Wedding Season Read online

  Wedding Season

  Book 5

  in the

  Beach Reading Series

  Mark Abramson

  Lethe Press

  Maple Shade, NJ

  Copyright © 2011 by Mark Abramson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief citation or review, without the written permission of Lethe Press.

  www.lethepressbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Book Design by Toby Johnson

  Cover Photograph by Chris Knight, Left Coast Scenes

  Lighting by Doug Salin and Celso Dulay

  Cover Model: Daniel Atwood

  Author Photograph: David Bruner

  www.davidkbruner.com

  With special thanks to Giovanni De Grande for translating the rantings of Rosa Rivera into Italian.

  Mark Abramson

  San Francisco

  April 6, 2011

  Published as a trade paperback original

  by Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Avenue, Maple Shade, NJ 08052.

  First U.S. edition, 2011

  ISBN 1-59021-143-X ISBN-13 978-1-59021-143-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Abramson, Mark, 1952-

  Wedding season / Mark Abramson. -- 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm. -- (Beach reading series ; bk. 5)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59021-143-4

  ISBN-10: 1-59021-143-X

  1. Snow, Tim (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Gay men--California--San Francisco--Fiction. 3. Family secrets--Fiction. 4. Castro (San Francisco, Calif.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.B758W43 2011

  813’.6--dc22

  2011016032

  Wedding Season

  Book Five in the Beach Reading Series

  Praise for the Beach Reading series

  “Bret Harte…helped found the literary convention of local color while living on the California coast. 150 years later, Mark Abramson…makes his own contribution to that rich tradition by applying his verbal pointillé to San Francisco… Clever and sexy with a ton of heart (and Harte).”

  Instinct Magazine

  “Part of the appeal of…the series is that Abramson sticks close to the reality of San Francisco—the Castro, in particular. He writes what he knows, drawing on his experiences in the community and as a waiter-bartender. Local readers can recognize the stores and bars they frequent; Abramson even features a few San Francisco celebs in cameos.

  “The idea is to draw readers into a world they know. The series is both familiar and escapist. It’s aggressively unpretentious, because that is the kind of book Abramson wants to read.”

  Louis Peitzman, San Francisco Chronicle

  “…the author creates one heck of a suspenseful page turner, featuring the characters already endeared to those of us who read the earlier books in the series. (While reading them all in order is not a must, as Abramson provides sufficient detail for ‘newbies’ to catch up on what they need to know, I do indeed recommend reading them all, as this is absolutely the best gay mystery series to come along in at least a decade!) As always, the writing takes you to the Castro instantly, and you can almost smell the sourdough bread!”

  Bob Lind, Echo Magazine

  “Abramson can tie more complicated knots and entangling nets than a 19th-Century sailor, his catch prolific and entertaining... ‘Beach’ is a state of mind, and Beach Reading can be done as enjoyably under an electric throw by the fireside as slathered in SP 40 by the lapping waves.”

  E.B. Boatner, Lavender Magazine

  “Back in the 1970s, in the age of Harvey Milk and the singer Sylvester, a young man named Mark Abramson moved from his native [Minnesota] to San Francisco. There he became part of a generation of gay men who populated Castro Street and changed gay life forever, joining people such as John Preston, Randy Shilts and Al Parker (all of whom he befriended).

  “Mark Abramson’s love for San Francisco is most evident in his “Beach Reading” series; a gay valentine to the City by the Bay that promises to be the best book series of its kind since Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City.”

