Re: *Winter's Present* - serialized

On 2/17/2026 5:15 PM, Bryan Simmons wrote:
> 
> 
>              Winter’s Present
>                     .
>                Bryan Simmons
> 
>      Table of Contents
> 
> Silver    9
> Winter    23
> Fast    29
> Wearing White    49
> Sex Kitten    59
> The Party    73
> Turkey Claus    101
> Boy Talk    121
> Scorpions    131
> Ann    147
> Lady Bear    173
> Cinnamon Buns    189
> Sandy Beach    205
> Our Tricycle    235
> Queen of Love    249
> Art    279
> Pillow Talk    291
> A Pink Line to Burritos    297
> Making Love    309
> Solomon    317
> Wearing White Again    323
> Change is Hard    333
> The Letter    337
> The Vapors    365
> Performance Issues    373
> Somebody Else's Daughter    391
> Love Kiss    399
> Bigamy    411
> Equality    425
> Anniversary    439
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Copyright 2014, 2025 by Bryan Simmons
> 
> 
> This book is dedicated to my wife, Betsy, and to my muse, who shall 
> remain nameless.
> 
Turkey Claus

When Winter suggested that the two of them accompany Eric and Chloe 
partway back to Los Angeles, she'd not known if there'd be resistance. 
Ian's only challenge was, "It's their honeymoon."

Winter countered with, "I know, but I'm only talking about being with 
them for the first day or so.  They're going to Santa Fe.  I was 
thinking that we could take the train all the way to Gallup, and rent a 
car, then drive around Arizona and New Mexico.  I told them, and they 
were fine with that, and I upgraded them to first class."

"So you bribed them?"

"Ian, there was no contingency.  I'd already bought them the sleepy car, 
and they both liked the idea of us going along for the first day or so. 
If Eric thought I was horning in on his event, he'd have told me.  We 
don't patronize each other.  Besides, we get to be around Chloe one more 
day."

"You're suggesting that merely being in the presence of an admittedly 
attractive female is enough of a motivator to, I don't know, to do 
whatever?"

"Sorry."

"Apology accepted, but my problem, my hypersexuality, isn't the totality 
of who I am.  I can, and do, have platonic relationships with females."

"I said I was sorry.  This thing we're doing is so ill defined, and you 
are the way you are.  And anyway, you shouldn't have jumped to the 
conclusion that it was all about you.  I said, 'we,' not you.  I like 
girls too, and Ian, look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"That's what it is, isn't it?  You're feeling embarrassed about our 
arrangement, and you shouldn't be.  I want this to work, and I want it 
to be enjoyable for both of us.  That's why," said Winter, gesturing 
with both arms, "unless you have some reason why you don't want to--I 
don't know, fear of scorpions or something--we should kick around the 
Southwest together for a few days."

"I'm not afraid of scorpions, and I think they hibernate this time of 
year, but won't it look odd?"

"I'll tell my parents that some of your fondest memories are of New 
Mexico, which is true, right?"

"It is."

"And I'm helping you with your memoir."

"That's the story."

"So everything hangs together.  This will be a memory lane thing for you 
too, because I specifically want to go to some of the places you 
described, especially the Petrified Forest and White Sands.  I know you 
went there with your wife, and you might have some sadness, but you can 
cry on my shoulder.  I mean literally.  In the short time we've known 
each other, you've impressed me as a really kind person.  I'd enjoy 
comforting you, and helping you heal."

"You're kind too."

"I am.  Now, the tickets are one way, so we can stay however long you 
want.  School doesn't start again for three weeks."

"You already bought the tickets."

"Remember, Ian?"  Winter pointed at herself, "Fast?"

"When do we leave?"

"The day after Christmas, which you're going to love.   It's funny the 
way we do it.  It's totally a repeat of Thanksgiving--turkey, stuffing, 
cranberry sauce, the whole thing.  Dad has been doing it that way for 
years."

"Did your parents invite me?"

"They didn't need to, I am.  It'll be fine.  Ian, they didn't raise the 
kind of daughter who would let you spend Christmas alone, so it'll seem 
perfectly natural, and I've established with them that I can't really 
talk about anything about you, because you tell me things you don't 
share with anyone else, and that's true too.  No matter what you say, it 
won't conflict with what I've told them, because I don't tell them." 
Winter crossed her arms, and gave herself a self-congratulatory nod as 
she said, "The memoir thing was brilliant, if I do say so myself."

