Beard Science(32)

I sighed and glanced in my rearview mirror, my chest aching as I watched shadows and shapes of movement within the shop’s garage. My eyes snagged on my nails where they rested on the steering wheel. They were painted black.

Yes. Black.

I’d painted my nails black.

I’d also stopped wearing the yellow dresses during the day, preferring to bake in jeans, T-shirts, and Converse. And I’d made an appointment with my hair stylist for mid-November. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to my hair, but I did know I was going to change it.

My mother was not happy. There had been much wringing of hands and wailing over the last few weeks. But each time she threw a fit, I met her hysteria with calm reassurances that I still wore the yellow dress and heels during the special events, and when pictures needed to be taken for social media. It didn’t matter what I wore in my free time.

Regardless, she gave me indigestion-face whenever she spotted me without full makeup, or wearing jeans, or my hair in a ponytail. Sometimes I’d catch her mumbling the word farmer.

My father also seemed to be at a loss. On the one hand, I hadn’t corrected his assumption that Billy Winston and I were still seeing each other. “Billy Winston” seemed to be the magic phrase; I could do no wrong as long as Billy and I were potentially an item, à la, “Billy likes it when I wear my hair like this.” Or “Billy likes these shoes.”

On the other hand, his default these days was enabling my mother. He’d never been good at saying no to her, so the last few weeks hadn’t been pleasant. Plus recently, every time he made a comment about my intelligence, I left the room. I didn’t try to turn it into a compliment or make excuses for him. I just stood and left.

I debated leaving the auto shop now, driving off without stopping in, because I didn’t have much of a plan. I’d made a new recipe, blueberry pancake muffins, so basically, muffins that tasted like blueberry pancakes. On a whim I thought since Cletus had liked the butternut squash pie experiment, he might enjoy being my first taste-tester for the muffins.

So, in summary, I no plan. I only had a whim.

Movement in the rearview mirror caught my eye and I glanced at the reflection once more. Beau Winston was walking toward my car, a wry smile on his handsome face, his dirty coveralls zipped open to his waist showcasing a pristine white undershirt.

Caught, I took a bracing breath and grabbed the plate of muffins; it felt like a shield. I exited my car.

“Hey, Jenn,” he said with a friendly smile, his gaze traveling to the plate I held, down to my shoes, up to my hair—which was in a ponytail—then back to my eyes. “Something wrong with your car?”

“Hiya, Beau.” I cleared my throat because my voice was squeaky with nerves. “No. Nothing wrong with the car. I was just driving by and thought I’d stop in and bring y’all some muffins.”

His blue eyes—which were already clear and bright as the summer sky—brightened further. “What’d you bring?”

Some of my nerves dissipated; it was nice to see baked goods would always be welcomed. “Um, something new I’m trying out. They’re blueberry pancake muffins.”

He laughed lightly. “They’re for Cletus, right?”

“No, no. They’re for all of you.”

He narrowed his eyes, his look suspicious. “Blueberry pancakes are his favorite.”

“Are they?”

His glare of doubt diffused. “You didn’t know that?”

“No. I had no idea.” But I did make a mental note.

“Huh. Well.” Beau’s gaze moved over me anew, like he found me to be a curiosity—and not in a bad way—then turned and motioned for me to follow. “Come on in. I’m just finishing up. I can make some coffee and we’ll hang out for bit.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.” I was surprised by the offer. I’d never had a real conversation with Beau Winston, but I’d formed an opinion during my people watching. He was unfailingly friendly and quite popular with the ladies.

He glanced over his shoulder and slowed his steps so we could walk together. “Wait ’til you try my coffee. I doubt it’ll do justice to your muffins.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. They could taste like feet,” I warned.

He barked a laugh, his eyes twinkling at me with real warmth. “I seriously doubt that anything you made could—”

“What is the status of the Ford Expedition? Did you finish with the radiator?” a female voice, shaded with a Yankee accent, interrupted just as we stepped into the garage.

I didn’t miss how Beau stiffened at my side even as I searched for the owner of the voice.

