A Fresh Start at Christmas

When old buddy Al dies, can lives, old friendships, and more be rebuilt as Christmas approaches?

This story was written for Literotica's 2024 Winter Holiday Contest.

This is a slow burn romance with a significant backstory and some good conflict along the way, but there will be some hot sex as the story progresses. If you're just interested in a story that cuts straight to the sex scenes, please look elsewhere.

© SouthernCrossfire - 2024. All rights reserved.

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I hate funerals.

The main reason, of course, is the knowledge that a friend is gone, their voice forever silenced, the person never to be seen or shared with again. The living have to go on, to live with themselves and others without the love, friendship, support, or whatever the deceased brought to their life.

There's far more to my disdain for funerals than that though, including the interaction of each individual with all of the other people who are there. Offering condolences to the deceased's family can be tough enough, but then one must deal with all of the friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and others brought together for one last time to honor the deceased, to say goodbye, or, occasionally, to say good riddance.

It's those interactions that can really be a problem, adding stress on top of the sadness of the loss and making the funeral process even more difficult than it already is.

With my parents aging and me knowing that they might not have all that many years left, I'd recently decided to find a job closer to them. Living so far away, I'd rarely seen them in person more than once a year since I graduated from college and I wanted to be able to spend more time with them in whatever time we had left together. It's hard to admit, but there was little in my life preventing me from doing that: no wife in recent years, no children, and no close ties. My job skills were reasonably portable so I found a new position in the city only an hour from Sturbin, my childhood hometown where my parents still lived, and started over.

In short, I wanted a fresh start in my life.

Approaching the third weekend in my new home and two full weeks at my new job, some new furniture was in place, my critical boxes were unpacked, and I'd replaced the old bed linens and decorations to shake things up a bit. With nothing important, I decided to take the weekend off, go visit my folks, and maybe watch the Tech game with my dad.

They'd come to visit me when I was moving in, so Mom and Dad were ecstatic to be able to see me for a second time in less than a month. I'd called to suggest the visit earlier in the week and they said "By all means, come!" However, on Thursday night after I'd packed my few things for the trip the next evening, my mom called.

"Travis, did you hear about little Alton Yeardley? He keeled over dead a couple of days ago--a massive heart attack is what I heard--and he's up at the funeral home right now and they're getting him ready. Marsha--that's his wife--had to get him a new suit to bury him in because he'd--"

"Mom."

Hearing the sound in my voice, she realized she was going too far as she tended to do. "Uh, anyway, visitation will be tomorrow evening with another visitation on Saturday afternoon just before the funeral. Do you get the obituaries from the funeral home? I can sign you up with your email address if you'd like."

Of course she would! Not wanting to deal with death and dead friends from long ago, I ignored her offer and tried to forget it, hoping she would as well.

However, the news she gave me wasn't welcome. Al Yeardley was about three years younger than me, having been a freshman on the Sturbin Steamers high school basketball team when I was a senior. Al and I had been friends but we'd lost touch after I graduated. Since I made it to our small town so rarely, I'd seen very few of my actual classmates over the years, much less anyone in the classes before or after us.

To the chagrin of some of those I did see, I'd refused to join any social media networks for years but had recently decided to give it a try in association with the changes I was making. Seeing the move as a fresh start, I wanted to rebuild friendships as well as my career and possibly establish new relationships along the way. Unfortunately, I'd had limited time and had only connected with those same few classmates so far and never got to swap notes with Al Yeardley.

Now he was gone and I never would.

Mom continued,

"Daddy and I went to see his momma this afternoon and take her a casserole. Thelma's really heartbroken. She had to quit our women's group a couple of years ago when John's health started declining--he's got dementia and is just not all there these days--but I still talk to her on the phone all the time and go over to see her pretty often and she always asks about you. Daddy and I will be going up for the visitation tomorrow so you can come with us if--"

It was too much. "Mom, I won't be getting there that early. You go on without me." Realizing how short I was with her, I added a lame "Okay?"

"--you want--okay, that's fine. But you might go up earlier on Saturday before the funeral to see his momma then, okay?"

