Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1)

by Penny Reid

  I know you got a life in Chicago and it’s a good one. I like your friends and I think you should keep them. But I also saw how sad you were when you left, and I think only half of that was because of Momma.

  Also, not that we get a say in things, but I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say it sure would be nice having you closer by.

  Love, your brother,

  Jethro

  I placed my fingertips to my lips when I got to the part he carried it everywhere he went.

  My chin began to wobble when I read I like your friends and I think you should keep them.

  The first tear fell at I think only half of that was because of Momma.

  And I was a blubbery mess when Jethro confessed it sure would be nice having you closer by.

  Jethro walked to me and gave me a hug. It occurred to me that I’d cried more since August than I had in my entire life. I’d also received more hugs from my brothers than I had in my entire life.

  “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know.” I cried into his sweater, gripping the front of his jacket.

  “Well, who else could it have been?”

  “I thought it was Drew.” I confessed on an epically big, ridiculous, movie-worthy, embarrassing sob. Jethro’s revelation changed everything. I was never meant to see the notebook. He never wanted to share those feelings with me. He wanted to burn it. He’d walked away—from me, from the possibility of us—and I’d stupidly sent him my heart in the mail.

  “So it was you?” Fiona asked, seeking to clarify for the group. “You sent her the journal?”

  Jethro nodded. “Yep. I thought I was helping.”

  “What’s in it?” Elizabeth asked. “What is so terrible that it’s thrown you into this kind of depression?”

  I hiccupped, sniffled, and tried to explain through my tears that it wasn’t terrible. I tried to explain that the book meant the world to me. Then I tried to explain why I was in my deep, deep funk.

  “I stayed up all night reading it. It was…it was just…it moved my soul. So I wrote him a letter and I mailed it. And then I mailed him a letter every day for the last two weeks, and he never responded. He never responded!”

  Jethro opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him, my voice oscillating between rough and high-pitched hysteria. “So I called him and he didn’t answer. I wrote him fifteen love letters and he ignored them all and he won’t even answer the phone when I call!”

  Several of my friends tsked, throwing me compassionate and sympathetic gazes. Janie wrapped her arms around me from behind.

  “What a bastard,” Sandra breathed. “He really is Dr. Ruinous. We hates him.”

  Jethro held up his hands as though trying to calm a riot before it became violent. “Now, wait. You don’t know the whole story. Stop jumping to conclusions.”

  “What excuse could he possibly have?” Marie asked. “Is he injured? Is he trapped under a heavy object? Has he fallen without the ability to get up?”

  Then Beau shocked the bejeebus out of me by saying, “No. He’s on the Appalachian Trail and doesn’t have cell reception.”

  I stared at Beau, I stared at the words he’d just said, my mind going quiet then loud then quiet again.

  When I spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “What did you say?”

  “I said he’s been on the Appalachian Trail for the last six weeks. Jethro came back weeks ago, but Drew hasn’t been home in six weeks. I imagine his mail is collecting in a pile just inside his door. That’s where your letters are. Also, he’s got no cell reception.” Beau announced this casually while scooping his finger into the cookie dough, digging out a large chunk, and eating it.

  Then, glancing at me and my friends’ stunned faces like we were aliens, he reached forward and picked up my wine. “And he gets back tomorrow. So, don’t worry. He’ll get your letters then. Mind if I drink this?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

  “That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him.

  ― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

  I was struck with an intense feeling of déjà vu.

  I was sitting on Quinn’s plane. We were all loaded up—the knitting gals and I, plus my brothers, plus Quinn—on our way to a distant place, banding together to help each other, off on another adventure.

  We’d done this before.

  But this time it was quite different, because this time, everyone on board was trying to help me.

  After Jethro and Beau had dropped their information weapons of mass destruction all over my life, my knitting group and I held a quick conference. It went something like this:

  Fiona: “How are you feeling about Drew reading your letters when he gets home tomorrow?”

  Me: “Not good. Not good at all. I want them back.”

  Marie: “Why?”

  Me: “He didn’t send me the notebook.”

  Sandra: “Do you think his feelings for you have changed?”

  Me: “He obviously never wanted me to see it. Heck, he wanted to get rid of it so badly he tried to destroy it. I honestly don’t know what his feelings are, but I wrote those letters thinking that he’d sent me that book. I want the letters back.”

  Fiona to Sandra: “Not that you asked, but I agree with Ashley. She wrote the letters under false assumptions. If she wants the letters back, I think we should do everything in our power to get them back.”

  Elizabeth: “What’s the plan?”

  Janie: “I’ll call Quinn; we’ll use the plane. We can probably fly out sometime today.”

  Me: “Don’t do that. I can drive through the night.”

  Janie: “No. Unacceptable.”

  Fiona: “I agree with Janie. If we have to put up with a grumpy Quinn all year, then we should be able to use his plane for emergencies.”

  Elizabeth: “Agreed. Let’s move!”

  Jethro and Beau had been strangely silent during the whole rigmarole. While the knitting group sprang into action, they went out and grabbed Italian beef sandwiches for everyone. We all ate lunch with vigorous appetites, drank three bottles of wine, and planned our strategy in the comfort of Command Central (aka my kitchen).

