“Collars.”

“No. Actually, it was a harness. For pulling a…” Self-preservation kicked in. “Something.”

“A somethin’?” Mitch could see the gleam of the cowboy’s eyes. He had a suspicion he was going to be providing belly laughs around the old bunkhouse that night. The cowboy’s tone was still perfectly polite. “I see. Did y’all maybe have a drink or two this evenin’, sir?”

“Of course not. I don’t drink.” Although maybe he’d make an exception tonight.

“Uh huh. You were takin’ this stretch of highway at a mighty fast clip.”

“I…I guess so. I was in a hurry to get where I was going.”

“And whereabouts is that, sir?”

“The old Evans place off Highway 16.”

In the silence that followed his words, Mitch could hear the ever-present wind whispering over the sand like some ghostly oracle. The cowboy went so still he seemed to stop breathing.

“Mitch?” he said at last in a flat voice. “Mitch Evans?”

Mitch stared back into that faceless shadow.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

The muscles in his neck and shoulders locked so tight he wasn’t sure he could move his mouth, let alone his head. Any time he had envisioned this encounter, it hadn’t gone like this. As a matter of fact, it had gone with him managing to avoid the encounter.

How had he failed to instantly recognize—? But in twelve years a boy’s voice deepened considerably and a boy’s light frame filled out and even the way he held himself changed. Mitch found his own voice. “That’s right. Web Eisley, is it?”

“I’m flattered you recollect.” Web didn’t sound flattered. Mitch couldn’t blame him for that. The last words they’d spoken to each other had not been kind ones. But that was twelve years ago and grown men didn’t hold grudges. Or if they did, they tried not to show it.

“I remember.” His voice sounded as toneless as Web’s. He made an effort to sound more personable seeing that he was standing at the scene of an accident with a Texas Ranger who he’d once called a “fucking gutless coward.” Among other things. “Well. It’s been a while.”


* * * *

Christmas coda here.

Advent Calendar Day 17

Today's Advent Calendar is another photo that I hope will inspire you to write something of your own. It can be a jokey try or a serious try. That's up to you. You can use my characters (GULP) or your characters. Whatever inspires you is fine by me on this rainy December morning.
 
On offer is the "winner's" choice of audio, print or ebook from my backlist. But the real giveaway is simply the pleasure and satisfaction of taking a few moments to do something creative during this hurried, harried time of year.

So here we go again, Write a paragraph or so about what you imagine is in that box. Who is giving? Who is receiving ....?

TASTE TEST - Baby, it's Cold

Coming this weekend. "Baby, it's Cold" is part of the Comfort and Joy anthology. Yes, you will be able to purchase it on its own, but this is a really heartwarming and delightful anthology with stories by L.B. Gregg, Harper Fox and Joanna Chambers (three of my very favorite authors), so if were you, I'd buy the whole thing.

Before you ask, no, it's not available for preorder. The book launches on Sunday (Santa willing and the crick don't rise).

I do have a little taste for you. ;-)


Talk about Kitchen Nightmares! TV Chef Rocky and Foodie Blogger Jesse have been pals forever, so it should have been the most natural thing in the world to kick their relationship up a notch. Instead, it turned out to be a disaster. But Christmas is the season of love, and someone’s cooking up a sweet surprise…

I was putting the bottle of champagne in the freezer when Rocky said from behind me, “What are you planning on cooking?”

I couldn’t quite hide my jump, but I managed to say calmly, “It’s a surprise.”

“Well, always with you. But what are you hoping to cook?”

“Steamed mussels in white wine and garlic.”

His green eyes lit up. They almost glowed.

“Someone knows what you like,” I said.

“It’s practically the Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

We grinned at each other and for a second it was like old times. “You know,” I said, “you’d have been welcome tonight. We were friends a lot longer than we were whatever we were. Mama was saying yesterday it won’t feel the same without you there on Christmas Eve.”

“Let alone without you there.” Rocky’s gaze was curious.

“That couldn’t be helped,” I said.

“Because of this mysterious romantic dinner Poppy was paid a fortune to cook.”

“Yep.”

Rocky snorted. He had changed his blue flannel shirt for one of red and white plaid, and he had shaved. He smelled of soap and aftershave. But then he believed he had company coming.

“Believe what you want to.” I turned away and began hunting for the bowls and pans and spoons I’d need. Rocky watched for a few seconds and I tried not to get self-conscious. I’d known him half my life, so it really didn’t make sense that he could make me nervous just by staring at me. But he could. In fact, that had been part of the problem between us. All those years of easy companionship had vanished like sugar in water once we’d tried to take our friendship to the next level. It had been a big disappointment to both of us, I think. We should have been great together. But somehow it had been worse than starting from scratch.

“So how’ve you been?” Rocky asked finally, going to the wine rack.

