“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
~Jennifer~
A gentle hand touched my shoulder, shaking me just slightly. I turned, blinking scratchy eyes at the hand’s owner.
It was Ashley. She gave me a soft smile and pushed my hair away from my forehead in a decidedly maternal gesture.
“I’m here to see about your feet,” she whispered. “You can go back to sleep, I just didn’t want to wake you while I tickled your toes and get kicked in the face.”
She’d turned on the light next to the bed. I rubbed my eyes and searched the dim room for a clock.
“What time is it?”
Numbly, I watched as she arranged disinfectant and gauze on the bed. “Just past nine thirty.”
I shot up, a spike of fear-fueled adrenaline bringing me fully awake. “I’m late!”
“Shhh.” Ashley placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me back to a reclining position. “You’re not late. You’re sleeping in.”
I frowned at her, at the unfamiliar room, and then the events of the prior evening crashed over me and I winced, my arms instinctively wrapping around myself.
After the unpleasantness with Cletus, Billy had carried me to a bedroom. I surmised it was Ashley’s old room because pictures of her with other people dotted the surfaces, the single bed was covered in a floral quilt, and the letters A S H L E Y hung on the wall.
Last night Billy had set me on the bed and placed a hand on my back; I curled into ball and covered my face with my hands, willing the tears to stop. I couldn’t think, because if I thought about anything, I would have to feel something. I wasn’t ready. So I cleared my mind, pictured a field covered in white snow.
Eventually the tears stopped. And when they did, I drifted into a dreamless sleep, until Ashley woke me.
“That’s right,” I said, remembering, “I have nowhere to be.” And I have nowhere to go.
Ashley moved to the end of the bed and began dabbing at my soles.
“They did a good job,” she mumbled, peeling off a Band-Aid.
“What’s that?”
Her eyes flickered to mine and she gave me a warm smile. “Billy and Beau. They did a good job cleaning your feet and trying to tape them up.”
When I continued regarding her with confusion, she added, “Billy called me. He was worried because you didn’t seem to notice them fussing with your feet. Said you just stared into space and didn’t respond.”
A mild rush of embarrassment crept up my neck. “I don’t remember that.”
“I don’t imagine you do. From what I hear, you’ve been through a lot.”
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t certain what to say. I didn’t want to rehash what had happened with my father. Cletus was her brother, so talking to her about him was out of the question. Plus, it hurt to think about Cletus. It hurt to think about how he hadn’t trusted me to choose him. Or maybe he didn’t think I was strong enough to stand up to my parents and put us first. Maybe he still felt sorry for me. And that thought hurt most of all.
I didn’t want his pity. I didn’t want him seeing me as weak or feeble. I wasn’t.
“I can hear you thinking,” Ashley said, her eyes on my feet. “You might as well talk about it. I’m a trained healthcare professional and I guarantee you I’ve heard more hair-raising stories than the bartender at the Pink Pony.”
I studied her, watching her concentrate with steady hands. How she spoke reminded me a lot of Cletus. She was very matter-of-fact, but with a softer touch.
I cleared my throat and glanced at the ceiling. “How do you prove to someone that you’re strong?”
“Through your actions,” she answered without hesitating.
The room descended into silence for a full minute while I thought about her response. A plan developed, one where I would prove to Cletus I was strong, that he could trust me, that we were equals. And the more I thought my plan over, the more I realized that this plan wasn’t really about proving anything to Cletus. This plan was about proving something to myself.
Ashley broke the silence. “Now, if that someone is Cletus Winston . . .” Her eyes lifted and our gazes connected. “Then may I suggest you add a little sneaky in with the recipe? Because, as much as I love my brother—and I do, don’t tell anyone, but he’s my favorite—he needs a taste of his own medicine every once in a while. So if you can think of a way to prove your strength and pull one over on the puppet master at the same time, just let me know how I can help.”
I stared at Ashley, unable to speak. Some overpowering emotion held me in its grip and I couldn’t quite untangle myself.
Just let me know how I can help.
Her gaze flickered to mine, then back to my feet. “Are you okay? You’re looking at me like I’m a loony bird.”
“No. Sorry. It’s just . . .” I struggled to find the correct words. “It’s just, I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”
“What? That Cletus needs a taste of his own medicine?”
“No, ‘let me know how I can help.’”
Ashley’s movements stilled, and her frown of concentration became something else. After several contemplative seconds, she lifted her eyes to my face and gave me small smile.
“You know, I just moved back—back to town—last spring and I’ve been missing my gal pals. I Skype with them every Tuesday, but I miss having good girl friends to go places with. I haven’t taken the time I should to build a new tribe here in Green Valley.”
