“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
~Cletus~
I was early.
The appointed time for our Monday lesson was 9:30 PM. It was now 9:17 PM.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel of my car and glared at the back door of the bakery, debating my options.
On Saturday, after Jennifer had detonated the Jackson James bomb, her mother promptly bellowed for her to return. We didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation because Jennifer left me standing on the edge of the parking lot while she jogged in her high heels back to the kitchen.
I’d been fixating and distracted since.
Witnessing Jennifer’s command of the kitchen had been a sight to see. I kept thinking I was proud of her, but then dismissed the thought. I had no right to be proud of her. I wasn’t responsible—indirectly or otherwise—for her success and abilities. She was responsible. I just hoped she was proud of herself.
And then there was the small matter of Jackson James and his intentions. My intuition told me his intentions weren’t pristine.
And yet . . .
My eyes flickered to the dashboard. It was now 9:28 PM. Two more minutes.
What to do about Jackson wasn’t my call. I’d signed on to help Jennifer find her backbone so she could use it in all facets of her life, and that was still the plan. Although she very clearly used it already in her kitchen. With ease.
But still . . .
The back door opened and Jennifer peeked her head out. She was scanning the lot for my car. I saw the moment she spotted it. She stepped more completely out of the kitchen and waved me over. I exited my automobile and strolled with measured steps to where she stood, endeavoring to mask my internal conflict.
“Come on in,” she whispered as I approached. “I made you some crème puffs. And Billy’s cake is ready. Do you mind taking it back to him?”
“Not a problem.”
Jennifer moved to the side, giving me a wide berth, then closed the door. It was cold and I was wearing my jacket. She stepped around me and crossed to the stove. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her yellow dress, her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she’d washed the mask of makeup from her face.
I thought maybe this is what she’d look like at home, after work, with that husband of hers she so desperately wanted. Whoever he might be, I was coming to realize he’d be a very lucky man.
“Do you want something to drink? It’s been chilly today. I can make tea.” Water was boiling, or had just been boiling, from a blue and white kettle.
“Tea would be nice.”
She gave me a friendly smile then moved to fill the two cups she’d laid out with hot water.
I studied her. She appeared to be at ease, which was a huge change from just two weeks ago. Her nail polish was now blue, and instead of pearls she wore a delicate gold chain with a cross.
“I know you’ve probably been too busy to think about my problem, but I’d appreciate your advice,” she said, stirring the tea.
“Which problem would that be?” I assumed she meant Jackson James, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
That guy . . . what a little shit. The more I thought about him approaching Jennifer while she was on a date with Billy, the more I wanted to step up my armadillo infestation plans. Or maybe just beat the tar out of him. Granted, her date with Billy had been fake, but Jackson was ignorant of that fact.
Consequently, he was a shit.
My jacket felt too hot, so I unzipped it and placed it on the counter, claiming a stool and leaning my forearms on the butcher block.
“I guess you’re right.” She nodded, obviously reading more into my question than my intent. “It’s not really a problem. It’s what I wanted, actually.”
I had to clear my throat past an unexpected tightness. “Going on a date with Jackson is what you wanted?”
Jennifer leaned her hip against the counter and shrugged. “Not necessarily Jackson, but I think he’ll do. I know my father approves of him. He comes from a really nice family and he’s always seemed like a gentleman.”
Despite taking off my jacket, my neck was still hot. I was quite suddenly and forcefully . . . irritated. I resolved to keep this irritation to myself, partially because I didn’t understand it and partially because Jennifer hadn’t earned it. The irritation simply was.
She didn’t notice my struggle, her eyes were on her teacup as she said, “I guess,” she started, sighed, and started again, “I guess I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
My irritation eased enough at this statement for me to say, “You don’t have to go. If you don’t feel ready yet, or unprepared, just call it off.”
“No, I feel good about the date—prepared I mean—Billy gave me lots of tips.”
The irritation rose again, like a wave. “What kind of tips?”
“Things to talk about, and things not to talk about. He was really helpful, so thank you for arranging that.”
“No problem.” I would have to try drilling this information out of Billy later; thus far he’d been frustratingly tightlipped. “So why are you doubting whether you want to go on the date with Jackson?”
