The Holiday Toast Duo Read online

  “Alan, dear?” It was Mrs. McDonough. “Could you help me?”

  Four pairs of spectacles turned in his direction. Two of the ladies hefted generous girths to their right, freeing up space on the end. Mumbling, “Um, sure,” he joined the group in the front and tried not to blush too much. It was a losing proposition.

  “Are you familiar with…?” She pointed to the screen, her face a study in annoyance.

  “Yes’m.” He saw the problem immediately. “It’s…” tappity-tap, “…up in this corner.”

  “Humph. Damn new system. Can’t make sense of any of it.”

  “Fucking A, Gladys.” That came from two seats down and behind them, followed by a few more colorful phrases.

  Alan used the excuse to shove his glasses higher on his nose, covering his mouth at the same time. A poke on his right shoulder had him biting his lip. He turned around.

  “Um, Miz Samuelson?” From his congregation, the one he visited as penance when his mother laid into him for a multitude of transgressions. They were liberal and generally blind to sexual orientation. That didn’t make him feel any more comfortable given his split loyalties and uncertain moral upbringing.

  The woman held up the syllabus, the one that specified ham. She wore an arch, holier-than-thou expression … and his grandmother’s home phone number penciled into the margins of her paper notebook.

  Thinking hard, all he could come up with was, “Nice to see you, ma’am.”

  Gladys, next to him mumbled, “She’ll tell you she’s here for the yams. Don’t believe a word of it.”

  The real question is … why am I here? Desperation? Boredom? Insanity? Rae mad me do it?

  Whatever the answer was, he knew one thing for certain. If anyone asked, he was going to be busy that coming weekend. Synagogue Friday night, confession on Saturday. Sunday he might sit under the choir and duck the hallelujahs, hopefully covering all his bases. And it would give him time to ruminate on how to deal with his anger management issues. His paunchy ex-sort-of-lover’s crowns were going to cost a bundle, and the apartment insurance did not cover stupidity. If anything, he was lucky the asshat hadn’t brought assault charges.

  Mrs. McD patted his arm and turned her attention to the side door on the left. Like lemmings, they all followed her line of sight. At what point Alan became light-headed, verging on swallowing his tongue, he probably couldn’t say. It might have been when the apparition paused to answer a question from a mystery person in the other room behind him. Or possibly the lanky way he strolled to the counter, his jeans spray-painted on long, muscular legs, ending at a bulge teasing from under a matching denim-washed shirt with the tails out.

  One of the ladies hissed, “Jaysus,” as thighs slammed shut and posture improved on his side of the aisle. He, on the other hand, was ready to spread ’em in slavering welcome as the come-to-Jesus wet dream smiled and attached a white apron to a body created for sinners.

  Bless me father, I’ll do anything…

  An assistant appeared and handed out more paperwork. There were sign-offs and sign-ups. Alan wrote his name in block letters and checked that he had the correct cell number, not his more easily recalled work phone … because, well hells bells, he didn’t call himself at home so his own number wasn’t always right to hand. He was blithering like an idiot, internally, his hand shaking and sweat beading on his brow.

  Mrs. McD bumped him again, this time to get his attention. She held the sheaf of papers from the row of enamored ladies. Those were to his right. To his left, the assistant, patiently waiting. He added his own to the pile, passed them left, and looked up. Straight into dark eyes, black as ebony, brows arched under a high forehead. The nose had a slight uptick over pouty lips—that whole packaged with a five o’clock metrosexual shadow that said “do me” and boy howdy, he was ready to clear the room, his cock already set to flambé.

  “Thank you, Fran.” The vision spoke to the room but nailed him, Alan Randall Liebowitz, like a bug in amber. When he managed to disengage from the staring match, Fran of the unknown gender had disappeared and the white apron announced, “I’m your instructor for the next three weeks. Jacques Lambert.” He smiled again and the room melted. “Please, call me…” Alan swore the man looked directly into his soul. “…call me Jack.”

