Beard Science(61)

I quietly removed my shoes at the front door and tiptoed into the house—much like I’d done the night before—but was surprised to find my father awake in the kitchen. I frowned at him and he frowned at me from his spot at the table.

I glanced around the room, searching for some sign as to why he was awake. My father had to be at work by 6:00 AM and I never saw him up this late.

“I called Momma and left a message earlier,” I explained, feeling the urge to defend myself proactively. Staying late at the bakery was not unusual. As long as I called, I didn’t wake my parents to let them know I was home. “I told her I would be home around midnight.”

He nodded once, two unhappy lines bracketing his mouth. “I know.”

I frowned my confusion. “Is everything okay?”

“Come. Sit down.” He motioned to the chair next to his, his face grave. “We need to talk.”

I hesitated, my mind loud with all the things he might want to discuss. I couldn’t remember the last time my father and I had talked about anything. Maybe once, when I was sixteen and I’d won the state fair baking contest for the first time. He reminded me that pride was a sin.

My mother told him to hush, giving him the evil eye when she overheard, then proceeded to tell me how proud she was.

But at present, I couldn’t think of anything he’d want to talk to me about.

Maybe the New York trip? Maybe he wants to remind me that pride is still a sin.

I dismissed this theory. As long as my success brought in money to the family, he didn’t seem to care whether or not it was sinful.

“Jennifer, come sit down.” His tone was hard. He was angry.

I hesitated. What had I done to make him angry? I tried to think.

Unless . . .

And suddenly I knew. The room tilted just slightly and I leaned a hand on the counter at my side. My father knew about Cletus. Dread and fear pumped through my veins.

But you will not allow fear to control you. You are in charge of yourself and your decisions. No one else.

“Jennifer!”

My name was a demand and it made me jump; it also spurred me forward. I crossed to him with slow, shuffling steps, gathering my courage and resolve along the way. I walked calmly to the proffered chair and sat down, folding my hands on the table.

“What would you like to talk about?” I asked, my gaze even, my voice steady. Nevertheless, my nerves were taut and I braced myself for extreme unpleasantness.

I think I surprised him, because his frown intensified. “I want to talk about your behavior over the last few months.”

I gritted my teeth and pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t say something nasty.

When I was fairly certain I could trust myself to speak without being disrespectful, I said, “I’m moving out.”

I hadn’t decided until just now. But this moment, coming home to my father’s displeasure—his perpetual displeasure—was enough to answer the question. I was moving out.

Something flickered behind his eyes, a flash of something like mockery and disdain. “Oh? Is that so?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“With Cletus Winston?”

I nodded again. “That’s right.”

“And how will you live? Or is he going to be your sugar daddy?”

I didn’t flinch, but his words felt like a slap. “I’m going to what I always do. I’m going to bake.”

He leaned forward unexpectedly, shoving his face in mine. “Your momma will not be paying you a single cent, young lady. You leave, you move in with that boy, then you’re dead to us. Do you understand?”

I blinked at him, my face suddenly hot, my hands suddenly sweaty. I struggled to swallow. This was the only home I’d ever known. I thought about what it would mean, to be disowned.

My father had disowned Isaac. He never spoke of him. My momma still did. I could tell she pined for her lost son.

But, to my father, it was like he’d never existed.

I loved my parents.

I loved my father.

But for the first time in my life, I questioned why. Why did I love this man? I didn’t know. I didn’t know why I loved him. He’d never particularly liked me. He’d never been especially loving.

I stood, clearing my throat, and backed away from the table. I pushed in my chair. All the while my father followed me with his eyes, rage making the veins rise in relief on his forehead.

The last several months had led me here and it was a terrible moment. But I knew what I had to do. I lifted my chin, holding on to my composure by sheer force of will.

“If that’s what you want, then so be it.” My voice was uneven, shaky, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. “I’m not going to allow you to control me. Not anymore.”

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. I’d surprised him.

Hastily, gathering his wits, he pointed at me. “I don’t think you understand. You leave here with nothing. You take that car, I’ll report it stolen. You’re walking out of here with those disgraceful clothes and nothing else.”

“I understand perfectly. I’m not stupid.”

“Yes. You are stupid.” His tone was flat and hateful. “You’ve always been stupid. Why do you think your momma had to homeschool you? Do you really think Cletus Winston, Cletus Winston, is going to stand by you? Be a good provider? Do you think he’s going to stay with you? He won’t. He’ll leave you high and dry—just like his daddy did to their momma—and then you’ll have nothing. Nothing.”

I shook my head, my insides growing cold and numb. “I don’t need him to provide for me. If momma doesn’t want me at the bakery, then I can go elsewhere.”

“You think so?” His jaw ticked with frustration and his eyes narrowed threateningly. “We’ll sue you. We’ll sue you and you’ll never get a job. Never.”

“I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you’re so hateful. Why are you this way?”

“He’s blackmailing me,” he shouted, banging his fist on the table, every syllable dripping with fury. “That stupid bastard is blackmailing me and he will not win.”

I winced, the violent volume of his oath made me stiffen.

My father used to use the belt on us when we were kids, but my momma made him stop when I was ten. He hadn’t raised a hand to me since, but the madness in his gaze gave me reason to suspect he might try.

“Do you want to be with a man like that?” He stood and charged toward me, forcing me to take several stumbling steps backward. “Huh? A man who would blackmail your own father? You say I’m controlling? I’m nothing, nothing in comparison to that evil son of a bitch.”

I crossed my arms, holding myself, inching away from him. “What do you mean? How is he blackmailing you?”

“That’s not important.” He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, wiping his lips. Something about the movement struck me as panicked. “Can’t you see? I’m trying to save you.”

“I don’t need to be saved.” I backed up another step, so ready to leave. So ready to be done with this. “I’ve never needed to be saved.”

“Oh yeah? Then what do you think you need, Jennifer?”

“Nothing you can give me.”

He flinched, standing straighter. My father struggled for words, finally saying softly, “Your momma and I, we love you. How can that mean so little to you, after everything we’ve done?”

I stared at him and, for the first time, I felt like I was really seeing him. He didn’t love me. He used the word love like a weapon, as a means of control, as a way to ensure my blind obedience. He made it ugly.

He didn’t love me.

He loved the money I made for the bakery.

He loved the comfortable lifestyle my momma had built.

He loved his stature and reputation.

Cletus’s words came back to me from so many weeks ago: Your father is ugly, and I’m not just talking about his exterior.

He was right. He was so right. I was done with him and his ugliness.

“Goodbye,” I said simply, meaning it.

My father must have heard the truth in my farewell because he blinked at me, rocking back on his feet, dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed, like he was too shocked to respond.

Taking advantage of his astonishment, I left quickly. But I barely held on to my tears long enough to stroll out of the kitchen, run to the front door, and sprint down the driveway.

I started to cry on the main road when I realized I’d left my shoes behind.

And all the letters from my pen pals.

And my mother.

And the only home I’d ever known.





CHAPTER 26


“And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.”

 Byron



~Cletus~

I was going to miss the quiet of this house. Memories, both good and bad, were loudest late at night, when everyone was asleep but me.

Presently, I was sitting in my grandmother Oliver’s favorite chair next to a fire, covered by her favorite quilt, and reading her favorite book, the second volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes. The woman loved mysteries, and she loved rereading the same ones time and time again. Even when she knew what was going to happen, she liked finding new clues, said it made her more observant.

If everything went according to plan, Jennifer and I would be moving into Claire’s farmhouse just after Thanksgiving, and everything was going according to plan. My time in this old house with these old memories was drawing to a close.