Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (11 page)

I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Just that. You are going to change one thing every day for the next month.”

“Change what?”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

I frowned at him, a bubble of discomfort making me squirm. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

His smile returned, but now it was sly. “Nope.”

“Cletus.”

“Nope.” He shook his head stubbornly. “No, ma’am. You have to decide. It can be anything, anything at all. Change the route you take to work, change the lipstick you wear, or go crazy and change your hair color. The only rule is, it has to be something
you
want to change. You have to want it, not your momma, not your daddy, not your dog,
you.
”

I glared at him. The freedom he gave me felt too unwieldy, too foreign. But it also felt exciting.

“I don’t have a dog,” I deadpanned.

“There’s an example. Change your doglessness.”

“Fine,” I finally said, both smirking and glaring as I slid into my car. “Fine. I’ll change my underwear.”

He barked a laugh and took a step back as I shut my door. I started the engine, and rolled down the window. “Now, don’t go crazy,” he teased.

I pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t see me smile as I reversed out of my parking spot. But as soon as I turned onto the main road, I let the grin loose. And I grinned almost the entire way home.

Almost . . . because as soon as I pulled into my parents’ driveway, the weight of my day—my day before bringing compassion cake to the Winston’s—caught up with me. My mother would be home. And so would my father. I still had to deal with the consequences of saying
no
to my mother.

With a heavy heart, I parked my car and forced myself to leave it.

Maybe they’re asleep.

But I knew they weren’t. The entryway light was on. My father always turned the entryway light off when he went to bed.

My foot just touched the porch landing when my father pulled open the front door, his expression thunderous.

“Jennifer Anne Sylvester, get yourself inside this house right now.”

I sighed quietly and nodded, walking past him through the door. My mother was waiting for me, dressed in her blue bathrobe, makeup still on her face.

“So glad you finally decided to come home.” Her arms were crossed and her eyes were a little wild; her voice was laced with barely contained hurt and fear. “Do you know how worried we were?”

“I’m sorry.” Guilt and disappointment—in myself—made it hard to breathe. I hated letting my mother down. “I should have texted and let you know—”

“No. You should have come straight home,” my father corrected, his tone both flat and furious. “You have no business being out this late.”

They stared at me, displeasure and irritation etched on their features. My stomach turned, I felt a little queasy.

My momma broke the heavy silence, her words dripping with frustration. “You’re in jeans, Jennifer. Are you trying to ruin everything? Everything we’ve worked for?”

I shook my head, but was unable to speak. I didn’t want to tell her that I’d gotten chocolate frosting on my dress because the gingham apron she wanted me to wear didn’t provide adequate coverage. So I’d changed, rather than wear the dirty dress. I didn’t want to tell her because it wouldn’t have made any difference to her anger.

My father huffed, releasing a humorless laugh. “Catch up, Jennifer. Use whatever brains you have. Are we going to have to guess? Or are you planning on telling us where you’ve been? What was so important that you had your momma worried half to death?”

“I took the compassion cake to the Winstons. Today is the one-year anniversary of Bethany Winston’s death and I . . . I just thought, maybe the cake would help.”

My parents were silent for a beat, exchanging a look, then their eyes moved back to me.

“Are you telling us a lie, Jennifer? Because it’s almost 10:30 PM and you’ve been missing since this afternoon.” My father’s voice was stony and suspicious.

I shook my head, ready to defend my honesty, but my phone chose that moment to ring. Startled, I pulled the cell from my purse. Before I could check the screen, my father snatched it from my hand and answered it, bringing it to his ear.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

I glanced at my mother, found her watching me with sad eyes, sharp with disappointment.

“What?” my father stiffened, standing straighter, his gaze darting to mine. “Oh, oh. Hello, Billy. Oh, no. It’s fine. It’s not too late. No, no. Not at all. Yes—here’s Jennifer.”

With confusion and wonder, my father handed my phone back to me and mouthed to both my mother and me, “It’s Billy Winston.”

I accepted the phone, frowned at it, then brought it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, you left before we could make plans.” Billy’s baritone sounded from the other side.

“Oh, sorry.” I shook my head to clear it, our earlier discussion feeling like it happened weeks—not hours—ago.

Then I heard Cletus demand in the background, “Take her to The Front Porch for steak, and don’t let her split the bill.”

