by Penny Reid
“Shoot.” Jethro snapped his fingers, making a sound of tired frustration, and pulled his phone out of his back pocket as he turned away. “Cletus made me promise to call when we arrived, report on Billy. I forgot. Let me call him real fast. Claire, can I use your room?”
I nodded dumbly, addressing my question to both Duane and Sienna, “I—I don’t understand. Ashley put Bil—her brother on a plane when she knew he was sick?”
Duane and Sienna shared a look, and then Duane sighed and rubbed his face. “He needed to get out of town.”
Now I was well and truly perplexed. “He needed to get out of town? Why? Is he okay? I thought he wasn’t coming, on account of—uh—” I huffed, feeling awkward talking about Billy at all “—on account of what happened to Roscoe and Simone Payton and his duties at Payton Mills and him being a congressman, er, person and—”
“Claire.” Sienna placed her hand on my upper arm, ending my word waterfall. “It’s a long story.” She held my gaze, a patient smile curving her lips. “We’ll tell you everything we can once we all get some sleep, but the critical question here—right now—is whether or not to let Billy sleep, or wake him up and try to get him to eat something.”
I nodded. “Yes. Of course. Sorry. You’re right.”
Her smile both flattened and widened, her hand falling away as she shifted her attention back to Duane.
“Well?” he prompted. “What do you think?”
Even though Duane addressed Sienna, and she opened her mouth to respond—probably with something thoughtful and intelligent—I blurted before she could speak, “You should wake him and force food into him. And if he won’t eat, don’t let him sleep or give him peace until he does eat.”
And then I rolled my lips between my teeth as they both turned perplexed expressions in my direction. I tried to smile pleasantly, likely failing. But, goodness, if Billy wasn’t eating, I felt like the answer was obvious. Someone needed to take charge.
Duane pushed his hands into his back pockets. “Claire, you don’t know Billy real well, but no one forces my brother to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
I twisted my lips to the side, saying nothing, because I knew Billy Winston. I knew Billy Winston real well. In some ways, I knew him better than his family ever would.
. . . And he knows you.
I fought a shiver at the incredibly true and complex nature of that thought.
“Agreed.” Sienna nodded. “He can’t be forced. Which is why I say we let him sleep. Then, tomorrow, we’ll make his favorite food.”
Duane’s gaze flickered over Sienna. “What’s his favorite food?”
She reared back. “You don’t know what your brother’s favorite food is?”
I inhaled deeply rather than revealing the answer, but I made a mental list of ingredients to pick up from Coop—the grocery store down in Figline—this morning after I dressed.
“Is it steak?” Sienna tried, shrugging. “Or maybe fish? Does he like fish?”
Duane also shrugged. “Jethro loves spicy food and donuts. Cletus’s favorite is blueberry anything and sausage pie. Ashley loves sweet pies, all sorts, but mostly lemon meringue and pecan. Beau’s favorites are strawberry milkshakes and hamburgers. Roscoe loves omelets—or anything French and fancy—but I have no clue what Billy’s favorite food is.”
Jethro reappeared at my elbow, a phone pressed to his ear. “Right. Right. Got it,” he said, nodding, his eyes sliding to mine. “Yep. She’s right here.” And then he held the phone out, whispering, “Cletus wants to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“Yep.” Jethro grabbed my hand, placed the phone in my palm, and turned to face his wife and brother. “Cletus agrees with Sienna. Let him sleep for now. It might just be the anesthesia.”
Duane released a disgruntled huff and I could tell he was going to protest, but I didn’t stay for it. I turned and walked back to my room, lifting the phone to my ear.
“Hello? Cletus?”
“Scarlet,” came Cletus’s dry tone. His tone was always dry these days. I didn’t remind him to call me Claire. My old friend seemed to have an aversion to using my legal name whenever it was just the two of us. “Your assistance is required.”
“What’s up, Cletus?” I asked, but the jumble of foreboding and anticipation in my belly told me I already knew what was up. He wants me to help with—
“Billy.”
I sighed deeply, rubbing my forehead. Only six people knew anything about my history with Billy. One had disappeared eighteen years ago—so she didn’t count—and two of them had passed away, which left me, Billy, and Cletus.
