A Holiday Tradition Read online

  “That sounds terrific.” Paul flipped through the double-sided menu to collect his thoughts. He was used to the cynicism expressed by his father and the professors he dealt with, not the passion evident in Kevin’s voice. “You really care about your residents, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Kevin said simply. “Many of them are on their own at this point. They’ve outlived friends and lost touch with family. I want them to know someone’s looking out for them.” He relaxed the tight clench of his jaw. “Enough about me. Tell me about this paper you’re working on.”

  Paul licked his lips and glanced upward to check Kevin’s expression. Reassured of Kevin’s genuine interest, he set the menu down, his hands folded on top. “I’m almost done with a degree in finance, and I had an internship for this term.” He hesitated, unsure if he was oversharing. “The firm is pretty well known, and the owner’s a friend of my father, so I was lucky to get in.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t have taken you if you weren’t qualified,” Kevin pointed out. “You’re smart, funny, and certainly capable.”

  “Maybe.” The warm sincerity in Kevin’s eyes soothed the rough edges of self-doubt that nagged at him. “Anyway, I also take some art electives, even though my dad says they eat up valuable time.”

  He took a drink of water, pushing back the surge of memories. His stomach churned, reliving the disorientating mix of fear and pain set against the background of shrieking metal and the shock of his classmates. “I had some pieces in an exhibit, and as part of our grade, we were bused over to review each other’s work.”

  Paul kept his gaze on the glass, the pads of his fingers turning white before he deliberately loosened them. “You can probably guess from my cast, but there was an accident, and a couple of us were hurt. By the time I left the hospital, the firm had someone else.”

  He slumped his shoulders, weighed down by his father’s disappointment all over again and the unspoken implication Paul couldn’t be trusted to make his own decisions, and this was what happened when he veered off plan.

  “But never let anyone say nepotism can’t win the day. My professor is another friend of Dad’s, and they worked out a deal where I can still get the credits if I write this research paper.”

  “Not bad,” Kevin admitted. “I’m glad you’re okay.” His voice slowed, like he was choosing what to say next. “But I have to ask, why do you seem so unhappy about it?”

  “Apart from how the whole mess is my own fault?” Paul’s huff of laughter held the sharp edge of bitterness. “I shouldn’t have taken the class, much less been on the bus. More than that, I let my dad down again.”

  “Again?” Kevin asked the question in a soft tone, but Paul’s shoulders still hunched with renewed tension.

  “My mom died when I was fifteen.” Paul swallowed, the pain as fresh as ever, but he waved off Kevin’s immediate expression of sympathy. “If I say I didn’t handle things well, it would be a vast understatement.”

  He fiddled with the napkin-wrapped silverware, lining the roll precisely against the edge of his place mat. “Dad was…. He was great. Really.” He glanced at Kevin before continuing. “He got me the help I needed, and then we sat down and he—we—made a plan for my future. One that would be a tribute to Mom and her hopes for me.”

  Kevin stayed quiet for a moment before he reached out, deliberately wrapping his callused fingers around Paul’s wrist. “I can’t imagine what you went through or how you felt. But life is about living: making mistakes and learning from them, and the one thing my mom always told me was she’d be happy if I was happy.”

  Paul flinched from the comfort in Kevin’s touch and his soft words. Somehow Kevin had glimpsed the secret he carried, the desire to throw all his carefully laid-out plans into the air and do something wild: something bold with his life and his art.

  He slid his wrist out from under Kevin’s hold, refusing to accept how much he wanted to turn over his hand and return the clasp. Instead Paul picked up his menu again.

  “I’m sure she’s very proud of the way you care for your residents,” he said in a brighter tone. “Sorry to drag things down. Anything here I have to try?”

  Kevin gave in to Paul’s change of subject with caring grace. He pointed to the menu pages, offering a few of his favorite items.

  They chatted briefly, and by the time their waitress took their orders, the tension between them had lightened. Paul pretended Kevin’s observations hadn’t hit home and focused instead on the sun and fresh air that blew in the screened windows, amazed several of the other diners wore long pants and jackets.