Having been on my own for so long, I'd also gotten used to cutting some corners on some of the social niceties, but in a small town like Sturbin, there's less "cover" than there had been in Seattle when I was married or in Phoenix in more recent years. Therefore, because Al had once been a friend and since his mom "always asks about me," I knew I had to go just like Mom suggested, whether I wanted to or not.

After agreeing and ending the call, I went back to my bedroom to repack with some added clothes appropriate for the funeral home.

With a big sigh, I repeated, out loud this time, "God, I hate funerals."

*****

Having been at my new job for two whole weeks, I didn't cut any corners there, getting out of the office at 5:35 p.m. With it already being dark and there being lots of traffic, my parents would still be at the funeral home when I arrived, so I stopped at a restaurant near my office and ordered dinner.

The place wasn't very busy, so Eugenia, my server who appeared to be in her late 30s or maybe early 40s, chatted with me off and on between dealing with the few people at her occupied tables. With bleach-blonde hair, brown eyes, a pretty smile, and what hinted at nice cleavage, she was quite sexy and I imagined that she'd have looked great in one of those skimpy outfits sported at one of the chain places that featured female breasts and butt cheeks as prominently as their chicken wings.

Even without the benefit of that type of outfit, she still looked great and I enjoyed speaking with her. I'd have probably asked her out after paying the check if she hadn't mentioned her boyfriend at some point, so I smiled, enjoyed speaking with her without the pressure of trying to get a date, and ended up leaving her a very nice tip before heading for Sturbin and my parents.

Traffic had died down somewhat by then so I was determined to relax and not think of the sexy Eugenia, of any of the very many things that needed to be done around my new-to-me but actually quite old house, and, most of all, of Al Yeardley and our times together so long before.

I was successful at avoiding thoughts of Eugenia but, despite my wish, only by thinking about Al. To my surprise, despite not having seen him for so long, memories of Al teamed with his loss hurt more than I expected, so I eventually turned on some music and tried not to think at all.

That worked for a while but just before hitting the Sturbin city limit, I glanced at a brightly-lit and relatively new building on the left side of the road with a sign out front that read "Sturbin Center for Displaced Children."

With it being an institutional-style brick building with a large center core and what looked like a two-story residential-style wing on each side, I'd suspected for the past couple of years when visiting my parents that it was the replacement for the old Tri-County orphanage.

While most such institutions have gone the way of the dodo bird, there are still usually some children in transition or possibly in long-term or even permanent limbo that need a home. I recalled two such kids from my high school days, orphans who never found a forever home with a loving family.

Seeming a bit distant from their classmates when they arrived, each had trouble fitting in but I'd eventually become friends with Melvin, the boy who was a year behind me in school. He'd told a few of us about his situation, which sounded like a depressing mess, so we'd tried to include him in our activities and he'd eventually been accepted by his classmates. Soon after that, our high school Beta Club, an honors service group, started doing an annual project for the home to try to help all of the kids who were stuck there.

Thinking back, I didn't remember much about the young lady, a freshman or sophomore, who'd transferred in when I was a senior, but, sadly, I believed she was still a loner when I graduated.

That kids such as Melvin and that girl could have such a hard time made me sad as I drove by; only the fact that the new home didn't look as much like a fenced prison as the old one made me feel a little better. Still, I couldn't get it off my mind as I drove south through town and the short distance beyond to my parents' house. With the Christmas season just weeks away, I wondered if there was anything I could do to help.

Minutes later, I pulled into my parents' driveway a couple miles southwest of town. They'd just gotten back from the funeral home and visiting with Mrs. Yeardley, so Mom regaled me with tales of the evening and around town while Dad gave me a silent "thank you" for allowing him to escape her yammering and go upstairs to change clothes in peace. Despite having been together and loving each other for over 55 years since they were seniors in high school, I suspected that my dad had to have been blessed with the patience of Job to put up with my mom and her gift of perpetual gab.

While Mom was smart--she was the salutatorian of their graduating class--and kept up with the news and current events at home and around the world, she seemed to just enjoy talking with her friends more than anything. The woman could prattle on for hours on end, often without saying anything of real importance.

