Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (12 page)

One of these people was Scotia Simmons, local gossip, all around unpleasant person, and good friend of my mother’s. I gave Scotia a wide berth, trying to look as natural as possible, not because I was worried she’d talk to me, but because I didn’t particularly want her to call my momma and share my whereabouts.

So I loitered next to the fancy condiments and feigned interest in the ingredients while I people-watched. Garrison Jr.—who was now about fifteen—had grown taller since I saw him last. I knew he’d joined the football team because my daddy told us so over dinner. But I also knew he preferred books to sports and was frequently hiding in a corner of the local library devouring fantasy novels.

Scotia was on the phone with her daughter, Darlene—former head cheerleader at my father’s high school, now attending Vanderbilt for graduate school—and was lamenting the fact that Mrs. Beverton, our local choir director, hadn’t been waxing her upper lip since last May.

“She’s grown a full mustache, Darlene.” Scotia
tsked,
speaking louder than was strictly necessary
.
“The poor woman looks like a weasel. Enough already without the whiskers, bless her heart.”

I pressed my lips together in an unhappy line. Mrs. Beverton was a kind woman and didn’t deserve to have her physical attributes discussed uncharitably in such a public place.

Still, I stared unseeingly at the mustard label and attempted to fade into the scenery. I was in yellow, standing next to the mustard display, and was the Banana Cake Queen. I was basically invisible.

Eventually, all the customers in front of me were served. I was relieved when Scotia walked off toward the checkout, seemingly unaware of my presence, and it was my turn.

“Number thirty-six.” Garrison Jr. updated the number on the display behind him as he called out my ticket.

I stepped forward and motioned to the bread on top of the counter. “Could I have a small cheese steak with extra cheese?”

“Sure thing.” Garrison Jr. retrieved a medium-sized loaf of French bread while I rolled my paper ticket between my fingers and waited.

But before he’d cut the roll in half, Scotia appeared at my side and called to the teenager, “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this turkey breast. Instead I think I’ll have the honey baked ham. And maybe also some of that Swiss cheese.”

Garrison Jr. turned to Scotia and promptly resembled a deer caught in headlights as he attempted to simultaneously stare at us both.

“Uh. . .”

“Is there a problem?” Scotia placed her package of turkey breast on the counter. “I know you have honey baked ham. I can see it right there.” She pointed to the interior of the glass case.

“It’s just that I was already helping the Banana Cake Queen,” he squeaked, tipping his chin toward me.

Scotia glanced at me and did a double take, turning completely on the second pass. “Jennifer Sylvester.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved over me, assessing. “You’ve gained weight.”

I decided this meant that she thought I looked healthy. “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”

She frowned, shaking her head slightly as though I were a simpleton, someone to be pitied. I swallowed down, down, down the familiar pangs of embarrassment and discomfort. Instead, gripping my shopping bags, I lifted my chin. A sudden desire to contradict her expectations gripped me.

“Is your momma here?” she asked, as though I weren’t allowed in public without an adult escort.

I lifted my chin higher. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh.” She appeared to be disappointed by this news, but rallied quickly, dismissing me and turning back to Garrison Jr. “Cut me my ham, young man, while I think about the cheese.”

Garrison Jr., still holding my French bread, didn’t move and neither did I. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, it wasn’t that big of a deal. What Scotia Simmons thought or didn’t think of me mattered very little in the long run. I should just let the woman order her ham and cheese.

On the other hand, she’d already had her turn. Now it was my turn. She was a line usurper and a bully. I wasn’t in the mood to be bullied or usurped.

Gathering a deep breath and tightening my grip on my shopping bags, my heart racing a million miles a minute, I prepared to speak up for myself.

I hadn’t quite collected my nerves before Scotia sharpened her tone at Garrison Jr. “What is wrong with you?” she huffed. “I don’t have all day to wait for my honey cured ham and Swiss cheese.”

I licked my lips, mentally arranging and rearranging the words I would say, and opening my mouth to begin. Yet it was no use, the objection caught in my throat and with each attempt I grew increasingly frustrated with myself.

Speak up! Say something! You can do this.

And then unexpectedly, a familiar voice cut into our conversation. “Mrs. Simmons, what’s your number?”

