Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (6 page)

I’ve never tried playing a bass or cello, but I’m confident I could if I practiced.

Of the instruments, I prefer the banjo. It’s the most obnoxious of the strings, and can only be played tolerably by a person who’s set his or her mind to tame it. I derived a certain satisfaction in taming wild things or bending them to my will. Instruments, forests, people . . .

Which brings me to why the jam session was my favorite night of the week. I held court at the community center every Friday night. Townsfolk from all over would come to hear the musicians play—a different variation of bluegrass in each of the converted classrooms—while settling business and swapping gossip.

I got more accomplished in a half hour at the Friday night jam session than I did during the whole of the week prior.

“Officer Evans, Officer Dale, just the men I’ve been looking for.” I tipped my head in deference at the two sheriff deputies and sat across from them, shaking each of their outstretched hands in turn. I’d found them in the cafeteria, both with giant piles of coleslaw on their plates. My brother Duane would’ve been irritated as the coleslaw was his favorite. “I hope you boys have been enjoying my sausage.”

Officer Evans nodded, swallowing a bite of the coveted coleslaw. “Yes, sir. That’s some quality meat, Cletus. Do you really go boar hunting with Indians in Texas? And use spears?”

“No, not with Indians. I go with Native Americans,” I corrected. I don’t mind the use of labels, so long as they’re properly applied.

I’d confused Evans with my statement. He blinked and appeared to be deep in thought.

Before he’d recovered, I got to the crux of the reason I’d approached them this evening; lowering my voice, I asked, “How’s our mutual friend doing these days?”

Dale glanced over his shoulder to make sure we weren’t being overheard. Satisfied we weren’t, he took a small bite of coleslaw and shrugged. “He’s healthy, unless you need him not to be.”

I pulled on the tip of my beard, stroking the hair with my thumb and forefinger. It had been a while since I’d asked about Darrell Winston, the man who was technically my father. Puzzle pieces I’d been crafting for years were finally snapping together. The time for action was drawing near . . . but not yet.

“Oh, I don’t mind if he’s healthy. For now.”

Dale gave me a grim smile. “You just say the word, Cletus.”

I tried to mirror his expression. “You know how much I appreciate that, Dale.”

He shook his head. “We both owe you, big time.”

I waved away his words in a show of affability, but he was right. They both owed me, and I was grateful for the favor; it had paid dividends in more ways than one. Dale had tipped me off some months ago that the King brothers had been passing Iron Wraith’s evidence to the sheriff’s office for the last year, which had been the seed for my latest grand scheme.

Evans chimed in, “We’re happy to help, and that bastard has it coming to him—uh, whenever you decide the time is right.”

I’d just released my somber nod and achieved two head bobs when I felt a tentative tap on my shoulder. Dale and Evans glanced at the newcomer, and their expressions softened. One might even say they grew hazy.

“I am so sorry,” a gentle, unmistakably feminine voice interrupted.

I stiffened, knowing exactly who the voice belonged to, and consequently why Dale and Evans had adopted their hazy faces.

“It’s not an interruption.” Dale shook his head, standing.

“Not at all.” Evans also stood, his smile was small and hopeful, his voice coaxing as though she were a skittish animal.

I knew better. Where these two yokels saw a weak, sensitive flower—an angelic pushover, ripe for the pushing—I saw an opportunist in banana-cake clothing. Let the record show, I did not roll my eyes.

Schooling my expression, I glanced over my shoulder, prepared to give the interloper a terse nod. But this plan went awry almost immediately and I executed an involuntary double take.

Jennifer Sylvester’s eyes were purple.

Not blue.

Not green.

Not gray.

Purple.

And that was impossible.

So I frowned.

The slight smile she was aiming at me fell and she winced, just a touch. Her hand dropped from my shoulder and she backed up a step, lifting her chin.

“Cletus, I need to speak with you.” Her words were loud for her—so a normal volume for everyone else—and deliberate.

I narrowed my eyes, leveling her with a glare. I considered saying no. I considered it. The leash Jennifer thought she wielded chafed and inspired raw thoughts.

Instead I stood.

