by Penny Reid
“I have to tell you something,” I blurted, turning my shoulders toward him and placing my hand over his. Now that I’d touched his arm and he hadn’t seemed to mind, I figured there was no harm in touching his hand. He had such a glorious hand. He employed his hands often, that much was clear. They were so big and rough and quintessentially male.
“Okay.” He turned his palm so that it met mine and he could rub a circle on the back of mine with his thumb, as though us holding hands were the most natural thing in the world. Oddly enough, the familiarity of the movement did feel natural. I loved this about him, too.
“So, you know Hank?”
His thumb stopped moving and his easy smile fell just a smidge. “Yes. I know Hank.”
“I must confess, I asked Hank about you.”
Jethro’s gaze slid to the side and the look he gave me was a mix between pleased and wary. “Why’d you do that?”
“For obvious reasons.” I let my eyes move up then down his body in a way he was sure to see and understand. This made him laugh. And, if my eyes were to be trusted, it also made him blush, just a little.
“He didn’t scare you away?”
“He tried to.”
Jethro stopped laughing. I noticed the muscle at his jaw flex. He did not look pleased.
“What did he say?” He slipped his palm from mine and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, seemingly focused on the road beyond the windshield. I could see my confession made him uncomfortable, which hadn’t been my goal. I wanted to be honest.
Well. . . I wanted to be honest about this.
“He told me about your family, your five brothers and your sister. He told me about your, uh, good friend who died in the war.” I pulled my bottom lip through my teeth, gauging his reaction. But he wasn’t reacting. He stared forward, as though listening to facts about some other person.
“Anything else?”
“He said you stole his fathers car and returned it smelling like a urinal.”
I was relieved to see him crack a smile. “Allegedly.”
“Oh, yes. My bad. Allegedly. He also told me you used to have a bad habit of allegedly stealing tourists’ cars until your friend died. Then you changed your ways.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes. And that you take care of your friend’s widow.”
Jethro exhaled a puff of air, half rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “No one takes care of Claire McClure except Claire McClure. She just lets me fix broken boards on her porch and hang pictures on her walls. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get to use the chainsaw to trim her oaks.” His words were self-deprecating and frustrated, which only made them charming.
Jethro’s stare grew introspective, his features impassive, obviously living through a private memory. It’s an odd thing, being in the presence of someone who is so clearly noble, but doesn’t see himself in that way.
“I guess you have me at a disadvantage,” he finally said.
“How so?”
“You know all about me, and I don’t know much about you.”
That made me squirm. Technically honest was still honest. Besides, what harm could come from continuing with the charade for a little longer? Jethro would drive me to set, we’d flirt, bid adieu, and that would be that. So few people didn’t recognize me these days, how could I be blamed for wanting a few private moments, wholly my own, with this handsome manly man?
I couldn’t be blamed. No one would blame me. Not even my Abuela. And she was notoriously judgey.
Deleted Scene: Beard in Mind (Beau and Shelly)
Author’s note: I’d included this explanation in the original version of Beard In Mind to give the reader some background on Shelly’s OCD diagnosis, how early it presented (or her first memory of it), etc. I decided to take it out since it didn’t really add to the story (in my opinion). Folks living with an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder diagnosis are always trying to make sense of their obsessions and compulsions—both for themselves and for others—but there is no making sense of OCD. It is nonsensical. And the sooner you accept its illogical nature, the sooner you will understand it.
“I was four, when the first thoughts began. We were watching It’s A Wonderful Life around Christmas time, and the little girl said, Everytime a bell rings, an angel gets its wings. One of the ornaments on our tree was a small bell.”
“Oh no.”
“That night my father found me in the garage ringing the bell at three A.M. I couldn’t stop. He had to wrestle it away from me and I cried. I cried for hours. I’d convinced myself that if I didn’t ring the bell then God wouldn’t have enough angels. I needed to ring that bell. After that, it was an avalanche of inescapable thoughts.”
“Like what?”
“I could only read books with blue covers or else I’d go blind. I had to flip the light switch six times before turning off the light or else our house would burn down. I licked my index finger and wiped my saliva under my nose in order to keep myself from choking on my food. I had to say a Hail Mary for every member of my family every night—my parents, my siblings, my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—or else they would get sick. I said fifty-two Hail Mary’s every night for seven years. It takes me thirty-seven minutes to say fifty-two Hail Mary’s.”
“What?”
“I know. None of it makes sense. I know it doesn’t.”
“And your parents? They went along with it?”
“I was . . . very good at hiding it. The only thing—I think—that they really noticed or that truly concerned them was that I refused to hug or embrace anyone starting when I was seven.”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought if I hugged a person, that person would die.”
Duane’s Letter to Beau
Author’s note: I wrote this letter on a whim while I was writing Beard In Mind and shared it 10 minutes after writing it on a public facing Facebook page for Amazon Kindle readers. It takes place/Duane wrote it just before the end of Beard In Mind. I felt so sad for Duane and Beau, reflecting on their impending separation, and thought it only fair that I show how Duane was suffering (since you get to see much of Beau’s feelings in Beard In Mind).