Jennifer eyes darted to mine, then away. She finally asked, “What if he wants to kiss me, Cletus?”
I responded with the truth before I could catch myself. “He’s definitely going to want to kiss you, Jenn.”
“That’s a problem.” Her eyes widened to their maximum diameter and she clasped her hands over the teacup.
“Why is that a problem, other than the obvious hardship of being forced to kiss Jackson James?”
She ignored the insult and answered the root of my question. “It’s a problem because I’m twenty-two and I don’t know how to do that.”
“Kiss?”
“Yep.”
I stared at her. Then my stare moved to her lips. “You’ve never been kissed?”
“Nope. Well, not really. Timothy King tried to kiss me once, but I didn’t want him to. He got his mouth on my chin before I was able to push him off.”
Note to self: maim Timothy King.
“And then there was that time I surprised Drew, but like I said, it was a lip-collision. Not a real kiss. It was so awful, I often wondered if I should send him a letter of apology.”
“No need for that.” I waved away her suggestion.
“I mean, I’m sure I could do it eventually. How hard can it be?”
I thought about her problem, because it was a problem. Once again, she’d caught me off guard. I knew she’d been sheltered, but clearly I had no idea how painstakingly her parents had been in isolating her.
The woman needed kissing.
But first, she needed to know about kissing.
“Well, academically speaking, it’s not difficult to kiss a person. Just like it’s not difficult to bake a cake. But it’s difficult to bake an excellent cake, right? Just so with kissing. The chances of you baking an excellent cake on your first try is—”
“Basically zero.”
“That’s true. But while I appreciate your realism, allow me to suggest we embrace optimism. Because kissing is more than just technique. It’s also about the chemistry you have with another person and his or her technique as well. So the difference between kissing and baking is that two people are involved, and that makes it both more and less complicated.”
“How is it more complicated?” She passed me my tea then took a sip of her own.
“If you had to bake with a partner, you’d have to rely on that partner and hope he or she was just as good as—or better than—you. Plus you hope the two of you have good chemistry. Plus, and I cannot stress this enough, that other person needs to keep a tidy kitchen.”
“Tidy kitchen?”
“Yes. If you’re after a life-long baking partner, avoid indiscriminate bakers. And if you take on a reformed, previously indiscriminate baker, make sure he’s had his kitchen thoroughly inspected by the health department.”
Her dark eyebrows arched over her violet eyes, which were shadowed with concern. “Then how is it less complicated?”
“If your partner and you have great chemistry, technique matters less.”
She thought about this for a stretch, sipping her tea and staring unseeingly at the counter between us. Then she sighed.
“Clearly I’m the weaker baker in this scenario. For all intents and purposes, in this analogy, I’m the baker who can’t make toast. Just being pragmatic here, I guess my worry is, I’ll meet someone with whom I have great chemistry and blunder the execution—that is, burn the toast.”
“But you teach people how to bake, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you just need to learn proper kissing technique. That’s all.” I shrugged, hopefully communicating that it was no big deal. “Once you feel confident in your technique, then you can see if the chemistry is there.”
“You make it sound like I can just check the classifieds for a kissing instructor. How do normal people do this? How do normal people learn how to kiss without frightening off good kissers?”
“Most people figure it out in high school. No one knows how to kiss in high school, so it’s all different variations of too wet and unpleasant. It’s a lot of trial and error, bad kisses, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.”
“See now, I missed all that . . .” She shook her head, clearly frustrated. “You know, I never wished I’d gone to high school until last year. When I was fourteen and my parents told me they were going to keep me at home and continue homeschooling me, I was relieved.”
“Why?”
“At the time I had three pen pals who were already in high school, and they made it sound like Dante’s sixth circle of hell.”
This description made me smile. “It can be.”
“But now, looking back, I wish I’d gone. I wish I’d experienced a more traditional high school experience, and all the torture that goes along with it. I wouldn’t be so stupid about stuff now. I feel like I’m constrained by my lack of experience.”
“I don’t think your assessment is quite right. In this case, in matters of interpersonal relationships, I don’t think it’s necessarily bad to be inexperienced, just like it’s not bad to be experienced.”
