“Yes, sir.”
“Something wrong?” Gael asks, now more awake.
I rub my forehead. “After insisting that I immediately get on a plane, my father has informed me that we’ll speak tomorrow.”
“What the—?” Gael’s irritation matches my own, and I appreciate the solidarity.
“I’d love to say that this is a surprising turn of events, but it is not.”
“What about presents? Food? Does your family not have any Christmas Eve traditions?”
I chortle in the back of my throat. “It’s been years since we’ve exchanged gifts.”
Gael’s mouth drops open, and all I can do is shrug in response.
He supportively rests his head on my shoulder, and we ride in comfortable silence on our way to my family’s estate, his hand tucked in mine. Despite the last-minute change of plans, I’m not filled with the usual sense of dread while riding in to meet my family. It makes all the difference in the world, having someone at my side.
My irritation is further cut short as we roll to a stop in front of my land manager’s house. Adrian enjoys going overboard with the Christmas decorations, some of which he’s had since I was a child. It looks like a festive gingerbread house and feels like home. Gael laughs and kisses my cheek.
“At least these people know how to celebrate.”
Adrian makes his way down the steps and opens the door to the Rolls. “Tolly, my boy! It is so good to see you.”
Adrian and his family will not consider it an imposition for me to show up at dinnertime because they always make more than enough. We’ll be up for the next three hours talking, of that I’m certain.
Adrian is average height and blocky, with hands that can crush as well as care, his face pit-marked and aged in the sun, hair fleeing from his head as quickly as it can. These are the traits members of my family judge as middle class if they’re being generous. Lower class if they aren’t. I was raised the same way, but no one ever made me feel accepted and loved the way Adrian and his family did.
He was the first person I came out to because he was the person I was most nervous to have accept me. All he did was wrap me up in a too tight hug and say, “Whatever is the most real about you is the most beautiful thing about you, Tolly. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.”
“Tolly!” Adrian’s wife, Dimitra, races down the front porch steps to join us. “You’ve just missed the kids, but they’ll be in for Christmas breakfast.”
I smile. Her youngest “kid” is halfway through university.
Dimitra’s short, a bit rounder now in her fifties, and her gorgeous black hair is now liberally shot through with white and silver, making the long ponytail hanging over her shoulder that much more eye-catching. Her family hails from Greece, which is evident in her strong features. Her beauty is timeless, and she and Adrian make a dashing couple.
Finished with fussing over me, they turn to Gael. At some point in the drive over, I explained where we would be staying, and he seemed to relax, happy to put off meeting the parents for another day.
“Is this the one you’ve been talking about since the summer?”
Gael looks up at me, his eyes glittering with amazement. “You’ve been talking about me?”
“Whatever. You’ve been talking about me too.”
Rolling my eyes, I stoop to kiss the top of his head. Looking up I find Dimitra with her hand on her heart, and Adrian beaming with pride.
They hustle us and our many parcels into what was tantamount to a small cottage on our estate. It’s a lovely two-story, three bedroom, two bath, extremely homey place that they’d lived in ever since they were hired as newlyweds thirty years ago.
We make our way inside and I’m immediately hit with the warm familiarity of their slightly cluttered living room and it’s overdecorated Christmas tree, bursting with presents at the bottom. Adding to the nostalgia is the enchanting smell of Dimitra’s cooking. Her tomatoey Greek lamb stew smells like a hug. They show us to the guestroom, where we drop off our things, and then we wash up and sit at their small, well-loved table.
Gael and I spend the evening stuffing ourselves on amazing stew and crusty village bread slathered with homemade butter while Adrian and Dimitra pepper us with questions about life in Texas and in the Caribbean.
We go through two bottles of Adrian’s table wine. He makes some noise about it not being the fancy stuff I like to drink, but I assure him that I love it. I’m not lying—it’s simple, drinkable, and such a deep red it stains our teeth purple.
We’re all tipsy by the time we stumble to bed, and I’m grateful to have this respite before facing tomorrow’s cold realities.
8
GAEL
