Beauty and the Mustache (22 page)

I frowned at this. “Had a
sister?” The words slipped out of me and betrayed my surprise. I’d
expected him to say,
Yes, I have a sister.
Her name is Christine.

“
Yes. She died.” He added
in a rush, “She committed suicide when I was ten.”

“
Oh!” My hand lifted of
its own accord and affixed itself to his arm again, squeezing him.
I shifted a half step forward. “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been
really terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“
Why do you ask?” His
voice was gravelly and tense, as if the memory was a fresh wound.
Her death seemed to affect him with the same force twenty years
later.

“
Uh, I was going to
suggest that, since you seem to think of my brothers as your
brothers and you care a great deal for Momma, that maybe you and I
could find some common ground too. Maybe you could think of me as
a…as a sister.”

Drew stared at me, the
sadness in his eyes morphing into incredulous confusion then
finally settling on bewildered amusement.

“
You want me to think of
you like my sister?”

“
Not
like
your
sister. I’m not looking to replace anybody; rather, as another
sister—a new sister.” I gave him a hopeful smile.

I was suddenly very aware
of how small and intimate a space the hallway was as Drew’s eyes
traveled down my body and back up again. His were
smoldering.

He surprised me by taking
two steps forward, which caused me to step back and bump into the
wall. He was crowding my space, yet the only place we touched was
where my hand still rested on his arm just above the
elbow.

“
Ashley….” he
whispered.

“
Yes?” I breathed, my
heart in my throat, my body hot all over.

“
You are very
beautiful.”

“
I…I am?”

“
You know you are, because
you’re also very smart, and you’re sweet, and you’re kind. And
there’s not a man alive—that’s not married or related to you—that
wishes he were your brother.”

Drew lifted his hands and
I thought for a moment he was going to snatch them away, liked he’d
done before. Instead he cupped my face, his thumbs caressing the
line of my jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words escaping on a slow
rumbly sigh. He shook his head slowly. “But I’m never going to be
able to think of you as a sister.”

My stomach flipped.

“
How about a
cousin?”

He shook his head again,
his lips forming a hint of a smile.

“
A niece?”

His smile stretched then
flattened, and his head lowered a fraction toward mine, our mouths
three inches apart. “None of my feelings for you are familial. I’m
sorry if that upsets you, but I’m not good at playing make-believe,
lying, or pretending—as you might have noticed.”

“
Oh….” I breathed, my
knees feeling a little weak.

“
Here’s the thing, Sugar,”
Drew’s hands lifted to my hair and tucked several strands behind my
ears, his fingertips brushing against the sensitive area of my
neck. They lingered for several seconds causing a shiver to race
down my spine. “You tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to
you.”

His eyes were soft and
searching, and he somehow managed to say this without making it
sound lewd or suggestive. Rather, it sounded like a plea to let him
help, like the thing he wanted most in the world was to see to my
needs—whatever those needs might be.

“
But what about you?” My
voice was hushed. “What do you need?”

Drew’s mouth hooked to the
side but his eyes held no smile. “I don’t need anything, not from
you.”

I flinched, because—whether he meant to or
not—his words felt like a slap. I let my hand drop from his arm and
I glanced around the hallway.

“
Oh, okay,” I said,
nodding and feeling the hot confusion that accompanies rejection.
At least he was honest.

He must’ve detected my
desire to escape because he grabbed both of my hands and held them
hostage between his. “Ashley, that’s not—what you’re
thinking—that’s not what I meant. You have a lot on your mind;
you’re barely taking care of yourself. You’re not
eating.”

I nodded, still not
looking at him, my throat working without swallowing. My mouth felt
dry, and I needed water.

He pressed on. “I’m not
asking anything of you other than to let me help. I have no
expectations. I know your life isn’t…it isn’t here. You have a job
and friends in Chicago. You need someone to help you get through
this, through the next weeks, because things are going to get
worse.”

I blinked away sudden
moisture from my eyes and was finally able to manage a swallow
before I said, “So, you won’t help by being a brother to
me?”

“
Hell, no.”

I allowed myself to glance
at him and was nearly overcome by the passion and sincerity in his
eyes. I had to look away to regain my composure. I nodded,
accepting that he meant what he said, because he wasn’t good at
playing make-believe.

I cleared my throat. “Then
what about a friend? Could you be my friend?”

He didn’t answer for a
long time, so long in fact that I thought I might have upset him. I
lifted my eyes to his, hoping to gauge his reaction. He didn’t look
angry or upset, but his eyes were sad. They were momentously sad.
The melancholy hit me in my chest and made it difficult to draw a
breath for three beats of my heart.

“
Of course,” he said,
nodding and taking a step back, dropping my hands gently, giving me
space. “I would be honored to be your friend—if that’s what you
need.”

“
Thank you.” My chin
wobbled, but I reined in the tears. “It’s what I need.”

Apparently, I was quite
talented at playing pretend.

“
To be yourself in a world
that is constantly trying to make you something else is the
greatest accomplishment.”

―
Ralph Waldo
Emerson

My mother put
her foot down—figuratively—and ordered me out of
the house the Friday after the raccoon attack.

She said I was hovering.
She was right. I was hovering, but I was actually doing a lot
better overall.

I’d changed. I felt
different. I
was
different.

As cliché as it sounds,
the day of the bear chase and raccoon attack had changed me. It was
like turning on a switch. One minute I’d been content playing dead,
waiting to become a bear snack; the next I felt anxious and
restless with unspent energy.

