The christmas tenor laur.., p.1
The Christmas Tenor (Laurel Holidays #3), page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Christmas Tenor (Laurel Holidays #3)
About the Author
LGBTQ Releases | Standalones
Colors of Love Series
The Campo Royale Series
According to Liam Series
Prairie Smoke Ranch Trilogy
Overtime—The Trilogy
The Laurel Holidays Series
Tales of Bryant Series
Cayuga Cougars Series
Arizona Raptors
Boston Rebels Series
Harrisburg Railers Series
Owatonna U. Hockey Trilogy
M/F Rereleases
The Christmas Tenor
Laurel Holidays #3
MM Contemporary Holiday Romance
V.L. Locey
A trip that he thought would bring him only pain is about to present him with the greatest gift of all.
For three years now, Cabriolet Vermat has put off, wiggled out of, and outright lied to get out of making this dreaded trip east. The owner of Cabriolet Chauffeur Services in Los Angeles has avoided the yearly invitation to the small town of White Bridge, New York, to speak at their alumni winter gathering but this year they’ve outfoxed him. They’re throwing a dinner to honor his late partner’s dedication to his alma mater and have asked Cab to speak. This time he has to go no matter how much pain it will stir up. Arriving in the picturesque small town beside one of the Finger Lakes, Cab is treated to a special performance of holiday songs and there he sees Julian Gabriel Baez for the first time.
The young singer captivates him immediately, and he finds himself seeking out the much younger man after the performance. The pull he feels toward Jules is unlike anything he’s felt since he met his partner years ago. Confusion and desire war within him, but the outgoing young tenor wins him over with his engaging smile and kind heart. A two-day trip soon turns into an extended holiday vacation. Cab worries that the magic of Christmas will quickly fizzle out and he’ll be alone once more. Or will this festive season bestow a blessing of the heart upon a man who thought he would never love again?
The Christmas Tenor is a standalone small-town gay Christmas romance with a beautiful May-December relationship, a lonely widower, a rising opera star, loving families, and plenty of holiday joy.
A V.L. Locey MM Holiday Romance
The Christmas Tenor (Laurel Holidays #3)
Copyright © 2021 V.L. Locey
Edited by Kathy Krick
Cover by Meredith Russell
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Acknowledgments
To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.
To my alphas, betas, editors, and proofers who work incredibly hard to help me make my books the shiniest we can make them.
To Rachel who helps keep me on time, in line, and reasonably sane.
To Patricia Rouse for her invaluable help and information about the world of opera.
If you want to keep up with all the latest news about my upcoming M/M releases, sign up for my newsletter by visiting my website:
http://vllocey.com/
Chapter One
Looking out from my balcony on the twentieth floor of the Luxe Urbain condominium building, I found very few similarities between the city I called home, Los Angeles, and Quebec City where I grew up. People tended to say that once Christmas rolled around all big cities looked the same. I would argue that point to my death. While I loved the City of Angels and all it had brought to me, it was not Quebec City. First of all, the temperature was far too high. Back home it would be cold. The good cold. The kind that made your nose hair freeze and your head ache as soon as you stepped outside. The cold that the natives of L.A. complained of simply couldn’t compare.
The last time it had dipped to below fifty degrees had been eight years ago. I recall it clearly as Carter, a born and bred Los Angeleno, had bundled up in a fur coat that he wore inside the office all day long. Which worked for Carter as he was one of those glorious gays who could wear fur and not come off as gauche. It really had been a glorious coat. Rich black sable that had set off his buttermilk-toned skin.
God but he had been a terrible diva. Also he had been the love of my life. What I wouldn’t give to hear him complain about the heat being too low or the cost of ripe mango or the fact that I’d beaten him to the LA Times crossword puzzle. He’d been gone close to four years now—fuck cancer—and I wasn’t sure I could face another Christmas alone. Looking at the damn tree Pierre had put up made me melancholy as hell. Even standing out here with the white lights blinking behind me was depressing the living shit out of me. I’d kept that to myself though. My brother had thought he’d been doing well.
I despaired that there would never be another love like Carter for me and at this stage of my life I wasn’t sure I’d even want a grand passion if I should happen to stumble into one. Perhaps I was too old, too queer, and too set in my ways to love again.
“Are you out here sulking?”
Speaking of too queer...
I sighed and gave my fraternal twin a scathing over-the-shoulder look, which he blithely ignored. “I’m not sulking. I’m mentally comparing Los Angeles and Quebec City. Ah, thank you.” He handed me the day’s mail then came up to stand beside me at the rail. We were similar in many ways yet starkly opposite in others. We were both Black, French-Canadian, six foot four, and well into our fifties. That was where most of the similarities ended other than our sexuality and hair. Mine was closely cropped and natural while his was dyed yellow. We were both gay, but I tended to be less glamboyant—Pierre’s word not mine—than my brother. I also was prone to bouts of deep introspection while clinging to my love of solitude. Pierre had a love of all things bright and happy. Oh, and toppy daddy bears. The man was deeply into bears whereas my tastes ran more toward willowy men. Our father was out of the picture and had been for years, his dreams of racing sailboats more compelling than raising his children.