As such, I'd learned at an early age to be careful about telling her anything that I didn't want spread around since anything she heard, whether significant or not, would likely be spread through her network of fellow gossips in no time flat. Thinking about it, it was as if my mother was a sort of on-telephone-line social network years before such internet-based things actually existed.

I chuckled at the thought.

*****

After spending Friday evening visiting with my parents and helping Dad take care of some things around the house on Saturday morning, I got ready to go after an early lunch, putting on my suit and tie. I'd initially packed slacks and a polo shirt in case I could convince Mom and Dad into letting me take them out for dinner, but had added the full ensemble after Mom told me about Al.

As I walked into the funeral parlor, I realized I needn't have bothered. The funeral home folks were about the only ones really dressed up, while almost everyone else was dressed quite casually. That was a huge change from my grandparents' funerals back when I was in high school and college and practically everyone dressed in basic black.

Therefore, feeling a bit overdressed, I shuffled forward slowly in the receiving line, watching everyone as I approached Al's wife (Marcie? I couldn't remember what Mom had said), his grown children and a couple of grandkids, and Mrs. Yeardley, his aging mother, wondering if they'd appreciate the minor anecdotes I could share, and whether I'd recognize a single person in the parlor or in the chapel for the funeral itself before I escaped and made my way back to my parents' house.

It had been 35-years since my high school graduation so I suspected the years had taken a toll on everyone, just as they had on me. The younger guys in Al's class were now all about to crack 50 if they hadn't already and from the few photos I'd only seen online, I suspected that some probably sported beards, mustaches, graying hair and receding hairlines, and, in too many cases, pot bellies, so they were going to be difficult or even impossible to recognize. There were a number of guys in the parlor who looked like potential candidates, but no one caught my eye and I shuffled forward a step or two each time the line ambled ahead.

Similarly, the women in Al's class, if there were any of them present, would generally be middle-age moms or even grandmas with the issues that are all too common to women of the age, and again I didn't recognize anyone. Having graduated from our relatively small public high school, I'd known just about everyone back in high school but the ensuing years and the changes noted meant that definitely wasn't the case anymore.

Reaching the front of the line, I met Marsha, Al's wife, and their grown children. I gave them my condolences and a few anecdotes about our time together on the high school basketball team while the grandchildren milled around over to the side.

I barely remembered Al's mom, Mrs. Yeardley (or Thelma as she insisted I call her) but she recalled me at once, holding my hand and patting it non-stop as we talked, thanking me for being Al's friend and for stopping by. She had tears in her eyes as she thanked me for my parents' visit the previous afternoon and talked about how much she appreciated my parents being such good friends to her and her family over the years. She pulled me into a hug that I believed was more for her benefit than mine and which lasted longer than I expected. Thinking about it as we held each other led to my own eyes clouding at what she was going through.

Afterward, I blinked my eyes a few times to keep from spilling any actual tears and then quickly made my way out of the parlor into the broad hallway. As I did, I recognized no one and began to wonder if I should make my way to the chapel for the funeral or if I should just leave and put the past behind me.

I stopped and scanned faces as I debated my dilemma until I thought I recognized someone a little farther down the hall. He was a senior when I was a freshman but with him being our best offensive player to my defensive back, he'd run over me in football practice more than a few times and had been good about giving me pointers similar to the way I later tried to do with Al and some of the younger guys in basketball. Being fairly certain that it was actually him, I made my way over and said, "Excuse me? Nick Buice? Travis Weldon from the football team."

"Well, I'll be. Travis, I didn't dream of running into you here today. How the hell've you been? I thought you were making big bucks somewhere out west."

I laughed. "Out west until just a few weeks ago, but big bucks? Afraid not. Great to see you, though I wish it was under other circumstances. How are you?"

We chatted for a few minutes before his wife joined us, and several others came over after that. It wasn't long before I'd been reintroduced to a number of friends from long ago plus some new friends. Since Al Yeardley had lived in Sturbin all his life, it seemed that everyone, no matter what age, knew him.