I continued to stare at her, but I rolled my lips between my teeth so I wouldn’t shout, I VOLUNTEER!
“How about this?” she continued. “No matter what happens with you and Cletus—no matter whether you split up and go your separate ways or get married and raise chickens and goats—you and I are going to be friends. We’ll can our gardens together and I’ll teach you how to knit.”
“And I know how to make soap,” I blurted. “I can teach you how to make soap.”
“Sounds great.” Her smile widened.
“So it’s a deal?” I reached out my hand, eager to finalize this friendship.
She laughed lightly, gripping my offered fingers and giving them a small shake. “Good friends.”
“Good friends,” I echoed, my voice cracking. I tried to return her smile, but mine was a little wobbly. Overwhelmed, tears stung my eyes so I blinked them away and cleared my throat.
“It’s a deal.” She released my hand, giving me one more smile, then returning her attention to my feet. “I’m just the first of many, Jenn. It’s time you started building your tribe. But if I can make a suggestion?”
I cleared my throat, still clogged with emotion. “Go right ahead, all tips are welcome.”
“Stay away from the normals.”
“The normals?”
“Yep.” She nodded once, the side of her mouth hitching in a way that reminded me of Cletus. “Stay away from the normals, the small-minded people who fill their brains with small-minded pursuits, who blend in and keep up with the Joneses. Those people will tear you down and make you boring. Instead, surround yourself with the weirds. With the misfits, oddballs, and outcasts. Because the normals, bless their hearts, have no idea how to have fun.”
***
Sienna Diaz arrived just as Ashley was packing up and giving me instructions about my feet. She’d given me Ibuprofen and said to stay off them as much as possible for the day, but light walking would be fine. She said I should be able to walk normally by tomorrow, as long as it didn’t hurt. But not to wear high heels or stand for too long.
“Feet are resilient, they’re like women that way,” she said, then added with a big smile, “see you later, friend.”
Sienna flashed her dimples as Ashley left us, then turned to me with an exceptionally serious expression which was matched by her tone. “I have a proposition for you.”
I needed a minute. I wasn’t used to being the focus of so much charisma. “Uh, okay, what—”
“Here’s the deal.” She sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand, cradling it in her own.
Let me repeat that. Sienna Diaz—movie star, hilarious comedian, and all-round extraordinary human being—sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand. And it was not an hallucination.
Life is so weird.
“I am obsessed with your lemon custard cakes,” she confessed on a rush. “Obsessed. But your bakery hasn’t been carrying them for over a week.”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
She shook her head quickly. “Don’t apologize. Here’s the deal: if and when you’re feeling up to it, I want to pay you—handsomely—to keep me well stocked in lemon custard cakes for the next six months. And maybe for the rest of my life. And my children’s lives.”
I cracked a smile because the woman was funny. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll be happy to do it for you.”
She shook her head. “No. No, no, no. I’m paying you. You’re being put on retainer. I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract. We’re making this official, because I need those cakes, and I want to be able to hold you accountable in a court of law if you don’t deliver.”
I narrowed my eyes on her, seeing through her demand. Obviously someone had talked to her about my situation.
As though reading my mind, her expression softened and she squeezed my hand. “Yes, I know what happened. These Winston boys are big gossips. But I’m being completely honest with you. Please let me take advantage of you and exploit you for your baking brilliance. Please!” She tugged on my fingers, bringing them to just under her chin as though she were praying. “I’m suffering. I have morning sickness all the time. I’ve lost twenty pounds and I don’t fit in my wedding dress. They’re going to have to use duct tape to keep it on me. I need those cakes!”
Despite everything, she made me laugh. “Fine, yes, I’ll make you the cakes.”
She dropped my hand and stood. “Excellent. Jethro is driving you over to the bank today to get you set up with an account and I’ll have the money wired in.”
“An account? But . . . but I don’t have my wallet or my driver’s license.” I’d been so distraught when I left, grabbing my purse hadn’t occurred to me.
“Cletus and Duane went to your parents’ house this morning and picked up some of your things. Your momma packed your bag, but she wants you to call her. Don’t worry, Duane made sure there were no yellow dresses in the suitcase.” Sienna pulled a phone from her pocket and held it out to me.
It was my phone. I gaped at it and then I gaped at this movie-star angel sent from Heaven to deliver only good news.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at her like a gaping moron.