Beau,
I was going to leave this letter tucked in one of your car magazines, but it occurs to me that you might not have much use for the “articles” anymore.
We leave tomorrow. My bags are packed, everything except my toothbrush. You know I’ve never been on an airplane before, but I’m not nervous about it. Nor am I nervous about not speaking much Italian, or knowing no one, or trying to figure out how to get around, or switching to the metric system.
Truth be told, I’m nervous about the food. I looked it up; there ain’t any place within three hundred miles of where we’re staying that serves fried chicken. The closest thing they got is something called chicken parmesan, and they serve it with cheese and tomato sauce, like it’s a pizza.
I suppose we’ll figure that out. Worst case scenario, I’ll make my own fried chicken.
But enough about food. Food ain’t why I’m writing this letter.
I hope y’all will visit us. And, time permitting, I hope you’ll write letters—emails if you like—and fill me in on what sort of craziness Cletus is getting up to. Text or call if it’s an emergency. Make sure he doesn’t get himself arrested, he’s libel to with all his sneaking. Also, send pictures of Sienna as her belly gets bigger, that’s going to be something to see. It’s fine if Jethro is in the photo too, if he’s around.
Send me photos and videos of any by-the-numbers cars that y’all get in the shop, or anything interesting and unusual. And don’t hesitate to call me if there’s a problem you need my brain working on, or a problem with the Road Runner. Mind the time difference, though. We’ll be five or six hours ahead.
I might be bugging you about Claire, fair warning. I expect updates from her as well. She said she might come out and visit next summer, just FYI if you and Shelly
want to time your visit to coincide with hers. Let Billy know too. He said something about taking time off. It’d be nice if everyone were here at the same time.
Before I forget, keep an eye on Roscoe. He’s stupid about simple things and needs your level head. And Billy also needs looking after. He says he doesn’t, but he does, and he likes your jokes. He’s told me so a few times, so keep that in mind.
Remind Ashley that we all love her. I know it's nuts, but sometimes I worry she’s going to forget and run off again. And be sure to tell me *as soon as* Drew and Ashley become engaged. I know it’s going to happen any day now, not sure what he’s waiting for.
Last but not least, take good care of yourself. While we’re on the subject, let that woman of yours take good care of you, too. Let her do nice things for you. I wanted you to know, I’m happy for you. I’m happy you found Shelly. I reckon it’s not a controversial statement to say: Shelly Sullivan is extraordinary in remarkable ways, and you deserve someone who is no less than extraordinarily remarkable.
Never forget, you’re the best of us.
Well, I better get going.
Love, Duane
Cletus’s Letter to Santa
Author’s note: Cletus wrote this note to Santa the year Sienna was pregnant with Ben, Jethro and Sienna’s first child. So, after Grin and Beard It, Beard Science, and during (the very end of) Beard In Mind.
Dear Santa,
I am writing this letter on behalf of my nephew, who is still in utero and is causing all kinds of a ruckus. Considering who his father is, I think he’s been quite good. But I’ll leave that up to your judgement.
I am also writing as it is tradition in our family to do so, seeing as how Roscoe still believed in Santa until he was fourteen, our momma was loathe to end the ritual. Consequently, I’ve been designated to list the one thing each member of our family wishes for the most…
But, since I’m writing the letter, I’ve decided to eschew this approach and instead list the one thing each member of my family deserves the most.
Jethro – A new smoking jacket (he won’t need it, so he can give it to me)
Sienna – A second trimester free of nausea
Billy – Forgiveness
Ashley – An engagement ring
Drew – The wherewithal to provide the aforementioned engagement ring, and an answer of “yes”
Beau – A tall Bostonian woman with loose morals.
Duane – A ticket home for Christmas
Jessica – A companion ticket home for Christmas
Roscoe – Stronger soap; the poor child has been smelling of ox musk and dog urine for the last six months.
Jennifer – Anything her heart desires (unless it’s clothes)
Cletus (that’s me) – Jennifer. Naked. Frequently. (And Jethro’s smoking jacket)
As ever, your kind consideration is much appreciated, etc. etc.
With bonhomous verisimilitude,
Cletus Byron Winston
Duane’s Letter to Jess
Author’s note: Originally written right after I finished Truth or Beard for a Valentine’s day post. More or less, it’s meant to give you an idea of Duane and Jess’s happily ever after and how they fare on their adventures together.
Jessica-
I don’t remember what happened last night after Roberto opened the third bottle of wine (these Italians sure know how to make good wine). But I woke up this morning and you were laying on top of me, naked except for a crushed crown of flowers on your head.
My body is sore in odd places. I have a terrible headache. Part of my beard is missing. I feel like roadkill.
And I’ve never been happier.
