“Three things cannot hide for long: the Moon, the Sun and the Truth.”
― Gautama Buddha
~Jennifer~
I waited as long as I could. When I could wait no longer, I blurted, “Where are we going?”
“I have an idea.” His eyes darted to me, then back to the road. “More precisely, it’s a surprise.”
It was Tuesday late afternoon. We were in Cletus’s car—the Geo, not the Buick—and we’d left the bakery so he could take me to some undisclosed location. Cletus had come to the bakery after work as promised and said he wanted to take me someplace before night fell.
Presently, we’d been driving in the direction of Cades Cove for about ten minutes.
“A surprise at four-thirty?”
The sun was setting and had set the sky on fire: puffy red, pink, and orange clouds painted even more vividly by the forty-degree temperatures. Something about cold weather this time of year made the sunsets more intense.
“This surprise isn’t dependent on time of day.” He slowed, flicking on his blinker. “And we’re here.”
I squinted out the window, recognizing the long driveway and the white farmhouse at the end of it. “This is Claire McClure’s place.”
“It is.” Cletus pulled into a spot at the front of the house and cut the ignition.
“What are we doing here?”
Not missing a beat, he said, “We’re robbing the place.”
With that, he exited the car, then walked around to my side, leaving me to shake my head at his antics. I opened my door, but he caught it, offering a hand as I stood.
“What should we take first?” I pointed to the front porch. “The flower pots or the house numbers?”
He grinned, sliding his palm against mine, causing a thrill of excitement up my arm. Cletus tugged me toward the porch steps. “Flower pots are dirty and I’m wearing my best coveralls.”
“Cletus. Your coveralls are covered in grease stains.”
“Yes. But not dirt stains. I don’t want to clutter my appearance.”
“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes, laughing at his silliness.
“And those numbers are both nailed and glued to the frame. How about, instead, we take the entire house?”
I stumbled on the first step, my smile slipping, and pulled Cletus to a halt. “What?”
“Claire’s been trying to rent this place since she left.” He cleared his throat and looked everywhere but at me. His eyes moved over the porch, the window boxes full of pansies, and the white picket railing. “I’d watched over things while Jethro was with Sienna for her last movie. He’s stepped back in since he returned, but they have a baby on the way. I know this house and it’s well-maintained. And it sits on some land. Building a garden wouldn’t be a problem.”
Finally, he turned back to me, and his voice lowered, gentled. “It would give us a place, just you and me. You don’t have to move in, unless you want to.”
I gaped at him; my brain required several seconds to absorb his words.
Actually, my brain required a full minute.
Less than a week ago I thought he didn’t want me, now he was in love with me and wanted to move in together. Isaac’s words had hurt, plagued me. The car chase had left me shaken. Some fallout or retaliation from the Iron Wraiths—as far as I knew—was still a concern.
I couldn’t keep up with all the changes.
“You want us to move in together? Here?” I squeaked disbelievingly.
A thoughtful frown settled between his eyebrows; beneath the waning sun his clever eyes glittered with a fierceness of longing. He guided me up the remaining two stairs to the front door and under the shadow of the porch.
“I’m not going to be satisfied with stolen moments at your family’s bakery. I’m not just talking about spending time with your body,” his hands slid up my arms then down to my waist, tugging me closer, “though that’s a consideration. I want true privacy, a place where we can talk and be.”
Talk and be.
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
If it were possible to be infatuated with an idea, I was infatuated with this idea. Waking up every morning next to Cletus? Talking over my day with Cletus every evening? Spending every day with him?
YES PLEASE, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER!
And yet.
And yet, was I okay with us living together? And not being married? Was that something I wanted? I’d always pictured myself married before taking that kind of step. But why? Why had I always pictured myself married? Was it because marriage was what I wanted? Or was it because my living with someone before marriage was something my parents would hate?
I didn’t know how to answer these questions. Things between us were moving at a breakneck pace. As much as I wanted to be ready to fling myself into a serious relationship with this smart, beautiful, complicated man, I had other considerations. Trying to think rationally, other than determining my own mind on the matter, the biggest issue was that my parents had no idea Cletus and I were involved. Yet.
