Page 44 of The Christmas Keeper

“He’s a nice guy.” I caught Kenan’s smiling gaze dart to me and linger. “Good barkeep. Real good singer. You know none of us really care if you two are gay and Jewish.”

“That’s incredibly kind. I’m not Jewish,” I said as I tied on an apron.

“Oh, Willie over at the tire shop said he heard you were converting. I told him I hoped so then maybe we could get some blintzes on the menu.” I stared at Lyle. He winked.

Funny man. This town was filled with hilarious, decent sorts. Well aside from Al, but hey, no town could bat a thousand.

Epilogue

Lyle eyed the blintz resting beside his burger, then threw me the most scathing look I ever got from a customer.

It was divine.

“You know I was kidding about these being on the menu, right?” He glanced at the others gathered in the alehouse for our new traditional Easter/Passover celebration. Kenan was off because it was Passover, but he was home whipping up some delicious treats for the family that we were going to pack into a hamper for a trip to Canada.

“Hey, don’t ever let it be said that Brann Argraves does not cater to his customers.” Everyone in the bar howled with laughter. “I’d tell you all where to go, but it’s a holiday.”

“Ignore them. These are to die for,” Paula said, cutting into her creamy blintz with her fork.

I thanked her. She had not been banned, but things between us were still cool.

“Yeah, Kenan has a good hand with more than just plucking a guitar,” I replied while filling two mugs with a stout Irish beer I’d brought in for St. Patrick’s Day last month and kept servingas people had loved it. Same with the slight change to the menu. Nothing drastic. Just a few new items for people to pick at while drinking. Kenan had suggested the new Irish beer, and the little batter-dipped mushrooms. And had advocated not to ban Paula. The man had a way about him that left me malleable as clay. Everyone at the bar giggled like teenaged girls. “No, not that way. You people are dirty. And on Good Friday. For shame. All of you.”

No one seemed the least upset. They all seemed really jovial at my expense. Whatever. I wasn’t going to let this pack of howling fools ruin my mood. I had two more hours to serve beer and then I was off for two weeks.Two.Two whole weeks. Kenan and I were going to spend a few days with the family up in Ottawa for another interfaith meal, then we were flying down to Daytona Beach to close on the sale of Mr. Blum’s cottage to Kenan.

Seemed Mr. Blum’s sister was not going to get much better, and he was loathe to leave her. So, being the gracious soul he was, he offered to sell the cabin to Kenan with one stipulation: Kenan was to always light his grandfather’s menorah in the front window. The selling price had been insanely low. In truth, the little bungalowwasolder than the town hall here in Whiteham, but it had a large chunk of land that went with it. Much of it was state game lands, so no one would be building on it anytime soon. Just like my cabin in that regard.

There had been a small sticking point with a down payment. I wanted to get a loan to help him out as I had pretty decent credit. Kenan would have none of that. And while we went back and forth over that, the interview about Lance Galloway was released. It started small, just a local piece, but it was soon picked up and spread, as things do, online. Mark had been true to his word and hadn’t mentioned where we were located but people talk. There was a hot two weeks right around the middle of March when fans began showing up at the alehouse. Mostwere super gracious. Kenan played at night, as always, and they had been mollified by hearing his voice a few more times. Then the fans moved on to other singers as they do.

On St. Patrick’s Day, during the height of madness with corned beef sandwiches and green beer—yes, the corned beef was also Kenan’s idea—a leggy redhead walked into the bar. The whole pub fell into silence when Margo Morgaine, her hairdresser, and a bodyguard the size of a Hereford bull with the same disposition entered our meager establishment. There was a moment of stunned silence as a hundred slightly tipsy buffoons in sequined green top hats gawked at the music superstar. Bing Crosby was crooning about smiling Irish eyes over on the jukebox.

Kenan stood behind the bar with me, sweaty, beer-stained, and stunned into utter speechlessness.

“Well, I have never in all my life seen two such handsome barkeeps,” Morgan said as she swept around the bar to embrace Kenan. I stood there with my teeth in my mouth, an empty pitcher in hand, and gawked.

Things kind of went nuts for a few minutes. Margo and her secret partner took a table that had been graciously vacated by gas workers. Kenan joined them after a look at me as if asking for permission. As if he needed that from me. The three of them chatted amongst themselves for several minutes, Margo holding Kenan’s sticky hand in her perfectly manicured grip. Mr. Bodyguard stood behind Margo, silently daring anyone to try it. No one did.

After Margo and Kenan bussed cheeks, Kenan and she sang one song. Her voice and his paired perfectly as they sang one of their duets. And then she took several selfies with her adoring fans before she left the alehouse much as she had entered. Like a well-rehearsed typhoon of grace. When I’d mentioned that to Kenan later that night, he had said that nothing Margo did wasunrehearsed. His ex-agent had set up this reunion for her to show her humanitarian side to the world. If Margo could forgive him, then so could the rest of the world.

She had also placed a check into his hand before she had left. Dividends off their duets. It was a substantial amount of money. Way more than I could have gotten at the Whiteham Savings & Loan to help with his down payment.

“Are you sure you even want to buy that old cabin now?” I had asked, feeling rather small compared to the woman who had just knocked our small town on its ear. “You’ve got enough cash on hand now to build a new place or hell, I don’t know…go on tour.” He’d wiggled closer to me in bed. I stroked some dark curls from his face. His hair had gotten wildly long over the winter months. I liked it long. Gave me something to hold on to when we fucked. Also, it was as soft as a cloud when I buried my face in his hair.

“No tours, no big fancy mansions. I just want to be here getting my life in order. All of that shit is in my past. My future is here, in Whiteham, with you if you still want me in your life.”

I then showed him, twice, how much I wanted him in my life. How what had been a kind of love was now a full-fledged love.

“…see if I can get my wife to make these,” Lyle was saying when I returned to the present.

“I’m sure Kenan will be happy to share it. It was one of Mrs. Blum’s recipes.”

I was positive he would pass it along. The man had given this small town his everything. He’d bared his soul, his painful past, to these people and they’d taken him in as one of their own. Sure, Al had questioned Kenan if he had plans to put lamb’s blood around the doorway of the pub, but after Kenan replied that he would simply hang up a banner that read “Dear Angel of Death: You’ve got the wrong house, please pass over. A dank—A Faithful Hebrew” above our door, Al had slunk back to his hardware store to slap up a giant pink rabbit waving ascrewdriver set that was on sale. Because nothing says my lord has risen like a sale on Phillips head screwdrivers.

“Thank you for taking Fred and Wilma,” I tacked on as Lyle plunked his final bite of blintz into his mouth. “I know they can be difficult…”

“They’ll be fine. We have a nice big barn. As long as they can get along with Festus, our donkey, all will be well.”

“Maybe Festus will teach Fred a thing or two about respecting boundaries.”

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