  And so it was that I found myself buckled up and preparing to land in Knoxville, Tennessee. My heart was in my throat, and I couldn’t keep my hands still enough to knit on the plane. They kept shaking. Therefore, I gave up and balled them into fists in my lap for the remainder of the flight.

  Our plan was straightforward. Jethro would drive me up the mountain. I would retrieve the key from its hiding place on the back porch. I would then go inside, retrieve my letters, and leave. Jethro would drive me home. Then we would all do shots of moonshine eggnog to celebrate.

  Well, me and my friends would do shots. Looking at Quinn, Jethro, and Beau’s faces, I doubted they would be celebrating with us.

  Quinn had secured a takeoff time out of Knoxville for just after midnight. Therefore, all the ladies—plus Quinn—would be able to make it back to Chicago by 2:30 a.m.

  Before we left, Fiona insisted that I take a shower and wash my hair. Then she supervised me getting dressed and putting on makeup—just like Billy had done all those months ago. The similarities between the two of them warmed my heart.

  This time, however, I wouldn’t be facing a bear. I would be stealing in and out of Drew’s house undetected then celebrating Christmas with my family like the past three weeks never happened.

  “Betty arranged for a car to meet us at the airport,” Quinn said, referring to his secretary as the plane taxied from the runway. He was sitting next to Janie across from me.

  I found his blue icicle eyes somewhat disconcerting, so I simply nodded and spoke to his chin. “Thank you. Thank you for your help.”

  I imagined he thought I was pretty ridiculous. Janie had explained the situation to him during the trip to Knoxville in the way that only Janie was capable of doing—like a po
lice report, just the facts.

  Quinn runs his own global security firm, and is perpetually taciturn. I often wonder what he thinks of his wife’s crazy friends.

  He probably thinks we’re crazy.

  “Don’t mention it.” His gentle tone surprised me.

  I glanced up and found him watching me with a piercing, narrowed glare. This was his baseline disquieting stare—in other words, the norm for Quinn.

  He further caught me off guard when he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, a frown on his face, and said, “I know I just provide the mode of travel for these trips, and this is none of my business, but I think you should give Drew and yourself a little more credit.”

  I blinked my confusion at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Drew is a good guy, a smart guy. Like any smart, good guy, when presented with a remarkable woman, he’s going to do the right thing by her, the honorable thing, even if that means giving you up. That’s what he did; he gave you up because he thought it was the right thing to do. But if you tell him you want him, he’ll move heaven and earth to make that happen.”

  I stared at him for a beat then leaned forward and asked quietly, “Why didn’t you give up Janie? There was a time when you thought you were putting her in danger, why didn’t you give her up? Do the right thing?”

  His eyes narrowed further, but a hint of a smile moved over his lips. “Because, unlike Drew, I wasn’t a good guy.”

  Quinn’s words echoed in my head the entire drive up the mountain.

  If Drew was one thing and one thing only, he was a good guy. He was the best guy. He was loyal to a fault. He was self-sacrificing. He was the epitome of the strong, sacrificing, silent type.

  In a lot of ways he reminded me of my mother, honorable to the point of madness. But he wasn’t a martyr. He was sneaky about his honor, held it close, was secretive about it.

  It drove me crazy and it pissed me off. Maybe if he’d been a little more selfish, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Then again, if he were a little more selfish, he wouldn’t be Drew.

  At the same time, he’d tried to burn the notebook. He’d tossed it in the fire and walked away. He knew I was coming home for Christmas. Obviously, he’d had no intention of telling me how he felt. Or maybe his feelings had changed.

  My emotions might have been a tangled skein of yarn, but everything was going according to plan; we were even running ahead of schedule. The ladies were back at the homestead, likely causing a ruckus.

  My heart hammered in my chest when I recognized how close we were to Drew’s house, though the scenery looked different because the trees were wintry bare. I sat a bit straighter, my hands clenching and unclenching in my lap. Finally, Jethro pulled into the short driveway and stopped the truck.

  He put it in neutral and set the emergency brake.

  “Ash.”

  I swallowed, nodded. I didn’t look at Jethro because I was too busy greedily memorizing every detail I could about Drew’s house.

  “Ash, go get the letters so we can get back home. I’m starving.” Jethro sounded irritated.

  I glanced at him. “I’m sorry I dragged you into my drama. I promise, Jethro, this is not like me. I never have drama. I’m usually completely drama-free.”

  Jethro placed his hand on my knee and squeezed, his kind eyes moving between mine. “It’s okay. We’ve all been through a lot. Momma’s death; Darrell being crazy. I’m glad he’s locked up, and it looks like the charges will stick. But this year has been rough.”

  I covered his hand with mine. “Thanks for being such a great big brother.”

  He gave me a small grin. “You know I’ll always do what’s best for you, right?”

  I nodded, returning his smile.

  “Okay, go do this thing. Go on, get going.” He lifted his chin toward the house.

