“I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better . . .”
― Helen Keller, The Story of My Life
~Cletus~
“I don’t like her.” Beau’s announcement was punctuated by the office door clattering against the wall. He’d just burst through it.
I surmised my brother expected me to react to his declaration. I did not react. I was too busy booking a trade through eTrade Pro and had just ten seconds to finalize it.
“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”
I confirmed the limit order, waited for the verification screen to load, then grudgingly presented Beau with my attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”
He’d caught me on the wrong day. Actually, the wrong week. I wasn’t inclined to field complaints. Though it was Thursday, four days after my uncomfortable encounter with Jennifer Sylvester, I was still fixating on it. I’d been distracted since Sunday.
The morning after Jennifer had made her demands, I’d neglected to introduce Beau—who’d returned from a work trip to Nashville that same morning—to our newest mechanic. He’d walked into the shop, they’d spoken, and he’d instantly disliked her. Akin to today, in an atypical exhibition of anger, Beau had stormed into the shop’s office, demanding she be let go.
I didn’t know what had passed between them. I didn’t care. I wasn’t firing her.
“She might be a decent mechanic, I’ll give you that. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”
“No, Beau. She’s not a decent mechanic. She’s a great mechanic.” Beau opened his mouth to protest, I spoke over him. “Duane is leaving before Thanksgiving. We have too much work as it is. We need the help. Now leave me be. I need to finish this up before my meeting with Drew.”
Things decided, I returned my attention to the laptop and scrolled through the stats of the principle trading account.
Meanwhile, my younger brother was attempting to drill a hole into the side of my head with his eyeballs.
“I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.”
“I’m not done talking about this.”
These stubborn people and their demands were like cracker crumbs in my beard: irritating and flaky.
I exhaled, frustrated, and twisted the swivel chair to face my brother. “Why don’t we talk about something else, like the preparations for Jethro’s bachelor party? Did you finish the scavenger hunt?”
“Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. Stop changing the subject.”
“Fine then.” I gritted my teeth. “Go ahead and talk about Shelly.”
“She’s rude. Not just to me. She’s rude to the customers.”
“Why’s she talking to customers? That’s your job.”
“What do you want me to do? Hide her under a car? She’s impossible to miss, Cletus. She looks like one of those- those . . . those models from the magazines.”
“Which magazines are these?”
Beau only read two kinds of magazines. Both had pictures of headlights. Only one was about cars.
He threw his hands in the air before bringing them to his hips. “You know what I mean. People catch sight of her, they want to talk to her.”
“You mean men catch sight of her and want to talk to her.”
“Fine. Yes. Men. Men want to talk to her. And then she insults them. Do you really think that’s a good business strategy? Hiring a gorgeous woman to insult our male customers?”
“No. No, I do not,” I said solemnly, but my mouth twitched before I could stop myself. It wasn’t good business, but it was amusing.
“Oh, is this funny?”
My shoulders shook because I was laughing.
“Are you laughing?”
“Nope,” I said through my laughter.
Beau made a sound of disgust and frustration. Then he knocked a cupful of pencils and pens, a stack of invoices, and the incoming mail off the file cabinet with an angry swipe. I ceased laughing.
“You’re going to pick that mess up, Beau Fitzgerald Winston.”
His laser-beam eyes narrowed into slits and he pointed his index finger at the mess. “I will pick it up when I’m good and ready to pick it up.”
Beau turned, slammed the door, and stomped down the stairs.
I stared at the spot he’d vacated, then I stared at the untidiness he’d left. If it had been any other week, I’d already be cooking up a quality idea for revenge. Something to both piss him off and make him laugh. I liked to keep my family on their toes, as it’s what they expected of me.
But not today.
Today I was tired. I was fixating. And I was tired of fixating.
It wasn’t the blackmail setting me on edge, not at all. I’d already neutralized the video—or rather, I’d already taken steps to neutralize the video.
I have very few friends. But one of my friends, who shall remain nameless, was an exceptionally talented hacker. He lived in Chicago and we corresponded every Sunday via the classified section of the Chicago Tribune. We’d been playing a chess match for three months using coded messages in the newspaper.
This week, I’d changed my usual message from a chess move to a request for assistance instead: he would hack into Jennifer’s computer, phone, and cloud account (or anywhere else she might be harboring the video), remove it, and leave no trace.
Thankfully, this friend shared my view of the law. He wasn’t the sort who believed in strict adherence. I just had to wait until Sunday. I would then schedule a rendezvous with the misguided young baker woman and explain that she was no longer in possession of the video.
And then I will . . .
Hmm.
Well, darn.
I didn’t know what to do. Which was why I’d been discombobulated all week.
“What happened in here?”
My attention refocused outward. Drew hovered in the doorway, having opened the door without my hearing. He donned civilian clothes rather than his federal ranger attire. This was odd because it was the middle of the week.
“Beau had a temper tantrum.”
“Beau?”
I nodded once.
Drew’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead; he stepped inside and closed the door. “That’s unlike him. What’s got him worked up?”
“Our new hire.”
The big man’s mouth curved briefly, his smile elusive. “Shelly? Quinn’s sister?”
“Yes. He doesn’t like her.”
“Sure he doesn’t. Anyway, why’re we meeting?”
