Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (9 page)

I stared after her for a full minute, not because I expected her to come back, but because I was listening. I was listening for footsteps, or any sign that she was moving around the main bakery. But I heard no sound. That meant she’d fled to the front and was hiding, doing nothing, and listening for signs of my departure.

That was fine. I’d rattled her cage. I understood her desire to flee.

I checked my watch; I still had six hours until my next appointment, enough time to catch a nap. I gathered my belongings, just a red and black checkered coat and my hat, and glanced back at the kitchen. She’d left the folded piece of paper, the list of things she liked to do, on the counter. I tucked it into my pocket and left out the back door.

Our next lesson wasn’t for two weeks. Two weeks would give Jennifer plenty of time to marinate on my question and make a decision.
Who
was she living her life for? Herself or her mother?

***

Hank Weller was
good at two things: making money and fishing.

As the owner of the local strip club, Hank frequently treated customers to fishing excursions on his big boat. I was not a customer. Nevertheless, he did take me fishing from time to time, if I asked. This was because Beau and Hank were close friends and had been since childhood. Beau was my
in
.

It was a nice morning for fishing. Not too cold. Water vapor rose over the lake, making the surface hazy, like it was covered in gauze. Since it was late September, the lake was surrounded on all sides by trees doing their best impressions of autumn fireworks. Birds were complaining about their breakfast, otherwise the only sound was water lazily lapping against the shore.

I liked nature just fine, yet I didn’t like to fish. But far be it from me to pass up a convenient opportunity to cross a to-do item off my to-do list.

“Long time no see, Cletus.” Catfish lifted his chin in greeting as he boarded Hank’s big boat. “What you been up to?”

Catfish, which was not his Christian name, was a captain in the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club. So not the bottom of the barrel, but not a decision-maker either. He was a good soldier.

“A bit of this and that,” I responded easily.

“How’s that sister of yours?” This question came from Drill, who was the next to board the boat.

“Easy.” Hank came to stand next to me, crossing his arms. “No talk of family. Let’s keep this nice.”

“Just asking.” Drill shrugged his boulder-like shoulders and grinned. The rising sun glinted off his bald head. To my mind he resembled a steroidal version of Mr. Clean, if Mr. Clean wore black leather from head to toe and smelled like lube.

I eyeballed the third person in their party and put my hand on Hank’s shoulder. “No, no. It’s fine. Ash is great, thanks for asking, Drill. Just got her double black belt in Kenjutsu—you know, that’s the martial art where they use those sharp knives? Since she’s a nurse, she knows just where to stab a person. You should see her skin a rabbit. We’re pretty proud.”

This, of course, was complete bullshit—except for the part about her being a nurse and skinning rabbits, because she was real good at skinning rabbits. But Drill widened his eyes, looking a little piqued, and let the subject drop.

“Hey, Twilight,” I welcomed the third member of their party by extending my hand for a shake. He looked at it, then at me, then at my hand again. Finally he shook it.

Isaac Sylvester, AKA Twilight, who also happened to be Jennifer Sylvester’s brother, wasn’t yet a member of the Wraiths. He was what’s called a “prospect.” Jethro had been a prospect about five years ago, but left before he’d been made a full member. Thank God.

“Cletus,” he said, meeting my eye. I inspected his and discovered Isaac’s were plain blue. I frowned.

Where did she get those purple eyes?

“Speaking of sisters,” I adopted as harmless an air as possible and gave Isaac a cheerful grin, “how’s your sister doing?”

His jaw ticked and his plain blue eyes narrowed and darted to the side, like he was wincing and didn’t want me to see.

“I don’t have a sister,” he mumbled, his mouth pinched.

“Sure you do.” I widened my grin, playing the well-meaning buffoon. “She bakes cakes, don’t she?”

“You know how it is, Cletus.” Catfish spoke up, waiting for me to give him my full attention before continuing. “Once a man joins the Wraiths he ain’t got no other family. Twilight has only brothers now.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. I forgot about that detail.” I moved my eyes back to Twilight, wanting to see his reaction when I added, “Must be hard on the sisters, though.”

Isaac looked out over the lake, but I doubt he saw it. He appeared to be absent, wading through weighty thoughts.

Meanwhile, I felt sorry for Jennifer Sylvester all over again. She’d lost her brother; at least he was lost to her. I considered how it might’ve been for us if Jethro had disowned us in favor of the Wraiths. The thought was not a nice one. I quickly banished it.

