“Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?”
― Benjamin Franklin
~Jennifer~
Rain pounded against the roof when Billy picked me up on Saturday morning. Rainy days are my favorite because hot food tastes best on a cold rainy day.
My mother was not happy about my decision to go to Nashville. It took some convincing, but she finally acquiesced. She said it was because I didn’t have any events or special appearances booked. But the truth was, I didn’t give her much of a choice.
The only thing giving me some guilt was that I had to bake, decorate, and freeze the cake orders for the next several days ahead of time. The cakes wouldn’t be as fresh as usual, but they were finished and ready to be delivered.
Hopefully, their personality would keep.
I escaped my house easily enough, Billy holding a big umbrella over our heads, but then stopped short in my driveway. Billy’s truck was nowhere in sight. In its place was an impressive, black Lincoln town car. The first thing I noticed about the car—other than its make, model, and color—was that it had suicide doors and appeared to be vintage.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is Cletus’s car. He wanted us to drive it over.”
Beau was leaning against the car and lifted his head from where he was scrolling on his phone. The redhead gave me a welcoming grin, and then he wagged his eyebrows. “Bring any muffins?”
I chuckled and blushed because I’d looked up the euphemism-use of the word muffin on my laptop. My father would see it in the search history, but I told myself it was just as well. Sooner or later a girl with a mind to marry has to figure things out. Ignorance didn’t feel much like bliss these days.
Billy scowled at his brother, but I cut in before he could reprimand Beau. “No muffins for you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m a discriminate baker.”
Billy barked a laugh. And once Beau recovered from his shock, he laughed as well.
When we were settled and on our way, I thought to ask, “Where is Cletus? Are we picking him up?”
“No. We’re the only ones driving. I had work last night and Beau held down things at the auto shop. Everyone else flew out yesterday on, uh, Sienna’s plane.”
“Sienna has a plane?”
Beau answered from the back seat. “She chartered it, to fly from Knoxville to Nashville.”
“Oh.” I let this information sink in. I’d never known anyone who chartered a plane. It took me a moment to wrap my mind around the idea. “So, who went yesterday?”
“Everybody. Jethro and Sienna, Duane and Jess, Ashley and Drew, Cletus, of course. Roscoe is already in Nashville, for vet school, so he’s meeting us there.”
“I didn’t know he was becoming a vet.” I glanced over my shoulder at Beau.
“Y’all are the same age, right?” Billy checked his side mirror and merged onto the highway.
“That’s right. We were in church choir together.” I didn’t add that he and I had never spoken to each other over the course of our entire lives, but so it goes being the unofficial reject in a small town.
Rascally Roscoe is what the pastor’s wife used to call him; becoming a vet and working with animals suited his playful spirit.
“He’s not going to recognize you.” Billy’s comment drew my eyes to him; he was watching me with a thoughtful frown.
“I’m sure he’s changed, too.”
“Not much.” Beau laughed. “He’s basically the same. Meanwhile, you’ve become a swan in the last two months. What happened all the sudden?”
“Jennifer has always been lovely.” Billy scowled at Beau through the rearview mirror, and his defense of me sounded almost . . . well, it sounded almost brotherly. It reminded me of Isaac and made me happy-sad.
“That’s not what I meant, Billy,” Beau responded irritably. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned in my seat to meet his earnest expression. “I wasn’t referring to what you look like, Jenn. You have changed. You’re finally talking to people. It’s good.”
“I’m not talking to many people,” I said and thought out loud. “Just ya’ll, really. Cletus has—” I stopped myself, glancing at Billy.
“This isn’t a date, so feel free to bring up Cletus to your heart’s content.” He dipped his head in an encouraging nod.
I gave him a grateful smile. “Cletus has been a big help, and so has your brother here.” I indicated to Billy with my thumb. “I think I’ve been stuck. Y’all grew up here, you understand how it is. Everybody thinks they know everybody, but they don’t. Not really. Look at my family, Isaac for example. If someone had predicted five years ago that Isaac would be riding with the Iron Wraiths, I think everyone would’ve called that person crazy.”
“Do you talk much? You and Isaac?” The line of Billy’s brow had grown stern, preoccupied.
I shook my head, attempting to ignore the dull ache in my chest. “I’ve seen him, around town. But he doesn’t acknowledge me.” I stared out my window and spoke my thoughts as they occurred to me. “His indifference was difficult at first, and confusing. Growing up, you know how sheltered we were. My momma kept us busy and we had a good education, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t lonely sometimes. Isaac was my friend, my only friend really if you don’t count my pen pals. And I was his. He was so serious and stern all the time, and I’d make him laugh.”