I was planning on telling them, but I’d wanted to speak to Cletus first.
Plus, there is the small matter of money . . .
“Jennifer?”
I lifted my eyes to his. The bracing uncertainty in his eyes and the sound of my name on his lips sent a rush of warm tenderness through me.
Quickly, I reassured him. “I like this idea. I like it a lot.” I cupped Cletus’s jaw with one hand and marveled at how natural and right it felt to touch him, to be in his arms. “But before we consider this, things need to settle down. And I need to solidify some outstanding issues first.”
I felt his eyes on me, assessing, before he guessed, “Your parents.”
“Yes. My parents.” However, more than my parents—although definitely related—my finances. Of course I wanted their blessing, but I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking it would be given willingly. I would have to fight for it and I was prepared to do so—including leveraging my place at the bakery and as the Banana Cake Queen.
As per Anne-Claire’s advice, I’d reached out to an accountant in Knoxville, leaving a message Saturday morning about setting up my corporation. My French pen pal had been right all along. I needed to formalize the business relationship with the bakery, because without a formal relationship, I had no freedom. I had no choice.
I wanted to trust that my mother would be fair. However, in light of the fact that painting my nails a different color was seen as an insult (at best) or an aggressive act of rebellion (at worst) worthy of recriminations and hysteria, I needed to take my financial future more seriously. I needed to start planning, rather than allowing others to dictate my path.
“I don’t think your parents will give us much trouble.” Cletus slipped his hands around to my back, adding conversationally, “The Olivers are just as old in these parts as the Paytons and the Donners. I’m sure your parents will be reasonable, when it comes to it.”
My eyebrows bounced high on my forehead and I stared at him with plain disbelief. “Cletus, I love my parents. But they are not reasonable. My mother had a fit last week when I told her I didn’t like wearing yellow dresses. And my father has always had a very particular idea of what kind of man he wants me to marry.”
The dimness and shadow of the porch meant I couldn’t see him very well, but I sensed him stiffen, his hands flex on my back. “What kind of man is that?”
“It’s a combination of things,” I said flatly. “First and foremost, I think he’d like someone who has, or is capable of, achieving impressive wealth and notoriety. If not impressive notoriety, then abundant wealth would do just fine. Now I know you could do both, if you set your mind to it, but I have no desire for abundant wealth or notoriety. And I like—well, I mostly like—that you don’t either.”
Cletus was a talented musician, but he never put himself out there. He never allowed the spotlight to shine too brightly on himself. If he didn’t want the spotlight, that was one thing. But if he feared the spotlight, if he feared rejection or lack of control . . . well, that was another.
Cletus examined me. Eventually, his hands slipped from my back and he recaptured my hand, leading me toward the front door.
“You think he’d be happy with anyone who has money?”
I sighed sadly. “When I was younger, I had a different view of his priorities. He used to tell me that he was going to find me a prince, someone to take care of me.” I swallowed, inexplicably the back of my throat felt hot and uncomfortable. “I think he’s always considered me weak.”
“Isn’t that what you want now? Isn’t that what all this husband business was about? Someone to take care of you?” Cletus reached above the front door and seemed to be fiddling with something I couldn’t see.
“No! That wasn’t and isn’t the point at all. I wanted someone—I want someone—I can take care of. Not the other way around. I have all this energy and affection and I’ve had no one to share it with, no one to give it to. I spend my days at the bakery, and my nights, too. My mother doesn’t need anything from me but to play a part. My brother pretends I don’t exist. And my father thinks I’m an idiot.”
Cletus turned, as though he were going to contradict me, but then remained silent.
“You know it’s true. He thinks I’m simple. He’s not the only one in town who thinks as much, either.” I studied his back, or what I could see of it in the low light. “I bet you used to think I was missing some marbles, too.”
Retrieving what he’d been searching for, Cletus turned back to me. “I didn’t think you were simple.”
