“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.”
“I made sausage.” Cletus stepped in front of Beau. “That’s what Beau means. My sausage was for dinner and people ate it.”
“Yes.” Beau stepped forward again, bumping Cletus with his shoulder, adding with a smirk, “Cletus’s famous sausage is famous.”
Cletus’s eyes cut to the side and he glared at his younger brother. “You are exceedingly irksome.”
I shook my head, taking a step back and tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “No thanks. I don’t want to impose. My car is still running.”
“I turned it off.” This statement came from behind me.
I twisted at the waist and found Billy Winston walking up the porch steps. My heart jumped to my throat and I stumbled back a step.
Oh no!
I pressed my lips together and stared at him, because that’s all I could do without making an idiot of myself.
Don’t say anything. Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe.
He held out my keys and his handsome mouth curved in a slight, quizzical smile. “You left your driver’s side door open.”
“Planning to make a quick getaway?” Beau asked with a laugh.
I glanced dumbly between Billy and my keys. I stared for so long Billy’s smile morphed into a confused frown.
“Take your keys,” Cletus said sharply.
So I did. I snatched my keys from Billy’s hand and lowered my eyes to the porch. Good Lord, this was the worst.
A moment of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence passed, during which I stared at my tennis shoes. I felt Cletus’s eyes on me, burning into the side of my face.
“Well,” I croaked, “enjoy your sad cake.” I grimaced, shaking my head and covering my eyes with a hand. “I mean, don’t enjoy it. Just, eat it. Or don’t eat it. It goes well with milk.”
Another suffocating moment passed and I wanted to die. Instead, I turned awkwardly toward the steps and muttered, “I’ll just be going now.”
“No, wait,” Cletus said.
I turned and saw him unload the baked goods into Beau’s arms. “Take these and go inside. Billy, grab the sad cake. We’ll be in soon.”
Billy gave me a weird smile, like he was a little afraid of me, and I can’t say I blamed him. Meanwhile, Beau winked in my direction and disappeared into the house with a grin.
As soon as the door closed, Cletus turned, his hands on his hips, his eyes large and watchful. “Tell me what just happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“With Billy. What just happened with Billy? What was that?”
I covered my face with my hands. “It was really terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Not terrible . . .” he started, but didn’t finish.
“Right. Not terrible compared to a plane crash.”
He was silent for a moment. And then I heard laughter.
I peeked at him from between my fingers. Sure enough, Cletus was laughing.
My hands dropped and I couldn’t help my smile or my chuckle. His laughter was contagious. Bright eyes captivated me, made even brighter by his pretty lashes, and an exceedingly pleasing mouth full of straight, white teeth. Cletus’s laughter sent a warm and rich something pumping through my veins; it made me think of Swiss chocolate, semi-sweetened, and whipped with cream into a thick, dark, luscious ganache.
“Yeah,” he wiped at his eyes and shook his head, “you’re right. That was pretty terrible.”
I sighed, still smiling because he was still smiling. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It’s fine. You fancy Billy.” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
I frowned and shook my head. “No. No, no. That’s not it at all. I don’t fancy Billy.”
Cletus straightened, his eyebrows bouncing high on his forehead. “Are you sure? Because that was—”
“No. I don’t. I mean, I’m sure he’s very nice. But that’s not why I can’t form sentences around him.”
He considered me for a moment, then scratched his jaw. “Okay. Enlighten me. Why do you lose motor function around Billy?”
“It’s not just Billy. It’s anyone my father approves of. I . . . I can’t help it. I get nervous, hoping to make a good impression, and end up speaking nonsense.”
“Your father approves of my brother Billy?”
I nodded once.
Cletus gave me a thoughtful frown and appeared to be confused. “You’re going to have to spell this out for me. I don’t understand. How do you mean your daddy approves of Billy?”
“I mean my father has identified a number of men in the area and, well,” I inhaled a magnitude of air, suddenly feeling out of breath, “he’s indicated to me that they’re appropriate, should they show interest. Men with whom I should try to . . . make . . . a good impression.”
My father had told me on more than one occasion how important it was for me to marry well. Growing up, he used to say things like, You aren’t too bright, but luckily you’re pretty enough to catch a rich husband. Just keep your mouth shut and smile. Being pretty and having a nice smile weren’t bad things, but I always found it difficult to reimagine my father’s insults as compliments.
