Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7

by Penny Reid

  Turning from my brother-in-law, I called over my shoulder, “Well then, I’ll put it in the cooler, see if we can’t get some shrinkage.”

  “Shrinkage?!” Cletus seemed to sputter before choking on the word.

  I sealed my lips shut as Ashley told her brother to calm his farm, and then he said something about an affront to his meat curing skills. Then Roscoe asked why the meat needed to be cured in the first place and made some reference to diseased wieners, which made the kids bust out laughing because, wieners.

  It was going to be a long weekend.

  And I was looking forward to every minute of it.

  The next few days were predictably crazy.

  Other than the typical cousin chaos, Duane, Jess, and their kids were still a little jetlagged even though they’d been in town since Wednesday. Beau and Shelly often traveled to see them wherever they were, as did Jethro and his family. We’d met them twice—once in Peru and once in Canada—but world travel was difficult for our big family, what with the kids in school and sports and music and camps over the summer.

  Their oldest impressed his cousins by speaking pretty good Japanese. And then later, Jenn arrived and impressed everyone by speaking better Japanese.

  As predicted, the kids played, made messes, dunked each other in the stream, built stick forts, and the adults chewed the fat, swapped stories—both old and new. It was remarkable, having everyone all in one place. This weekend always felt like a miracle to me and it always went by too fast.

  After dinner on the last night, we set the kids up around their own firepit, putting Ben and Bethany in charge of the fire, and Andy and Liam in charge of the s’mores. The rule was, no more than two s’mores per kid, which meant most of them would get three or four if the older boys didn’t eat everything first.

  “I never thought I’d say this, and don’t take this as permission for future usurping of my glorious sausages, but I’m glad you bought those hot dogs.” Cletus took the seat next to Billy and me, turning to Jethro and Sienna on his other side. “Don’t you ever feed your children?”

  Presently, as was our tradition on the last night, the adults were sitting around a second firepit not far from the kids. Most of us were sharing camping chairs except Roscoe and Simone who were sitting together on a blanket, and Jenn and Cletus as little Linus was asleep in Jenn’s arms.

  Jethro sighed while Sienna laughed. “You’ll find out, Cletus, when Linus turns twelve or thirteen. Teenage boys eat their weight daily.”

  “It’s scientific fact,” Beau chimed in, his tone completely serious. “I think I read somewhere teenage boys eat up to twice their weight every day.”

  “You did not read that, Beauford.” Cletus sent my brother an unimpressed look, which only made the redhead laugh.

  “I remember my brother eating all our leftovers when he was a teenager,” Simone said from her spot, lying between Roscoe’s legs, her back against his chest. “My mother told me she had to double every recipe until he was out of the house.”

  “I can’t imagine what our momma’s grocery bill was every week, if that’s the case.” Roscoe turned his lips against Simone’s temple, giving her a kiss.

  “It wasn’t so bad. She had creative ways of supplementing the store-bought groceries, which cut down on the total,” Billy said, and I studied him as his gaze seemed to turn inward.

  For a long time, he’d struggled to reconcile his memory of Bethany with the woman who’d asked me to leave her son alone. I hated that, by sharing this secret, I’d tainted his view of his wonderful mother.

  But one night when Jethro was visiting us in Nashville, the older Winston had quoted one of Bethany’s sayings: Don’t toss out a painting because you dislike one of the brushstrokes.

  Bethany wasn’t perfect, but neither was I. Neither was Billy. I’d reminded him of the saying later that night, encouraging him to reevaluate how he’d been permitting this one, single, solitary decision of his mother’s to blemish a lifetime of love. That, at last, seemed to make a difference. It had allowed him to make peace.

  “That’s right.” Duane pointed at Billy, nodding. “Didn’t she trade with the Hills? Deer meat for tutoring their kids?”

  “Yeah. She had a similar deal with Mr. Badcock and his chickens and eggs,” Cletus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “Poor Mr. Badcock,” Jenn muttered, and I saw she and Cletus share a look across the fire.

  “She traded with Mr. Badcock until we got our own chickens,” Ashley added softly from where she sat on Drew’s lap, absentmindedly twirling her husband’s long, blond hair around a finger.

  “And the firewood trade with both Nancy Danvish and Old Man Blout for vegetables and the like,” Jethro said. “I remember cutting three cords of firewood one summer just to find out in the fall that she’d traded them for vegetables.”