“Mind your own business, Cletus,” Billy chided.

“She is my business,” Cletus retorted.

I grinned in spite of everything.

“Jenn? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I hazarded a glance at my parents and found them watching me with unadulterated astonishment.

“How about Friday? We’ll go to the jam session for a bit, then out to The Front Porch,” Billy suggested.

“For steak,” Cletus shouted.

“Uh, jam session on Friday and then The Front Porch?” I clarified.

My father nodded his head vehemently and my mother covered her mouth, her eyes wide and excited. They both looked happy and proud and so totally different from what they’d been just moments ago.

And a funny thing happened. My heart broke a little. Looking at my parents and their one-hundred-and-eighty degree mood swing felt like . . . well, it felt like a betrayal.

“Yep,” Billy confirmed. “And Cletus says you can’t wear a yellow dress. And, for the record, I agree.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, doing my best to infuse my tone with cheerfulness even though I was panicking a little at the request.

Billy didn’t notice my false enthusiasm. Things settled, we said our goodbyes. My parents didn’t seem to notice either, because as soon as I hung up with Billy, they rushed forward to give me hugs.

“I’m so proud of you, Jennifer.” My father kissed my cheek, looking at me like I was something special.

“Oh, Jenny, you should have said something. No wonder you didn’t want to pay special attention to Alan Northumberland, not when you’ve got Billy Winston calling you.” My mother giggled.

Yes.
Giggled
.

I forced myself to form something like a smile with my mouth, stepping away from their fussing. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Yes, yes. Go get your beauty rest.” My momma shooed me away, her earlier sadness and disappointment replaced with admiration and pride.

I turned and walked to my bedroom, my stomach still sick, and my heart in fractured pieces. One moment I was treated like a disobedient, disrespectful twelve-year-old, the next a beautiful success.

All because of Billy.

Never because of me.

“I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.”

― Virginia Woolf,
Moments of Being

~Jennifer~

The day after
receiving my new homework assignment, I changed my nail polish.

Instead of pink I wore burgundy. Dark burgundy. I was at the Piggly Wiggly, picking up a rarely required mid-week crate of bananas, when I spotted the new shade on the end of an aisle. Sourwood leaves turn a dark maroon in the fall all along the Smoky Mountains; the color reminded me of their vibrant last hurrah before winter.

I stared at it. I liked it. I bought it.

That afternoon, after I was finished with my special orders for the next day, I removed the pink polish and replaced it with burgundy.

This small act of rebellion set my heart racing when I realized I would be wearing purple nail polish during dinner. My parents would see it and mother might not like it . . .

But then I remembered how they’d accused me of being a liar the night before, how they’d been proud of me because of Billy Winston’s phone call, how they’d been upset one moment and elated the next.

And my heart hardened.

My father usually cooked dinner. He was very particular about food, how it was prepared and what ingredients were used. He was so particular, he never ate anything I baked, not even my banana cake. I guess one could say he was a health nut.

“Jennifer. Come out and set the table,” he called.

I jumped slightly in my desk chair. I’d been absorbed in a letter from one of my pan pals. Anne-Claire Noel lived in the south of France and—for the last six years—had the most enthralling stories about the local nightlife.

She always started all her letters with
Jennifer, tu ne croiras jamais ce qui est arrivé !
(Translation: Jennifer, you’ll never believe what happened!)

And she always ended her letters with
Quand vas-tu faire payer ces gens pour te faire bosserquatre-vingt (80) heures par semaine ? L'esclavage sous contrat est illégal aux Etats-Unis.
(Translation: When are you going to make those people pay you for working eighty hours a week? Indentured servitude is illegal in the USA.)

After so many years of writing letters to my pen pals, I could read and write in French, German, and Japanese. Luckily, my father couldn’t read French. Nor could he decipher my Japanese pen pal’s letters (written in Japanese) which oftentimes included stories that were even more salacious than Anne-Claire Noel’s. He’d tried intercepting a few letters and attempting to translate, but lost interest after a few days.

Thank goodness he didn’t know about Google translate; at least, he didn’t know about it yet. I dreaded the day he discovered its existence. Just in case, I kept the most scandalous letters hidden in various books on my shelves.

