Salvaging Christmas by Brian Lancaster
General Release Date: 30th November 2021
Word Count: 67,278
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 264
Genres:
CHRISTMAS, CONTEMPORARY, EROTIC ROMANCE, GAY, GLBTQI, HOLIDAYS
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Book Description
For years they have kept the Yuletide Gay Club going with like minded friends until this year grim providence decides to stick in his ugly snout. But just as everything starts to fall apart, the son of the owner turns up and the real fun begins.
Tired with awkward family Christmases, Trevor McTavish and his best friend have planned a getaway each year for twelve close gay friends to enjoy the festive season together in remote country locations around Britain. Far from the maddening crowds. Beautiful Stratham Lodge in Scotland, hugging the shores of Loch Arkaig, is set to be this year’s rental destination.
Except this year, one by one, friends have dropped out. Against their better judgement, they decide to bite the bullet and forge ahead with a much reduced, and somewhat contentious party, which includes Trevor’s formerly gay ex-husband and his new girlfriend.
On the second day, Trevor realises this year’s break is going to be a disaster. But then the son of the lodge owner, Rudy Mortimer, appears and saves the day.
Reader advisory: This book contains mention of homophobia, domestic abuse and sexual assault.
The central heating kicked in early the next morning—without the luxury of hot water. When the group reconvened in the kitchen for breakfast, Frank informed them that neither the electric showers nor the central boiler was working, both most likely on the same circuit. Everyone but Mrs M and Frank cursed the owner then grumbled about having to wash in cold water. Trevor assumed Mrs M’s camping days had hardened her to the idea of a cold shower. Frank would happily bathe naked in the loch if only Johnny would let him.
Having the room closest to the kitchen, Trevor had woken early to the sound of Mrs M moving around next door, opening and closing kitchen cupboards. She appeared to be the most resourceful. Cheryl had been the one to remark on her mother’s success in getting the gas-fired Aga going. All morning he’d noticed a calm contentedness about Mrs M, especially when she’d turned the morning moans into murmurs of delight by producing a breakfast of mugs of hot tea accompanied by scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on wedges of buttered golden toast.
At ten o’clock, leaving their dishes on the table at Mrs M’s insistence, Cheryl, Frank and Johnny went off to change for their trip into Fort William. Even though his pride had taken a beating, Frank had eventually been dragged away from trying to locate the man fuse box in cupboards and wardrobes. Before heading off to change, he told Trevor he suspected the box had been artfully hidden behind a secret panel somewhere during the lodge’s renovations.
When the front door closed and the engine started up, Trevor waited for Mrs M to meet his gaze. They sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around mugs, listening as the engine faded off down the lane.
“Okay, Mrs M. Spill the beans. You know something, don’t you? Did you manage to find the fuse box?”
“No, dear, I have no idea about those kinds of things. I’m just a clueless old lady,” she replied before levelling her gaze at him. “But I do know a thing or two about Aga cookers.”
“And?”
“And how some are set up to provide hot water for a house, although I think this one only serves the kitchen. The owners kindly left me a laminated instruction sheet—very nicely done, too—showing me how to start the old girl up. So if you want some hot water for the bathroom, you can fill up a saucepan or a bucket from the hot water tap in the kitchen sink. Water’s piping hot.”
Trevor tipped back his head and laughed.
“If I’d told my Cheryl, I know I’d never have gotten rid of her. She would have spent the morning going back and forth from the kitchen, filling a bath, then the rest of the day getting under my feet.”
“I wondered why you told them to leave their dishes. On all our other holidays, you’ve ordered us to clean up after ourselves.”
“On all the other holidays there’s been a working dishwasher.”
“In which case, let me do the honour of washing up. I don’t have an adjoining bathroom, so I might just wash my face at the sink once I’m done.”
“Let me fill up a saucepan, and I’ll leave you alone.”
They had always worked well together, Trevor mused as she headed off into the lodge. Left alone to wash dishes in hot water felt like a special treat and he had everything completed, including all surfaces cleaned and cleared and himself flannel-washed, by the time she reappeared.
