Текст книги "Truth or Beard"
Автор книги: Penny Reid
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
CHAPTER 17
“The world is a book, and those who don't travel only read one page.”
– Augustine of Hippo
~Jessica~
Two days. Monday and Tuesday.
Two days of impersonal text messages.
And all I kept thinking was that these were two days I’d never get back. We had limited time together, Duane and I, so two days without his company made me feel like I was being cheated, like he was reneging on his side of the deal.
Since Sunday, the most intimate of our exchanges had been via text message, as follows:
Me: Hey Red, want to get together tonight?
Him: Can’t.
Me: I miss you.
Him: You too.
That had been Tuesday around 4 p.m. Now it was Wednesday just after noon and…nothing.
Therefore, I decided to force the issue. It was early release day, so I skipped out right after the bell and I made pie.
As well I bought the ingredients for meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and collards. Enough to feed eight.
I asked Claire to drive me over to the family’s house that evening, intent on making those boys dinner, but also getting Duane alone so we could set a few things straight. If I was being clingy and overreacting, I needed to know. Because I wanted to see him every day of the thirteen months, five weeks, and three days we had left.
I wanted to see him every day, talk to him, listen to him laugh and make me laugh. I wanted to kiss him and snuggle against his delectable body. And I wanted to return the favors he’d given me. I wanted to make him feel good and treasured. All the time.
As we pulled up to the big house, I counted the cars.
Duane’s sexy machine (the Road Runner) was present, as was Cletus’s Geo Prizm. I was pretty sure the Ford truck was Billy’s, which meant the candy red Pontiac vintage muscle car was Beau’s. Four of the boys were at home.
Claire—who’d been very supportive of my show up and surprise your boyfriend’s family with dinner plan—helped me unload the groceries from her car and set them on the porch. I told her to drive away before I knocked on the door. They wouldn’t be able to turn me away if I were stranded.
Plus, I was holding a pie. This was a strategic decision. My momma once told me no one turns away a lady bearing pie. If you want to get your foot in the door, bring pie and hold it in front of you. She called this the pie effect.
Therefore, with a pile of groceries on the big porch behind me and a still warm apple pie in my hands, I knocked on the door to the family’s house.
The main structure sat on over fifteen acres backing up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Forrest. The house itself had a wide curving staircase, at least seven bedrooms, and beautiful large windows lining the back. It was a big house and had once been very grand. Over the last twenty or so years, the house, and the land surrounding it, had fallen into a state of messy disrepair.
Winston was their daddy’s name, but their momma came from an old, established Tennessee family with the last name of Oliver, very high-cotton. The house had been called Oliver House until around ten years ago. Her father, Mr. Oliver, had been a politician, a man of business and of considerable money. Bethany Oliver had married beneath her station—or so all my momma’s friends had whispered after Sunday service—by getting hitched to Darrel Winston at the very young age of sixteen.
They’d had seven kids, he was terrible, and the rest was history.
The old house had no doorbell, so I waited. Only the butterflies in my stomach keeping me company. When no one answered after a stretch, I knocked again.
After knocking for the third time with no answer, I worried. I glanced over my shoulder at the line of cars and decided to swat my worry away. Surely one of the brothers was at home. Left with very few options—either walk in uninvited or do a quick survey of the property—I decided to take my pie and go around the back. I figured walking in uninvited would be my last resort.
It took me a bit to circumnavigate the house. Machine parts littered the path. I noticed a busted, old CAT earthmover, dull yellow with patches of rust, sat behind a giant detached garage. I made a mental note to check inside the garage before I walked into the house.
Thankfully, I spotted a red head with a broad, muscular back about a hundred paces from the back of the house, standing on some sort of covered deck. I squared my shoulders and marched to the structure, seeing that either Beau or Duane were tending to a large, smoking grill.
When I was about twenty feet away, the redhead—his back still turned—said, “Do you have the sausage?”
He was Duane. My heart knew.
The butterflies in my stomach flew to my chest, made breathing a labor. I was nervous. But I was also here, and I’d committed to this ambush. I wasn’t going to shrink away now, even if dinner as bribery was the price.
But I did have to clear my throat of my nerves before responding, “No. But I have apple pie.”
Clearly startled, Duane turned fully around, his eyes moving up and down my form. He was surprised and his features were a cloudy mess of stunned relief. I felt a good bit of tension leave my bones when he finally smiled like he couldn’t help it and rushed forward.