I started because the voice sent an electric shock of surprise racing down my spine and a prickle of excitement beneath my skin.

Both Scotia and I glanced behind us and found Cletus Winston standing just a few feet away. He looked remarkably messy in his white T-shirt and greasy coveralls, the long sleeves tied at his waist. But to me, he also looked breathtakingly gorgeous.

Quite literally, the sight of him stole my breath.

His clean white T-shirt was just faintly tight across his impressive chest, hinting at the bulky power beneath. The short sleeves were pulled slightly tighter over the bulge of his biceps, revealing—not hinting—at his impressive strength. The long blue sleeves of his coveralls tied low on his narrow hips emphasized the flat plane of his stomach. The tips of his long fingers were stained gray from a day’s work at the auto shop. His long hair stuck out and up at odd angles and was adorably askew, like he’d been running his big hands through the curls recently or he’d been caught in a windstorm.

I’d like to run my hands through those curls.
The thought caught me unawares and drove both the earlier determination and frustration from my mind, leaving me nonplussed and hot under the collar.

He wasn’t looking at me, thank goodness. His attention was affixed to Scotia Simmons, an affable and innocuous expression on his chaotically attractive features.

But I also detected a glint of exasperation behind his eyes, which—by the way—were hazel today.

He didn’t allow her to respond, continuing, “Because I have number thirty-seven, and I just heard number thirty-six being called.”

She frowned at Cletus, then cast an aggravated glower at me. “I was number thirty-five, but I—”

“Oh. You already had your turn? See now, I was wondering if they’d started using numbers with a fractional component.” Cletus stepped forward and handed Scotia his ticket. “Here, you can have my number thirty-seven. That way you don’t have to draw a new number.”

Scotia blinked at him, then at the ticket he’d placed in her hands.

I blinked at him, too. Because he’d managed to grab a ticket and evade my notice until just now.

Meanwhile, Cletus gave me a deferential head tilt. “Do you mind splitting your sandwich? I was planning on ordering the cheese steak as well.”

It took me precisely two seconds to recover. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly fine.”

He then turned to Garrison Jr. and instructed gently, “Please make Ms. Sylvester’s cheese steak an extra-large and wrap the four parts separately.”

Garrison Jr., seemingly relieved, set to work with great haste, making our sandwich with the swiftness of a man on an important mission. After a moment, I felt Scotia peering around Cletus, her eyes affixed to my profile. I ignored her. My heart was now racing for a different reason.

Cletus was standing exceptionally close, his big arm brushing against my shoulder. He still made me nervous, but the nervousness was different than before; based in excitement, not fear.

I’m not afraid of him anymore.

The realization dawned suddenly and sent a lovely warmth to my limbs. I wasn’t afraid of him at all. Although I recognized his brilliance, cleverness, and cunning, he was officially no longer scary.

Something had shifted between us the other night, when I’d brought the compassion cake and he’d somehow managed to arrange things with Billy. Or maybe something had shifted in me when I’d painted my nails yesterday and walked out of the house this morning with no makeup.

“How’s that sister of yours, Cletus? I haven’t seen her since she moved back to town,” Scotia stated out of the blue, breaking the not-quite tense silence that had fallen.

Cletus gave Scotia a benign smile. “Ashley is quite well, thank you for asking.” Then to me, he asked, “Jennifer, did you want potato chips or potato salad with lunch?”

“Um—”

“She should eat a green salad,” Scotia put in, her stare moving over me with displeasure. “I know her momma is worried about her weight.”

Heat climbed up my cheeks and I grit my teeth, my eyes falling to the floor. I hated that my appearance was up for public comment, not just on social media—which was one of the main reasons I hated the million or so followers there—but also with my mother’s friends.

Undaunted, Cletus cut in good naturedly, “Speaking of weight worries, Ms. Simmons, you might want to stick with the turkey breast and skip the ham and cheese.” Then he added on a whisper, as though he were telling her a secret, “Turkey has less calories per serving, and every little bit helps.”

Scotia narrowed her eyes on him, her mouth pinching, and asked with an air of intense irritation, “Is Ashley still living out of wedlock with that Drew Runous? I wonder how your momma would feel about her only daughter living unmarried, with that man in sin, bless her heart.”

