“That"s probably an achievable goal.” I thought of the hard work in front of her but knew she was up to it and had plenty of help. “I have faith in you.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“I wish…” She bit her lip.
“What?”
“I wish I could talk you into staying here and sharing it with me.” That shouldn"t have surprised me, but it did. “
What
?”
“I need a pastry chef to give the place class and credibility. From what I understand, you need a job. Will you at least think about it?”
“Mary Catherine, I"m just here until my brother can pick me up tomorrow night. I have an apartment in Los Angeles. A life…” I guess what I was thinking—
but I’m stuck making fucking cannoli
—showed on my face.
“Are you happy there?”
“I don"t know. What"s happy?” I got up, thinking I"d go see if the girls needed help with the pies. If they"d exhausted the topic of Candace"s hot date. “I have a life there is all.”
“Just promise me you"ll think about it, all right?”
“All right. I will think about it.”
Her smile trembled when she held her hand out. I took it and saw the hope in her eyes. Suddenly the idea didn"t seem so ridiculous. It grew roots in my heart and sprouted wings in my head.
I had to get out of there, away from the contagious optimism of the look that Mary Catherine sent my way. I heard the girls arguing—Candace offering expert advice in her haughtiest voice, Muse barking back like an angry Pekingese. It was easy to picture Bianca"s outrage and Analise melting out for a cigarette. I"d been thrown out of better places.
I said nothing but planned to keep my options open.
After work I went home and slept for a few hours. Getting up so early for work and then staying up half the night was taking its toll. After I woke up I decided it might be fun to make my way to the pier. And yes, I was in full possession of the knowledge that the firehouse was on the way. It wasn"t an awfully long way to go and provided the possibility that I could ask JT if he wanted to go for a beer after St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder
77
work, like any normal guy. Except JT wasn"t a normal guy, and it wasn"t a normal situation.
I had no illusions that he"d greet me with a kiss.
I"d had some time to do a little thinking about waking up alone. Over the course of the day I"d begun to believe it was a
bad thing
. Not, like, an aliens-experimenting-on-your-brain bad thing, but not like waking up in bed with the guy you"d had sex with either.
Sometimes that happened, but it usually ended with a guy coming back through the door with coffee and bagels. I had dated a man who always went out for the paper at the crack of dawn. When I woke up later, he"d be back, reading it in bed. Otherwise pretty much everyone mostly said good-bye and made nice before hitting the road.
And I couldn"t help wondering if the fact that JT didn"t was a
very bad sign.
The wind off the ocean was a little gusty; it blew leaves and bits of papers along the pavement and caused the flag on the pole out in front of the firehouse to whip and snap percussively overhead. It made my heart race, and my instinct to dive to the ground and cover my head was virtually impossible to ignore. I had to remind myself where I was, consciously telling myself I could hear the Pacific Ocean and I was safe.
The air burst with a freshness that brought all kinds of scents with it: the briny tang of ocean water and decay, of fish, wood smoke, and ozone. The engine wasn"t in the garage, nor was the EMS rig that was JT"s purview. The large space echoed with the absence of the life that usually inhabited it, as if ghosts carried on the business of the living there.
I was walking toward the pier when I heard the unmistakable growl of the big fire engine rumbling toward me, followed by the smaller paramedic"s truck except JT wasn"t in it. He must not have been working that shift. I waved at the firefighters, and saw Cam smile warmly from inside the truck. He waved back. I waited for a while, until they regrouped after their call. I stood in the shade of an avocado tree and listened to them unwind.
What seemed like aeons ago, I"d been a soldier, and often I missed the everyday chatter of men, the camaraderie and teasing and tough justice of life as part of a team. Hard jobs sometimes make hard men, yet these firefighters had never seemed anything but diligent, genuine, and dedicated. I"d seen them in action firsthand and been rescued by one. I admired them more than I could say.
Cam ambled over to where I stood. He put his big hand on a branch above my head, hanging there a little, his biceps bulging at right about eye level. I smothered a laugh. He knew exactly the effect he had on me—on everyone—and he enjoyed it tremendously.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked. The branch gave a little, and his head lolled dangerously close to mine. “Come to see me?”
