Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (15 page)

While I was pulling on a pair of dress pants and the dark gray shirt Sienna had bought me for my birthday, Beau popped his head in my room.

“Hey, Cletus. I was thinking about—” He’d stopped speaking so suddenly, I looked at him. He was staring at me like I’d grown rooster feathers.

“What?” I glanced at my outfit then back to his face.

“Today isn’t Sunday,” he said, his eyes on my shirt.

“I know that.”

“Then why’re you dressed up?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Beau walked all the way into my room and stood behind me. We were both reflected in the closet mirror. “Who are you going to see?”

I shrugged. “No one.”

“Is it Shelly?” he asked suddenly, scowling. “Are you two involved?”

My answering frown was immediate, because I’d hadn’t spent much time thinking about Shelly; I needed to add her to my to-do list. “I’m not involved with Shelly. At least, not yet.”

Beau stiffened and he crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means, eventually, I’ll see to her. She and I are suited.”

His eyes dropped to where I was fastening the dark gray buttons over my black undershirt and he was quiet while I finished up.

I walked around him to my shoes and sat on the bed to pull them on.

“You think you two are suited?” he finally asked.

“Yep.”

“How long have you, uh, felt this way?”

“Since I met her and determined ours would be an ideally placid union. Why?” I lifted an eyebrow at his reflection; he hadn’t moved, nor had his eyes moved. He was staring unseeingly at the mirror.

“Because I . . .” he hesitated, tugging a hand through his hair and turning away from the mirror to face me, “I would have made an effort to be nicer, if I’d known you were interested.”

“Beau, you should be nicer regardless of my feelings on the subject. You’re nice to everybody else. You know what momma used to say: if you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it's tied.”

His lips formed a flat line and he nodded once. I inspected my brother. He was unhappy, and unhappy was not a normal state of being for Beau.

“Is there something going on with you?” I asked, giving him ample opportunity to share his troubles.

His eyes lifted to mine and he twisted his lips to the side. He stared at me, carefully masking his thoughts and saying nothing for a time. Then he shook his head.

“Nope. Nothing is going on with me.” Beau’s tone was deliberately devoid of telling emotion.

I scrutinized him further.

“Stop it, Cletus.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to peer into my mind.” He cracked a half smile, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I would never do that, Beau. Your mind is a depraved and dissolute place. I would fear for my eternal soul should I manage a glimpse inside.”

He grinned at my teasing and I was pleased to see it. “That’s right.” He turned to the door and called over his shoulder as he left. “And don’t you forget it.”

***

Kevin Arthur liked
cutting hair. I reckoned his desire was a good one, considering he was a barber. However, Kevin always wanted to cut more inches off my hair than requested. We argued every time I came into his shop.

I told him my hair needed weight, otherwise it stood straight up and out, and my head—which was larger than average already, likely to accommodate my massive brain—resembled a cantaloupe on a toothpick, with cantaloupes being the least esteemed of all fruit. 

He maintained I needed a short cut, with the sides clipped close, and the top longer and thinned. He said the thickness of my hair was responsible for its propensity to misbehave. He said the cut would bring all the girls to my yard.

This was doubtful. First of all, I didn’t want girls in my yard. I didn’t want anyone in my yard. My yard was fine just as it was: self-maintained.

Secondly, I’d never been popular with the women folk. Women, or at least the women I knew, didn’t much enjoy my lack of willingness to deal with bullshit. For that matter, most men I knew didn’t enjoy this about me either.

Bullshit was the adult version of Santa Claus. For reasons I’ll never comprehend, the general population seemed to enjoy wallowing, spouting, and believing in bullshit.

But back to my barber

I left Kevin and two inches of my hair at his shop in Knoxville. We’d argued about the length. He finally acquiesced and quit his badgering. Then he moped. So, against my better judgment, I let him trim and shape my beard. I came to regret this decision. He’d cut it too short and it now had a distinctly manicured appearance.

I was ridiculous. I gave myself five minutes of feeling ridiculous, and then moved on. I had muffins on my mind and it was already past 10:30 AM.

Donner’s Bakery was on the far side of Green Valley and definitely not on my way home. The bakery was attached to the Sky Lake lodge, the only property still in the possession of Don Donner’s family, Jennifer’s great grandfather. Diane Donner-Sylvester had inherited the lodge in a state of disrepair, her father having squandered the family fortune and whittled the Donner hotel empire down to almost nothing.

