Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  Beau glanced between me and the doorway to the living room, where Cletus had just disappeared. “What is he going on about?”

  I didn’t answer Beau because I was too focused on what Cletus had just said, and what it meant. Skipping around the counter and jogging out of the kitchen, I caught up with my schemer of a brother just as he made it to the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “This way.” Cletus motioned for me to follow, which I did as he navigated down the hall and into our momma’s room.

  The light was off. He made no move to turn it on, instead walking straight to the picture window. It faced the long driveway leading to the house from Moth Run Road.

  “There.” He pointed to a spot in the distance, on the other side of the road, partially obscured by tree trunks and a flowering quince bush just beginning to bloom scarlet red. Anyone paying attention who looked at the road from our house would see the car.

  “Huh.” I folded my arms, shaking my head, disbelieving the vision in front of me.

  “Want to bring her some coffee? Or maybe one of Jenn’s tarts? Simone is definitely tart-worthy.”

  Frowning at the sight of Simone’s car, I exhaled a heavy sigh. “She probably thinks we can’t see her.”

  Cletus scratched his neck through his bushy beard. “I don’t know. She’s smart. If she didn’t want to be seen, I reckon she’d make herself invisible.”

  I nodded at that, because he was right. Which begged the question—not rhetorical—what the heck what she up to?

  “You want to ask her inside? You know she’s always more than welcome here.”

  “It certainly would be the polite thing to do . . .” I muttered under my breath, staring at the mystery that was Simone Payton.

  * * *

  Saturday morning she followed me to Cades Cove. She couldn’t follow me into the back trail area where Drew and I were checking traps, but she was still there in the afternoon when I left for home, her car parked three spots down from mine. She wasn’t inside her car but rather was sitting at a picnic table several feet away.

  Also, Cletus had been right. She definitely wasn’t trying to hide the fact that she was tailing me. When I spotted her at the picnic table, she looked up, gave me a dispassionate stare, and turned her attention back to whatever magazine was sitting on the table in front of her.

  Perplexed, I left.

  I drove home.

  I washed up in a hurry.

  I returned to my momma’s room to look out that big picture window.

  Sure enough, Simone’s car was sitting in the same spot it had been last night. I released an incredulous exhale, shaking my head at her odd behavior, but also feeling lighter because of it and having no idea why.

  Rationally, I knew her actions were strange. If it had been anyone else following me around like this, I would’ve found it alarming to say the least. But Simone wasn’t anyone else, and what might’ve been alarming from other folks was . . .

  It was . . .

  Well, it was almost romantic coming from her.

  Clearly, she was trying to make a point, but what was it? Was she trying to say that this time she wasn’t going to let me disappear from her life? That she wasn’t going to let me forget about our kiss? That I meant something to her? That she wanted to be with me?

  But that couldn’t be right. If she wanted to be with me, then why not take me up on my offer of breakfast on Friday?

  Oscillating between optimism and confused frustration, I pulled together a quick dinner for me and Billy—who, according to his text, was coming home from the office—and made a third plate for Simone. Opening the fridge, I skipped over the beers, and grabbed her a bottle of water.

  Then I walked down our driveway.

  Moth Run Road was never busy. An hour or more might go by with no cars passing in either direction. Even so, I made a show of looking left and right, giving her ample time to spot me before crossing. She must’ve seen me coming, because as soon as I stepped onto the road, she opened her car door, just like yesterday morning.

  This time, she leaned against the closed driver’s side door, watching me come.

  Today she was wearing Converse, a black skirt with black tights, and a maroon fleece zip up. Keeping my eyes on her, I didn’t stop until I was close enough to hand her the plate and water.

  “Hey,” I said, my heart beating fast. “Are you hungry?”

  Simone glanced between me and my offerings, her gaze distrustful. “I’m always hungry. What is it?”

  “Tacos.”

  She immediately took the plate. “Thank you.”

  I grinned, watching as she lifted the tinfoil wrap and smelled the contents within.

  “You know, you could join me inside the house”—I tossed my thumb over my shoulder—“if you want.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, her lips twisting to one side. “What would we talk about?”

  Now my heart galloped excitedly. “Anything you want.”

  “Anything?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Anything,” I confirmed, thinking, just please come inside.

  Simone seemed to consider this information before asking, “Will you tell me why you ghosted me in high school?”

  I stared at her, clenching my jaw so I wouldn’t wince, and spoke without thinking, “So that’s what this is about?”

  She said nothing, just returned my stare, hers hard as the rocks that had been clogging my throat.

  Taking a step back, I exhaled a bitter laugh. She was unbelievable.

  “You’ve been following me around for two days because you want me to tell you why I disappeared when we were sixteen, is that it?”

  Still, she said nothing, just gave me one of her stubbornly patient looks, the kind that always made me crazy.

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turned and left her on the side of the road, stomping toward home and—just for the hell of it—reliving that terrible moment.

  She swayed a little, laughing, and shaking her head. “Why’d you let me drink so much?”

  “Let you?” I laughed, too. “Nobody lets Simone Payton do anything.”