“Gentlemen.” I tipped my head toward Dale and Evans, though I never removed my eyes from Jennifer Sylvester. Then, in an exaggerated show of manners, I swept my hand in front of me. “After you, Miss Sylvester.”

She swallowed unsteadily, her purple eyes wide and assessing under unnaturally thick and long black lashes. The lashes were fake.
But that eye color . . .

She nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and walked swiftly toward the cafeteria exit. I followed, careful to wipe my expression and keep a distance between us. No reason for folks to know we were linked in any capacity.

Jennifer’s stride was impressively quick for a short woman in high heels, and she was short. Even for a woman she was short. My gaze carefully disinterested, I scrutinized this short woman.

She wore a yellow dress, a “housedress” I believed they were called in the 1950s and ’60s. It hugged her torso to her waist then circled out over her hips. She had big hips. Or a small waist. Or both. Hard to tell when the garment she wore served to accentuate both the smallness of her middle and the thickness of her sub-middle.

The yellow dress swished over her calves as she walked. She had nice legs—what I could see of them, at any rate—but the fabric swishing had me redirecting my attention. It was an angry, violent swishing and was getting on my nerves.

A quick turn to the left had me stepping double-time to keep up and comprehension dawned. I knew where we were going, where she was leading me. We’d gone a roundabout way and I was surprised she knew that the nondescript, unlabeled door led to the backstage area at the front of the cafeteria.

No one would see us. A thick, heavy curtain separated the stage from the tables crowded with townsfolk, eating their coleslaw, fried pie, and drinking lemonade. No one would hear us. The constant buzz of chatter beyond the curtain made this a perfect spot for a clandestine assignation, so long as neither of us felt the urge to shout.

I slipped through the door, searched the large space, and found Jennifer with her back and palms pressed against the cinderblock wall a few feet away. She stood rigid and straight, and judging by the rise and fall of her chest, she was out of breath.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my coveralls and waited. Likely, I could see better than she could. Us Winston boys could see in the dark, more or less. Our momma had told us that we had Yuchi ancestry, a fact I’d confirmed unbeknownst to my siblings. Legend was, the Yuchi tribesmen could see just fine, even on the blackest of nights.

Even so, the lack of light cast everything in grays and shadows, including her unsettling purple eyes.

Those have to be contacts.

“Thank you,” she said, breaking the silence and surprising me.

I’d expected demands, not gratitude.

“I haven’t done anything.”

Her posture relaxed just a smidge. “You have,” she contradicted. Her eyes were wide and I could tell she was trying to see me better.

“What’ve I done?” I challenged, wanting to be irritated but instead finding myself curious.

“You’ve made this week more bearable.” She laughed lightly and it was a pleasing, musical sound. But then she swallowed her laughter and her expression grew exceedingly earnest. “You gave me hope.”

Well . . . darn.

I stared at her—at this short woman, at her pointed chin and her uncommonly pretty eyes framed by ugly fake lashes—and reviewed the facts:

One, Jennifer Sylvester was desperate.

Two, she was not a bad person.

Three, she thought she wanted a husband.

Jennifer leaned away from the wall, twisting her fingers in front of her and tilting her head to one side then the other. She laughed again, but this time it sounded nervous.

“You know, I can’t see you at all. But I get the feeling you can see me just fine.”

Four, Jennifer Sylvester was surprisingly observant.

I stepped forward into a swath of light provided by a tall window. It wasn’t yet dusk, but night was quickly approaching.

“Is that better?” I asked, my voice gentler than I’d intended.

“Yes.” She shivered and her eyes moved over my face, dawdling for a moment on my beard, then fell to the floor. “That’s better. Thank you.”

Five, Jennifer Sylvester didn’t need a husband. She might’ve wanted a husband, likely because she was equating marriage with escape and freedom, but she didn’t need one. What she needed was a backbone.

“What are we doing here?” I asked after we’d stood in silence for a full minute.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why’d you want to talk to me?”

She firmed her lips, then lifted her eyes to mine. “I wanted to see if you’ve made any progress yet.”

“Progress?”

“Yes. Formulated a plan, for me, and my situation.”

“I see . . .” I examined her posture.
How does one grow a backbone?

