Beauty and the Mustache Read online

  I glared at him, debating whether it would be better to ride in his truck back to Momma’s, or if waiting at his house until one of my brothers showed up was preferable.

  “Fine.” I turned on my heel and walked at a decidedly normal pace to his bathroom. I gathered my bag and the dirty clothes, pausing for a moment when I saw Drew’s dark gray shirt in the mix. There was nothing for it. I would have to wash it along with the black one I was wearing.

  Then, I would give them back to him the next time he was at our house because I wanted nothing from Drew Runous.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Why is it,” he said, one time, at the subway entrance, “I feel I’ve known you so many years?”

  “Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you.”

  ― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

  The next morning I awoke to the sound of voices. Actually, just once voice.

  It was Drew’s.

  This was surprising because we had not parted on friendly terms when he’d dropped me off the night before.

  The drive home was silent. I jumped out of his truck as soon as he slowed enough for it to be safe. I heard him curse just before I shut the passenger door. He had walked me to the porch despite my chilly disregard of him, and I’d slammed the front door in his face.

  Presently it sounded like he was reading aloud. His voice was low, even, soft, and very, very near. I opened my eyes and glanced around the den from beneath my half-closed lids. He was sitting with his back to me in a wooden chair, and my mother was turned slightly toward him.

  The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing his exercise clothes. His back was damp with sweat. The second thing I noticed was the passage he was reading. It was one of my favorites from Elizabeth Gaskell’s very romantic novel North and South in which Mr. Thornton—dashing and desirable, yet scorned by the uppity Ms. Hale—makes his proposal. Miss Hale believes, quite pridefully and wrongly, that he makes the offer of marriage only because he is honor bound to do so. Therefore, Miss Hale rejects the dreamy Mr. Thornton.

  “‘I do not want to be relieved from any obligation,’ said he, goaded by her calm manner. ‘Fancied, or not fancied—I question not myself to know which—I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you—ay—smile, and think it an exaggeration if you will. I believe it, because it adds a value to that life to think—oh, Miss Hale!’ continued he, lowering his voice to such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered and trembled before him….”

  Stupid Miss Hale.

  Why are heroines in romantic novels—despite their cleanliness and enviable lifestyles—so unlikeable? It’s like they’ve been hit with a vanilla ninny stick, devoid of personality and blind to the gift before them. They’re doomed to wander in ignorance until the last thirty pages of the book. By then I’m usually actively rooting against a happy ending because the fantastical fictional men deserve better.

  This is true for ninety-eight percent of romance novels, with notable exceptions being Jane Austen’s heroines Elizabeth Bennett and Anne Elliot.

  In real life, it’s the other way around.

  Men are so clueless, self-centered, and undeserving, each a bland replica of the other. They’re motivated by sex, sports, hunting, cars, and food. If they can’t screw it, cheer for it, shoot it, drive it, or consume it, then it might as well be a diva cup or a maxi pad.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sound of his voice because despite my mixed and uncategorized feelings about him, Drew was coming to the best part.

  “She did not speak; she did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, to which he might reply. But she was silent. He took up his hat. ‘One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be…to be….’” Drew stumbled over the passage then paused.

  I opened my eyes in time to see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. When he continued, his voice was more subdued, almost sad. “‘You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part….’”

  He stopped reading, and I got the impression in the stretching silence that he would not continue.

  My eyes were drawn to movement on the bed where my mother lay. She lifted her hand and set it on his knee. I saw that her eyes were still closed as though she slept, and I strained to hear the words she spoke.

  “You read very well, Andrew. Very nice.” Her words were slurred, and this made my eyes sting. Her words had been slurred and slow for the past few days, a byproduct of the morphine.

  “Thank you, Bethany.” He covered her hand with his, and I frowned at the familiarity of the gesture.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  I could see his hesitation; it was a tangible thing, a struggle. At last, he said, “I know I haven’t been around much.” My heart twisted a little when I heard the compassion in his voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, not so bad. How’re you?”

  “I’m…well.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About a half-hour.”

  I frowned at the entire exchange. My mother didn’t seem at all surprised that Drew—Andrew as she called him—had taken it upon himself to read her awake after entering the house and positioning himself in the room she shared with her daughter.

  Something was amiss. Rather, I was missing something.

  “Is Ashley awake?” Momma asked.

  I quickly closed my eyes, endeavored for complete motionless, and heard his chair creak as he shifted his weight.

  After a few beats he said, “I don’t think so. She hasn’t moved since I came in.”

  The chair creaked again, presumably when he turned back to my mother.

  There was a trace of amusement in her voice when she next spoke. “And what do you think of my Ashley?”

  I stopped breathing, all my muscles tensed, and I became absorbed in my own stillness. He didn’t respond right away, but his chair creaked again.

  I tried to imagine his expression. If our previous encounters were any indication, his face was likely screwed up in distaste.

  “I’ve known you for three years. In all that time you failed to mention that Ash was short for Ashley.” His tone held a mild accusation.

