by Penny Reid
If that’s still on the agenda . . .
I didn’t have the mental resources at my disposal at present to give the matter the deliberation it required. But suffice it to say, watching Jenn over the last several months, and then listening to Isaac’s side of the story earlier in the week, had given me pause. Maybe, instead of exacting revenge on my father, it would be better to simply push Darrell Winston completely from my mind.
Maybe the right answer was to downgrade him to zero bandwidth and just move on, once and for all, and enjoy every second of my beautiful future with Jenn, without the stain of Darrell Winston’s blood on my hands.
Worth consideration.
“Anything else, Jenn?” Boone looked up from his notepad. “Anything else you can remember that might help?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think so. She taunted me, she giggled a lot, she talked about how much she hated fishing, but I don’t think any of that’s helpful.” Jennifer, seeming to realize she’d been twisting the blanket, flattened it out and smoothed it with her hands.
“Okay. Well, if you think of anything.” Boone, giving her a tight smile, closed his notepad and gave her a short nod. “I’m glad to see you’re . . .” His eyes moved over her, and he seemed to struggle for a moment. “I’m glad your injuries, though serious, weren’t worse.”
Jackson huffed a laugh. “You know Boone, you should write greeting cards. ‘Get better, if you want to, but no pressure.’”
“‘I’m glad you didn’t die in that car crash, that would’ve sucked,’” Jenn also teased, laughing. I noticed she did so without wincing, and I took heart in her smile.
“Yeah, yeah.” Boone rolled his eyes, but he also smiled. “Feel better, Jenn.” Then he squinted at me and said as he left the room, “Cletus. See you around.”
I lifted my chin toward Freddie Boone, returning his squint. But truth be told, I wasn’t as sore at the man as I had been. He was a good detective, a good person, and it was obvious now that he’d been working hard to do the right thing.
“Hey, Cletus. Do you have a second?” Jackson titled his head toward the doorway.
I scowled, but nodded. “Fine. I’ll be right there.”
Turning to Jenn, and careful to keep my coffee cup from spilling on her cast, I placed a featherlight kiss on her temple. “I’ll be right back. This shouldn’t take long, wife.”
“See that it doesn’t, husband.” She nodded, her eyes full of sparkles and glitter at my use of the word wife.
I’d discovered over the last few days that nothing made her happier than when I called her wife. Likewise, she adored calling me husband. I took this as proof that we should’ve gotten married months ago, as I’d wished.
See? More proof I’m always right.
Feeling her happy gaze at my back, I walked to the door, mildly surprised to see Jackson still hovering inside the room, as though he’d been watching us.
“Hello, Jackson,” I said, walking past. “Are we . . .?”
“Yeah, of course.” He waited until I was out the door to give Jenn a wave. “I’ll be by later with my momma and Jess, if you’re up for more visitors. But don’t feel like you need to if you’re tired.”
“That sounds really nice! I’m looking forward to it. Bye, Jackson.” Jenn sounded cheerful but a tad fatigued.
The deputy gave her a nod. He turned toward the hall, gesturing to me that we should walk down toward the waiting room.
I followed, checking my watch, tempted to start a timer for three minutes.
“Hey, so—” he stopped at a corner of the waiting room, his eyes looking distracted “—who is getting married on Saturday? Not you and Jenn?”
“No. Ashley and Drew have taken over the wedding, which is appropriate since my sister planned the whole thing and it’s more representative of her tastes than ours.”
A genuine smile suffused his whole face and person, driving the exhaustion from his eyes and replacing it with happiness. “Well, that’s so great!”
I blinked, my back straightening, because his reaction to this news confounded me. Jackson’s unrequited feelings toward my sister had never been a secret, so why did he look excited for her to marry someone else? Uncertain what I wished to ask or convey, I simply settled for, “What?”
“It’s great, don’t you think?”
“Of course I think it’s great, but—” I gave him a once-over, my eyes moving down and then up. Was this someone else in a Jackson James costume? “Why are you so happy?”