“Well?” she prompted.

“Well, what?”

Now her eyes narrowed and she pushed away from the wall, crossing her arms. “Cletus Winston, do not play games with me.”

There it is.
She had a backbone, but just didn’t use it much.

I tried not to smile. Tried and failed. But she wouldn’t see it. First of all, it was too dark for her non-Yuchi eyes. And second, my beard would hide it.

Now, how does one make a backbone permanent?

“I might be crazy,” she continued, her voice edged with steel, “but this is what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted.”

“A husband?” I sought to clarify.

“Yes . . . and no.” The steel leeched from her voice as her arms fell. Once again she was twisting her fingers. “Here’s the honest truth, Cletus: I’m not a romantic. I’m not looking for someone to sweep me off my feet. Knights in shining armor do not exist. I don’t even need him to be particularly clever or handsome. I just want a good person, a . . . a gentle person. I want someone with a good heart, someone steady, reliable, and kind. Someone who would make a good father.”

I lifted an eyebrow at the depressingly pragmatic listing of her desires while arguing with myself. I wanted to help her—because I could—and I didn’t want to help her—because I’d sworn an oath to myself that I wouldn’t go off chasing windmills anymore.

She’s not your problem.

I wasn’t accustomed to arguing with myself, so I quietly stared at her. I quietly stared for longer than was proper.

“Cletus?”

I blinked and my attention refocused outward. She’d moved. She was now standing directly in front of me, her chin angled upward so she’d trapped me with her eyes.

“So . . .” Jennifer took a breath, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, then whispered, “so, you are going to help me, right?”

“A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life.”

—Hermann Hesse,
Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

~Jennifer~

Cletus stared at
me for several minutes, but I didn’t mind. The distant quality behind his gaze meant he wasn’t really looking
at
me. Cletus was thinking. And if he was thinking with such abundant focus, then he hadn't made up his mind yet about helping.

I debated reminding him of the video evidence still in my possession, but quickly dismissed the idea. I’d threatened him last Sunday; if nearly a week of knowledge of said threat hadn’t decided things, it would only serve to aggravate him now.

I hadn't been lying when I told him I'd saved it in multiple places, even though all those
places
were thumb drives. Maybe I was being paranoid, or giving Cletus too much credit, but I didn’t think so.

Also, I couldn’t risk the video being discovered by my parents. This meant it was no longer on my phone and I’d never placed it on my laptop. My father randomly reviewed my pictures, videos, notes, documents, and search history. His years of being a high school principal had made him fussy about my habits and behavior. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. I never had anything to hide.

Until now.

The file had been deleted from the phone after I showed it to Cletus, as much as a file can be deleted in this day and age. I'd used one of the computers at the library to transfer it to five different thumb drives and they were hidden in various places around my industrial kitchen at the bakery. Neither of my parents spent any real time in my baking space, so it was the safest location for my secret.

But back to Cletus and his staring. His staring meant he was considering, and his considering meant he hadn't decided what to do about me yet.

Given the way his eyes burned with annoyance when I'd interrupted him earlier in the cafeteria, and everything I knew about Cletus as a covert conniver, I figured he didn't much appreciate being at a disadvantage. This was a man who preferred to be in complete control.

For as long as I’d been watching, Cletus controlled how the world perceived him, wearing the mask of a bumbling simpleton at times, or the affable auto mechanic, or the harmless banjo-playing hermit. And he was always in control of himself, never losing his temper, never displaying anything but premeditated emotion.

Control was his comfort zone.

I needed to adapt to his comfort zone, otherwise he wouldn't help me. Sure, he might fake it for a while, but it wouldn’t be real.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us until I hovered just three feet away. At this distance I had to angle my chin. I was in heels, but he was still tall.

“Cletus.”

I swallowed as the full weight and intensity of his chaotically handsome gaze rested on mine. Gathering my courage close, because—honestly, he still frightened me—I prepared to risk what was left of my pride and hand over control.

"So," I started, licking my lips because they were dry, "so, you will help me, right?"