“Then what did you think?”
His silhouette moved and I could sense he was struggling. I heard him slide the key in the lock.
Helpfully, I supplied, “The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead?”
“No.”
“If she had another brain, it’d be lonely?”
He faced me. “Jenn—”
“An intellect rivaled only by garden tools?”
“Would you—”
“The elevator doesn’t quite reach the top?”
Cletus wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me forward, his mouth easily capturing mine. He turned me back against the outside wall of the house, kissing me thoroughly.
When I was officially fuzzy headed and hot under the collar, he leaned away and explained gruffly, “I never thought you were simple. I felt sorry for you.”
My stomach fell to my feet.
I didn’t like that. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, not anymore. That party had officially ended. I took responsibility for my inaction, seeing things clearly now. Yet the fact that I’d been a person he’d pitied made my throat tight with angry embarrassment.
But before my chagrin could crystalize completely, he added, “But now I realize, I should have felt sorry for myself.” He dipped his head again, brushing a cherishing kiss over my lips, then whispering, “I was the one missing out.”
***
Claire’s house was awesome. And being there with Cletus was awesome. And the entire evening after was awesome.
Cletus drove us back to the bakery after giving me a quick tour of Claire’s place. While I worked and baked, we discussed everything from new chemistry experiments he’d found for me to attempt with the Girl and Boy Scouts, to a recipe I’d spotted in an old cookbook for sausage pie.
We decided to make the sausage pie together. I would make the crust, he would make the filling.
I wouldn’t let him help me bake my orders. His beard was a health code violation, and that notion made him grin.
“I’m a health code violation,” he repeated, like his status was something delightfully ironic. I caught on, remembering one of our early conversations about being a discriminate baker and avoiding those with health code violations.
Just past 11:00 PM, as he was helping me put the ingredients away, he jumped out of the back pantry, and snapped his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
“What?” I was wiping down the counters. The cleaners would be by before 3:00 AM to sterilize the space, but I liked to leave things tidy. My batter was prepped for the next day and all the dough was ready for the early morning crew.
“Jennifer Anne Sylvester,” his tone was exceedingly formal and made me grin, “will you do me the honor of accompanying me to my brother’s wedding?”
“I would be—”
“And thereby withdrawing your promise to the contemptible and itchy Jackson James.”
I pressed my lips together to show my disapproval, bringing my hands to my hips. “You need to re-think what you’re doing to Jackson.”
“I can’t. It’s already been done. And I’m not sorry. He deserves his plagues. I lived with a bully for many years, undoubtedly, Darrell Winston has shaped who I am. I cannot abide people taking advantage of positions of power for their own petty wishes.”
“Do you think Jackson is evil? Irredeemable?”
He didn’t answer right away, instead choosing to scowl at me. So I scowled back.
Finally, he said, “No. But he’s too big for his britches. So I made them itchy.”
“You can’t know what your actions may cause, how they might affect someone. And consider this: what if you talked to Jackson? What if you talked it out and established peace? You’re taking the choice away from him, and not giving him the benefit of the doubt. How about, instead, you try talking to him first? Then, if he refuses to hear you or he acts like a bully, then unleash your plagues. Go ahead. You’ll even have my blessing.”
We traded scowls again, but he blinked first.
“Fine. I will pause the plagues. I will talk to Jackson James. I will give him the chance to choose.”
“Good.” I suppressed my smile of victory, instead giving him a placid head nod.
“You never responded to my original request.”
“Which request?”
“You. Me. Jethro’s wedding. Drinking a little too much. Making sweet love in my room while other people dance the funky chicken outside. That request.”
“Oh, yes. The answer is yes. I called Jackson last Saturday and broke the date.”
His eyebrows jumped, showcasing his surprise. “You did?”
“Of course I did.” I gave him a disbelieving once-over. “I can’t even fathom it. I’m afraid everyone else is tedious in comparison. That’s like offering me frozen chicken nuggets when I could have sausage pie.”