  “I can’t believe this is winter,” he commented. “I should be wearing about sixteen layers instead of shorts and a T-shirt.”

  Kevin sat back in his chair, resting his hands on his thighs. “Welcome to December in Florida.”

  “What’s Christmas here really like?” Paul leaned across the table, too eager for Kevin’s answer to play it cool.

  “You mean does Santa still visit with no chimney to slide down?” Kevin’s body vibrated with his burst of laughter. He shook his head. “You northerners are all the same.”

  The warm glow of Kevin’s amused pleasure was familiar in an addictive sort of way, and Paul wanted to keep chasing the high. “The lack of chimneys is a concern, and I have a hard time picturing holiday lights in a palm tree.”

  “Such little faith you youngsters have.” Kevin took a sip of water, his hand large enough to wrap almost completely around the glass.

  Paul shivered, fascinated by the angles of Kevin’s strong body. His fingers twitched, reaching for his sketch pad, at home and already filled with far too many studies of Kevin. “Tell me more, old man.”

  “I’m not sure you’re prepared for the overwhelming round of festivity that is the holiday at our fine park.” Kevin’s dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “But if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you join in the preparations.”

  Paul sucked in a breath as those three little words hit him low in the stomach, an arrow unerringly finding its mark. Oh, did he want to be a good boy for Kevin Lombardo.

  The air around them seemed to thicken, and their eyes met and held. Paul held his breath, filled with sudden heat. Of course that was when his cell phone vibrated against the table, the harsh buzz severing the connection between them.

  “Do you need to get that?” Kevin asked, polite as always.

  “My father,” Paul said, not even needing to look at the screen to know. His friends all had their own ringtones. “Checking on my work status.”

  “Does he do that a lot?”

  Paul gave a halfhearted shrug, dropping his hands into his lap. Kevin made it easy to forget his responsibilities. Something his father would never appreciate.

  How could he explain his father’s fear that Paul would drift and waste his opportunities? Or the effort it took Paul to channel his creative instincts into more practical pursuits?

  He couldn’t.

  Their waitress brought out their lunches with a cheerful smile, and while everything looked delicious, the continued vibration of his phone kept him from tasting anything at all.

  Chapter 6

  “COME ON,” Paul muttered at the dual computer screens, with deep and personal affront at the turn his paper had taken. Today was not a good day.

  Sure, it was a great day in Florida: sunshine, moderate temperatures, and the barest hint of humidity to dampen his back during his morning hobble. But for writing this damn paper? Not a good day at all.

  He needed inspiration. Or an interruption. He’d take either. Salvation arrived with a jingle from the sleigh bells hanging on the door, a new addition in the ever-increasing amount of holiday decorations that filled the office.

  “Hey,” Paul said when Kevin walked in. He closed the open tabs on the computer without a shred of guilt. “How’s your day going?”

  Kevin dropped into one of the guest chairs with a sigh, the ultimate picture of exhaustion. His curls were matted with sweat
, his boots caked with dirt, and dark patches ringed the neck and armpits of his T-shirt.

  Paul still wanted to slide onto Kevin’s lap, supported on those strong thighs while he soothed the lines of stress off Kevin’s face. The “rode hard and put up wet” vibe definitely worked for him.

  “I have no words. How about you? Are you making any progress?”

  Paul shook his head, clearing the haze of fantasy from his mind. “Let’s not go there.”

  “Oh.” Kevin dropped his gaze, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles of his other hand. Paul leaned forward, intrigued by the unexpected sign of uncertainty. “Is this a bad time to ask for a favor?” Kevin grimaced, as if forcing out the question were a difficult task. Perhaps it was. While always the first to offer help, how often did Kevin request any for himself?

  “Hit me,” Paul prompted. He and Kevin had developed an easy friendship. They had lunch at a local diner, shared coffee, conversation, and the latest park gossip in the morning, but after that first lunch where Paul spilled his guts in such an embarrassing manner, they tended not to cross personal boundaries. If Kevin needed a favor, Paul would listen.