“I’m happy for Ash, for Drew.” He stared at me for a beat, the grin on his features turning to confusion. Finally, dawning comprehension lit behind his eyes. “Oh, come on, Cletus. I’m not still hung up on Ash. That was all over a long time ago.”
“Really?” I wouldn’t have been able to cover my astonishment had I tried. “Then—” I started, stopped, shook my head, and started again, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I mean, I love Ashley, I always will. She’s awesome. And so, absolutely, yes. I’m thrilled for her and Drew. The way they look at each other, it’s like, they should’ve gotten married ages ago, right?”
“How do they look at each other?” I was officially confuzzled, and I do not use that word lightly.
“Like how Jenn looks at you,” he said, lifting his chin toward the hall we’d just walked through. He turned his attention to me, his expression thoughtful. “I want somebody to look at me like Jenn looks at you, how Ash looks at Drew.”
“And how does Jenn look at me?”
“She adores you. It’s obvious to everybody. She thinks the sun rises and sets with you. You are so lucky.” He tapped me on the shoulder, and I didn’t even mind.
Once more I really, truly looked at Jackson James, but not to inspect him for signs of fatigue or to gauge his level of dedication to his job. Unfortunately—or, fortunately, depending on one’s perspective—it appeared that Jackson was one of those rare souls with hidden depths. And, man, that irritated me. At first.
I suppose I'm not always right. Just 99.9 percent of the time.
“You want someone to look at you like how Jenn looks at me,” I repeated, considering the words and all the information I had on Jackson James. He wasn’t a philanderer, but he was an indiscriminate baker.
“Of course.”
“Jackson, you do realize that in order for somebody to look at you that way, you have to be with the same woman more than once?”
He chuckled. It sounded self-deprecating. “I know that Cletus, and I'm working toward it. But there are so many beautiful women.” He grinned, and I knew if I’d been almost anything but a heterosexual man, his grin would’ve been both charming and alluring.
“And you have to sample them all?” I asked, a little charmed despite myself. What is happening? I need more sleep.
“Well, no, I guess I don't have to.”
I shook my head, smiling ruefully, because I was fairly certain Jackson and I had just officially become friends. “So, Jackson. I’m going to fill you in on a little secret. I don't know if anybody's told you this yet, and you clearly haven't figured it out for yourself, but if you sleep with one beautiful woman, you've slept with them all.”
His smile dropped, and he looked almost offended. “I don't know if that's necessarily true.”
“Oh no, it's true. I'm right.” I let my certainty show. “Because once you sleep with the beautiful woman, you'll never want to be with anybody else again.”
His frown deepened, pinching his eyebrows together, like he didn’t follow.
I spelled it out for him. “See, the difference between a beautiful woman and the beautiful woman is that God put her on this earth just for you. And when you meet her, you’ll never want to be with a beautiful woman ever again.”
He blinked, rearing back a bit on his heels, and something akin to sad realization turned his features hard, like I’d related something he didn’t like even though it resonated.
Studying him for a long moment, I endeavored to wor
k through what I’d said that might’ve distressed my new friend so much, and decided to add, “I’m not saying there’s only one ‘the beautiful person’ for each person out there, I’m not saying that. In fact, I reckon there’s likely multiples of ‘the beautiful person’ for each person. So it’s not like you get just one chance. But you do need to give someone the opportunity to become ‘the beautiful person’ instead of—”
“You know what?” He cut me off, seeming even more agitated than before. Jackson cleared his throat, glancing over my shoulder. He shook his head as though to clear it. “Never mind. I gotta go. See you later.”
And with that, Jackson James left me standing in the corner of the hospital waiting room, staring after him, feeling like I’d just shoved my whole foot in my mouth—for reasons unbeknownst to me—with seventeen seconds still left on our conversation timer.