  Jesse Monteagudo, AfterElton.com

  Also by Mark Abramson

  Beach Reading

  Cold Serial Murder

  Russian River Rat

  Snowman

  Disclaimer

  Despite any resemblance to living and/ or historical figures, all characters appearing or mentioned in Wedding Season are fictional except: Martha Stewart, Officer Jane Warner, Edith Piaf, Tim Lincecum, Nancy Sinatra, Madalyn Murray O’Hair, Lieutenant Governor Gavin Newsom, Rikki Streicher, Rosie O’Donnell, Madonna, The Reverend Cecil Williams, Joan Crawford, Stanlee Gatti, The Carpenters, Felice Picano, Tammy Faye Bakker, Supervisor Scott Weiner, Albert DeSalvo, The Scissor Sisters, Chaz Bono, President Barack Obama, Donna Sachet, Betty Ford, Armistead Maupin, Joan Collins, Anderson Cooper, Dianne Feinstein, Edith Head, The San Francisco Giants, Leah Garchik, Judy Garland, Danielle Steele, David Sedaris, Andrew Cunanan, Christine Jorgensen, Gladys Bumps, Cher, Jan Wahl, Bob Hope, Henry Tannenbaum, Pat Montclaire, John Preston, John Wayne Gacy, Maggie Gallagher, The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, Woody, the nudist/ waiter.

  Chapter 1

  Church bells clanged and organ music thundered like the waves of a crashing sea. Tim Snow had looked forward to this day, his Aunt Ruth’s wedding to Sam Connor. The ceremony would start any moment. He looked around and saw dozens of familiar, smiling faces seated at the Castro Theatre. Only… the Castro lacked a center aisle for the bride to enter on her father’s arm and stroll out with her new husband and a beaming smile. And the entire room was far too bright to be a theater; the sun sent yellow shafts of light through stained glass windows onto the faces of women in flowered hats and men in suits and ties.

  Tim stood at the altar beside Sam and his son Adam, the handsome fashion model from Chicago. The music changed and the organist reset the stop to sound a one-note trumpet fanfare. Now Tim wondered if they were in Grace Cathedral. It would suit Sam’s style to be married at the top of Nob Hill, but Aunt Ruth would take a lot of convincing for anything so fancy.

  A lone bridesmaid appeared, limped a few steps up the aisle and staggered. She grabbed the arm of a pew to right herself but reeled and fell. A middle-aged man in a blue suit tried to help her up, but she spat at him and pushed him away. Tim recognized his mother, blind drunk, but he was as helpless as anyone else to do anything about it. She dropped her bouquet and crawled toward the altar, drooling like a rabid dog. Her foot caught on the flowers, tore them apart and left a trail of crushed petals down the aisle. Tim’s face turned red with rage. Everyone must wonder why this pathetic woman was here. Someone would figure out that the bride, Ruth Taylor, only had one sister and since Ruth was Tim’s aunt that could only mean that this drunken woman must be… Tim would never admit it! He would deny that he knew her, that he’d ever laid eyes on her!

  Now he turned his anger toward Aunt Ruth, who hadn’t yet appeared. She should have known better. Why hadn’t she warned Tim that his mother was invited? She should have known that her drunken sister would make a fool of herself and ruin Ruth and Sam’s big day—.

  “—Hey! Wake up, Tim. Are you okay, babe?” Nick was looking down at him, shaking him.

  Tim murmured, “Yeah, yeah…”

  They both lay back down and Tim felt Nick wrap one strong arm around him, as warm and comforting as ever, and soon they were fast asleep again.

  Now Tim watched the wedding scene from above. The organ music still played, but his mother was gone and it was peaceful again. Waves lapped at a nearby shore and Tim could hear seagulls and a distant foghorn. Maybe this was Adam’s wedding to Alexandra, but there was no ocean in Chicago. The orga
n’s notes turned into the sound of the sea again and faded away this time. Now the congregation was dressed in pastels. Men and women wore big flowered hats. Now he understood. Some of the men were in drag.

  It was a wedding alright, but it was at Arts restaurant on Castro Street. The place was ten times bigger in Tim’s dream than in reality. Phil was playing the piano, naked, and there was no massive pipe organ if you didn’t count the one between Phil’s legs. He wasn’t completely naked, either. He had on that silly bow tie and collar he wore on special occasions with starched cuffs and silver cufflinks and probably black patent leather shoes, although Tim couldn’t see Phil’s feet. Tim moaned again—

  — and felt Nick touching him, shaking him until he came to.