  “Damn straight.” She slurred the word straight and sat on the grass in an ungraceful heap.

  I vacillated a second, sat next to her, wanting to put my arm around her shoulders, to support her, hold her close, but I didn’t know how she’d react to that.

  More and more, I’d wanted to touch her. And she’d been letting me. We’d always hugged, but now holding hands wasn’t unusual, and—I reminded myself—she’d been the one to pat my backside first.

  “Simone.”

  “Yes?” She had her eyes closed, her dark lashes against her cheeks, her head lolled to one side, long braids spilling over her shoulder.

  She was so pretty.

  I wondered if she’d remember this tomorrow. I knew I would.

  “What would you say if I told you I love you?” I was so nervous. Even drunk as I was, I was nervous. But the liquor helped.

  A laugh, a wide grin, exquisite amber irises moving over my face. “I love you, too. Of course I do.”

  “I mean”—I reached out, my fingers closing gently over her wrist and a thrill shot through me to see my hand on her skin—“what if I told you I’m in love with you?” My voice cracked a little on the last three words.

  Her smile fell as understanding sharpened behind her eyes, disappointment, dismay.

  She covered my hand with hers, prying away my fingers.

  “Roscoe . . .” She’d never said my name like that before, like it was a word to put distance between us. She blinked like she was trying to bring me into focus. “No. No, no, no.”

  I studied her, holding my breath, feeling like my life and heart were balanced on the edge of a knife.

  “Why no?” I whispered.

  Her head swayed a little, and she blinked, and I saw she was real drunk. I cursed. Guilt had me gritting my teeth and shaking my head at myself. I was drunk, too. But I wasn’t as drunk as she was
.

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Still no.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat, her words like a punch in the stomach. “Let’s get you home. I’ll call Billy. He’ll drive us.” I stood, offering her my hand.

  “No. Never.” She didn’t seem to be speaking to me, but rather to a conversation going on in her head.

  “Come on.” I shook my hand, gesturing for her to take it. “Tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’ll talk.” And I’d make a romantic declaration, not take the chickenshit, coward way out and try to pry answers from her while we were drunk.

  “The answer will still be no,” she said, loudly.

  I winced, my hand dropping.

  “I’ll never love anyone that way.” Simone frowned at me, then at the hand at my side. “Especially not you.”

  She wanted to know?

  Fine.

  Reaching the gate on my side of the road, I turned and called, “Hey.”

  She’d just opened her door, so she looked up from the car, her eyes growing wide and expectant at my shout.

  “I’m going to Genie’s tonight.”

  Staring, she waited, like she expected me to continue. When I didn’t, she called back, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. If you dance with me—one dance, whatever song I want—I’ll tell you why.”

  Simone’s eyes narrowed. She seemed to be searching my words for hidden tricks and traps. “You’ll tell me why you disappeared,” she clarified, her stare pointed. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Deal,” she responded immediately, though the look she gave me was full of distrust. “But you also have to answer all of my follow-up questions.”

  I shrugged at that, my expression flat, and turned back to the house.

  “I mean it, Roscoe,” she yelled after me. “You have to answer all my questions.”

  I didn’t turn and I didn’t respond, just kept walking because there weren’t likely to be any follow-up questions.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”

  Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

  *Roscoe*

  Saturday night at Genie’s was typically the busiest night of the week, with most folks showing up around 10:00 PM and heading out around 1:00 AM.

  I left my house at 12:30 AM and, sure enough, Simone followed me the whole twenty-minute drive there. I parked my truck and exited, spotting her pulling into a space near the front of the lot. Gathering my nerve and the figurative suit of armor I’d been working on all evening, I walked over to her car and opened the driver’s side door just as she turned off the engine.

  Not looking up, she reached for her phone on the passenger seat, and unlocked it. “Hey, I’ll meet you inside. I just need to send a message real fast.”

  Smothering a flare of aggravation, I said, “Fine,” and shut her door.

  Then I walked to the front door of the bar, gritting my teeth and fighting the petty urge to turn, get back in my truck, and drive home while she was busy sending her messages.

  I mean, what the hell? She’d been sitting in her car all day, and now—as soon as we’re here—she needs to send a message?

  Whatever.

  Determined not to let this hiccup ruin my plan, I strolled into Genie’s and hung my coat up on the wall of racks by the entrance, noting there were less coats left than usual for this time of night. Good. I’d chosen 12:50 AM on purpose.

  Genie had an unwritten policy. All the line dances and fast songs played until 12:30 AM. After that, until 1:30 AM closing time, it was nothing but slow dances and ballads. She told me once fast music sold drinks, but slow music helped folks wind down and pair off—i.e. leave and get laid.

  This information had made me blush at the time. I’d just turned twenty-one and had kissed a total of two girls, Simone and a girl I’d met in college named Elaine. Since then, I’d kissed two more.

  But despite my lack of experience, Genie’s vulgar talk didn’t make me blush anymore. This was mostly because, like most folks, Genie told the same stories over and over, and I’d only been embarrassed during the first telling.