  “I didn’t, did I?” Momma sounded pleased with herself. “Does the fact that she’s my daughter and not my son make her any less remarkable? Is she less worthy of your friendship because she is a woman?”

  “Hard to miss that’s she’s a woman, now that I’ve seen her.”

  At this Momma barked a subdued laugh. “Yes…yes, she is a woman. I’m afraid she’s not much of a girl, though. She’s been a woman more than half her life. Like you, she grew up fast.”

  Drew remained silent, and I heard my mom say, “Oh, you can speak freely. If she’s asleep, no amount of us talking is going to wake her up. She’s a solid sleeper, always has been.”

  “Not that solid. The first time I had the pleasure of meeting her, I’d just unknowingly woken her up.”

  “Ah, yes. Jethro told me about that. She gave you a nipple squeeze?”

  Drew grumbled something and Momma laughed. “You’re not starting any engines now, so tell me—what do you think of Ash?”

  I felt him falter, then he surprised the voodoo out of me by saying, “She is… remarkable…and beautiful.”

  Pretty face, nice piece of ass.

  I ground my teeth together.

  “Yes. She is. She is tremendously beautiful, like her daddy is beautiful. Billy has it too, and Roscoe to an extent. I know you don’t like it when I talk about Darrell—Ashley hates him the same as you—but she’s got the look of him, whether she wants it or
not.”

  “If that’s the case, I think I understand a bit better now how Christine could fall for Darrell so hard after knowing him for such a short time.” He said this very softly like he was talking to himself.

  What the what?

  “Do you now?” Momma asked. I recognized the tone she used. She’d use it on me when she felt I’d discovered something obvious, or when she wanted to encourage me in a particular direction.

  “Yes. I do,” Drew said. “And it’s not very convenient either.”

  My mother snorted. “Lord, getting stupid for someone never is convenient. Your sister fell for Darrell, same as me, same as the others. You got stupid for that gold digger you told me about. She had the long game and played you for years before making her move. You must’ve been real stupid for her. Nothing makes smart people more stupid than beauty.”

  I heard the smile in Drew’s voice when he responded. “Being stupid is not an experience I’d like to repeat.”

  Momma was silent for a long moment. “Now, you know better than that. You know you’re not the only person to get burned in the history of humanity. If you don’t want to repeat that experience, then don’t repeat it. This time, get stupid for more than beauty. Get stupid for worth, with someone like my Ash.”

  What the WHAT?

  Is this how Drew knew my family? Because his sister Christine had been conned by my father? And when had Christine fallen for my father’s line? And where was Christine? And when did Drew meet my mother and my brothers? And who was this gold digger? And why was Momma talking to Drew like he was her most trusted friend?

  I had mixed feelings about overhearing this conversation. The angel on my shoulder wanted to put an end to it; the devil on my other shoulder wanted to keep on listening. I knew so little about Drew. Asking my brothers about him was pointless unless I wanted to know how good of a shot he was or what kind of car he drove.

  Despite my good intentions, the devil won.

  Drew sighed. “Bethany….”

  She cut him off. “No, you listen. I’m not proposing anything. I’m just using Ashley as an example. She’s got so much worth. She’s priceless, and she’s beautiful. You said it yourself. Though she does her best to hide it, I think. Some people reject their God-given gifts because society makes them feel ashamed when they shine.”

  “Why did you lie to me?” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded curious. “Why pretend like Ash was a man?”

  “I didn’t lie…not exactly. I just…didn’t correct your assumptions. I liked talking about her to someone who knew what her courage meant, what it meant for her to escape on her own, to want something better, to work for it and succeed. You admired her when I let you think she was a man; I don’t see why that should change now.”

  “It hasn’t.” He said this begrudgingly. Even I could hear the resentment in his voice.

  “How inconvenient for you.” She said this on a laugh. “Must be hard for a guy like you to admire a woman for her brains and goodness before you get a chance to disregard her because of her gender and beauty.”

  “That’s not true.” His voice had a hard edge to it. “I admire plenty of women. I admire you.”

  “And you think of me as a replacement for the mother you never had, and for the sister you lost.” I couldn’t believe how she was speaking to him. I couldn’t believe that he let her. “I know you, Andrew. I know your family treated you despicably. You don’t want to get hurt. I understand that—maybe I understand better than most people do. But not all good-looking women are gold-digging opportunists.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know what I think? I think you like her.”

  Drew made a funny sound: not a rejection of her statement, but not a confirmation either.

  She continued, “You do! You like her. You admit she’s lovely. You admit you admire her. Admit you like my Ash.”

  “I’m not admitting anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re her mother, not my sister.”

  “So?”

  “So, other than her goodness, sweetness, gracefulness, and wit, what I like about Ashley Winston shouldn’t be discussed with Ashley Winston’s mother.”

  If I hadn’t already been as still as I statue, his words, so earnestly spoken, would have stunned me. Did he really see these things in me? Or was he just being kind to my mother?