“Are we waiting for anybody?” Catfish grabbed a beer from the cooler and took one of the cushioned seats on the big deck.

“Just Beau,” I said, glancing at my phone. He didn’t like to be late, but I’d instructed Beau to be late. I needed the delay. In return I’d promised I would make sausage for dinner on my assigned night this coming week. Unsurprisingly, my sausage was his favorite. “Let me call him and see where he’s at.”

I stepped off the boat and strolled the length of the dock, up to Hank’s cabin and beyond, to where Catfish had parked their truck. I knew this truck. Five years ago I’d installed traps in this truck.

Traps are secret compartments used to traffic drugs and the like in order to evade police detection. I’d installed them at the time in order to help Jethro extract himself from the Wraiths.

Using the traps now—as a means to bring the entire Iron Wraiths organization down—was a happy bonus.

Contrary to popular belief, installing traps is perfectly legal. It’s legal just as long as the engineer responsible informs local law enforcement about the installation. I’d informed local law enforcement. And then I’d made certain the certified letter never saw the light of day. It was buried in their evidence storage, misfiled. But I knew where it was and would make certain the letter became found on Sheriff James’s desk when the time was right.

Slipping on gloves from my pocket, I opened the truck’s door—which wasn’t locked, because these guys obviously considered themselves to be untouchable—and released the trap under the driver’s seat. I pulled the evidence I’d taken two weeks ago out of my coveralls, evidence handed over to the sheriff by the King brothers, and placed it in the bottom of the trap along with a bogus list of dates and places.

By “bogus”, I meant real. The only thing bogus about the list was that I’d drafted it after the fact, after watching Wraith activity for the last eight months. The list of dates, names, and places just made their inefficient chaos appear more organized.

And organization was the point. The appearance of pre-meditation and planning was my goal, and this list achieved it.

Seeing everything set to rights, I closed the door just as Beau pulled up in his red 1967 Pontiac GTO.

I admired the line of the hood. It was a pretty car, but too flashy for me. As Drew had noted yesterday, I preferred hiding in plain sight.

It was my talent.

“Life has its own hidden forces which you can only discover by living.”

―
Søren Kierkegaard

~Jennifer~

Are you always
going to do everything your mother likes?

I was making pie.

I didn’t usually make pie, but I was waiting for the bread to rise so I could knead it again. I’d woken up with a thirst for violence. Cutting the butter into the flour for pie crust was almost as good as kneading bread.

Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?

I set my teeth, stabbing the frozen butter, while Cletus’s question looped in my head. The question had been on repeat because I didn’t know the answer.

Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?

The last seven days had been wearisome, made even more so because of Cletus’s question bouncing around my brain.

My momma had scheduled us a flight to New York in November to meet with Jacqueline Freeman and the Food Network folks. As such, she’d put me on a diet.

“I don’t want you to be thick for the cameras,” she’d said.

The hotel investment group my momma had been frantic about for the last several months were visiting our lodge this week. They were staying for two days. Usually, I was in charge of the bakery menu. It was my job to finalize the list of weekly offerings.

The morning after my “lesson” with Cletus, she’d handed me two sheets of paper. “This is what you’ll be baking this week and next,” she’d said. “And I’ve left out the clothes I want you to wear and written out instructions for your hair and makeup.”

I stared at her lists, unable to find my voice. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoyed planning the menu, this small amount of autonomy, until it had been taken away.

I thought things couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong.

As soon as the investors arrived I’d been paraded out like a show pony. One would think I’d be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. And with Cletus’s question running through my mind, their eyes made my skin crawl. Especially the youngest of the bunch, a crispily tanned investor from Las Vegas by the name of Allen Northumberland.

“Are you almost ready?” My mother’s anxious question pulled my attention away from the violent butter stabbing. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“Yes, Momma.”

“Oh, good. You’re wearing your pearls. You know I like it when you wear your pearls.”

Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?

I sighed quietly and turned to the large refrigerator, placing the half-cut pie crust inside and removing the dark chocolate cake, egg whites, and freshly shredded coconut I’d prepped earlier in the day.

“Make sure you wear the yellow gingham apron I like.” She was checking her reflection in the stainless steel mixing bowl I’d set out for the demonstration.

Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?

