Hound Dog & Bean (16 page)

“It’s Dean,” Bean answered. “The rhyme was way too close for me to avoid it. Call me whatever you want—”

“—just don’t call you late for dinner,” H.D. finished.
Stupid! Why did you say
…?

But then his host was laughing and all was well.

Bean. I will call you Bean. No reason to get personal.

“Speaking of dinner,” Bean said. “You want me to light the charcoal?”

“Sure,” H.D. said. “It’ll take me a little bit to get everything ready, and by then the coals should be ready. You got any aluminum foil?”

“I sure do,” said Bean and bent over to pull out a bottom drawer.

Damn if H.D. didn’t find himself staring again.

E
LAINE
WAS
on her way home from Penn Valley dog park—which Sarah Jane had loved, romping and barking in joyful abandon—when Elaine spotted a bespectacled woman walking along the sidewalk. Could it be? With those big round glasses, could it be anyone else?

She pulled over quickly and sure enough. It was the young woman from the coffee shop around the corner from FFF. She cranked down her window—the van was an ’02—and Sarah immediately climbed in her lap and began to bark at the barista. The woman looked up in alarm, and seeing it was only the smallest of dogs, and then seeing Elaine, gave a warm smile. To her surprise, Elaine felt tingly all over, and her stomach was attacked by nerves. “Hey, Mara.” It was all she could get out of her mouth for a moment. She couldn’t believe how jumpy she was suddenly. She had confronted snarling mastiffs. Why the anxiousness?

“Hey, Elaine.” Mara stepped up to the car. “And who is this lovely?” She held up a hand so the bouncing dog could sniff her. A few seconds later, Sarah Jane had abandoned barking in favor of licking Mara’s hand.

“Th-this….” Elaine froze up for a second and then berated herself for being so foolish. She could stand before a board of directors and ask for money for Four-Footed Friends. She was being downright stupid. “This is Sarah Jane.”

“Hey, girl. Hey, baby girl!” Sarah stopped licking so Poindexter could scratch her behind the ears. Her eyes turned into slits of pure pleasure.

“Aren’t you a pretty little woman? Aren’t you?”

Sarah Jane began to make happy moans, allowing that yes, she was indeed a pretty little woman.

“That’s just what we call her,” Elaine said. “Well… tiny little woman. Or itty-bitty, teeny-tiny little woman.”

Poindexter let out a single, “Ha!” and started using both hands to rub the dog. “What kind of dog is she?”

“As far as we can see—vet thinks we’re right—she’s a Yorkshire terrier, dachshund mix. You looking for a four-footed friend?”

“Me? Gosh, no. Not right now. The landlord won’t let us have dogs. I think he’s afraid they might scare off the cockroaches.”

“Cockroaches?” Elaine shuddered. If there was anything she hated, it was a cockroach. Spiders she could deal with. Snakes. Even rats. Hell, she had seen dogs that weren’t much more than glorified rats. But cockroaches? God, no!

“My building breeds them,” Poindexter said with an “ah, you know” wave of her hand.

Sarah Jane grunted in disapproval since one hand had been removed from its scratching duty.

“Ah, well,” said Elaine warily, then realized Mara must be joking. At least she hoped she was. “Speaking of home, do you need a ride?”

Poindexter laughed. “Nope. I’m right there.” She pointed, and Elaine looked at the building that wasn’t even twenty feet away and….

And God. It was The Dove. Crap. Poor Mara. The Dove was about as low as you could get. Hell, it was right next door to the Red Garter—a sleazy “gentleman’s” club. Elaine made sure she didn’t react, though. She knew how to control her emotions as well as facial expressions. As a businesswoman and the facilitator and codirector of a no-kill animal shelter, she had to be in complete control. But damn if she wasn’t having a hell of a time controlling herself now.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, I thought I would check.”

“I really appreciate it,” Poindexter replied. “It’s awfully nice of you.”

Their eyes locked and the world dropped out from under Elaine. She felt light-headed. God. She was acting like a teenager.
Snap out of it!
she ordered herself.

Poindexter made a single slow nod and stepped back. Sarah whimpered. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in the next morning or two?”

“Sure,” Elaine replied.

