Beauty and the Mustache Page 7

  “No matter who owns it, she knows how to make really fine Italian food.”

  “It was really good.” This came from the nurse in the corner.

  My attention shifted to him and I gave him a little wave. “Hi, you must be Joe. I’m Ashley.”

  He nodded, smiled. “Hey, Ashley. You’re the nurse, right?”

  “Yep. That’s me.”

  “Let me know if you have any questions. I just checked your momma; she’s doing real good.” Joe’s brown eyes shifted from mine to where my mother was sitting up. He gave her a warm smile.

  “Thank you, I will.” I said, considering this Joe who was a nurse with a tattoo of a dragon.

  “You should go thank her for making dinner for your family,” Momma said. “I know she wants to see you.”

  I nodded, distracted by Drew and the suspicion that my mother was losing her memory. Or rather, I suspected the pain medication was making her recollections fuzzy. I shifted to stand and noticed that a blanket had been placed over me.

  I frowned at the blanket then at Drew.

  It seemed everything was earning my frown of confusion.

  “Go on, get.” Momma prompted, squeezing my hand then letting it go.

  Drew didn’t move as I stood to depart, so I was forced to walk past him in the tight space made by our chairs, my bottom brushing his shoulder. Nor did he meet my eyes. Instead, he opened the book, which I recognized as The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and started again where he’d left off—with talk of taming and need.

  I shook off the lingering Drew-disquiet, and my stomach rumbled as I walked. It was a reminder that food was needed in order to function, and thankfully, the smell of good food—garlic and fried onions—was wafting toward me. I followed the smell of Italian food and the sound of crying through the kitchen and into the dining room.

  The scene that greeted me was not unlike something from a Dr. Phil episode.

  Sandra had Cletus and the twins arranged in the family room—which was just off the dining room—and was holding some kind of impromptu counseling session. Her face was clear of expression, neither cool nor warm but rather accepting, open, and interested.

  The loud sobbing, I realized almost immediately, was coming from Cleatus. He was sitting in the chair closest to Sandra, and his face was buried in his hands. She was rubbing his back, but her attention was affixed to Beau, who also looked like he’d been crying at one point, but now he seemed to have his expressions of sorrow under control.

  I didn’t want to interrupt them. Sandra was an excellent psychiatrist, though she usually treated only pediatric patients. It was obvious that my brothers were receiving something from her that they needed, some kind of catharsis. This was her modus operandi.

  A throat cleared behind me and caused me to jump. I turned and found Elizabeth standing at my shoulder, an affectionate and sympathetic smile on her face.

  “Hey, girl,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Then she pulled me into a wrap-and-hold hug.

  Elizabeth was shorter than me by about four inches, but she was also curvy and soft, and her hugs felt like being surrounded by a warm, beautiful cloud. Adding to this affect was the paleness of her skin, the golden blonde of her hair, and the ethereal blue of her irises. We gave and received comfort for a short moment before we were interrupted by Sandra’s voice, which was closer than I’d expected.

  “Ashley Winston.”

  Sandra was standing next to us, staring at me. She was smiling—from her big green eyes to her flaming red hair to her large white teeth—but it wasn’t at all sympathetic. It was just a big, old, happy smile.

  She launched herself at us, her arms coming around both Elizabeth and me, and kissed me on my cheek and then my chin.

  “It is so good to smell your hair right now,” Sandra said. Of course this made us both laugh, because who says that?

  She squeezed us, causing Elizabeth to squeak. “Sandra…I…can’t…breathe….”

  “No matter.” Sandra released her vice grip and reached for my hand. “Where is your room? We have some sharing to do.”

  I glanced over her shoulder at my brothers. Duane gave me a taut smile.

  Bizarre.

  “Sandra, I don’t want to cry. Please don’t make me cry.”

  She shook her head, wrinkling her nose as though my request were silly. It was not silly. She had this superpower where people were absolutely compelled to spill their guts, myself included. She made burdens lighter, but she did this by forcing people to face truths, which usually resulted in crying.

  I didn’t want to face truths. I wanted to steal a few moments with my friends, saturate myself in the promise of my comfortable, contented life back in Chicago, and wrap my brain and heart in the bliss of distraction.

  Truth was overrated and smelled like onions.

  Bliss was underappreciated and smelled like chloroform.

  “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.” She grumbled this statement and tugged on my hand. “Come on, where is your room? We brought you presents.”

  I hesitated only briefly.

  “It’s upstairs.”

  Sandra and Elizabeth followed me after a detour to the front door. I saw Elizabeth grab a duffle bag and Sandra a gift sack, purple tissue paper spilling out the top. Once inside my room, I sat on my bed and turned to face them.

  Elizabeth took a seat on the bed, placed the duffle bag between us, and unzipped it. “We brought you some things—just some essentials and—and some other things.”

  Sandra hovered by the door. She was surveying the room, I could tell. Maybe she was making a mental tally of my dysfunctions based on the number of ceramic unicorn figurines on my bookshelf. (FYI, there were four of them.)

  “You didn’t have to bring me anything.” I gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile. “I’m really fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re in shock, and you haven’t yet processed the fact that your mother is dying.” Sandra leveled me with a sensible, matter-of-fact gaze.

  I braced myself for the truths.

  Instead, she surprised me by sparing me. “But that’s okay. You’ll adjust. You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. If you can’t do it on your own, we’ll help you figure it out. Either way you’re covered.”

  My eyes lifted to the ceiling then lowered back to her; I was confused. “Then why did you instigate a therapy session with my brothers?”

  She shrugged. “Because I don’t know if they have an adequate support system in place to help them work through their grief, especially since your father….” Sandra paused when she saw my shoulders stiffen at the mention of my father.