Beau placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “He’ll come around.”
“Or he won’t.” Billy’s tone was severe and his tempestuous eyes cut to Beau’s reflection. “Or he’ll become one of them and he’ll be lost.”
Beau sighed loudly. “Gee thanks, Billy. You win the award for most depressing statement of the road trip. Next time maybe keep all the sunshine and rainbows to yourself.”
“No. It’s okay.” I patted Beau’s hand where it rested on my shoulder. “When Isaac left, I think it was good for me. I missed him, and I miss him now. But I didn’t get restless until he left for the army. If he’d done as my parents wanted, gone to college for marketing and joined the family business, I don’t know if I ever would’ve approached Cletus for help. Desperation is a great motivator.” I laughed, and Beau squeezed my shoulder again.
“So you went to Cletus for help?” The curiosity in Billy’s tone had me regretting my words.
“I . . . uh . . . yes. I asked him if he’d help me, uh, figure out how to get out there and meet people. And he said yes.” I rolled my lips between my teeth, hoping they wouldn’t ask about the particulars.
“I’m surprised,” Beau said.
“I’m not,” Billy’s eyes had clouded, as though he was recalling a specific memory.
Before I could ask why Billy wasn’t surprised, Beau spoke up. “You’re not? He likes to meddle with us, and he’ll help people with car troubles and the like. But after what happened with—”
“Beau.” Billy’s tone was sharp and exacting. “Mind your words.”
I glanced between the two brothers, knowing my eyes were wide with curiosity and anticipation. “After what happened?”
Billy shifted in his seat, his jaw ticking. He didn’t look at me. “Cletus used to, you know, lose his temper a lot growing up.”
I remembered this about Cletus, but only via hearsay. “My father used to talk about Cletus, at dinner. He said Cletus was a dangerous kid, always getting into fights, and that we should avoid him.”
“Cletus doesn’t like bullies,” Beau chimed in, but then volunteered nothing else, even though I got the sense he wanted to expand further.
Billy’s lips pressed together in a slight grimace. “He doesn’t like bullies,” he echoed. “He used to get into trouble for standing up to bullies, instead of minding his own business.”
“He still stands up to bullies,” Beau mumbled. “He’s just a lot sneakier about it now.”
Billy scratched his cheek, his eyebrows pulling into a V as he studied the road. “We should talk about something else.”
“Good idea.” Beau smacked the seat next to him. “How about we talk about Jennifer’s muffins and how I can get another taste?”
“Oh good Lord.” I chuckled, not caring that he made my cheeks burn red.
“Beau.” Billy’s voice was heavy with warning, but there was humor in it as well. “How about we talk about Thanksgiving? What are your holiday plans, Jenn?”
“Oh, we don’t usually do much. The week before is a busy time for my momma and me. I must’ve made over five hundred banana cakes last Thanksgiving, and every year it increases. So my father goes to a friend’s house to watch football on the day. My momma stays at the lodge and works.”
Billy glanced at me askance, visibly horrified.
But it was Beau who spoke. “Oh, hell no. You’re coming to our house for Thanksgiving. And you’re eating pie. Lots of it.”
“And you’ll bake nothing,” Billy commanded.
“I don’t know.” The idea of spending Thanksgiving with the Winstons struck me as wonderful, but also terrifying. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be.” Beau sounded so sure. “It’s settled.”
“Besides,” Billy added with confidence and a glimmer of something like mischief, “I’m sure Cletus was already planning to invite you. We just saved him the trouble.”
***
The car ride ended too quickly and by the time we’d reached our destination, I felt affection for Billy and Beau Winston.
What does this say about me? Was I doomed to go through life developing an affection for every new person I spoke to for longer than an hour?
If so, maybe my parents had been right to keep me sheltered.
I also couldn’t help comparing this new affection for Billy and Beau to my feelings for Cletus. It was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. My feelings for Cletus were . . . overwhelming, whereas my affection for Billy and Beau felt tranquil.
Clarity about the issue arrived when Cletus and Claire took the stage for the talent contest.
The whole shebang took place at the old Marzipan Theater in Nashville. The event space accommodated an audience of about five thousand; an impressive number, but nowhere near the size of a big arena show. Beau explained as we took our seats that the theater had hosted the likes of Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash back in the day, but had fallen into disrepair. It had recently been beautifully restored and the talent show was meant to relaunch it as a viable venue.