“I don’t know if he wants to—”
“Scarlet, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious. I am familiar with how much you enjoy your hobby of pretending Billy doesn’t exist.”
I bristled at that, responding through clenched teeth, “I do not like to pretend your brother doesn’t exist.”
First of all, it was impossible. And secondly, there’d been reasons. Were they all healthy and logical reasons? No. Nevertheless, hormones and grief often make folks do nutty things, and the reasons had existed and persisted.
Cletus knew some of our history. He knew the basics of what happened when Billy and I initially fell for each other as teenagers, but he didn’t know about my unhealthy choices when I’d been nineteen. Therefore, he didn’t understand why I’d believed for so long that Billy Winston and Claire McClure were much better off not speaking or interacting with each other.
“Events have transpired, both recently and in the past, events you don’t know about, and Billy—” Cletus heaved a sigh. It sounded so sad, fretful, and that had me pausing. I’d never known Cletus to be outwardly sad or fretful.
“What? What’s happened?” I pressed the phone to my ear, my heart kicking up a beat. “Is this about Roscoe?”
Their youngest Winston brother and his girlfriend had been attacked last month and almost died. There’s more to the story—more secrets involving my evil father, more twisted hillbilly history—but that’s the gist of it. Roscoe and Simone were okay now, getting better every day, but it had been a close call.
“No, not Roscoe. It’s our father. It’s Darrell.”
I stood straighter, a spike of alarm racing down my spine. “What about Darrell?”
“Darrell has cancer. It’s real bad.”
The alarm became vengeful relief and I said, “Good,” before I could catch the word, a grim sense of righteousness settling over me.
My slip of the tongue didn’t much matter, none of the Winstons cherished their father, nor should they. The man was terrible. He’d beaten their mother, knocked them around plenty, and sent Billy to the hospital when he was just twelve. After Bethany Winston, their momma, died almost six years ago—the sweetest, kindest, loveliest lady on the planet—Darrell tried to kidnap Ashley at the funeral!
Can you imagine? The man was a monster. As far as I was concerned, cancer was better than he deserved.
“No. Not good, Scarlet.” Cletus overpronounced the “t” at the end of my name and grumbled something I couldn’t hear, and then said, “Listen, it’s late here and I’m tired. We’re flying out in a week or two—depending on a few things—so I need you to make sure Billy eats something. Today, tomorrow, the next day, okay? Make him feel good.”
“You want me to what?” I placed my hand on my hip, drawing myself up taller. What was Cletus asking? Make him feel good? What did that mean? I didn’t know how to make folks feel good. I’d never made anyone feel good, except with food and jokes. I could do food and jokes, no problem.
But I didn’t think Cletus’s meaning was limited to food and jokes.
“I want you—the artist formerly known as Scarlet—to feed, look after, and be sweet to my brother—the man you’ve been in love with for going on twenty years—William Shakespeare Winston, aka Billy Winston, aka Congressman Winston.”
I exhaled loudly, ignoring the ache in my chest, and whisperin
g, “It hasn’t been twenty years.”
“Fine, seventeen going on eighteen, eighteen going on nineteen, or something like that. Point is, he needs to eat good food, and lots of it, and gentleness and care. Specifically, from you.”
I didn’t have a problem making Billy good food, but I did have a problem being bullied into it by Cletus Winston. “Cletus, I’m not saying no, but there are plenty of good cooks in this gigantic villa. Jethro is here, Sienna, the Sheriff, Mrs. James, Duane. There are plenty of folks who can make Billy food other than me.”
“Nope. It has to be you.”
“Why?”
“Because you know all his favorites.”
“What is really going on?” I threw my hand in the air. “This is ridiculous. Sienna, Duane, even Jethro are huddled together, strategizing how to get him to eat. And what does this have to do with Darrell having—having . . .” A flutter of nagging worry quickly transformed into a tornado of worst-case-scenario terror. I flinched, my eyes stinging as though I’d just been slapped. “Wait, wait a minute.” Licking my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, the room tilted to one side.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
“Wait, are you saying—does Billy have can—” Rejecting the very thought, I firmed my voice. “Cletus Byron Winston, are you telling me Billy also has cancer?”
