Opportunity Knocking

"Yes, we have. It was nice of you to step right into helping with the homeless as soon as you moved here." I gave him a smile. I didn't think I could come anywhere close to how good he'd been in serving people—and the wildlife here. "I like what you've done with the shop—the art you put in. What was here before was too insipid for me—too Vermont touristy."

"But obviously what sells well here," I said.

"Not too well, or Stanley would still be in business in Weston."

"Well, that's depressing," I said. "Maybe I won't last as long as he did."

"This is low season. Come spring, your business will be booming. That's one reason I came in. Isn't that a Margaret Francis over there? It's caught my eye every time I've passed by the shop. My business is just down the street from here. I love the Impressionists, and I think some of our contemporary artists are taking a good run at interpreting that while keeping their art fresh."

"Yes, that's a Francis," I said, looking at one of the more expensive works in my store, a swirl of colors in blues, yellows, and whites that only an art connoisseur would recognize as being in the Contemporary Impressionist school. "You have an expert eye for art."

"I guess I should," Dunlop said, "although I wouldn't know what end of a paint brush to work with myself. I am a book publisher—art books. AD Publishing, that's me. Just down the block from here."

"AD Publishing. Yes, I'd heard it was located somewhere around here. I didn't know it was right in Weston, though. I was planning on trying to find your offices when the snow left."

Dunlop laughed. "That will be some time away."

"Yes, I've gathered that. I wanted to find you for more than curiosity."

"I'm surprised you've heard of my publishing house."

"I graduated from SCAD in Savannah. Your publications are well known there. Knowing your business was somewhere in Vermont was one of the incentives for me to come North. I hadn't associated your name with the AD in the publishing house title, though. How amusing that we wound up living next door to each other." Dunlop was visibly pleased by that. "We're essentially in the same business and I was thinking we might combine our sales, at least here in Weston—unless you have a shop of your own in Weston, I could sell some of your books here."

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Dunlop said. "We put out a magazine of new available works. I could give your shop a page in each edition of that. Your outreach could go beyond Weston, and beyond Vermont, for that matter."

"We'll have to discuss the logistics of that," I said, hoping that he'd suggest we go for coffee and do that now.

"Yes, we will," he answered with a smile, but he added, "So, you wanted to find me for business. I rather hoped it would be for another reason."

Time stopped and our eyes met. It probably was only for a couple of seconds, but it seemed like forever.

"I'm sorry," Dunlop said. "That was forward. But Nick has told me a lot about you. He's one of our homeless men. He does work for me and I give him a room for the winter."

"Yes, I know Nick," I said. "I was happy to hear that he had somewhere warm to go to at night in the winter. That's very generous of you."

"The possibility of combining of forces on art is a good one, and that's the second reason I came in here," he said, retreating to a safer subject. We were into two steps ahead and one step behind. It was tedious and tentative, but at least it was progress. "The two businesses would go together well," he added.

"Yes, I'm sure they would." I now was considering more merging than that. Our compatibility and shared interests were screaming at me. So was the look of him. I hadn't been this aroused by a man since Warren. "We'll have to discuss that further. You said that was the second reason you came in. What was the first?" Was he going to say he was interested in me sexually? Nick had given more than a hint that the man was gay and dominant. I had every reason to believe that Nick had same the same to Dunlop about me. I hadn't been wrong about Nick's gossiping—and likely not about him trying to be a matchmaker, as well. I couldn't resent him for that, though.

"I mentioned it already," he said. "The Margaret Francis on the wall over there. How much is it?"

"I have it marked for $8,000," I said, "but as a gesture of a new sales partnership arrangement, I could let it go for $7,500."

"I'll take it," he said without batting an eyelash. "It would be valued above the $8,000 in catalogs, I'm sure. How about $7,750 plus my treating you to coffee over at Sally's Place sometime?"

"How about now?" I asked, with a laugh. "My treat to seal the art deal." He gave me a big smile.

We talked a little about business over coffee, although that was settled in theory quite quickly. We went on to sharing our "how we met and he took us over" stories of Nick, which led us deeper into revealing ourselves to each other. Nick had not only discerned a lot about each of us and our individual recent losses and resulting loneliness and sense of drifting but also of our sexual natures and interests. I have no idea, at least for my part, how Nick had been able to ferret that out about me, but he had been uncannily accurate.