Poindexter seemed to be waiting for something. But what? Elaine had no idea. Was she supposed to say something? Damn!

“See ya, Sarah Jane.”

Sarah barked, tail fiercely wagging once again.

Poindexter nodded and turned to leave. Elaine didn’t want her to go. She wanted to talk to her. Really
talk
to her and not just make polite chit-chat like they did in the coffee shop.
God. What would H.D. do? Ha! Forget what he would do. He would say something like, “You wanna fuck?”
That was not what she wanted. She wanted to get to
know
Mara.
So what then? What do
I
do?

“Mara?”

Poindexter stopped and came back to the van. “Yeah?” She laid a hand on the window ledge and Sarah immediately began to shove her head in under it, wanting to be petted.

“W-would you like to have dinner?”

The smile that spread across Poindexter’s face was like a rising sun. “I’d love to!”

Sarah Jane barked in excitement.

“But what about a teeny-tiny little woman?” Poindexter said.

“Well….” Elaine looked down at the bobbing head of her charge. “We could always get to-go and head to my place.” She felt her cheeks heat up.

Poindexter’s smile got even brighter. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Really?” Elaine was surprised, despite herself.

“Well, lady, I’d given up hope you were ever gonna ask me out!”

And Elaine burst into laughter.

Sometimes all you had to do was ask.

W
HILE
H.D.
began to prepare the fish and veggies, Bean performed the complicated and “dangerous” task of lighting the charcoal. The process was made simple enough with the self-lighting charcoal—briquettes with the lighter fluid already in them.

When his father bought his fancy new propane grill, he’d given Bean his old one, with warnings not to light himself on fire. As far as Bean was concerned, the likelihood of the new one exploding or something was scarier.

“I feel funny giving this to you,” his father had told him. “I can’t figure out why I didn’t switch to gas years ago. This thing—”

“Is perfect, Dad,” Bean had assured him. “If I want something more I can get one.”

“They’re not cheap, son.”

“I can afford it.” It had been hard to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“You sure, Deanie?” The look in his father’s eyes had showed… what? Doubt? Was that fear?

When Grandma Mary had died—his mom’s mother—she had left him a sizeable inheritance, as well as a trust. Bean wasn’t hurting for money, and he didn’t know why his father couldn’t remember that. He would be downright stunned if he knew how well The Shepherd’s Bean was doing. Didn’t the man wonder how his son had been able to expand into the out-of-business scrapbooking store next door? Didn’t his mother? Surely she knew the only way he could have gotten a loan to help with the renovations was if the bank considered him a safe investment.

“He’s a father,” Poindexter had told him when they’d talked about it. “A parent always worries about their kid.”

Another reason not to have children. Good God, the stress and worry alone!
“It’s because of this,” Bean said with a wave, indicating the coffee shop. He and Mara had been doing morning setup while they talked. While Bean vented, that is. Customers would be lining up soon.

“Bean. It’s about how… unexpected all this must have been to them. Your parents…. Your dad was a prosecutor for how many years? A really respected one? Your mom’s a bank president for God’s sake. Look where they live—”

“I know where they live,” Bean had said, cutting her off. “I grew up there.” It wasn’t a mansion or anything, but he’d been quite privileged growing up, one of the wealthiest kids in a school of mostly well-to-do students.

Poindexter had laughed at that point.

“What’s so funny Mara?”

“I think how many times I’ve had conversations like this with gay friends. And it wasn’t about parents disapproving their
jobs
.”

“I know. I know! I’m supposed to be thrilled that they don’t care that I’m gay.”

“Yes,” said Poindexter. “You
are
.”

The truth was, he was happy that his gayness had never been an issue. His mother hadn’t even particularly bothered him about grandkids. But how did he argue the point with Mara? She didn’t have a close relationship with her mother. She’d hadn’t been kicked out in the street for being a lesbian, but her mother hadn’t asked her to move in when Mara and her girlfriend broke up last year. So Bean had given her a place to stay. He had a spare bedroom and he liked her. Mara hadn’t stayed long. She was too proud for that. Worked two jobs until she could afford the down payment and first month’s rent on a small apartment. Bean found he hadn’t wanted her to leave. It turned out he liked stumbling over her. That he liked company after all. But she was not to be deterred. She wanted to be self-reliant, even if that meant the crappy accommodations of the Dove apartments.