Something flashed behind Cletus’s gaze as he glared at Scotia Simmons, something sinister. Meanwhile, Garrison Jr. placed the sandwich on the counter, his eyes wide as they bounced between the three of us. He backed away from our trio like one backs away from a rattlesnake.

Cletus collected our sandwich, the flash of sinister now completely hidden.

He turned from the counter, placed his hand on the small of my back, and responded to her rude question with an air of thoughtfulness. “Now that I think on it, I’m not surprised you haven’t seen Ashley since she returned. We do our best to shield her from ignorant, judgmental folks. After all, we want her to stay in town, don’t we?”

Not waiting for the woman to respond, he guided me forward. I moved where he led, too surprised by the audacity of his insult to say anything at all. He stopped us when we were across the store.

Pulling a twenty from his pocket, he handed it to Mrs. Bradly at the register and called back to Mrs. Simmons loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh, yeah. Before I forget, Mrs. Simmons, Beau wanted to make sure your daughter Darlene knew he found her missing underwear in his GTO last week. I know she was fretting over the loss. Please let her know he’s just going to mail them back this time instead of swinging by the house.”

Mrs. Simmons turned a horrified shade of white and the deli fell silent.

Cletus gave me a small, conspiratorial smile, then to a gaping Mrs. Bradly he said with a wink, “Keep the change.”

“The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.”

― Charlotte Brontë

~Jennifer~

“
Why’d you thank
that horrible woman?” Cletus asked, unwrapping his sandwich. We were presently sitting at one of the public picnic tables just off old Cooper Road Trail. It was warm for October. I took advantage of the mild weather, opting to leave my yellow cardigan in my car.

“Who? You mean Scotia Simmons?” I asked, wiping my fingers on a napkin.

“Yep.” Cletus nodded, then took a big bite of his cheese steak.

“Did I thank her?” I tried to recall.

After exiting the mall to the parking lot, he’d pointed to his car—a Buick I didn’t recognize—and told me to follow him. He’d held my sandwich hostage as he’d strolled away. Reasoning I had no choice if I wanted to eat a dinner with personality, I conceded and followed Cletus and his new-to-me Buick up the mountain road to the trail turn off.

We parked. He waited for me to exit my car, walked us to a picnic table set right next to the mountain stream, and there we were.

“You did thank her,” he answered after he swallowed his bite. “She said something about you gaining weight and you said, ‘Thank you.’”

“Oh. That.” I shrugged. “She said I’d gained weight so I assumed she meant I was looking healthy.”

Cletus raised an eyebrow at this, staring at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Why would you do that? Clearly she was waving her obloquious flag.”

“What does
obloquious
mean?”

“It means she’s a hateful bitch.”

I started and my eyes widened at this, because I couldn’t remember him ever using such strong language before. And yet, some part of me felt relieved and grateful for his use of the words. I felt oddly vindicated and . . . supported. Like he was on my side.

Even so, I didn’t remark on his word choice, instead explaining my modus operandi. “I find that it makes everything nicer for me if I turn insults into compliments.”

He lowered his sandwich to the table. “You do this often?”

“Yes. All the time.”

“How often? Once a month?”

“No. Every day, usually,” I answered easily and honestly.

But then as he continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed and stern, I squirmed a tad under the weight of his glare. I realized abruptly how that sounded.

But that can’t be true.
I’m not insulted daily.

. . . am I?

“Who is insulting you daily?”

I dropped my eyes to my sandwich, attempting to conduct a mental tally of the last month.

Yesterday morning, Momma said I was having “an ugly day.” The day before, my father said I had more hair than sense. The day before that, my father asked if my picture was next to the word stupid in the dictionary.

I counted back two weeks and, sure enough, each day included at least one or two episodes of my mother criticizing my appearance or my father commenting on my lack of brains. I frowned at my discovery, because it was a discovery, and attempted to parse through the suddenly less-than-ideal picture of my home life.

Was this actually my reality?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was. My parents spent a lot of time telling me how unlikeable I was.
Why would they do that?