“Yes, Momma.” I arranged the items on the counter, bypassed the Smash-Girl apron I preferred, and selected the yellow gingham instead.

“Also, Jennifer.” She rushed to my side, glancing behind her as though to make sure no one was about sneak up and listen in. “I think that Alan fellow fancies you,” she whispered.

I tried not to shudder in revulsion, but something in my expression must’ve given me away.

She huffed. “Now don’t be like that. He’s plenty handsome, don’t pretend like you haven’t noticed.”

He was handsome; he was a looker. He also made my skin crawl. “I have no interest in Mr. Northumberland.”

She continued like I hadn’t spoken. “His uncle owns two of those big hotels on the Vegas strip.”

“So?” I asked impatiently before I could stop myself. Honestly, it just slipped out.

“
Sooo
. . .” She widened her eyes at me and pressed her lips together, as though her reason for bringing up Allen Northumberland was obvious.

When I continued to look at her blankly, she made a low, growling sound in the back of her throat. “Don’t play dumb, Jennifer. I know you’ve got brains in there. So I think it would be great if you were nice to Allen. He’s the sort your daddy would approve of. Pay special attention to him during the demonstration.”

I frowned at her. Then I shook my head. Then opened my mouth to say
I’m not going to do that.

But before I could, my mother—infusing her words with pointed meaning—said, “I would very much
like
it if you would pay Alan Northumberland special attention.”

My mouth snapped shut and I stared at my mother, at her raised eyebrows, at the way her lips were pinched together in frustration, and I wondered what would happen—what was
the worst thing
that would happen—if I said no.

She will be disappointed.

My heart kicked up at the thought.

She will be disappointed in you.

Now my heart was racing.

Can you live with that? Can you live with disappointing her?

I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t want to hurt my parents, like my brother had hurt them. I never wanted to be that person. Loyalty was important to me. I loved them and honoring my parents influenced every decision I made.

But then an image of Cletus from last week appeared in my mind’s eye, asking,
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?

No.

I can’t.

The answer rang through me like a bell, right and true.

Gathering a deep breath and holding on to the kitchen counter, I looked at my mother, met her stare straight on, and forced myself to say, “No.”

She flinched, her long, black lashes fluttering rapidly as she blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” I said with more volume. My hands were sweating and my galloping heart lodged in my throat. “No. I will not pay Mr. Northumberland special attention. He makes me uncomfortable and I don’t like him, so the answer is no.”

My momma gaped. I held her stare. Clouds of sorrow and disappointment pierced her shock and gathered behind her eyes. But before she could give voice to it, our guests arrived for my demonstration.

Her eyes flickered to the arriving party. She faltered for a moment before successfully donning her mask. Stepping away from me, she held her hand out to Ms. Kirkland, an investment banker from Boston.

Meanwhile, I continued gripping the edge of the counter and stared at the shredded coconut, my blood pumping loudly between my ears, realizing with no small amount of wonder that I’d just said
no
to my mother for the first time since I was a teenager.

I said no. And I survived.

I didn’t know how to feel—relieved or miserable—because one of us was going to be disappointed. And that meant one of us was going be hurt.

***

I didn’t want
to go home.

With a butternut squash pie, two loaves of sourdough bread, and a dark chocolate cake with chocolate coconut meringue frosting in my front seat, I’d been driving around the mountain for two hours. It was now almost 8:30 PM and my momma would be finishing up dinner with the investors soon. I didn’t want to be home when she got there.

I didn’t want a confrontation.

My original plan for the cake, when I’d baked it earlier in the day, was to drop it off at the Winston place. Today was the one-year anniversary of their mother’s death. I knew their momma, but every kid who went to the local library knew Bethany Winston. She used to read the books at story time and she’d do all the voices. She was amazing and kind and everything I wanted to be when—or if—I became a mother.

I couldn’t imagine how they must’ve mourned her passing. Cake wouldn’t make things better, but sometimes it helped add some sweet and softness to the sting.

Problem was, once I dropped off the cake, I had nowhere to go. So I drove and listened to talk radio. Finally, around 8:45, I realized I couldn’t wait any longer. Calling in on people after 9:00 PM was just plain rude.

Resolute, I took the turn onto Moth Run Road and navigated to the Winston place. As I approached the main house, my eyebrows arched at the number of cars parked in the drive.

Ten. There were ten cars.

I parked next to Cletus’s Geo but didn’t cut the engine, uncertain how to proceed.