I had to park some distance from the bakery entrance. Surprisingly, the lot was nearly full. I tried to recall the last time I’d been to the bakery other than late at night, two Mondays ago, and realized it had been several years.

The property looked significantly different since my last daylight visit. What had been run-down and shabby was now as well manicured as my recently trimmed beard.

All the buildings had been freshly painted and the landscaping was top-notch. Both the bakery sign and the lodge sign looked brand new and the parking lot had been repaved. The bakery had a new awning, French-style wrought-iron tables and chairs along the window, and apparently—I realized upon entering—had been completely remodeled on the inside.

As soon as I stepped into the bakery I was assaulted by the smell of heaven. This I recognized, because it had been the same aroma I’d encountered two Mondays ago when Jennifer let me into the back door of the kitchen. I approved of this smell.

I also approved of the concoctions in the display case, each more elaborate than the last. And of course, set to one side in a glass pedestal of honor, sat three whole banana cakes, and one half banana cake. Apparently, some people had a slice of banana cake for breakfast.

That sounded like an excellent idea to me.

As foretold by the plethora of cars in the lot, the bakery was busy. I leaned to one side and scanned the counter. Jennifer wasn’t at the register and she wasn’t taking orders, which made sense. She was probably elsewhere, baking.

I frowned, restlessness pulling my eyes to the hallway that led to the kitchen. I knew Jennifer baked fresh items every Saturday and Sunday. Billy had made it back to the homestead at 11:00 PM the previous night. Assuming he’d dropped her off fifteen minutes before coming home, this meant she’d slept less than four hours.

Concern had me leaving the bakery, walking around the building, and trying the back door to the kitchen. It was unlocked, so I walked in.

What I found shouldn’t have astonished me if I’d stopped to consider readily available evidence, but I was surprised.

There, in the calm center of a frantic activity storm, was Jennifer Sylvester. She wore her yellow dress costume and high heels; her blonde wavy hair was pulled back in a net, and thick, expertly applied makeup covered her features. She was wearing the Smash-Girl apron and she was baking, but she wasn’t the only one.

She had a staff of at least ten. Jennifer was directing traffic and her voice was not soft, or feeble, or anything resembling a woman with no backbone.

I stood stock still for at least three minutes and watched her work, correcting someone to her left, answering a question thrown from her right, all the while filling delicate puffy balls with crème. She was making crème puffs.

“Hey, Cletus.” I turned at the greeting and discovered one of the Tanner twins giving me a wide grin. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh . . .” I was going to say I was there to see Jennifer, but clearly she was busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.

Blithe Tanner—at least I thought it was Blithe, though it could have been Blair—lifted her eyebrows expectantly. “You need something?”

“Cletus?”

I turned at the sound of Jennifer’s voice. She was walking over to me, wiping her hands on a towel. At the last minute she sucked her thumb into her mouth, her pink tongue darting out to lick crème from the digit.

My throat was suddenly and curiously dry.

“Hey, Jenn. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She gave me a soft smile and shook her head. “You’re not interrupting. I was just finishing up an order for tonight. Banana crème puffs. Do you want to try one?”

Before I could make an excuse—because I was absolutely planning on making an excuse—she grabbed my hand and tugged me over to her workspace. Stopping short, she turned on me, plucked a crème puff from the counter and held it up to my mouth.

“Open up,” she said, her eyes on my mouth.

So I did.

She placed the puff on my tongue, her attention still fixed on my lips. “How is it?”

I didn’t moan, but I wanted to. Instead I finished chewing and said with forced composure, “That might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”

She grinned, looking sublimely happy, and I suddenly wanted to pay her all the compliments, as long as she kept smiling.

But then her mother’s voice bellowed, “Jennifer! Are you finished with the— Oh.” She stopped short, her eyes jumping over me; she looked truly perplexed. “Cletus Winston. What are you doing here?”

I stood straighter and gave Diane Donner-Sylvester a deferential head nod, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her question.

“He’s here because of Billy,” Jennifer lied, untying her apron.

“Oh.” Diane frowned as she looked between the two of us.