  “Oh, this sounds good. Now I really want to know,” Momma said.

  “Trust me, you don’t.”

  “Are you falling for my Ashley?” Momma tsked. “What did she do, outsmart you?”

  “Something like that.”

  It took all my stillness superpowers not to sit up in the bed and yell, WHAT the WHAT? My brain was overflowing with new and confusing information.

  “How’d we get on this subject?” He sounded truly mystified and a little annoyed.

  “I’m trying to make you see reason before I depart this earth and leave you bereft of motherly wisdom. And I’m trying to do the same for all my chickens….”

  “Speaking of which, I want to ask you a question.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Did you know, when you made me your power of attorney—and everything else—did you know that you were….” He paused, and I assumed it was because he had no intention of saying it out loud, but he surprised me when he asked, “Did you know that you were terminally ill?”

  She didn’t hesitate in her response. “Yes. I knew.”

  Drew release what sounded like a tortured sigh, and they both sat quiet for several minutes. I thought about stretching, waking up for show, but I didn’t. I had too many new pieces of information swimming around in my brain. I needed a second to catch up.

  Momma then said out of nowhere, “She was in the Miss Tennessee competition, you know. She was only eighteen at the time, came in second.”

  I hated this fact about myself, hated that I’d done it—not because I was patently opposed to beauty contests per se. I was just so shy and reserved at the time, but I was also desperate for a way out of Tennessee, out of this small town with its one sawmill, one library, one high school.

  Momma had money, yes. But she also had seven kids. Her parents were wealthy, but supporting a family without knowing how to invest her savings had eaten away at her nest egg. I didn’t ask her, and she hadn’t offered.

  Thinking back, it was the memory of desperation that I hated, not the contest.

  “Really?” He drawled. “That explains a lot.”

  My mother gave a small chuckle. “No. It really doesn’t. Not at all, really. Can you imagine what it was like for her in a houseful of boys? And not just any boys; Winston boys and their friends.”

  “Brothers and sisters don’t always get along; nothing unusual about that.”

  “True, but they were all just like their daddy growing up, wild with their own freedom, caring not two licks about anybody but their own selves. Yet Ash…as I’ve told you, she was quiet, curious, sensitive. Like you, she wrote poetry. Lord have mercy, the pranks they used to play on her—they never stopped. They never stopped tormenting, and pushing, and using, not until she left. Then they realized that some hurts can’t be undone, and selfishness drives people away. But it was too late.”

  “You never told me what they did.”

  “Oh… let’s see….”

  I decided that my mother had said quite enough. I didn’t need Drew hearing about how my brother Jethro had frequently tried to use dates with me as a trade with his football buddies for whatever he wanted from them. Jethro always said I was doing him a favor, but it felt suspiciously like I was being pimped out, especially when one of his eighteen-year-old friends insisted that I—a mere fifteen-year-old—was expected to put out.

  Of course, another great example was the twins’ preferred method of demonstrating their affection for me by rubbing their dirty underwear on my head—skid marks and all—or holding me down and spitting in my mouth.

  But the
n, boys will be boys, as my daddy liked to say. I had to give my father credit because, in the end, he was right. Boys will be boys. And that’s why I knew better than to open my heart to one.

  I shifted my limbs restlessly under the covers and stretched my arms over my head. As I’d hoped, their conversation came to a halt. Fluttering my eyelashes as if coming fully awake, I turned my neck and glanced blandly around the room. I let my eyes move to my mother first, then to where Drew sat twisted in the chair facing me.

  “Oh,” I said when my gaze met his, my voice husky with sleep. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  His eyes ensnared mine, held me immobilized. Back was the weird intensity and heat, but now I saw it for what it was—reluctant desire.

  What I’d suspected last night after he called me sexy was confirmed this morning while eavesdropping; Drew liked me—or, at least the way I looked—a whole heck of a lot. And that’s probably why he acted like Mr. Itchy Britches whenever I was around.

  I knew exactly how he felt. Finding him handsome definitely gave me sand in my cracks. Everything about being attracted to him was inconvenient: wrong place, wrong time, wrong person.

  But after sleeping on my hissy fit the night before, I decided what we needed to do was grow beyond this pattern we’d fallen into of snapping at each other, lapsing into a confusing and heated moment, then avoiding contact for days. We needed to move past the irritation of our mutual attraction and into a nice, safe, placid familial space.

  The jury was still out on the rest of his intentions and life experience told me to be wary of handsome men wielding compliments. If we could reach a compromise where his intentions were made innocuous by defined roles, then maybe we could relax around each other.

  Momma’s slow speech cut through the thick silence. “Everything is fine. Andrew and I were just talking about how beautiful you are.”

  I smiled inwardly at my mother and her cheeky antics then let my eyes slide back to Drew. He also wore a smile; it was small and patient.

  “Well, don’t let me stop you,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the cot and reaching for my bathrobe. “Please, continue speaking of my beauty.”