I couldn’t admit the truth to Cletus, because the truth made me pathetic, so I waved away his glower and forced a cheerful grin. “No one. Sorry. That came out wrong. I misspoke. No one is insulting me daily.”

My neck felt hot and itchy. I thought about taking another bite of my sandwich but decided against it, instead glancing out over the water to the cliff on the other side.

“Is it your daddy?”

I shook my head, even though—looking back now—my father was the main reason I’d developed this habit. “Don’t worry about it. I misspoke.”

“I don’t think you did, Jennifer. Is it your momma?” His voice softened and that only made me feel worse, like something pitiful.

I set my jaw and cleared my throat, standing from the table and walking to the edge of the stream.

“Jenn?” he called, pushing the issue.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said without turning around.

He was silent for a beat and I felt his eyes on my back. For some reason I was precariously close to crying. But that was silly. I was silly. I wasn’t hurt. I was fine.

And I was immensely relieved when Cletus heaved an exaggerated sigh and asked irritably, “What do you want to talk about?”

Without thinking too much about it, I responded, “If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?”

“Alaska,” he said immediately, drawing my attention back to his handsome face. He’d also abandoned his food and was in the process of walking over to me.

“Alaska? What’s in Alaska?”

He crossed his arms and stopped just three feet from where I stood, facing me. “The sky.”

“We have sky here, too.” I motioned to the blue expanse above our heads. “A whole stretch of it, right in front of you.”

“Yeah, but the sky in Alaska is bigger, closer,” he said with an edge of impatience; I got the sense he didn’t like my insistence that we change the subject. “Like the heavens are sitting on your doorstep, and going for a stroll among the clouds is entirely plausible, if you felt so inclined.”

Despite the hint of displeasure in his tone, his description of Alaska had me smiling. “I had no idea you liked the sky so much.”

“I do. I do like the sky. I like looking up and being surprised by what I see. It doesn’t happen too often, but when it does . . .” he paused, breathing out, his gaze moving over my face, “when it does I’m usually in Alaska.”

“The sky here isn’t surprising?” I thought about what might be meant by a surprising sky. I was usually inside all day, working at the bakery, and likely missed any sky-related events that might qualify as surprising.

“Not usually. Sure, it’s pretty.” He shrugged. “But pretty is boring. Give me the startling shades of an Alaskan dusk over the prosaic prettiness of a Tennessee sunset. That’s what I like.”

His description had me grinning wider and taking a step closer to him; I liked how his face lit up as he spoke about the Alaskan sky. “What do you mean,
startling
?” Really, I just wanted him to keep talking.

Cletus tilted his head back and forth in a considering manner. “In the spring, the sunsets are red and orange. But in the fall, they’re dark purple with streaks of lavender and indigo, the most beautiful color I’ve ever . . .” Cletus’s frown was subtle as he trailed off, and his eyes grew distant, like he was silently debating weighty matters.

Suddenly, he announced, “Your eyes aren’t purple. They’re blue. Dark blue.”

I squinted then, blinked rapidly, feeling suddenly self-conscious of my eyeballs and stumbled back a step. “I know that,” I stammered. “They just look purple sometimes.”

Cletus charged forward and secured my chin with his fingers, stepping close and holding me still. He examined my irises. “They’re reflective.”

“Pardon?” I’m sure I now resembled a startled animal.

“They reflect the opposite color that surrounds them. You wear green or yellow, they’re purple. But if you wear orange, they probably appear sky blue.”

I nodded lightly, careful to hold his gaze, not wanting him to stop touching me, not wanting to miss the opportunity to look at him up close. Or maybe I just wanted to be close to him. Either way, I liked the way his nearness made my tummy flutter and my chest feel tight.

“Something like that.” My voice cracked; I cleared my throat silently. “But if I wear black or white—”

“Then they’re true. Then they stop telling falsehoods.” His stare refocused, probed deeper, moving beyond the surface color of my irises to the person inside.

The full weight of Cletus’s piercing gaze, especially this close, was . . . unsettling. I flinched, just a little, but held my ground. Even so, a betraying blush rose to my cheeks. His eyes skimmed over my face; I saw him take note of my high color, the side of his mouth hitching in a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.