I’d only met Anne-Claire Noel once, at a pageant when I was seven and she was eight, but we’d been writing each other since. She was now in law school and had been urging me to formalize my role with the Donner Bakery since I was fifteen. Her most frequent suggestion was that I establish my own corporation and have my momma pay me as a contractor.

I lived vicariously through her capering and I hoped to visit her . . . one day. Of course, she always brought up the fact that—as soon as I formalized the terms of my employment with the bakery—I’d have a lot more of my own money to spend however I liked, including flying to the south of France if I so desired.

I brought up the idea of paying me to my parents when I was nineteen. The conversation did not go well. My father had been furious, so I never brought it up again. I didn’t even like thinking about it, as I knew they would take offense. Besides, I had some money; not a lot and not a bank account. But it wasn’t like my parents were stingy with me. I drove a brand new BMW; it had been a gift for my birthday.

But your momma’s name is on the title, not yours . . .

I set aside the letter and gave my newly painted nails one more glance, then left my room. Without a word, I set the table while remembering the conversation I’d had with my father when I was nineteen, how upset he’d become when I suggested being paid for working in the bakery.

Come to think on it, my parents seemed to get offended no matter what I did.

I bet they’re going to get angry about my nail polish.

Tonight my father was making baked chicken and broccoli with no sauce. I suspected he took perverse pleasure in preparing flavorless—and therefore joyless—food. Therefore, I felt apathetic about his grilled chicken and broccoli, but I’d talked myself into a passionate tizzy about my nail polish by the time dinner was ready and we sat at the table.

I decided if they didn’t like my nail polish, then they could just . . . just . . . not like it, that’s what. They didn’t have to like everything about me.

They aren’t me.

I’m me.

I have to live with me, all day, every day.

And I like the red polish!

“Jennifer?”

I shook myself and met my father’s questioning gaze.

“Yes, sir?” I asked.

“Are you listening?”

I shook my head, balling my hands into fists under the table, preparing myself for a confrontation. “No. I was thinking.”

My parents shared a quick, amused glance, then my father said, “Your momma said you made a butternut squash pie yesterday?”

I nodded, scratching my forehead. “Yes.”

“You didn’t bring it home?”

Why would I? You would never eat it and momma would get after me about my diet.

Quelling these rebellious thoughts, I endeavored to answer without emotion. “Uh, no. I took it to, uh—” I caught myself before I said
I took it to Cletus
, instead saying, “I took it to the Winstons, along with the compassion cake.”

My father chewed on his chicken, swallowed the bite with a sip of water, then said, “Well, that was nice of you.”

My momma then talked about the investors and how their visit had gone well. My father then talked about a business trip he had coming up. And then dinner was over.

I cleared my plate, helped with the dishes, then went back to my room in a daze.

Did they not notice my burgundy polish?
Or do they not care?

I couldn’t be certain which, but what I did know was that I’d made a change and I’d been prepared to defend my choice. Even though the confrontation hadn’t happened, I’d been prepared.

And that made me feel strong.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. My head was too full of ideas, of things I could change. The possibilities were endless.

Because,
they aren’t me.

I’m me.

I have to live with me, all day, every day.

And I got to choose who—or what—I wanted to be.

***

Two large special
orders were cancelled Wednesday morning and rescheduled for the following week, leaving me with a bounty of both bananas and time.

I’d planned to go home, catch a nap, maybe write a letter to Anne-Claire Noel, or Akiko, my Japanese pen pal. Instead, and without planning to do so, I found myself at the East City mall just outside Knoxville.

“Since I’m here, I might as well go in,” I muttered to the inside of my car, trying to recall how much money I’d brought with me.

If memory served, I had five hundred dollars. I’d been carrying it around in my purse since a special event in Nashville over the summer. An up-and-coming musician had wanted my banana cake for his birthday party. I made seven cakes in the shape of four-feet-long bananas and served every piece myself.

I guessed he liked my cakes because his manager gave me the five hundred dollars as a tip.

The East City mall was nothing extravagant. On one end was Sears—with a garden center—and on the other end was JC Penney, and in between were mostly national-chain retail stores with a smattering of locally-owned shops.

For example, the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium—an independent deli—and Lisa’s Crafts and Honey—which, as the title suggested, carried craft supplies and jars of honey—were two of the most prominent local businesses within the mall.