“Now the Aga’s heated up, I’m going to start baking. Having no electricity doesn’t affect that, but the electric appliances like the toaster and coffee machine are more convenient than using the Aga each time. Might be good if you could call your contact again and get the power switched on.”
Trevor closed his eyes in frustration.
“My phone died last night. And I couldn’t plug in my charger. I know you don’t have a mobile phone, so I meant to ask Cheryl for hers before she left, but completely forgot—”
“Look, dear, I know I’m not a technical wizard like all you youngsters, but could I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think maybe that old telephone contraption on the wall over there might still be of use?” asked Mrs M, pointing to a grey wall phone fixed next to a backboard. “I know they worked fine back in my day for old ladies like me.”
“Okay, Mrs M. Enough with the smartass for one morning. I didn’t know that was there. Yes, I’m sure it works fine, but I still have the email with all the key phone numbers and contact details on my dead mobile phone. I didn’t think to print off a paper copy, and they didn’t leave anything in the lodge. Doesn’t matter anyway. Last night, I remember Johnny saying the contact would come over this morning. So while we wait for them, I’m going keep myself busy decorating the place.”
“Good plan. Are you putting anything up in here?”
“Just a few things.”
“Maybe get that finished before the rabble returns. I’ve a feeling we’ll be spending a lot of time in this room. But first, give me an hour to get some things started then come back and I’ll help you.”
Within the hour, Trevor had strung up the garlands and tartan ribbons he had spent hours assembling at home, and although they looked fine, they seemed lost in the huge living space. At some point he would need a ladder to reach higher places. As he worked, wonderful smells of pastry and cinnamon and other spices began to creep through the lodge. When he eventually entered the kitchen, Mrs M had countertops full of pots, pans and food. Between checking the Aga and furiously kneading dough, she helped him with the minimal kitchen decorations, leaving him to head back to the main living space.
Standing in the entryway, he studied the space with a critical eye. They had chosen well this year. The photographs on the website did not do the lodge justice. At the far end stood the building’s focal point, a magnificent semi-circular communal area with floor-to-ceiling windows providing stunning panoramic views over the loch. In the centre, a modern faux-log gas fire encased in a circle of red brick and covered above by an enormous steel flue made the whole ensemble appear almost ceremonial. A semi-circle of comfy settees in beige cotton surrounded the fireplace. Where the windows ended either side of the vista, the owners had built dark oak bookcases. Only the long bar of mahogany built into the left wall interrupted the walls of books. Using dark wood in the living area had been masterful and drew the eye to the natural light filtering into the room and out to the rugged but spectacular scenery beyond.
Even when he had first entered the room that morning with Cheryl by his side and both had gasped at the sheer magnificence of the space, he’d known instinctively that a traditional Christmas theme would work perfectly. But to do the lodge justice, he would need supplies from nature. They had been promised a Christmas tree as a part of the holiday package, and Trevor was disappointed to find the owners had left them nothing. Cheryl’s joke that the tree might be hidden away with the fuse box had done nothing to lighten his mood. For someone recently dumped, she seemed to be coping better than him. Although he said nothing to her, he wondered if the lack of power and the absence of a Christmas tree were further signs that they should never have agreed to come.
At eleven o’clock, with his wellies tugged on, plastic garden sacks in hand and a forced resolve, he set out to scavenge the grounds around the lodge.
As the overnight frost burned off, a cloudless morning began to bathe the ground in steamy warmth. Trevor climbed the small path to higher ground, partly to forage for holly, evergreens and fir branches, but also to get an open view of the lodge. He stopped to catch his breath under a blazing sun, removed and tied his coat around his waist and even thought about taking off his woollen jumper. Finding the perfect vantage point, he perched down cross-legged in the rough grass and took in the view.
Whoever had planned the lodge’s renovation had attempted to keep the original building’s essence and merge old with new. Maybe that had been a condition of the planning permission if, as Trevor suspected, the lodge was a listed heritage building. Whether purposely or by coincidence, the building had been forged into the shape of a Celtic cross.
