Page 7 of The Christmas Keeper

I went to bed sure that I’d sleep like an angel resting its sweet head on God’s shoulder.

Nope. Not even close.

Every time I closed my eyes, Kenan was there, smiling or singing or flicking his curls. That last one was a lie. He had not flicked a curl once that I’d seen, but man, if he ever did I’d lose a few cogs. After two hours of tossing, turning, and cussing passed, I did the only thing a man could do to ensure he would fall asleep. I jerked off. Didn’t take long. A handful of spit, amental image of a country crooner with eyes like dark chocolate, and a few tugs.

Once I caught my breath, I wiped off with an old tee, tossed the dirty shirt to the floor, and crashed. I dozed off instantly, sated for the moment, and dreamed of being a musician for Kenan at the Whiteham County Fair. I was in a sequined dress, a big blonde wig, and playing a steel guitar. A pen of pigs next to the stage watched us. The lady pigs were screaming and fainting ala the hens in that old Porky Pig cartoon with the swooning hens. I knew they were lady pigs because they had pink bows. My dreams were clearly locked into gender norms. I’d have to work on that in some dream analysis or something.

When my phone alarm sounded, I sat up, blinked at the winter sun well over the tops of the pines, and swore I would never drink chocolate mint coffee before bed again. Although, I did look damn fine in drag.

My morning routine was always the same. Roll out, piss, ride a few miles on my stationary bike in the laundry room, head out to tend to Fred and Wilma, come back inside, eat, shower, and head to town. It never deviated. When it did on occasion, like the time I came out to find a black bear had torn the door off my feed shed and had hauled off my metal trash can of waterfowl pellets, that made me cranky. Routine was good.

This morning looked to be headed for the crapper because when my eyelids popped open, I saw I was late and thought about Kenan. That wasnotroutine. As I moved through my other morning rituals, he kept appearing out of nowhere like a damn pop-up ad. Pedaling past a fjord in Norway, POP, there he was. Filling up the heated waterer while Wilma nibbled at my chore boots, POP, there was Kenan. Buttering my bagel, POP, Kenan.

It got so disturbing that I thought about calling the alehouse just to check on him.

“Nope, nope, and even bigger nope,” I scolded myself. The man was probably on his way to some warmer clime, I hoped, where he could busk in the warmth. Perhaps he was on a bus back home to Kentucky, where the horses were all walking horses…no, that was Tennessee, right? Kentucky had thoroughbreds. And grass that immigrants imagined was blue but was green. Thinking of that little anecdote over my bagel and coffee made me smile. Actually, every time I thought of Kenan, I smiled, which was downright stupid. The man was a drifter, a recovering drug addict. He had probably flown out the front door of my pub like his ass was on fire as soon as his eyes had opened, and who could have blamed him. Talk about temptation.

So, imagine my surprise when I got to work an hour later and way past my usual time so I could open the doors at noon and be ready to find Kenan mopping the floor.

I stalled in the doorway, the bright sunshine falling on the wet floor, and gaped as my grip on a box of a dozen doughnuts from the corner mart tightened. An old Hank Williams Jr. song was playing on the jukebox. Kenan swung around, wet mop dripping, and hit me with a smile that impacted me like a two-by-four to the jaw.

“Morning,” he called over Mr. Williams Jr. telling the world about how he was about to get hell bound and whiskey bent. “I hope you don’t mind that I jumped in to do some cleaning before you showed up?”

“I…uhm…no, it’s fine, of course. Very courteous,” I babbled, pulling the door shut. The lunch break at the mill would start in five minutes, and I hadn’t even dumped the change into the register yet. Being late made me grumbly.

“It looked like it needed a mopping.”

“Probably did,” I replied, taking care of where I stepped as I made my way to the bar. “I tend to forget.” I placed the bank bag on a spotless, shiny bar. “Did you polish the bar?”

He nodded, curls bouncing.

If I were a praying man, I’d have been on my knees. Oh. Kneeling in front of Kenan would be—nope, nope, major nope.

“I made some coffee too. I wanted to help in whatever way I could to pay you back for your kindness.”

“I…thank you.” I fumbled about with the register, forgetting the password momentarily as I gazed at his perfectly formed face. “Shit.” One sign-in attempt of being locked out, I finally got the damn drawer to open. Kenan returned to his mopping. The door opened. I looked up to see my regulars filing in, mill workers coated with sawdust. “Shit,” I said again as Kenan backed up, bucket in tow, to allow the customers to come in.

“Finally hired some help, huh?” Lyle, one of only three supervisors at the sawmill outside of town, asked as he dropped his ass into his favorite stool. “About damn time. You got the fryer going?”

“Not yet. I slept in. Jet lag,” I said as the bar and tables were claimed in short order.

“Jet lag? Canada is like five hours away,” Linc, a young guy with an eye for pretty girls and motocross, said.

“Not all of Canada is five hours away,” Lyle pointed out as he reached behind the bar for a coffee mug and the creamer. They made themselves at home here. “Only Toronto is that close. Use the phone for something other than porn and find a damn map of the world. What do they teach you kids in school nowadays?”

“Not cursive,” someone shouted, which got a laugh from everyone but Linc who rose to the bait far too easily.

I would have liked to get into the teasing, but I had beers to serve, orders to take, and food to cook. My menu was simple bar food, burgers and fries, onion rings, and some cold sandwiches,stuff that went well with beer. Kenan eased up beside me behind the bar, his arm brushing mine. I looked to the side while pulling a pitcher of dark ale for the foursome from the sanitation department.

“I’m not much of a short-order cook but I can serve beer,” he offered as the shouts of customers who were hungry, thirsty, and short on time rolled over me.

I nodded. “Thanks, that would be so helpful.” I paused, my hand on a tap. “If you’re sure that you can handle it?”

“I’m positive. Maybe my next NA sponsor will give me a sticker for working in a pub and only drinking ginger ale,” he kidded and gently nudged me aside. Okay, so he was a tiny bit bossy. That was not a turnoff by any means.

“Put on an apron,” I barked as I stepped back.

“Where are they?” Kenan asked while pulling a nice, foamy pilsner.

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