"Should I bring anything?  Wine, maybe?"

Winter grabbed her phone off the end table, and as she flipped it open, 
gestured to Ian to wait a moment.  "Hi, Dad."  "Hey, you didn't buy a 
keg for Christmas, did you?"  "Good, because Ian's bringing one."  "I'll 
tell him."  "Love you too.  Bye."  Winter folded the phone, and tossed 
it back on the table.  "He said to tell you not to get a tapper or ice, 
because he has a rig, and that his only holds quarter barrels."

"Good, because I don't want to lift anything heavier than that."

"Ian, one more thing.  There is almost zero chance that they'll guess 
what's really going on, and if somehow they came to suspect that there 
was some hanky-panky between us: number one, they wouldn't ask; number 
two, they'd assume that it was just something that grew out of the 
intimacy of the memoir project, because that's way more plausible; and 
finally, my parents are pretty sex positive.  They don't use those 
words, and they're not all militant like you, and I guess me too, but I 
don't think they'd be upset.  They'd just be surprised, very surprised, 
and more by you being male than the age difference.  It's funny.  I've 
always called myself bisexual, and have even said repeatedly that 
eventually I'll settle down and marry some nice man, but I don't think 
either of them believe it.  They think it's another of my running jokes. 
  So now you know that it wouldn't be the end of the world, lighten up, 
and get to know my dad."

"Unlimited beer," said Ian.

"Yeah, and I'm going to be there too.  Besides, there doesn't even have 
to be lots of talking, because I know he'll be content to listen Rock'n 
Roll.  You like a lot of the same stuff.  By the end of the night, you 
two'll be back slappin' drinkin' buddies."

"Your father doesn't really get handsy when he drinks?"

"Ian, dude," Winter snorted," "you're going to fit right in, and no, he 
doesn't get 'handsy'."  With feigned exasperation, Winter repeated, 
"'Handsy'.  You know you're by far the handsiest person I've ever been 
with, and I might add, the kissiest too."

"That sounds good."

"Don't have to ask *you* twice."  Winter took off her shirt, and her 
left hand massaged her right shoulder for a second to indicate a tight 
muscle place, "Right here."  Ian started kneading firmly, and Winter 
asked him, "Why do you think so many people are skeptical when a person 
says they're bi?  It's not like bragging.  I mean it would be, and maybe 
could be, but it's not like it gets you any respect."

"That's changing, Winter.  I've always envied bisexuals, not in a 
jealous way, or at least not resentful.  I think it's hard for both gay 
and straight folks to understand.  They have to get outside the box of 
their own attractions, and when bi persons end up pair bonding, they 
think you've finally grown up and found your true self, that you'd been 
that way all along, and you just needed to grow up.  It reminds me of 
the vaginal orgasm myth."

Winter turned her head to look at him, "It is like that, and I'm glad 
that you flew off the handle at me the other day, with Delia, the 'girl 
talk' thing.  You were right, and so was I."

"How?"

"It was about you being unafraid, but the thing you weren't scared of is 
the truth.  You know there are little lies that are necessary, right?"

"Of course."

"You need to accept that what we're keeping from my parents really is a 
little lie, and it's not your lie.  It's mine, and it's a technicality, 
*my* technicality.  I'm the one with something to lose.  You do get that?"

"I can't take any pleasure in dishonesty."

"Of course not.  I don't either, but almost, and not even almost, no one 
tells everything."

"You're asking me to be false."

"No, I'm asking you to be true, and a big truth is that a big reason 
that this is working is that it's not just about me pleasing you 
physically, but you pleasing me, and you like that.  I'm starting to 
regret talking to you instead of just...ooh yeah, right there.  Talk 
less, pet more."

Ian understood what was going wrong in his head.  He'd allowed himself 
to wallow in situational fantasies where Winter had less agency, less of 
her own life, and all he could do in this moment was to give feel good 
back rubs, with no goal other than bringing her body comfort, massaging 
away any tensions, including those that he might have induced.  Winter 
wasn't giving up anything of herself, and Ian realized that he could 
never ask that of her.  Her wages were a ticket into her world, and it 
was a package.  He might divert a certain number of hours, but Winter 
belonged to no one but herself.  It was clear.  Other than the sexual 
obligations, she expected equal power in their dealings, and he thought, 
"That's what I've always wanted anyway."