At the newly built end facing the lake, the architect had created the circular communal living area on the ground level with the huge glass windows and outside porch. Three bedrooms jutting out from the floor above had balconies overlooking the scenery. Despite attempts to blend old and new stonework, the lower floor of the building followed a traditional design, restored and updated in places, but the same structure as the original building, which culminated in the extended kitchen and the car park. All anxiety about the holiday began to melt away with the frost, and Trevor started to treasure being in this little corner of paradise.
On his stroll down another lane towards the lodge, he noticed a cluster of wild purple thistles over a barbed wire fence. In his mind he had planned the theme as Christmas scarlet and green, but seeing them growing wild he decided the Scottish national flower should have a place in their temporary home.
Even leaning carefully over the barbed railing, using his coat for protection, he couldn’t reach the plants. Undeterred, he carefully pushed his arm through the wire and stretched forwards with a gloved hand. Just as he had grasped a couple of prickly stems, his foot slipped on the slope of an unseen ditch, the arm of his woollen jumper snagging on a barb, and, with a gasp, he fell up to his groin in ice-cold bog water. With one arm trapped and the other clutching uselessly at flora—but otherwise unharmed—he stopped panicking and took a few steadying breaths.
And that’s when Trevor saw him.
In the distance, a man—gloriously shirtless—on a shiny black horse moved leisurely along a dirt track through the glen, hauling a small cart laden with what appeared to be a pine tree. For some reason, the sight struck Trevor as vaguely comical, but as the man neared, Trevor’s breath caught at the smooth masculinity. Broad-shouldered and upright in the saddle, he wore his hair short beneath a black cap, college-boy style, and had a dark dusting of stubble. Even from a distance Trevor could make out the thick, muscular thighs in jodhpurs and the carved lines in the pale skin of his hairless chest, muscled arms and rippled stomach. Waking himself from his fixation, he realised he needed to get the rider’s attention. Until he saw the man already heading his way even though he appeared in no hurry. As he neared, Trevor could have sworn the rider was trying to control an amused and frankly rather handsome grin on his face.
“You enjoying yourself down there?” he called, his voice a pleasant baritone with a trace of a Scots accent.
“Having a bit of trouble, actually.”
“Aye, you surely are.”
“Sorry, can I ask why you’re not wearing any clothes?” said Trevor. He hated sounding like his grandmother but seemed unable to stop himself. “You’ll catch your death.”
Almost upon Trevor now, the man pulled on the reins and unhurriedly brought the horse to a stop. After a glance down at his own body—as though noticing his semi-nakedness for the first time—the man levelled a humoured gaze at Trevor.
“First of all, I was not expecting to see anyone else out here today. And you may not know this if your accent is anything to go by, but it’s a rare hot day for this part of the world. So I thought I’d get some sunshine. D’you not consider this hot?”
An inappropriate response to the question formed in Trevor’s head.
“As you can see, I’ve been otherwise preoccupied.”
Even though the young man didn’t laugh, he looked away to smile into the sky. He had a strong profile—formal, solid and defined, something Trevor’s grandmother might have referred to as ‘good breeding’.
“Aye, you surely have.”
“Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a hand?” asked Trevor.
“Give me a minute.”
In one limber movement, he dismounted the saddle and landed lightly on the ground. After watching a moment, Trevor unpicked the sleeve of his jumper from the metal thorn, and when he turned, the man stood towering over him.
“If you could just give me your hand and help me to—” he began, but before he could finish, the man had reached down, placed a hand under each of his armpits and hauled him effortlessly out of the ditch. When Trevor finally regained his composure, red-faced, wellies full of water, standing in a puddle on the path, he could barely find the courage to look his handsome rescuer in the eyes.
“I’m Rudy Mortimer,” said the man, holding out a hand. “And you are?”
The words ‘I’m ruddy mortified’ sat on Trevor’s tongue, but once again he managed to restrain himself from speaking them aloud.
“Hang on. Mortimer?” he said instead, shaking the strong, warm hand. “Any relation to Mrs Mortimer-King, the owner of Stratham Lodge?”
“Her son. Or one of them.”
“In which case I’m McTavish. Trevor McTavish. I’m the one renting the place.”
“Oh, yes. McTavish. That’s a good Scottish clan name you have there. Do your folk hail from this way?”