Cletus and Claire were the third act of ten. When Cletus appeared, my heart rose, clogging my throat, and I sat at the edge of my seat, waiting with bated breath for them to start their three-song set. They did and the audience fell quiet; they’d chosen a haunting love song to open, one I’d never heard before.
Cletus didn’t play the banjo during this first song, he played the acoustic guitar and he sang a duet with Claire. I’d never heard him sing before, and so my bated breath became a breath held, and then a sigh of thorough delight and wonder. He had a remarkable voice, deep and rich, and like his laugh it reminded me of smooth chocolate.
As Cletus and Claire finished the first song to a round of roaring applause, I decided that the difference between Cletus and his brothers was that Billy and Beau did not agitate my emotions. They inspired warmth and fondness; benign, safe feelings.
Cletus, however, had me on spin cycle. He agitated every single one of my emotions. I was all over the place. I’d never realized that feeling so much all at once was possible.
Cletus picked up his banjo for the next song, which was an upbeat cover of Mumford and Son’s “I Will Wait.” Claire played the guitar and sang lead vocal.
I glanced at the row of Winstons and their partners and it warmed my heart to see each of them smiling at the stage, various shades of adoration and pride written on their features. I didn’t feel envy, but I did feel longing. This, right here, was why I wanted a big family.
They finished the set with Johnny Cash’s “Tennessee,” but Claire switched blue-eyed girl with boy, and gal became guy. It totally worked. She sounded deep and husky for this last song, demonstrating her impressive range. Plus, her voice had a vivid quality that sent goosebumps down my back. She was brilliant.
Much like Sienna with her gravitational aura, Claire’s presence on stage was both natural and thrilling. And so was Cletus. I might have been a little biased, but I thought he was just as good as Claire . . . except, he held himself back. He was circumspect, as though foisting the attention on his partner was the primary goal.
Even on stage, Cletus seemed determined to hide from the spotlight, to conceal his amazing. This comprehension left me agitated. He was remarkable, and yet he was determined people think of him as mediocre.
They finished and the place exploded, all five thousand or so audience members jumped to their feet. Claire laughed and tossed her hair, mouthing the words thank you and blowing kisses. Meanwhile, Cletus packed up his gear, took a short bow, and walked off the stage.
Duane, who was sitting to one side of me, guffawed at Cletus’s abrupt departure; so did Jessica next to him.
Beau, who was on my other side also laughed and nudged my arm, yelling over the exuberant crowed. “He doesn’t care about the contest, not for himself. He did this to get Claire up there and to buy a car.”
“To buy a car?” I asked, confused. “You mean with the prize money?”
He shook his head. “No. One of the judges—some big record producer—owns a 1971 Buick Riviera. It has a split rear window that makes it look a bit like a shark. He already has one, but he wants two for some reason. He’s got the Lincoln to trade and is hoping to leverage Claire.”
I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculousness of this news, and also the fact that Cletus was using his friendship with Claire to get his hands on a car.
Beau, seemingly able to discern the direction of my thoughts, shook his head, leaned closer and spoke directly into my ear. “This is classic Cletus, killing two birds with one stone. Claire deserves to be on that stage, but she needed to be pushed. She never would have done it on her own. He did it because he cares for her. We all do. Cletus just handed her a record deal—whether she wants it or not, that’s up to her—but he’ll also manage to extort some powerful fella in the process.”
Beau pulled away, meeting my gaze and watching me process his words. He bent to my ear again, adding, “His mind works in mysterious ways,” Beau shrugged, “but the man always gets what he wants.”
***
“Oh good Lord. Please tell me you did not use the words, academically speaking when you were giving sweet Jennifer advice.”
“I may have uttered the phrase.” Cletus’s eyes darted to mine, then away. “I don’t remember.”
“You lie like a dog, Cletus Winston. You do too, remember. You remember, and you did use those words, and you don’t want to admit it.”
I blushed, bright red, my eyes bouncing between Cletus and Claire.
The three of us were in a dressing room, sharing a bottle of champagne and a tray of fancy appetizers. It was my first time drinking champagne and my head felt fuzzy.
Shortly after their set ended, an usher came and found me in the audience, told me I was needed backstage. I excused myself from the row of Winstons and followed the attendant through a maze of hallways. He halted at a door with a piece of paper taped to it that read McClure & Winston.
The usher knocked, Claire opened it, hugged me, then pulled me inside.
“Cletus explained everything,” she’d said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “I’m here to help. We are now good friends and you can ask me anything you like.”