Ten cars meant they had company. I didn’t want to impose or interrupt. And who was I anyway? I was no one. They didn’t know me.

I studied the big, old wraparound porch, the line of rocking chairs, and the large wooden bench swing hanging from the rafters. It was a fine old house and obviously had been recently renovated with great care.

My eye caught on a small pedestal table next to the front door. Inspired by a sudden idea, I jumped out of my car, jogged to the passenger side door and opened it. I tucked a loaf of bread under each arm, grabbed the pie with one hand and balanced the cake in the other.

As quietly as possible, I tiptoed up the porch steps and approached the pedestal, noting with relief that there was enough room for all of my offerings, if I stacked them. I could leave the items on the table, knock, and make a run for it. Basically, a baker’s version of ding-dong-ditch.

At least, that was my plan.

I was just setting the first loaf on top of the pie box when the front door opened quite suddenly and forcefully, surprising the tar out of me. An inelegant gasp escaped my lungs and I jumped a step back, clutching both loaves of sourdough to my chest.

“Jumpy Jennifer,” Cletus’s gaze moved down, then up, “you’re in jeans.”

I closed my eyes, releasing a shaky breath. “Heavens, you frightened me.”

“Moi? The blind, toothless rabbit?”

I opened my eyes but couldn’t catch my smile before it bloomed over my face. “Here, Peter. These are for you.” I held out the loaves.

“Peter? Peter Rabbit wasn’t blind or toothless.” Cletus plucked the bread from my hands. “But he did take unnecessary risks based on the whims of his stomach. Consequently, I accept the comparison.”

I watched him smell one and then the other, his expression thoughtful. He lifted a single eyebrow. “These are sourdough.”

“Yes. I hope that’s—”

“Sourdough is my favorite. And what’s this?” Cletus turned to the table and inspected the dessert boxes.

“That one is butternut squash pie.”

He stiffened, his eyes darting between the box and me. “I’ve never heard of that, but it sounds delicious.”

“I don’t actually know. It’s something new I tried, just today, with what I had on hand.”

“What’s in it? Other than butternut squash.”

“Uh, sweet potatoes, eggs, nutmeg—”

“Stop right there. You had me at nutmeg. I accept your pie. And what’s that?” Cletus gathered the pie and indicated with his chin to the largest box.

“Oh that. Well, it’s compassion cake. At least, that’s what I call it.”

Cletus was silent for a beat, his expression inscrutable, his eyes dimming just a touch. “Compassion, huh?” he asked softly, his gaze clouding with grief.

“Uh, I just thought, well, you know. You might be having a hard time of it.”

“You baked me a cake for the anniversary of my mother’s death,” he guessed, his voice so achingly gentle I felt like crying.

“Yes. I did.” I lifted my chin, owning my actions, and resolved not to cry like a crazy person. “It’s a dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate coconut meringue frosting.”

“Dark chocolate with dark chocolate coconut meringue frosting? That sounds very dark.” The side of his mouth hitched, just a little, but his eyes still held sorrow.

“It is. Today is a sad day. Your momma was the sweetest lady and I just wanted to . . .” I shuffled a step forward, overcome by the urge to hug him, hug someone associated with Bethany Winston. But instead I stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets and shrugged. “I just wanted to say I’m—”

“Oh, hey. Jennifer. What are you doing here?” Beau Winston appeared behind Cletus, opening the door wider and giving me a cheerful, welcoming grin.

Now, Beau Winston was a looker. And he knew it. His hair and beard were red, neatly trimmed and expertly styled; his eyes were sky blue and utterly devastating, and his grin was legendary. He was extremely friendly and easy-going. Half the ladies within five years of my age were in love with him. The other half just wanted to do naughty things to him.

I never made the blunder of mistaking his friendliness for interest. But many women did, and were subsequently forced to nurse dashed hopes and broken hearts.

Cletus answered for me. “Bringing us sad cake, apparently.”

“It won’t make you sad,” I explained, “it’ll make you nostalgic. That’s how I made it. It’s a nostalgia cake.”

“Nostalgia sounds nice.” Beau’s eyes twinkled; the effect paired with his tender smile made me a little fuzzy headed. But then a hint of devilry entered his gaze as he glanced between Cletus and me. “Anyway, you want to come inside? Cletus made dinner tonight. I’m sure he’d love to slide you his sausage.”