“You know, I’m not really sure where they come from. Apart from Balham in South London. That’s where my mum’s parents grew up. Maybe my father’s parents came from Scotland. They died before I was born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, welcome to Arkaig, Trevor McTavish.”
“Are you the one who handed over the keys last night? To my friends?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The same person who never answers his phone?”
“Sorry?”
“I tried calling you last night. On the number your mother left me. I think it’s a mobile phone number.”
“That’ll be mine. Forgot to charge my phone last night. Those unknown calls I missed were from you, then?”
“Unless you have any other holidaymakers who arrived last night and who have no power in their holiday home.”
Rudy Mortimer had the decency to turn a shade of beetroot, the colour rising from his neck to his cheeks and making him look positively adorable.
“Och, I’m sorry. Please, don’t tell my mother. She’ll surely kill me. I told her I had everything under control. I’m on my way to the lodge now, to make sure you settled in all right.”
“In all fairness, we did. And as you were kind enough to stop and help me out of the ditch, let’s call it quits. But if you could show me where the fuse box is so that I can switch on the electricity, we would all be really grateful. I think I’m going to need a hot shower when we get back. Is that our Christmas tree?”
“Aye. Freshly cut down this morning.”
“Perfect. With everyone else arriving later this afternoon, I’ll have plenty of time to decorate.”
“I really do apologise, Trevor,” he said guiltily. “This is entirely my fault. I remembered to sort out the heating during the day, but completely forgot to switch on the power. How did you manage last night?”
“Candles and a camp stove. My friend’s mother, Mrs Madison—you’ll meet her soon—is incredibly resourceful. She managed to produce a breakfast feast last night and again this morning.”
“Well, I’ll need to apologise to her, too. Can I ask, how did you end up standing in the ditch?”
“I was being impulsive, leaning over the fence attempting to pick heather and thistle. To use for decoration in the lodge.”
“If it’s heather and thistle you’re wanting, there’s a whole field full of yon prickly weed around the back of the lodge. Come, I’ll show you.”
“Before you do, I have one request.”
“Of course.”
“Can I empty my Wellingtons?”
After doing so and removing his socks, and after a surreptitious glance at the tight backside remounting the horse, Trevor strolled alongside, chatting companionably.
He learned about Rudy being the youngest son of Mr and Mrs Mortimer-King. His parents had gone to look after his mother’s older sister in Vancouver over the Christmas season but would be back on New Year’s Eve, Hogmanay. Rudy’s horse was called Troy and lived in the stables up at the old house. Whenever he said the words ‘old house’ he pointed a thumb back the way he had come. Over the holiday season, Rudy had been left to fend for himself, but didn’t seem to mind. Trevor filled him in on their little group of friends, about the regular get-together, omitting to mention what they had in common, about them batting for the gay team. Fair enough, too, because for the first time in five years not all of them did.
Instead of leading them to the lodge’s front door, Rudy steered the horse to the other side and, just as he had stated, a field opened before them. After a brief chuckle, Trevor stepped in and used the scissors he had brought with him to collect healthier specimens, placing them into his plastic sack. Without a word, Rudy guided Troy off, this time heading towards the back of the lodge. Once Trevor had finished, he hurried to catch up, finding Rudy now wearing a white polo shirt tucked into his jodhpurs and tying up the horse in the car park. Mrs M stood at the door, staring as Rudy unloaded the tree. When Trevor reached her, he stood at her shoulder, having turned to study Rudy.
“You need a hand?” Trevor called out.
“No, I’m good.”
“You most certainly are,” muttered Trevor, as Mrs M snorted and bumped her shoulder against his. They watched Rudy unload the Christmas tree and drag the evergreen towards the front door.
“Are you Mrs Madison?” asked Rudy as he approached.
“I am,” said Mrs M, folding her arms. “What of it?”
“I’m Rudy Mortimer, the owner’s son,” he said, lowering the tree to the ground before removing his cap and holding out a hand. Trevor noticed his hair and brows then, a deep, dark shade of red. “And I need to apologise to you. I should have switched on the power yesterday, and because of my mistake, I put you out. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
She studied him for a moment then looked to Trevor for reassurance.
