Beard Science(28)

“Yes. Taffy,” I said gently, and smiled when she smiled and shrugged. “I like to live dangerously.”

She opened her mouth, just about to ask me something and I couldn’t wait to find out what, when Jackson cut in impatiently. “By eating taffy?”

“Yep,” I turned just my head and gave him my profile. “It puts my dental fillings in grave peril.”

Jennifer laughed. I smiled at the sound, allowing myself the luxury of looking into her eyes. She had an appealing laugh. And a great smile.

“Are you ready?” Billy—in all his handsomely smooth, well-maintained glory—sidled up to Jennifer and wrapped his arm around her waist. “We should head out if we’re going to dinner.”

She turned surprised eyes to my brother, then to me, then to Jackson. I sidestepped, cutting off Jenn’s view of the latter and forgave Billy just a little for putting his hands on her. “That’s right. You two kids go get that steak. Have fun.”

I tried to herd them forward. Unfortunately, Billy was a gentleman and took the time to shake hands with Sheriff James and Judge Payton before moving off. Meanwhile, I maintained my defensive position, blocking Jackson from seeing or following them, until Billy’s tall head was out of sight.

“Dammit, Cletus.” Jackson, growing exasperated, shoved me to the side and craned his neck, presumably searching the crowd for Billy and Jennifer. “What is wrong with you?”

“Was I in your way?” I squinted at him and smiled, deciding that leprosy via armadillo infection was definitely in his future.



When I awoke on Saturday morning I had a hankering for baked goods. Unless Duane was making his blueberry hotcakes, my breakfast consisted of three hard-boiled eggs, an avocado, a grapefruit, and a half liter of water. I saved my special coffee for after breakfast.

Today I didn’t want eggs. I wanted . . . a muffin. Or whatever.

Though I’d stayed up the previous night until Billy arrived home, he was irritatingly circumspect with details. I swear, getting information out of him sometimes was harder than getting blood out of a turnip.

I showered quickly, intent on making it to Donner’s Bakery for whatever Jenn had cooking, and ask her directly how the date had gone, i.e. did I need to maim Billy? Or had he been a gentleman? Or, even if he’d been a gentleman, did I still need to maim him?

After toweling dry, I wiped the foggy mirror and grabbed my comb. But I halted mid-brush stroke when I caught sight of my reflection.

My hair had grown long, falling over my forehead and ears, reaching the back of my neck. It looked messy—well, messier than usual—and it was past time for a trim. Spur of the moment, I decided I’d stop by the barber on the way to the bakery and have my hair seen to.

While I was pulling on a pair of dress pants and the dark gray shirt Sienna had bought me for my birthday, Beau popped his head in my room.

“Hey, Cletus. I was thinking about—” He’d stopped speaking so suddenly, I looked at him. He was staring at me like I’d grown rooster feathers.

“What?” I glanced at my outfit then back to his face.

“Today isn’t Sunday,” he said, his eyes on my shirt.

“I know that.”

“Then why’re you dressed up?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Beau walked all the way into my room and stood behind me. We were both reflected in the closet mirror. “Who are you going to see?”

I shrugged. “No one.”

“Is it Shelly?” he asked suddenly, scowling. “Are you two involved?”

My answering frown was immediate, because I’d hadn’t spent much time thinking about Shelly; I needed to add her to my to-do list. “I’m not involved with Shelly. At least, not yet.”

Beau stiffened and he crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means, eventually, I’ll see to her. She and I are suited.”

His eyes dropped to where I was fastening the dark gray buttons over my black undershirt and he was quiet while I finished up.

I walked around him to my shoes and sat on the bed to pull them on.

“You think you two are suited?” he finally asked.

“Yep.”

“How long have you, uh, felt this way?”

“Since I met her and determined ours would be an ideally placid union    . Why?” I lifted an eyebrow at his reflection; he hadn’t moved, nor had his eyes moved. He was staring unseeingly at the mirror.

“Because I . . .” he hesitated, tugging a hand through his hair and turning away from the mirror to face me, “I would have made an effort to be nicer, if I’d known you were interested.”