"I wanted to meet you even before Nick told me about you," Andy admitted after we'd sat down in the front window at Sally's Place and remarked on the typical snowy Vermont country village scene spread out in front of us and each admitted the appeal of the Thomas Kincaid-type village scene art to others than ourselves. "I'd watched you from my living room window as you were moving in. I brought you a pie as a welcome—store bought, of course—but you didn't come to the door. That's when I suspected that you were at the same emotional place I was. You were letting yourself be snowed in over there. I shoveled your path to the street as a gesture of—"

"Wait? You're the one who shoveled my walk? Not Nick?" I said in shock. "Why that sneaky old man." We shared a laugh during which Andy touched me on the forearm, which sent a surge of electricity through me.

And that's how we got into discussing Nick and realized he had been talking about each of us to the other—promoting us to each other. And that got us into talking more intimately of ourselves, with both of us acknowledging we were gay and had recently suffered separation from a lover—Andy by desertion and me by Warren's death. Somewhere in this discussion he'd put a hand on mine on the table and I hadn't taken mine away.

"Yes, I was devasted when Jason left me," Andy said. "I should have known, though, that Weston was too remote and provincial to hold his interests. That was asking too much of young, citified man."

"So, he's put you off of younger men?" I asked, perhaps letting too much of what I was thinking surface.

"Not at all. I much prefer younger men." He gave me a pointed look. We obviously were heading in the same direction, although the dance at this point was a delicate one. "Nick tells me that the man you were with in Savannah, the man who died, was much older than you were."

"He was."

"Listen. This may be too soon for you, but perhaps—"

"Yes, I think it's a bit too soon for me," I said, my thoughts going to how I had felt when I'd given Nick Warren's coat and boots and unexpectedly had the loss pierce my heart.

"Yes, well, I see that we both need to get back to our businesses," Andy blustered, taking his hand off mine, pointedly drinking off the last of his coffee, and scrunching up his napkin. "We need to talk in more detail about that art book shelf in your shop. And this coffee shop is so conveniently located between our businesses, we should meet regularly here for breaks—at least until the world thaws out and business picks up."

"Yes, I'd like that," I said, suddenly wanting to keep whatever rescue lines that had been thrown between us today secured. I regretted cutting off something further—yet.

As we stood, I blurted out, "You're a good man, Andy Dunlop."

He looked at me in surprise and I did what I could to recover. It had been on my mind to note anyway, but I grabbed at it in desperation.

"I saw that you have put wreaths of wildlife feed out for the deer and the birds in your backyard. That's a very nice thing to do. I have wanted to know where you get those wreaths. I should do the same."

He laughed. "I get them right here in town. They have them at the Vermont Country Store."

"And you work well with the homeless at the soup kitchen. I just want you to know that I find that attracting about you." I wanted to say "arousing," but the look he gave me, his sudden more sunny smile than when I had parried what might have been a proposition, told me that he understood what I meant.

"Coffee tomorrow?" he asked, a smile returning to his face and lighting the room up. "Same time, same place?"

"I'd like that," I answered. "I'll have the Margaret Francis wrapped and ready to go then."

"I'll bring my checkbook."

We stood awkwardly for a few seconds. We obviously were contemplating shaking hands but each wanting more contact than that. It ended with Andy smiling broadly, saluting, and leaving the coffee shop ahead of me.

It had started snowing again when I left Sally's Place and trudged across the street to the art gallery. I didn't care, though, for the first time since I'd come to Vermont, I was feeling the spirit of the season.

* * * *

"The shelving looks great. I'll have to find the book boxes now," I said as I set the ham and cheese sandwich and canned chicken noodle soup in front of Nick. It was the second Thursday in December; he'd worked here alone during the mornings three times, and I hadn't discerned anything being missing. Except now, the boxes from the IKEA bookcases. "What happened to the bookcase boxes?" I asked. "I don't see them in the living room and I'll need them when I find a place to buy and want to move again."

