A seasonal story in two parts.
Part One
“Cold enough for ya, Beau?”
God, I hate that question. And my co-workers just love to ask, especially when it snows hard.
“Yes, George, it’s plenty cold enough, thanks.” Hell, even the studs in my ear were cold. I dug in my pocket for my keys to the building. George and I usually opened up the office in the morning.
“Didn’t get snow like this in Louisiana, did you?”
“We never even knew what street snow lived on,” I responded grimly. God, it was cold.
“So what the hell did you move to Ashtabula, Ohio, for?”
I found the key, and managed to insert it into the lock. “I wanted to see the world.”
The tumblers grudgingly clicked and yielded, and we could get into the warmth. Finally. I could hear the faint sounds of dogs barking. The offices of Animal Angels Adoption Center were now open. The volunteer staff had been here much earlier, checking, cleaning and feeding.
“If this keeps up, you won’t see much except snowbanks,” George asserted, stamping off his boots.
“Y’all know I won’t see anything but fundraising letters for the next month.”
“It’s that most wonderful time of the year.”
“Please, George, don’t you start.” I hung up my coat. I liked George. But I didn’t need him trying to dose me with seasonal cheerfulness.
“What? It’s Christmas. Have a little holiday spirit.”
“When we get a chance to breathe, I’ll try to remember that.”
“Hey, hey, it’s just a workday, right?”
I paused for a moment. “Sorry, George. I had a long night last night.” George was basically a pretty good guy. In fact, he was one of the best. If George didn’t actually enjoy torturing me with his native climate, I might have been more attracted to him. Not that anything would have come of it. Maybe in another time, and another life.
Not his fault my Thursday evening had turned shitty.
“Out partying in the big city?”
I ignored that. Who parties in a place like Ashtabula in December? I wasn’t going to tell George about my nightmares. “Hey, I’m going to put on some coffee. You want some?”
“Yeah, thanks, Beau. I’m going to need it. Dress rehearsal tonight.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You’re coming, right?”
“Of course I’m coming. It’s the biggest fundraising event for the Center this year. If I don’t, Adrienne will kill me.”
George looked at me with appealing eyes over the coffee maker. “You mean Madame Director has more pull over you than I do?”
“She signs my paycheck.” I shrugged. “I’ll go, but dinner theater and murder mysteries just aren’t my thing, really.”
I moved over to my desk in the cramped office space. I shoved aside a pile of envelopes in the confusion of files, sticky notes, and lists of items awaiting action. Most square footage in the building went to vets, volunteers and the poor, abandoned animals waiting for a home. Unlike the County shelter, Animal Angels was privately funded, and ethically run. It was a place I naturally gravitated to after I’d fled Lafayette almost a year ago. After Robert.
Not a moment later, the outer door swung open, admitting a blast of arctic air and a few stray snowflakes. God, don’t these Yankees know anything about keeping the heat inside on a cold day?
“Morning, y’all!” Adrienne had arrived. “How are you boys doin’ this peachy morning?”
I winced. Adrienne could not fake a southern accent if her life depended on it.
“Hey, Adrienne,” George and I both chorused. At least George had learned how to greet people right. Hey, not Hi.
“Y’all ready for rehearsal tonight, George?”
“Yes’m, Miss Adrienne,” answered George, attempting his own version of the dialect. At least his result was better than hers. “Murder at Mangrove Plantation will be jus’ fine.”
I sighed, and tried very hard to block out the noise. There was no way I could deal with the sound of their faux Southern banter in my ears all day. “I’ve gotten thirty-nine seats at the VIP tables sold,” I interrupted, hoping to distract them.
“Why, honey, that’s fabulous,” Adrienne cooed. She and George both had parts in the play. I guess she felt the need to stay in character.
“You should have tried out,” George told me for probably the eight hundredth time.
“Sorry, George. My acting skills are terrible. The drama teacher in high school called me a block of wood.”
“But such a nice block of wood,” he grinned back at me.
I smiled a little and turned away. It’s hard not to at least smile at George; his face is naturally cheerful and kind. “Sure, sure. Whatever.”
Adrienne and George chatted a while longer about the performance and dress rehearsal. I tried very hard to concentrate on my own work – I knew I should be calling big donors, asking them to come to the dinner, reminding them of the end-of-year tax benefits awaiting them, and on and on. The scrawl on my list indicated I had thank-you letters to write after my phone calls were complete. And then there was a final phone conversation with the caterer to be managed.