Ian directed every touch toward her desires, avoiding erogenous areas 
with the same discipline he'd practiced on Lauren, with her migraines, 
but extending outward with his hands, straying away from the back, neck 
and head.  Ian had little idea where Winter wanted this to go, but she 
seemed more than compliant.  He momentarily risked breaking the spell to 
explore his fascinations with the details, the minutiae of her body, but 
it wasn't working perfectly, and he refocused on her need for affection, 
his touchings washing over her like the smooth waves in an isolated lagoon.

Winter became completely passive, but it was obvious that there was no 
resignation, only contentment, and Ian again proceeded to map her body, 
to gain knowledge.  Each finger was unique, and every little bone a 
thrill to touch.  Winter knew that he wasn't evaluating, not holding her 
to any standard.  That first night, in the artificiality of that 
circumstance, she'd gotten a lighter version.  Then it was the adoration 
of her face that seemed overly personal, but the session turned out to 
be not as intrusive as it had seemed those first several minutes.  *I 
knew exactly what I was signing up for*.

Ian fell asleep, spooned against her back.   He was snoring when the 
phone rang, and he woke with a start.  Winter handed him the phone, and 
he answered, "Hello?"  "Hey, Ethan."  "Well, happy Christmas to you 
too."  "I'm doing fine."  "I am.  In fact, she's lying next to me right 
now, as naked as the moment she was born."

"Give me that phone," demanded Winter.  "Ethan, Hi, this is Winter." 
"Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, but I want to set things 
straight.  I'm wearing a ring on my pinky finger, the left one, I have 
nail polish on my toenails, and a small, but very pink scrunchie in my 
hair, none of which I was born with."  "I just don't like it when he 
exaggerates."  "Is that what he told you?  I'd like to think that's 
true."  "Your father is motioning for me to return the phone.  You take 
care."

Winter handed the phone back to Ian.  "You see what I meant?"  "Only 
half believed me?  As I recall, the only time I ever deceived you was 
with Stripey, and you were three.  Remember 'way up high'?"  "I'm not 
certain that I'm comfortable with the word, 'excuse,' but yeah." 
"Everyone's well.  How are you doing?"  "OK, you were never much for 
long phone conversations."  "Bye, I love you."

Winter wondered aloud, "Stripey?"

"It was a rubber salamander.  We used to play this game where he got on 
top of the couch, and I'd be holding Stripey.  He'd tumble down, and I'd 
employ a sleight of hand where I'd make it disappear, and ask, 'Where is 
Stripey?'  Then I'd say that we'd better look for him.  As we looked all 
over the house, I'd secret it somewhere, and we'd keep searching, and 
end up finding it somewhere.  I'd ask him how he thought that Stripey 
got there, and he'd come up with these magical ideas like, 'He went 
under the floor.'  He never figured it out until I finally, after many 
months of playing the game, revealed to him how I'd done it."

Next, Winter asked, "What about, 'Excuse'?"

"He told me that I was a pretty decent excuse for a dad."

"So, what's he doing in Japan?"

"He's a part-time student, and a semi-pro skateboarder.  He's really 
good, but the only reason he can afford to do it is that he has money of 
his own.  Maybe that's not fair.  He's got sponsors, but that money 
wouldn't cover his comfortable lifestyle.  He seems happy, but he took 
his mother's death even harder than I did.  I never minded that he was 
more connected to her than he was to me until she died."

"You seem pretty comfortable with that."

"Why wouldn't I be?  It seems like the natural order of things, and not 
only because my relationship with my mother was healthy, and it wasn't 
with my Dad, and I'm not downplaying the importance of fathers, but 
females just tend to be more affiliative."

"It seems kind of sad that it didn't bring you closer."

"In a way, it did.  The first several months, and even until he left for 
college, we were closer than we'd been since he was three or four years 
old, but one thing that we could do for each other was to trust that we 
were both strong enough to move on, that she had given us that strength. 
  In that way, we were holding onto her in exactly the way we both knew 
she'd have wanted.   Winter, “I never wished that I'd died instead, but 
that would have been easier on him, and I know that, accept it; I don't 
blame him one bit for valuing her life over mine.  We both loved her 
more than we loved each other, and Winter, I'm well aware of the 
temporary nature of our relationship, if we can even call it that, but 
what I told my son is that you are a spectacular human being.  If you 
want me to do Christmas with your family, who am I to question your 
judgment?"