  “Call me Jack” was a revelation. Alan had done some research on the man, but absolutely nothing had indicated he might be young, along with experienced and well-reviewed. And definitely the reports hadn’t used phrases like “drop dead gorgeous” or “lickable” when listing the man’s assets and accomplishments. There were the usual whispers and allegations and hints of misdoings, but he’d ignored them. It was, after all, a cooking class centering on ham for the holidays. Anybody with a computer could google that and have a passable meal on the table without spending time and disposable income on learning how-to’s.

  Score one-inch rectangles across the bone-in, add a clove in each square, top with pineapple slices out of the can and some brown sugar. Marinate with maraschino cherry juice and voilà, dinner’s served.

  Alan folded his hands on the long table and listened to the introductions and a quick review of each evening’s activities, the take-aways and companion courses.

  “Now, enough of me talking…” He was so wrong about that, Alan could listen to that baritone indefinitely. “…introduce… Let’s start on this side…”

  Men first. Then the ladies. Chef Jack made eye contact, nodded, acknowledged each person in turn, smiled. Tall, dark and luscious purred, “Mrs. McDonough, may I call you Gladys?” She tittered, they all did, even the elderly gentleman. Then it was his turn.

  He drew a blank. Nothing. Nada. Mrs. McD nudged him with her sensible one-inch comfort foam all occasion shoes. Still nobody home. He wanted to call up his email, check to see if his name might be blazoned somewhere not too obvious. Instead his glasses fogged so he couldn’t see much of anything.

  “Alan. Alan Randall Liebowitz.” Miz Samuelson to the rescue.

  Scrunching his shoulders, he grimaced a smile as his cock and ego shriveled under yet another failure. After that he blanked out everything except his own heartbeat, counting out a rhythm that would keep him alive long enough to make it through the session. After that he could bolt for home and drown his sorrows in whatever bottle came to hand.

  Sixty minutes. That’s all. I can do that. When it’s over, I go home and I never have to come back again.

  Let the phone calls to his mother and grandmother start. He didn’t care. Just so long as they didn’t round up his sister from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, he could put up with most anything. Esther, not so much. She was a balls-busting, in-your-face bundle of chutzpah, with five years and a good thirty pounds on him. And she’d been the first one to know his dirty little secret when he’d finally admitted there weren’t going to be any nice Jewish girls in his future.

  He was in the process of typing in “Call Esther” when he heard, “Okay, that leaves you, Alan.”

  Me? Now what?

  “We’re about evenly split. What do you say?”

  Say? What the hell’s going on?

  Gladys typed frantically, then spun her mini-laptop so he could see the screen. “Ham r somfin else? Wine?”

  A choice, Chef Jacques appeared to be giving them options. I can do this.

  Alan cleared his throat and every head snapped to stare at him. Jesus. “Um, it depends on the saltiness or smokiness of the cut.” He stared at his fingernails for a bit. “When it’s salty I like a Chablis.”

  “Why is that, um, Mr. Liebowitz?”

  “Alan.” Warmth spread like a soothing trickle along his spine. I can do this, I can, I can, I can. “It makes acidic wines fruitier, depending on the vintage. A nice complement when using pineapple or other accompaniments.”

  Chef Jacques was leaning on his elbows, his brow creased, concentrating. “Are you familiar with spatburgunder … Alan?”

  The trickle was turning into a flood. “Spicy,
fruity. Yes, a pinot gris would work nicely.”

  The tall man moved to the front of the counter, leaning his butt against the edge, right booted foot crossed over the left. “Of course, if you pair ham with honey, you can’t go wrong with a pinot noir…”

  “…or a Riesling!” Alan squirmed in his seat. “We have several excellent local vintners…” The ladies interrupted, shouting out names and favorite vintages. Gladys whispered in his ear, “He’s giving us a choice. I’m sick of ham, hate it. Pick something else.”

  When the pandemonium subsided, the dark-haired god said, “So, are you siding with ham, or…?”