Still, snatches of their conversation penetrated my brain. “…I searched everywhere for the right dress. …It’s so hard having to come up with your own costume…did you try the Veteran’s Consignment Shop?…found some white shoes…”
George and Adrienne nattered away. I wondered if they were planning on doing any actual work – although I suppose I shouldn’t have grudged them their conversation. It isn’t every weekend you put on an amateur play, done pretty much from scratch.
The two of them didn’t notice the front door open about an hour after the start of business, but I sure did. A breeze straight from the tundra entered my workspace.
A dark-coated figure stamped off his feet on the mat and tried to shake the snow from his sleeves and gloves. Pink cheeks, blond hair and bright blue eyes contrasted nicely with a deep maroon scarf.
Something definitely pinged, and it wasn’t just my brain. I stood.
“Hi, is this where I come to adopt a dog?” A pleasant voice.
I put on my best smile. “Y’all’ve come to the right place,” I told the newcomer.
“Oooh, you’re not from around here!”
“Umm, yeah. You noticed.”
“You’re from down south?”
Okay. So this guy was tall and cute, but he was either rubbing my face in my accent, or not very smart. “Yes, sir. Louisiana.” I thought maybe I’d save him the trouble of asking.
“So, is it cold enough here for ya?”
I held my tongue for a second. “Plenty cold, thanks.”
“Anyway, I was here about a dog.”
“Right. You’ll probably want to talk to George.” I swiveled in his direction – time for him to do some work, anyway. “Hey, George. There’s a man here for an adoption.”
George stepped over to the desk – there wasn’t room for a counter or anything in that space – and put on his best grin. “How can I help?”
“Well, good morning!” Bright blue eyes flashed at George as dark-coat held out his hand. “I’m Harold Nordsen, and I’m looking for a dog.”
I blinked. Harold Nordsen? As in Nordsen Industries? They manufactured replacement doors and windows, employed two hundred sixteen people. Yes, I did my research on local VIP’s.
“George Dempsey.” I watched them shake hands. I could have sworn the contact lasted a millisecond too long.
I felt my eyebrows furrow. Harold Nordsen was definitely flirting with George.
“Great, I’m glad you’re here,” I heard my colleague continue. “Let’s go through to the holding areas and we’ll find your new best friend.”
My eyes involuntarily narrowed, and my gaze followed the pair through the door to the rest of the facility. I wasn’t jealous, was I?
“Something wrong, Beau honey?” Adrienne asked, distracting my attention.
“No, nothing.”
“You didn’t get any of the Nordsens to take a ticket to the VIP table, did you?”
“No.”
“And you’re kicking yourself because you didn’t.”
That really wasn’t why I was annoyed, but I played along. “Well, that family must be worth a small fortune. I mean, their payroll…”
“Beau, I know you did your research thoroughly. And Harry Nordsen isn’t a bad guy. But the Nordsens, and especially Walter, the father, are about as uncharitable a bunch of Scrooges as you’ll find this side of Charles Dickens. They weren’t ever going to give us a dime.”
“Oh. I see.” I was silent for a moment. “So what’s Harold Nordsen doing here?”
“Maybe he wants a dog.”
“Uh, huh. Right.” Maybe Harold Nordsen wanted a dog. Instead, he’d certainly latched onto George. Friendly, kind, gentle George. My George.
“Don’t worry about the last spot at the VIP tables. I can always find someone to upgrade tomorrow night.”
I turned back to my lists and phone calls.
But later, when George and Harold Nordsen burst through the holding area door, their laughter derailed my concentration as surely as an explosion. “Oh, he’s absolutely perfect.” The he in question wriggled against a dark coat; that coat was already partly covered in light brown dog hair. I tried to hide a smile. Harold held a Jack Russell mixed with something dark; he was going to have his hands full.
“He does seem to like you,” George commented, as the tall, angular scion of the Nordsen clan tried to tame his new companion. “There’s just a few papers for you to sign.”
“Papers?”
“Right.” George handed him the usual sheets. “You certify that you have a veterinarian, that your home has a size appropriate for this dog, that you have sufficient income to support an animal, and that you have no history of animal abuse, neglect or cruelty.”
“All that?” The tone was a little uncertain. Then the smile was back, plus a little chuckle. “Well of course I’ve got the house and the income covered.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“And I can get a vet appointment, I guess. I don’t have a record, gosh. So is that all?”
“Yes. You sign, here and here.” George pointed, and smiled.
Like me, Harold Nordsen was helpless in the presence of that smile. An expensive pen was flourished, uncapped, and the sound of a scribbled signature could be heard.
“And then here. Aaaaand here,” George continued, his grin growing broader. “And then there’s the adoption fee.”
“How much is it?” A furrow creased the blond man’s brow.
This is the question I hate answering. I always hesitate.
