Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(55)
Author: Penny Reid

I didn’t know what else to say.

Perhaps if I’d been in my right mind; perhaps if it weren’t the morning of my mother’s funeral; perhaps if every single one of my previous experiences with physical intimacy hadn’t ended with me being discarded, I might have asked him for an explanation.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t have the energy.

I pressed my lips together, nodded slowly, and pretended. “I see. Well, thanks. That makes things a lot easier. I guess I should pack.”

“Sandra already did that,” he said, his face and his tone expressionless.

“What?”

“Sandra, she already packed your stuff.” Drew tightened the towel around his waist.

I nodded again and removed my eyes from him, not wanting to see him. Instead, I glanced around his room, not really noticing much. The bed was bigger than mine. His leather notebook was on his bedside table. He had no pictures anywhere.

I inhaled a steadying breath, turned, and walked to the door, mumbling, “Jethro is probably going to give me the stink eye if I make him late.”

I was out the door, down the hall, and outside the house before I started to cry. I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I nearly collided with Sandra. She was still holding my coffee and pastry.

***

Momma’s funeral was an exercise of going through the motions for the sake of going through the motions. I’ve never been a fan of funerals for more than the obvious reasons. Of the emotions, mourning in particular feels like something that should be sacred and intensely private.

The entire town showed up at the church. My brothers and I sat in the front pew, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was on display.

Regardless, other than having to share my grief with a few hundred people, it was a lovely service.

I didn’t cry until Mrs. Beverton, the choir director, sang the second verse of “Amazing Grace.” I feel like it’s compulsory to play “Amazing Grace” during a Christian funeral. It’s the only way to make sure everyone leaves sobbing like a baby.

Billy put his arm around me and held me close; my other brothers and Drew were the pallbearers. Drew stood out from the rest as the tallest, and he was the only blond one in the bunch. All I saw was the back of his head as they carried the casket to the hearse. All I felt was empty.

Billy and I were swarmed on our way out and spent as much time as we could listening to people recount stories of my mother’s kindness. Eventually we had to break from the crowd and drive to the cemetery in order to make it in time for the burial.

Upon arriving, we were ushered to a tent set up next to the burial site. Billy and I took the last two chairs in the front row next to Jethro and Cletus. Drew and my younger three brothers were in the second row behind us, but Drew was on the far side, four seats from where I was seated.

I told myself I didn’t care, and I think I believed it, mostly because I was burying my mother. Drew, me, us—it didn’t really matter. I was having one of those nothing matters because we’re all going to die anyway moments.

I watched with some fascination as they lowered Momma’s casket into the ground after a few prayers.

Reverend Seymour then expected us all to place a handful of dirt on top. I refrained.

When it was over, I glanced over my shoulder and saw my friends and their husbands standing at the back of the tent, all in black dresses and suits. Drew was talking to Quinn and Fiona. The three of them seemed to be in deep conversation. My attention moved over the rest of the group, and I caught Marie waving and blowing me a little kiss. I gave her a grateful smile.

I also noticed that two of Momma’s hospice nurses were present, Marissa and Joe. They were standing together, holding hands, and both gave me gentle smiles as our eyes met. I suddenly realized that neither Roscoe nor Billy had ever been in the running for Marissa’s affections, and I wondered how I could have been so blind to what was happing around me over the last six weeks.

What else had I missed? What else had I not seen?

As the crowd departed for the reception, several of Momma’s friends from the library started blowing bubbles over the gravesite.

“Naomi Winters is a wiccan, I think.” Billy leaned close and whispered this information in my ear.

“What do bubbles have to do with being a wiccan?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, but if it bothers you…”

“No. It’s fine.”

Billy and I stayed behind from the crowd, let the cars clear out, and watched the ladies blow their bubbles. I glanced at his usually serious face and found his mouth curved upwards in a half smile.

Unprompted, he said, “Do you remember when we were kids and we had that bubble machine?”