"You're so wordy."

  "And handsy, right?"

"Right," said Winter, "and you do know what they say about idle hands?"

"I know there must be ways to find out."

Winter gave Ian a funny look, then remembered the night they'd met, and 
her mind flooded with connections.  "What I meant was, we need to pack 
first.  Then you can be as handsy and kissy as pleases you."

The plan was for Ian to arrive at some unspecific time between noon and 
two.  Winter had helped put the barrel of beer into the car, which was 
in the garage where he surmised that it would stay cold, but not dip 
below freezing.  When he arrived a little after 1:30, he used the brass 
knocker, rather than the doorbell.  Richard answered, and invited him 
inside.  Winter was at the dining room table with her mother, her 
brother and his wife, and a Scrabble board.  The game had just begun, 
and there were only two words on the board.  Natalie had played first, 
scoring 40 points for LATEX.  Chloe had played on the X, making HELIX on 
a double word score for 30.  When Winter saw Ian, she asked everyone to 
hold off play while she showed him her tiles.  He bent down and she 
whispered something, while looking at the board, and he smiled.  Eric, 
who was seated just to her left said, "I don't like the look of that," 
and being cautious, merely played ZORI, for 31.

Winter quickly rearranged her letters.  They weren't using a timer, but 
had agreed to keep the game moving.  Then she punched her fist in the 
air and exclaimed, "Yes!"  Starting just below the O in ZORI, she placed 
an N, then a P, and an A on the double letter square, before spelling 
out NONPAREIL.  "That's 33, plus 50, for 83."

Eric seemed perplexed, "You couldn't have known I'd open that up.  What 
else did you have?"

"Nothing in particular."

“Then what was the secrecy all about?"

"Tell him, Ian."

"She said to watch how nervous you'd get when you saw her whispering to me."

While Ian was speaking to Eric, Winter and Chloe shared smiles that 
erupted into laughter.

When Ian turned around, Richard said, "Welcome to the funhouse."

Ian answered, "And I have a large can of beer in the car."  They left 
house through the sliding glass doors in the back of the dining room, 
where just outside, Richard had positioned a dolly for the keg.  "Your 
daughter has a way with words."

"Yes, she does.  She's told me that she can't talk about your personal 
life because of the memoir, but do you mind if I ask how that's going?"

"Not at all, and it's going well, albeit slowly.  She insists on 
focusing on introspection, rather than narrative, and I think it'll be 
quite unlike anything I've ever read.  Sometimes it's almost like a 
therapy session.  Her idea is to delineate as much as possible the 
events as I experienced them, and my later perspectives on my past, and 
has reminded me numerous times that I'm not famous, so the bar has to be 
set much higher than usual."  After opening the passenger side door, and 
unbuckling the seat belt, Ian took out the keg, and placed it on the 
hand truck.

"What is it?" asked Richard.

"Tasmanian hopped IPA."

"Does Winter know?"

"I'm sure she does. I needed her help loading it into the car.  Anyway, 
you'd asked about the book.  The idea was to record the interesting 
events of my life, and it was mostly supposed to be funny, but Winter 
said that to fully engage the reader, I had to make it easy for one to 
put himself in my place, and that comedy without tragedy risks making me 
a caricature.  She even used the words, "'gonzo', and 'goofball'."

"Ouch," said Richard.

"She was right, though.  It might be difficult to reconcile other 
aspects of my life with, as she called it, 'mild mannered librarian'."

Ian slid the door open for Richard.  The beer fridge was in the corner 
of the dining room.  He hadn't noticed it on the way out because the 
spigot had been concealed by a faux leather cover.  Once placed inside, 
Richard hooked up the tubes, and moved a lever.  After a sharp, hissing 
sound, Richard said, "Success," and closed the door.

Ian thought, "Indeed."  Winter had told him to wing it, and the previous 
evening, while she was here with her family, doing the Christmas Eve 
things, he had mused on how it would be if the memoir was the real 
*raison de l'emploi*, rather than a ruse.  Then he'd taken it to the 
next level, a suspension of disbelief, where the project was a reality.