  “Scallops.” Alan nearly passed out. Where had that come from?

  “Scallops. Okay, interesting choice.” He paused for a heartbeat. “And how would you prepare them … Alan?”

  How? That was easy. He’d finally done an eagle has landed on safe territory. “Pan-seared. But they have to be ocean scallops, not the wet…” He was going to say “crap” but bit his tongue. You never knew when someone would take umbrage at culinary choices. “Um, they need to be dry…”

  Chef Gorgeous held up his hand. “I see our time is up. Can I have a show of hands, please? Ham?” he counted noses. “And scallops?”

  Alan risked a quick look. It was evenly divided.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I see no reason why we can’t do both. After all, it is the holidays. Let’s celebrate it with an old favorite and possibly a new one.”

  He made the usual see you next time, if you have any questions, here’s my number noises. Alan tapped it into his cell phone, along with the rest of the tech-savvy class, and considered having it engraved over his heart, upside down so he could read it easily.

  The ladies made enough groaning noises, he was obliged to render assistance, carrying computer bags, bracing elbows until their rickety joints gained traction, bidding each one a goodnight, see you next time.

  From digging a hole in the ground, then burying himself alive, he could hardly believe his ears as he mouthed the platitudes and promises to see them all on Thursday. After waving off the last friendly pat on the arm, he settled on a concrete barrier and tried to regroup. His belly was empty and growling its displeasure from having missed dinner. One part of his brain was exercising self-flagellation at his social gaff at forgetting his own damn name. The other part was singing Ode to Joy in triple fugue at having finally discovered the man of his dreams.

  Even if Jacques Lambert was straight, sharing the same space with him, trading ideas on wine selection, just being with him was enough to give him memories that would surely last into his celibate old age.

  Celibate, because he was done with the games, the hurt and the disappointments. Done with men who only wanted a quick fuck, with jerks who squatted in his apartment, ate the meals he prepared, then went out at night, cheating on him. Leaving him alone.

  Well, if I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, it’s going on be on my terms. Not theirs. Dammit to hell.

  “Uh, Alan? You all right?”

  Oh fuck, no no no, it was Jacques Call-Me-Jack Lambert.

  “I-I-I, um, fine, I’m fine. It’s okay. Nothing.”

  He stared at the man’s scuffed boots, the lights from the double door and the overhead street lamp shedding just enough illumination he could see details. Details he definitively didn’t want to know. Like how the man filled out his jeans, how they cuffed at the ankles, a bit worn and tattered, like they were an old, ratty pair that filled his need for comfort … and maybe advertised this is what I’ve got, make something of it.

  The mountain of manflesh wasn’t moving. He stood, surprised he was a hair taller, not by much, and in bare feet, the difference might not be all that noticeable.

  Barefoot, oh my dear sweet auntie Marge.

  Apropos of nothing, he muttered, “I didn’t get dinner.”

  Eye-candy Jack grinned. “That makes two of us. Want to go somewhere? Grab a bite?” Oh fuck, yeah… “What’s good?”

  Alan tipped his head, recognizing the cadence and the speech pattern. “You’re from around here?”

  Again, that quick smile, this time on the shy side. “Yeah. Well, not here here. Born and raised down in Towson. Outside of Baltimore proper.”

  “Inner Harbor. Phillips?” Alan’s voice caught in his throat. He and Esther would sometimes do a day trip, just the two of them, exploring the area well before it got trendy and flooded with tourists.

  “Yep. Haven’t been back in a while. The folks moved to Florida when I was out west. My sister, Marie, she lives nearby.” He waved his hand in the direction they were walking.

  They were bumping shoulders, avoiding the overhanging foliage and rough patches on the sidewalk, like two old friends out for an evening stroll. Alan had an almost uncontrollable urge to take Chef Jack’s hand, maybe squeeze it, let his fingers do that slow caress that spoke volumes of intimacy.

  He was so hungry for connection that he’d have gotten on his knees and begged. One touch. Just one.