Cletus’s smile claimed his features slowly and his eyes moved over me, warming greatly by degrees until he was beaming. He closed the distance between us and gathered me in his arms. He didn’t kiss me. He just looked at me, like I was something wonderful and amazing.
“I’m madly in love with you, my Jennifer,” he said.
I opened my mouth to tell him that I was in love with him, too. But he stopped me with a slow, cherishing kiss.
A kiss that made my knees weak.
A kiss that made my tummy flip.
A kiss that made my world better and brighter than it had been before.
Cletus Winston is madly in love with me.
***
Cletus walked me to my car and watched me drive away. My lips were still tingling from his excellent kisses. I both loved and hated that every time he kissed me, I couldn’t wait for him to do it again. Just like every time we left each other, I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Despite always wanting more of him, I still floated on a happy cloud and couldn’t stop grinning. I felt so blessed, so lucky. I had to be up in less than three hours, but I didn’t care.
I’d been sleeping for twenty-two years. I felt like, for the first time in my life, I was finally conscious. Life was finally happening. I was making it happen.
I quietly removed my shoes at the front door and tiptoed into the house—much like I’d done the night before—but was surprised to find my father awake in the kitchen. I frowned at him and he frowned at me from his spot at the table.
I glanced around the room, searching for some sign as to why he was awake. My father had to be at work by 6:00 AM and I never saw him up this late.
“I called Momma and left a message earlier,” I explained, feeling the urge to defend myself proactively. Staying late at the bakery was not unusual. As long as I called, I didn’t wake my parents to let them know I was home. “I told her I would be home around midnight.”
He nodded once, two unhappy lines bracketing his mouth. “I know.”
I frowned my confusion. “Is everything okay?”
“Come. Sit down.” He motioned to the chair next to his, his face grave. “We need to talk.”
I hesitated, my mind loud with all the things he might want to discuss. I couldn’t remember the last time my father and I had talked about anything. Maybe once, when I was sixteen and I’d won the state fair baking contest for the first time. He reminded me that pride was a sin.
My mother told him to hush, giving him the evil eye when she overheard, then proceeded to tell me how proud she was.
But at present, I couldn’t think of anything he’d want to talk to me about.
Maybe the New York trip? Maybe he wants to remind me that pride is still a sin.
I dismissed this theory. As long as my success brought in money to the family, he didn’t seem to care whether or not it was sinful.
“Jennifer, come sit down.” His tone was hard. He was angry.
I hesitated. What had I done to make him angry? I tried to think.
Unless . . .
And suddenly I knew. The room tilted just slightly and I leaned a hand on the counter at my side. My father knew about Cletus. Dread and fear pumped through my veins.
But you will not allow fear to control you. You are in charge of yourself and your decisions. No one else.
“Jennifer!”
My name was a demand and it made me jump; it also spurred me forward. I crossed to him with slow, shuffling steps, gathering my courage and resolve along the way. I walked calmly to the proffered chair and sat down, folding my hands on the table.
“What would you like to talk about?” I asked, my gaze even, my voice steady. Nevertheless, my nerves were taut and I braced myself for extreme unpleasantness.
I think I surprised him, because his frown intensified. “I want to talk about your behavior over the last few months.”
I gritted my teeth and pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t say something nasty.
When I was fairly certain I could trust myself to speak without being disrespectful, I said, “I’m moving out.”
I hadn’t decided until just now. But this moment, coming home to my father’s displeasure—his perpetual displeasure—was enough to answer the question. I was moving out.
Something flickered behind his eyes, a flash of something like mockery and disdain. “Oh? Is that so?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“With Cletus Winston?”
I nodded again. “That’s right.”
“And how will you live? Or is he going to be your sugar daddy?”
I didn’t flinch, but his words felt like a slap. “I’m going to what I always do. I’m going to bake.”
He leaned forward unexpectedly, shoving his face in mine. “Your momma will not be paying you a single cent, young lady. You leave, you move in with that boy, then you’re dead to us. Do you understand?”
