Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf (7 page)

Say something!

“Kit. You never know. Anything could happen.”

Kit looked at him. “Do you really believe that? Really?
You
?”

Wow. Did Kit know him that well already? And was he that negative? Nick had never thought so. Not really. How else could he have done all he’d done in the last decade? Pulled off going from nothing but his own idea into the owner of a well-respected art gallery in New York City?

“I’ve been surprised more than once in my life.”

Kit looked at him, deeply, and Nick saw how lovely the young man’s eyes were. Even filled with tears. “You seem like such a pessimist.”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe I am. What can I say? Life hasn’t always been good.”

“But you’ve shown McAllister.”

He sighed. It was true. It had been against the odds, but he’d done it. And it had sold well. “You’re right.”

Kit nodded.

Nick smiled. “I thought I was trying to make
you
feel good.”

Kit shrugged. “What can I say?” But then, despite that elfin confidence, those big blue eyes filled with tears again. “Nick. I’m going to be alone on Christmas Day! I can’t even talk to my family. They’re stranded at some airport!”

“Can’t you….” Nick had been about to say “call them.” But somehow, if Kit didn’t even have a TracFone, what was the possibility his parents did? “I’m sure they will find a way to call.” And of course they would. By hell or high water. It’s what real parents were supposed to do. Parents who weren’t a bit like his own.

The phone rang again.

Kit pulled away and stood up. “That’s probably the neighbor again.”

“Go get it,” Nick said, and stood up himself. He needed to go to the bathroom anyway.

It wasn’t hard to find, and just as he entered the small room, he heard Kit exclaiming from the other room….

“Dad! Oh,
Dad!
I am so glad you called!”

Nick smiled and closed the door, and as he took care of business, saw another lovely piece of art over the toilet. It was made of several sheets of plastic and painted from the rear as well as the front. Mostly blues and whites, it three dimensionally showed a polar bear on a piece of ice by achingly blue water. It was quite stunning in its simplistic way. Nick knew he could show a series like this. He bent slightly to see the signature.

Of course, it was Kit’s.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Kit was good. He was
really
good.

Had Nick seen pictures in the upstairs hall?

Might as well check.

He climbed the stairs again, and sure enough, one whole wall was covered. Amazing that he hadn’t really noticed. He’d been concerned about Kit.

Wow. Spencer would have been impressed. He, Nick St. George, had been concerned for a person before art. He could just hear his ex making a big fripping deal over it.

Nick stopped. Took a deep breath. Thought about it. Hell. Maybe it
was
a big deal?

He shook himself. No. No way. It was just Kit getting to him with all that sentimentality. Forget that schmaltzy shit!

Besides, didn’t he have a mission in San Francisco?

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to look at Kit’s art.

The foremost three were made of copper. Thin sheets that had been pressed from the back to make a three-dimensional surface. The first was of an African woman with a coiled necklace and cloth-wrapped hair. The second one was of a lion, and the third, an eagle. Smooth and rough textures, details and plain surfaces. Beautiful. Rich. Then darkened with an antiquing substance. Nick realized he loved all three of them. And what interesting choices for subjects.

The next piece was larger than the others. It was an oil painting—was there nothing Kit wouldn’t try? Of course, he
was
a student, and he would have been required to work in all kinds of mediums to get his degree. The painting was of a buck, full rack of antlers, standing beside a winter stream. The contrast between the bony appendages and the reaching branches of the bare trees was captivating. And somehow, the animal looked as if it were gazing right into Nick’s eyes. Wonderful. Just the kind of painting someone would pay good money for to place over their fireplace in their den.

But somehow….

Somehow it had more meaning here, didn’t it? Much better than in a house some bastard had bought because it matched his couch. Better it was in this hallway in the home of the family that had encouraged Kit in his art and sent him out into the world to learn.

A family who didn’t object to the fact that Kit was gay.

What would that be like? To have a family who cared about him? To have friends who liked
him
instead of his money? A lover who didn’t care if he had money, or another who wouldn’t leave him because he wouldn’t hold hands in public?