“The puffs are all finished, as are the four banana cakes. Blair will arrange them into their boxes. I’ll be right back.” Jennifer tipped her head toward the Tanner twin I’d spoken to moments ago, then reached for my hand and led me out of the kitchen to the back door. She hung up her apron and darted outside.

I studied her momma as we left, the shrewd woman’s confused surprise morphing into confused suspicion.

Once again, Jennifer’s speed was impressive for a short woman in high heels. This time I walked beside her rather than at a distance behind. We were a good fifty feet away from the bakery when she stopped suddenly and spoke.

“It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I said automatically, and I meant it.

“I like your hair cut,” her eyes moved over me, appraising, and her smile returned just before she wrinkled her nose, “and your beard. I’m not used to seeing it so short, though. It’ll take me a while to get used to it.”

I stroked the shorter length and scowled. “My barber takes too much liberty.”

She chuckled, lifting her hand like she was going to touch my face, but then she snatched it away and lowered her eyes to the ground. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” I asked dumbly, half of my wits still back in the kitchen with her fingers placing a banana crème puff in my mouth. I glanced at the fingers in question. Her nail polish was burgundy.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin and ensnared my eyes. “Thanks for pushing Billy into going on that date. I’m going to make him a banana cake to say thanks, as he really went above and beyond.”

“Is that so?” I frowned, and it was not on purpose. It was just a plain-old frown based entirely on what she’d said. “Define above and beyond.”

“Well, funny thing about that. He was a real gentleman, even when Jackson approached me.”

“You mean at the jam session?”

“No. I mean at The Front Porch. Jackson was there, at the restaurant, and he came over to our table while Billy was in the men’s room.”

My frown intensified. All on its own. Without consulting me.

“What?” My question arrived much sharper than I intended.

“Cletus . . .” Jennifer’s eyes were wide with an emotion I couldn’t quite read and she was twisting her fingers.

Meanwhile, my heart was beating erratically. All on its own. Also without consulting me.

“What is it?” I stepped closer and placed a hand on her arm, needing to touch her for reasons I didn’t understand.

“Cletus, Jackson asked me out.”

I stared at her and her words, not grasping her meaning. “What do you mean? Out where?”

She gathered a large breath, her gorgeous eyes searching mine, her expression oddly circumspect, and said on the exhale, “He asked me out on a date.”

“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”

― Fernando Pessoa,
The Book of Disquiet

~Cletus~

I was early.

The appointed time for our Monday lesson was 9:30 PM. It was now 9:17 PM.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel of my car and glared at the back door of the bakery, debating my options.

On Saturday, after Jennifer had detonated the Jackson James bomb, her mother promptly bellowed for her to return. We didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation because Jennifer left me standing on the edge of the parking lot while she jogged in her high heels back to the kitchen.

I’d been fixating and distracted since.

Witnessing Jennifer’s command of the kitchen had been a sight to see. I kept thinking I was proud of her, but then dismissed the thought. I had no right to be proud of her. I wasn’t responsible—indirectly or otherwise—for her success and abilities. She was responsible. I just hoped she was proud of herself.

And then there was the small matter of Jackson James and his intentions. My intuition told me his intentions weren’t pristine.

And yet . . .

My eyes flickered to the dashboard. It was now 9:28 PM. Two more minutes.

What to do about Jackson wasn’t my call. I’d signed on to help Jennifer find her backbone so she could use it in all facets of her life, and that was still the plan. Although she very clearly used it already in her kitchen.
With ease.

But still . . .

The back door opened and Jennifer peeked her head out. She was scanning the lot for my car. I saw the moment she spotted it. She stepped more completely out of the kitchen and waved me over. I exited my automobile and strolled with measured steps to where she stood, endeavoring to mask my internal conflict.

“Come on in,” she whispered as I approached. “I made you some crème puffs. And Billy’s cake is ready. Do you mind taking it back to him?”

“Not a problem.”

Jennifer moved to the side, giving me a wide berth, then closed the door. It was cold and I was wearing my jacket. She stepped around me and crossed to the stove. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her yellow dress, her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she’d washed the mask of makeup from her face.

I thought maybe this is what she’d look like at home, after work, with that husband of hers she so desperately wanted. Whoever he might be, I was coming to realize he’d be a very lucky man.

“Do you want something to drink? It’s been chilly today. I can make tea.” Water was boiling, or had just been boiling, from a blue and white kettle.

