Pretty Jane (The Browning Series Book 3)

by Dorothy Barrett

  This is how Beau came to be sitting in the Ivy Chapel, a small, vine-covered building on the north side of the grounds, wearing a brand new yellow sweater-vest. According to Genevieve Wells, who’d given the opening eulogy, her mother had always said that when she died, she wanted everyone attending her memorial service to be wearing the bright sunny hue instead of the traditional black because she was finally being reunited with her beloved husband, Harold, and this was a cause for joy, not sadness. And also because it was “impossible to take the proceedings too seriously, if the church looked like a mustard jar had exploded in it.”

  Beau had to admit, with so many people packed into the little chapel, the mustardy effect was real. As was the laughter and tears coming from the congregation as Artemia’s three surviving daughters regaled them all with hilarious anecdotes about the woman’s wilder adventures during her roller derby days and her brief stint on one of his mother’s favorite soap operas. Then they spoke of Artemia’s tireless work supporting the civil rights movement back in the ’60s, and more recently, of the enthusiasm with which she advocated for gay rights, sometimes donning her old roller derby socks and a rainbow wig and having great fun being a sassy senior shouting from a sequin-covered bullhorn as she marched.

  As Beau listened to these stories, his gaze shifting time and again to a portrait of Artemia that had been set up on an easel in the pulpit, he realized what it was about the woman’s passing that was hitting him so hard. With her short-silvery blond hair and feisty personality, Artemia reminded him of his Aunt Lucy. She reminded him of the Colonel’s passionate, news-reporting mother who’d been lost far too soon in that car accident. She reminded him of a woman he’d never really grieved over when he’d been a self-absorbed teenager.

  So Beau let himself think about her now. He let himself think about all the times his aunt had played chess with him when he was a boy, all the times he’d gone over to the White House to find her gardening or poring over one of her favorite National Geographic magazines. He remembered all the times she’d used to call him over for technical assistance when she couldn’t figure out why her “P.O.S.” laptop wasn’t working.

  Then he thought about all the times his Uncle Gray had taken him out on the Swamper at the boathouse, all the times they’d crossed the marshes together, sucking on popsicles the man had brought along in a cooler while they’d hung out with the lazy lizards under a warm Mississippi sun.

  Beau let himself think about of all this. And he let himself feel it.

  And when it was finally time to join the long line of mustard-colored parishioners at the front of the chapel, Beau did so with tears in his eyes as he paid his respects to all of them: the family he’d never really said goodbye to twelve years ago, and the little old lady he’d known for only a few.

  Artemia’s family thanked him profusely for coming as he moved through the line. A couple of her granddaughters hauled him in for a hug, Kylie dropping a quick peck on his cheek and Sue Ellen laughing as she shared with him that her grandmother had once told her she thought Beau would have made her a much better husband than the man she’d actually married. Sue Ellen’s husband, standing right beside her, let out a beleaguered sigh and informed Beau that Artemia had had no problem telling him the exact same thing. Beau winced as the entire Wells gang cracked up at the guy’s expense. Then he followed the yellow brick road of bodies winding towards the door.

  Beau exited the building with a sense of calm he definitely hadn’t felt upon entering it. For one thing, he’d made peace with some stuff. For another… he knew without a doubt who he’d make the best husband for. And he was certain Artemia would have thought she was kick-ass too.

  Beau smiled, skipping past the crowd heading for the reception in the meadow beside the chapel. It was pushing seven, and he still needed to pick Max up from the clinic before he headed over to Finkerton. He hoped he could make it over to the school before half-time. He had the sudden urge to squeeze in next to PJ in the stands, to wrap one arm around her shoulder and the other around his kid’s, and just let the world know that they were both the absolute best things that ever happened to him.

  But as he hastened toward the parking lot, Beau caught a flash of purple off to his right and slowed. Wildflowers bordered the sidewalk, colorful little blooms of violet and carnelian sprinkled with tiny white daisies. Beau stopped, figuring he had just enough time to pick a few for PJ, but before he could kneel to do precisely this, a familiar voice called out to him.

  “Beau!”