Her mouth was pressed in a dubious line. “I find that hard to believe.”
I grinned at her, because once again she looked cute. “It’s true. If you don’t mind another analogy, finding a mate is like playing an instrument. I might play the banjo for years, but then give it up to play the bassoon. Well, I don’t know how to play the bassoon, so it’s like starting all over again. Each instrument is like starting all over. No one has all the answers, no matter how much experience they have in their past.”
Jennifer set her cup down on the counter with a thump. “But, using your analogy, if you’ve played the banjo, at least you know how to read music. You know what the notes mean. I’m like a person who has never even heard a song, and suddenly wants to become a concert pianist.”
I was quiet, because she had a good point.
“What about you?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“What about me?” I straightened from the counter, bracing for whatever unexpected question she was about to toss at me.
“What are you looking for? In your partner? What level of experience are you looking for?”
“Ideally, for efficiency sake . . .” I hesitated, because she was looking at me as though my answer held the key to her future success and was telling of men my age. I thought about lying, to make her feel better and bolster her confidence, but decided against it.
My preference for experience was revealing of most (what I considered normal) men my age or older; by normal I meant men without a daddy, superiority, or power complex. I didn’t know anyone my age or older who was looking to school a shy, blushing virgin unless that man was also a shy, blushing virgin. I had nothing against shy, blushing virgins. I just didn’t want to have sex with them.
Because sex with an inexperienced woman was decidedly vanilla. I didn’t much like vanilla, or missionary, or doing it with the lights off. I didn’t want a woman who was reticent about her body, who tried to hide it with sheets and darkness.
I liked flavor and well-lit rooms, where I could admire everything that made a woman’s form different from a man’s. I liked a variety of positions and a woman with stamina, who knew how to use my body to make hers come and approached sex with enthusiasm, not trepidation.
I wanted a woman who knew she liked sex, not one who hadn’t made her mind up due to lack of experience.
So, yeah. I considered lying. But I decided against it. I didn’t want any lies between Jenn and me if I could help it.
But I did gentle my voice. “Ideally, I’d like someone who has, if at all possible, a good amount of experience.”
Her face fell and she lowered her eyes to the wood floor.
A twinge of regret originating in my chest tightened my throat. “Jenn—”
“No. It’s fine. I guess, ideally, I want the same thing. I don’t want to be with someone who is looking to me for direction. I don’t know what I’m doing, so I guess I’d like someone who wouldn’t mind teaching me.”
Unbidden, a flash of what that would look like appeared in my mind’s eye. Jennifer Sylvester divested of clothing and gazing at me with trust. My hands on her waist, hips, thighs while I kissed my way down her soft, warm, pliant body . . .
The flash of imagining forced an equally sudden and visceral reaction in my body. One that drove most of the air from my lungs and left an uncomfortable stiffness in my pants, especially since the images didn’t stop there.
How would it be when she was experienced? When she asked for what she liked? When she whispered a request in my ear during a jam session break and we snuck off someplace private? When she gazed at me with confidence and knowledge of her own desires?
I’ll have to get a bigger car. And a desk. I’d like to take her on a desk.
“Cletus?”
I shook myself, coming back to the present, and realizing with some disappointment that we still had our clothes on and there wasn’t a desk in sight.
But there is a kitchen counter.
“Pardon?” I asked, frantically fighting against the torrent of seductive imagery.
She frowned at me and involuntarily my eyes darted to her chest. Like a cheeseball.
Dammit.
I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyeballs.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded and made a mental list. I made a very unsexy list of chores that needed doing around the homestead, including but not limited to cleaning out the chicken coop, sharpening the knives in the shed, and chopping wood. I definitely needed to chop wood. Definitely. Even though Jethro had chopped all our wood while in a snit about Sienna. And before that Billy had chopped a pile of wood while in a snit about Claire.
. . . Claire!
“Claire!”
I dropped my hands from my face and snapped my fingers.
“Claire? You mean Claire McClure?”
“Yes. Claire McClure. You should discuss these matters with her. She’s very smart. And a woman.”