"They're in the basement," he said amid the attack on his food, "stacked neat enough out of the way for you, I hope." What I hoped was that the way he attacked his food was a sign that he liked my simple cooking rather than that he wasn't getting enough to eat. I couldn't stop being worried how he was making it through a Vermont winter.

"I have a basement here?"

He laughed. "You sure are dragging your feet getting settled here, aren't you?"

"Yes. I don't really like this house."

"But you like the neighbors, I hope." He was addressing a "butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth" gaze toward the wall across the kitchen, the wall in the direction of Andy Dunlop's house.

"Yes, I like the neighbors," I admitted, with a wary sigh.

"And one of them in particular, I hope."

I didn't answer that. I fully realized that Nick was hard at work on the matchmaker thing. I turned back to the stove to get my lunch. He'd have his wolfed down before I sat at the table, but I didn't care. He'd linger with his coffee while I ate and we'd have a chance to chat. These Tuesday and Thursday chats with Nick were becoming something I needed—not to mention that so much of what we discussed was Andy Dunlop.

"Good," he said.

I didn't pursue what he meant by that. Good that I didn't like this house enough to put down roots here or good that I liked being next door to Andy? Either of those weren't something I wanted to get into deeply with Nick. I had the feeling that anything I said favorable to Nick about Andy went right back to Andy. It was clear to me what Nick would like something to happen between Andy and me. It was equally clear to me what I would like to happen with Andy, but, although we were meeting for coffee every working day, he hadn't pressed me for something more yet. I was painfully aware that that was probably because he had started into making a suggestion and I had closed him down.

If he did make the suggestion now, would I go with him? I had already decided on that. I would. Friends who had been with Warren at the end while I was in Europe—sent there by him so I wouldn't fret through the operation he didn't tell me he was having, the operation he didn't wake up from—had passed on Warren's wish that I move on if he didn't come out of the operation.

But Andy hadn't brought it up yet—hadn't made the move. I was a submissive; he was going to have to be the one to make the move if something was going to come out of a relationship here. We had a relationship—both business, with his shelf of art books now in the gallery and doing well, and friendship, with comfortable discussions on coffee breaks and working well together at the soup kitchen. It just wasn't sexual—yet—and I now ached that it reach that level.

"You don't have a Christmas tree," Nick said. "Ten days to Christmas and you don't have a tree up."

"I have an artificial tree somewhere—in the boxes somewhere—but I haven't found it yet. I did put up a tree at the gallery."

"An artificial tree in Vermont?" Nick snorted. "That's sacrilege. We need to go cut you a tree."

"It wouldn't matter anyway," I said. "I did find the box with the decorations and I used them on the tree at the art gallery. I can celebrate my Christmas there. This place still looks like a storage shed. It will be better now that you have book cases together. If I find the book boxes, do you think you can get the books on the shelf in some sort of order?"

"I should be able to. I owned a bookstore once," Nick said. And that was another tidbit I was learning about Nick. Slowly, he was beginning to unravel his life to me. Someday he might even tell me why he was homeless. I already figured out that he was an educated man. I was close to offering him a job at the art gallery. I just didn't know if that would turn him away from me—whether the homelessness was a strong choice rather than a life tragedy. I didn't want to lose him. He was the best friend I'd made in Weston—well, other than Andy. I looked in the direction of the house next door. Nick saw me do that and knew why. You couldn't hide anything from Nick.

"Nick," I said. "I won't have a tree here, but I could use company on Christmas Eve. Would you like to come and spend the evening with me? The TV is out of the box and running. You could put together a couple of the IKEA armchairs next and we could watch something on TV on Christmas Eve."

He didn't answer right away and I looked at him, catching the tears in his eyes, and then looked away so he wouldn't know the vulnerability I'd seen—or that his reaction was causing me to tear up as well.

"Thanks Mr. Crawford—Scott," he said. "That means a lot to me that you'd ask, but that reminds me of something I was meant to ask you."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Mr. Dunlop already has asked me to his place on Christmas Eve—and he asked me to ask you if you'd like to come over for that evening too—that he'd cater in a proper meal. He has his Christmas tree up already and I've brought in a couple of loads of wood for his fireplace."

