Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(110)

I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”

I halted, only because the woman sounded like Jenn, and twisted toward the voice, anticipation filling my lungs before I could quell the instinct.

And there she was.

Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig on her head, a yellow dress on her person with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck.

Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.

Jenn rushed to close the distance between us while I stood stock still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes and I sighed quietly.

She jogged to me in high heels.

She must’ve just left work.

As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.

When Jenn was about five feet away, her smile—looking forced—widened unnaturally and she said, “Hey, there you are.”

“Here I am.” I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets.

She stopped abruptly about two feet away, unable to come closer without moving the Donner Bakery box to one side, and that would have been awkward. It was a big box, both a literal barrier as well as a figurative representation of what separated us.

A second ticked by. She said nothing. Maybe because I was glaring at the box. I didn’t want to be the first to speak; I was too persnickety to be trusted. But then I remembered Drew’s request, and I relented.

“Drew says hi,” I said.

There. That’s done. Message conveyed.

“Oh.” The word was airy, like she was out of breath. If I’d just jogged a hallway in high heels, I would’ve been out of breath, too.

Another second ticked by, then another, and that deep well of frustration began to rise, reaching my esophagus and higher, flooding my chest with suffocating disappointment.

Damn it.

I felt her shift closer and the movement drew my attention to her sweet face and gorgeous eyes.

“Please don’t be mad.” The hope in her features had been entirely eclipsed by guilt. “I am so sorry. I would have been on time, but Mr. Badcock sold all my eggs to somebody. And then he was treating me like I was a person of suspicion, like he couldn’t trust me. Truth be told, he was downright hostile.”

What’s this? Hostile?

Stepping around the box, I came to her side, my hand automatically lifting to her back. “What did he say to you?”

Note to self, Richard Badcock, add to list: Maim for mistreatment of my Jenn.

“Nothing harsh.” She quickly shook her head, holding my gaze and allowing me to steer us down the hall, away from the entrance. “But I did have to convince him to sell me eggs again, and then he’d only sell me eggs with an advance and a deposit. And then, once that was settled, it turns out he did have a few dozen in his house, which he eventually gave me. But trekking up the hill and back down again took longer than I’d planned.”

I stopped in front of the door leading to the stage area of the old cafeteria and pulled out a key to unlock it, listening intently to her egg-tale while keeping an eye out for any passer-bys or hangers-on. I didn’t need folks following us or asking me about how it was that I possessed a key.

“So, when I got back to the bakery,” she went on, her words dripping with fatigue, “momma was in tears, ‘cause my daddy had just called. You know, he wants half the hotel and the bakery, so he was threatening her with that again.”

I grimaced. I was aware of Kip Sylvester’s reprehensible behavior: he’d popped up again this last week after being mostly gone for just about a month, making all kinds of threats.

“When she stopped crying, there was still the custard to make, and only four dozen eggs. After some fretting and discussing the issue with Momma, I decided it was best to go to the store and pick up a few dozen eggs there—since Blair Tanner had already left, I was the only one to do it—and use half Badcock eggs and half store bought to get the most out of the Badcock four dozen. I’ll need them later this week.”

“Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. We were enveloped in dark, which meant she couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.

“Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge. Used the last of my vanilla; I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs,” she finished with an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness.

I took the infernal bakery box, set it on a nearby crate, and then brought her near a corner, placing her back against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.

The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Apparently, most folks had moved to on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.

“Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the groves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.

“I think so. Momma is going to drive out there tonight and drop off a deposit check, try to smooth things over with him.”