I blinked at him, my face suddenly hot, my hands suddenly sweaty. I struggled to swallow. This was the only home I’d ever known. I thought about what it would mean, to be disowned.
My father had disowned Isaac. He never spoke of him. My momma still did. I could tell she pined for her lost son.
But, to my father, it was like he’d never existed.
I loved my parents.
I loved my father.
But for the first time in my life, I questioned why. Why did I love this man? I didn’t know. I didn’t know why I loved him. He’d never particularly liked me. He’d never been especially loving.
I stood, clearing my throat, and backed away from the table. I pushed in my chair. All the while my father followed me with his eyes, rage making the veins rise in relief on his forehead.
The last several months had led me here and it was a terrible moment. But I knew what I had to do. I lifted my chin, holding on to my composure by sheer force of will.
“If that’s what you want, then so be it.” My voice was uneven, shaky, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. “I’m not going to allow you to control me. Not anymore.”
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. I’d surprised him.
Hastily, gathering his wits, he pointed at me. “I don’t think you understand. You leave here with nothing. You take that car, I’ll report it stolen. You’re walking out of here with those disgraceful clothes and nothing else.”
“I understand perfectly. I’m not stupid.”
“Yes. You are stupid.” His tone was flat and hateful. “You’ve always been stupid. Why do you think your momma had to homeschool you? Do you really think Cletus Winston, Cletus Winston, is going to stand by you? Be a good provider? Do you think he’s going to stay with you? He won’t. He’ll leave you high and dry—just like his daddy did to their momma—and then you’ll have nothing. Nothing.”
I shook my head, my insides growing cold and numb. “I don’t need him to provide for me. If momma doesn’t want me at the bakery, then I can go elsewhere.”
“You think so?” His jaw ticked with frustration and his eyes narrowed threateningly. “We’ll sue you. We’ll sue you and you’ll never get a job. Never.”
“I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you’re so hateful. Why are you this way?”
“He’s blackmailing me,” he shouted, banging his fist on the table, every syllable dripping with fury. “That stupid bastard is blackmailing me and he will not win.”
I winced, the violent volume of his oath made me stiffen.
My father used to use the belt on us when we were kids, but my momma made him stop when I was ten. He hadn’t raised a hand to me since, but the madness in his gaze gave me reason to suspect he might try.
“Do you want to be with a man like that?” He stood and charged toward me, forcing me to take several stumbling steps backward. “Huh? A man who would blackmail your own father? You say I’m controlling? I’m nothing, nothing in comparison to that evil son of a bitch.”
I crossed my arms, holding myself, inching away from him. “What do you mean? How is he blackmailing you?”
“That’s not important.” He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, wiping his lips. Something about the movement struck me as panicked. “Can’t you see? I’m trying to save you.”
“I don’t need to be saved.” I backed up another step, so ready to leave. So ready to be done with this. “I’ve never needed to be saved.”
“Oh yeah? Then what do you think you need, Jennifer?”
“Nothing you can give me.”
He flinched, standing straighter. My father struggled for words, finally saying softly, “Your momma and I, we love you. How can that mean so little to you, after everything we’ve done?”
I stared at him and, for the first time, I felt like I was really seeing him. He didn’t love me. He used the word love like a weapon, as a means of control, as a way to ensure my blind obedience. He made it ugly.
He didn’t love me.
He loved the money I made for the bakery.
He loved the comfortable lifestyle my momma had built.
He loved his stature and reputation.
Cletus’s words came back to me from so many weeks ago: Your father is ugly, and I’m not just talking about his exterior.
He was right. He was so right. I was done with him and his ugliness.
“Goodbye,” I said simply, meaning it.
My father must have heard the truth in my farewell because he blinked at me, rocking back on his feet, dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed, like he was too shocked to respond.
Taking advantage of his astonishment, I left quickly. But I barely held on to my tears long enough to stroll out of the kitchen, run to the front door, and sprint down the driveway.
I started to cry on the main road when I realized I’d left my shoes behind.
And all the letters from my pen pals.
And my mother.
And the only home I’d ever known.