“What if he did? Would you do as I ask and be nice to him then? If he’s dying, will you actually give him the time of day? Is that what it’s going to take?”
“Stop being a bully and answer the damn question.”
“No, woman. He doesn’t have the cancer.”
I breathed out on a whoosh.
But then Cletus, his voice low and unmistakably angry, added, “Billy donated his bone marrow to Darrell.”
The room tilted again, and my mouth fell open. I couldn’t believe my ears, and so I screeched, “He what?!”
“Shh! Don’t yell, you’ll wake baby Liam.”
Closing my eyes briefly, I attempted to gather my thoughts and feelings and temper, speaking slowly and carefully so as not to raise my voice. “You’re telling me your brother donated bone marrow to Darrell Winston?”
“Billy saved Darrell’s life.”
I choked on disbelief and confusion, my fingers coming to my forehead again, this time I suspected to keep my brains from falling out of my head. What the hell? What. The. Hell.
Why would Billy do that? What would’ve possessed him? Billy hated Darrell. Hated him. Why would he do that to himself. WHAT THE HECK WAS GOING ON?!
“It’s a long story, Claire,” Cletus said, giving me the sense he recognized the noises of squeaking nonsense tumbling from my mouth for what they were: complete lack of coherence.
Though, the fact that he’d finally called me Claire did not escape my notice.
“Cletus—”
“I solemnly promise, the very moment Jenn and I arrive, I shall divulge the unabridged version of events, start to finish. Hell, I’ll even tell you all the stuff Billy should’ve told you years ago but didn’t ’cause he was too busy vying for the world championship title of Most Honorable Martyr—which, given his most recent ridiculous act of selflessness, he’s earned in perpetuity, forever and ever, amen. I realize that’s a disappointment since you were also hoping for the title.”
My mouth snapped shut and I frowned. “What does that—”
“But right now? Right this minute? I am asking you, my dearest, oldest friend, to traverse the tenuous Tuscan terrain. Embrace your quest! And get thee to where them I-talians sell the foodstuffs and the wines and the whatnot. I need you, the pied piper of preparing meals, to make my brother the biggest plate of fettuccine alfredo ever seen in all the land. Put bacon in it, and chicken, and shrimp, and some greens, carrots, broccoli, peas. Put love into it too. Feed him. Feed his body and feed his soul. Make sure he eats, gets sunshine, give him a hug or two or a hundred, tell him his eyes are pretty. I am begging you.”
Cletus’s dramatics notwithstanding, I would most definitely make all his favorite dishes, no problem. But cooking wasn’t really what Cletus was asking me to do.
“Can you do that?” he pressed. “Will you do this? Here, I’ll even say please. Please, Scarlet. Please. Please.”
I crossed my free arm over my aching heart. What Cletus wanted—which was a miraculous reconciliation between his brother and me—was impossible for so many reasons. If anything happened between us, and that was a gigantic if, it was going to take time, a lot of time. In the past, we’d brought out the worst in each other. I’d never do anything to lead him on, not when I was still so uncertain of my own feelings about a possible reconciliation.
However, Billy was sick. Given how worried Jethro, Sienna, and Duane seemed to be, I suspected it was more than just needing to recover physically from a bone marrow donation. I could help, so I would help. But I wasn’t giving the man hugs or telling him his eyes were pretty just because Cletus demanded it, no matter how much I craved being in Billy’s arms or how truly magnificent his eyes were.
I decided to offer a compromise. “I will tr—”
“Great. Thanks. Bye,” Cletus said.
And then he hung up.
Chapter Two
*Claire
"If you ask me, something sinister lurks in men who avoid wine, games, the company of lovely women, and dinnertime conversation. Such people are either gravely ill or secretly detest everyone around them.”
Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita
“What do I smell? Cinnamon buns?”