Duane intercepted me on the second step leading to the deck and, paying no heed to the dish in my hand, wrapped his arms around my body and gave me a big, getting-down-to-business kiss. His mouth and hands felt wonderful and possessive, one slipping under my sweater and shirt to grip the bare of my back. I liked the kiss so much, I almost dropped the pie.
Too soon, but really after a full minute or more, the kiss was over and he was nuzzling my ear. We were both breathing a bit hard.
“Goodness, I missed you,” I said on a sigh, loving the texture and feel of his beard against my jaw, and his hot breath on my neck.
“I missed you, too, Jessica.” He nibbled on my ear, whispering my name like it was a dirty word—but not a curse word—a dirty word. Something erotic and scandalous. I had an odd thought then, that I liked my name on his lips more when it was whispered.
We were interrupted by a voice from behind me. “Is that pie?”
Duane stiffened a little, but didn’t relinquish his hold on me. Instead, after releasing a frustrated sounding exhale, he lifted his head from my neck. Likewise, I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane’s mirror image strolling toward us; an easy, friendly smile claiming Beau’s features.
But they weren’t really a mirror image of each other. I decided one of the main differences between Duane and Beau was that Beau’s smiles were easy, freely given; Duane’s smiles were difficult, hard won, and I’d learned to treasure each one.
“I’ll take that,” Beau said as he breezed past, grabbing the pie from my hand. As he crossed to a picnic table on the deck and placed the dish on top of it he added, “I do love apple pie.”
“Don’t eat any of that,” Duane said as we both watched Beau lean close and sniff it.
“I can’t eat it, I don’t have a fork…yet.” Beau looked around the deck like he was searching for something.
Besides the picnic table and the large smoking grill, the twenty-by-twenty-foot deck had several Adirondack chairs, a big wooden chest that I suspected was actually a cooler (likely full of beer), and an old wooden hutch painted lime green. The exposed wood ceiling was strung with white Christmas lights, which would come in handy once the sun set.
Beau walked over to the lime green hutch and dug through a few drawers. Watching his brother, Duane shook his head like he was disgusted.
“He’s looking for a fork,” he explained, his hands slipping from my body, but then—in the same movement—tucking me under his arm. “Don’t eat any of that pie. It’ll ruin your dinner.”
“I’m just going to taste it.”
Duane looked like he was going to protest again, but I cut him off with my question, “When did y’all get this deck? I don’t remember it being here.”
“Drew, Billy, and Jethro built it for Momma two years ago. She likes having dinner out here, when the weather is nice.”
Duane was still speaking about his mother in the present tense. It made my heart hurt a bit. I didn’t correct him, but I did give him a squeeze.
“I hate to ask, because I don’t want you to think I’m not happy to see you,” Duane pulled away, just far enough that he could look into my eyes, “but what are you doing here other than to bring me pie?”
Cletus walked past us at just that moment, and Billy wasn’t far behind. This was good timing because now I could announce my plans to all of them.
“I’m actually here to make dinner for you and your brothers,” I responded happily, gesturing to the pie Beau had placed on the picnic table. “The pie is for dessert. I hope you like meatloaf.”
“Oh, Jess…” Duane appeared to be completely torn and his voice held true regret. “I wish you’d talked to me about your plans ahead of time. Tonight is sausage night.”
“Sausage night?”
“Yes. Cletus Winston’s famous sausage is famous.” Cletus uncovered a heaping platter of raw sausage that he’d set next to the smoking grill. “These boys have been looking forward to my sausage all…week…long.”
“Cletus.” Billy’s tone held a warning as he claimed the Adirondack chair nearest the grill, nodding to me as he sat, “Evening, Jessica.”
I noted that Billy’s Tennessee accent was back, thicker.
Cletus cocked an eyebrow at his older brother, clearly not impressed with Billy’s tone. “You’re going to tell me you haven’t been salivating for my sausage?”
I had to cover my mouth with my hand and press it there, hard. Otherwise I was going to launch into a fit of hysterical giggles.
Duane scowled at his older brother, then squeezed my waist, drawing my attention back to him. His mouth curved to the side when he saw me struggle to contain my laughter, but he made no remark on it. Instead he moved us to the picnic table, set me on his lap, and opted to clarify the situation.
“See now, since there’s five of us left here—with Ashley back in Chicago, and Roscoe at school—we each have a night of the week where it’s our responsibility to cook, then we fend for ourselves on the weekends.”