Cletus was back to scrutinizing me; his eyes were clear, sharp and assessing. “Is that so?”
I nodded and rolled my lips between my teeth, feeling like a fool for some reason. My face grew hot beneath his gaze.
“This is fascinating.” He sounded truly fascinated. “Who else is on the list?”
I glanced over Cletus’s shoulder as I tried to recall the names my father had mentioned over the years. “Well, Billy comes up the most. That’s probably why I’m at my worst whenever he’s around. He also mentioned Hank Weller—”
“Hank Weller?” Cletus looked surprised, but not disapproving. “Well now, I guess he is good at fishing and has a fine head for business. Who else?”
“Um, Dr. Runous—”
“Drew?”
“Yes. But that was before he and your sister became involved. He hasn’t mentioned him in a while.”
“Anyone else?”
“Um, let’s see . . . Jackson James.”
“Jackson?” Cletus made a face, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “That ignoramus?”
I tried not to smile, but failed. Cletus looked positively aghast at the mere idea, affronted on my behalf.
“He’s not so bad,” I said, unable to help myself, wanting to see his reaction.
“Yes. Exactly. He’s not so bad. He’s just plain old bad. And he’s certainly not in the same stratosphere as Billy or Drew or even Hank. Your father has impaired judgment and can’t be trusted.” His gaze focused on some spot over my head, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed on it. I recognized that this meant he was deep in thought.
I took the opportunity to study his face, enjoying the view of him up close. Despite his attempts to mask his handsomeness with wild hair and a bushy beard, he was still remarkably attractive. Granted, he was also still dangerous. But I liked to think we’d formed something of an odd friendship. With that friendship came an equally odd affection.
It was true, I was beginning to feel affection for him. And I knew I was totally nuts—seeing as how I was blackmailing him, and I was still a little afraid of him, and he wasn’t acting out of the kindness of his heart—but there it was. Affection, plain and simple.
“I have an idea,” he announced, snapping the fingers of one hand. “And it’s brilliant.”
“Of course it is.” I grinned at him, enjoying my view even more now that his clever eyes were bright with excitement and pointed at me.
“Billy will take you on a date.”
I started, my grin immediately falling into a gaping frown of absolute horror. “Wait . . . what?”
“You and Billy. A date,” he said slowly and loudly, pronouncing every syllable, as though I was hard of hearing.
Unthinkingly, I smacked his arm and, leaning close, responded in a rushed whisper. “I heard you the first time, I’m not deaf.”
“Good. Just checking.”
“No. Not good. I’m not going on a date with Billy!”
Now he frowned. “Why not?”
“Because . . .” I waved my arms around to no purpose. “Didn’t you just witness that train wreck a minute ago?”
He nodded solemnly. “It was impossible to miss.”
A strangled sound escaped my throat. “How can you possibly think a date with Billy is a good idea?”
“Precisely because of how you reacted.” His tone was maddeningly rational and academic. “You want a husband, yes?”
“Yes,” I whispered, glancing behind Cletus unnecessarily to ensure we weren’t being overheard.
“And I’m guessing you want to marry someone your parents approve of, yes?”
I hesitated, then nodded tightly, realizing where he was going with this.
He was right. Of course he was right. If I could make it through a date with Billy, then I could make it through a date with anyone.
“I see your point,” I admitted miserably.
“Oh, now. Come on. Billy isn’t so bad.” Cletus nudged my shoulder, repeating my words from earlier.
I huffed an exasperated laugh. “Yeah. Not so bad. Except I think you’re forgetting one very important fact.”
“I never forget facts.” He shook his head quickly, both dismissing and teasing me. “Facts are my friends.”
“Oh yeah? You think so?”
“I know so. I send facts Christmas cards every year and they reciprocate with peppermint bark.”
“Well then, how about this fact: Billy will never ask me out on a date.”
And that was a fact.
Billy Winston was completely and irrevocably in love with Claire McClure. This information was not widely known, but I knew. I was a people watcher.
He’d been in love with her for years. Years upon years. They would watch each other, always casting cautious yet longing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. It was both heartbreaking and frustrating to see two people so desperately in love guarding their hearts.
Therefore, I knew—for a fact—that Billy Winston would never, ever, not in a million years, ask me out on a date.