  “And then she made you eat the vegetables?” Sienna asked, amusement in her voice.

  “That’s right. I thought for sure I’d be able to get out of eating those green beans, seeing as how I’d cut the wood.”

  “Don’t forget the yellow squash,” Billy said.

  “Ugh. I hate yellow squash.” Jethro made a face that reminded me so much of Constantine when I served him yellow squash, I almost lost my breath.

  “What is it with you and yellow foods? Bananas, squash, corn.” Cletus poked at Jethro.

  I felt Billy’s shoulders shake and I looked at him. He gave me his eyes as his laughter faded, leaving behind a happy smile.

  The oldest Winston brother shrugged, his gaze moving to his wife, a slow spreading grin taking over his features. “I like papaya.”

  “Isn’t that green on the outside and orange on the inside?” Roscoe asked.

  “When it’s ripe, it turns yellow on the outside, and it’s my favorite,” Jethro went on, his eyes locked with Sienna’s.

  “On that note—” Sienna stood, grabbing her husband’s hand to pull him up “—we should go round up the little ones and take them back to the house. It’s getting late.”

  I could feel the reluctance to disband as everyone moved to do so, stretching and picking up their drinks. I watched from my place on Billy’s lap as each of the Winstons paired off with their mate.

  Drew pulled Ashley close for a tender kiss, looking at her like she was responsible for everything beautiful in the world. Jessica walked backward, tugging Duane along with her, a sassy smile on her lips. Jethro and Sienna strolled out of the fire ring, hand in hand. Cletus walked over to Jenn and picked up their sleeping son, cradling him while Jenn stood and placed a kiss on Linus’s cheek first, then Cletus’s. Beau toyed with Shelly’s braid and she smiled her breathtaking smile, lifting a hand to cup his jaw. Once they were standing, Roscoe bent to whisper something in Simone’s ear and she laughed, reaching around to pinch his backside.

  It was always at this point every year that I choked up a little and had to swallow against the lump of emotion in my throat. All this love, all these good people, I couldn’t believe I belonged among them. I’d been alone for so much of my life. As grateful as I was to be here, as much as I treasured these moments and this family, part of me feared these blessings wouldn’t last.

  “Hey.” Billy’s rumbly voice pulled me from my conflicting reflections, and his hand slid up my leg. “You ready for bed?”

  Instead of standing, I faced him and pressed our foreheads together. “I love you, Billy Winston.”

  I sensed him smile. “I love you, Scarlet Winston.”

  His statement made me smile. It had been my idea to change my legal name to Scarlet Claire Winston before we married and keep my stage name as Claire McClure. The separation between my professional life and my personal life had been a godsend over the years. I’d never felt more like myself than when the officiant had asked: Do you, Scarlet Claire Winston, take William Shakespeare Winston to be your husband?

  “You want to check on the kids?” I lifted my fingers to his beard, lightly scratching his jaw wit
h my nails. “Will you get Constantine and Tiberius ready for Beau and Shelly while I get the cabin ready?”

  He nodded, lifting his chin for a gentle kiss, but then he whispered, “I expect you to be naked by the time I arrive.”

  His teasing yet commanding tone chased away any residual melancholy I might’ve been feeling and I stood, stretched, and stepped away before taunting, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

  “Scarlet—”

  Grinning, I darted out of his grip before he could grab for me again and jogged into the darkness before he could follow. I then listened to the sounds of the camp fade, slowing to a walk and not bothering to pull out my flashlight.

  Whenever we were in Green Valley, which was usually just once a year during this camping weekend, we always made a point to spend a night together in our place, where our story began. I knew every tree and bush along the way. I knew just where the steps started, how many to climb, and—once inside—where the matches were on the mantle.

  Lighting the kerosene lamp on the little table, I turned to the mattress and pulled off the dust cover. We kept the blankets and sheets in a small cedar chest, and I set to work preparing the space—sweeping the floor, dusting the mantle, starting a small fire, making the bed.

  Over the years, Billy and Jethro had added on a bathroom, working together to dig a well, run the pipes, add the septic. Billy had also offered to add a kitchen at the same time, but I’d vetoed the idea. I liked the simplicity of our cabin. I liked the way it preserved the past while allowing us to celebrate our present.

