Page 10 of The Christmas Keeper

“Sure, yeah, I’ll be right down. You can go whenever you want.” He nodded but didn’t move. “I mean, if you want to. To go. Somewhere else. You’re more than welcome to stay here for a couple of days, you know, if you want to make some money for the next leg of your trip.”

“I’d like that, thanks. Your couch is very comfy, and the people here are nice. Would you mind if I played tonight? Just a short set. Maybe make some more tips. Gas is expensive.”

I didn’t have a clue, but what the hell wasn’t expensive nowadays? “That would be fine. Maybe from six to seven after we get most of the eaters fed?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Brann. Oh, and I have something in my bag that I’d be willing to let you use as a decoration in the front window.” He hurried to one of his two duffels stashed behind the couch, kneeled, and rummaged. I enjoyed the way his back muscles flexed under his long-sleeved Henley. Dark, dark curls tickled the nape of his neck. My fingers itched to comb them out, then watch them spring back. He winked at me as he stood with a small brass menorah in his hand. “If you dare. I mean, it says seasonal joy to me.”

“Oh, Kenan, Isodare. I love it. Yeah, let’s get that set up stat.”

He blushed just enough to make his ears adorably pink. I think it was right then that I knew I was in deep, deep, deeptrouble.

Chapter Three

Standing behind the bar sipping a ginger ale, I felt a warmth lingering in my chest that had little to do with the jalapeño relish I’d spooned over my burger at dinner.

I suspected that little glowing briquet was directly related to Kenan, who was now seated on a stool in front of the jukebox singing his heart out for the locals. Not one soul in the place, and there were quite a few, were talking. Every ear was tuned to the guitar man. Mine was as well, along with my eyes. To be honest, it was nearly impossible for me to pull my sight from him seated there, one foot on the floor, the other tucked behind a rung. His head was bent, curls tickling his scruffy cheek, his well-loved six-string, resting on his lap like a child.

He had done a few old country classics, including one by Willie Nelson called “Hello Walls” that actually made a few guys at the bar a little teary. He just had one of those voices that plucked heartstrings. Then he had played an original song, a devastating telling of a man who’d been close enough to heaven to touch the clouds and then fell, hard, like Icarus, the landing breaking more than his wings. The applause nearly shook the dust fromthe rafters. People were throwing cash into his guitar case by the handfuls. The man had talent. Far too much to be sitting in an alehouse in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere.

That one had to have been written about his addiction, or so I assumed, but what did I really know about him? Other than he was sleeping in his car, had a voice that should have won him a few CMA awards, and had eyes that could cradle a man for eons.

“Brann?” A woman’s voice tugged me from a soulful rendition of “Funny How Time Slips Away” played by a drifter sitting under a glowing menorah.

“Oh, Paula, hey, another pitcher of Molson?” I asked and got a nod of her silver hair. Paula and her girlfriends all worked at the courthouse. They usually gathered here for dinner and a pitcher of beer, then went home, but Kenan, it seemed, had kept them in their seats. Hell, they’d even called their husbands to come listen to the new barkeep.

“Yeah, please.” She leaned over the bar to whisper beside my ear. “Where the hell did you find him?”

“At the airport,” I replied before even thinking. She drew back slightly, confused. “We bumped into each other and started talking about bars and country music. He said he could pull a beer and sing a little so…” I shrugged, the lie bitter as rotten hops on my tongue, but I had no way of knowing what Kenan wanted to be known about him. Was he open about his past addictions, his time in rehab, and the fact that he slept in his car? I knew so little about him, yet here he was, switching into a country Christmas song about Santa looking a lot like some kid’s daddy. All the patrons were singing along. The air was now so festive I was expecting elves to appear and start rocking around the tree. Well, if I’d had a tree. Maybe they could rock around the menorah instead since that was the only holiday display visible.

“Huh, I thought maybe he was from around here. He looks familiar for some reason. Well, lucky for us, he needed a job,”she said, her head bopping to the upbeat tune. “I hope you keep him around for a while. This place needs something bright in here that’s not neon.”

I stared stupidly and placed her pitcher in front of her. She tossed me some cash and then boot-scooted to her table. A few younger women started dancing, even though there was no dance floor. Kenan played the hell of that old guitar, his dark eyes glowing like the lone candle in the multibranched candelabrum. The joy he brought to his music was infectious. My little alehouse was packed probably past maximum occupancy.

When Kenan slowed things down with a Waylon Jennings tune, the front door opened. I rolled my eyes to the open-beam ceiling. Al stormed in, his gaze roaming the packed pub until it found me behind the bar. I’d been waiting. To be honest, I was surprised that it had taken him this long, but he’d probably had to wait to close the hardware store.

Surprise showed on his face as he took in the patrons, then his shock morphed into a scowl as his sight landed on Kenan strumming his heart out, his black curls shining from the flickering candle resting above him in a small window nook.

“Brann,” Al said after weaving through the crowd, his jaw set.

“Al, where’s Glory? You should have brought her around to hear Kenan,” I said as I reached for a glass with one hand and the Miller Lite tap handle. “Your usual?”

“No, I am not here to drink.” He spun from scowling in Kenan’s direction to me. “Maybe just one. Glory’s mother is coming over for dinner tonight.”

I poured him a beer, placed it on a coaster, and took his fiver. “Tell Glory that we missed her.”

He downed the cold one in a long pull and then belched softly. “Yes, I will. Brann, we do need to discuss that candleholder in the window.”

“You said I should decorate for the holidays.” Innocence dripped from me like honey from a hive. Al opened his mouth to reply, but I had to leave him to take care of some customers. After I rang them out, I returned to Al, now looking a little less fractious.

“I’m not saying that the candleholder—”

“It’s called a menorah.”

“Yes, the menorah. I’m not saying that it’s not lovely and that it’s not festive because Glory and I love the Jews. I’m just concerned that you’re displaying an open flame in a wooden window casing. Surely that can’t be safe. We don’t want our Main Street businesses to burn down two weeks before Christmas. For safety’s sake, perhaps a less flammable sign of the holiday would be better? Why not one of those little ceramic trees with the rainbow lights the gals make at the ceramic barn? That would be bright and gay!”

I thought to bicker. I probably should have, but Al would have run to Charlie, the fire chief and his poker buddy, and Charlie would have to come over to give me shit about open flames and exceeding a few fire safety rules.

“Okay, we’ll see what we can do about the open flame situation,” I replied.

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