It was my turn to look away to hide the tears in my eyes. "Sure, Nick. You can tell him I'd like that."

* * * *

Andy met me at the door, wearing a red silk robe and not much else that I could discern. I immediately was propelled into the Christmas spirit. I could see into both the living room and the dining room from the front entry. Everything was warm and inviting and impeccably furnished. A comfortable-looking sofa faced a fireplace, with fire going, in the living room. A majestic balsam fir tree, decorated in red and gold, stood in the corner. The lights elsewhere in the room were dim, Christmas music was on the record player, the smell of pine and apple pies permeated the room. The dining room was decorated for Christmas too. Expensive paintings covered the walls of both rooms and the foyer. The Margaret Francis painting he'd bought from my gallery hung over the dining room buffet. Pinpoint track light picked out the more important paintings in both rooms.

The table was set for two.

"Where's Nick?" I asked. "He said he'd be here."

"Did he?" Andy asked and laughed as he took the bottle of wine I'd brought with me—the bottle that didn't get opened that evening. "That guy. Never stops playing the arranger, does he? Nick is over in Ludlow—spending Christmas with his daughter and grandchildren over there."

Another Nick tidbit dropped. I got the distinct impression Andy knew I thought Nick would be here and Andy knew he wouldn't be. I didn't care, though. I was more than ready for this.

"I swear he must be Santa Claus for real. He's left a present for you over on that chair, by the way. Quite a big box. Go ahead and open it now."

I opened it. The box contained Warren's coat and boots that I had given Nick weeks previously. There was a note too, in elegant handwriting. So, on top of everything else Nick was a calligrapher.

"Thanks for the loan, Scott," the note said. "You're one of the good guys. You deserve to be happy. I'm returning them because I know they have meaning for you. Do treasure what has been, but don't let it prevent what can be."

"Oh, no," I said, which brought Andy over to me. "Nick has given the warm clothing I gave him back. He must be freezing."

"He was bundled up in new clothes when he left here. His daughter brought him a new coat and boots when she came over from Ludlow and picked him up here."

So, no worrying about Nick now. I could go back to wondering when and if Andy was going to make a move. Right away, it transpired.

He fucked me in the living room before we feasted on a catered meal and then moved to his bedroom for the night. We sat on the sofa, looking at the fire and the tree and did the schmaltzy Christmas Eve thing, listening to Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Julie Andrews, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on vintage records, while Andy unwrapped his Christmas present—me—and I shrugged the red silk robe off his back to get to mine. He lay on top of me across the sofa and we kissed as he pressed the heel of a hand under my balls and entered me with two fingers, the fingers moving in and out, in and out, searching for and finding my prostate. I arched my head back, hooked an ankle on his shoulder, and moaned deeply.

I didn't play hard to get. I didn't even pretend to give a second thought to what we were doing.

He kissed down my body, playing with the small silver ring in my left nipple and then the one in my navel, murmuring his pleasure at each discovery, and, eventually, with the one in my taint under my balls before swallowing my cock and giving me head. I held onto his cheeks, pulling him close into me, and panting and moaning.

"It's been so long," I murmured, as he moved up my body until, hands pressed into the sofa arm over my head, his cock was level with my face and slipped between my lips and then was moving in my throat. I slid my hands down his muscular torso and held his hips between my hands, rubbing the crease between his underbelly and thighs on both sides with my thumbs as I sucked his shaft. He had a great body for a man his age—even better shape than Warren had maintained with a lot of gym work.

"It won't be as long until the next time, unless you don't want to continue giving yourself to me," he said.

"Yes, oh yes," I whispered, coming up for air, pulling off his cock to stroke it a few times with my hand before lightly scraping the sides of it as I throated the cock again.

We moved to the proverbial bear skin rug in front of the fireplace, without any thought to this being a cliché. Both naked, we sixty-nined on the rug and then he moved into the missionary position, putting his arm under my waist, kneeling between my thighs, and raising my pelvis to him. I cascaded my torso back on the rug, allowing my arms to stretch out in a sacrificial position, letting my eyes roam around the room. This is the home I had wanted. Everything here was perfect. Andy was perfect.