Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(41)
Author: Penny Reid

When I finished, I was again greeted with silence until Roscoe stood from his seat and began pacing.

“I don’t like this,” he said. Of the seven of us, Roscoe knew Darrell as a tormentor and not so much as a father-tormentor. I understood his initial reaction because I shared it.

“What does she need to tell him?” Duane asked, his face scrunched in confusion. “What could Momma possibly say?” Then, using his most cheerful voice, he said, “Hello, Darrell, you’re an asshole. I hope you burn in hell.”

“Maybe she’ll murder him and save us the trouble.” Jethro mumbled this from where he sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor.

Billy stirred from where he’d been leaning against the fireplace. “What I want to know is how does she plan to keep him from taking the house? Legally separated or not, they’re still married.”

“I think I can answer that,” Drew said, staring forward, his jaw set. “I think I can answer both questions.”

Drew’s eyes sliced to mine and held my gaze. I thought I detected a hint of regret and longing before he addressed my brothers.

“When your mom signed over her power of attorney and made me the executor of the will, she also signed over all your trust funds to my control. I bought this house, everything in it, and the land from her, for one thousand dollars.”

I’d always heard and used the term silence filled the room, but I don’t think I’d ever experienced the sensation of silence actually filling a room until that moment. The silence filled the room until I thought the walls might buckle under the pressure of it.

Billy’s mouth opened and closed, his mind obviously having difficulty grasping the situation. I imagined we all wore similar expressions.

Drew continued. “She also set up an S-corp with the two of us as co-owners. She transferred all her savings and investment accounts—the inheritance from your grandparents—into the company, then removed herself as a partner. The only account she’s kept in her name is the checking account with the local bank in town where her paycheck is deposited from the library.”

“Why…why would she do that?” Beau’s words were choked, confused.

“She said at the time that she was afraid your father would somehow clean her out in the divorce. She wanted to put everything in my name, transfer all the assets, until the divorce was over.”

“She must’ve known she was dying.” Cletus’ voice—steady and neutral—surprised me. Of my brothers, he seemed to be absorbing this news and seeing the situation with the most clarity. “If it was about the divorce, she would have asked one of us to help. She didn’t want us to know she was sick. She didn’t want us to be put in a bad position when she died.”

Again, silence filled the room. It was the silence associated with seven brains working hard to understand the motivations of a dying woman.

Drew’s eyes flickered to mine; he appeared to be bracing himself and his gaze was guarded like he expected me to be angry at this revelation.

But I wasn’t angry. At first, I was astonished. Then, as the puzzle pieces came together, I felt relieved.

Because if any one of us—my brothers or me—had been placed in Drew’s position, we would have been targeted by my father. He would have thrown everything in his arsenal of manipulation at us. I was not angry with Drew, but I certainly did not envy him. My father was not a good man.

I crossed to where he was still leaning against the arm of the couch. He stood as I approached, his arms falling to his sides, his expression cautious.

I stopped far enough from Drew to give him his space. “Have you met him before? Darrell?”

“Yes. Once.” His gaze was watchful, like he didn’t know what to expect from me, but he was bracing himself for the worst.

My eyes lowered to his chest and I watched it rise and fall several times before I spoke again. “I’m worried for you, Drew.”

“Don’t be.”

I lifted my eyes to his, held them. “He’ll make your life hell when he finds out.”

He returned my sentiment with a small and rueful smile. “He’ll try and he’ll fail.”

“Please let me know how I can help you.”

Drew gave me a subtle shake of his head, his eyes growing both hard and heated. “I told you before, I don’t need anything from you.”

I flinched, rocked back on my feet, but Drew caught my hand and held me in place.

Just then, though I couldn’t see him, I heard Billy’s voice say, “I agree. I don’t like being kept in the dark, but…man, Drew, you’re in for a huge shit storm when Darrell arrives. All hell is fixin’ to break loose. You got to let us know if we can help.”