  “I had a… thing come up.” Kevin pushed the clumps of hair off his forehead, smearing streaks of dirt across his skin.

  “A… thing?” Paul tilted his head to the side. What had Kevin so uncharacteristically tongue-tied?

  “Yeah, I have to step out for the afternoon and probably this evening.” He glanced at Paul, his brown eyes filled with hopeful pleading. “Can you run bingo tonight?”

  “W-what?” Paul’s wild imaginings came to a screeching halt. Well. Crap.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but Charlie is still out with his back, and Erma is in Tampa, waiting on her second grandkid.” Kevin dropped his hands between his spread thighs. “With anyone else, I’ll have to worry about the office and clubhouse getting locked or the twins complaining I’m giving special privileges.”

  “Oh.” Paul nibbled his bottom lip. Kevin had a point. Grandpa Louie had introduced him to the Bonassarro Twins on the one and only bingo night he attended. Paul stayed polite, and then immediately told his grandfather “never again.”

  The two old women kept a fierce eye on the park and had no problems sharing if things failed to meet their exacting specifications. Especially when it came to their sacred bingo night.

  Paul glanced back and forth from the computer screen of hell to Kevin, sitting slumped in his chair. Who was he kidding? “Sure,” he said with a determined smile, his concern actively growing. Kevin never bailed on a commitment to his residents. “I’d be glad to.”

  Kevin had him up and at the alarm panel before Paul had time to question his decision. “I owe you.” He placed the keys usually clipped to his belt into Paul’s hands.

  “It’s not a problem,” Paul reassured them both, then had to ask, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” Kevin’s face softened, 100 percent of his attention on Paul for the first time since he entered the office. “I’m fine. One of the residents needs help with her grandson. Her health is pretty fragile, and I’m worried about her.”

  Kevin’s obvious concern cleared the last thread of indecision from Paul’s mind. “As long as you’re okay.” Paul risked putting his hand on Kevin’s arm.

  They stared at each other. Paul held his breath as Kevin’s warm, physical presence and caring surrounded him. This time it was Kevin’s phone that interrupted the moment.

  Kevin frowned. “I’m sorry.” He gestured to the door. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. I have a spare set of keys.” He backed away like a magnet forced to pull apart from another of equal strength. “Have fun tonight, and watch out for Mr. Greenberry. He’s a cheating son of a bitch.”

  “At bingo?” Paul teased, cloaking himself in their familiar back-and-forth, the relief in Kevin’s smile the only thanks he needed. “Go on.” Paul waved him off. “I’ll be fine.”

  HE WAS so not fine.

  Paul took a deep breath and shook the coffee can full of special holiday-themed bingo balls (who knew they were a thing?) with more-than-necessary force. Kevin Lombardo owed him. Big. Starting with the red felt Santa hat handed out to everyone who walked in the door, apparently the required apparel for tonight’s game. Paul tossed his head, the fluffy white ball dangling on the end of his hat hitting him in the nose once again instead of swinging back behind him. He blew a huff of air out of the corner of his mouth, but the stupid thing refused to move.

  “Call it already!”

  Paul recognized the loudmouth. He clutched the can in a death grip and gave the balls another ear-rattling shake, anything to resist the urge to grab Lloyd Merkshammer by his scrawny throat.

  “Reindeer, three,” he called through gritted teeth. He dropped the balls into the shoebox next to him and put an x over the appropriate square on the specially printed bingo card.

  “That’s not right,” Lloyd grumbled. “You already called that one.”

  “He did not.” Eloise Bonassarro slammed her ink marker down onto the table, her own red Santa hat askew on her permed curls. “You’re just a senile old fool who can’t remember from one minute to the next.”

  “And put your oxygen mask back on,” her twin, Edith, snarled.

  Looked like Paul wasn’t the only one tired of Lloyd’s complaining. Should he intervene? What could they do? Hit each other over the head with their walkers? If Lloyd didn’t back off, Paul swore he’d delay calling 911.

