Page 8 of The Christmas Keeper

“Oh, right.” I shuffled to the left as Lyle gave me an odd sort of assessment. “Did I grow another nose while I was gone?”

“Nope, just watching.” Lyle leaned back on his stool, sipped from his cup of coffee, and smirked as if he knew something, which he didn’t. The man knew nothing.

“Well, watch the damn TV,” I snapped, found the remote and snapped on the wall-mounted television, and then stalked into the cramped kitchen to fire up the grill and deep-fryer. While they heated, I pulled two clean aprons, deep red with my alehouse logo on the front, and snuck back into the pub. Kenan was doing a good job filling orders. I handed him an apron, grabbed a book of guest checks and a pencil, and started circulating the few tables to take orders.

Not going to lie, having a hand at the taps made the lunch rush much easier. Kenan knew his way around a bar and seemed to have a subtle charm that the rednecks enjoyed. There wassomething about the man, a strength that lingered under the surface of his Kentucky appeal.

When the worst of the chaos was over, I cooked two burgers with a side of fries and toted them out to the bar. Kenan was washing glasses when I placed the food down. Lyle and the others had left to return to work, thank God, so there was only one table left. Travelers through our little burg on their way south, like geese only with less attitude. Nice people who had enjoyed the food and ale and were now discussing which route to take into the Virginias.

“Oh that looks great, thank you.” Kenan wiped his hands on his damp apron after placing the glasses on a towel to dry.

“It’s the least I could do,” I honestly replied, heaving a leg over a stool.

“Soda?” he asked. I bobbed my head. He filled two glasses with ice and sprayed some lemon-lime soda into them. “I think the Bud Light keg needs to be tapped.”

“Yeah, that goes fast here. I’ll grab that after we eat.” The basement was a dank, dark place, perfect for keeping kegs cool and out of the way. “Sit down. Eat.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied with a crooked grin and I did my best not to let affect me. “Is it always that busy in here?”

“Mm, lunch and dinner can be, but that was insane. Probably because the place was closed for a week and everyone was tired of bologna sandwiches from home.”

“And you do this by yourself?” He slid into a seat beside me, his thigh resting tight to mine. I watched as he plucked a fry from the mound on his plate and poked it into the mayo running out from under the top bun.

“Like mayo on your fries?”

“Yeah, I’m a little different.”

“To each their own,” I said, then coated my fries with a mix of mustard and ketchup. We ate in peace for a moment, his leg cozy as it rested beside mine. “I’d like to pay you for your time.”

“Okay. Yeah, thanks.” He was a slow eater in comparison to me, who sucked grub down like a Hoover according to my mother. “I put the tips into that metal cup so we could split them.”

“Nope, those are yours. I got mine off the tables.”

“Cool, thank you. The people here seem nice. No one commented on my nose or my accent.”

“Why would they say anything about either? Your accent is pleasant and your nose is pretty.” His eyes flared. I choked on a crunchy bit of French fry. “I mean…your nose is fine on your face. Sits fine on your face. It’s lined up between your eyes in a way that is normally pretty on any human being.”

Mortification dropped on me like an anvil on a cartoon coyote. “Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze unreadable. “I’m always glad my nose wasn’t on my forehead.”

“Yeah, that would…” There was no way out of this without looking more idiotic. “I’m going to go change that keg.” Up I shot, leaving my fries and half my burger. Kenan’s hand landed on my forearm. I paused in my flight to the basement to look at his fingers resting on me.

“Your nose sits prettily on your face too,” he said and removed his hand.

Words failed me, so I smiled way too hard and made my escape to the basement via the kitchen. Each step into the cellar, the temp dropped so that by the time I was wedged into the narrow space filled with beer kegs and lines leading to the bar, all the heat that Kenan’s touch and compliment left my overheated skin. It never froze down here, but the temperature was such that a coat or sweater would have felt good. In my half-mad state to flee, I’d not grabbed the old, tattered coat that hung by the basement door.

“A little cooling off will do you good,” I told myself as I moved automatically, unhooking the handle and then twisting it off. Space was limited down here, so I had to move the empty keg, roll in a new one, and tap the new one. I blatantly ignored the boxes of holiday decorations moldering in the corner. God knows I should chuck them in the dumpster. They’d not come out of that cold box once since Paulie had fucked over Christmas forever. If I threw them out, I’d have more room for beer, which would make me money, but here they poked at my memory every time I had to tap a keg.

Right. Fuck those boxes. I had other things to do besides get lost in the dismal past. Once the new keg was ready, I took a moment, or ten, to suck in chilly air to cool my motherfucking jets. This day was not at all routine. I wiped my wet fingers on my apron over and over, a calming method of sorts, until I felt that I was once again Brann the beer man aka my old self. Sure, Kenan had said something nice. Yes, I liked it. I was only human. He’d simply been returning a compliment. My nose was an okay nose. Nothing spectacular like his. His nose was regal and added something to his face. It spoke of his lineage. Mine was just a dull old nose that sucked in air. Still, it was nice of him to say it was pretty, even if he knew it was blasé.

Hefting the empty keg into my arms, I slowly climbed the stairs. The empties went outside into the back alley so the beer trucks could pick them up. The drivers had dollies to handle the filled kegs, but all I had was my back. Kenan stood at the top of the stairs, watching me waddle upward, his curls lying on his brow.

“I’ll get the door,” he said and disappeared. I grunted a thanks as I moved past him into the alley, icicles as tall as he was hung from the back of the shops, a few dropping to the ground asthe sun tried to warm the county. “Look about the whole nose thing…”

“Nope, no need to explain,” I huffed as I placed the empty atop another spent keg. I turned to look at him, which was a huge mistake because every time I saw his face, I did something stupid and un-Brann-like. “I know you were just being polite.”

“Well, actually—”

I waved him off. “It’s all good. People are nice to each other that way. Like when someone shows me a picture of a new baby and I say the kid is cute, even though it’s not really all that cute. I mean, newborns look like something Rosemary gave birth to.” He chuckled. It was a soft laugh, but it made me feel ten feet tall because he got the reference. “So reciprocating a kindness with a kindness needs no explanation. We both have nice functional noses.”

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