I liked this about Drew: always to the point when talking about business, but always philosophical when talking about life. Attending his birthday party had been a priority since I met him four years ago.
I turned to the computer screen and pulled up QuickBooks. “Momma’s accounts. I’m making changes you should know about.”
When my mother passed last year, she’d left the management of her family’s money to Drew as he was a good family friend. She didn’t want our malefactor of a father to get his hands on it.
Drew had asked me to help manage the primary investment; he’d been impressed with my day-trading returns. I obliged. Each of my siblings would receive their portion of the inheritance upon reaching their thirty-first birthday. So far, only Jethro was eligible to cash out and he’d opted to leave his money where it was, having no present use for it.
Drew grabbed a chair and turned it backward, straddling it with his arms resting on the back. He was too tall for most chairs. His legs were too long. Consequently, he was always straddling them.
“Cletus, you don’t need to give me any updates.”
“Nonsense. Momma appointed you as the executor of her estate and the trustee for our accounts. This is your business.”
He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable, and not because the chair was too small. “You know why she did that, and I was happy to help. But you’re better at fund management than I am.”
Drew Runous might not have been related to us by blood, but I considered him a brother. We all did. Except my sister, Ashley, of course. They’d been together since last Christmas and we were expecting a proposal any day now.
Any day now.
Any. Day.
I glanced at him, saw his eyes were squinted as he read the totals. He read them again, then flinched back, his mouth agape. I smiled because I’d never seen Drew gape before.
“Catching flies, Drew?”
He snapped his mouth shut, swallowed, and then pointed at the screen. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what did you do? How’d you do that? That’s got to be a return of, what, ten times the original investment?”
“Just about.” I steepled my fingers and leaned back in the swivel chair. “You know I’ve been dabbling in futures and forecasting for years. You can’t expect this kind of return often, and the original figure was just enough to piggyback on a hedge fund I follow.”
Some might consider my venture strategy risky. It wasn’t. I don’t take risks. The market had made atypical gains over the last ten months, just as I’d forecasted. We were due for a slowdown.
I pointed to the new accounts and the calculated forecast for the next four quarters. “But—see here—I transferred everything to a money market today and for the foreseeable future. Best to hold steady at three percent than take a gamble.”
Drew glared at the screen, clearly having difficulty accepting the figures, then moved his eyes to me. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Just Jethro. But you know how he is about money.”
“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t interest him much.” Drew scratched his beard. “You’re going to arrange things so none of your siblings will have to work. You’ll be a family of means and leisure.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I think we’d turn bad if we didn’t exercise or exorcise our demons with gainful endeavors.”
Drew’s eyes, which were silver in color, flicked over me. I was being assessed.
Apropos of nothing, he said, “Talk to me about the shop.”
“What about it?”
“Well, with these numbers, I guess I have a few questions about when you plan to buy me out.”
Drew had fronted the original capital for the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, so Duane, Beau, and I could open our own business. He’d astonished me at the time; his leap of faith had been the first time anyone other than our momma had believed in us boys. Drew had since earned my utmost respect and admiration, and was the only man alive worthy of my sister.
So his question surprised me. “You want me to buy you out?”
“Not at all, it’s been a good investment in more ways than one, supporting y’all. But you don’t need the capital anymore. You could close up at thirty with this kind of inheritance coming your way, open that dulcimer and pie shop you’re always talking about.”
I considered this, because I’d always wanted to open a dulcimer and pie shop, but then rejected it. “No. I don’t have anyone to bake the pies. You know I bake crap pies. My strength is sausage and Italian food, as I’m the savory sort. Besides, what would Beau do without me to oversee things? No. Shop stays open.”
“Really?” he pressed, his eyes still assessing, “even with Duane leaving?”
“Yeah. This is what we do. We fix things. We’re tinker-ers. If we didn’t tinker with cars, we’d tinker with people.”
Drew flashed a rare grin. “You already tinker with people, Cletus.”
“You are correct,” I sat straighter in my seat, ready to defend myself, “but only my family. And y’all deserve my tinkering.”
“Don’t get me wrong. You’re good at tinkering. Aside from those revenge plots, people are lucky to have you interfering in their lives.”
I narrowed my eyes on Drew. “Speaking of which, when are you going to ask Ash to marry you? What are y’all waiting for?”
His grin grew wider and he chuckled. “You’ve been asking me that since we became official.”
“That’s right.” I nodded once, leaning back in the chair and peering over my steepled fingers again. “Just what are your intentions toward my sister?”
His smile grew softer, and his eyes lost focus over my shoulder. He was quiet for several seconds, then said, “You’ll know one day, Cletus. You’ll discover what it’s like to find the other part of yourself. You’ll know it’s her, only her, always her. Maybe not right away, but eventually you’ll know. She’ll be your beginning, middle, and end. And your intentions won’t matter. Love brings its own intentions, and all other plans, hopes, and dreams fade to insignificance in the face of love.”
***
Friday night was my favorite night of the week.
Every Friday evening in Green Valley musicians far and wide assembled. We jammed together at the community center, an old rehabilitated school converted into a general purpose meeting space. I always participated by playing either the banjo, guitar, fiddle, violin, or dulcimer.
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?”