  Stepping up to the bar, I motioned for Patty—Genie’s daughter, and apparently the bartender for the evening—to bring me a beer. It was my first of the evening, and I wouldn’t have another, but I didn’t feel right using Genie’s dance floor without providing patronage first.

  “Roscoe?”

  I turned at the sound of my name and discovered Hannah Townsen standing to my left.

  “Oh, hey Hannah.” I gave her an easy smile and nodded to Patty as she handed me my Heineken, mouthing a quick thank you. Patty winked in response and moved on to another thirsty customer.

  “Everybody is here tonight,” Hannah said cheerfully, grinning as her eyes swept over me. “I have got to get over here on Saturdays more often.”

  “You should,” I agreed, tipping my beer toward hers and giving it a clink. “Speaking of which, what are you doing here? Don’t you usually work on Saturday nights?”

  I’d gone to high school with Hannah Townsen. Everyone thought she’d be a doctor by now, or a lawyer, or something else high-powered. But her mother had gone through a spell of bad luck and Hannah had dropped out of college after just one year.

  Now she had two jobs, a stripper at the Pink Pony Thursday through Saturday, and a hostess at the only steak restaurant in town, the Front Porch, during the rest of the week. I never saw her here or anywhere as it seemed she never had a night off and slept during the day whenever I was in town.

  In fact, now that I thought it over, the last time I’d seen her was at the Front Porch two and a half years ago, when Billy had taken me out to dinner randomly, just the two of us.

  Hannah’s grin faltered a little, but she was quick to resurrect it. “Hank gave me tonight off, said I needed some rest.”

  “So you came here.” My grin widened.

  “Yes”—she nodded firmly—“I came here. Because I need fun more than rest.”

  “And did you have fun tonight?” I asked, interested, because Hannah was a good person who had been dealt a shitty hand.

  She gazed at me thoughtfully, her features seeming to grow determined the longer she stared.

  Without warning, she took a step forward into my space and said low, so only I could hear, “I’d have fun if you asked me to dance.”

  Oh jeez.

  Okay.

  This situation was going to require some fancy sidestepping. As I mentioned, Hannah was a good person, she deserved some fun, and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin her first night off in forever by making her feel rejected.

  I let a slow grin claim my mouth and I sighed, making a show of sounding and looking regretful. “I’m actually meeting somebody tonight.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes rounded in surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Hannah’s gaze dropped to the bar and she began backing away, “I’m so sorry—”

  I caught her hand, stopping her retreat, which caused her to lift her chin.

  Gazing deep in her eyes, I said sincerely, “Never apologize for giving someone the honor of asking for a dance.”

  She gave me a tight smile and nodded; some of her embarrassment seemed to ease, but not all of it.

  “Only apologize if you use a cheesy pickup line first, like”—I frowned, patting down my shirt front like I was looking for something—“Wait, I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”

  Hannah wrinkled her nose, but also laughed. “That is cheesy.”

  Seeing her smile made me smile, so I gave her another one. “Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”

  “Oh my God, that one is even worse!” She covered her face, peeking from between her fingers.

  “Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see.”

  She groaned through giggles. “Oh no.”
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  “Yeah, that one is pretty bad.” I nodded. “How about this: do you know what my shirt is made of?” I pointed to the flannel I was wearing.

  Letting her hands drop, she glanced between me and my shirt. “Cotton?”

  I lifted my eyebrows, gave her a pointed look, and said with flourish, “Boyfriend material.”

  That made her laugh-snort. “No more!”

  “One more.” I laughed. “Just one more. I hate this one so much, and I actually heard a guy try to use it over the summer. It was brutal.”

  “Okay, fine.” She nodded, her grin immense. “Give it to me.”

  “Would you grab my arm”—I held out my elbow—“so I can tell my friends I’ve been touched by an angel?”

  She swatted my arm away, laughing again, all awkwardness forgotten, and I laughed with her.

  A voice from behind me—dry as a desert—said, “You’ve certainly been touched by something.”

  Simone.

  I stiffened, my smile morphing into more of a grimace. The first memory that came to mind at the sound of her voice was her standoffish dismissal of me on Friday morning when I’d asked her to breakfast.

  Hannah leaned to the side to peer behind me and her eyes widened again with surprise. “Simone Payton?”

  I turned toward the bar and backed up a step, so the two women could see each other.

  “Hey, Hannah.” Simone gave our former classmate a little wave and a small genuine smile.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever!” Hannah appeared to be both shocked and excited. “How have you been?” She reached forward, gave Simone a quick hug, and stepped back. “How long are you here for? What are you doing in town?”

  I glanced at Simone just in time to find her gaze moving over me. We both looked at Hannah, and comprehension—or more accurately, miscomprehension—passed over the blonde’s features.

  Hannah alternated between gaping at me and Simone, visibly nonplussed, and said, “Oh my goodness. You two are together?”

  I lowered my attention to the barstool tucked under the counter and waited for Simone to correct Hannah’s misunderstanding of the situation. I wasn’t going to do it. If she expected me to do it, we’d be waiting here all night.