Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (13 page)

“Oh, my grandfather did. But even though my grandfather Oliver—her husband—came from money and made a good living, she never could abide wasting. The woman looked at trash and saw its potential as something useful. She made a moonshine still from reclaimed rubber hoses, two oversized mufflers, and a stone furnace. It still lives in our detached garage.”

“She made a moonshine still?” I was now relaxed. And I was hungry again. I picked up my sandwich.

“Yep. I use it once a year around Christmas time.” His eyes moved over me; as though gauging my interest. He must’ve seen that I found the topic fascinating because he continued. “But that’s not all. Her castoff dresses, those that were threadbare, live a second life as quilts. She made old curtains into napkins, plastic milk cartons became toy plastic shovels, and she once turned a 420 tractor tire into a sand-table for us kids.”

“Ha! What a good idea.”

“She also fixed up automobiles and, honestly, is the person most responsible for teaching us how to change oil and tires, getting us interested in cars.”

“Maybe you inherited your mechanical aptitude and engineering genes from her,” I suggested between bites.

“Probably.” He nodded, as though he found my statement had merit. “‘But sometimes,’ she’d say, ‘trash is just trash and should be left at the side of the road.’ She usually said this whenever my father was around.” His eyes dropped and he frowned at his food, his voice growing distant. “She despised my father, but she never raised her voice. She used to tell me, ‘Being quiet can be louder than shouting.’”

I thought about that, thought about the statement in reference to my own perpetual silence.

Is my silence loud?

I didn’t think so. If anything, my silence perpetuated my problems. It fueled my unhappiness. 

Before I could think too much on the words, he added, “Darrell called her the garbage lady and ridiculed her recycling. He couldn’t understand why a woman with so much money didn’t just buy everything new.”

“What did she say?”

Cletus’s gaze returned to mine and his smile was soft and sad with some memory. “Her answer was always the same: ‘Old things have soul.’ Then to me she’d add on a whisper, ‘And young things have spirit.’”

The saying, so simple and succinct, struck a chord. My stare fell to the picnic table and I wondered if his grandmother’s words of wisdom could be applied to me.

Did I have spirit?

In the silence that followed, while Cletus seemed content to finish his food, lost to his own thoughts, a melancholy settled over me. I didn’t feel particularly spirited. Nor did I feel soulful.

I felt hushed. I felt smothered. I felt suppressed and . . . ignored. Not just by my parents and their expectations, but also by me. I’d been ignoring myself. I’d been ignoring my own wishes and hopes.

So instead, I decided to feel motivated, determined, ready, and . . . excited.

I was excited, ready to find my spirit.

***

Burgundy nail polish
on day one and they didn’t bat an eye.

No makeup on day two and my father did a double take, but said nothing.

Wearing my hair in a bun on day three earned me several disapproving looks from my mother, but no reprimand.

However, the black dress I wore on day four for my fake date with Billy—

“What do you think you’re wearing?” my mother asked from the doorway to my room, her hands on her hips, her brow pulled together in a severe frown.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. I still liked the black dress with the scoop neck, capped sleeves, and lace band around the hem. I especially liked it with my hair pulled back, like it was now, and the black pointy heels I’d bought for the occasion yesterday after work.

“It’s a dress,” I said with a shrug, sitting on the edge of my bed and pulling on my new shoes.

I didn’t know how it was possible, but her frown intensified. “First that awful nail polish and now this? It’s indecent.”

I wrinkled my nose at her; the spike of irritation I felt at her words meant I had to force calm into my voice. “Because it’s black?”

She huffed. “I do not need to explain myself. You will not wear that. You will wear the dress I laid out for you. Scotia called me yesterday, said she saw you at the mall. I guess now I know why you were there.”

I glanced at the yellow dress she’d placed on my bed. The three-quarter length sleeves, the high collar, the wide skirt that fell to my calf.

I wasn’t going to wear it. And if she didn’t like it then, well, that was just too damn bad.

I lifted my eyes to my mother, met her frown with one of my own. I wasn’t immune to her disappointment. The look she was giving me smarted, made my heart twinge with guilt, made my hands a little sweaty. But, as I realized yesterday, these looks were a daily occurrence, no matter what I did. I could never satisfy her and I was no longer satisfied with always doing as she liked. It was just a dress. But it was my dress, and it wasn’t indecent. It was pretty and I liked it and there was no reason—
no reason at all
—for me to change.

I shook my head and balled my hands into fists on my lap. “No, Momma. I’m not going to wear a yellow dress.”

She huffed again. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester, you are trying my patience. I do not like being spoken to—”

“Now, Diane, leave her alone.” My father’s voice sounded from down the hall and I heard his footsteps approach. Soon he was also in the doorway. He gave me a quick once-over and nodded. “She looks really good. Hopefully he’ll be concentrating on the way she looks so she doesn’t have to talk so much.”

I swallowed the rising bitterness at my father’s implied insult, determined to ignore it rather than pretending it was a compliment.

My mother’s mouth opened and her eyes bugged out. But she didn’t get a chance to speak because the doorbell rang, announcing Billy’s arrival.

I felt a little flutter of excitement, but it wasn’t because of Billy or the date. I didn’t fancy Billy
that way
, but I did hope we could be friends. The flutter was entirely because of the dress. I was going to walk out of the house wearing this black dress, these black shoes, and go to the jam session. I might’ve been a tad overdressed for the jam session and community center, but not for a dinner date with the town’s most eligible bachelor. It felt as though it was my first time in public as myself.

And, yeah, I was damn excited.

