Thomas’s eyes widened in appreciation. He took her hand in both of his. “Kerry, it’s so nice to meet you. We both love your work.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So you’ve been on the road with a show? Are you an actor?”
“God no,” the two men drawled in unison.
“I’m a theatrical producer,” Thomas explained.
“And John’s a writer. He’ll never tell you this himself, but he’s a New York Times bestseller,” Thomas said proudly. “His books terrify me. How does a gay man write such seriously spooky stuff?”
“You’re gay?” John lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been sleeping with you for twenty-five years, and now you tell me?”
“Funny, honey,” Thomas said. “Okay, enough about us. This lady has been here for at least ten minutes and she doesn’t even have a drink in her hand.”
“What’ll you have?” John asked. “Wine? Martini? Champagne? Or some of Thomas’s infamous Christmas punch?”
“The punch sounds delicious but dangerous, so maybe just a glass of champagne.”
* * *
She sipped from a delicate crystal flute and wandered into the living room, where Taryn Kaplan spotted her and began introducing her to some of the other partygoers. Kerry felt a tug at the sleeve of her jacket.
Austin beamed up at her. He looked especially natty, wearing a red-and-white-striped dress shirt, red plaid vest, and a necklace of winking plastic Christmas tree lights.
“Hey, Kerry!” the boy said, his voice pitched with excitement.
“Austin, hi,” Kerry said. “Where’s your dad tonight?”
“He’s at his place. It’s my mom’s turn to stay with me. You look real pretty,” Austin said. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an iced sugar cookie and took a bite. “Did you get any of the cookies? I helped make ’em.”
“I didn’t, but I’ll certainly get one, now that I know you baked them.”
“Get the ones with the silver sprinkles,” he advised.
“Austin?” A woman, slender with hair worn in a sleek dark bob, approached and pointed to the cookie the boy was munching on. Kerry recognized her from their brief encounter at the tree stand. “How many of those have you eaten tonight?”
“Not that many. Only five.”
“Austin?” She brushed away the cookie crumbs cascading down his vest.
“Maybe it was six? I forget.”
“Okay, no more cookies for you,” the woman said sternly. She favored Kerry with a lukewarm smile.
“Hi there. I’m Gretchen McCaleb. Austin’s mom.”
“And I’m Kerry. My brother and I run the Christmas tree stand. Austin’s been a big help this week.”
“Really? How so?”
“My brother was sleeping and I had to run an errand, so Patrick and Austin very generously offered to mind the stand. It was barely an hour,” Kerry explained.
“But then the police came, and somebody called a tow truck and they were gonna hook Spammy up to the truck and take her away. But Murphy yelled at the guy and made him go away,” the boy continued.
“The police?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Kerry assured her.
Gretchen nodded. “You’re the artist, right? Austin has been telling me all about the story you two have been writing and illustrating together.”
“Mr. Heinz has been helping too. He draws really good. You should see the picture he drew of me and Kerry.”
“Are you talking about that batty old homeless guy in the dusty coat, Austin? I’m not sure you should be hanging around with him. There’s something off about that man. Always wandering the street, day and night, muttering to himself.”
“He seems harmless to me,” Kerry said.
Gretchen gave her an impassive stare.
“You’ve been here, what? A week? I’ve been seeing him around the neighborhood for years. He scowls every time he sees me.” She put a protective hand on Austin’s shoulder. “I saw him take his cane and beat the hood of a cab last year when it honked at him for jaywalking. He could be a dangerous kook. I’d really rather that man not spend any time with my child.”
“What’s all this about?”
Patrick had eased, unannounced, into their little circle.
Austin’s face brightened. “Dad! You came.”
Patrick high-fived his son. “Of course I came. Can’t miss the best Christmas party of the year.”
“I thought you had dinner with a client tonight,” Gretchen said.
“More like drinks and appetizers. And the restaurant was only a few blocks away.”
“How nice,” Gretchen murmured. Kerry almost laughed. She could tell the woman was totally pissed to see her ex.
Gretchen took a sip of her martini. “I was just telling Kerry that I don’t like our son spending time around that homeless man. He seems deranged.”
“Oh, I don’t think Heinz is deranged. And look, it’s not like Austin has ever been alone with him.”
Austin tugged at the hem of Patrick’s Harris tweed sport coat. “Dad, there’s Murphy. And he brought his banjo.”
Claudia had Murphy by the arm, dragging him toward the living room fireplace, where a chair had been set up in front of a roaring fire.
“Everyone!” she announced. “We’ve got a treat tonight. Murphy Tolliver has volunteered to get us in the Christmas spirit by playing his dobro.”
Guests drifted in from the dining room, glasses and plates in hand, and formed a semicircle around him. The room grew silent as all eyes were trained on the musician.
Finally, Murphy looked up and cleared his throat. “Uh, what d’ya’ll want to hear?”
“Play ‘Frosty the Snowman,’” Austin piped up.
Laughter rippled through the crowd and the awkward silence was broken.
chapter 17
Murphy closed his eyes and positioned his large, chapped hands on the flat bridge of the dobro. He was still for a moment and looked almost prayerful. His fingers were like Jock’s, thick and calloused, with dirt under the nails that no amount of scrubbing would ever entirely erase.
But then, his fingers flew over the strings. Kerry looked down at Austin, whose eyes were alive with excitement. Patrick was watching him too, and for a moment, he glanced over at Kerry and grinned.
From “Frosty the Snowman,” Murphy plowed without stopping into “Jingle Bells,” and then, with a nod in Austin’s direction, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Finally, he paused and looked up, his cheeks pink with excitement or embarrassment, Kerry couldn’t tell which.
The room erupted in applause, and he ducked his head. Their hosts had drifted into the room and stood in front of the huge Christmas tree that dominated the rest of the room. It was strung with what appeared to be thousands of tiny, twinkling white lights.
“Murphy, can you play something, I don’t know, like maybe the kind of music you might play back at home?” John asked.
“You mean like bluegrass, country, something like that?”
“Whatever you like,” John said.
Murphy’s hand began patting out a beat on the dobro’s neck and a minute later he started playing the first notes of “I’ll Fly Away.” Soon, everyone in the crowd was clapping and tapping their feet.