Beauty and the Mustache (49 page)

Duane nodded his agreement. “I hate that
guy, always pulling me over.”

“
Were you speeding?” I
asked.

“
Hell, yeah.” Duane paired
this with a wink and a grin.

Cletus and Alex were deep
in conversation as they approached the porch; I saw that Cletus was
clutching his chessboard, and Alex was holding several
boxes.

“
Oh, hey Ash…Drew.” Alex
nodded to us like it was perfectly natural for him to be there. I
loved that. I loved that he felt that way.

Cletus stopped just long enough to give Drew
an intense stare. “So…now can I welcome you into the family?”

Drew nodded. “Yep. Now you
can welcome me into the family.”

“
Okay. Welcome to the
family.”

Then Cletus and Alex disappeared inside.

Sandra came next, carrying a large punch
bowl full of white fluid.

“
It’s moonshine eggnog,”
she explained, huffing a little under the strain of the heavy bowl.
“It’s not actually all that bad. Quinn didn’t like it, but then he
doesn’t like anything except his wife.”

“
Where is everyone? Did
they fly back?” I asked, moving to help her.

“
No, no—I got it. Everyone
flew back that night after Jethro told us what he’d done. To be
honest, it was a relief.” Sandra walked quickly inside, calling
over her shoulder, “It saved us from having to plan something
similar.”

Billy climbed the stairs
with leisurely steps, holding bags full of wrapped presents. His
expression was cool yet untroubled. When he reached Drew and me, he
stopped. He glanced at me then he moved his eyes to Drew and said,
“I expect you to treat her right. I expect you to make her believe
in magic again—fairies, rainbows, all that shit. We understand each
other?”

Drew nodded, reaching out his hand to my
second brother. “Yes, sir. We understand each other.”

Billy glanced at Drew’s
hand, placed one of the bags on the porch, then accepted it for a
brief, firm shake. He then glanced over his shoulder as he picked
up the bag and added, “Ashley, will you get rid of that guy,
please?”

As Billy walked inside,
Drew and I turned our attention to beardless Jackson James. He was
hovering in the driveway, standing just in front of his car. When
he saw me looking at him, he gave me a little wave.

I gathered a deep breath and returned his
wave with a polite smile, saying to Drew, “Do you think you can
handle that crowd in there?”

“
I think so…for a little
while, at least.”

“
I’m going to go find out
what he wants,” I said, tilting my head in Jackson’s
direction.

Drew nodded, his eyes tranquil and bright.
“You do that.”

He leaned down and gave me
a soft kiss, then walked inside to deal with our crazy
family.

I eyed Jackson for a beat
before I walked leisurely down the steps to meet him on the
driveway.

“
Hey, Jackson.”

“
Hi, Ashley. I hope you
don’t mind me following Duane for a stretch. When he said you were
in town, I thought…well, I need to talk to you about what happened
with Darrell, when you took the gun.”

I crossed my arms over my
chest, hugging myself against the cold. “Did I take the gun? I
don’t remember that. I remember you handing me the gun.” This was
the story I’d told the police on the day of the attempted
kidnapping.

Jackson smiled. “Yeah.
Well, thanks. And I’m sorry I went to park my car rather than come
help you. I didn’t know what you were doing. I should have followed
you.”

I shrugged, walking to the
hood of his car and leaning against it. It was still warm. “It’s
over now. Nothing can be done about the past.”

Jackson turned so that we
were still facing each other, the house behind him. A troubled
frown cast a shadow over his handsome features; he studied me for a
beat before adding, “Well, your daddy and his buddies pled guilty,
no contest. They’re doing three to five in Bledsoe County. So, at
least you won’t be seeing him for a while.”

“
That’s a
relief.”

“
Ashley,” he said
suddenly, taking a half step forward, “I’m really sorry about your
momma. She was a very kind woman…a good woman.”

“
Thanks, Jackson. I
appreciate that.” My eyes drifted over his shoulder, detecting
movement from the house. Beau and Duane were standing in the window
facing the driveway. Their arms were crossed. Their faces wore
similarly stern expressions. They were looking at us.

Jackson, noticing the
direction of my gaze, twisted to look over his shoulder. Both my
brothers took this opportunity to use the index and middle fingers
of their right hand to point to their faces, then turn the fingers
back on Jackson in the universal symbol for
I’m watching you.

They did this in unison.

I rolled my eyes. “Just ignore them.”

Jackson looked back at me
and grinned. “Nah. It’s fine. They don’t like me much since Darlene
Simmons and I went on a date.”

“
When was this?” I
remembered Darlene from high school. She was two years older than
us—same grade as Duane and Beau—and every guy’s cheerleader
fantasy.

“
Oh….” Jackson squinted,
bent down, and picked up a rock from the driveway. “I guess about
three years ago.”

I barked a laugh. “Looks like they need to
get over it.”

He nodded, his warm brown
eyes searching my face, a hesitant smile on his lips. A brief
silence fell between us as he looked at me and I allowed him to
look.

At last—seemingly shaking
himself—he said, “Ashley, I didn’t want to be bugging you while you
were going through everything with your momma, but I did want a
chance to speak with you for just a few minutes.” He halted,
hesitated, his eyes sweeping over my face.

“
Sure.” I
shrugged.

“
The thing is,” he
started, stopped, glanced at the rock in his hands, “I wanted to
apologize, for the way I treated you after high school. I wasn’t
nice, and I wasn’t fair, and you deserved better.”

The words were nice and
they made me realize that I needed to hear them. I also realized
that it’s never too late to apologize, but some apologies come too
late.

“
Don’t worry about it,
Jackson. I appreciate the apology, but that was all a long time
ago.”

He nodded, looking up at
me again. “Yeah, but I’ve wanted to tell you for a long
time.”