Before my mother recovered, I grabbed my shawl, slipped past my parents, and strolled down the hall to the front door. I heard their hushed voices behind me; my mother’s was furious, my father’s was exasperated.

I ignored them and opened the door.

Billy Winston—in all his tall, dark, and handsome glory—turned; a polite smile affixed to his features, and then he promptly gaped.

“Jenn?” he asked, like he didn’t recognize me.

I grinned, feeling a little self-conscious, but still excited. “Hi.” 

His eyes moved down, then up, then down again. “You look—”

“Billy Winston, such a pleasure.” My momma appeared next to me, a brittle smile on her face. “Why don’t you come in for a bit?”

My father appeared a moment later, reaching forward to shake Billy’s hand. In the next moment he pushed me out the door.

“No, no. We don’t want to keep you. You kids should get going.”

“But—” My mother moved to reach for my hand; my father blocked the attempt by placing his arm over her shoulders and holding her in place.

“Go on. Have fun. See you later.” He waved, then shut the door.

Billy stared at the door for a moment, then focused his eyes on me. I shrugged. He appeared to be either bewildered, or amused, or both. But he recovered quickly.

Turning toward his car, he offered me his arm and a small, genuine smile. “Shall we?”

I slipped my hand in the crook of his elbow and returned his grin. “We shall.”

***

“So Cletus told
me I needed to change one thing every day. He wasn’t specific about what I should change, just that I should decide on the one thing myself.”

Billy nodded.

I continued. “At first I didn’t see the purpose. Do you know? Cletus was right. Something as trivial as painting my nails a different color made me feel like I could do anything I set my mind to.”

Billy smiled.

I continued. “Cletus also said—”

Billy cleared his throat. “Do you go to the jam session much? I think I’ve only seen you here a handful of times.”

“I don’t, actually. I’d like to, but Saturdays are busy. I’m usually making special orders on Friday night. I’ve heard you sing a few times, though. You should do it more often, you have such a nice voice.”

Billy smiled again, his eyes sliding to me, then away. “Thank you.”

“And Cletus is amazing on the banjo. Last year he did a folksy version of “Thriller” during Halloween. It was spectacular.”

Billy sighed.

Conversation was surprisingly easy with Billy Winston, once I stopped being afraid of saying the wrong thing. Instead of worrying, I just said whatever I wanted. He wasn’t a big talker, other than asking me questions, so I filled the silence. Sometimes what I said made him laugh. Sometimes it made him nod. Sometimes it made him cough.

But usually whatever I said made him smile. And that was nice. He was nice.

He pulled his truck into the community center lot and it was clear the jam session was already in full swing. The evening was chilly, so folks were dressed in coats.

I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and Billy opened my door, helping me from the car. I slipped my fingers back into the crook of his elbow while trying to suppress a new, and more powerful, flutter of excitement as we approached the community center.

I wondered if Cletus would be there. I wondered what he would think of my dress, and my hair in a bun, and my purposefully minimal makeup, and my nail polish. Even though I was nervous, I grinned at the thought.

“What are you smiling about?” Billy asked, giving me the side-eye.

“I’m nervous,” I answered honestly, feeling breathless, then asked before I could catch myself, “Do you think Cletus is here?”

Billy’s mouth tugged to the side and he studied my face. “I’m sure he is. Why?”

“I wonder what he’ll think of my dress,” I admitted excitedly.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“What? What is it?” I pressed, searching his profile for a sign as to why he was laughing.

He pulled us to a stop and faced me. “Since this is a practice date, do you want me to give you a tip?”

I nodded eagerly. “Yes, please. All tips are welcome.”

“Okay. Here goes.” He gathered a large breath, like he was bracing himself, and said, “When you’re on a date with a man, it’s probably best not to bring up a different man.”

My lips parted as my face fell. “I’m sorry. I keep talking about your brother.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “This is a practice, no need to apologize. I’m not upset. But if this were a real date, you bringing up Cletus and wondering what he’s going to think of your dress would definitely rub me the wrong way. If I’m on a date, I want that woman to be thinking only of me. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, because it did make sense. “Just like, I probably wouldn’t like it—if this were a real date—if you kept bringing up other women.”

“That’s right.” He moved my hand back to his arm. “You’ll want to keep the conversation about the two of you.”

I considered things as we walked. “Thank you, Billy.”

“For what?” He opened the double door for me, placing his hand on the small of my back to usher me inside. The entryway was full of people, but I hardly noticed them.

“Thanks for doing this, and for the tip. Thanks for sacrificing your Friday night.”

Billy covered my fingers on his arm with his hand. “It’s not a sacrifice, Jennifer.”

“Well, it can’t be pleasant.”

He grinned again and gave me an incredulous look.

“What? What did I do this time? Do you have more tips?” I needed to know. I hoped he filled the whole night with tips, so I would be an expert when the time came for a real date.

Billy’s grin faded as his piercing blue eyes moved over my face. If he’d done this just last week I think I would’ve fainted on the spot, mortified and terrified and assured of my own failure.

But so much had changed in a week. I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I was changing, becoming braver. So I met his glacial eyes straight on and lifted my eyebrows encouragingly.

“You can tell me, whatever it is,” I whispered earnestly, stepping closer. “Like I said, all tips are welcome.”

Finally, he said, “You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?”

I gaped at him, because that was not what I’d expected him to say.

But before I could recover, a stern voice to my left interjected. “She has no idea whatsoever.”

I turned and found Cletus standing at my shoulder. Startled, I stumbled a step to the side so I could see him better. What I found surprised me.