  He was so lost in his misery, he missed the first bits. “…go back, but … well, shit happened. Might be some time before I get a chance…”

  “We could go. I-I m-mean, you and me? My sister and I, well, we, uh…” Shit. He was babbling, making a damn fool of himself. With a perfect stranger.

  Except that stranger gave him an odd look, a look that was a definite maybe … not this idiot’s a raving maniac, better make a run for it.

  They’d wandered into the residential section. Lights filtered through and around drapes, street lamps were spaced irregularly, and the occasional headlight from a passing vehicle lit the street but kept them mostly in shadow, from residents and from each other. Jack was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, the timbre of his voice was hesitant, tinged with the kind of excitement when you think you’ve found a fellow traveler but weren’t real sure and had to tip-toe around your feelings, hiding the bits that made for stupid and cloaking it all under the braille of normalcy.

  Jack said, “That’d be nice.”

  Nice? Nice doesn’t touch it. Fuck holding hands. I’ll kiss you instead, Jacques Lambert.

  “Great.” Cartwheel, handstand great.

  It didn’t take a genius to see they’d moved away from the commercial section and all possibility of fast food. Alan’s apartment complex—two older buildings, three stories with limited off-street parking—lay on the north side of the street. He stopped and pointed. “That’s my stop. I have some homemade veggie soup. Salad fixings. Be happy…”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Nearly skipping in his anxiety to get across the street and into his apartment, he said, “Not too heavy this late at night…” After punching the access code, he led the way to the second floor. His was the corner unit, which was a good thing. With his brain in meltdown, he was lucky he found his key. He held the door open, then followed the dark-haired Adonis into his small living area.

  As Alan frantically stripped his winter coat, Jack grabbed his elbow, spinning him around.

  Alan stuttered, “S-s-sorry, let me take your coat.”

  Two hands gripped his upper arms, staying his frantic movements. He swayed slightly, not sure what was happening.

  “I’m gay, Alan.”

  The man’s eyes were limpid pools, unfathomable depths of mistrust and disappointment floating just below the surface. He’d been hurt and badly.

  Alan took a deep breath. “So am I, Jack.” The hands squeezing his upper arms loosened, then worked their way down to his wrists. It was a risk, a big one, but he decided to go for it. “I feel in the mood to celebrate. White or red?”

  “Can you keep a secret, Alan Randall Liebowitz?” Alan nodded, his mouth incapable of speech. “Red gives me a fucking headache. Do you have any beer?”

  Alan nodded. “Wheat. No, wait. It’s cold tonight. How about a Russian Imperial Stout? Local brewery. Put hair on your chest.”

  “Not sure I need any more.” He flicked the sh
irt collar away from his neck. “Want to check, just to be certain?”

  Laughing, Alan said, “Eat first. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  The room echoed with a promise. “So am I, Alan. So am I.”

  Chapter Four

  Dinner and a Show

  The last time he felt even vaguely excited was when he and his partner Carmen had viewed their virgin kitchen—the gleaming expanse of stainless steel, pots and pans, high end cutlery—knowing what happened next was a hundred percent in their hands. Their dream had materialized out of sweat and blood and plain old persistence.

  Little had he known that the man he welcomed into his home and his heart would walk away with everything that mattered: Jack Lambert’s reputation, career, and his ambition. The works. Leaving him to run back east to his sister, tail between his legs. Starting over at the ripe old age of thirty. Not a game changer, not the end of the world. But a serious hit to his ego.

  The allegations had been false, but his vindication came too late. Old news. The restaurant closed. His pockets empty, along with his apartment and most of his worldly goods in the wind. He’d been tempted to join the flotsam on the streets, but something … a twinge of pride, remembering his family and their joy in his accomplishments … had him making the call home. The entire family— the maiden aunt, his sister, cousins—had pooled their spare change for the ticket, brought him back home. No questions asked. All of that happened despite their not really understanding what they called his “lifestyle choice.” And like all small miracles, it had given him enough courage to turn his back on past mistakes.