by Reid, Penny
A Beardy Bonus
Winston Brother Series Book #8
Penny Reid
www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2020 by Cipher-Naught; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
eBook Edition
Contents
Author’s note about the organization of this short collection
May 2007: Otherwise Engaged, Bonus Scene (Scarlet)
Extra Scene: A Winston Christmas (Ashley and Drew)
Extra Scene: Beauty and the Beard (Ashley and Drew)
Deleted Scene: Truth or Beard (Duane and Jess)
Deleted Scene: Grin and Beard It (Jethro and Sienna)
Deleted Scene: Beard in Mind (Beau and Shelly)
Duane’s Letter to Beau
Cletus’s Letter to Santa
Duane’s Letter to Jess
Billy’s Letter to Scarlet
Pie In the Beard (Cletus and Jenn)
Beard in Waiting (Repo and Diane)
A Very Beardy Christmas (Billy and Scarlet)
Beard and Hen
About the Author
Other books by Penny Reid
Author’s note about the organization of this short collection
Dear Readers,
The organization of this short collection might seem random at first, but I ordered the scenes from first to last, based on the timeline of the Universe/World/Winston Brothers series. Therefore, the Beard With Me related scenes appear first since the action took place first, followed by Beauty and the Mustache, then Truth or Beard and so forth.
I hope this helps you put the bonus and deleted scenes into context.
All the best, Penny
May 2007: Otherwise Engaged, Bonus Scene (Scarlet)
Author’s note: This scene was included at the end of Beard With Me, as a tiny bonus peek of just one of the events that took place between the action of Beard With Me and Beard Necessities. It takes place the day after Scarlet’s 18th birthday, years after the action of Beard With Me.
* * *
“For my entire life I longed for love. I knew it was not right for me — as a girl and later as a woman — to want or expect it, but I did, and this unjustified desire has been at the root of every problem I have experienced in my life.”
Lisa See, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan
*Claire (aka Scarlet)*
I’d known about the engagement party for months.
I’d been consulted on the guest list (I’d been too nervous to have an opinion).
I’d gone shopping with Ben’s momma and his Aunt Mary for a suitable dress—which I was currently wearing.
And yet, I couldn’t quite wrap my mind about the simple fact that I was, right this minute, back in Green Valley. On purpose. Except, I wasn’t back. Scarlet St. Claire wasn’t back. Claire McClure was. And Claire McClure hadn’t ever been to Green Valley before because she hadn’t existed until three years ago. Well, more precisely, three years and one day ago.
Presently, I stood in the corner of Mrs. McClure’s big, fancy dining room. It was bright. So bright, my eyes hurt. Mid-May sunshine beamed through a wall of windows and their sheer, white lace curtains, aggressive in its cheerfulness. The rays bounced off white walls, white carpet, and the white tablecloth covering a long, solid wood table. On the table were zealously adorable finger foods on clear glass—sorry, not glass, crystal—serving pieces.
Then there were the people. So many fancy people. Even Judge Payton was here, dressed in a suit. He’d brought Mrs. Annabelle Cooper, who everyone knew had more money than the Pope on account of being widowed seven times (all of her husbands had been wealthy).
The Leffersbees, the Macintyres—two sets of them—the Mitchells, the Buchanans, the Smiths, the Sylvesters, the Lees (but not the Hills, there we just too many Hills; if you invited one you had to invite them all and Mrs. McClure didn’t think her garden could handle it), the Sheriff and his wife, the Boones, the Bevertons, the Simmonses (was the plural of Simons ‘Simonses’ or ‘Simonsi’?) plus loads more. Even Scotia and Karl Simmons’s daughter Darlene had come. In high school she used to call me Sweaty Scarlet. And now she was here, and she’d congratulated me, and she’d told me she liked my dress.
It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. My life suddenly looked like a picture from a Martha Stewart magazine. I couldn’t stop staring at my surroundings like a spectator. Everything shimmered. Even my palms. Because they were so sweaty.
“You want some punch?” Tammy McClure, Ben’s momma, appeared at my elbow all of the sudden and I yelped, nearly upending the crystal cup of red raspberry punch she held.
“Goodness gracious!” Mrs. McClure twisted, protecting the crystal serving vessel, her eyes wide and worried. “Are you okay? Did I sneak up on you?”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” Closing my eyes, just in case my outburst invited attention, I pressed my hand against my chest where my heart galloped and imagined an alternative ending to my clumsiness. One where the raspberry punch splattered the white carpet and curtains and walls, a murder scene with no victim other than the end of perfection. Just scarlet, everywhere.
I laughed at the thought and at my nerves. Yeah. That’d be just like “Scarlet,” for sure.
But I wasn’t Scarlet. Not anymore.
Mrs. McClure placed her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, you poor dear. You’re shaking. I know you told me not to hover and to enjoy myself, so I won’t hover, and I’ll enjoy myself. But please let me do something to help.”