I shrugged. “Good. Busy.”

“I saw you won Saveur’s Readers’ Choice for best written blog. Congratulations.”

I glanced at him. “Thanks.”

Rocky studied the wine labels, selected a bottle, brought it to the counter. I moved away, filling a pan with water and turning up the stove burner.

Rocky poured a glass of white wine and leaned back against the counter studying me.

“We’re going to have sides? I’m impressed.”

“You’re getting it all. Starter to sweet. Okay? Poppy picked the menu.”

“So then he’s delirious?” Rocky’s expression grew earnest and concerned. “I had no idea he was so ill.”

I laughed, set a glass bowl over the pan of gently simmering water, and dropped in broken pieces of semi-sweet chocolate. I’d done some of the prep work at home so I wouldn’t run out of time or get distracted and forget some vital step. I’d figured Rocky would probably hover. Expecting a chef not to hover when you’re preparing a meal is like asking a boxer not to take a swing. I added the diced butter, a pinch of salt, and left the mixture to melt while I set about pressing sponge fingers into the walls and bottom of a deep earthenware dish. The dish—like practically every other piece of crockery in the place—was decorated with pine cones.

“Tiramisù?” Rocky asked.

I nodded. Did some more pressing. The sponge didn’t stick very well. I gave up and moved to the stove, gave the chocolate and butter a stir, checked on my coffee. I removed the pot, added sugar, swirled the mixture in the carafe. Some of the liquid spilled out the spout. Rocky opened his mouth, then closed it.

I remembered I had to add the Vin Santo and I hastily set the coffee aside to scramble for the wine—trying all the while to look like nearly forgetting the wine was all part of my master strategy.

I found the wine. Rocky watched without a word as I dived past him to grab the corkscrew.

I got the wine open, and splashed some of it into the melted chocolate. Rocky cleared his throat. I stirred the chocolate and wine, glanced up at him.

“I got it.” I grabbed the coffee pot and poured the hot, sweet coffee over the sponge which was once again beginning to peel from the walls of the dish. I pressed the soggy sponge back into place, managing not to yelp at just how fucking hot the coffee was.

Rocky began, “Are you sure you—”

“Nope. I got it.”

I snatched up a potholder and removed the glass bowl from the pan, drizzling chocolate all over the coffee-soaked sponge. Cautiously, I smoothed the chocolate out to the edges, trying not to tear the sponge to pieces. When I’d managed to cover the sponge with an even layer of chocolate, I set the dish aside to cool and wiped my forehead.

Finally the sponge was sticking to the walls of the dish, so that was something. I found the carton of eggs and snagged two small bowls. I cracked a couple of eggs.

Rocky made an amused sound. I looked up. “That you do with flair, I gotta say. Always.”

“Ha.” Me and Audrey Hepburn. But cracking an egg with one hand was one of my two party tricks. The other was flipping pancakes. Well, there was a third, but it had nothing to do with cooking.

I separated the eggs, whites in one bowl and yolks in another. I had Rocky’s full attention now. Well, I’d had his full attention from the start, but now I had his considering appraisal.

“Egg whites in tiramisù?” he asked.

“I know it’s not traditional, but this is the way my mama makes it.”

“I thought that might be her secret ingredient.”

“Unfortunately now I can’t let you leave this cabin alive.”

“With you cooking, my chances were only fifty-fifty anyway.”

“Okay,” I said. “Enough with the jokes about my cooking.” But it felt natural, comfortable, joking back and forth like we used to.

Rocky grinned back and swallowed a mouthful of wine.

You Say You Want an Evolution

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve mostly been working on “Baby, it’s Cold,” my story for the Comfort and Joy holiday anthology I’m doing with LB Gregg, Harper Fox and Joanna Chambers. As much as I love writing Christmas stories, it’s been slow going.

Partly it’s slow going because there’s so much going on right now in my non-writing life, but part of it is simply that I was trying to force an idea that wasn’t quite right.

Ideas come to me in bits and pieces. A particular character, a particular dilemma, a certain relationship dynamic…but sometimes not even that much. Sometimes the spark is just a scene or the way a song makes me feel. I’m not sure you can really analyze the creative drive -- or maybe what I mean is, the analysis can drain the magic out of the flash of inspiration.

I got the idea for “Baby, it’s Cold” from a brief article I read about hiring a chef for the holidays. I thought that would be a very fun thing -- although the idea of a professional chef trying to make sense of my kitchen? Madness. But fiction isn’t reality.

Initially the idea seemed straightforward. Someone would hire a chef for the holidays. I could picture my chef: tough, tattooed, pierced…not your normal TV chef. Did he maybe have a prison record? Hmm. Rocky. Yes, I would name him Rocky.

So who would hire Rocky? Someone with money, obviously. Someone throwing a party? And what would their conflict be?