  He shook the can of balls with vicious pleasure, this time picturing Lloyd’s last wheezing breath.

  “I think this game is rigged.”

  That was Mr. Greenberry. His arms were crossed, and he scowled at Paul through his white beard. Even with the hat on, he came across as more Old Testament prophet come to punish the unbelievers rather than the friendly, Santa look-alike Paul had initially assumed.

  “Yeah,” Lloyd wheezed. “I demand a recount. Where’s Kevin?”

  “He’s bailing out Agnes’s grandson again.” Eloise dropped that interesting tidbit and grabbed Lloyd’s cards. She squinted at them through her handheld magnifier. “You haven’t even marked anything!”

  Additional grumbles rose from the tiny sea of red hats, the complaints escalating with each Christmas object/number combination Paul read off. He scanned the crowd for possible reinforcements, catching Grandpa Louie’s eye in the back row. He had Inga Cartwright, a newcomer to the park, cuddled up beside him under the guise of showing her how to play.

  Uh-oh. Eloise had been a repeat dinner guest at the RV for the last week, but it looked like Grandpa Louie was moving on to greener pastures. No wonder she was so angry.

  “Kevin keeps the bingo supplies in the office,” his grandfather offered. “A regular game might calm everybody down.”

  A few of the red hats nodded agreement. Paul groaned. “Let’s see a show of hands,” he announced. “Who wants me to get a different set of balls?” A loud sniggering followed his question. “Seriously?” Paul supported himself against the table, the better to rest his clenched fists on his hips. He scowled at the group, finally understanding the frustrations of his first-grade teacher. “What are you all? Seven? No, most of you are seventy if you’re a day. Let’s try this again. Hands up.”

  Despite his hopes, more than half of the thirty or so Santa impersonators raised their age-spotted hands. Paul squeezed the thick band of tension at the back of his neck. Fine. He’d crutch over to the office and find some new damn bingo balls.

  “Fine. Play is suspended for a ten-minute break.” Twenty if he found Kevin’s liquor stash. Paul set the can on the table, dropped his Santa hat on top, and turned toward the exit.

  He stopped after two steps and returned to the table. He grabbed the set of control cards and stuffed them inside his shirt for ease of carry. The muttered curses from Mr. Greenberry made him shake his head. Cheating son of a bitch indeed.

  Grandpa Louie decided to be useful and met Paul by the door. “I can go get them, i
f you want.”

  Paul closed his eyes and considered the option. He was positive he’d passed over a couple of those mini bottles of airport booze in Kevin’s bottom desk drawer the other day. “I’ll have to disarm and reset the alarm when I’m done. But thanks.”

  “Sure, sure.” Grandpa Louie leaned in and whispered into Paul’s ear, “Take your time. I’m going to give Inga a tour of the locker rooms.”

  “Ewh.” Paul held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear this. But I trust you’re using protection?”

  His grandfather gave what Paul could only describe as a bashful but proud smile.

  “Never mind.” Paul checked he had the keys and left the madness behind him. He sucked in a huge breath of evening air outside the clubhouse, a welcome change after the overly scented mix of perfume and cologne that filled the game room. Old people. Not nearly as cute as they seemed on television. How did Kevin do it?

  The alarm didn’t give him any trouble, and Paul opened a few cupboards near the kitchen without success. “If I were a box of bingo supplies, where would I be?”

  He thought about Mr. Greenberry and Lloyd and went for the easy answer—under lock and key, possibly even booby-trapped. Paul smirked and unlocked the inner office, heading to the side closet he usually left alone. He tried several different keys until he heard a click and the door swung open.

  Paul pushed past several boxes of obvious office supplies and opened some unmarked ones to peek inside. Nothing. “Huh.” He grunted but didn’t give up. He’d look all night if the search delayed his return to the clubhouse.

  More boxes were piled on the lower shelves, their labels unreadable in the dim light. Paul turned on his flashlight app and leaned down. There was a banker’s box pushed to the back that looked promising.