Beau, unable to find a fork, gave up his search and pulled three beers out of the wooden chest, setting two down in front of me and Duane before claiming a seat across from us.
“Thank you, Beau.”
“You’re welcome, Jess.”
“Cletus takes a trip to Texas twice a year to spear hunt wild boars, and so once a month he feeds us wild boar sausage,” Duane continued.
“Spear hunt?” I knew my eyes were bulging out of my head. “Wild boar? Aren’t those things huge?”
“Let’s just say, they make a lot of bacon. And sausage.” Cletus indicated to the plate of sausage again, then poked at the smoking coals in the grill with a long grilling fork.
“I can’t believe you spear hunt. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”
He shrugged. “Well, now. I don’t think it’s respectful to shoot a boar from the comfort of a hiding place and while wielding a firearm. That’s not a fair fight. Nowadays I feel like people are too far from the food they eat. How many people do you know would eat a steak if they had to slit its throat, electrocute it, and watch all the blood drain out.”
“Ugh, Cletus! Really?” Beau made a face. “I was hungry, before you started bringing up slaughter houses.”
“My point is, if I’m going to kill a wild animal, I don’t see why I should make things easy on myself.”
“He does it with a bunch of native Americans fellas, good guys. They all get together and run around the forest in loin cloths,” Duane supplied before tipping his beer back and taking a long pull.
I watched with fascination how his lips wrapped around the bottle, how his throat worked as he swallowed. By the time he took it from his mouth and caught an errant drop with the tip of his tongue, I felt a little dazed. As well, I’d completely forgotten what we were discussing.
When he finished he glanced back at me, but then his brow furrowed in question—likely at my dreamy expression. “Hey, Jess. You okay?”
I nodded, sighed, and wished he’d been licking an errant drop of something off me. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You look a little hot.” This came from Beau and I found him watching us, mischief behind his eyes. So I frowned at him and his teasing. He mimicked my frown, though not quite successfully because his mouth curved into an impish smile immediately after. “Maybe Duane should show you around the house, it might help you cool off.”
“Sitting so close to my sausage likely has you overheated and excited,” Cletus mumbled as he indicated to the grill with his chin.
“As I was saying…” Duane’s tone held a note of exasperation as he swept Beau and Cletus a hard look before turning his attention back to me. “Billy cooks Mondays, Beau is Tuesdays, then Cletus on Wednesday, me on Thursday, and Jethro on Friday.”
“We have a schedule,” Cletus volunteered. “We like our schedules, they keep things orderly.”
“So, who’s filling in for Jethro on Friday?”
“He left casseroles—lots of them—in the deep freezer,” Billy answered in a flat tone.
“Hey, you could make us dinner on Friday. If you want,” Beau suggested.
Duane shook his head before I could answer. “No. Jess and I will make dinner together tomorrow, on my night.”
“That’s cheating,” Billy protested.
“There’s no rules. And are you really going to turn down Jess’s meatloaf?”
Billy didn’t respond to Duane’s question verbally, but instead allowed his icicle eyes and disapproving silence to answer for him.
“Can you come back tomorrow?” Duane turned me in his arms slightly, his voice low and gentle.
“Yeah. I can come tomorrow. No problem. Do you mind if I leave everything here tonight?”
Duane shrugged. “We have plenty of space in the fridge, now Cletus has removed his sausage.”
“Okay,” I nodded, leaned forward, picked up my pie again, and made to stand. “Well then I guess I’ll go—”
A chorus of, “No!” and “What? Where are you going?” and “Put that pie down,” and other protests kept me from going back to the front porch to collect my things.
“You should stay.” Billy gave me a half smile that was completely unexpected, as were his words. “Stay and have dinner with us. Your company would be a welcome change.”
“Yes. Stay. Even if you’re a big eater, there’s plenty of my sausage for you.”
“Cletus!” His name was exclaimed in a unified shout by the other three brothers, each shooting him their own unique version of a dirty look.
“Well…” I glanced at the pie in my hands, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh, and turned my attention to Duane. “I guess everything will keep until tomorrow.”
“Oh, no. We’ll eat that pie tonight. You make a new one for tomorrow to go along with your meatloaf.” Cletus nodded like this was already decided.
“If you’re taking requests, I’d really like another apple pie.” Beau gave me a wink from across the table.
“She is not taking any pie requests from you,” Duane barked at Beau.