She flashed a smile then moved to the door, spinning back to me at the last minute. “Also, I believe the Donner Bakery was supposed to make my wedding cake and I believe it cost something like two thousand dollars if my memory serves. Which means you were supposed to make my wedding cake. I’ve called the bakery and cancelled my order. I figure, let’s just cut out the middleman. I’ll add it to your lemon custard cake retainer fee. Assuming your feet will allow it, do you think you could use the kitchen in the carriage house? It has two ovens. And once you tell me exactly what you need, I’ll make sure you have whatever top-of-the-line equipment you require . . .”
Without waiting for my response, she left. I stared at the door for a long moment. Her energy was . . . intense. I liked her, and not just because she was one of those people who are impossible to dislike. She clearly had a good heart. I decided I would take her up on her offer, but one day I’d pay her back. With interest.
The phone in my hand buzzed, demanding my attention, and a text flashed on the screen. It was from Cletus and the sight made my heart lurch and twist, a pining ache stealing my breath. As I scrolled through my notifications, I noticed several texts.
Cletus: I’m sorry. I was wrong, you were right.
Cletus: I just realized you probably don’t have your phone.
Cletus: I think I’m going to make myself useful by retrieving your phone.
Cletus: I just left your parents’ house. I have your phone.
Cletus: Clearly I had your phone, if you’re reading these messages.
I was smiling—grinning like a love-sick fool would be more accurate—by the time I got to the last message. But then my heart twisted and I was gripped by a ferocious wave of sorrow. He might have recognized his error, but he still didn’t trust me to be strong. I didn’t want to be pitied.
I refused to be pitied.
Sighing, I placed the cell on my lap and stared at the ceiling.
I missed him. I hated being angry with him. This state of longing for Cletus hurt, because I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
He needed to prove that he trusted me, not just for me, but for him. Without trust, we had nothing.
I needed to prove my independence and strength, not just for him, but for myself.
And on that note, I called my mother.
I sat up in the bed, leaning against the headboard and testing my feet. They smarted just a tad, but not much.
My mother picked up after the second ring. “Hello? Jennifer?”
I gathered a deep breath, prepared for recriminations and hysterics. “Momma.”
“Oh thank God. What were you thinking? Leaving the house like that? And you didn’t take your phone. I had no way to reach you. You weren’t at the bakery. You weren’t anywhere. I was about to call the sheriff. And then those Winston boys show up and say you’re at their house. What am I supposed to think?”
He didn’t tell her he kicked me out? What a coward. A flare of disgust for my father had me shaking my head.
“Slow down. Just . . . give me a minute to respond.”
I heard her huff a watery sigh. “I’m just so sorry. I think . . . I think I must have driven you away. I keep thinking about that conversation we had on Friday. You hurt my feelings, and things were getting worse instead of better, so I talked to Reverend Seymour about it and he says I need to let you go. I need to let you fly like a bird.” She sniffled, then added on a wobbly whisper, “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Tears pricked behind my eyes. I blinked them away. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“I know. Well, I know that now. In retrospect, I guess, I haven’t been a very good listener. I just . . . I just wanted better for you than what I had. You know? You have so much talent and you’re so darn pretty, you’re everything I wished I was when I was your age. Your granddaddy was a selfish man, God rest his soul, and he neglected your grandma and me. I only want what’s best for you, what I never had.”
“But you’re not me. I’m me. And you don’t always know what’s best for me, because you don’t really know me.”
She was quiet for a stretch, then I heard her soft crying. I shook my head and sighed, my forehead falling to my hand.
“Momma, please stop crying.”
“I’m a terrible mother,” she wailed.
“No,” I rolled my eyes, “no, you aren’t. You’ve meant well, and have done the best you know how. But now it’s time to let me be my own person.”
She sniffled again, and I could tell she was struggling with this concept. “You’ll have to teach me how to let you be, because I’m at a loss. I really am. I feel like everything I know is upside down and backward.”
“First things first, you need to know that I’m not coming home. I’m not living at home anymore.” I couldn’t, for so many reasons, not the least of which was my father. I couldn’t look at him let alone share a house with him. I wouldn’t.
My momma was quiet again, and then she cleared her throat. “Now, Jennifer, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Even so, I’m not coming home.”
“But how are you going to support yourself?”
“You’re going to pay me.”
Again, she was silent and I could almost picture the shock painted on her features. But I wasn’t backing down. I worked hard—all the time. There was no reason I shouldn’t be paid for my work.
At length, she sighed, sounding exasperated. “You want me to pay you.”
“The bakery is going to pay me.” I lifted my voice, infusing it with as much conviction as I could. “I work there, and therefore I should earn a salary for the work I do. If you feel differently, I understand. But that means I’ll be working elsewhere.”
“No. No need for that. We’ll . . . work out something.” She sounded distracted.
“Yes. We’ll work something out and it’ll be formalized in a contract.. An employment agreement.”