I nodded, immediately recalling the memory. “You and Cletus put it up in a tree and told me the bubbles were fairies.”

He grinned, his eyes losing focus. “You were so cute. I think you actually believed in fairies and unicorns and all that stuff.”

“I used to.” I nodded, remembering fleetingly how it felt to believe in magic.

“I think when you left, you took that with you,” Billy said unexpectedly.

I glanced at him again, searching his face. I didn’t want to tell him that when I left, I’d buried that part of myself, much like we’d just buried our mother.

“You’re a good woman, Ash. You deserve happiness, unicorns, rainbows, and bubble fairies. Don’t settle for less.”

I swallowed and smiled at my brother; when I managed to respond, my voice was rough and uneven, “Thanks, Billy. You too.”

Of the seven kids, he was definitely the toughest. But I suspected he also felt things the most deeply.

***

The reception was held at the library, and that’s when Darrell showed up.

Really, we were lucky. He could have crashed the service, making the entire day unpleasant. For him, it was quite thoughtful to wait until the end of the day’s events to make a scene and attempt a kidnapping.

Unluckily for Billy and me, we were his targets.

Billy pulled into the library parking lot, which was so full we had to park on the grass. I was just getting out of the car, straightening my dress before walking in with Billy when I felt a hand grab my wrist and yank me off my feet. I would have fallen except my father wrapped his arm around my waist, half lifting me.

I gasped then screamed. He slapped me hard across the face twice, and my cheek hurt like a bee sting radiating outwards, down my jaw, around my eye.

“Shut your mouth, girl. You do not scream at your daddy.” He shook me roughly, tossed me against the car, then grabbed me again.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Billy run around the car and charge my father. Unfortunately, my father wasn’t alone. Two very large bikers reached Billy before Billy could reach me. One punched him in the gut and the other hit him over the head with a metal pipe of some sort. He crumpled, falling face first into the grass. He didn’t have a chance.

Fear for my brother spurred me into action. I struggled in my father’s grip and managed to stomp his foot and elbow him in the ribs. His hold loosened just enough for me to head-butt him; the impact of my crown hitting his nose gave a satisfying crunch. I hoped I broke his nose, because my head hurt like a futher mucker.

He released me at once, his hands coming up to his face. I screamed long and loud as I debated what to do next.

Should I run to Billy? No. The bikers were between me and my brother. That effort would be futile.

Should I look for a weapon? No. I was on the edge of a library parking lot, not in a ninja locker room.

Should I try to make a break for the library? Yes. Because Darrell was the only one between me and the building, and Darrell was busy cussing and screaming about his nose.

Just for good measure, I kicked him in the shin with my pointy black flats as I ran past. I was aiming for his balls, but chickened out at the last minute.

I heard the bikers shout behind me, but I didn’t spare a glance to see if they were in pursuit. I sprinted around a large bush and began to cross the throughway separating the parking lot from the library when I was nearly run over by a car.

The car swerved to keep from hitting me, and it missed by itches. It was a police cruiser, and sitting inside was Jackson James. He was staring at me like I’d beamed down from space.

I ran to the driver’s side door and nearly tackled him when he opened it.

“Jackson, I need your help, I need your help.”

“Ashley, slow down, slow down. What happened to your face?”

“Forget about my face, you need to come with me.” I tugged on his sleeve, trying to get him to move to where Darrell and his biker buddies were doing God knows what to my brother.

Jackson dug in his heels and placed gentle hands on my shoulders. “Calm down, I know you just came from the funeral and you got to be real upset, but you shouldn’t just run in front of cars—”

I growled, “To hell with this!” and reached for his sidearm.

That’s right, I took his gun.

That must’ve shocked the poo out of him because I was already around the hood of his car and beyond the bush when I heard him shout, “Ashley Winston! Did you just take my gun?!”

I had no idea if he followed.

I jogged back to where Billy’s car was parked and found the two bikers loading my brother into his trunk; my daddy was leaning against the side of the car holding his nose, his head tipped back.