I don’t care what we do or where we go. As long as I’m with you and you’re with me, being sore in odd places don’t bother me any. This headache is nothing compared to the thought of missing out on you.
I don’t need my beard, but I do need you in my life.
So, the next time Roberto opens a third bottle of his wine, I might decline. I don’t want to miss or forget a single second of our time (especially if it’s time spent naked).
Watching you sleeping like a creeper,
Duane
Billy’s Letter to Scarlet
Author’s note: Originally shared as part of a Valentine’s Day special bonus extravaganza, I imagine this letter was written by Billy the Valentines Day right after Grin and Beard It (which would also put it after Beard Science and Beard In Mind). Poor Billy.
Dearest Scarlet,
You’ll never read this letter, because I’ll never send it. But some things need saying between us, and you give me no other options. You run from me. I know you do. You see me and your instinct is to flee. I suppose I’m to blame for that and I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I’m thinking of learning a few new languages so I can apologize in every way possible. If I could change the past I would. I definitely would. I carry my regret every goddamn day, larger than an albatross, more consuming at times than my love for you.
Almost, but not quite.
The last time we spoke. . .
No. That’s not right.
The last time we screamed at each other, when you told me the truth about Jethro, that you’d misled me on purpose, I wanted to shake you and say it didn’t matter. I’d forgive you anything and I wish you would test that. I wish you’d punish me some other way, because not being able to talk to you or see you is wrecking me. Things were better when you were here, where I could see you at least. I’d live on a glimpse for days. The sound of your voice sustained me for weeks.
But now it’s all emptiness and darkness. No hope. No promise of light with you gone.
I won’t trivialize what happened between us when we were teenagers. I won’t say we were just kids, even though the choices I made were naïve and selfish, so goddamn selfish, the love and depth of my regard for you was real. And clearly lasting.
If I’d known then that you were sand slipping through my fingers, I would have. . . I don’t know. What other choice did I have? What else could I have done? I won’t try to justify my actions other than remind you that I was seventeen years old and scared shitless at the idea of never leaving this town, of becoming my father, of disappointing everyone.
Now you’ve left. And how I want and need you will follow me into eternity. I’ll never be free of it.
Where are you? Right now, what are you doing? Are you thinking of me? Do you ever? I hope you do. I hope thoughts of me make you bleed, because the mere suggestion of you is agony. My brothers, Jethro especially, they speak of you like you belong to them, and I have to stop myself from contradicting.
Did you ever belong to me?
I carry that too, that question, the torment of not knowing. One thing is for certain, you don’t want me now.
What is the purpose of this? Why am I writing this all out when I suspect you hate me and always will?
I need it. I need something of you, anything. You give me nothing other than silence and disdain, so I have to create something physical I can hold on to.
Or maybe I wrote this so I could burn it.
Because I love you. I love you with everything that I am and everything that I have.
I love you to my detriment.
I will always love you.
But maybe it’s time to let you go.
--Billy
Pie In the Beard (Cletus and Jenn)
A Winston Brothers bonus
Author’s note: In the interest of full disclosure, although I shared this in my newsletter several years ago, I have no idea where this scene fits in canon timeline because—when I wrote it—I hadn’t planned on writing Cletus and Jenn’s spinoff series (Handcrafted Mysteries) Therefore, I cannot accept it as canon as of right now. Maybe later… after I figure out some timeline inconsistencies. But it was fun to write!
*Jenn*
After seven years, I should’ve been relaxed while waiting for final ceremony at the Tennesse
e State Fair, or—at the very least—at ease. I should’ve been accustomed to the pressure and attention, the associated crowds, the judging, the other contestants.
But I hadn’t. Every year was just as nerve-wracking as the last.
“I don’t know why you’re nervous.” Jackson nudged me with his elbow.
I shook my head, casting a furtive glance to the other bakers shooting us looks. Typically, only the judges, finalists and one guest were allowed beyond the yellow ribbon lining the bakers’ tables. Cletus was my plus-one this year.
However, Jackson had flashed his badge and ducked under the barrier as soon as he spotted me.
“Hush.” I shook my head.
Jackson dipped his chin and, leaning closer, added on a whisper, “You win every year.”
“That’s not why I’m nervous,” I mumbled in response.
“Well, I have to hand it to Cletus,” Jackson grinned, motioning to my fiancé in the crowd, “he sure is doing his best to take the pressure off.”
I couldn’t stop my smile and I didn’t try. Seeing Cletus earlier had helped. Not because his presence calmed me, but because it distracted me. He distracted me. Actually, I’m pretty sure he was distracting everyone.
“What is that man wearing?” Roger Gangersworth grumbled from his spot to my right, drawing both my and Jackson’s attention.
Seeing that Roger was pointing at Cletus, I rolled my lips between my teeth and dropped my gaze to the banana cake on the long rectangular table in front of me. We—all the final first place in category baking contestants—were standing behind our creations as the judges conducted their concluding pass of the baked goods.