Winter had a term for this, "Situational fantasy."  Only two days 
before, she had encouraged him to reveal his sexual fantasies, saying 
that this was something she needed to be a success, and after disclosing 
to the extent he felt comfortable with, she'd declared him to be, 
"French vanilla."  She'd also said they were well matched, in that their 
daydreams were relationship-oriented, with the assumption that the 
mechanics of sex were absurdly simple, and the physical sensations 
nearly always enjoyable.

She'd gotten him to open up about dominance and submission, again, with 
the idea that this was "need-to-know," and said that she was glad that 
he was, as she put it, "well balanced," and that his occasional 
wanderings into depersonalization were normal, socio-biologically 
hardwired, and that the main threat to their arrangement lie in any 
inability on his part to keep perspective on what her role was in his 
life.  He'd felt that he was in a strange sort of probationary period. 
Winter had told him up front that she was at least his equal, and every 
day had proven that more true.

Richard asked, "Want to help set the table?"

Ian, quite pleased with not being treated as a guest, smiled and said, 
"Sure."

"They're going to be a while, and the turkey is done.  Winter said she 
told you about our Thanksgiving at Christmas tradition."  Richard 
laughed, "Tradition.  We've been doing it for about a dozen years.  That 
was several years before I'd met Tally.  None of us liked ham, and we 
usually made a turkey anyway, but Eric suggested that we have the meal 
be a second Thanksgiving, because that was his favorite holiday, and so 
I just ran with that, and even camped up the whole thing."  Richard 
motioned, "C'mon, check this out."  Ian followed to the kitchen, and on 
the counter was a turkey centerpiece wearing a Santa hat.  Richard 
picked it up and headed for the living room, announcing its arrival with 
a, "Ho, ho, ho."

Winter jumped up from her chair, and started strutting around like a 
crazed turkey, yelling, "Gobble-Gobble-Ho!, Gobble-Gobble Ho!"

Richard joined in the chant, holding the absurd centerpiece aloft as if 
it were an object of veneration, and Ian added his voice, 
"Gobble-Gobble-Ho!"  Winter ignored Eric and Natalie, while she focused 
her attentions on Chloe, and Richard and Ian cheered her on.

In spite of her husband's silent pleas to resist, Chloe rose to the 
occasion, stepping high and flapping, "Gobble-Gobble-Ho!"

After things settled down, Richard suggested that the Scrabble game 
continue, while he and Ian took care of the dinner.  "Was that 
spontaneous?" Ian asked Richard.

"No, but it was two years ago.  I think you just witnessed the 
establishment, or cementing of a new tradition."  Then he stuck his head 
out the archway and declared, "No more will the sane half of this family 
have the faintest of hopes of quashing the ritual of the Turkey Claus."

Winter affirmed with a stern, "Gobble-Gobble-Ho."

Ian put out the dishes and flatware, while Richard fetched the bird.  It 
was rather small, and the meal wasn't as extensive as the typical 
Thanksgiving feast.  The stuffing was done in the turkey, and the sides 
consisted of Southern style green beans with potatoes, with plenty of 
bacon, cranberry sauce, corn, and bread, with plenty of butter.  Before 
slicing the turkey, Richard cut off a wing tip for Ian, "Winter said you 
love these."  As everyone made their way to their seats, Richard asked, 
"Who's having beer?"

Winter waved her hands as she said, "Me, me, me, me."

Eric replied, "Maybe later," and with Chloe and Tally, opted for the 
iced green tea.

Richard retrieved three very large mugs from the freezer, and Winter 
swooped.  She filled her glass and took a drink before turning to face 
her father with a foam moustache, barking out in a gruff voice, "License 
and proof of insurance, son."

Winter, Ian and Richard had claimed the side of the oval table that was 
nearest the beer, and the meagerness of their dinners more than 
suggested that they weren't intending to fill up on food.  Eric had gone 
the other route.  With his drumstick, he reminded Winter of pictures of 
Henry the VIII, something she didn't hesitate to share.  Chloe wasn't 
far behind, with her eating-for-two situation.

Ian's plate was topped with a wing tip, over a large serving of green 
beans.  He had carefully dodged the chunks of potato.  Winter noticed 
her mother glancing at his plate and said, "I know I'm not supposed to 
speak about your personal life, Ian, but my mom seems concerned to the 
point of distress.  You see everyone, Ian is leading a double life, and 
his alter-ego is a supermodel."