Jenn’s eyes lowered to her now empty teacup and she leaned forward on the counter in much the same way I’d been doing moments prior. “Do you think she’d mind talking about this stuff? She doesn’t even know me.”
I grabbed my jacket, needing to leave right now.
Right. Now.
The first few buttons of her housedress were undone, which meant the top most edge of her lace bra was visible. It was red.
Her bra was red lace. My educated guess was that her underwear was also red lace. I was officially fixating. I needed to leave before I attempted to confirm my educated guess.
So I announced. “I’m leaving.” And pulled on my jacket.
Jennifer looked at me with surprise. “You’re leaving? Now?”
“That’s right.” I fumbled for my zipper. Thank God tomorrow was Tuesday. Tuesday morning was my morning in the upstairs bathroom, and I was going to need it.
“Oh.” She frowned her confusion as her eyes moved over me. “I have the crème puffs and cake all boxed up. Let me grab them.”
I nodded, heat rising up my shirt collar.
“Um, will I see you at the jam session this Friday?” she asked as she bent into the refrigerator to retrieve the baked goods.
I tore my eyes from her backside and stared unseeingly out the kitchen window because I was plagued by thoughts of lifting her skirt while she was bent over and everything that entailed, including but not limited to: skimming my fingers up her smooth, bare thighs; parting her legs; reaching into the front of her dress with one hand and pulling down her bra while slipping the other into her red, lace panties . . .
Yep. That’s what I was thinking about. And, as an aside, I now understood the popularity of housedresses in the mid-twentieth century.
A cold shower was in order. And yoga. And then another cold shower.
“Cletus?”
“Yep?” I answered tightly, trying and failing to make another unsexy list of chores.
“Are you going to be at the jam session?”
“No. Not this week.” I just decided—just this very moment—I would skip the jam session.
“What about next Friday?”
“No. I can’t. I’ll be down in Nashville. Claire and I have the talent show.” I couldn’t wait any longer. I bolted for the back door and powerwalked to my car.
I heard her footsteps behind me and the sound brought me up short. I’d left her to carry the boxes, and that was discourteous. My momma raised me better, even if I was suffering from penile engorgement.
I turned and met her a few feet from the kitchen door, relieving her of the boxes.
“Thank you very much for these. You didn’t have to bake us treats.” I kept my eyes on the boxes.
“I don’t mind. And it’s the least I can do for all you’ve done. And all you’re doing. By the way, do I have any homework?”
Homework.
Dammit.
“Yes. Homework. Yes.” I nodded, trying to remember what I’d planned to give her for homework. I couldn’t remember, so I made it up. “You have to talk to Claire McClure about instruments and baking with a partner.”
“You mean I need to ask her about sex.”
Oh for the love of—
“Yep.” I turned and escaped to my car.
“So you’ll send me her phone number? And let her know I’m calling?” Jenn was trailing after me, pummeling me with questions. I needed her to leave me alone so I could stop thinking about teaching her how to pleasure herself.
“Yep.” I opened the trunk and placed the bakery boxes inside, then walked past her to the driver’s side door.
“Okay. Sounds good. I guess I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Yep,” I said, closing my door and immediately starting the engine.
Jennifer lingered just beyond my parking spot, her arms crossed against the cold. I placed the car in reverse, but didn’t hit the gas. I couldn’t leave, not until she was back inside. She didn’t move.
Grunting my frustration, I rolled down my window. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here. Go back inside.”
She shuffled forward in her slippers and bent down to the height of the window. Before I knew what was happening, Jennifer Sylvester placed a featherlike hand on my jaw and a sweet kiss on my cheek. The whole thing was over before I knew it had happened.
Giving me a triumphant smile, she backed away from the car. I looked at her and she looked back, her smile never wavering. Then she turned and jogged to the back door. She stepped inside. She shut the door.
I don’t know how long I stared at the back door to the kitchen, but when I eventually glanced at the clock on the dash, it was 10:46 PM. I still needed a cold shower, but I decided to skip it.
My decision had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I could still feel the warm, gentle brush of her fingers on my jaw, or the searing press of her lips on my cheek.
Shit.