She sighed again, louder this time. “That’s fine. We can make it formal if you need it to be formal.”
“I do. And another thing—”
“There’s more?”
“Yes. I will go to New York and meet with the talent agent, but I will decide what happens next.”
“Jennifer, this is a big deal.” Her tone held an edge of warning.
“It might be a big deal to you, but it’s not to me. And it won’t make or break the lodge or the bakery.”
“Baby, if you don’t accept the offer it could put me in a really awkward position.” She sounded a little panicked.
I fought against the ingrained instinct to soothe her and resolved to stay firm, but I kept my tone respectful. “Then you should have asked me what I wanted and listened to me when I told you. I want to be helpful to the bakery and the family business, but I truly dislike being the Banana Cake Queen. Therefore, I will continue to help within reason.”
She was quiet for a beat and when she spoke next her voice was strained, frustrated. “Fine. Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m not coming back to work until the employment agreement is finalized.”
“But . . . but Thanksgiving is coming up. We already have seven hundred orders for your banana cake.”
“Then I guess finalizing the employment agreement sooner rather than later is a priority.”
She made a choking sound.
I quickly added, “And I’m in love with Cletus Winston.”
“What? Cletus Winston, the auto mechanic? That simpleton?”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh at her assessment of Cletus, and spoke slowly and clearly. “I’m in love with Cletus Winston and we’re together and I’m very happy.”
“Oh good Lord.”
“He’s what I want.”
“I don’t know if I can accept this, baby. I just . . . I just don’t know.” I could tell she was rubbing her forehead. “You’re going to need to give me some time on this one.”
“That’s fine.” I shrugged, because it was fine. If she never accepted Cletus, that was okay. I’d chosen him for me, not for her.
Yet I felt certain that once they started spending time together and actually knew each other, they would absolutely get along. My mother was single-minded, shrewd and focused, and exceptionally smart. And so was Cletus. The main differences were, my mother didn’t try to hide her intelligence and she cared what other people thought.
Cletus didn’t care at all what other people thought, not unless the person was his family.
Or me.
I grinned.
“Maybe,” my momma said on a sigh, “we all just need a break. Your daddy told me I needed a vacation. He’s trying to get me to go to this spa in Asheville. He wanted to leave this afternoon.”
I tensed at this news. I didn’t know why he wanted her to leave town, but I could guess. “Momma.”
“I thought I raised you and your brother right. But obviously I did something wrong, because Isaac won’t even talk to me and you’re running off in the middle of the night to be with the town oddball because you don’t like yellow dresses anymore.”
I ignored her ludicrous and willful oversimplification of the situation because I had to tell her about my father. About her husband. She deserved to know. And I needed to tell her before he intervened and filled her head with lies. More lies.
“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to believe me. But there’s proof. I’m not lying to you, and it’s really important that you believe me.” I hadn’t seen the proof, but if Cletus said he had proof then I didn’t doubt him.
“Jennifer, you’re scaring me.”
“You should sit down.”
“Jenn—baby—whatever it is, I’m your mother and I love you. Granted, you might drive me crazy wearing those jeans and I might react very poorly at times. I’m just very busy trying to rebuild the family business. And I just don’t understand why you don’t like those pretty dresses, but I guess I can come to terms with your peculiar choices, whatever it takes for you to be in my life. You know how much I miss your brother. I just don’t understand why he never calls.”
“Momma, listen to me. It’s not about me.”
“Then what’s it about?”
I gathered a large breath, held it in my lungs and sent a prayer upward. I prayed for strength. I prayed my mother would believe me, because she didn’t deserve my father’s betrayal. Just like I didn’t deserve his abuse. Just like he didn’t deserve us.
“It’s about Dad.” I spoke calmly, because I knew at any minute she was going to launch into hysterics. “It’s about Dad and what he’s been doing on the weekends.”
***
Guilt had me squirming in my seat.
It was the money. The money was responsible for my guilt. I couldn’t stop looking at my bank balance. But every time I looked at my bank balance, my stomach felt hollow.
“Stop it.”
I glanced to my side, to Jethro Winston who’d taken me to the bank and was now driving me back to his family’s house.
He continued, smiling, “Stop working yourself up about the money. Believe me, she’ll collect on those custard cakes. They’re all she talks about.”
I folded the bank printout into thirds and tucked it into my bag. “She was too generous.”
“I don’t think you appreciate how terrible morning sickness has been for her. She’s sick all the time. She jokes about it, but I can tell she’s in pain.” Jethro’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and the corners of his mouth turned down. His wife’s difficulty affected him. “Those lemon cakes are the only thing that helps. I’d give you a million dollars myself if I thought it would help.”