I was still taking care of
my momma, watchful when visitors arrived to make sure they weren’t
overtaxing her; spending every one of her waking moments with her
and a lot of her sleeping moments too.

But now I was eating, talking to my
brothers, voluntarily showering, and wearing clean clothes.

So, you know, behaving like a sane
person.

The problem was, now that
I had restless energy, I was making her restless. I think I was
driving her a little nuts. She needed a break from me.

“
Cheer up, gorgeous.”
Duane slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. We
were sitting in the back seat of Billy’s car; Duane and Beau were
sitting on either side of me. “Cletus is real good at the
banjo.”

“
I didn’t even know you
played the banjo.” I said this to Cletus who was sitting in the
front seat.

“
It’s true. I play the
banjo,” Cletus said, clutching his banjo case.

“
He started after you
left, I guess.” Beau scratched the back of his neck. “And the jam
session is good fun. They serve barbeque as well as various and
sundry salads.”

I glanced at Beau from the
corner of my eye. “
Various
and
sundry
salads?”

“
Yeah, various and
sundry—you know, all kinds, like macaroni, potato, macaroni and
potato, fruit salad, coleslaw....” He nodded, and I saw his eyes
widen before they flickered to Duane then back to me.

“
I like the coleslaw,”
Duane added.

I smiled at them. My twin brothers were
seriously adorable.

“
So, tell me about it.
Where is this place? What can I expect?”

“
You can expect me to play
the banjo, that’s for sure. You can count on it.” Cletus didn’t
turn as he said this; but his tone was emphatic like he was making
me a sacred promise.

“
People come from all over
every Friday night. I reckon about fifty musicians show up, all
types, all ages,” Beau explained.

“
Fifty? And they all play
together?”

“
No.” Duane shook his
head. “There’s five or six rooms. You can walk from one room to the
next and listen to whichever group you want. The musicians can move
around too. If they want to change things up, they just walk to a
different room.”

“
Each room usually plays a
different type of music.” Beau indicated his chin toward the front
seat. “Cletus likes to stick with bluegrass, but one room usually
has blues and another country and another folk.”

“
Where is this place? Is
it a concert hall?”

“
No, no, nothing fancy.
It’s the Green Valley Community Center, you know, the one down the
block from Big Ben’s Dulcimer Shop. When we were kids it was
abandoned, I think, but it used to be a school. They serve food in
the old cafeteria, and the music is played in the
classrooms.”

“
They put a mish-mash of
theater seats, church pews, and desk chairs in each of the
classrooms so people can sit and listen to the music. All the
musicians play on one end of each room, and the chairs face the
musicians.”

“
You can visit all five
rooms if you get tired of listening to Cletus the banjo
wiz.”

“
How do they know what to
play?” I asked the car, not really understanding the concept of a
jam session. When I was a singer and played the piano, I had
recitals, but I always used sheet music. “Will someone provide the
music, or do you have to bring your own?”

Billy chuckled, finally
speaking, “No, Ash. It’s not like that. Someone starts, and the
others join in. You don’t know what you’re going to play when you
show up; you just play in the same key as everyone else and try to
keep up. If you happen to know the song, then you can play along.
Sometimes you get a solo, sometimes you’re the melody, and
sometimes you just play chords—whatever works for the
group.”

“
Cool.” I nodded, mostly
comprehending the idea. I figured it would all make a lot more
sense once I saw it.

“
Sometimes Billy sings,”
Duane volunteered, “but not often.”

“
Yeah, but he will if Drew
is there.” Beau shifted in his seat, and he sounded a tad
excited.

“
Drew will be there?” I
croaked; my chest expanded then tightened as a jolt of panic shot
through me.

“
I hope so.” Beau grinned
at me.

I tried to grin back.

I still spent every night
in the den on the cot next to Momma, but of the last three
mornings, I’d awoken to find Drew there reading to her, or the two
of them speaking in hushed voices.

During his conversation
with Momma—the one I overheard—he said he liked my goodness,
sweetness, gracefulness, and wit. Then, later, he told me to my
face that I was beautiful, smart, sweet, and kind. I thought about
this more than I should, and it made me feel directionless and
agitated. I never eavesdropped again. I was confused enough without
hearing more of Drew’s opinions.

In the mornings, I gave
myself a few minutes to study him. If he was around the house
during the day, I often caught myself staring at him. When he
joined us for dinner in the evenings, I stole glances in his
direction, especially during the rare times when he was engaged in
conversation with someone or laughing, or any other time I was
certain that his attention was directed elsewhere.

But Roscoe and Jethro had
been right; he didn’t talk much. Mostly he listened, observed,
studied.

However, during those rare
moments when he wasn’t observing, I observed him. His movements
were agile, and he walked with an artless, sensual cowboy swagger.
I was sure he had no idea that the way he walked was at all
sensual, but it was.

His voice was lilting and
soothing. He was epically dreamy and tremendously gorgeous. But
much more than that, his compassion and care for my mother, his
patience with my brothers, and his open generosity for all of us
would have made me swoon if I’d been the swooning type.

“
If Drew is there, maybe
you guys can sing together, like last time.” Beau said this to
Billy, leaning forward and tapping his shoulder.

“
We’ll see.” Billy
shrugged noncommittally and pulled into the community center,
cutting the engine as soon as we were parked.

I glanced around the lot;
there were a fair number of cars, and more were filling the empty
spots. Just about 6:00 p.m., and it looked like the place already
had a good crowd.