“Five hundred fifty dollars,” George said, not missing a beat.
“Five hundred dollars?”
“Well, sure, Harold. Think about it – we’ve already given this dog a thorough vet’s consultation, he’s been neutered, had all his shots and vaccines, plus we’ve fed and housed him for two months – you’re getting a bargain.”
“Yeah, but…” Nordsen smiled wide, and put his hand on George’s. “Couldn’t we come to some kind of arrangement?”
I saw their eyes connect. Inside, I seethed. It was one thing to be George’s friend, to feel I could trust those deep brown eyes. But sharing? And with that specimen? Ugh. The little dog in the blond man’s arms needed a home, though. And if George wanted Harold Nordsen, well, that just reminded me not to expect anything good from life.
I looked away. This wasn’t Robert telling me he really wanted the twink he’d been fucking on the side for months. This was George, who was not even slightly interested in me at all. Not that I’d ever really given him any reason to be.
“I suppose we could,” I heard George continue. “We’re having a major fundraising event tomorrow night. It’s a dinner theater mystery thing. There’s one spot left at one of the VIP tables…” The words hung there.
“Will you be there?”
“I’m in the play. I’ll definitely be there.” Dammit, I could hear the smile in George’s voice.
“And you want a donation, of course.”
“Yup. Tax-deductible, too.”
“Oh, I get it. Gosh, that’s a smart idea.”
Golly, Harold was quick, wasn’t he? Well, not that quick. It took him a whole thirty seconds to get out his checkbook.
“How about a fifteen-hundred-dollar donation? You can write off most of that, and you get some great dinner theater? And I’ll waive the adoption fee for you.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know…how about twelve hundred?”
“That’s fine.” No hesitation on George’s part.
I signed the thank-you card I was writing little savagely. I was hating myself at that moment. Hating that I was so awkward; hating that George so easily filled the last spot that I was supposed to have taken care of; hating that I had such difficulty asking for money in person. In print, I could say anything, ask for the moon. But not face-to-face. Most of all, I hated that if George wanted another guy, it wasn’t me.
I did not watch George usher Harold Nordsen out.
Adrienne went out just before noon – she was getting her hair done for the play – so it was just George and me in the office at lunchtime.
“Hey, Beau, I was thinking maybe I’d get something. How about that new Vietnamese place over on State?”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? It’ll be my treat.”
“That’s okay, George. I’m good.” I kept my head down, and continued working on my stack of donor letters. I wasn’t going to be caught out by that smile again. And maybe I was just a little petulant.
“You sure you’re going to be all right on your own?”
“Of course, I’ll be fine. Y’all think I need a guardian?”
George took his time putting on his coat. “Well. If you’re sure.”
“Go on, George. The place ain’t gonna fall down jus’ ’cause I’m here.”
There was a quick wave of cold air, and then he was gone. I sighed. I hoped that I’d be able to get some work done, free from interruption and drama.
How wrong that proved to be.
George and Adrienne were both still out when the phone rang perhaps forty-five minutes later.
“Animal Angels Adoption Center,” I spoke into the phone, trying to cradle the old-fashioned handset between my ear and shoulder while I worked, “how can I help you?”
“I need to speak to Adrienne Richardson, please.” The voice on the other end of the line seemed tired and rather raspy.
“Adrienne is out of the office right now, can I take a message?”
“Would you tell her Eldridge Montfort called? I’m terribly sorry, but she’s going to need…” the speaker was interrupted by a loud fit of coughing. “…just, not this time.”
“I’m sorry? I kind of missed that.”
“Adrienne can call me back, if she thinks it’s important.” Mr. Montfort sounded vague.
I frowned, trying to recall the significance of the name. He was a regular donor, that I knew. “Does she have your number, Eldridge?”
“Yes. She should have it. But just in case…” Mr. Montfort was taken by his cough again. “Just in case, let me give it to you again…”
I scribbled down the number, and circled it twice. Then I put a big star next to it, so I’d remember.
“I’ve got the message now, Mr. Montfort. Hope you shake that cold of yours,” I added.
“Well, it’s a damn shame, but…” he coughed again, “…it can’t be helped. At my age, I can’t…” and there was more coughing.
“That’s okay, Mr. Montfort. I’ll make sure Adrienne gets the message.”
I hung up the phone, and got back to work. Or tried to.
George breezed in a few minutes later – literally. The cold wind sent a couple of stray papers sailing off my desk. “Hey, Beau. I brought you something. Vietnamese shrimp fried rice.”
“I told you I was fine.”
“C’mon, you know you’re hungry.”