“Fine, fine! No need to get your britches twisted, it’s not as though I was offering her my sausage, like some people. I’m just saying, since she has to make a new pie irregardless, she might as well make another apple pie.”
Billy lifted his beer toward Beau, his tone completely condescending as he remarked, “I feel I must tell you, Beau, that there is no such word as ‘irregardless’. It’s just regardless.”
“Stop correcting Beau’s terrible grammar and go get the bigger bag of charcoal.” Cletus kicked Billy’s chair. “These flames aren’t adequate to cook my sausage.”
I was fighting another grin when Duane leaned close, removed the pie from my hands, and set it back on the table. He slid his hand back around my waist, sending lovely tendrils of warmth through my body. “Ignore them,” he whispered, his hot breath on my neck making me shiver. “They’re just trying to get you to make more pie.”
“I don’t mind,” I whispered back. “The crust recipe made enough for two, so it’s just a matter of making the filling.”
“Go show Jessica around.” Beau flicked his wrist toward us, waving us off while giving me a conspiratorial look. “She hasn’t been here in years. Go show her the upstairs.”
“The upstairs?” Duane made a face. “There’s nothing upstairs except the bedrooms.”
“He means, go spend some time being physically intimate with your pretty girlfriend until dinner is ready,” Cletus supplied, not sparing us a glance. He was frowning at his coals. “We’ll make a ruckus and call you down when it’s time to eat.”
Duane scowled at Beau. Beau shrugged, the arch of his eyebrows and his pleased smirk were positively devilish.
“We’ll go inside and unpack the groceries for tomorrow,” Duane said pointedly, and continued to glare at Beau.
“You do that. You go unpack those groceries.” His twin nodded, still looking unrepentant. “You unpack those groceries so hard.”
Before Duane could lean over the table and assault his twin, I added with my biggest, cheekiest smile, “Then we’ll go upstairs and be physically intimate until dinner is ready.”
I heard Billy choke on his laugh. Beau guffawed.
Duane glanced at me, his eyebrows half suspended between wonder and disapproval. I winked at him.
“That all sounds just dandy,” Cletus agreed, his tone level, as though I’d just said Duane and I were going inside to wash the floors. Then he added, “But work up an appetite, woman. Because you’ve never tasted fine meat until you’ve eaten my sausage.”
“CLETUS!”
***
We did unpack the groceries.
But other than a few quick kisses in the kitchen, we weren’t physically intimate and Duane didn’t take me upstairs.
I didn’t mind. I wanted to talk to him, make sure we were okay. Thankfully, things between us were easy and fun, leaving me feeling silly that I’d planned my elaborate dinner ambush. Looking back over the last few days of minimal contact, I realized I’d overreacted. I could have stopped in at the auto shop or called him after work.
I decided he hadn’t been avoiding me. I’d inflated the meaning of his lack of contact in my head.
After unpacking the groceries, he walked me to the woods surrounding their house and we used familiar trails to navigate the forest.
“This path leads to the creek,” he said, holding my hand in his and helping me over a felled log with unnecessary—but not unwelcome—solicitousness.
“The one that feeds the lake?”
“Yep.”
I grinned. “I haven’t been out there in…goodness, in years.”
“Want to go?”
I vehemently shook my head. “No. You’ll just push me in.”
He grinned briefly in response, the short smile quickly waning into a frown. “Ashley spent a good amount of time on these trails while she was here. Every now and then, when she wasn’t holed up inside the house, taking care of Momma, one of us would walk with her down to the creek.”
I glanced at Duane, saw his mood had turned introspective. “Do you miss your sister?”
He nodded, frowning at the path. “Of course. I missed her when she left the first time, and I miss her now she’s gone again.”
I stepped closer to him and squeezed his hand, giving his side a quick hug. “I bet she misses you, too.”
He nodded once, then turned his face away as though searching the trees to makes sure we were on the right trail.
Then out of the blue, he asked, “Do you really need more than three restaurants?”
I faltered a half step, but then quickly recovered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Daisy’s place serves great breakfast and pie. The Front Porch makes a first-class prime rib. I don’t see why you need more restaurants.”
I realized he was making a reference to our conversation on Saturday, when I’d stated that Green Valley only had three restaurants.
“It’s not about the number of restaurants.”
“I know.” He frowned, shook his head. “I guess I don’t see what’s out there that’s so much better than what’s here. Is Green Valley so boring that all you can think about is escape?”