  He straightened, turned to his left, and caught sight of Noel Grantham striding from the administrative wing of the main sanctuary building. Beau wasn’t surprised to see him working so late on a Friday night. The man had always been married to the church, and when Beau had been five years old and a faithful member of the flock, he’d used to think Janelle’s father was Jesus.

  This was because, twenty years ago, Pastor Noel had worn his wavy brown hair on the longer side, and he’d had the same beard, mustache, and benevolent countenance as the man in the pictures of Beau’s storybook Bible.

  Six years ago, when Pastor Noel had been ranting at him in his office, Beau had thought he looked more like Kurt Russell in Tombstone.

  Now, as the man crossed the twenty or so feet of courtyard separating the two buildings, Beau just thought he looked old… and all too human. His gray hair had been cropped short, the beard and the ’stache were gone, and the only thing particularly Jesusy-looking about him were the worn-leather Birkenstocks he had on with his cargo shorts.

  “Was just finishing up a meeting with the elder board when I saw you through the window,” he said, holding his hand out in greeting.

  Beau shook it stiffly. “Was just at the service for Artemia Wells.”

  Noel glanced at his yellow sweater with a hint of amusement. “I can tell.”

  Beau shuffled his loafers on the ground, unsure of what to say next. It wasn’t like he’d had zero interaction with the man in the years since Max’s birth. Noel was his son’s grandfather after all, but usually when they saw each other at the odd family event, they’d just pretend the whole Wyatt Earp tirade in his office had never happened. But now as they stood upon holy ground, the silence lengthening between them, it was painfully obvious that neither one of them could forget it.

  “I should be going—”

  “Walk with me—”

  They both spoke at the same time.

  Neither one of them moved.

  Beau sighed, his gaze darting to the revelers in the meadow. Artemia’s family had set up two rectangular tables topped with bright yellow linens and mason jars full of the wildflowers. Both tables held pitchers of iced tea and platters full of refreshments, and there were clusters of people surrounding them, holding little paper plates as they chattered and laughed and munched.

  Beau smiled at the sight. It looked like Artemia had gotten the celebration she’d wanted after all. Sure, there were tears. But there was also so much love and joy in the gathering it was hard to hold on to the sadness.

  It also made it hard to hold on to old grudges. Beau turned back to the pastor, a soft May breeze kicking up and rustling the vines clinging to the old chapel and the trees growing beyond it. Suddenly, it felt like God himself was trying to tell him something.

  Noel seemed to sense this too because he lifted his face, closing his eyes briefly as he sucked in the subtle lemony scent of the magnolia blossoms permeating the air. When he opened them, he was smiling that old benevolent smile Beau had known as a boy. “Artemia was a remarkable lady.”

  “Yes, sir, she was.” Beau cast one last glance at the chapel before falling into step with the pastor. “I didn’t know she came here. She never mentioned it when she visited my office.”

  “Her family started coming about four years ago. Wanted a more progressive church."

  Beau raised a brow. “East Baton Rouge Evangelical is progressive?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Noel said with a snort.
“Times change. People change. Churches change too.” Noel swiped at his nonexistent beard, his gaze growing wistful. “Artemia used to stop by my office on occasion and debate with me on her favorite issues. She was sharp as tack. Knew her Bible inside and out. We’d go back and forth for hours. Then, of course, she’d try to set me up with her daughter, Marjorie, because, apparently, she’s the only Republican in the family, and so Artemia figured we’d be perfect for each other.”

  “Sounds like her.”

  “Yep.”

  They came to a stop in front of the parking lot. Noel glanced back at his office for a second before turning back to Beau with sad eyes. Then he sighed, the whisper of sound full of regret.