“Why’s your face so red?” he whispered, his eyes now hooded as they moved to my mouth.

“It’s hot out here,” I croaked, willing my legs to hold my weight.

At least, I was hot.

“Am I making you nervous?” His voice lowered an octave.

“Yes,” I answered with complete honesty.

His grin hitched higher as his fingers released my chin. Cletus’s thumb skimmed lightly down my neck in a purposeful slide, making me swallow reflexively, and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. But when he moved completely away and back to the picnic table, I felt the loss of him. I felt dizzy with it. And the dizziness was disorienting.

“I told you, you’re going to have to stop being scared of me sooner or later.” Cletus picked up his sandwich again, took a big bite, then spoke around the food, “Eee em nomon ealk anesis redklos.”

I narrowed my eyes, the acute dizziness and lingering goosebumps easing as I tried to decipher his gibberish. “What did you say?”

He shook his head, chewed, swallowed, then said, “I’m not scary, I’m ridiculous.”

I scoffed, moving back to the table and sitting across from him. “You are many things, Cletus Winston, but nothing about you is ridiculous.”

“Really?” He gave me a searching look, the side of his mouth lifting. “What about my hair?”

Unbidden, my attention moved to his hair. His crazy, long, clean but untamed hair.

I love your hair.
“What about your hair?”

“My hair is ridiculous. It’s been misbehaving since birth.”

That made me laugh and I grinned at him, at the picture of baby Cletus with disobedient hair. I imagined his hair wasn’t the only thing about him that was naughty.

“It’s true,” he said, as though my laughter contradicted his earlier statement. “I’m the only one of my siblings to have inherited Grandmother Oliver’s curls as well as her distichiasis.”

“Distichiasis? What’s that?”

“It’s a genetic mutation that causes a double row of eyelashes.” He pointed to his eyes and leaned forward. I followed his lead and leaned across the table, studying his eyelashes. Sure enough, he had a second row.

“That’s amazing. I’ve never heard of that before.” It certainly explained the thickness.

He took a small bite of food, nodding, chewing, then swallowing before adding, “Ashley and Billy also have distichiasis, but not the curly hair. And I’m the only one who had blond hair when I was little.”

I studied him, thinking about this new information. I knew Cletus when he was younger, but—since he was some years older than me—obviously not as a little kid.

“Blond, thick, curly hair and double eyelashes must’ve given you no end of trouble growing up.”

Cletus sighed, nodding somberly. “Yes. When I was a real little kid—two and three—most people thought I was a girl. My momma didn’t do much to discourage the assumption. She’d wanted a girl badly and I’d had the misfortune of being born before Ashley arrived.”

“What happened after Ashley arrived?”

“Not much changed, though Momma did correct the misassumptions with more fervor. Curly hair attracts things, like gum and knots. But long, blond, curly hair and thick eyelashes on a boy attracts assholes.” Cletus’s demeanor changed, his voice grew deeper, rougher, as though he were thinking about a memory in particular.

My attention snagged on his beard and I asked without thinking, “Is that why you grew a beard? So people wouldn’t mistake you for a girl?”

Cletus was quiet, but when I lifted my eyes back to his, they were cloudy and introspective, as though he were giving the matter serious thought.

Finally, he shook his head. “No. I grew a beard because no one was around to teach us boys how to shave.”

. . .
gah.

I barely resisted the urge to stand, walk to his side of the table, and pull him into a hug. Barely. Not because he sounded sad; he didn’t sound sad, he sounded matter-of-fact. And that made the statement even worse.

His gaze refocused on mine and he gave me a knowing smile, as though he could read my thoughts. “Don’t feel bad for me. I had plenty growing up. Our grandmother lived with us until she died, and she more than made up for any deficits left by Darrell Winston. She was from the old school, where bacon fat was used for everything from baking biscuits to making soap.”

“I don’t think I remember your grandmother.”

“You wouldn’t. I believe you were only six or so when she passed.” His eyes lost focus again, moving over my shoulder. “She grew up dirt poor, so she was the queen of clever when it came to saving and reusing materials. She used to describe her childhood thusly, ‘I was so poor, I couldn't even pay attention.’”

I smirked at that. “I thought your grandparents had money?”