Pierre had left his job in Montreal to stay with me when Carter had passed. He had fallen in love with L.A., its flash and style, and decided to move here permanently. I’d offered him my guest room because I had dreaded the thought of being alone. He’d accepted, settled in, and then asked for a job. Being a loving brother I gave him one. I should have known better.
His tenure driving for us lasted exactly one day. He’d run into a trolley car after delivering a client to their home in San Francisco. I had no choice but to suspend then fire him when he confessed that the black boa he’d worn to match his new uniform had become entangled in the car door. While trying to free his feather boa, he’d crashed into the trolley car. Thankfully, no one had been harmed but the city was rather upset about the damage done to one of their famed trolleys. I quickly paid for the damages. Pierre had been distraught and begged for another job so he could pay me back. I’d given in as I always did when it came to my younger—by seventeen minutes—sibling and plunked him into public relations, which he excelled at. Cabriolet Chauffeur Services had never been busier and part of that I had to credit to my brother. He did have je ne sais quoi.
He never discussed his brief stint as one of my chauffeur drivers citing it as a momentary lack of reason and a loss of a wonderful boa.
“You look sulky.” He gazed down at the city, a warm wind ruffling his frilly housecoat.
“I look like a two-wheeled cart used for horseracing?” I enquired while flipping through the day’s mail. I heard Pierre dramatically huff. Which was how he did all things. With great flair and expression.
“Stop being so Cab.”
“Cab meaning learned?”
“I’m going to return to the kitchen now and burn your dinner.” Off he flounced, his chin held high, his bright yellow robe fluttering in his wake.
I sniggered as I flipped past utility bills to find a thick vellum envelope with the crest of the Morton School of Theater. The small smile Pierre had brought out disappeared the moment I saw that damn seal. Morton was Carter’s alma mater, and he had loved that little Ivy League campus nearly as much as he had loved me. Which was saying a great deal for he loved me dearly. Opening the envelope I pulled out and scanned an invitation.
I was tempted to toss the damn thing over the side of the balcony. Every year since his death, they’d been after me to attend their winter gala. I’d politely declined and sent them a check instead. Sighing with pain anew, I gazed out at L.A. with blurry eyes.
“You look even more sulky now,” Pierre softly said as I worked to swallow down my grief. “Maybe if you went it would help lay his ghost to rest. It’s time to let go, Cabriolet.”
“I’m not sure I want to let go. His memory is all I have left.”
Pierre snuggled in close. He was a rather demonstrative man while I was...well, not. But his thin arms around my middle did ease the ache.
“That’s not at all true, but I won’t push.” That made me cough in amusement. He blew out a little breath. “This time. Come inside. Dinner is ready.”
“I thought you burned it.”
“I still might.” He pressed a kiss to
The Morton School of Theater requests the honor of your presence as we celebrate the life and legacy of Carter James Wrightson.
We will be honoring one of our most famed and beloved alumni with the Distinguished Alumni Award bestowed on those who have excelled in the world of theater and fine arts. Among the other recipients will be:
Alfred K. Williams, M.D. ’01
Joseph Cartwright, ’87
Followed by the presentation of the Donald R. Morton Service Award in memory of Carter James Wrightson.
Performance by select members of the student body of holiday classics with cocktails at 7 p.m. and dinner at 8 p.m.
Thursday, December 20
Mona P. Moyer Student Council Ballroom
Cocktail Attire
The twentieth? That was only four days from now. I spun, filled with what I was sure was righteous outrage, and stormed into my condo. Pierre was exiting the kitchen with a platter of food when I found him. His dark eyes rounded when I waved the invitation over my head while filling the air with French curses.
“Oh dear, what now?” He walked around me, a plate filled with a rare roast, petite carrots, and tiny red potatoes in hand. I drew in a calming breath. Mother always said that there were two things we Quebecers were known for: our joie de vivre and our tempers. She’d been right about quite a few things. And dreadfully wrong about others.
“This invitation to the college,” I said as I followed him through my tasteful home to the dining room where we had our meals.
He knew what I meant by the college. There was only one that existed in my life. I’d not had higher education. I’d taken the thousand dollars my grandmother had given me before I left Canada and had turned it into a multi-million dollar enterprise with over four hundred corporate-owned franchises across the United States and Canada with nothing more than sweat, tears, and a knack for knowing what people of means want and need. Not too bad for an immigrant, eh?
“What about it?” he asked as he placed the platter on the marble-topped modern table.
“How dare they impose on me to attend with only four days’ notice?!”