And that was it. Just like that, Claire McClure, Cletus Winston, and I were discussing sex backstage at a big deal talent show.
“Fine. I did use the words ‘academically speaking,’” Cletus admitted reluctantly, “Moving on—”
“That’s a problem, Cletus, because there’s nothing academic about making love.”
“I beg to differ—”
“Just please stop talking and let me set this unsuspecting woman straight. Stop polluting her with your academically speaking.”
He started to roll his eyes then stopped. Instead, he plucked a carrot from the appetizer tray and snapped it with his teeth. “Fine. You explain it then.”
“I will. Prepare to be amazed.”
He frowned, like something smelled bad. “I don’t know if I want to be amazed by you when the subject is sex.”
“Then you can leave.”
Cletus brought his narrowed eyes to me, then away, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’ll stay. For now.”
Claire laughed at him, like she thought he was funny and wonderful—which he was—then moved her warm gaze to mine, her smile softening as she considered me.
When she spoke, she did so as though we really were good friends, her voice was gentle and familiar. “I remember when you won at the state fair for the first time, for your banana cake. Your momma was so proud and happy, but you looked totally petrified.”
“I was,” I admitted easily.
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you’ve won every year since?”
I nodded.
Her brow wrinkled and her eyes moved over me, thoughtfully assessing. “You’ve never been kissed, or so Cletus told me.”
I nodded again, glad he’d told her so I didn’t have to. “I know ignorance is supposed to be bliss, but it’s feeling more and more like a cage these days.”
The side of her mouth hitched but her eyes looked a little sad. “Love is a . . . well, it’s interesting. It can be wonderful, but it can also be destructive. I understand your loyalty to your parents, I do. But you’re right. You’re in a cage, and you’re looking for a way out. Don’t rush it. You have time. I was actually the opposite. When I was nineteen I was a bird, looking for a cage. Believe it or not, your situation is better.”
I nodded solemnly, because I knew her story. Everyone in town knew about Claire, how she’d been born Scarlet St. Claire, the only child of Razor Blade St. Claire, president of the Iron Wraiths. She’d grown up in the motorcycle club and, by all accounts, it hadn’t been an easy life. At fifteen she’d disappeared for three years, only to show back up engaged to Ben McClure, son of the local fire chief. They married when she was nineteen. He went to war, she went to college. Four years later she had her degree, but Ben had died overseas.
She’d taught at my father’s high school—music and drama—and took care of Ben’s parents. Just last summer, she’d moved to Nashville to accept a teaching position at a community college. But if Beau was right, this evening she might be accepting a record deal instead.
She seemed to be debating what to say next, and when she spoke she started slowly. “Let me tell you a story. My husband—” Claire broke off, her eyes darting to Cletus for a split second, then away. Her cheeks heated, but she cleared her throat and pushed past whatever flare of emotion held her momentarily hostage. “My husband, Ben, when he was alive, loved to play baseball with his father. They’d toss the ball around. He loved it. When he joined the army and was deployed, a pro-baseball player was deployed with him. So he had the chance to play baseball with a real professional. I mean, this guy was fantastic, just one of the best in the world. But when I asked Ben about it, do you know what he said?”
“No,” Cletus said suddenly and unnecessarily.
Claire’s eyes cut to his and she gave him a flat look of annoyance before continuing. “He said, ‘You know, Claire, it was fun. But if I could play baseball with anyone in the world, it would still be my pop.’” She paused, allowing Ben’s answer to sink in, then added, “That’s the difference love makes. So Cletus is right on the one hand. Having experience, good technique, good moves—those are all just fine. If you’re having sex for recreation or playing it like a professional sport, then those things are critical. But if you’re making love, then experience and good moves are a bonus, but not at all important. It’s the person, not the technique, that makes it worthwhile.”
I felt my smile grow as she spoke and was grinning when she finished.
Claire’s clever eyes held mine. “So don’t worry about your lack of experience. You wait—if you want—because when the right guy comes along, he won’t mind about your technique or lack thereof, and you won’t mind about his. He’ll care about you. You’ll care for each other.”
Music, the muffled sounds of a live performance, invaded our space, but I paid it no mind. Claire’s words were like a salve to my nerves. Unthinkingly, I turned to Cletus, maybe to thank him for bringing me backstage, for making this stolen chat with Claire possible, but the words immediately caught in my throat.
His eyes were already on me and his look hit me squarely in the chest, a hot spike of awareness. It was another of those rare windows into the real Cletus Winston, unmasked and raw, but this time he didn’t look angry. He looked ravenous.