Ian gestured to Eric's overloaded plate and declared, "Better that than 
a bulbous, 16th century monarch with a penchant for beheadings."

Ian had finished first, and Winter made small talk until Richard 
finished, then she stood, extended her arms in ceremonial fashion, and 
lifted Turkey Claus from its honored spot, and placed it on the top of 
the beer fridge, then reaching behind, unplugged it, and began to roll 
it, first into the living room, then taking a sharp left.  "Where," Ian 
asked Richard, "is she taking the beer?"

"I have my suspicions, but I say we'd best follow."  Richard knew 
exactly where she was headed.  That morning they'd moved the sound 
system from the living room into the guest bedroom, which he used 
day-to-day as his office, though he did as little work there as 
possible.  For someone who dealt with computers for a living, Richard's 
home computer was an entertainment device, and most of that 
entertainment was what he referred to as, "useless knowledge."

Ian was all for going with the flow.  Winter was juggling fire, and it 
occurred to him that creating a bond between he and her family, if done 
well, would optimize her own experience, and that the only reason she'd 
do that, bother to, was to further the likelihood of carrying their 
agreement to term.  Winter had called herself, "fast," and while she'd 
used that word in jest, he knew that she'd seldom fail to play with 
language in her own head, and brightened when others picked up on double 
meanings.  She was fasting him, involving him in her life, asserting 
independence while happily acceding to her role as sexual playmate.

Ian noticed that there was a daybed along the wall that had a window. 
It was made up for sleeping, and he assumed that was intended for his 
use.  There was a desk with a computer, and a pair of speakers that were 
overlarge for the midsized room.  Ian surveyed his surroundings as 
Winter plugged in the rolling beer dispenser.  There were three chairs, 
two of which matched those from the dining room, and it seemed likely 
that they'd been brought in for this occasion.

"We're rockin' boys.  DJ Winter is in the house.  I've taken the time 
and care to compare your collections, and have drawn only from material 
which you both own to generate a best-of-the-best.  Best to me, that is, 
but I'm sure you'll enjoy."  Winter went to the computer and pulled up 
her folder.  "Gotta go," said Winter, and she left the room and closed 
the door behind her.  When Johnny B. Goode began, even Richard was 
surprised at the volume.  When the song ended, Winter opened the door. 
She'd brought new frosted mugs, and filled one for each of them.  "To 
fine men, strong men, whom women ought not fear."  The vessels were 
clinked, and Winter again left the room without any explanation.

The mood in the room was uneasy, and then a song so familiar caught the 
downdraft.  "Hello darkness, my old friend."  When the song ended, 
Richard, almost apologetically, said, "Ian, I don't know what she was 
thinking."

"I do.  We're both widowers, and we've known loneliness."

"I caught that,” said Richard, “but I've never known her to be that 
insensitive."

"She's doing her job, and I guess she's a bit too green to make the 
distinction between on and off the clock.  My feelings, Richard...I ask 
her to make me remember, and not just to help me, but to make me."  Ian 
breathed deeply, and exhaled with a drawn out huff.  "She also told me 
that she thought we'd enjoy each others' company."

Just then, the door opened, and Eric walked in with a large glass that 
looked to Ian more like a flower vase.  He gave a slight nod to Ian, 
then headed for the tap.  He filled it to near the top, then battled the 
foam like a child with an ice cream cone on a hot summer day, finally 
leaning back to catch the overflow on the front of his shirt as he said, 
"Whoa."  Winter, who had followed him into the room, pointed at the 
stain and said, "You have twenty-one year-old college boy written all 
over you."  Eric would have cut his losses and escaped with what was 
well over a pint, but Winter blocked him.  "Not so fast, brother.  It's 
uber-rude to snatch a beer and duck out, and since you stubbornly 
refused to sing for your supper, I insist that you dance for your 
drink."  Eric looked to his father, and got exactly the support he was 
expecting, as Richard sidled in front of the egress.  Eric rolled his 
eyes, but they were smiling along with the rest of his face.  Winter 
tapped a few keys and when the song that was queued up blasted from the 
speakers, she lip synched the lyrics.  Eric had wisely set down his 
drink, and was dancing as minimally as he thought he could get away 
with, but when the second chorus began, Winter became aggressive, 
pretending to shove him as he became self-protective, "Hey, Carrie Ann. 
What's your game now?  Can anybody play?"  Then Winter jumped back, 
lifted her heels to give herself a scant three more inches, and pointed 
at Eric as she shouted, "You're so, so like a woman to me."