Pierre poured us both some sparkling water then sat down in a soft gray chair that matched the charcoal flooring. The entire condo was decorated in shades of white, gray, and blue. After he crossed his legs he glanced up at me.
“Maybe if you had opened the previous four invitations you would have been better informed.”
“Four? There were not four before this one.” I shook the invite at him. He wrinkled his nose.
“Yes, there were. Four.” He held up four fingers. I frowned. “Now sit and eat. The roast will chill quickly and—where are you going?”
I blew into my home office, my sight on the trash can beside my glass desk. Four previous invitations my ass. Grumbling to myself, I grabbed the garbage can and dumped its contents onto my desk. I did little work in here now. When Carter had been alive, I’d spent more time in here during the evenings while he worked on scripts in his little alcove in the corner. His fainting couch still sat beneath the window. If I closed my eyes, I could see him there, glasses on the end of his long nose, extolling over this story or bitching about this script.
Scattering the contents, I sighed aloud when I saw the other envelopes bearing the Morton School of Theater crest. All unopened.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Now I felt like the fool. Sitting down at my unused desk, I slid a letter opener under each flap, removed the requests, and read them over. The first and second had been invitations to speak at this memorial event about my beloved Carter. The third and fourth had been just like the one I’d gotten today, a standard invitation sent to all the alumni. I sat back in my leather office chair and stared at that empty couch in the corner. “Why did you have to go and die, Carter?” I asked in a shaky whisper and then slowly, and with great shame, picked up the phone sitting on the corner of my desk and dialed the number of the head of the alumni committee at the Morton School of Theater. It thrilled her to hear from me. And yes, she was more thrilled to hear that I would of course attend and give a speech in honor of Carter. When I hung up, Pierre appeared in the doorway, his gold curls a shamble as always, but his brown eyes filled with unshed tears.
“That was so brave,” he coughed out then buried his face in his robe. I rose, walked to him, and gathered him to me. Patting his back, I gave the fainting couch a long, loving look then led my brother back out to the dinner he had prepared. I wasn’t sure if what I had done was truly brave. I didn’t feel courageous at all. Just scared. So very, very scared.
***
After a morning call to Monique Barbier, my PA, to let her know Pierre and I were leaving for LAX in ten minutes, and a quick text to the general manager of the L.A. Branch of CCS, I stared down at my lone suitcase. My best suit lay at the bottom, taken out of mothballs by Pierre and whisked to the dry cleaners. I’d laid several items on top of it, but my gaze kept returning to it as my mind kicked up fuzzy memories of the nights on the town I’d had with Carter. Since he was such a big name in the entertainment business, there were parties every night and he received invites to many of them. Most we skipped, but many we attended. Several premieres of the movies from his studio per year as well as charity galas. Then cancer had swept in like a bird of death, grabbing him with deadly talons and whisking him skyward.
“The limo is here,” Pierre said from the doorway of my bedroom. I startled, closed the suitcase, and handed it off to the young man waiting with my brother.
“Your tie is crooked,” I told my employee. He flushed then hurried to fix the slim black tie before taking my bag. Pierre sighed. “What?”
“Those ties are truly tacky. Will you please let me update the drivers’ uniforms? Also, that sweater is boring.” He waved a gloved hand at my brown wool sweater. “It does nothing for you.”
“It will keep me warm,” I pointed out then moved around the lanky man in bright red and gold. From head to toe, he was red and gold. It made my eyes hurt to gaze upon him.
“Fine, be a dumpy little toad,” I heard him say as I held the front door open for him. He sailed through, his red pillbox hat jauntily sitting on his gold curls, red cape swirling around him. I eyed his gold boots with a raised eyebrow then locked the front door.
I inspected the limo’s exterior then the interior. Pierre smiled and made small talk with the driver, a young man named Pear, who had just signed on with Cabriolet Chauffeur Services two months ago. He was an actor—who wasn’t out here?—and was only chauffeuring until he landed a role in a movie. Ninety percent of my employees here in L.A. were aspiring or used-to-be actors. Few made it big but millions kept showing up with stars in their eyes. I kept my thoughts about having dreams that weren’t attainable to myself. Pierre constantly scolded me for pooh-poohing the aspirations of thespians. The whole entertainment business was rather useless as far as I was concerned. Give me a well-written book any day, although I could be persuaded to watch a classic movie. Back when the plots were strong and the actors were competent.
Carter knew I held the movie business in low regard, and he loved it. Kept him grounded, he used to say. Most of his films had been enjoyable enough but still rather vapid. How many car crashes, high-speed chases, or scantily clad women could one watch before one’s brain turned to stewed turnips? Carter informed me the answer to that was thousands.
I wasn’t sure about that, but I did know that a man with a little cash and a good work ethic could start up a company that would sustain him and grow over time. That was a solid use of funds and brainpower. Singing and dancing and emoting on film? Meh. Pierre said I was a dinosaur. Perhaps so. Most days I felt like one...