Turning over my shoulder, I gave my brother an affectionate smile. I wasn’t so lost in my own nervousness that the bags under Duane’s eyes escaped my notice. Holding his sleeping infant son in the crook of his arm, he rubbed one eye, fought a yawn, and claimed a seat around the huge, oblong table in the middle of the kitchen. The piece of furniture was seriously gigantic, but every table in this house was. It fit fourteen chairs comfortably and you could add up to another six in a pinch.
“Yes. Those are cinnamon buns. I also made dinner rolls with the dough. Those’ll be coming out soon.”
“Parker House rolls, right? Like Momma made?”
“That’s right. And I got chicken soup on the stove. Do you want a bun? With some butter?” I moved from stove to oven to counter, and then back to the stove, an undercurrent of frantic energy in every step.
I felt frantic, maybe I looked frantic, but thankfully I didn’t sound frantic.
Wiping my hands on the towel sticking out of my jeans pocket, I returned to where I’d set the buns. No muffin tins could be found in this huge villa, so I’d baked the buns smooshed together in several round cake pans. To my consternation, the cinnamon bun in the center of each cake pan hadn’t risen, emerging from the oven sad and flat and half-baked.
“Yes, please, to both bun and butter,” he said, yawning again. “I’m so hungry. I don’t know why I’m so hungry. All I do is change diapers, hold Liam, try to sleep—usually unsuccessfully—and tell Jess how awesome she is.”
“Lack of sleep can make you hungry,” I said absentmindedly, tearing a bun off for my brother and bringing it to him along with two big pads of butter.
“Sorry we woke you up this morning.” He accepted the plate, licking his lips. “Janet and the Sheriff left a little while ago to check out some ruins or a church or something.” Janet was Mrs. James, Jess’s momma. “I think everyone else is still asleep. Did you get a chance to go back to sleep? Or have you been cooking all morning? What time is it anyway?”
“I think it’s almost one thirty. I went to the store, picked up a few things, no big deal.” There was no way I would’ve been able to go back to sleep this morning, not when I knew there was a Billy Winston right down the hall.
My hands were shaking. I gripped the back of a chair until they stopped. “I picked up more diapers and put them in the nursery,” I added.
“Ah, thanks for that.” The infant in his arms stirred, drawing Duane’s attention.
<
br /> I watched as my brother gazed at his son, a soft smile claiming his features. He leaned down and kissed the tiny cheek while making a soft shushing sound. Goodness, even if he hadn’t been my brother, it was a sight that would’ve melted any heart.
But I wondered if the image was more precious to me because Duane and Liam were my kin, and because none of us—not Duane, nor his twin Beau, nor I—had known we were related until just a few years ago. More precious because, if the secret of Duane and Beau’s maternity had been kept indefinitely, maybe I wouldn’t have been here to experience this moment.
But Billy had known about it, and he’d never said a word to anyone.
This thought dampened some of the simmering anticipation in my belly. Even now, all these years later, I still couldn’t make up my mind what to think about seeing Billy Winston. He’d never told me Duane and Beau were my brothers, though he’d had plenty of opportunity. It made me wonder what else he’d been keeping secret.
And wasn’t that just shit on a shoe? Here I was still longing for a man who’d lied to me about my brothers. For years. Years!
“Why do babies smell so good?” Duane asked, pulling me from my darkening thoughts.
“Um.” Coming back to myself, I sidestepped away from my brother and closer to the tray I’d placed on the table. I picked up a large bowl, moved to the stove, and ladled two generous servings of soup while I spoke. “I’m sure there’s a scientific reason, probably something about hormones and the like. I don’t honestly know. But I agree, babies smell like heaven.”
“What’s the tray for? And all that stuff you put on it. Is that for Jess? She’s asleep, finally.”
Another rush of nerves had me releasing the ladle into the pot with a clatter, and I internally rolled my eyes at myself.
I was not this person. I was not a nervous, jumpy person. Not anymore. Growing up, being wary and watchful had been a requirement for survival. But all that was a long time ago, a different life, a different time, a different person. I was an adult now, a working singer-songwriter, a professional musician. I was not a jumpy, sweaty, anxiety-riddled teenager. Just because Billy Winston was under this roof didn’t mean I had to let him under my skin.