Almost immediately, I spotted her. She was hard to miss, standing just three or so feet away. Her eyes grabbed my attention first. They seemed to glow and were the most vibrant dark blue I’d ever seen, like sapphires. The rest of her was just as striking.

She was tall. Like, really tall, six foot or more, and her shape was that of a healthy supermodel. She wore no makeup, but her skin was flawless, her lips generous, and her cheekbones impossibly high. She had one of those perfectly proportioned faces, the kind magazines are always talking about as the definition of true beauty.

Her brownish, blondish hair was braided in a thick rope down her back. The austere style only served to highlight the dramatic exquisiteness of her face. She was stunning in coveralls. In fact, she looked like she might’ve just walked out of a fashion shoot even though she was covered in grease. I couldn’t fathom what she’d look like in normal clothes.

The woman’s gaze moved over me with disinterest. I honestly had no idea how old she was. Though her face had no visible wrinkles, her features were mature and her eyes exuded an awareness I’d only ever witnessed in those of advanced age.

“Shelly.” Beau’s sharp tone pulled me from my gawking. “This is Jennifer Sylvester. You’ve probably heard of her banana cake. Jennifer . . .” his earlier levity had entirely disappeared, replaced with a stern and shuttered glare, “this is Shelly Sullivan. She’s new to town and works here.”

I extended my hand toward Shelly. “Nice to meet you.”

She looked at my offered fingers, then at me. Shelly set her teeth and crossed her arms. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Her tone was flat and frustrated and it quickly became obvious she wasn’t going to shake my hand. I let mine drop, feeling disoriented and embarrassed. I wondered what she’d heard about me, if someone had said something disparaging. Or maybe she didn’t like me because of the whole Banana Cake Queen persona.

“Don’t take it personally.” Beau gave me a small, reassuring smile. The warmth left his face once again as he turned his eyes to Shelly. “She doesn’t shake anyone’s hand.”

Shelly’s eyes dropped to the cement for a brief moment and I got the sense she was just as—if not more so—embarrassed as I was. But then she lifted her gaze to Beau and it was bursting with defiance.

He met her glare with one of his own.

Meanwhile, I stood there, stuck between their glares.

When I couldn’t tolerate the tension any longer I sought to fill it. “How are you settling in, Ms. Sullivan?”

Her cobalt eyes moved to mine and some of the rigidness eased. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, uh, how are things? How’s your place? Do you need anything? Are your neighbors nice?”

She studied me for a long moment, like I was something interesting. She reminded me so much of a regal bird of prey, and I couldn’t help but compare her to a hawk or a falcon: proud, beautiful, clearly intelligent, and yet distant and removed somehow.

Untouchable.

Finally, just before the silence grew untenable, she answered, “My house is adequate. I need potholders, I keep using towels and I’ve burned my hand three times. I haven’t met my neighbors, so I don’t know if they’re nice.”

I grinned, because I liked how she’d answered my questions, straightforward and without any artifice or fuss.

“Maybe you should make more of an effort,” Beau snapped.

I gaped at him and his rudeness. I’d never seen or heard Beau Winston be rude to anyone. He didn’t seem to notice my stare because, though his next words were addressed to me, Beau kept his gaze on Shelly. “I’ll go start that coffee.”

He walked away.

Shelly followed him with her eyes until he left the garage and was lost to the sunlight. She brought her gaze back to mine, again looking at me like I was something interesting.

“He doesn’t like me,” she said simply, sounding thoughtful rather than upset about her observation.

My ingrained instinct was to reassure her, respond with something like, Oh, I’m sure you’re wrong. I’m sure he likes you. But I got the sense Shelly Sullivan didn’t suffer false pleasantries.

Plus, I was curious . . .

“Why do you think he doesn’t like you?”

“Because he said to me, ‘I don’t like you.’” A small smile hovered behind her hawkish eyes and I was surprised by their twinkle, especially given the subject matter.

“Does that bother you?” I asked, before I could stop myself, then attempted to explain my curiosity. “I have plenty of people who call me all sorts of names on social media, and folks around town call me uppity sometimes. Or they say I’m simple when they think I can’t hear them.”