  I took a deep breath and exited the cab of the truck. It was cold outside, and there was a thin layer of snow on the ground; nothing like Chicago, but just enough for winter to make its presence known. I rubbed my hands together and jogged around the side of the house to the porch where I found the large ceramic pot next to the guest bedroom door where Drew hid a spare key.

  It was then that I heard the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway.

  My body was motionless with astonishment. I shook myself and forced my feet to move. As quietly and as sneakily as I could, I tiptoed to the side of the house and peeked around the corner just in time to see my brother Jethro leaving.

  That’s right.

  Jethro abandoned me, in the Smoky Mountains, on Drew’s porch, in the winter.

  Instinctively, I jogged to the front of the house and down the porch steps to the drive. I was about to call out my brother’s name but stopped myself. He wouldn’t come back even if he heard me. I couldn’t believe it. For several seconds I stared stupidly where his truck had just been, my mouth wide open.

  Meanwhile, another completely unexpected thing happened. I heard the front door to Drew’s house open and footsteps behind me, the unmistakable sound of boots on a wooden porch.

  My heart stopped. Time—the hussy—stopped. Everything stopped.

  And then he said, “Ash?”

  I closed my eyes. The sound of Drew’s voice saying my name, so uncertain, so hopeful, so confused—he was my summer rainstorm. He did things to me, bizarre things that I was incapable of describing. My feelings eclipsed my ability to think.

  I inhaled a steadying breath, opened my eyes, and recognized what I was feeling. I was feeling fear. It was like facing down the bear on the side of that hill. I needed to woman-up and stop playing dead. This was my life and I needed to live it.

  My throat worked and I finally managed to swallow as I lifted my eyes to Drew.

  He stood just outside the door. He had a towel in his hands. He was wearing jeans slung low on his waist because he was without his SAVAGE belt. His shirt was a dark green thermal. His beard was ridiculous, bushy, untrimmed, unkempt…like a marauding Viking. And his eyes moved over me as though he couldn’t believe I was there. I think he half expected me to be someone else when I faced him.

  My heart gave a giant lurch and my stomach tumbled into oblivion. I had to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing my chest.

  He was so handsome…so epically swoony. I wanted to stare at him all day while he read me field notes. But more than that, I wanted to be with him. Just be.

  I swallowed again and cleared my throat. “Hi, Drew.”

  His eyes flared when I spoke, settled on mine, and his expression transformed from confused to guarded.

  “What are you doing here?” He glanced behind me, obviously looking for my means of transportation.

  I thought about that question and how best to answer it, which version of the truth to tell.

  For some reason, my momma’s words from months ago chose that moment to echo in my head: Fear don’t count if you really want something.

  She was right. She was so right. And besides, being completely honest couldn’t be any more dangerous than flashing a four hundred pound bear Mardi Gras style.

  Gathering every ounce of my courage, I took a step forward, then two, then three. My voice was shakier than I would have liked when I said, “I sent you some letters while you were gone. Did you get them?”

  His eyes narrowed on me, a new shadow of confusion falling over his features, and he responded haltingly. “I don’t know. I haven’t gone through the mail yet.”

  I nodded, pressing my lips together, and mounted the steps. “There should be about fifteen of them. I came by to….” I stopped, feeling a little out of breath for no reason. I waited until I reached the final step before continuing.

  “I came by to get them before you had a chance to open them.”

  We were now face to face, just three feet between us.

  His brow pulled low at my confession even as his eyes—heated, intense—moved over my face. The hunger in his gaze was a raw, tangible thing. I almost took a step back
under the weight of it, and I wondered if he’d always looked at me this way. Had he been as obvious before? Had I been so completely blind?

  “Why?” His voice was rough and the single word sounded like a demand.

  “Because,” I stopped again, overwhelmed under the intensity of his gaze. Unthinkingly, I took a step forward.

  Drew flinched at the movement, his hands on the towel gripping it with tight fists. In that moment he reminded me of a wounded animal and my chest felt like it might crack from the force of my admiration and love for him.

  I remembered his words from the notebook, and I realized that my suspicions had been right. He lived his life in an unfathomable labyrinth, paralyzed by the depth of his feelings. Poetry was his outlet, his pressure valve; he held close, a carefully guarded secret.

  “Because Jethro sent me your notebook.” I said on a rush. He didn’t appear to understand my meaning immediately, so I used his disorientation to explain the entire story.

  “Jethro saved your notebook from the fire and he sent it to me. I thought you sent it, so I read it.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes and he straightened, stiffened, and I recognized his panic because it mirrored my own from just minutes ago. Urgency fueled my words. I needed to tell him everything before he had a chance to process this betrayal of trust. “He thought he was doing a good thing. When I read it, I…I…words cannot describe what I felt. I immediately wrote you a letter telling you how I felt, how I feel, how I love you.”

  I swallowed the last word because my own fear had finally caught up with me. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I couldn’t look at him and continue speaking, so I didn’t look at him.

  “I love you, Drew. I love you. I love you so much. I don’t know how to say it any other way. I sent you fifteen letters over the last three weeks. They’re love letters, and they’re the best I could do. And when you didn’t send me anything back, I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. Then Jethro told me that he’d sent the notebook. He told me that you wanted to burn it. And I panicked. I thought….”