“Someone get that man a beer or a whiskey,” Jethro said, and the room erupted in tension-breaking laughter.

“Or both!” Beau smacked Drew on the back and walked toward the kitchen, presumably to get the whiskey and beer.

The loud chatter of the Winston boys eclipsed the stunned rigidity. My brothers began discussing the full meaning behind all the planning my mother had done and Drew’s part in it.

Meanwhile, in the midst of their conversation yet completely separate from it, Drew and I regarded each other. He still clasped my hand, staying any potential retreat.

At length he said quietly, “I mean it, Ash. I know your life isn’t here. I know your place and your people are in Chicago.”

I nodded, pressing my lips together in an I-get-it smile, because I understood him perfectly on this point. But when I tugged against his hold, he didn’t release me.

“Drew.”

“Yes?”

“Let me go.”

He hesitated, his eyes moving over my face. “Not yet.”

I scrunched my nose at him, not trying to hide my irritation, and huffed, “I thought you didn’t need anything from me.”

“Yeah….” His hand tightened before he released me. I heard him mumble, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want something,” just as Beau approached and handed us both a whiskey.

CHAPTER 18

“i like my body when it is with your body.”

― e. e. cummings

I had to butcher the roosters.

Well, I didn’t have to butcher the roosters, but someone had to, and I’d promised my mother that I’d do it.

I’d butchered plenty of animals before, when I was growing up. We used to keep goats, rabbits, chickens, and ducks. We didn’t keep geese because they’re partial to biting. Plus, they’re nasty, ill-tempered bastards.

Three days had passed since I’d called Darrell Winston. We’d heard nothing from him, and everyone was on edge.

My time in Tennessee was growing short; the seasons were changing, and soon I would be back in my apartment, back to my job and my life. Even my brothers seemed to sense my impending departure.

Jethro asked for my address in the city. Roscoe and I consulted a calendar, trying to find a date in December when he could visit over the winter break. Cletus and the twins suggested a road trip to junk yards in Chicago, hopeful that they’d be able to discover a treasure trove of rusted classic cars that could be hauled back to Tennessee.

My mother was now sleeping most of the time, so visits from her friends at the library and the minister were usually brief, or we’d make an excuse. When she was awake, she was hazy and her speech was slow. I could feel her drifting away, disappearing. A growing part of me recognized that I had no control over the situation.

But another part, stubborn and willful, struggled against the slippery hours, wanting time to stand still.

So, instead of sitting inside all day and going crazy watching my momma breathe, I decided to let my brothers take a turn so I could butcher the roosters.

It was a solid plan. I had the cone all set up, and the knife; I was wearing my oldest jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt with a tank top underneath, and work boots. I had on the same old, black apron I used to wear for the occasion as well as the fitted leather gloves.

Nevertheless, when the time came for me to do the deed, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had that damn rooster upside down in the cone, disoriented and still, but I just couldn’t do it.

I heaved a frustrated sigh, released the rooster, stood, and kicked a nearby bucket. Kicking the bucket felt really good, so I decided to punch a bundle of straw. That felt good too, so I kept doing it.

I don’t know how long I spent raging against the straw—maybe a minute, maybe twenty. When I finally stopped I was red faced; my loose braid had come undone, and my hair was wild around my shoulders. My legs, arms, and stomach were sore from the workout.

Breathing hard, I ripped off the gloves and placed my hands on my hips, glaring at the straw. It looked just the same.

“Feel better?”

My head whipped around, searching for the origin of the voice, and found Drew standing at the edge of the chicken yard, his thumbs in his belt loops, his dark green T-shirt tucked into his dark green uniform pants, his cowboy hat on, and a stern expression on his face.

He would have melted my butter if I’d been in any mood to be butter…or to melt.

Who am I kidding? My butter melted as soon as I saw his hat.

I was irritated—with the roosters for crowing, with my momma for dying, with my father for being evil incarnate, and with Drew for melting my butter when I wasn’t in the mood to be butter…or melt.