Chloe had opened the door several seconds earlier, but no one but 
Richard had noticed until she pealed, the sound of which made Eric seem 
to cower before Winter's accusation, and he fell back, his father having 
to break his fall, and both of them ending up backing onto the daybed. 
Winter clapped, then high-fived first Ian, then Chloe.  Richard tousled 
his son's hair as he scrunched himself into a cross-armed submissive 
posture, his eyes flitting back and forth between Winter and Chloe, 
suggesting a need for protection.

As the final chord sounded, Winter hit the space bar, and Eric, still 
cowering, turned to Richard and asked pitifully, "May I be excused?"

Richard gave Winter a questioning glance, and she said, "Aw, let him go. 
  If I had a girl like her, I wouldn't want to be in here either.  Don't 
forget your beer, Eric."

Eric hugged his sister, then shook Ian's hand before retrieving his 
glass.  Chloe, still grinning, fluttered her fingers, "Bye," before 
taking her husband's hand and guiding him to the quieter areas of the house.

Eric closed the door on the way out, and Winter asked Ian, "You want to 
get high?"

"Weed?"  Ian asked.

"Well, yeah.   You're obviously not driving."

Richard hadn't expected this.  Winter had, he guessed, assumed that he 
had some when she'd offered, but he didn't.  "Winter, I don't have any."

"I do," said Winter.

"Where'd *you* get it?"

"Dad.  Just because I don't like to smoke doesn't mean I don't know 
where to get it.”  Winter unzipped her purse, and handed the bag to 
Richard.  “Merry Christmas.  So Ian?"

Ian shrugged and said, "OK."

Winter got up and opened the door, saying, "I'll go get Mom."

Natalie was on the living room couch reading.  She heard footsteps, and 
turned to see who it was.  "Dad and Ian are going to get high and I've 
got great music lined up."

"You what?"

"C'mon, Mom.  It's Christmas, and you're out here by yourself.  We're 
done with being loud."

Natalie was surprised, and the way that her daughter had phrased the 
invitation made it clear that Winter wasn't partaking.  Winter extended 
her hand, and said, "I love you, Mom," then led her down the hall.

While the other three smoked, Winter punched up her mellow set, then 
reconsidered, deciding instead to play the entire album, "Can't Buy a 
Thrill."  The music was perfect for the mood, and there was the 
additional aspect of the title, something that she knew Ian wouldn't 
fail to note, and she paused the music at the end of the A-side.

"Oh, some good news," Winter said.  "You won't have to drive Eric and 
Chloe to the train because Ian and I are going with them as far as New 
Mexico.  I'm going to help him document his last vacation with his family."

After a brief silence, Ian said, "Don't think that Winter's being 
flippant about my grief.  I need her to be dispassionate.  I greatly 
value her objectivity.  She's never been unkind."

Winter wasn't hiding the fact that she was quite pleased with herself. 
"Ian's high."

Natalie was thinking that she should say something about having raised 
Winter better than that, but started laughing, and said, "We're all 
high, and it's not much of a gift if it was for your own entertainment."

"You're right, Mom, and I confess to the ulterior motive.  Ian said that 
it made him stupid, and Mr. Meadows might well be the smartest person 
I've ever met, present company excluded, especially me."  Before anyone 
came up with a reply, she started the music again, and "Reelin' in the 
Years" preempted any reply.  Without leaving her chair, Winter acted out 
every emotion she was able to derive from the song, going into 
character, mouthing lyrics, and transfixing the others with the density 
of her emotions.  When the album ended, she told them that she'd been 
cautioned, "The guy said this was seriously potent," and added, "I guess 
I should have mentioned that.  Any requests?"

Richard answered, "Traffic."

"Excellent choice, Dad."  Winter was feeling pleased with her purchase. 
Marijuana made her feel icky, but she enjoyed its effects on others in 
just this setting, with deep music and no expectations.  "*High heeled 
boys*."


-- 
--Bryan https://www.instagram.com/bryangsimmons/

For your safety and protection, this sig. has been thoroughly
tested on laboratory animals.

"Most of the food described here is nauseating.
We're just too courteous to say so."
-- Cindy Hamilton