“Beau, you should be nicer regardless of my feelings on the subject. You’re nice to everybody else. You know what momma used to say: if you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it's tied.”

His lips formed a flat line and he nodded once. I inspected my brother. He was unhappy, and unhappy was not a normal state of being for Beau.

“Is there something going on with you?” I asked, giving him ample opportunity to share his troubles.

His eyes lifted to mine and he twisted his lips to the side. He stared at me, carefully masking his thoughts and saying nothing for a time. Then he shook his head.

“Nope. Nothing is going on with me.” Beau’s tone was deliberately devoid of telling emotion.

I scrutinized him further.

“Stop it, Cletus.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to peer into my mind.” He cracked a half smile, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I would never do that, Beau. Your mind is a depraved and dissolute place. I would fear for my eternal soul should I manage a glimpse inside.”

He grinned at my teasing and I was pleased to see it. “That’s right.” He turned to the door and called over his shoulder as he left. “And don’t you forget it.”



Kevin Arthur liked cutting hair. I reckoned his desire was a good one, considering he was a barber. However, Kevin always wanted to cut more inches off my hair than requested. We argued every time I came into his shop.

I told him my hair needed weight, otherwise it stood straight up and out, and my head—which was larger than average already, likely to accommodate my massive brain—resembled a cantaloupe on a toothpick, with cantaloupes being the least esteemed of all fruit.

He maintained I needed a short cut, with the sides clipped close, and the top longer and thinned. He said the thickness of my hair was responsible for its propensity to misbehave. He said the cut would bring all the girls to my yard.

This was doubtful. First of all, I didn’t want girls in my yard. I didn’t want anyone in my yard. My yard was fine just as it was: self-maintained.

Secondly, I’d never been popular with the women folk. Women, or at least the women I knew, didn’t much enjoy my lack of willingness to deal with bullshit. For that matter, most men I knew didn’t enjoy this about me either.

Bullshit was the adult version of Santa Claus. For reasons I’ll never comprehend, the general population seemed to enjoy wallowing, spouting, and believing in bullshit.

But back to my barber

I left Kevin and two inches of my hair at his shop in Knoxville. We’d argued about the length. He finally acquiesced and quit his badgering. Then he moped. So, against my better judgment, I let him trim and shape my beard. I came to regret this decision. He’d cut it too short and it now had a distinctly manicured appearance.

I was ridiculous. I gave myself five minutes of feeling ridiculous, and then moved on. I had muffins on my mind and it was already past 10:30 AM.

Donner’s Bakery was on the far side of Green Valley and definitely not on my way home. The bakery was attached to the Sky Lake lodge, the only property still in the possession of Don Donner’s family, Jennifer’s great grandfather. Diane Donner-Sylvester had inherited the lodge in a state of disrepair, her father having squandered the family fortune and whittled the Donner hotel empire down to almost nothing.

I had to park some distance from the bakery entrance. Surprisingly, the lot was nearly full. I tried to recall the last time I’d been to the bakery other than late at night, two Mondays ago, and realized it had been several years.

The property looked significantly different since my last daylight visit. What had been run-down and shabby was now as well manicured as my recently trimmed beard.

All the buildings had been freshly painted and the landscaping was top-notch. Both the bakery sign and the lodge sign looked brand new and the parking lot had been repaved. The bakery had a new awning, French-style wrought-iron tables and chairs along the window, and apparently—I realized upon entering—had been completely remodeled on the inside.

As soon as I stepped into the bakery I was assaulted by the smell of heaven. This I recognized, because it had been the same aroma I’d encountered two Mondays ago when Jennifer let me into the back door of the kitchen. I approved of this smell.

I also approved of the concoctions in the display case, each more elaborate than the last. And of course, set to one side in a glass pedestal of honor, sat three whole banana cakes, and one half banana cake. Apparently, some people had a slice of banana cake for breakfast.

That sounded like an excellent idea to me.

As foretold by the plethora of cars in the lot, the bakery was busy. I leaned to one side and scanned the counter. Jennifer wasn’t at the register and she wasn’t taking orders, which made sense. She was probably elsewhere, baking.