Walking back to Jenn’s room, I replayed the conversation a few times in my head, unable to figure out where I’d failed to effectively impart my glorious wisdom.
“There are multiples of ‘the beautiful person,’” I mumbled as I walked into Jenn’s room.
“What’s that?” She peered over the screen of the tablet I’d set up for her. It had a holder with an arm attachment hooked up to the side of the hospital bed, so she could place and move it wherever it suited her neck.
“Oh, nothing.” I sipped my coffee. It was no longer hot. “What are you watching?”
“Nothing really, just looking through my options.” She pushed the arm down, lowering the screen. “Tell me, how was Jackson? What did he want to talk about?”
“He wanted to know what was happening with the wedding, if you and I were going to go through with it or not. I explained that Ashley and Drew were stepping in and stepping up, that the wedding would be theirs.” I stood at the foot of the bed. It seemed to be the best place to stand with deference to her neck brace.
“Oh. Good.”
“Do you regret it?” Though the coffee was now tepid, I took a sip while refocusing the entirety of my attention on my wife and her well-being. I’d have to marinate on the Jackson situation later.
“What?”
“Not regret, precisely. But does it bother you that we got married in the hospital on a rush?”
“Oh, that.” Her eyes were sparkly again as they moved over me. “No. Not at all. When I woke up and Isaac was in my room, I was so confused. He didn’t stay, didn’t seem to want to be with me if I was awake. Then, after asking for you a hundred times, you showed up with the officiant, with George. It was like you’d read my mind.”
Good.
“Did you and Isaac get a chance to talk?”
“No.” Much of the sparkly happiness drained from her features.
As soon as Jenn and I were married and his opinion on her care was no longer requested, he’d disappeared.
I’d already filled Jenn in on the story Isaac had told Billy and I, doing my best to relate the conversation word for word. She’d seemed very relieved when I clarified that Isaac had only shot Kip after Elena had killed him first, a situation where thirty seconds made all the difference, I supposed.
She didn’t seem at all surprised by her brother’s involvement in Kip’s murder—that he’d been the shooter—which made me wonder if she’d already come to the same (or similar) conclusions I had prior to her car accident. But she did seem surprised to learn he was an undercover agent, planted in the Wraiths by some government agency. This, more than anything, seemed to upset her.
“Do we want to tell Boone about Isaac’s involvement?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know. I can’t think.”
“It would clear your mother’s name.”
“But at what cost? I think my mother knew the shooter was him, know it was Isaac. I think she’s been trying to protect him. If my brother goes to jail for this, she would never forgive me.”
“What if Isaac—”
“I don’t want to talk about Isaac,” she said suddenly. “He’s . . . living his life. And that doesn’t include me or us.” She affixed one of those smiles to her face that didn’t reach her eyes. “How about you? Do you regret how we got married?”
I twisted my lips as I glanced at the blanket on her lap. “No. And yes.”
“Really?” She seemed surprised, and maybe a little disappointed.
“Jenn. Your instincts were sound.” I’d given the matter a good deal of thought while Jenn rested.
“What instincts?”
“You wanted a wedding that involved our families. And I don’t regret marrying you, obviously. But I think maybe we should do a do-over—”
“A do-over?”
“—yearly.”
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows jumped high on her forehead. “Excuse me? What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.” I braced my feet apart, preparing to pontificate. “Our love, our wedding, it can’t be contained by a single day of celebration.”
“That’s why folks have an engagement party, wedding shower, rehearsal dinner, and a wedding day. And anniversaries, Cletus.”
I waved away her statements as they were irrelevant to us. That typical course did not suit me. “No. No, that won’t do. We need yearly wedding days. Yearly vows. Yearly ceremonies and receptions. You convinced me.”
“I convinced you?”
“Do you think my family’s joy for our marriage can be contained to a single day? It might be the singular most important day in their lives, especially if we serve my sausage! And we want to limit it to just one day? That’s not fair to anyone. That’s selfish. Don’t you see? We should spread it out. Spread the love so it doesn’t overpower people.”