  “Huh?” Tim blinked. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

  “You’re right here safe beside me, Snowman. You were just having another dream.”

  Tim was used to wild dreams, a common side effect of the HIV drugs he took every day. He didn’t mind the dreams, as long as the drugs kept working, keeping his viral load undetectable and his T-cells were over 500 at last count. Most people had lots worse things than dreams to worry about; Tim knew there were lots worse things than HIV, too.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost seven thirty, time to get up. I was awake, anyway. It’s time for us to pack up and head home pretty soon. You were mumbling about a wedding and then you mentioned Phil and something about an earthquake. I thought I’d better try to wake you ’cause you don’t usually talk in your sleep. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Thanks.” Tim sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah… I’m okay… just a little headache. It wasn’t such a bad dream except the part when my mother was shit-faced and ruining Aunt Ruth’s wedding. I don’t remember any earthquake. The whole thing was so weird and then I wasn’t sure who was getting married. It might have been someone else. There were all these drag queens at Arts in big hats like Easter bonnets and lots of other people. I knew most of them.”

  “Do you want to go for a run on the beach? It might clear your head and we could work up an appetite for breakfast before we head back to the city.”

  “Head back…? What beach? Is that the ocean I hear? I thought I was listening to a pipe organ. Where are we?”

  Nick lifted the palm of his hand to Tim’s forehead. “It doesn’t feel like you have a fever, but maybe you’re a little warm. We’re in a cabin south of Carmel. We were driving back up the coast from L.A., just taking our time and you said you wanted to stop here and spend our last night on the road. Don’t you remember? We were planning to be back in San Francisco by this afternoon or this evening, but it doesn’t matter to me. If you’re not feeling well, we can stay here longer… at least until you feel better.”

  “Oh, sure I remember. I’m feeling okay now. Don’t worry. It was just a dream.”

  ”So… you were dreaming about a wedding, huh? Do you think it might have been our wedding? Yours and mine?

  “Sam and Aunt Ruth were getting married,” Tim said, ignoring Nick’s attempt to get closer to him. ”At first I thought it was in the Castro Theatre, but then I realized it was broad daylight and it would have been dark in there. Then it seemed like it was in some huge, cavernous place like Grace Cathedral or maybe St. Mary’s or that big white one in Minneapolis just north of Loring Park.”

  “I think I detect a change of subject.” Nick pulled away. “I was talking about you and me—”

  “I remember last night and the night before and that place we pulled over in the car above the ocean and watched the sunset… You know, Nick, sometimes I think you and I do honeymoons so well that we should just stick to what we’re good at. Why do we need to talk about getting married?”

  “You remember all that, do you?” Nick slid in closer again and put one arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Maybe we should go for a run.”

  “Yes, I remember now and I know a better way to work up an appetite than running.” Tim pushed Nick back down on the bed. He kicked off the covers and climbed on top of him, straddling his chest. Then he leaned in close to nuzzle his neck and kiss him on the mouth. “Does it make me a top if I sit on it?”

  “I’m not into labels, Snowman… just don’t stop.”

  By the time they opened the door of the cabin the sun was high in the sky. They pulled on shorts and went for a barefoot run on the sandy beach and then took a shower together and finished packing. Check-out time was posted at 10AM but there was no one else around when they were ready to go. Tim dropped their room key through the mail slot of the locked office door. Maybe the proprietors were away on an errand.

  They pulled over once to put the top up on the Thunderbird because a bank of white fog was piling in over the city. By the time they got home it would be cold enough to light the fireplace in Tim’s living room on Hancock Street. Nick took a turn behind the wheel as they headed up California’s Highway 1 toward Pacifica. Nick was happier than he’d been in a long time and he knew better than to press Tim again about any further commitments. Tim was right. They were very good at honeymoons. Weddings could wait.