78
Z. A. Maxfield
I felt bad that I hadn"t. He was a big, goofy kid. The sixth grader who shows off and pantomimes gagging behind Teacher"s back. I liked him a lot. “No.” I shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I came to see JT.”
“Well, I"d say you"re outta luck there, because he"s off shift and he"s got a hot date.”
I colored. “Has he?”
“Yeah, he"s probably home right now getting prettified.” Cam looked at me with a remarkable sensitivity I wouldn"t have given him credit for. “It"s probably best if you don"t hang your hopes on him, Yasha.” Disappointment melted me. I thought I hid it pretty well until Cam took my upper arm and told me he was buying me a drink.
St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder
79
Chapter Twelve
Once inside Nacho"s Bar, Cam and I decided to have dinner together, something that seemed natural since the kitchen was still humming, and the violinist played dinnertime music from table to table, taking requests. From my experience, eventually the kitchen would close except for appetizers and snacks, and the tables would be cleared to make room for a dance floor. After ten most of the patrons were gay men, with a few straight couples thrown in, looking blown off course but not surprised or disappointed to find themselves around an affectionate same-sex couple or ten. I noticed a knot of younger patrons using sign language; either they were deaf or they were learning and wanted to practice.
All in all it was a remarkably eclectic and easygoing crowd, and that night was no exception. Cam filled me in on the people he knew, pointing out the owner, Jim, and his partner, Alfred, some firefighters I hadn"t met, one or two of the St. Nacho"s police officers dining with their wives, and the violinist, a pierced and tatted, bad boy-looking guy named Cooper, who played with a skill and sweetness I hadn"t heard anywhere, ever. He was so jaw-droppingly brilliant I wondered how he could have ended up in such an impossibly tiny place.
“I"m not an expert or anything, but he"s”—I tried to think of a word as I hissed my disbelief in Cam"s ear—“he"s fantastic. Unreal.”
“Yeah. He"s amazing. He just pulled up here one day on a Harley and never left. Jim told me he asked if he could play his violin for tips, so he offered him the use of the studio upstairs. He worked in the kitchen for a while. Still does when they"re shorthanded. He should be playing with the symphony in a major city, but he met someone who lives here in St. Nacho"s, and they clicked right away. He likes it here, I guess.”
“Unbelievable.” I watched, riveted as he played a piece I knew, the theme from an old film called
Laura
. The way he imbued it with everything he had, the way he dipped and swayed made it seem as if he was more than just a man making music.
It was intensely personal for him. He interacted with the music in a way I"d never seen before.
I gave him a few bucks and asked him to play the theme from
Schindler’s List
, a piece of music I knew my mother had loved when she was alive. He was brilliant. I had tears in my eyes when he stepped away, both from the beauty of his playing and also from the futile wish that my mother and my zeyde could have been there to hear it.
80
Z. A. Maxfield
Cam stared at me but said nothing. I gained a new appreciation for him based on his patience.
“Muse told me that people end up here because it"s a place of intense spiritual energy,” I murmured. “Like
Buffy’s
Hellmouth, only not in the demons-jump-out-at-you way.”
“Muse?”
“Yeah, one of my cohorts in pie. Actually she told me that you can"t see St.
Nacho"s unless it wants you.” I expected him to refute this, to call it crazy or laugh.
He didn"t.
“I won"t say it"s invisible or anything, but it does seem to be the case that it"s stayed relatively unremarkable.”
I took a sip of my beer. “Except that everything about St. Nacho"s, from its tranquil beauty, to this bar and its amazing violinist, to Mary Catherine and her band of merry, pie-baking handmaidens is completely unique. And why that"s unremarkable remains a mystery.”
Cam shrugged his beefy shoulders in a way that indicated that he hadn"t thought much about it. Yet from the glimpses I"d gotten of him that night, I wondered if maybe he had been giving thought to a lot of things and simply wasn"t letting on. Given his penchant for playing the clown, for enjoying his massive muscles and the attention he got from his physical perfection, it seemed likely that he played down his brains and sensitivity. I had to think there was more going on inside his head than anyone gave him credit for.
He must have seen a look of speculation on my face, because he leaned in with a leer. “What"s that look for?”