As I studied him I realized his question didn’t necessarily denote a change in subject. His sister Ashley had left home when she was eighteen and hadn’t returned until just recently. And then she’d stayed only long enough to take care of their dying mother during the last six weeks of her life. Ashley had left again on the day of the funeral, left Green Valley and her six brothers for her life in Chicago.
“There’s nothing bad about Green Valley—”
“But nothing great either? Nothing worth sticking around for?” Duane pulled us to a stop. His eyes pierced me and his gaze felt almost physical, like a beseeching touch. I knew he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad about my dreams. He was trying to understand both my motivations and perhaps the reason why his sister had left so many years ago, and kept leaving.
But I didn’t see Ashley’s desire to leave Green Valley as anything resembling my desire to see the world.
I sighed, my eyes skittering away so I could gather my thoughts. I didn’t know how to explain my longing to wander and how it had nothing to do with my hometown. If I’d been born in New York City or London or Paris, I would still want to leave. I wanted to explore and experience and know.
“Have you ever heard of the German words wanderlust or fernweh?”
“You used wanderlust on our first date. And I read a book some years ago about hiking, and the title had the word wanderlust in it. It was about people who love to hike and catalogued some of the great hiking trails around the world.”
“Wanderlust in German basically means to love hiking, but it’s been repurposed by English speakers to mean a love of wandering. I remember the first time I heard the word fernweh; in German it means farsickness. It’s like, some people have homesickness and that’s considered normal, acceptable. Missing one’s family and friends, what’s familiar, I think everyone can understand longing for home. But I realized that the strange anxiousness I’ve always felt to be elsewhere was called fernweh. I have fernweh. How most people long for the familiar, I’ve always longed for the unknown. Heck, if I could manage it, I’d love to see Mars. I love to explore. And don’t think it’s an easy concept to explain or, for people who don’t have the same desire, to grasp.”
Duane frowned and nodded, his eyes moving away from mine. He was lost in thoughtful contemplation, but I could see he didn’t really understand. Usually I accepted my friends and family’s lack of comprehension, wrote it off as me just being too nutty, too much of a circle surrounded by squares. But for some reason I felt a swelling, desperate need for Duane to understand. Therefore I grabbed his other hand and tugged on it until he was looking at me again.
“This desire, to explore, has nothing to do with where I am. It has everything to do with where I’m not.”
“So, it’s about newness? Being in a new place?”
I shook my head, carefully entwining our fingers. I found I needed to touch more of him, I needed the connection. “No. Not really. It’s like, here we are,” I glanced around the brilliance surrounding us, fading colors of autumn on the Smokey Mountain path, dusky blue sky overhead giving way to nightfall, “someplace awesome and spectacular. But, can you imagine? If you had the chance to see a thousand places that were equally spectacular? I want to see the Colosseum in Rome, and St. Peter’s. But I don’t want to go on a tour during a vacation. I want to live there, know the city, learn the people, eat the food. I want to sketch Michelangelo’s paintings—even though I’m no artist. Then after a time, maybe a year or more, I want to see the Yangtze River, see the Great Wall of China. And after that, the Redwood Forest. And after that, go diving in Fiji, or maybe visit castles in Ireland.”
I glanced at him and saw he was watching me openly. Duane’s frown had been replaced with not quite a smile, and his eyes held appreciation; however, it was the perceivable glimmer of understanding there that sent my pulse racing.
“I think I’m starting to get it. You’re more than curious about the world, and I see it calls to you.” His quiet voice was laced with empathy, and I saw he truly did get it.
I didn’t temper my heavy sigh of relief, or my immediate grin, or attempt to hide my pleasure. This pleasure was quickly followed by a sudden and deep sense of gratitude. I’d tried to explain this desire to my family and friends on more than one occasion. Invariably my parents would always ask, But what about a house and a nice car and nice clothes and a TV and a familiar bed?
They couldn’t fathom that I wanted to fill my life with experiences, not with things. I had their core values, but in so many ways we were completely different. They’d never understood my dramatic, wild side. Consequently, I’d spent my childhood trying to suppress or ignore it. But it was no use. I craved freedom, they craved structure. I didn’t know why my dreams and goals were so different from my family’s. They just were.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been, having no one to share my dreams with, and no one to understand. It was Duane’s understanding that pushed me over the edge. I stared into his brilliant eyes and knew with absolute certainty, I was in love with Duane Winston.