Cletus frowned, his eyes sharpening, analyzing me. He'd done this in the car, once he realized I could see through the sweet, innocuous routine. He’d been openly examining me since. Perhaps Cletus figured he didn't have to obscure himself behind a mask; there was no point because I saw him clearly, so he held nothing back.

All his brutal cleverness was on display and it made meeting his eyes—then and now—extremely difficult. I felt like I was being dissected.

He inhaled slowly and I got the sense he wanted to say no. In fact, my heart was already on its way to my feet, when he said, "Tell me about yourself."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

"Tell me about yourself. What do you do, other than bake and wear costumes?"

My hands pressed against my stomach self-consciously and I peered down at my dress. "You think I look like I'm in a costume?"

"Aren't you?"

He was right . . . of course. It was a costume. But I had a hard time admitting the truth out loud.

"The makeup, the hair, those fuzzy caterpillars on your eyelids. You dress like a stage performer all the time. Is this something you enjoy?"

"No," I answered immediately. "No. It's not. But I don't see what this has to do with—"

"With finding you a husband who is going to give you babies?"

"Well, yes. What does how I dress—"

"Everything. Because who you represent yourself to be on the outside, what people see, forms their first impression of you. For marriageable men who like women, this means you'll immediately fall into one of three categories: marriage potential, one-time amorous congress, or forgettable."

I grimaced. "So, you're saying I'm forgettable." Of course he would.
He’d
never noticed me.

He chuckled, and I couldn’t help but enjoy the way it brightened and softened his eyes. "No, Jenn. You're not forgettable. But being a caricature doesn't make you very accessible either. A woman usually needs to be accessible in order to fall into the marriage category."

I tried to hide my delighted surprise at Cletus calling me
Jenn
instead of
Jennifer
, and instead attempted to focus on his disconcerting evaluation of my category. "So that just leaves—"

"That's right." He nodded solemnly, reminding me of my grandfather Sylvester, or Judge Payton. "Most men—especially young men—are simple creatures. But the good news is, men can and do change their minds.”

"This is a distressing conversation." I rubbed my forehead, feeling a little nauseous.

"Am I alarming your delicate sensibilities?"

"No. It's not that. I just feel sorry for men now. It must be frustrating to be so feeble and limited."

Cletus's eyes widened dramatically just before he barked a laugh. "Feeble and limited? Is that how you would describe men?"

"No. But apparently that's how you would describe them."

The side of his mouth hitched in what was clearly a distracted and reluctant smile, his gaze losing a bit more of its hard edge. “As I was saying, women move between the three categories all the time. Attiring yourself thus,” he waved his hand over my dress, “may encourage folks to think of you as crazy, and if a woman is crazy, then she might move from bandicooting to the forget category.”

“Bandicooting? Isn’t bandicoot a type of potato?”

“Yes. But as a verb, it’s also a euphemism for sexual congress.”

“I like to do that, where you can just add an
I N G
to something and decide it’s a verb.” I grinned, clearly forgetting to whom I was speaking. But this was one of my favorite things to do in letters to my pen pals and I’d never discussed it with anyone before.

“It’s called ‘verbing.’” Cletus turned his head a touch to the side and narrowed his eyes. “What are some of your favorites?”

“Um, let’s see . . .” I moved my attention to the darkness over his shoulder, thinking about the last letter I wrote. “‘Truthing’ is a good one. I define it as trying to make something true, even when it’s not, or when it’s only true to you. Or ‘capering’ as an alternative to adventuring. It’s a subtle difference, but I like the feel of it.”

I brought my smile back to Cletus and found him watching me with a peculiar look. My grin waned as we studied each other and I braced myself for whatever that peculiar look meant.

Unable to withstand his inscrutable expression, I pressed, “What? What’s wrong?”

“I'm not going to harm you,” he said matter-of-factly, as though
harming
me had been on the table, but now
not harming
me was something he'd just decided.

I felt my eyebrows lift high on my forehead.

“Oh?” I croaked, a shiver of fear racing down my spine. "Well, that's nice of you."

Cletus's slight smile was warm, truly disarming, and didn't look practiced or measured. It ignited a blossoming warmth in my chest despite his most recent statement, and that confused the ever-living heck out of me.