I made the mistake of looking up from my work to see George smiling. And the smell from the Styrofoam container was definitely spicy and inviting. Damn George and that smile of his. I grabbed the container out of his hand.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No problem. Any major catastrophes while I was gone?”
“No, pretty quiet. Just a phone call from an Eldridge Montfort for Adrienne.”
The conversation seemed to stall. “What did he want?” There was an unmistakable edge in George’s voice.
“I couldn’t tell. Mr. Montfort was saying he was sorry for something, but he’s got a pretty bad cough – he had a really tough time speaking.”
“When was this call?”
“About ten minutes ago.” I took a large forkful of fried rice. God, it was good – maybe I should have gone out for lunch after all.
“And what exactly did he say?”
I hated to frustrate poor George, but I had to chew and swallow before I could reply. “He said he was sorry, but not this time.” I tried to replay the conversation in my mind.
“Damn it! I knew this would happen!”
I don’t believe I’d ever seen George so angry before that moment. Or heard him swear, for that matter.
“What’s the problem, George?”
“Montfort is crapping out on us again. He did this to us last year, too!”
“Did what?” Sometimes, I can be very dense.
“Last year, Eldridge Montfort signed up to play a part in the dinner theater fundraiser. He had an important supporting role. The week before the event, he calls and cancels, claiming a death of a distant cousin or something. What he really had was cold feet.”
“How do you know he chickened out?”
“Eldridge was spotted the day of the dinner, touring the sculpture gallery at the Cleveland Museum of Art.”
“What did you do?”
“We had a week. We went to the theater department at Kent State, and begged for someone to come help. We managed.”
“But why did he sign up again this year? And why did anyone let him?” I took another bite. The fried rice was disappearing fast.
“Adrienne wants him involved. Eldridge is a major donor; you know that. He loves to be part of things, to be part of the group. Since he lost his wife a few years ago, he’s lonely. The trouble is, he gets terrible stage fright. Incredible jitters.”
“Couldn’t he do props or stage managing or…”
“No – that kind of thing belongs to Rachel Sweeney. It’s been her job for years.”
“Oh. So what did…”
“At least this year, we thought we were doing a clever thing.” George cut me off. “We gave him the role of the Gardener. It’s a part with just a few lines, though he has some important action. Damn.”
Once again, the polar blast invaded the office as Adrienne returned, newly coiffed.
“Why, George, honey, I do declare, whatever is the matter?” Had she kept up that awful impression of a southern accent all through her hair appointment? God help her stylist.
“Eldridge Montfort called.”
“Oh, God, no. Don’t tell me.” Suddenly, Adrienne’s voice was transported back to the Midwest in an instant. “What did he say this time?”
“I don’t know. Ask Beau; he took the message.”
Adrienne turned to face me.
“He just said he was sorry, and that he just couldn’t this year. It sounded like he has a bad cold, too.”
“Oh, I bet he does,” Adrienne said, lips tight.
“He left his phone number,” I offered.
“I’ve got it. I’ll go call him.”
Adrienne stomped into her tiny office and shut the door.
George sat in his chair with a thump and a creak.
I turned back to my notes and lists. I felt bad for Adrienne and George. They’d been working on this thing for months. But they must have devised some kind of backup plan, especially after what happened last year. Somebody would have done that, right?
I let out a long breath to clear my head. If I worked without dramatic interruptions and regular cold fronts coming across my desk, I still had hopes of getting my tasks and mailings finished by the end of the day. I did my best to tune out the sound of Adrienne’s voice emanating from behind the wretched old imitation wood. The real money around Angel Adoption was spent on the animals, not the administration, that’s for sure.
A few minutes later, Adrienne emerged. “Well, that was useless. Eldridge really does sound sick. He must be a great actor, after all.” Her tone was dejected.
“Hey, hey, it’ll work out,” George said, standing.
“That’s right,” I chipped in without looking away from the current note I was writing. “It’s not like he had a big part or anything.”
“But this is impossibly short notice. And it has to be great – we want to generate donations and memberships, not chase people away.” Adrienne seemed on the edge of tears.
“You’ll find someone,” I reassured her, not thinking of what I was saying. “You did it last year, and the part you need to fill is has a little action and a few lines. Isn’t that right, George?”
George didn’t immediately support me, so I put my pen down and swiveled in my chair. He and Adrienne were exchanging an impenetrable sort of look.
I blinked.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.” George agreed. He turned to me. “But I don’t think we’ll have to look very far to find someone to take Eldridge Montfort’s part.”
Oh, hell. A slow, irresistible smile was spreading across his face. I was so screwed.
To be continued…
©Parker Owens, December 2017. All of Parker’s work can be found on GayAuthors.org.
A Pencil Is Best 