  Everything done, I tugged off my shoes, set them by the door, and then removed all my clothes except my underwear. A small act of rebellion, but probably not an unexpected one. If I ever complied with all my husband’s wishes, he’d probably have my head examined.

  Smiling at the thought, I slipped under the fresh covers, rested my cheek on the pillow facing the door, and I sang.

  I sang all the love songs I’d written for him over the years starting with my first album. I sang until he walked in the door, a big old grin—well, big for Billy Winston—on his face, his eyes twinkly, bright, and happy.

  I sang as he undressed and prepared for bed. I sang as he blew out the lamp and joined me, as his hands found my body in the flickering firelight from the hearth, and as he chuckled when he discovered I wasn’t quite naked.

  I sang and laughed as he removed my underwear, down my hips and legs, as he returned to me once more and gathered me in his arms. And then my heart sang when he kissed me, and touched me, and made me his.

  When I was young, I lived to survive. I’d shunned hopes and dreams, content in the safety of survival.

  But now I knew better. Nothing lasts forever. Not a song, not happiness, not misery. Mere survival was no safer than living for hopes and dreams. At the end, there will always be the end.

  So why not dream? Why not hope? Why not live life with wild faith and abandon? Why not take the risk? Otherwise, all these moments—small or significant, heaven on earth—would be lost to fear.

  I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. And never again.

  -The End-

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  Author’s Note

  Liberty was taken with the location of Michelangelo’s hidden sketches. They’re actually in a room in the basement of Basilica di San Lorenzo in Florence, not in the basement of Accademia Gallery. I wanted the scene with David to take place right before Scarlet and Billy were trapped together the first time, and so I created an alternate reality/dimension where what I wanted to be true was true.

  A reader asked me about the abuse Scarlet suffered at the hands of her father and whether she was based on anyone I knew. Unfortunately, the answer is yes. Growing up we lived down the street from what was referred to as a “Charlie House,” a group foster home for children who’d been abused (in all the various ways that’s possible). Scarlet’s abuse was based on those kids (siblings with a similar experience).

  Other readers have asked me if Green Valley is based on a real place, and that answer is also yes (sorta). It’s a combination of places. Right outside of Maryville, TN is a small cluster of homes (Happy Valley, Tennessee) at the base of one of the mountains. Further up the mountain is a community called Top of the World. It’s an unincorporated hamlet in rural Blount County set around a lake that used to be a gold mine. A little farther north is a town by the name of Townsend, with a cute downtown, shops, and restaurants. If you take the Parkway over the mountain to Walland, you’ll find the real Rocky Branch Community Center (and Friday night jam sessions) I used as inspiration for the books.

  I hope you’ve enjoyed the Winston Brothers series. It’s been difficult to contemplate that my time with this family is at an end. On behalf of Ashley, Duane, Jethro, Cletus, Beau, Roscoe, and Billy, thank you for reading.

  -Penny

  About the Author

  Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.

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  Sneak Peek: Engagement and Espionage, Handcrafted Mysteries Book #1

  *Cletus*

  Why must people always talk?

  “What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our make-shift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.

  Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up.

  If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a hand-written note, or a mime routine, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized resource, for example.

  A silence ordinance: that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.

  “Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.

  We’d just finished the last stanza of ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question was in response to the frown affixed to my features.

  I should have been pleased.

  I was not pleased.

  Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and I’d talked my brother Billy into singing–a rare achievement as Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session.

  But Jenn was late.

  Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.

  “It’s time to take a break” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already looked at it ten times. “I need to make a call.”

  Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared, and then he smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.

  “Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”

  A person walked between Drew and I, side stepping and almost knocking my ban
jo with his knee in his eagerness to reach my brother Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.

  Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as, One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.

  Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned him happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.

  He should’ve been a musician. Or, he could’ve been one of those Ph.D. engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro-football player.

  But no.

  Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator, next. And after that, a congressman.

  Good lord.

  My expression of displeasure intensified.

  I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.

  She better not be working.

  I swear, if that dragon-lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .

  I would . . .

  I won’t do a thing.

  Damnit.

  I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.

  “Where’s Jenn?” Drew repeated the question, apparently convinced the lumbering disrupter was no longer a threat, his attention coming back to me.