Opening my eyes, I gathered a deep breath. Peering around and realizing that no one was paying us any mind, I smiled at the woman who was technically my mother-in-law. Though—as far as most folks were concerned—I was newly engaged to her son, not already married to him.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Mc—”
She squinted at me, her pink-painted lips pressing into a line that looked more like a smile than a frown. “Claire. What have I told you about calling me Mrs. McClure?”
I took another breath, my smile more natural. “Sorry. Mom. Sorry.” She’d insisted I call her mom, and so had her sister. I felt more comfortable with Ben’s Aunt Mary than I did with Tammy McClure, partly because I’d been living with Mary and her husband Pete since I’d left town, and partly because I suspected I’d always think of Tammy McClure as my former high school’s chorus teacher.
“Stop apologizing. Goodness, you’re all wound up. Here, drink your punch.” She lifted the glass toward me in slow motion, like she was afraid of making any sudden movements.
“Oh, no. That’s okay. I’m so nervous and I don’t want to spill it on my dress. I just—I just—”
“Drink the punch, baby.” Tammy McClure reached for my fingers, gently lifted them to accept the cup, and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, but Mary and I put something special in all of ours, to help with the nerves. We’ve already had two cups each.” Then, she winked. “Go on. It’ll help. Trust me.”
I was stunned. I’d never seen either woman drink even a glass of wine. Ever. Not once!
Just because you didn’t see something doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, Scarlet.
I glanced between her and the cup. “Uh. . .”
Tammy McClure leaned closer, lowering her voice. “It’s vodka. The good stuff.”
My mouth dropped open as she retreated, and I noticed the pink hue in her typically pale white cheeks, nose, and forehead. And then I took another look at her lips. That’s not lipstick.
She winked at me again, and then blinked several times, a little giggle escaping the older woman. “Oh my goodness, did I just wink again? I gotta stop doing that, otherwise Ben’s daddy will notice.”
Giving my hand one more pat, but clearly fighting against the urge to wink a third time, Tammy McClure turned and left me to my corner and my vodka laced punch. Staring at it, I debated my options, but then a voice I recognized rose over my contemplations, carrying from the sunroom behind me, and I stiffened.
“ . . . just swept me off my feet and that was that. We’re so happy, and I love living in Austin.”
Samantha Cooper. Or, I guess Samantha Winston now.
Dun, dun, DUN!
Without thinking, I downed the entire cup of punch, which I discovered must’ve been more than half alcohol. But that was fine. In fact, it was good. Good. Good. Good. Better alcohol than feelings.
Dear Lord in heaven, if Billy Winston is here with his wife, please let me not see him. Or if I do see him, please . . .
Shit.
I darted out of my corner just long enough to grab a napkin from the table. The truth was, despite yesterday being my birthday, I’d had a rough and confusing twenty-four hours. My emotions had been in a state of entropy since last night.
Therefore, if Billy Winston was here, I didn’t wish to see him. And I definitely didn’t wish to see him with a red vodka-punch mustache above my upper lip—not that I cared one whit what he thought.
Lies.
Okay, so a part of me did care. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to think about Billy Winston, so I tried not to think of him at all. Irritated that he still occupied my thoughts after so many years, I decided I was angry. Anger was tidier than any of the other alternatives.
Ben’s Aunt Mary told me praying for folks you’re mad at helps you be less angry with them, so I’d been praying for Billy Winston constantly since leaving Green Valley.
At first it was, Dear Lord, please help Billy realize his GIGANTIC ERROR IN JUDGEMENT and come to me. Then, Dear Lord, please help Billy to know he should write me a letter or call or something. I miss him so much. Then, Dear Lord, please help me not hate Billy for abandoning me and making me believe he cared about me. Then, Dear Lord, Wherever Billy is, please don’t let him feel how much I hate him right now. But if you do, that’s fine too. Then, Dear Lord, please help me stop thinking about Billy all the time.
And yet, no matter how much I prayed, I was still . . . angry. Yeah. Angry. I’m angry. That’s all. Angry. I’d never thought of myself as the grudge holding type. But apparently, I was.
The room behind me—the sunroom—exploded in feminine laughter and I cringed, wishing I had more vodka-punch. I needed to move from my corner, but I didn’t know where to go. Everyone had been so nice, but everywhere I went I felt eyes follow, like they recognized me, but couldn’t quite place where they’d seen me before.
It had been Ben’s idea to change my name, a suggestion he’d made shortly after I’d left town. “Just to keep you safe,” he said. “So your daddy can’t find you and take you away.”
I trusted him. Completely. Ben had protected me, first by taking me away from Green Valley and to his aunt’s house in Nashville; then by getting a court order for our marriage from Judge Payton six months later; and then in so many other ways. He and his family had taken care of me, made me feel safe and cherished and important.