Before I could ask him what had drawn him to St. Nacho"s, there was a bit of a commotion at the door, and JT walked in with a girl on his arm. She was gorgeous, sort of a kosher Kim Kardashian, thin as a rail, with tits like angels had piped them there in frosting, high and firm.
Perky
. She was tiny but perfectly formed and had ankles like fine-crystal wine stems poised on shoes with heels so high and lethal, they ought to be registered as weapons.
“Wow. Flashy. She looks like a professional cheerleader, doesn"t she? Right on cue,” Cam muttered. “Sorry.”
I didn"t have time to wonder what Cam meant by that, because I was watching JT and his girl make their way across the room, smiling and shaking hands with friends. Eventually they fetched up on our table, a happenstance so seemingly casual, so perfectly calculated to appear random it had to be anything but.
I whispered to Cam, “What happened to Linda?”
Cam only shrugged.
“Hi, Jacob.” JT held his hand out to me. Those were the fingers I"d licked and sucked the night before, the palm I"d kissed when I"d thought he was my zeyde.
He was nothing like my zeyde.
St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder
81
I took it and gave it a firm pump, pasting a smile on my face.
Howdy do.
Howdy doody do.
“This is Elaine.”
Tension must have crackled in the air around me, because Miss Girlfriend didn"t reach over when I glanced her way to see if she"d shake. Some girls have a sense of self-preservation around gay men and feel the threat of a curse hanging in the air, whether there is one or not. I wasn"t above thinking evil thoughts, but I didn"t let her see them.
“Lovely to see you again,
Jason
. Elaine.” I inclined my head.
JT"s gaze swept over toward me but slid away like a shadow when mine—
probably overbright and accusatory—met it.
“Well, we"re for dinner, then,” JT said.
I couldn"t help it. “Chef must have forgotten to write that on the specials menu.”
Next to me Cam snorted.
“Nice to see you.” JT put his hand on the small of Elaine"s back, and it belonged there, his fingertips stretching across her body like the webbing of a corset.
It fit perfectly.
I didn"t speak before he walked away, but once he was out of range I couldn"t help giving voice to my thoughts. “Yes, and so expedient too. Imagine the inconvenience of having to look for me, even in a town this small, to make your point.”
Cam said, “I"m sorry, Yasha.”
“For what?” I could at least hope he didn"t see how
Jason’s
date had affected me.
“Guys like that—they can"t help but follow up with a pretty girl. Drive the point home with a few big public displays of affection.”
“What?”
“I saw his truck at the motel last night.” Cam looked down at his beer. “I"m sorry. It was late, and I kind of figured you and he had something going. Then he"s here like this today and calling you Jacob. It doesn"t take a rocket scientist.”
“He"s done something like that before?”
Please, please don’t tell me he’s a liar
as well as a motherfucking straight coward down-low prick.
“Not that I know of actually.” Cam shrugged. “He"s looked plenty. Like a kid in a toy-shop window, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded miserably.
“But so far he"s stayed so deep in the closet, they"re going to crown him king of Narnia.” Cam drank the rest of his beer in one pull and signaled the waiter over to order two more of the same and a couple of shots of Patrón.
82
Z. A. Maxfield
I asked, “You"re not driving, are you?”
“Nope, I"m off work and on foot. I"ll just find somewhere to sleep it off.
Unless… I"ll walk you home if you want.”
“I"ll be fine,” I told him. “But I"m in the mood to drink, so keep it coming.”
Yeah, well…shit.
We ordered carnitas, and they came in a heaping plateful with delicate corn tortillas that tasted handmade. We got rice and beans on the side and a bowl of pico de gallo and one of red hot salsa, chopped extra fine but not quite pureed, smoky with chipotle and maybe a hit of habanero, but bright with fresh tomatoes, cilantro, and sweet red onion.
Cam could eat, and I liked that on a guy since I"m somewhat handy in the kitchen. I often expressed myself with food, and Cam—he could really put it away.
He grinned around great mouthfuls, bluff and hearty, but still boyish and maybe a little impudent in his worn cowboy boots and formfitting jeans. He dared me to drink three shots in succession—the time-honored way with a lick of salt and a bite of lime—and eyed me with the kind of intent that made the hot sauce seem tepid by comparison. At least four times I sat there silently wishing that Cam were
the one
.