Nick felt the old angers wanting to surface, and he wished them away. Not tonight. Soon it would be all over.

Because wasn’t that what he was supposed to have been up to before this strange delay happened? This weird side road on his quest?

He should leave.

But where? Where would he go? It was late. How far would he get?

You could get a couple of hours closer.

Nick took a few more steps and saw three portraits, each about the size of a postcard on end, and each hung one above the other. Each was of the same person, a girl, painted in what looked like acrylics. He quickly saw each seemed to have been painted at a different time of day, the light moving over her face as if the sun were moving across an unseen sky. Her face was slightly blurred, as if Kit had painted the light instead of the actual model.

And perhaps that’s just what he’d done. Kit obviously liked Monet, and maybe this was his interpretation of the master’s work—but portraits instead of lily pads and the Rouen cathedral.

I bet I could easily sell this set for a few thousand. Minimum.

Nick reached out, touched the sides of the paintings reverently. The work was truly amazing.

Kit actually had a chance of being famous. And if Nick hadn’t stopped at that rest area and given the young man a ride, he would have never known the young man was alive. Nick shook his head, awed by what he’d seen.

How long had he dreamed about discovering someone?

Well, for ten years, of course. Ever since he’d opened his gallery. He’d done shows for complete unknowns, and some of them had done quite well. But somehow he knew, if he did a show for Kit, it would do much better than “well.” The show would be huge.

Huge.

But no!

Nick stepped away from the paintings, the oil, the copper pieces. This was a job for someone else. Maybe he would call a few friends in New York on the last leg of his journey to San Francisco. Put in a good word for the kid. It was the least he could do, after all.

“Nick?”

It was Kit calling. So he pulled his eyes away from the wall and the pieces he hadn’t looked at yet, and made his way down the stairs.

Kit was standing in the hall, expressions shifting on his face. He was obviously happy he had gotten to talk to his parents, however short the call had been. But now? He could see Kit was trying not to cry. Trying, and probably about to lose.

So he stepped closer and took Kit into his arms.

He wasn’t even aware of doing it until the deal was already done.

Sure enough, those long arms went around him and the man/boy began to cry again. This time it wasn’t huge shaking sobs, though. It was soft, quiet tears. Nick could barely tell Kit was actually crying. Nick rocked him all the same, almost as if they were dancing in place, but not turning, just moving slightly to and fro. He ran his hands up and down Kit’s back, noticing again the hard muscles under the boy’s crazy purple sweatshirt. Kit felt good. It felt good to be held.

“I’m so sorry about your family,” Nick said. “I know how much you wanted to be with them.”

“And you’re leaving and I’m going to be alone,” Kit said and held him all the tighter.

Nick sighed.

Hell.

He might as well stay.

He pulled Kit closer. The young man felt good in his arms. How long had it been since he’d held someone?

And it wasn’t like he
wanted
to leave.

Wasn’t that funny? He
didn’t
want to leave.

Now what was
that
about?

W
HEN
K
IT
’
S
stomach growled, it occurred to both of them that they’d skipped dinner in favor of a couple of scoops of ice cream. Suddenly, Nick was ravenous. It was creeping up on nine o’clock, and he didn’t want to order pizza—not after the debacle the other night. He thought he might swear off the stuff. It would help take care of the tummy that his thirties were trying to bring on anyway.

Kit came to the rescue. He found some precooked chicken breasts in the freezer, thawed them in the microwave, and cut them up, and after putting Nick in charge of the pasta, whipped up an Alfredo sauce.

“You’re a cook?”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Helping Mom raise the little ones and blah blah blah….”

“I get it,” Nick said. It brought a strange set of mixed feelings. Sadness that he’d never had anything like that in his life, coupled with a desire to know what it was like. Charlotte had always been ready to feed him. He’d left home barely knowing how to boil water. But he also found he felt happiness that Kit had such an upbringing. Nick tried to imagine the kitchen filled with hustle and bustle, Kit and his mother making dinner, some sports game on the TV in the other room, perhaps. He would be surprised if there
wasn’t
at least one game table in the basement. A foosball game, maybe. He could picture a family taking turns and playing air hockey or some such thing. He could almost hear them laughing.