I swapped phone numbers with Nick and several others in hopes that we'd be able to get together again sometime when I was in town visiting my parents and I promised each that I looked forward to connecting with them on social media.

So much for limiting my usage on that,

I thought with more than a little sarcasm.

As the hour before the funeral passed, I spoke with a few more people I recognized and used the "you look familiar but I can't quite place you" routine to get the names of a few others. Once they said their names and hands were shaken, things clicked and it wasn't long before we were all old friends again.

A little later, I looked up to see Jonah Stepney, another member of our old basketball team coming toward me. Like Al, Jonah had been a freshman when I was a senior, and we'd worked together as I helped train him to back me up. At about 5'-11, I was our starting point guard and backup small forward, and Jonah, at about 5'-6 or so, was effectively the third string point, but he was a good guy and showed a lot of promise, As he came toward me, I realized he'd never reached the height potential the coach had hoped, still being about the same height as he'd been that year, so I wondered how much he got to play during his junior or senior year.

"Travis!" he said as he extended his hand, recognizing me immediately. Unlike so many of our old schoolmates, we were both clean-shaven so facial features were aged but not obscured by scraggly and all-too-often graying beards, mustaches, and so forth. Also like me, he'd filled out but we didn't look like walking bowls-full-of-jelly like some people. My brown hair was a little lighter due to a slow but steadily increasing infiltration of gray, but Jonah seemed to have avoided most of the graying by simply losing his hair on top and keeping the rest quite short.

We'd barely started speaking when a tall, gorgeous woman stepped up next to him. She smiled at me and I returned it; with light-red hair over her shoulders and maybe halfway down her back and pale blue eyes, she appeared to be 40 to 45 and vaguely reminded me of someone but I couldn't place her.

In short heels, she was about my height, probably making her a good three to four inches taller than Jonah in their stocking feet, but there seemed to be a familiarity between them so, when he didn't introduce us, I asked, "Jonah, is this lovely lady your wife?"

They both laughed, making me realize I'd made a mistake and causing me to blush as I wondered which of our old schoolmates I'd forgotten.

"Travis Weldon, I can't believe you'd ask such a question," she said. She cocked her head a bit, looked first one way and then the other, but I still couldn't get it until she gathered her hair up in one hand behind her head like a ponytail, pulled her other arm in as if to narrow her shoulders, and hunkered down a whole bunch so she only appeared to be a little over 5-feet tall.

That's when it clicked and I turned scarlet.

"No way! Jennifer?" I queried, saying the name of Jonah's fraternal twin sister, a small but cute young lady who'd occupied the same spot on the girls' bench as Jonah had on ours. Looking at her, I was having a hard time coming to grips with how that Jennifer of so long ago, who'd always been so small, who'd had so many freckles on her cheeks, and whose reddish hair had always been braided behind her head or up in a frizzy ponytail, could have possibly become this lovely woman.

She'd only been maybe an inch over 5-feet tall when I was a senior, sporting braces on her teeth and spindly arms and legs that made some wonder why Coach Meeler had let her have a spot on the team. In a small high school like ours, willing players who weren't very good were often better than not enough players and such willing players could usually improve over time.

For instance, in a couple of Senior-Freshman pickup games, Jennifer and I teamed up to take on her brother and Mary Lou Landers, from my class, who was the starting strong forward on our girls' team. Jennifer demonstrated great ball control and was a good shot when she could somehow get open; with her limited height, getting open was usually her problem and I'm not sure if she played in an actual game that whole year as a result.

Jennifer and I became friends through those pickup games, forming a good camaraderie and causing me to develop an appreciation for how cute and how nice she was. It was a silly little teenage crush that caused me to want to ask her to go out with me as prom approached, but I was too old and she was too young, so I ended up taking Mary Lou, all 6-feet of her and the tallest girl at Sturbin High, instead. I spent most of the evening wishing that I was three or four inches taller or that she'd worn flats instead of heels when I wasn't wishing I'd been able to ask Jennifer rather than Mary Lou.