  Chapter 2

  Ruth pulled a scarf over her head before she started the car. She felt dowdy in it, but no one would see her. She simply had to call Rene and beg him to fit her in while she was in the city. As she pulled out of Sam’s driveway she felt not only dowdy but anxious and overwhelmed. All the way back to San Francisco from Hillsborough, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a wrong decision, simply taken a wrong turn somewhere in her life or not been paying close enough attention to the signs all around her. She adored Sam. He was the best thing to come along since… She couldn’t even remember the last best thing.

  Sam was kind and gentle and handsome, a real silver fox, and they made each other laugh. He was crazy about her and he’d asked her to marry him and when it came right down to it… yes… she loved him very much. On top of that, although she hated to admit it, he was by far the wealthiest man she’d ever dated. She certainly wasn’t after his money, but… oh… Why on earth did things have to be so confusing?

  As soon as she set foot inside her apartment on Collingwood Street in the Castro district, Ruth felt better. Her cat Bartholomew gave her an angry glare and yowled at her for having been away so long. “What is it boy? Hasn’t Teresa been feeding you enough?” She reached down to stroke the usually affectionate feline until he arched his back and let her pick him up. “Oof, you’re heavy!” She cradled him in both arms all the way to the kitchen and he finally started to purr again.

  That was another thing; Sam wasn’t much of a cat person. He wasn’t exactly allergic to them, but whenever he stayed overnight with Ruth, he and Bartholomew kept a polite distance from each other. Sam had also made the mistake of mentioning her apartment in the past tense. It was over dinner just the other night. She’d tried making salmon the way Arturo taught her—hot skillet, not too much oil, not too long on either side—and it came out moist and perfect. She was so proud of herself when she savored the first flakey bite and then Sam had said something about how this apartment used to be so convenient for her when she worked at Arts, as if she didn’t work there at all any more.

  Her schedule at the restaurant was minimal these days, but the apartment was another matter. She couldn’t imagine giving up this place. This was where her nephew Tim lived for years. This was where she’d spent her first few weeks in San Francisco the summer she decided to pack up her life in Minnesota and move out here. “But I have such wonderful memories here,” she’d told Sam that evening over salmon. “You can’t expect me to give all that up when we get married.”

  Ruth sat down on the edge of her bed and kicked off her shoes, remembering their conversation. “Don’t you think someone else might need the apartment?” Sam tried to appeal to her thoughtful side, what he called her ‘care about the world’ nature.

  “It’s not as if there’s any shortage of apartments in San Francisco these days, Sam. I
see vacancy signs on every other block in the Castro. If and when Arturo and Artie ever needed that apartment, they would tell me. Besides, haven’t you and I created some nice memories of our own here, Sam?” That was when Ruth reached across the table and ran the tip of her index finger up the side of his neck and around his earlobe. She still knew how to change the subject and make a man come around. “Eat your salmon, darling, and we’ll have dessert later.”

  Now that she was home again, Ruth scrounged through her closet for something to wear to work. Between Sam’s place and hers she didn’t know where anything was these days. She had clothes everywhere. She’d neglected to do laundry before she left the city on Monday or during the time she was at Sam’s house. Delia, the cook and head housekeeper, would have been happy to wash out a few things for her, but Ruth wouldn’t hear of it.

  That was another thing; where would she fit in with Delia after Ruth and Sam got married? Delia was the mother of Sam’s only son Adam and she’d been running that big old house all these years, planning the menus, doing the shopping and most of the cooking. She was in charge of the rest of the household staff too, the other maids who came in to help serve whenever Sam had guests and to keep the place spotless. Delia was happily married to Sam’s gardener, Frank, but it still seemed like a sticky situation. Ruth had agreed to marry Sam, but he’d said she would be “queen of the manor” and Ruth wasn’t sure about the domestic arrangements. Besides, she’d told him there were already enough queens in her life, what with working in a gay bar and restaurant on Castro Street. She didn’t want to be the queen of anything!

  Ruth loathed confrontations of any kind. The only thing she didn’t like about bartending was when normally pleasant people drank too much and got into a tiff about something. She hated it even more when she had an argument with someone she cared about. She almost never argued with Tim, but there was such a close tie between them they could practically read each other’s minds.