I pressed my lips together
and gave him a smile, which he returned. We stood quietly looking
at each other for another beat before he said, “So…you and Drew
Runous, huh?”

My smile grew. “Yeah. Me and Drew.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is it serious?”

I nodded, my smile
morphing into a giant grin. “Yep. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a
chronic condition.”

***

Our first Christmas
together was a happy one because it was spent with
our family surrounded by people who loved us.

Although, I could have
done without Sandra leading the twins in a rendition of “She’ll Be
Coming Down the Mountain When She Comes”—note the verbiage
change.

As well, Momma’s bits of
wisdom whispered in my head from time to time.
Happiness and rheumatism keep getting bigger if you tell
people about them.
She was right. Sharing
happiness with my family made it feel bigger.

With the whispered words
came a big
ah-ha
moment. I realized that those seemingly random sayings, the
ones I didn’t understand at the time, were her way of telling me
everything I might need to know. They were how she tried to answer
all the questions I wouldn’t be able to ask after she was gone. I
was so thankful.

They gave me comfort. They
gave me peace. And they made me feel like she was still here
somehow, guiding me along my clumsy path.

Drew and I still had
issues to discuss and details to work out. I still needed to go
back to Chicago, give notice, find a job in Tennessee, and go
through the motions of uprooting my life so that we could be
together. So we could live each other every day.

It was a hassle. I didn’t
want to leave him, but life is hard. Change takes time. And change
that is lasting takes planning and care.

On the day before I was
set to fly back to Chicago—since I didn’t have my truck, I wasn’t
going to drive—I found Drew in our wildflower field. He was sitting
on the cold ground surrounded by dead stalks and stems.

He appeared to be staring
at the mountain above our valley, eyes squinting, elbows resting on
his knees. His cowboy hat was in his hands, and his fingers held it
lightly, like he trusted the hat to stay put without having to
support its weight.

I was bundled in a blanket
from the house. It was the old quilt that covered my bed, and it
reminded me of my mother. She and my grandmother had worked on it
just before my grandmother died. My momma had finished the quilt on
her own.

“
Hey, care for
company?”

Drew glanced over his
shoulder, a welcoming—albeit almost imperceptible—smile warming his
features. “Always, if it’s you.”

I crossed to where he sat. The snow had
melted then refrozen, leaving ice on the ground. It crunched under
my boots with each step.

We stayed like that—him sitting, me
standing—for a few minutes. The world was cold. The wind smelled
like ice. The trees had lost all their leaves. The top of the
mountain was covered in snow.

“
Poetry isn’t for
civilized society.” Drew said this suddenly, breaking the moment,
but then saying no more.

I decided to prompt him
when I sensed he would not continue without a push. “How so? I’ve
read plenty of safe-for-work poetry.”

“
I’m not talking about
greeting cards and sentimentality, not the stuff that gently warms
your heart or makes you feel nostalgic.” He lifted his eyes to
mine, his expression stark and sober. “I’m talking about the kind
that burns you, leaves scars, the kind that you regret reading
because you can’t forget it. It’s a wild, feral thing. It has claws
and it bites.”

I studied him as he said
this, how his eyes flamed with ferocity. I wondered if the same
could be said about him. He was a bit of a wild, feral thing. I
didn’t doubt that he would leave a scar. I’d been given a sneak
peek into what it would be like if he decided one day that I wasn’t
his cup of sweet tea.

I closed the remaining
distance separating us and took a seat next to him; lifting the
quilt so it wouldn’t get wet and not particularly caring whether
the frost covering the ground made my pants damp.

Drew glanced at me, his gaze quickly taking
a survey of my face. “You look like you want to say something.”

“
I wondered….” I hesitated
because my thoughts weren’t fully formed. Rather than keep him
waiting, I spoke what I felt. “I wondered, when I first arrived,
why Momma put so much trust in you. But I think it was because
she’d read your poetry. Reading it is knowing you. Poetry is the
representation of feelings as words. It reveals a person’s
heart.”

He studied me, his silvery
eyes flashing as they moved between mine. “I’m glad you know my
heart, because you are my heart.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help
it. I smiled so hard it hurt my face and I thought I might sprain
something.

He didn’t seem to mind.
His eyes grew soft, distracted as they moved from mine to my lips.
“You ruin me with your smiles.”

I frowned, shaking my head at him.

“
What? What did I
say?”

“
You’ve got to get the
poetry under control, otherwise I’ll drag you into my room and
we’ll never leave, I’ll never find a job, we’ll become sexy
hobos.”

I was gratified to see a
massive grin spread over his features, lighting his eyes. He lifted
a single eyebrow, his voice dipping low with Texas charm. “Really?
Then allow me to say….”

I cut him off by covering
his mouth with my hand. “Yes, really. I’ll become a sex addict and
need counseling, maybe start going to sex addict anonymous
meetings.” I removed my hand and pulled it through my hair, adding
as an afterthought, “Which aren’t at all that anonymous in Green
Valley, Tennessee, because everybody knows everybody.”

“
I’m not thinking about
everybody. I’m thinking about your body.”

I nudged his shoulder with
mine, enjoying the way a smile changed his face. His eyes became
the color of a luminous sky, his mouth and teeth framed by his
bushy beard.

Without intending to, I blurted, “I love
you.”

“
I love you, too.” He said
without hesitation.

My heart skipped in my
chest; it was a happy heart skip. “Really? Are you sure? You know,
I have trouble believing anything that’s not written down. Maybe
you should write a book about it.”

“
About it?”

“
About how much you love
me.”

“
I already did that.” He
squinted at me, and I could tell he was trying to fight a
smile.

“
I know.” I couldn’t help
my grin. “Write another one. And after that one is done, write
another…then another.”