Page 2 of For the Love of Scott
“At least I got right to the point,” she says with a wink. “And thanks.”
With a wave, Helen continues the trek to her car. Marva putters into the truck yard and parks. If she was even ten years younger, she might’ve skipped across the parking lot and into the building.Job well done, Marva. Job well done.
So far, so good anyway. Flattery might not have been necessary, but it ensures that the dinner invitation happens sooner rather than later.
* * *
Christmas lights line the edge of just about every structure of the Thompson homestead. Roof lines, porch railings, fencing. Multi-colored lights, icicles, white rope lights.
Scott can’t help the smile or the lurch in his stomach that follows. His own childhood home had never seen such tender loving care at the holidays. Not even before his mother had taken off. His father had been the Grinch personified. To have had parents who made the holidays special… Well, he hadn’t, and crying about having crappy parents at this late date serves no purpose.
Holiday cheer steals over him despite his lack of fond childhood memories. Maybe this weekend he’ll drive over to the big box store and pick up some lights. He’d gotten a pick-me-up out of the sight of driving up to the Thompson house and seeing it lit up like the Las Vegas Strip. Since the kennel occupies a stretch of land along the south highway in and out of town, if he lights up the facility, it’ll be a sight—hopefully a good one—for anyone driving into or out of town after dark.
Scott pulls his battered old pickup into a space between a huge dark-colored dually and Ben’s older-model work truck. A red medium-sized SUV and Ben’s motorcycle are parked under a detached carport.
A jumbo-sized wreath with small white twinkle lights blinks from the branches hung on the large expanse of wall between two lit-from-within windows. The draperies are pulled back, revealing the women’s-magazine-cover scene inside. One window frames Ben and his niece setting the table; the other shows Mrs. Thompson tossing a salad and laughing. The storybook picture pulls another smile from Scott.
The Christmas lights provide plenty of illumination to the front door. With a press of the button, the door bell chimes on the other side, and a little girl’s voice yells, “I’ll get it.”
Scott recognizes Ben’s responding baritone, although he can’t make out the words, followed by a high-pitched squeal. The door opens and a wave of warm spicy-scented air washes over him. God, he’s hungry.
Ben, with five-year-old Misty perched on one arm, pushes open the old-fashioned wood screen door. “C’mon in.” He steps back to allow Scott room to enter. Ben holds out his hand and Scott slides his own into the man’s warm grasp. “Misty, you remember Mr. Hudson, don’t you?”
She nods, a wide grin showcasing the missing bottom teeth. “Hi, Mr. Hudson.”
What a cutie and the spitting image of Ben. If someone didn’t know that Misty’s mother, Gillian, and Ben had been twins, he could be, and probably was, mistaken for her dad. Kids have never been on Scott’s radar. Being gay makes it a little harder, though not impossible. Factor in his miserable childhood, and remaining childless seems the better option.
Mrs. Thompson comes around the corner. “Hello, Scott, honey. How are you?”
“I’m good. Wore out, but good.” He hands her a small decorative candle thing he’d picked up at the grocery store: a six-inch green pillar candle with sprigs of pine and other random flowery things he doesn’t know the names of surrounding the base.
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes widen and a flush of pleasure colors her cheeks. Big blue eyes like Ben’s and Misty’s meet his. “Oh, honey, this is lovely. Thank you.” She stretches up on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek.
Scott ducks his head, hoping to hide his own unexpected pleasure at her gesture. “You’re welcome.”
“Now take your coat off and come on into the kitchen. Grandma Hardy’s goulash is just about ready. The recipe’s been in the family for generations. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re awful polite, although I must admit it’s a refreshing change,” she says, sending a wink his way.
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. Eleven years in the military will do that.”
Collectible plates of all sorts cover the papered walls as he follows her. They depict cats and birds, as well as the various states that the Thompsons have probably visited on family vacations. Scott had never been outside the state of Texas until he’d gone to boot camp. During the course of his Army life he’d lived in two states, passed through the airports of a handful of others, and did two tours in the Middle East. His experiences of airports and deserts have nothing on the collection of memories Ben must have of his family at Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon.
The dining room table is longer than he is tall and appears to be hand-made. It’s stained a deep rich brown and protected by a thick shiny coat of varnish. Eight matching chairs surround it. The red, green, and gold plaid place mats are all clustered at one end.
“Sit by me, Mr. Hudson,” says Misty, patting the seat next to hers.
Scott looks back and forth between Ben and Mrs. Thompson. They both play primary roles in raising Misty, and he isn’t sure who he should ask. “Is it all right if she calls me Scott or Mr. Scott? Mr. Hudson is awful formal for a guy who shovels dog sh-doo all day.”
Misty giggles, her tiny white teeth showing again.
“Sorry,” Scott murmurs, ducking his head as slight embarrassment heats his face.
“Mr. Scott is fine, honey.” Mrs. Thompson nods and then turns toward a doorway and calls, “Jed. Come to the table.”
Ben waves at the chair next to Misty and takes the seat across the table from Scott.