What would his life be like if he’d been raised that way?

No sense in wondering, Nick realized. What was done was done. And the future—his stomach clenched suddenly at the thought—was already prearranged.

Kit found some Texas Toast in the freezer as well, and soon they were eating a late but delicious dinner. Nick was surprised at how easy the dinner conversation came. Nothing forced. No following a predetermined list of things to ask in polite dialogue. Nick was good at the art of conversation. He’d taken classes in it. Such things as mentioning a potential client’s name at least three times in the first five minutes. It made the possible buyer feel valued and helped you remember their name. But with Kit, it was different. The talking was real. And dare he even think it? Warm.

After they were done eating, Kit shooed him off to the living room to relax while he cleaned up. Nick tried to protest, but Kit made it quite clear there would be no argument. With a sigh, and an empty glass Kit gave him so he could make a cocktail, Nick went to the living room as commanded.

There in the big bay window was the Jeffries’ family Christmas tree. It hadn’t been plugged in. That’s when Nick got an idea that brought a smile to his face. What was Christmas without a big sparkling tree? At least to someone like Kit?

By the time his host joined him, the tree was lit, Nick had started a fire in the fireplace, lit the red and green candles on the mantle, and even found the Christmas CDs next to the stereo and put one on for Kit’s enjoyment. Wonderfully, the song that was playing was Angela Lansbury’s “We Need a Little Christmas.” Perfect!

“Oh! Oh, golly!” cried Kit, his eyes big and wide and looking—Nick was sure—just how those kids waiting their turn for Santa looked when they saw Kit. The ones greeted by a tall, thin elf with a long striped hat and green shoes with curled-up toes and bells at the tips. Like magic. “Nick! This is beautiful. Wow. Thank you!”

Nick smiled despite himself. His heart sped up. He trembled and marveled that he had done so.

This is silly
, he told himself.
You’re acting like a big sissy.

But boy, it felt… nice.

Kit had come bearing eggnog—he assured Nick he hadn’t made it, that it was the last of a small carton that thankfully was still good. Nick started to abandon his scotch, then, when Kit didn’t object, he split the two fingers’ worth into both their nogs. Then they sat on the couch and enjoyed it, for it really was very good. It really brought back memories, and he told Kit all about Charlotte and how she’d made him a gallon of the stuff every year while he was growing up. He told Kit about her hot buttered rum and what a treat it had been when it became part of the tradition in his late teens. It had made him feel so grown-up.

But to tell the truth, it was the tree with all the presents underneath that did something to him. Something deep inside. Why, it really did feel almost like magic! It was being a kid. It was memories of snow in the days when snow was exciting because it meant forts and snowball fights and the biggest snowmen they could make. Nick almost asked Kit if he wanted to make one, but it was sleet and ice that covered everything, and not snow. What was out there was covered in a thick, hard glaze, and hardly the stuff to throw at each other from behind trees.

“I wish we could build a snowman,” Kit slurred.

Goodness. Kit wasn’t drunk, was he?

Nick chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “That’s just what I was thinking.”

Kit gawked at him. “You?” He flashed Nick a lopsided grin. “Never. Big straight-acting Nicolas St. George? Build a snowman?”

“What?” Nick felt his face flush. “I’ve built a snowman.”

“I bet you haven’t in at least ten years.”

Nick stiffened for a second, then let it go with a sigh. “At least that long.”

“And did Spin ever ask you to build a snowman?”

Nick stiffened again. How did Kit know?

He knows because you’re a scrooge and he sees it.

Not a scrooge.

Are.

Am not.

And yes. Spence had asked Nick to build a snowman with him. More than once. But he couldn’t be bothered with such frivolities. So Spence made them himself. And on one of those times, he met Ronny, the man he left Nick for.