The hot sensation spread lower, to my abdomen and lower, to my . . . other . . . area.
I flushed, felt overheated. His gaze singed, and yet I also felt oddly liquefied by it, loose and adrift.
The muffled sounds dissolved, as though I’d been pulled into a tunnel where only he and I existed, Cletus and his ravenous appetite and his fiery-blue eyes.
But then I jumped, flinching and tearing my eyes away, because an unexpectedly loud knock rapped against the door. A moment passed where no one spoke and I couldn’t see, but the invasive clamor of live music met my ears followed by sounds of cheers and applause.
“I’ll get it,” Cletus said, his voice gruff, as though he hadn’t used it in days.
I watched him stand, watched him move to the door, his big shoulders rising and falling with an expansive breath. I noticed his hands were balled into fists and his forearms were bare. He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. I tried to recall whether I’d ever seen his arms before. And, if so, why they were so distracting now?
A gentle nudge against my calf had me turning back to Claire. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open. She mouthed, You and Cletus?
I shook my head quickly.
Her gaze narrowed and flickered over me. She nodded her head, mouthing again, You and Cletus. This time it wasn’t a question.
My stomach fluttered with panic-induced vertigo. I shook my head again, whispering, “We’re not like that,” just as Cletus opened the door.
“Mr. Winston. Fine performance,” an unknown female exclaimed, drawing my attention back to the door.
“Mr. Platt, Ms. Flom. I imagine you’ll be wanting to speak to my partner?” Cletus crossed his arms, tilting his chin up and adopting a tone I’d never heard him use before. Most of his accent was gone. He sounded like a Yankee.
“Where is the lovely Ms. McClure? We’d love to congratulate her as well, maybe talk some things over. Did she get the champagne we sent?” a voice asked, which I guessed belonged to Mr. Platt.
Cletus nodded once. “She did.”
“Good. Good. So perhaps we can—”
“Let’s cut to the chase.” Cletus leaned against the doorjamb and a friendly smile curved over his lips, but from where I was sitting his eyes were remote and remarkably shrewd. “I want your Buick, Ms. Flom. You want Claire McClure in a contract. I’m sure we’ll be able to reach an equitable arrangement, where everyone leaves the table happy.”
“That sneaky bastard,” I heard Claire whisper and I looked back to her. She didn’t look upset. In fact, she was smiling.
“Did you know?” I leaned close to Claire so as not to interrupt the negotiation occurring at the dressing room door.
“Beau warned me,” she said on a low breath.
“What are you going to do?”
Her gaze held mine and I saw indecision, but I also saw excitement.
“Well, Cletus wants that car.” Claire smiled and shrugged. I returned her grin, laughing lightly.
She sighed, it sounded happy, and her attention moved back to the man in question.
I followed her gaze, repeating the words Beau had said to me less than an hour ago. “And Cletus always gets what he wants.”
***
Soon after Cletus concluded preliminary negotiations with Ms. Flom and Mr. Platt, I made my way back to my seat. They needed to get back on stage for the awards.
Claire and Cletus came in first place. Knowing the truth—that whether they won or lost made no difference, because Claire was already on her way to signing a record deal and Cletus had successfully negotiated the purchase of the car he wanted—was a bit like catching a glimpse of the Wizard of Oz standing behind his curtain.
Reality didn’t negate the triumph of their win, but the festivity that followed felt less about winning and more about just wanting to celebrate with family. Even though Jethro and Sienna’s wedding was literally three weeks away—and they’d all be seeing each other again for the occasion—the siblings and their partners seemed to jump at any opportunity to celebrate together. I loved this about the Winstons.
Thanks to Sienna’s clout, the entire second floor of the family’s favorite barbeque restaurant in Nashville had been secured. Billy was on my right and Beau on my left. Claire was way down on the other end, chatting with Sienna and Jethro. Roscoe sat directly across from me, with Cletus across from Beau and Jessica across from Billy. Duane sat on the end cap.
Next to Cletus was Ms. Flom, and she seemed intent on monopolizing his attention. A fact that had me both irritated and relieved.
I didn’t want to meet with another of his ravenous looks and deal with the confusing longings that accompanied it. I didn’t know what it meant and I had no experience from which to draw. Therefore, I sat quietly—avoiding eye contact with Cletus—and slipped into my role of people watcher. It was interesting to study the different dynamics at work.
The record executives had been invited to join our gathering and Mr. Platt was fawning all over Sienna. The servers were also hovering over her. Even while we were standing in front of the restaurant she’d been recognized and mobbed by strangers in the street.
