Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(36)

“It sounds irrelevant.”

He chuckled. “It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. We have so much polling data on voting trends and it’s perception over substance that sways the vote, time and time again. Your job is the substance, I get that. But my job is the perception, and perception gets people elected. I’ll do my best. But this kind of thing, a single man with no family, no fiancée, right before the race really starts to ramp up, it’s a problem.”

Glaring at the Wednesday appointment details, unable to figure out who added it to my calendar, I leaned back in my chair, scratching my beard. “Okay. Ms. Mason, anything else?”

“That’s all we have, Congressman.”

“Fine. ’Til next week. Bye.” I hung up just as Karl said something, some kind of protest.

I reread the title on the Wednesday all-day appointment, Block for Buonarroti Simoni tour—no calls.

“Buonarroti Simoni.” I tried sounding it out, checking to see if I’d recognize what it was by hearing it, and then it clicked. “Michelangelo?” I asked my screen, picking up my cell phone to type out a quick text to Becca.

Billy: Who blocked off Wednesday on my calendar? And what is Buonarroti Simoni?

She messaged back almost instantly.

Becca: Your brother asked us to block off a few days on your calendar for sightseeing while you’re over there. I thought you’d approved, should I change?

I stared at the text, debating. Sightseeing wasn’t something I’d planned on, but I wasn’t opposed to it. Session was out for the summer, the volume of state business was at a minimum, and I was getting most of my calls out of the way today and tomorrow. Usually I’d be at the mill right now, working full days, but Dolly Payton had come out of semiretirement to take over while I ‘recuperated.’ This had been decided without my blessing and, as she put it, for your own stubborn good. Therefore, mill business was in excellent hands. And I’ve always wanted to go to Rome . . .

However, something about the calendar entry, that no one had seen fit to consult me on, struck me as suspicious.

I sent Becca a new message.

Billy: Which of my brothers asked you to block off my schedule?

Becca: The email was from Duane Winston with a list of dates. I can forward it.

I relaxed at this news, relieved it hadn’t been Cletus. If Cletus had made the request, then I knew something was up. Furthermore, Duane wasn’t a great communicator, especially about stuff like this. He probably figured he was doing a nice thing, setting up tours and whatnot while I was here.

Still, he had time to set all this up while taking care of a newborn?

My phone buzzed again; a calendar reminder that I was already late for my next call lit up the screen. Putting away thoughts of Duane and tours and Rome, I dialed in, sitting back after I announced I was on the line and waited for the rest of the labor committee to join. Most of this call was spent on mute. Mostly, I was there to make sure the Modesto lobbyist didn’t try to sneak any line-item measures into our fair compensation bill.

About halfway through the hour-long conference call, Jethro came in with a tray of food, placing it on the bed next to the empty tray from lunch.

I lifted my chin in greeting, muting the line to say, “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll come down between calls.” My family was still sending up trays every time I missed a meal. Since I’d managed to walk down the stairs last week, I figured they would’ve stopped. No such luck.

He shrugged, picking up a pair of my pants I’d left on the bed, folding them as he looked around and whispered, “We know you’re busy, but you still need to eat.”

I waved to the phone. “I have them on mute, no need to whisper.”

Jethro placed my newly folded pants on the dresser, yawning and crossing to me. “You want me to wait?”

Examining my oldest brother, I bit back the impulse to say something dismissive or mean. In my experience, the only undertaking more difficult than forming new habits is breaking old ones.

Being around Jethro wasn’t easy, I still hadn’t grown accustom to the cease-fire between us. Looking at him, I saw a man who’d chosen loyalty to others over his own family. Why had Ben McClure ever been more important—his death more meaningful to Jethro, more of a reason to repent and change his ways—than us? Family first. Always. Always.

Not sometimes. Always.

“Nah, I can take it downstairs when I’m done,” I finally said, trying on a small smile that felt too tight. “You look tired. Go to bed.”

Nodding, he scanned the top of the desk where I was sitting. “Let me get this stuff out of the way.” Reaching over my laptop, he picked up my plate from lunch, my napkin, my fork, the vase—

“Wait. Leave that.” I covered his hand, guiding it and the vase back to the top of the desk, earning me a squinty look from my brother.

“I can bring up some fresh flowers if you want.” He pointed to the vase. “Those are all dead.”

I placed the little bud vase with the three wilted poppies next to my laptop. “Just—just leave it.”

He wrinkled his nose at the vase, at me, and then turned. “You are so weird sometimes,” I heard him mumble, taking the dirty dishes back to the lunch tray and picking up the whole load. “By the way,” he said on his way to the door, “that’s fettuccine alfredo in the bowl under the plate. Claire put a lid on it to keep it warm, said it won’t taste as good if you don’t eat it soon. Thought I’d pass that along.”