“It’s doesn’t have to be a real marriage, if you don’t want it to be,” he’d said on the day he suggested we marry—my fifteenth birthday—showing me the court order, the marriage license, and the application to legally change my name. All the documents needed were my signature. “We could get married for your birthday, you change your name, it’s all arranged. And you’ll get military benefits as my wife, health care, spousal support.” And again, he’d added, “It’s just to keep you safe. So your daddy can’t find you or take you away.”
Since then, he’d often remarked that it was my double birthday: once as Scarlet, and now a new birthday as Claire McClure, his wife. Except, no one knew but his family and Judge Payton knew we were married, hence the dog and pony show, fake engagement party today.
And then, last night . . . Technically, as of last night, I shouldn’t wear white to my future fake wedding. FYI.
I fought against a wave of nausea, eventually winning as I accepted the cool embrace of numbness. I wasn’t going to think about last night, about Ben’s “18th birthday present” to me. There was no changing it, no going back in time, no point. Last night was nothing important. Don’t be a dummy, Scarlet. If it made Ben happy, it was worth it. He’s done so much for you.
“It’s true.” Samantha’s comically loud whisper met my ears again, setting my teeth on edge and a million fire ants racing over my skin. I prepared to leave my cozy alcove.
Maybe I’d go find Jethro and see where he was hiding. I knew of most of the folks present, but Jethro was only person other than Ben and his family that knew me. Jet made a point to visit us in Nashville whenever Ben was home from the Army, and sometimes he’d visit even when Ben was deployed, just to take me out to dinner or a movie. I guess I owed Jethro too.
I’d taken two steps from the alcove when Samantha’s voice continued, “If you want to orgasm, then you better learn how to pretend your partner is the one you want. For example, before I met my husband, I usually imagined Billy Winston instead of whoever I was with.”
I gasped.
And, from the sound of it, so did several other ladies.
“Samantha!” someone said, clearly scandalized, but then the voice continued on a laugh, “I can’t believe you said that out loud. I mean, I don’t blame you, but I can’t believe you said it!”
Unconsciously, I strained my ears for Samantha’s response, but I couldn’t hear anything because my brain and heart were pitching a riot.
WHAT?
WHAT???!!?
HER HUSBAND?
ISN’T BILLY HER HUSBAND?
WHO IS HER HUSBAND?!!?!
I shook my head, telling my brain not to shout, and stumbled dumbly out of my corner. I couldn’t have been more stunned if someone had hit me with a taser. On autopilot, I drifted closer to the door of the sunroom for some reason (. . . It was so I could hear better, okay??)
But I must’ve stumbled too far, because in the next moment Annabelle Cooper appeared in the doorway, gave me a surprised yet assessing once over, and then pulled me inside the room, saying, “We’re shutting this door, darling. Sensitive topics, you know. Please, do come in and take the seat by Alison Beverton.”
The woman Annabelle identified as Alison Beverton was not the senior Mrs. Beverton—lead cantor at the First Baptist Church—but someone who looked like her younger, and tanner, twin. Alison Beverton grinned at me, lifting a conspiratorial eyebrow and patting the bench seat next to her.
Meanwhile, none of the other women gathered seemed to notice me or pay me any mind. They were all either leaning forward, their eyes on Samantha in the center of the room—even more insanely gorgeous than she was in high school—or they were tracking the progress of Annabelle Cooper as she shut the door.
“Okay, Sam. Spill,” a brunette woman said, someone I didn’t recognize. Smiling from behind a rosebud teacup, the woman looked like that actress Courteney Cox, except with dark eyes. “I’d love to get the scoop on him.”
“Are we really going to talk about this?” A blonde woman moaned from across the room. I was pretty sure she was one of the Lees. Debbie Lee, maybe?
“Shh,” Annabelle Cooper hushe
d as she turned away from the closed door, taking the seat closest to Samantha. Tangentially, I realized they were related somehow. Samantha’s dad was Annabelle’s nephew, or great nephew, or something like that. “Go on, Samantha. We are all ears.”
“Well, ladies, let’s just say, Billy’s got it where it counts,” Samantha said, twisting her lips into a smirking, self-satisfied smile.
The room waited. I held my breath, on the edge of my seat. But also, I was confused as to how I’d suddenly arrived at this moment, in this room, staring at the woman I thought Billy had married over three years ago.
Before I could sort myself—or escort myself—out, Annabelle grumbled, “That’s all you’re gunna say?”
“Hell no!” Samantha tossed her head back and laughed, shaking her head at the older woman’s disappointed expression. “Give me a minute to get explicit, will ya? I need to build the tension. Here’s the deal . . .” Samantha glanced over her shoulder, making a show of it, and then leaned forward and whispered loudly, “He was so good, a natural. I was his first and it was like he already knew what to do. Or, it took him no time at all to pick it up. And he loves to go downstairs. I mean, he loves it. And when he fucks—oh, it makes my toes curl just thinking about it—he likes to—”
“I don’t think we should be talking about this—”
“Shut up, Debbie,” Annabelle Cooper shushed the same blonde woman as before, and then nudged Samantha’s knee with her fingertips. “What’s he like? You know, his thing.”