“Tea would be nice.”

She gave me a friendly smile then moved to fill the two cups she’d laid out with hot water.

I studied her. She appeared to be at ease, which was a huge change from just two weeks ago. Her nail polish was now blue, and instead of pearls she wore a delicate gold chain with a cross.

“I know you’ve probably been too busy to think about my problem, but I’d appreciate your advice,” she said, stirring the tea.

“Which problem would that be?” I assumed she meant Jackson James, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

That guy . . . what a little shit. The more I thought about him approaching Jennifer while she was on a date with Billy, the more I wanted to step up my armadillo infestation plans. Or maybe just beat the tar out of him. Granted, her date with Billy had been fake, but Jackson was ignorant of that fact.

Consequently, he was a shit.

My jacket felt too hot, so I unzipped it and placed it on the counter, claiming a stool and leaning my forearms on the butcher block.

“I guess you’re right.” She nodded, obviously reading more into my question than my intent. “It’s not really a problem. It’s what I wanted, actually.”

I had to clear my throat past an unexpected tightness. “Going on a date with Jackson is what you wanted?”

Jennifer leaned her hip against the counter and shrugged. “Not necessarily Jackson, but I think he’ll do. I know my father approves of him. He comes from a really nice family and he’s always seemed like a gentleman.”

Despite taking off my jacket, my neck was still hot. I was quite suddenly and forcefully . . . irritated. I resolved to keep this irritation to myself, partially because I didn’t understand it and partially because Jennifer hadn’t earned it. The irritation simply was.

She didn’t notice my struggle, her eyes were on her teacup as she said, “I guess,” she started, sighed, and started again, “I guess I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

My irritation eased enough at this statement for me to say, “You don’t have to go. If you don’t feel ready yet, or unprepared, just call it off.”

“No, I feel good about the date—prepared I mean—Billy gave me lots of tips.”

The irritation rose again, like a wave. “What kind of tips?”

“Things to talk about, and things not to talk about. He was really helpful, so thank you for arranging that.”

“No problem.” I would have to try drilling this information out of Billy later; thus far he’d been frustratingly tightlipped. “So why are you doubting whether you want to go on the date with Jackson?”

Jennifer eyes darted to mine, then away. She finally asked, “What if he wants to kiss me, Cletus?”

I responded with the truth before I could catch myself. “He’s definitely going to want to kiss you, Jenn.”

“That’s a problem.” Her eyes widened to their maximum diameter and she clasped her hands over the teacup.

“Why is that a problem, other than the obvious hardship of being forced to kiss Jackson James?”

She ignored the insult and answered the root of my question. “It’s a problem because I’m twenty-two and I don’t know how to do that.”

“Kiss?”

“Yep.”

I stared at her. Then my stare moved to her lips. “You’ve never been kissed?”

“Nope. Well, not really. Timothy King tried to kiss me once, but I didn’t want him to. He got his mouth on my chin before I was able to push him off.”

Note to self: maim Timothy King.

“And then there was that time I surprised Drew, but like I said, it was a lip-collision. Not a real kiss. It was so awful, I often wondered if I should send him a letter of apology.”

“No need for that.” I waved away her suggestion.

“I mean, I’m sure I could do it eventually. How hard can it be?”

I thought about her problem, because it was a problem. Once again, she’d caught me off guard. I knew she’d been sheltered, but clearly I had no idea how painstakingly her parents had been in isolating her.

The woman needed kissing.

But first, she needed to know about kissing.

“Well, academically speaking, it’s not difficult to kiss a person. Just like it’s not difficult to bake a cake. But it’s difficult to bake an excellent cake, right? Just so with kissing. The chances of you baking an excellent cake on your first try is—”

“Basically zero.”

“That’s true. But while I appreciate your realism, allow me to suggest we embrace optimism. Because kissing is more than just technique. It’s also about the chemistry you have with another person and his or her technique as well. So the difference between kissing and baking is that two people are involved, and that makes it both more and less complicated.”

“How is it more complicated?” She passed me my tea then took a sip of her own.

“If you had to bake with a partner, you’d have to rely on that partner and hope he or she was just as good as—or better than—you. Plus you hope the two of you have good chemistry. Plus, and I cannot stress this enough, that other person needs to keep a tidy kitchen.”