“What are you staring at?” Billy asked, attempting to follow my line of sight.
I indicated with my head toward a graciously smiling Sienna. “Sienna Diaz.”
Billy’s gaze moved over me. “What about her?”
“How does she do it? Everywhere she goes, people—strangers—want to talk to her. I would hate it.”
“Would you?” Billy seemed surprised.
Beau nudged me with his elbow, obviously having been eavesdropping. “What about all that publicity your momma arranges for the Banana Cake Queen? Don’t you dress in costume and do appearances? And don’t you have a million followers, or something crazy like that?”
“The Banana Cake Queen has just over a million followers on Instagram. Jennifer Sylvester has zero.” I pushed my pulled pork around on my plate.
Beau nudged me again, this time with his shoulder. “I hate to break it to you, but you are the Banana Cake Queen.”
“She doesn’t look like the Banana Cake Queen.”
I lifted my eyes to the speaker of this comment and found Roscoe looking at me funny.
“Hey, Jenn,” he said, still looking at me funny. “How are things?”
Other than polite hellos early in the evening, I hadn’t spoken to Roscoe at all so far. But I’d caught him sending curious glances my way.
“Things are good, Roscoe. How are your things?”
“My things are great. To tell you the truth, I didn’t realize who you were until we sat down for dinner. I didn’t recognize you at all.” He squinted at me, then Billy, then Beau. He also smiled. “So which one of these jokers brought you?”
“I did.” Billy administered a no-teeth grin to his youngest brother.
“Technically, we both did.” Beau nudged me a third time, giving me a conspiratorial side-eye.
“Is that so . . .?” Roscoe leaned back in his seat.
I didn’t get a chance to respond because movement at the other end of the table had us all glancing up from our conversation.
Claire had stood and was passing out hugs, to Jethro first, then Sienna. She turned to the rest of the table. I thought for a moment she was planning to go around and say goodbye to us, one at a time, but her movements halted suddenly when her eyes crashed into Billy’s.
I sensed him go stiff at my side, heard his quick intake of breath. Almost immediately, she tore her gaze away.
I fought the urge to lay a comforting hand on his arm. Emotion rolled off the big man, wild and reckless and so very sad. I just wanted to hug him.
“I have to get going, y’all. I have an early morning.” Her smile was wide, though it looked a little rattled to me.
This news was met with various sounds of disappointment, protests, and well-wishes. She waved and blew a kiss to Jessica, who acted like she caught it in her hand and stuffed it down her bra. This made everyone laugh.
Claire also laughed, then turned, striding purposefully away from the table. I watched her go, feeling both happy and sad.
I wish . . .
I wished I’d made an effort to know Claire before she left Green Valley. She was definitely someone worth knowing.
“What is it, Cletus?” Billy asked sharply, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I glanced between the two brothers and moved my twisting fingers to my lap; it was the first time Cletus had looked in my general vicinity since the backstage sex pow-wow and the subsequent ravenous look.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Cletus shook his head slowly.
“I guarantee, you don’t.” Billy’s response was gruff and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
“No. I do. And you’re wrong.”
Billy’s throat worked as he swallowed, his glare piercing and hot. “It’s none of your business, Cletus.”
“Well, you’re right about that. It’s none of my business. It’s your business. But you’re still wrong. You can’t win a woman with brute force, or wishing, or begging—not that you were planning on begging.”
Billy’s eyes flashed and he ground his teeth, the muscle at his jaw and temple jumping.
“You can’t wear her down.” Cletus softened his words, like he was softening a blow.
I realized with some surprise that our immediate tablemates had turned their attention away; Roscoe, Jessica, and Duane had their heads together, and I heard Duane mention Italy. Beau was studiously picking through his rib dinner. Everyone else was too far away to hear Cletus and Billy’s conversation. The restaurant noise from the first floor masked their exchange.
I took a page from Beau’s book and redirected my eyes to my plate.
“Then what do you suggest?” Billy sounded confrontational, his low voice laced with frustration. “What would you do?”
“Lay it all out. Tell her everything.”
Billy’s gaze focused on where Claire had disappeared. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes moved to me. I saw him in my peripheral vision and I felt his glare. I held very still.
“Would you, Cletus?” Billy asked, his attention drifted back to his brother. “Would you lay it all out? Tell her everything?”
Cletus was quiet a moment before saying, “When you’re certain, when it’s the heart and mind you’re after, then you lay it all out. But if it’s empty, just physical, then there’s nothing to say.”