L.A. Boneyard (40 page)

“Marry? You could take me to the bottom of a coal mine, and it would be beautiful.” A huge smile brightened Chris’s face, erasing all the stress lines that had aged him prematurely lately. “I accept.”

David’s smile lit up his face.

Two months later they stood below a pine-scented cliff, surrounded by the impossibly craggy, forested slopes of the Banff National Forest, nestled around the bowl of Lake Victoria. They spoke the words they had written together. They were flanked by all their friends. Becky and Clay were there; David didn’t think he’d ever seen Becky in a dress, she looked surprisingly feminine, something he knew he’d never tell her.

Chris’s sister and her husband came from Oakland. His parent’s declined the invitation, but they sent an exquisite, sterling serving set. David’s parents had not responded, though his stepfather sent them a check for two thousand dollars and a bottle of Mumms, that David was sure his mother knew nothing about. Even Martinez had come, dressed to the nines in a navy pinstripe suit that clearly hadn’t come off any rack, with his wife, Inez, dressed in matching finery. David knew Des had been responsible for that. After Chris had talked a very reluctant Martinez into being David’s best man, Des had put his size-eight foot down, and declared there was no way in hell he was being caught dead on the same continent with Martinez and one of his hideous outfits. He had dragged a bewildered Martinez into his shop on Robertson, and personally L.A. BONEYARD
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handpicked a subdued Brooks Brothers suit, though it had nearly killed Des not to put him in the latest Paul Smith. Des had arranged for a boutique on Rodeo Drive to dress Inez to match. As the ceremony came to a close, a pair of bald eagles flew overhead, vanishing inland, into the secretive shadows of the trees. Des squealed, “Oh, that is such good luck.” He clutched Trevor’s arm. “Oh, I love weddings. They make me cry. Give me the word, sugar, and we can be next.”

Afterwards, they retired to the Evergreen Dining Room where they drank Cristal, and single malt scotches, and ate elk steaks, quail and Brome Lake duck breast, toasting the couple until the evening waned, and a new day started. Chris and David finally broke away from the revelry, and crossed through the scented night to their suite. The echoes of their guests’

merrymaking still ringing in their ears, they faced each other beside the canopied king-size bed. They barely noticed the spectacular moon-washed view beyond the French doors overlooking the Alpine Garden.

David reached up and touched Chris’s cheek. Chris leaned into his hand. “My husband,” he said.

David laughed softly and cupped Chris’s face. “Husband,”

he whispered. “I love you.”

“Prove it,” Chris said, a sly smile flitting across his beautiful face.

David folded him into his arms. “Anytime.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PAT BROWN was born in Canada, which she is sure explains her intense dislike of all things cold and her constant striving to escape to someplace warm. Her first move took her to Los Angeles, and her fate was sealed. To this day she has a love/hate relationship with L.A, a city that was endlessly fascinating.
L.A. Heat
and the even darker
L.A. Boneyard
grew out of those dark, compelling days.

She wrote her first book at 17 – an angst ridden tome about a teenage girl hooked up with a drug user and went off the deep end. All this from a kid who hadn’t done anything stronger than weed. She read her first positive gay book then too, The Lord Won’t Mind, by Gordon Merrick and had her eyes open to a whole other world (which didn’t exist in ultra conservative vanilla plain London, Ontario). Visit Pat on the internet at: http://www.pabrown.ca/