I could have gone to Bell Town mall. It had the fancy stores, but it was another forty-five minutes away. Time was the deciding factor; I didn’t have another hour and a half to spend, not if I wanted to make it home in time for dinner, and therefore avoid questions about my afternoon.

Presently, while unbuckling my seatbelt, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t wearing any makeup. As I locked the car, I glanced down at my hands. My nails were still burgundy.

My parents hadn’t said anything, but the absence of makeup had earned me several side-eyes from the bakery staff earlier in the day. I’d ignored these looks, feeling good about my lack of a mask, feeling more like myself than I had in a long time.

These changes, though perhaps subtle, had been my choice. And the thrill that accompanied making my own choices spurred me forward with a spring in my step, across the parking lot and into the department store.

Once inside, however, I faltered. I second-guessed myself, suddenly wondering why I’d come at all. I’d never gone shopping without my mother. I didn’t even particularly enjoy shopping. Usually the activity consisted of me trying on clothes my mother picked out, and turning this way and that as she scrutinized the fit. The only clothes I owned not picked out by my mother were several matching pairs of red lace bras and underwear, the overalls I used for gardening, a pair of jeans, and a few T-shirts.

The overalls I’d picked up at a yard sale.

The jeans had been a gift from my grandma Lily.

The T-shirts were mostly souvenirs sent by my pen pals over the years, places they’d visited.

But the underwear had been sent by Anne-Claire Noel for my twenty-first birthday. She’d warned me ahead of time that she was going to send them so I could intercept the package before my father came home from work.
Toutes les femmes ont besoin de lingerie sexy, ça leur donne un secret,
she’d written,
Une femme avec un secret est mystérieuse et séduisante

(Translation: All women need sexy underwear; it gives them a secret. A woman with a secret is by nature mysterious and alluring.)

With that thought in mind, I headed straight for the lingerie section and promptly picked up a black lace bra and panty set in my size. Then I made a beeline for the women’s section, my head held high in false bravery as I searched through the racks with shaking hands.

But then a miraculous thing happened. After three racks of clothes, my hands stopped shaking. I stopped feeling determined and fell into a rhythm, growing absorbed with the oddly meditative act of assessing clothes. I just simply searched for . . . well, for something
I
liked, something of
my
choice.

Pretty soon, I’d amassed an armful of outfits and sought the dressing rooms. Previous experience shopping with my momma meant I knew where they were and that they were unlocked. I chose the dressing room farthest down the hall and locked the door behind me.

And then, for the first time in my life, I tried on clothes that I’d picked out. At first, the experience was incredibly bizarre and I didn’t know what to think of the image before me. It was me, but it wasn’t the Banana Cake Queen. The Banana Cake Queen didn’t wear a maroon and white flannel tunic with leggings.

She also didn’t wear a sapphire-blue sweater dress that hugged her body.

She also didn’t wear a white T-shirt and dark skinny jeans.

Nor did she wear a fitted—and awesome—black dress, with a scoop neck, capped sleeves, and a band of black lace at the hemline.

But apparently Jennifer Sylvester did. Because after an hour trying on clothes, I bought myself four new outfits.

And then, drunk on determining my own destiny, I decided I was hungry. Furthermore, I decided I would eat something delicious rather than save my appetite for one of my father’s joyless dinners.

Carrying two bags full of new clothes, I walked to the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium. I had a soft spot for cheese steak sandwiches and my father’s militant food practices meant such artery-clogging delectableness was never allowed in the house.

I walked past the men’s section, the cosmetics counter, the shoe department, and into the central concourse. East City mall was the closest mall to Green Valley, so unsurprisingly I recognized several people on my way to the Emporium. Equally unsurprising, no one greeted me. But a few folks gave me odd looks and double takes, as though either my appearance or my presence was confusing.

The Emporium was just off a modest food court in the center of the mall. Garrison Bradly—the owner—had set up three small tables at the front of the shop where customers could eat sandwiches or snack on their popular cheese platters.

I spotted Garrison Jr. behind the meat cutting counter helping a woman I didn’t recognize. I plucked a number from the countertop ticket dispenser and waited my turn, counting four other people milling about waiting to be served.