“I’m thinking of teaching the cockroaches to sing and dance,” she’d said. “Like they did around the toilet seat in that movie
Joe’s Apartment
. You know the one?”

All Bean had been able to do was shudder. He’d never seen a real living cockroach until he began his travels. Apparently, the fear and loathing of the creepy crawlies was instinctual.

So with what Mara Poindexter had experienced in her life, had he really expected her to be able to identify, let alone have empathy for him in this situation?

But dammit. He wanted his family to be proud of his accomplishments. Kansas City, according to
Daily Coffee News
, was emerging as one of the top coffee-roasting destinations in the country. That meant they were now in the league of Portland and San Francisco and New York. And The Shepherd’s Bean had recently been listed as one of the top twenty-five coffee houses in the whole country. That was a big fripping deal! He’d been approached by two of the top Third Wave coffee people in the business. Friends had told him he was crazy not to go to work for them. But The Shepherd’s Bean was his dream, and he had no intention of going anywhere. Why stop working for The Man and then start working for someone else, even if he did believe in them more? He hadn’t even told his parents about it. They would have thought he was crazy.

No matter.
He
believed in what he did. He had a passion for coffee—an excitement he’d never found anywhere else. Some people understood. Some people thought he was eccentric.

Did his mother realize she had been the one to open Pandora’s Box? He might very well have been a man who never found his bliss, working a joyless job, plodding on day by day toward eventual retirement—if he didn’t die first. Except his mother had opened his mind and freed him from mediocrity with lunar eclipses and trips to El Salvador. She had set him on a path. It had taken him a long time to find where the path was leading. But he had.

So, yes. He
was
happy, grateful even, that his parents had no problems with his sexuality. He was glad they accepted his choice of career. But why couldn’t they be as proud of The Shepherd’s Bean as they were of having a gay son?

“You okay there, buddy?”

Bean jumped as if he’d been goosed.

It was only H.D., of course.
Hound Dog
, he reminded himself. Why did that sound so sexy?

“You were in the
Twilight Zone
, weren’t you?”

Bean gave a shrug, embarrassed for some reason.

“I’m about ready to put the food on the grill. How are those coals doing?”

Bean looked into the grill. The black symmetrical chunks were turning white around the edges. He held his hand over them and felt a slight heat. “Give ’em ten minutes?”

“Perfect-o,” said H.D. and gave Bean the thumbs up. “That’ll be just right.”

“How about that wine?” Bean asked.

“Perfect-o two,” H.D. answered with a smile.

They went inside and Bean found the corkscrew, opened the bottle of Pinot Noir, and poured two glasses. “We can let them breathe a minute if you want.”

“Breathe?” H.D. chuckled, and shook his head, his mass of dreadlocks moving like a wave. “You know, I’ve never known what the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

“My mom says that letting it sit a bit allows the wine to be exposed to the air—allows the wine’s aromas to open up. Or something like that anyway.”

“Sounds a little like bullshit to me,” H.D. said, eyes twinkling.

“Then we can forget it if you want,” Bean said reaching for one of the glasses. “Just don’t tell my mom.”

“No, no,” H.D. replied. “If your mom says we have to let the wine breathe, then by all means, let’s let it breathe.”

Talking about the wine made Bean remember the viognier, and he wondered if he should take it out of the refrigerator. Maybe not. Dinner would still take a while.

He noticed then that H.D. had created a controlled mess. Little piles of the parts of the vegetables they weren’t going to eat, as well as the plastic wrap and Styrofoam dish the fish had come in.

“I didn’t know where the trashcan was,” H.D. explained.

“I’m not worried about it,” Bean said.

“You collect trash?”

“No.” Bean chuckled. “Can is under the sink. And I compost the vegetable matter.”

H.D. quickly found the trashcan and disposed of the plastic and then filled his grocery bag with the rest. “Point the way,” he said.

“I can get it later,” Bean said.

“And you’ll forget and it’ll be after dark when you remember and….”