This was the problem. Jesse would hire Rocky. I knew what Jesse looked like because he was inspired by Johanna Ollila’s cover art months ago. But though I knew what Jesse looked like…I had no sense of Jesse. Why was he hiring a chef? And how would this tie into the anthology theme of being housebound for the holidays?

I decided that Jesse worked for an actor who was throwing a Christmas Eve party. Jesse was organizing everything because he was this actor’s PA, but at one time they had been lovers…

Hmm. That just might...no.

Already I could feel it starting to go off the rails. But I persisted. So…Jesse was still working for this selfish asshole actor because…because…he had written a script and this guy was going to produce it so he could star in it and that would be Jesse’s big break so he was putting up with the indignity of staying on and working for his ex.

Okay. And Jesse was coming down with a cold so he would be sort of feverish and acting out of character.

Ugh.

Convoluted. Artificial. Book people with book dilemmas.

So a week went by and I kept trying to imagine the dialog but it Just. Wasn’t. Happening.

I didn’t like Jesse continuing to work for this jerk who was using him, and I couldn’t see what the attraction would be for Rocky. And why would a snooty actor -- or his wishy-washy PA -- hire someone as street as Rocky?

Another week.

I turned to the research. What would Rocky cook? Maybe that would give me a hint.

Well, heck. Rocky could cook anything, that wasn’t terribly interesting.

No, what would be interesting would be trying to cook for someone like Rocky. Because Rocky was a perfectionist, critical, a bit arrogant. And if the scrambled eggs weren't right, he'd tell you.

And all at once I had it. Jesse turns up at Rocky’s hideaway cabin to cook a romantic Christmas Eve dinner for two. Except Rocky isn’t expecting Jesse because he and Jesse aren’t together anymore. And Jesse can’t cook. And Rocky’s current boyfriend also shows up...

I like it. It's funny. Nutty in a romantic comedy kind of way. There's natural conflict. The idea has evolved, changed, and now we just might have a story. I'll keep you posted.

   

  

Life is Good

Tonight, Thursday night, is my Friday. I’m out of town all this weekend. But this evening I’m sitting here watching Transformers…IX? X? XI?  Anyway, I’m having trouble following the plot, though there are some good lines and I like Mark Wahlberg as the befuddled dad and wacky inventor turned hero.

 

I’m on my own all this week (for the first time in years) and I got ambitious and made myself dinner. Mashed potatoes, roast cod with garlic butter, and a glass of white wine. This afternoon I had a swim in arctic water and I’m writing a couple of blogs. By the way, if you’re not following Queer Romance Month, you’re missing out. There are some really excellent posts so far.

 

I’m feeling really good. The Boy with the Painful Tattoo is doing well -- I’m sure it helps that I’ve left it at the preorder price this week -- and mostly readers seem to be enjoying it. Which of course makes me happy. I did not do blog tours or review copies or basically anything to promote this one. There just wasn’t time. September was a marathon of obligations and commitments beyond writing. So I’m deeply grateful to the gang at Goodreads and Facebook for the launch parties -- and to the readers who took it upon themselves to spread the word.

 

I’m basically done for the year. Fair Play was finished over a month ago, so all that’s left now is “Baby, it’s Cold,” a Christmas novella in the Comfort and Joy anthology. I don’t think I’ve talked much about this one yet, but I’m joining pals LB Gregg, Harper Fox, and Joanna Chambers for a holiday project. I'm really thrilled about this one.

 

COMFORT AND JOY

 

Housebound for the holidays. Four contemporary holiday novellas about finding love in your own backyard. Even when you don’t have a backyard.

 

Rest and be Thankful by Joanna Chambers

Two stormy hearts find peace when feuding neighbors in the Scottish Highlands are trapped by a blizzard.

 

Out by Harper Fox

Can a stranger unlock the courage and passion in a young man’s captive heart?

 

Waiting for Winter by L.B. Gregg

Some mistakes are worth repeating.

 

Baby, it’s Cold by Josh Lanyon

Or maybe it’s the flu. Breaking up is hard to do -- especially around the holidays.

 

It’s out December 7^th, and I’ll set it up for preorders before the end of the month. You’ll be able to buy the stories as a collection or if you just want one particular story, you’ll have that option too.

 

But first, of course, is Fair Play. I feel good about it and I think it’s going to go over well. Especially since for that one I’ve got Carina Press to help me out. (This is why I still like to work with publishers. Sometimes you just don’t want to have to do everything yourself.)

 

I’ve pretty much figured out the schedule for next year, but I’ll wait to share that. There will be at least one surprise in the mix and at least one title readers having been campaigning for.

 

It’s autumn now. Despite my refusal to give up my afternoon swims. What do you have planned? What will make this autumn different from the autumns that came before?