  Beau knew, without the man even saying it, what he was sorry about. “It’s okay—”

  Noel held up a hand. “No, son. It’s not. That day… when you and Janelle told me about her being pregnant… I said horrible things to you. You didn’t deserve it. You were honest with me about the situation. You could have tried to save face by lying and making up some story about you two dating and having a relationship and such, but you didn’t. You were brave enough to tell me about the party and the drinking, and all I did was light into you for it. I made you out to be some kind of rapist who’d drugged and deflowered my daughter, and I know that’s not what happened—”

  “Noel, I don’t know what—”

  The hand came back up. “You’re gonna have to let me finish here, Beau. I’ve got a lot to atone for. I let pride and the devil govern my behavior that day. I told you that you weren’t welcome at this church anymore, and that’s the absolute worst thing I could have done. I was wrong. And I’m sorry for it.” Beau swallowed hard as Noel’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I was sorry for it as soon as you sucked up everything I hit you with and calmly asked for my daughter’s hand anyways. I was sorry for it when I kicked you outta my office. And I was sorry for it when Janelle lit into me two seconds later and laid down some truth bombs of her own that no father ever wants to hear about their only child. Their only baby girl. The only one… they had left.” Now, Janelle’s father was the one swallowing, the lines about his face deepening as he bowed his head in remorse.

  “Noel…”

  The pastor looked up, their eyes locking as Beau nodded gently. “It’s okay. I understand. We’re good.” Even as he said it, Beau was surprised at how much he meant it, how good it felt to just forgive and move on.

  Noel smiled, his eyes shimmering. “I am glad to see you here again,” he said, thickly. “You are always welcome at this church.”

  “Thanks,” Beau said as he fidgeted with his car keys, “but I’ve been a little greedy lately with my weekends.”

  Noel chuckled. “Yes, my daughter tells me you’ve a new lady.”

  Beau scratched at his chin sheepishly.

  The pastor laughed, then pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket. “Well, make sure you wipe down before you go rushing off to her. I’m not sure she’ll take too kindly to the lipstick stains.”

  Beau flushed as he accepted a tissue. “Kylie and Sue Ellen got me coming through the line…”

  Noel laughed even harder. “I’m just busting your balls. I know how it is. I’m a pastor. I do weddings and funerals, and I baptize people’s babies. I reckon I get more lip action than some gigolos in Vegas.” Noel slapped him on the back again. “Now, you best be off. I need to go pay my respects to Ms. Artemia.”

  Beau waved as he headed for his car. “Maybe I’ll see you around the church sometime.”

  “Son, I am counting on it,” Noel whispered behind him.

  Chapter 44

  The last time PJ had been anywhere near Falcon Stadium had been during her first expulsion hearing four years ago. The exact reason for her dismissal from Finkerton had been chalked up to striking a faculty member. Truthfully, the shiner she’d given her old PE teacher, Mrs. Lyons, had been accidental as the woman had demonstrated some seriously poor judgment by stepping in between PJ’s right hook and Willa Capwell’s face.

  The exact reason for the right hook in the first place could have been chalked up to hormones, the pot-hole sized chip on PJ’s shoulder her freshman year of high school, or Willa’s constant harassment during a heated game of volleyball. PJ had been able to ignore most of the girl’s heckling about her appearance. She’d been experimenting a lot with a certain Marilyn Monroe—meets—Marilyn Manson look back then, so the digs weren’t unexpected, but as soon as Willa had started making cracks about her “white trash mama looking to hook up with a Browning,” PJ had snapped, and her fist had gone flying.

  Now, as she sat inside Falcon Stadium with Thelma on a warm Friday night in the middle of May, PJ wasn’t too sure her return to the school would have been sanctioned by certain members of the staff had they been aware of it. As it was, her old gym teacher hadn’t batted an eyelash when she’d sold PJ a game ticket, nor had anyone else seem to recognize her as she’d followed Thelma to the home side of the stands.

  This was probably because PJ didn’t much resemble the girl who used to stalk around the school’s campus in combat boots, fishnet tights, and a gallon of goth makeup. She also didn’t much feel like her anymore. While she was a little hormonal, given her time of the month and all, PJ certainly wasn’t the same angry chick she’d once been—

  Hoooooooooonk!

  PJ frowned at the sudden blare of an air-horn going off to Thelma’s right. The Falcons had scored, and all around them people were surging to their feet and roaring their approval for the fifty-yard rocket Jeremiah Dax had launched with unerring precision to his wide receiver, Tyrone Simms, who’d rushed it into the Jag’s end zone. The Falcons had just closed out the half with a game-leveling touchdown.

  Hoooooooooooooooooonk!

