Beard Science(36)

He laughed at that. So I laughed, shaking my head. I liked laughing with Cletus.

“I guess you feel pretty passionate about this, huh?”

“I do.” I lifted my chin.

Cletus stared thoughtfully at my upturned face for a moment before saying, “Do you realize how talented you are? Do you have any idea?”

“Thank you for saying so.” I pressed my lips together, administering the response I always recited when someone complimented me.

“I don’t think you do know.” He shook his head, his gaze scrutinizing. “It’s not just your baking. The way you handled that kitchen when I stopped by, all those people asking questions at the same time. You were the calm center of the storm. You were impressive. You are impressive.”

I gave him a half smile, swallowing a knot in my throat and endeavoring to suppress my absurd blush. I didn’t know what to say. Compliments in general made me uncomfortable, but compliments about something other than my baking prowess left me feeling like a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs.

My father frequently reminded me that pride was a sin. Meanwhile, my mother told me people were jealous of me, what I looked like, of my social media celebrity. I didn’t believe my mother. I didn’t think anyone was jealous of me. That was just nonsense.

Cletus’s eyes narrowed on me, his scrutiny becoming a piercing thing. “You don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that. It’s . . .” I struggled, “I don’t wish to be boastful or prideful.”

Cletus sneered. “You are the opposite of boastful, and your humbleness verges on infuriating.”

“Gee, thanks.” I rolled my eyes.

“Look, all I’m saying is that if a person is great at something, she shouldn’t have to pretend she's not, and she shouldn’t have to downplay her hard work. There's nothing wrong with humility or modesty, Jenn. But—for heaven's sake—take credit for being a badass.”

I pressed my lips together, but this time it was an attempt to hide my smile. “Okay, thank you.”

“Do you accept that you are a badass?”

“Fine. Yes.”

“Then say it.”

“Cletus—”

“Say, ‘Cletus, you are ceaselessly correct in all things, especially about the fact that I’m a badass.’”

“I will not,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“Hmm . . .” He wasn’t smiling. In fact he appeared to be irritated. Abruptly, he asked, “If your daddy likes Billy so much, why doesn’t he date him?”

I struggled again, trying to keep up with the rapid subject change, but quickly managed, “I think he would if he could, but he can’t. He’s married. And my father is a strict monogamist.” I kept my voice light, hoping to see another of Cletus’s smiles.

He didn’t smile. In fact, he frowned, deeper and more severe than before, his eyes focused someplace over my head as he unceremoniously announced, “My father had three families.”

I stiffened and felt my eyes widen; but I caught my mouth before it fell open. “Pardon me?”

His eyes cut back to mine briefly, then fell to the rocks at our feet. “He had three families that I know of. My momma was his only legal wife. Darrell married Drew’s sister while he was still married to my mother. Her name was Christine.” His eyes flickered over me again before he added, “They didn’t have any children before she died.”

A moment passed while I absorbed this information. I felt lost in the conversation, not knowing why or how we’d come to the subject, or why he was sharing it with me.

Finally, I offered lamely, “I . . . I had no idea.”

“Not many people do. In fact,” he studied me again for a long moment, his expression growing contemplative, “none of my family knows about the other one, Darrell’s third family.”

“How did you find out?” Wind stirred and lifted my troublesome lock of hair, flinging it across my eyes; I pushed it out of the way.

Cletus tilted his head back and forth, as though considering how best to respond. “It’s complicated. But basically, I found him—my half-sibling—accidentally when I got tested and typed for the national bone marrow registry. I was a match, but it was a mistake.” He shook his head, looking frustrated, and swallowed some thickness in his throat. “Darrell’s son lived in Texas.”

“Texas?”

“That’s right. Texas. My momma always told us that, way back, our father’s people were Native Americans. We’re Yuchi, a small Native American tribe native to this these lands.” He gestured to the area around us. “Most were killed by Cherokee in a dispute orchestrated by a corrupt white fur trader, very few survived. That’s its own strange story for another time. Anyway, those who survived were either absorbed into the nearby Cherokee tribe or sent to be slaves on plantations. My direct ancestor married a French trader and, there you go.”

“How about that.” I wanted to hear the entire history, about the corrupt fur trader, but decided that conversation could wait given the giant information missile he’d just detonated.

“Anyway. Darrell’s other woman, the woman he married—not legally, but even so—her name is Susan. She’s half-Cherokee, somehow involved with the Cherokee casinos. That’s how they met. At a casino. She didn’t know about us. She didn’t know we existed. She had no idea Darrell was already married with seven kids. So when I showed up, asking about her son and his ancestry, I gave her a shock.”

“This is crazy.”

“I thought, when I first found about my half-brother—about our match—that we were related through some distant Yuchi ancestor, since most with lineage to Yuchi are part of the Cherokee Nation.” He huffed a laugh. “Ironically, our ancestor was much more recent.”

I stared at Cletus for a beat, absorbing this information. “Why haven’t you told your brothers and Ashley? Don’t you think they’d want to know?”

Cletus’s eyes drifted to some spot over my shoulder and dimmed, grew distant. “He died.”

My hands flew to my mouth. “Oh my God.”

“He died of cancer about five years ago. Our brother died when he was twenty-four. I never met him. His momma remarried after Darrell left them without a word some twenty-five years ago. She had three more sons, by a good man. None of them were a match.”

“Oh, Cletus.” Unthinkingly, I reached for him, wrapped myself around his body, and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t reply, his arms unresponsive by his sides. But I didn’t care. The man needed a hug. I’m a firm believer that if a person needs a hug, you give that person a hug. So many times I’ve been in a situation where I needed a hug, and instead had to settle for a good cry on a pillow at the end of the day.

And I knew I’d made the right decision when he repeated on a whisper, “I was a match.”

I buried my face against his chest, squeezing him as hard as I could until he finally lifted his arms and wrapped them around my shoulders. We stood together, embracing, while the sparrows lifted their voices once again. The sounds of the nearby stream filled our ears.

Cletus was warm. The light was soft. And absurdly, the cadence of the water made me think of tears.



If I’d had any lingering doubts, they were now permanently dispelled. Darrell Winston was a reprehensible human being.

I couldn’t imagine what Cletus felt, how angry he must’ve been with his father. Nor could I comprehend how Susan felt, finding out two years too late that her son had a bone marrow match, and that match was a half-brother.

“The truth can be like people that way,” Cletus said, lifting an eyebrow at me.

I blinked at him, confused. “Pardon?”

I was sitting at the edge of the clear water stream, pristine enough to drink. Multicolored pebbles dotted the shallow riverbed. I’d taken off my shoes and dipped my toes in, and actually enjoyed the cold. Cletus stood off to one side, leaning against a tree.

“The truth can be like people,” he repeated.

“How so?”

“Sometimes,” the side of his mouth tugged upward with a humorless smile, “it’s real ugly.”

I sighed, knowing he was right. The truth about his half-brother was ugly.

“Take your father for instance.” Cletus’s tone was meticulously conversational, but I detected an undercurrent of frenzied resolve.

I stiffened my spine and squinted, suspicious of his intentions. I wasn’t quite ready to talk about my father. “What about him?”

“He’s real ugly.”

My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The man is ugly,” Cletus proclaimed with a grumpy single head nod. “And I’m not just talking about his exterior.”

“Cletus Byron Winston, you are being rude.” I might have my own less than glowing thoughts about my father, but he was my father.

He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut and did a double take, his eyes narrowing on me. “First of all, how do you know my middle name?”

“Your momma used to use it when you were naughty, when you boys would help her shelve books in the library. ‘Cletus Byron! Stop stuffing Astrophysics Monthly down your pants!’”