I didn’t need a million dollars. Between Sienna’s kindness and the agreement I’d tentatively struck with my momma this morning, my cup runneth over.
The conversation with my mother went both better and worse than expected. Better because she’d agreed to pay me for my work. Worse because she hadn’t believed me about my father. She said I was mistaken, that I was confused, that he would never do such a thing, and then she ended the call.
Worry for her plagued me, so I decided to give her some time, then approach the subject again.
“Sienna seemed okay this morning,” I said, wanting to ease his mind.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “She’s a great actress.”
I nodded, because she was a great actress. I’d seen all her movies. Even my momma—who didn’t like movies—loved Sienna Diaz. She was America’s non-conformist sweetheart.
The fact that America’s sweetheart had ended up with Jethro Winston was amazing.
Sure, Jethro Winston was a looker. He had twinkly hazel-green eyes, a tall, lean build, strong jaw, impeccable beard, easy smile—the works. But he also had a checkered past. At one time he was involved with the Iron Wraiths and the rumor was he stole cars for the club. I thought he became a member, but I later discovered he’d been a recruit. He’d left the motorcycle club before he’d pledged as a full member.
Since leaving, he’d become a straight arrow. He was always easy-going and calm, never seemed to get ruffled. I never saw him drink spirits. My momma said that he used to treat women badly; but then I overheard Naomi Winters tell the reverend’s wife that Jethro hadn’t stepped out with a woman since leaving the Wraiths. The reverend’s wife said leaving the Wraiths saved his life and that he’d turned everything around for his momma.
And if Jethro could leave the Iron Wraiths, turn his life around and rejoin his real family, it gave me hope for my brother.
Before I thought better of it, I asked, “Was it difficult? Leaving the Wraiths? Did they make it hard on you? Or could you just leave?”
Jethro’s eyebrows jumped. “Uh . . .” he started, stalled, cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, and then frowned, “why do you want to know?”
“My brother, Isaac. He’s not a member yet. I just wanted to know, what could be done or how easy it would be for him to leave, if he wanted to leave.”
Jethro’s frown morphed into an expression of compassion. “Jenn, I hate to tell you this, but even if he wanted to leave, it wouldn’t be easy. They did not make leaving easy on me and I’m one of the few who ever managed it.”
“Thanks for being honest.” His statement confirmed my fears.
His smile was apologetic. “I’m sorry I can’t give you better news.”
“It’s fine. It is. I guess . . . people have to make their own choices. Even if it’s not what I want for my brother, I can’t force him to be something else. He has to be true to himself.”
Jethro gave my forearm a squeeze. “If he does change his mind, I’ll be happy to talk to him. If you want.”
“Thank you. That’s kind of you.” I studied his profile, seeing he was being sincere. “You could talk to him about being a park ranger and what that’s like.”
He released my arm and shrugged. “Sure, I could. But I just let Drew know I’m giving my notice next spring.”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“The baby happened. When the baby comes, I’m staying home.” His grin returned and this time it was massive. “I’m going to be a stay-at-home dad,” he announced proudly.
My mouth fell open in surprise, but also excitement for him and Sienna. “That’s so awesome. I’m really happy for you, Jethro.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.” He split his attention between the road and me. “I’m really happy for you, too.”
“You’re happy for me?”
“Yep. Look at you. You don’t look a thing like a Banana Cake Queen.”
I glanced at what I was wearing—Roscoe’s old slippers, my jeans that I’d slept in, Sienna’s Harvard sweatshirt—I’m sure I looked a mess. And that made me laugh.
“No. I guess I don’t look like the Banana Cake Queen.”
“And the world didn’t end.”
“No. It didn’t.” I lifted my chin proudly and turned my attention to the passing scenery while I considered what that meant.
I wasn’t the Banana Cake Queen. I didn’t live with my parents—though technically I didn’t live anywhere—and I had enough money to rent my own place. Life was happening and I was making it happen.
Well, technically the Winstons and Sienna Diaz were making it happen. But soon I’d pay them back.
My attention snagged on a farmhouse set off the road, white with navy shutters and well-maintained window boxes, and I grabbed Jethro’s arm.
“Wait, turn in there.” I pointed to the driveway.
He pressed on the brake. “Here? Claire’s house?”
“That’s right. Claire’s house.” I pulled out my phone and searched for her name.
“Sure, but . . . why are we stopping here?”
“Because,” I selected her contact information and brought the cell to my ear, “I’m going to rent her house.”
He frowned at me, lifting an eyebrow. “I thought Cletus was going to rent it.”
I shook my head, resolve setting my jaw. “Not if I rent it first.”