I frowned, restlessness pulling my eyes to the hallway that led to the kitchen. I knew Jennifer baked fresh items every Saturday and Sunday. Billy had made it back to the homestead at 11:00 PM the previous night. Assuming he’d dropped her off fifteen minutes before coming home, this meant she’d slept less than four hours.
Concern had me leaving the bakery, walking around the building, and trying the back door to the kitchen. It was unlocked, so I walked in.
What I found shouldn’t have astonished me if I’d stopped to consider readily available evidence, but I was surprised.
There, in the calm center of a frantic activity storm, was Jennifer Sylvester. She wore her yellow dress costume and high heels; her blonde wavy hair was pulled back in a net, and thick, expertly applied makeup covered her features. She was wearing the Smash-Girl apron and she was baking, but she wasn’t the only one.
She had a staff of at least ten. Jennifer was directing traffic and her voice was not soft, or feeble, or anything resembling a woman with no backbone.
I stood stock still for at least three minutes and watched her work, correcting someone to her left, answering a question thrown from her right, all the while filling delicate puffy balls with crème. She was making crème puffs.
“Hey, Cletus.” I turned at the greeting and discovered one of the Tanner twins giving me a wide grin. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh . . .” I was going to say I was there to see Jennifer, but clearly she was busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.
Blithe Tanner—at least I thought it was Blithe, though it could have been Blair—lifted her eyebrows expectantly. “You need something?”
“Cletus?”
I turned at the sound of Jennifer’s voice. She was walking over to me, wiping her hands on a towel. At the last minute she sucked her thumb into her mouth, her pink tongue darting out to lick crème from the digit.
My throat was suddenly and curiously dry.
“Hey, Jenn. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She gave me a soft smile and shook her head. “You’re not interrupting. I was just finishing up an order for tonight. Banana crème puffs. Do you want to try one?”
Before I could make an excuse—because I was absolutely planning on making an excuse—she grabbed my hand and tugged me over to her workspace. Stopping short, she turned on me, plucked a crème puff from the counter and held it up to my mouth.
“Open up,” she said, her eyes on my mouth.
So I did.
She placed the puff on my tongue, her attention still fixed on my lips. “How is it?”
I didn’t moan, but I wanted to. Instead I finished chewing and said with forced composure, “That might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
She grinned, looking sublimely happy, and I suddenly wanted to pay her all the compliments, as long as she kept smiling.
But then her mother’s voice bellowed, “Jennifer! Are you finished with the— Oh.” She stopped short, her eyes jumping over me; she looked truly perplexed. “Cletus Winston. What are you doing here?”
I stood straighter and gave Diane Donner-Sylvester a deferential head nod, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her question.
“He’s here because of Billy,” Jennifer lied, untying her apron.
“Oh.” Diane frowned as she looked between the two of us.
“The puffs are all finished, as are the four banana cakes. Blair will arrange them into their boxes. I’ll be right back.” Jennifer tipped her head toward the Tanner twin I’d spoken to moments ago, then reached for my hand and led me out of the kitchen to the back door. She hung up her apron and darted outside.
I studied her momma as we left, the shrewd woman’s confused surprise morphing into confused suspicion.
Once again, Jennifer’s speed was impressive for a short woman in high heels. This time I walked beside her rather than at a distance behind. We were a good fifty feet away from the bakery when she stopped suddenly and spoke.
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” I said automatically, and I meant it.
“I like your hair cut,” her eyes moved over me, appraising, and her smile returned just before she wrinkled her nose, “and your beard. I’m not used to seeing it so short, though. It’ll take me a while to get used to it.”
I stroked the shorter length and scowled. “My barber takes too much liberty.”
She chuckled, lifting her hand like she was going to touch my face, but then she snatched it away and lowered her eyes to the ground. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I asked dumbly, half of my wits still back in the kitchen with her fingers placing a banana crème puff in my mouth. I glanced at the fingers in question. Her nail polish was burgundy.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and ensnared my eyes. “Thanks for pushing Billy into going on that date. I’m going to make him a banana cake to say thanks, as he really went above and beyond.”
“Is that so?” I frowned, and it was not on purpose. It was just a plain-old frown based entirely on what she’d said. “Define above and beyond.”
“Well, funny thing about that. He was a real gentleman, even when Jackson approached me.”
“You mean at the jam session?”
“No. I mean at The Front Porch. Jackson was there, at the restaurant, and he came over to our table while Billy was in the men’s room.”
My frown intensified. All on its own. Without consulting me.
“What?” My question arrived much sharper than I intended.
“Cletus . . .” Jennifer’s eyes were wide with an emotion I couldn’t quite read and she was twisting her fingers.
Meanwhile, my heart was beating erratically. All on its own. Also without consulting me.
“What is it?” I stepped closer and placed a hand on her arm, needing to touch her for reasons I didn’t understand.
“Cletus, Jackson asked me out.”
I stared at her and her words, not grasping her meaning. “What do you mean? Out where?”
She gathered a large breath, her gorgeous eyes searching mine, her expression oddly circumspect, and said on the exhale, “He asked me out on a date.”
CHAPTER 13
“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
~Cletus~
I was early.
The appointed time for our Monday lesson was 9:30 PM. It was now 9:17 PM.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel of my car and glared at the back door of the bakery, debating my options.
On Saturday, after Jennifer had detonated the Jackson James bomb, her mother promptly bellowed for her to return. We didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation because Jennifer left me standing on the edge of the parking lot while she jogged in her high heels back to the kitchen.
I’d been fixating and distracted since.
Witnessing Jennifer’s command of the kitchen had been a sight to see. I kept thinking I was proud of her, but then dismissed the thought. I had no right to be proud of her. I wasn’t responsible—indirectly or otherwise—for her success and abilities. She was responsible. I just hoped she was proud of herself.
And then there was the small matter of Jackson James and his intentions. My intuition told me his intentions weren’t pristine.
And yet . . .
My eyes flickered to the dashboard. It was now 9:28 PM. Two more minutes.
What to do about Jackson wasn’t my call. I’d signed on to help Jennifer find her backbone so she could use it in all facets of her life, and that was still the plan. Although she very clearly used it already in her kitchen. With ease.
But still . . .
The back door opened and Jennifer peeked her head out. She was scanning the lot for my car. I saw the moment she spotted it. She stepped more completely out of the kitchen and waved me over. I exited my automobile and strolled with measured steps to where she stood, endeavoring to mask my internal conflict.
“Come on in,” she whispered as I approached. “I made you some crème puffs. And Billy’s cake is ready. Do you mind taking it back to him?”
“Not a problem.”
Jennifer moved to the side, giving me a wide berth, then closed the door. It was cold and I was wearing my jacket. She stepped around me and crossed to the stove. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her yellow dress, her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she’d washed the mask of makeup from her face.
I thought maybe this is what she’d look like at home, after work, with that husband of hers she so desperately wanted. Whoever he might be, I was coming to realize he’d be a very lucky man.
“Do you want something to drink? It’s been chilly today. I can make tea.” Water was boiling, or had just been boiling, from a blue and white kettle.
“Tea would be nice.”
She gave me a friendly smile then moved to fill the two cups she’d laid out with hot water.
I studied her. She appeared to be at ease, which was a huge change from just two weeks ago. Her nail polish was now blue, and instead of pearls she wore a delicate gold chain with a cross.
“I know you’ve probably been too busy to think about my problem, but I’d appreciate your advice,” she said, stirring the tea.