And it didn’t feel like a burden or a weight, something holding me down. Loving him made me feel paradoxically phenomenal and reckless and safe and strong and capable—because Duane was all of those things.
My big smile was beginning to hurt, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to hold on to this moment for as long as possible, because it was the first time—and maybe the only time in my life—I felt truly seen, known, and understood. And I wanted to give him everything in return. I wanted him to know I saw him. I knew him, too.
Duane’s almost smile turned wry and his eyes narrowed. “You, looking at me like that, makes me feel ten feet tall.”
“Aren’t you?”
He laughed. I laughed. We laughed together.
Duane tugged me forward and captured my lips for a quick kiss, sending a thrill of warmth to my toes, then whispered against my mouth, “I guess I am, when I’m with you.”
“You say sweet things.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Like when you said I was a siren who doesn’t need to sing.” I imagined my expression mimicked the dazed and floaty feeling of my heart. “That was a sweet thing to say, even though it implied I sought your destruction by tempting you with my body.”
He shook his head, leaning away, one of his reluctant smiles teasing over his lips. Duane released me and pushed his fingers into my hair, his strong hands moving against my scalp and down to my neck. “That’s not what I meant when I said it.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Have you read the Odyssey?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes. It was required reading in my house. Remember, we didn’t have a TV growing up. All we had were books and our imagination.”
“Lord help us all, the Winston boys left to their collective imaginations,” I teased lightly, enjoying my view because Duane was my view.
“How much do you know about the story?” His eyes studied me and he cocked his head to the side. “Do you know the basics?”
“Of the Odyssey? It was about Odysseus’s travels. His journey home.”
“What about the sirens in the Odyssey?”
“I know a bit. I know the sirens are beautiful. Their beauty and their song inspire lust in Odysseus’s men and tempt the sailors to crash their ship against the rocks, more or less.”
“Nope. That’s not what happens. It’s not lust they inspire that drives sailors toward their own destruction.”
I squinted at him. “Then what do the sailors feel?”
“The sirens are beautiful, yes. But their song and their beauty call to the soul, not to the body. The sirens don’t inspire lust. They inspire longing. A deep, wrenching longing. Bone deep, so the sailors would rather die than live without the siren.”
I stared at him as he stared at me. I could tell he was waiting for me to catch on to his meaning, it didn’t take me very long because he voluntarily filled in the blanks.
“Your wanderlust, or farfigneugan or whatever—that’s your siren’s song.” He tilted his head to one side then the other, as though studying me from different angles before adding, “I get that.”
Again my heart bloomed, and I wanted to give him a similar gift. So I asked, “And yours is going fast? Is speed your siren’s call?”
He shook his head and his smile fell away, even as he continued to study my face with his trademark intensity and focus.
“No, Jessica,” he whispered, gaining a step forward and pulling me into his arms.
“Then what is?” I lifted my chin.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed me.
***
Dinner was great. Cletus’s sausages were delicious, and the boys ate all of my apple pie.
But I was extremely cognizant of my 5:30 a.m. Friday morning alarm, so I had to leave much earlier than I would have liked. Duane asked Billy if we could use the truck, and when it was time for me to go, Billy, Cletus, and Beau stood on the front lawn and waved goodbye. It was actually really sweet, and a thought occurred to me as we pulled on to the main road, the Winston boys still visible in the truck’s rearview mirror: These boys needed a woman at the house.
They missed their momma. And they likely missed their sister. I decided I would make a habit of cooking with Duane every Thursday night.
Also, it wasn’t right that all five of Duane’s brothers were single. Goodness, they were a handsome and sweet bunch. Their collective singleton lifestyle was a crime against women everywhere. I further decided I would take it upon myself to find each of them suitable girlfriends over the next year.
“What are you plotting over there?”
I glanced at Duane in the driver’s seat. We were paused at a stop sign; he was studying me with knowing eyes.
I shrugged and tried to suppress my guilty smile. “Nothing much.”
“That’s a lie. You’re planning something.” Duane pulled through the intersection and I lamented the fact that our houses were so close.
“I just thought it would be nice for me to help you cook on Thursdays.” I turned in my seat and rested my elbow along the back of the truck’s bench seat so I could stare at his profile.
“Mmm hmm,” he said, like he didn’t believe me.
“And what do you mean by that ‘Mmm hmm,’ Duane Winston?”
“I can see the gears turning. You forget, I know your face by heart. You’re scheming.”
I laughed, loving everything he’d just said. “You know my face by heart?”