“Is he for real?”
“What Mrs M means,” said Trevor, grabbing Mrs M’s hand and making her accept Rudy’s outstretched hand, “is that she’s not used to dealing with such well-mannered people. And to thank you for bringing the tree.”
Rudy dropped the tree off in the main room, then walked Trevor and Mrs M through the house, pointing out little features they could easily have overlooked during their stay. By the end, they knew their way around the lodge, where to find the fuse box and lights for the bar counter—hidden behind a wall panel just as Frank had guessed—the switch to illuminate the outside porch, how to fire up the central fireplace and where the remote controls were located for the television sets in each of the rooms.
Back in the kitchen, Mrs M set about making tea. Rudy offered to stick around to help Trevor put up the tree and the decorations, in recompense for his forgetfulness.
“I took the bedroom next to the kitchen,” said Trevor, to make conversation before wondering why he had shared that particular snippet.
“Good choice. Best room in the lodge.”
“Not sure about that. But it’s the nearest to the kitchen.”
“I take that room whenever I stay here. Bet you didn’t discover its little secrets, did you? Mind if I show you?”
Even before Trevor shrugged his approval, Rudy had already started moving towards the door. Inside the compact room, on either side of the bed, floor-to-ceiling wood panels covered the walls much like the rest of the lodge. The owners had placed a small bedside cabinet with a lamp on the right side of the bed, but nothing on the left, near the small window. Trevor had thought nothing of this, putting the lack of furniture down to fact that the room only slept one person. Rudy stepped around the bed and stopped at the bare wall on the left.
“Unless by accident, you probably wouldn’t have discovered this,” he said before placing his palm on the panel and pushing. The wall moved inwards softly and soundlessly, a hidden door leading into darkness. Reaching a hand inside, Rudy pressed something on the wall and bright light flooded the space.
Turning to Trevor, he beamed and said, “Come take a look.”
A modern bathroom had been fitted inside with a tub, a shower cubicle, sink and toilet. Rudy stepped over and turned the sink’s hot tap. Even though they had only just switched on the lodge’s electric immersion heaters, steamy hot water gushed into the sink.
“Best of all, the old lodge used to be heated from a fireplace in the kitchen—pipes still run at the back and through the Aga—so if you ever have a problem with the boiler, or if you have a power cut, this room will always get hot water. I love staying here when we have too many guests up at the old house. You may think you got a bum deal on the oldest and smallest bedroom in the house, but I guarantee, you’ll not get cold, because the pipes run beneath the bedroom floor.”
While Rudy talked, he had placed a hand on Trevor’s back, making his body stiffen slightly at the intimacy. When he left the warm hand there, Trevor turned to grin conspiratorially at him. Eventually Rudy let go, but the place where his hand had touched remained warm.
“Does that mean I can finally get out of these wet clothes and take a quick shower?”
“You need a hand?”
Trevor grinned at Rudy and the comment slipped out before he could stop himself.
“Might not be so quick if we’re showering together.”
“I meant with the shower controls,” said Rudy, baffled, his smile draining away.
Instant mortification. Usually Trevor had better filters and would never be so openly playful with someone he had just met. Not for the first time in his life, he had misjudged the situation, and now he had embarrassed Rudy. This time, he felt the deep burn of a blush on his cheeks.
“Um, sorry. Bad joke. Ha-ha.”
“Let me carry on with the tree in the main room,” said Rudy, backing out of the bathroom. “I’ll hang around until you’ve finished. Give you a hand with the decorations, as I promised.”
As soon as Rudy had gone, Trevor squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. Well done, Trevor. Not even a day in the place and he had already embarrassed the host and made a fool of himself.
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Brian Lancaster
Brian Lancaster is an author of gay romantic fiction in multiple genres, including contemporary romance, paranormal, fantasy, crime, mystery, and anything else that tickles his muse’s fancy. Born in the sleepy South of England where most of his stories are set, he moved to Southeast Asia in 1998, where he now shares a home with his husband and two of the laziest cats on the planet.
Find out more about Brian at his website.
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