“Tidy kitchen?”

“Yes. If you’re after a life-long baking partner, avoid indiscriminate bakers. And if you take on a reformed, previously indiscriminate baker, make sure he’s had his kitchen thoroughly inspected by the health department.”

Her dark eyebrows arched over her violet eyes, which were shadowed with concern. “Then how is it less complicated?”

“If your partner and you have great chemistry, technique matters less.”

She thought about this for a stretch, sipping her tea and staring unseeingly at the counter between us. Then she sighed.

“Clearly I’m the weaker baker in this scenario. For all intents and purposes, in this analogy, I’m the baker who can’t make toast. Just being pragmatic here, I guess my worry is, I’ll meet someone with whom I have great chemistry and blunder the execution—that is, burn the toast.”

“But you teach people how to bake, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you just need to learn proper kissing technique. That’s all.” I shrugged, hopefully communicating that it was no big deal. “Once you feel confident in your technique, then you can see if the chemistry is there.”

“You make it sound like I can just check the classifieds for a kissing instructor. How do normal people do this? How do normal people learn how to kiss without frightening off good kissers?”

“Most people figure it out in high school. No one knows how to kiss in high school, so it’s all different variations of too wet and unpleasant. It’s a lot of trial and error, bad kisses, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.”

“See now, I missed all that . . .” She shook her head, clearly frustrated. “You know, I never wished I’d gone to high school until last year. When I was fourteen and my parents told me they were going to keep me at home and continue homeschooling me, I was relieved.”

“Why?”

“At the time I had three pen pals who were already in high school, and they made it sound like Dante’s sixth circle of hell.”

This description made me smile. “It can be.”

“But now, looking back, I wish I’d gone. I wish I’d experienced a more traditional high school experience, and all the torture that goes along with it. I wouldn’t be so stupid about stuff now. I feel like I’m constrained by my lack of experience.”

“I don’t think your assessment is quite right. In this case, in matters of interpersonal relationships, I don’t think it’s necessarily bad to be inexperienced, just like it’s not bad to be experienced.”

Her mouth was pressed in a dubious line. “I find that hard to believe.”

I grinned at her, because once again she looked cute. “It’s true. If you don’t mind another analogy, finding a mate is like playing an instrument. I might play the banjo for years, but then give it up to play the bassoon. Well, I don’t know how to play the bassoon, so it’s like starting all over again. Each instrument is like starting all over. No one has all the answers, no matter how much experience they have in their past.”

Jennifer set her cup down on the counter with a
thump
. “But, using your analogy, if you’ve played the banjo, at least you know how to read music. You know what the notes mean. I’m like a person who has never even heard a song, and suddenly wants to become a concert pianist.”

I was quiet, because she had a good point.

“What about you?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“What about me?” I straightened from the counter, bracing for whatever unexpected question she was about to toss at me.

“What are you looking for? In your partner? What level of experience are you looking for?”

“Ideally, for efficiency sake . . .” I hesitated, because she was looking at me as though my answer held the key to her future success and was telling of men my age. I thought about lying, to make her feel better and bolster her confidence, but decided against it.

My preference for experience
was
revealing of most (what I considered normal) men my age or older; by normal I meant men without a daddy, superiority, or power complex. I didn’t know anyone my age or older who was looking to school a shy, blushing virgin unless that man was also a shy, blushing virgin. I had nothing against shy, blushing virgins. I just didn’t want to have sex with them.

Because sex with an inexperienced woman was decidedly vanilla. I didn’t much like vanilla, or missionary, or doing it with the lights off. I didn’t want a woman who was reticent about her body, who tried to hide it with sheets and darkness.

I liked flavor and well-lit rooms, where I could admire everything that made a woman’s form different from a man’s. I liked a variety of positions and a woman with stamina, who knew how to use my body to make hers come and approached sex with enthusiasm, not trepidation.

I wanted a woman who knew she liked sex, not one who hadn’t made her mind up due to lack of experience.

So, yeah. I considered lying. But I decided against it. I didn’t want any lies between Jenn and me if I could help it.

But I did gentle my voice. “Ideally, I’d like someone who has, if at all possible, a good amount of experience.”

Her face fell and she lowered her eyes to the wood floor.

A twinge of regret originating in my chest tightened my throat. “Jenn—”