  Thelma flinched at the follow-up blast, and PJ’s frown deepened. Her client had picked the absolute worst time to leave her noise-canceling headphones at home, and even though PJ had loaned her a pair of ear buds, she knew they weren’t really helping to muffle the ear-splitting sound. Even for the average person, sudden loud noises could be irritating, but for someone with the type of sensory processing issues Thelma possessed, they could be downright painful.

  As the horn-blaster settled back down, laughing and high-fiving his buddy, PJ contemplated what she should do about the situation. Old PJ would have told the kid to fuck right off with that shit… or bared her claws. New PJ wasn’t so quick to jump to violence.

  Hooonk! Hoooonk! Hooooonk!—

  “Dude!”

  The guy laid off the horn and blinked at her in surprise. Judging by his gangly frame, pimply face, and braces, he was probably a freshman, and most likely, easily influenced by some good old-fashioned flirting.

  “Hey, sugar,” PJ said, forcing herself to remain calm as she leaned around Thelma and smiled sweetly. “My girl’s a bit sensitive to the noise. Can we maybe lay off the horn in the second half?”

  Braces looked at PJ for a moment, then looked at her boobs for a moment longer, then snorted. “Lady, this is Finkerton football. Finkerton-fucking-football! We bleed blue!”

  “No, you don’t.” Thelma was already shaking her head. “Your blood is red, and even when it’s oxygenated, it only changes to maroon—”

  “WE BLEED BLUUUUE!!!” Braces shouted this for God and everyone in the stadium to hear as he yanked at the front of his Falcons jersey. There was a chorus of the same from those who hadn’t yet jetted off to the bathrooms, and Thelma was left muttering about how this was “factually inaccurate.”

  PJ pulled a ten dollar bill from her wallet and tossed it at Braces. As the kid fumbled for the money in his lap, PJ yanked the horn out of his grasp. “Go buy yourself a hot dog and some manners, and don’t piss me off again.” Braces shot her the bird, snatched up the cash, and sauntered off with his friend.

  “Thanks, PJ.”

  “You’re welcome, Thelma.” PJ shoved the horn into the hip pocket of her pants. She’d worn a relaxed-fit pair of k
haki cargo capris in deference to the heat, and a stretchy purple tank top because she’d refused to wear either of the school’s colors. “Did you want something from the concession stand too?”

  “No.” Thelma’s gaze didn’t shift from the journal in her hands. She’d been using it to jot down notes about Jeremiah’s plays all evening. For a girl who didn’t like football, she seemed to be analyzing it remarkably well. PJ suspected the girl’s real issue with the game probably had more to do with her problems with her mother.

  Thelma looked up, noticing PJ still watching her. “No, thank you,” she amended more respectfully.

  “Cool beans. Well, I gotta pee. You good here?”

  “I’m fine.” Thelma went back to her scribbling.

  “Okay. Be right back.” PJ grabbed her backpack and high-tailed it to the nearest bathroom.

  The line coming out of the women’s room in the home stands was already snaking out the door, so PJ decided to hit up the one in the away stands. By the time she’d made it around the swarms of rowdy football fans passing through the stadium, it appeared the initial onslaught of women rushing to use the restroom had died down, so PJ was able to get in pretty quickly.

  After taking care of business and washing up, she exited much more slowly, staring at her flip-flops as she moved, not really taking in the distant sounds of the marching band putting on their usual show out on the field as she was too busy analyzing the swollen condition of her feet and obsessing over what it could possibly mean that she was still period-less at the half. This was how she ended up crashing into a wall of muscle right outside the facilities.

  “Fuck!”

  PJ jerked, her gaze swinging up to find annoyed amber eyes raking over her. They started at her breasts, softening with something distinctly appreciative before they shifted upwards, and then Wade’s entire expression soured as he recognized her.

  Donning her makeup that afternoon, PJ had gone for a look that was distinctly more Monroe than Manson. She’d glammed up her eyes with pearly eye shadow, a healthy dose of mascara, and her surviving set of lash extensions before dressing up her lips with Beau’s favorite shade of red. She knew she looked good, and Wade’s scowl of disgust was completely undeserved. She also knew that if she’d braved the stadium fresh-faced and freckly, it still would have been undeserved. She was beautiful either way, she was happy either way, and this idiot no longer had the power to hurt her.