“You mistake my meaning. I’ll acknowledge,
harm
wasn’t the best word choice. I would never do you physical harm, and I’m saddened that we live in a society where I have to explicitly state that. You must know, my father . . .” His words trailed off and he blinked, his eyebrows pulling together.

Meanwhile, I held my breath. I was shocked Cletus brought up his father. Everyone in town knew Darrell Winston—ne'er–do–well and father of the Winston brood—used to beat his wife and kids. My momma gossiped about it to her friends in hushed tones. Growing up, I’d eavesdropped on more than one conversation about the topic.

“Well, anyway.” He shook his head as though to derail his current train of thought, grimaced, then continued. “All I’m saying is, I won’t harm you, physical or otherwise. But as you observed last Sunday, I’m the vengeful sort. Any person endeavoring to blackmail me typically wouldn’t emerge from the attempt unscathed.”

He paused, his eyes no longer sharp as they moved over my face, yet his gaze felt no less unsettling.

“But, you will. You will emerge unscathed.” Cletus’s voice was quietly contemplative as he finally finished his thought. “You surprise me, and I am not accustomed to being surprised.”

I held very still beneath his steady perusal, though my pulse raced tellingly between my ears. I understood that he’d meant the words to be calming, but they had the opposite effect.

Cletus Winston didn’t bluff. He didn’t exaggerate. He was quietly methodical, with stony focus and drive. He was dangerous. And, apparently, by some random unknown magic, I’d just managed to escape a future reckoning.

Thank. God.

“But back to the task at hand,” he said suddenly, making me jump, now all business. If he noticed my reaction, he made no sign, instead plowing ahead with his thoughts. “You want me to help you find a husband. I maintain helping you with this endeavor is impossible unless you become your true self, and that means something other than the Banana Cake Queen, and all the yellow that entails. Consequently, here is your first homework assignment: make a list of things you like to do."

“Homework?” I repeated dumbly.

Cletus nodded once and then turned.

Unthinkingly, I grabbed hold of his arm and held him in place. “Wait, what? Make a list of things I like to do?”

“That's right. And we'll have to schedule a time to meet once a week for lessons.”

“Lessons?” I reared back.

“Yes. Lessons. You need lessons.”

“What kind of lessons?”

“How to be Jennifer Sylvester lessons.”

What?

I lifted my chin. “I know how to be myself.”

“No, you don't.” He covered my hand with his and pried it from his arm, letting it drop.

“That’s ridicu—”

“Fridays are obviously out of the question, and I'd prefer a weeknight over a weekend. In a pinch we could meet during the day on Sunday. What days do you have off from the bakery?”

I gaped, blindsided by the direction of this conversation, and therefore could only answer his question with plain honestly. “I don't have a day off.”

“What? What do you mean you don't have a day off?”

“Just that. I start baking at three AM most mornings, and then if I don't have any special orders, I go home and sleep for a while. But I usually have special orders. And then we have parties most Fridays and Saturdays in the city.”

“You mean Knoxville?”

“Yes, or Nashville.”

“Why do you have to be there? Doesn't your momma have staff who can help?”

“Well, yes. But she likes me to—”

“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” He waved away my response, frowning again, looking and sounding dreadfully grumpy. “If you don’t have a day off, which day is slowest? When do you usually have a little free time?”

“Monday.”

“Okay. Monday. We’ll meet every other Monday, in the afternoon at Cooper’s field.” He turned to leave again.

I caught his arm again. “No. That’s not going to work. I can’t go to Cooper’s field. Someone will recognize my car and word will get back to my parents. I can’t deviate from my normal schedule or else it’ll raise suspicion.”

Once more, he pried my hand from his arm, still looking and sounding cranky. “Where and when do you suggest we meet?”

“At the bakery, Monday or Tuesday nights. Sometimes I stay late and try out new recipes. No one else will be there.”

“Fine.” He gave me a curt nod and turned toward the door, the darkness swallowing him. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Does this mean you’re going to help me?” I asked hopefully, addressing my question to the inky blackness.

He didn’t answer. Several feet away, the door to the backstage opened and his tall form was outlined in light as he passed through it. And then it closed.

He was gone.