Jenn crossed her arms, her lips pressed together like she was working hard not to laugh. “You want never-ending weddings. That’s what you want?”
I nodded. “To you? Yes.”
“Says the man who wanted no wedding.”
“Ah, but you see—” I wagged a finger, crossing to where she rested, setting my coffee down on the table. Bending at the waist, I cupped her cheek and carefully brushed a kiss against her lips. “I’m saying, you were right.” I leaned back a few inches.
“I was right.” Her eyes, now warm, moved between mine. “About the wedding?”
“About the wedding, and so many other things.” With care, I pushed strands of her soft, unwashed hair away from her temple. The doctors said I’d have to help her wash it. I couldn’t wait. “But in this case, about the wedding, yes. You were right. And furthermore, if I had my way, every day would be our wedding day.”
Jenn smiled, her gaze sweet and dreamy. “Every day?” she asked, like the thought delighted her.
“Yes. Every day we’d wake up, George would come to the house, and he’d marry us in the morning. Every day, I want you to know that I would marry you, that I love and adore you no less but always more than the day before.”
She covered my hand on her cheek, her eyes filling with emotion. “Oh, Cletus. That’s so . . .” She never finished the thought. Instead, her attention dropped to my lips and her chin lifted by the barest fraction of an inch.
She wanted a kiss. I gave it to her and immediately wrestled restlessness, wanting to give her so much more. More kisses and presents and sausage and vacations and laughter and joy. I wanted to give her the best part of me, the best part of the world, the best of our future, right now, this very minute.
And again, as I often had to do when faced with this restlessness, I reminded myself that we had time.
But whatever it was, whenever and whatever she needed or wanted or craved, I would always and forever make sure it was hers. Just as I would be hers, always and forever.
Epilogue
*Jenn*
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Three months after
I’d been discharged from physical therapy, six months after all my casts and braces had been removed, twelve months after the accident, and over two years after I’d shown up on the Winston’s doorstep, threatening a bearded, frightfully clever, sinister man with blackmail if he didn’t help me find a husband, I married Cletus for a second time.
“Are you nervous?” Ashley fiddled with my veil, locking eyes with me in the mirror.
“I little,” I admitted, looking at myself. It was the dress I’d chosen while shopping with my momma. I’d lost some inches and gained some muscle since we’d picked it out, so the seams had been taken in by a seamstress, but I still loved how I looked in it just the same.
My gown resembled the dress Grace Kelly had worn to her wedding in the 1950s. The lacy, long-sleeve portion could be removed, revealing a strapless bodice beneath. I loved everything about it from the big puffy skirt to the dainty lace details to the row of silk buttons.
“You look like a princess,” Ashley whispered, somehow both giddy and reverent. She’d agreed to be my matron of honor (again), and I was so grateful. “I’m so glad y’all decided to do this.”
As I studied myself in the mirror—the veil, the tiara, the little silk gloves ending at the wrist—I agreed, but maybe not for the reasons Ashley thought.
George wouldn’t be officiating. He was already booked for an event in Nashville and didn’t want to fly all the way to Washington State for a short, ten-minute ceremony. But the Winstons had come. Billy, Jethro, Benjamin, and a pregnant Sienna; Drew, Ashley, and baby Bethany; Beau and Shelly; Duane and Jess; and, of course, Roscoe.
They made the time to fly up and meet us in Seattle. We all cruised to a big old Victorian on low-bank waterfront, facing westward, on one of the San Juan Islands. We then spent a week fishing, clamming, visiting, and going for walks on the pebble beach.
That was why I agreed with Ashley. Here we were, surrounded by folks who loved us (and no folks who didn’t), having a splendid time. After the ceremony, we’d have a clam bake and sausage roast on the beach. I’d made my vanilla cookies and lemon custard cakes for dessert. We would all dance beneath lanterns and stars, tell family stories, and drink champagne.