  When you have a despicable person as a parent, I truly believe you can’t escape hating any part of yourself that resembles him or her. Whether it’s a physical similarity, a talent, a propensity, or an inclination that you share, all commonalities are abhorrent to you.

  I look like my father. I have his thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. I have my mother’s nose, but I have my father’s wide, full mouth and his height. I am his child, and I hate the man. I hate that I look like him.

  My father is a gifted musician. Despite my love of singing and playing the piano as a child and teenager, as a young adult I rejected those creative outlets.

  My father is a great dancer. I take pride in my corny dance moves.

  My father is a talented con man and a charmer. I am honest to a fault and embrace the discord caused by my bluntly spoken opinions.

  It’s hard to find joy in gifts—or potential gifts—when they’re tainted by association.

  This is something that people with kind, well-meaning parents have difficulty grasping. It’s not about self-pity and it’s not self-loathing. It’s a desperate desire to disassociate oneself from evil.

  “Sorry,” Sandra said, “I know you don’t like to talk about him.” Her tone was repentant, but she looked a tad frustrated as she gestured to th
e unzipped duffle bag. “Enough of this feelings stuff, look at your presents.”

  “Go on then.” Elizabeth’s mouth hooked to the side. “Dig in.”

  I opened the mouth of the bag wider and began pulling out items.

  I found the pillow from my bed, candles, chocolate, tea, wine, more wine, my two favorite paperback romance novels, new yarn—and a vibrator.

  “What…?” I looked at the vibrator; blinked at it, and I lifted my eyes to Sandra’s. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a vibrator. Haven’t you ever seen a vibrator before?”

  “Yes, Sandra, I’ve seen a vibrator before. Why in tarnation did you bring me a vibrator?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll help,” she said simply.

  I stared at her for a long moment then rolled my eyes. “It figures that you would bring me a vibrator. You are completely wack-a-doodle-doo.”

  “Wait a minute, if you must know, it was Janie’s idea.” She raised her hands in surrender like she wanted to keep me from launching into a tirade. Sandra was referring to our mutual friend and knitting group compatriot, Janie Sullivan. Janie was an Amazonian Princess-sized walking, talking version of Wikipedia. She was also completely oblivious to the obvious. This combination made her infuriatingly endearing.

  “She read a study—which she shared with me—about how going through the death of a…of a parent is less stressful for people who are married or in a serious relationship, presumably because of the comfort they receive from their significant other. Part of that, Janie reasoned, and I agreed, is definitely orgasms. Also, I packed you condoms—lots of them, all different sizes. Believe me when I say that having the different sizes comes in really handy. No pun intended.”

  I sputtered for a few seconds then managed to finally say, “You’re off your rocker, and Janie is nuts. You’re both cracked nuts.”

  “I would have brought a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam, but this one,” Sandra indicated to Elizabeth with her head, “thought it would be awkward.”

  I interjected, “Wack-a-doodle-doo!”

  Just then, a rooster crowed in the yard, as though to echo my insult. We ignored it.

  Elizabeth crossed her arms in a defensive stance. “It would be awkward. And, technically, it was larger than the allowable size for checked bags and carry-on luggage.”

  “I think they must make special accommodations for life-sized cut-outs. I mean, how else would you be able to cart them across the country? How do you think Darth Vader makes it to all those kids’ birthday parties?”

  “They’re mailed…via the post office.” Elizabeth’s tone was droll and her expression flat. It was obvious that they’d argued this point prior to leaving Chicago.

  “We didn’t have time for the post office before we left.”

  “Please don’t tell me you had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made.” I already knew the answer.

  “Okay. I won’t tell you that we had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made. I also won’t tell you that he is shirtless and currently waiting for you in your apartment. Thanks for giving me those spare keys, and you’re welcome.”

  Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sandra promptly turned and opened it, then shuffled backward a few steps.

  Drew hovered in the doorway, filling every inch of space with his giant frame. His eyes examined my room then ended their wandering when they landed on me. He looked tense.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked then stood from the bed, ready to bolt down the stairs.

  “Yes. She’s resting. Duane and Beau are with her now.”

  “Oh.” I relaxed a bit, breathed out a sigh. “Okay. Good.”

  He watched me for a beat, his eyes never wavering from mine, then said, “I’m about to head out.”

  “Okay.” I nodded and glanced briefly at Sandra. She was looking between the two of us with narrowed eyes.

  The room fell quiet. The silence became an odd, stiff thing. After a long moment where Drew walked the fine line between looking and staring, he shifted his attention to Elizabeth.

  “Thank you for dinner. Everything was delicious.”

  “No problem.” She waved away his praise then crossed to him and reached her hand out. He accepted it and they shook. “I’ll see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked them both. “What’s tomorrow?”

  Elizabeth walked back to me. “Drew and I are going to the hospital. I’d like to send your mom’s records to Dr. Peterson.”

  “The oncologist?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him about it before I left Chicago. Peterson is expecting the chart.”

  “Why is Drew going?”

  “He holds the power of attorney…right? For the release of medical records?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” My neck itched, and I glanced at Drew. Again, he was looking at me, but this time it was a blatant stare. The intensity and vehemence in his expression caught me off guard.

  “What?” I blurted, because I just couldn’t take it. My eyes flickered between Sandra and Elizabeth for help. They were both looking at Drew with thoughtful expressions. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He said the word like we were fighting, like he was throwing it at me.

  I frowned at his oddness and was about to question him further when Sandra stepped in front of me.

  “Will we be seeing more of you?” she asked Drew. She crossed her arms over her chest and paused. I recognized her tone as one she used when conducting an interrogation, though her question was benign enough.

  Drew’s attention settled on Sandra, and he mimicked her guarded stance.

  “Yes.”

  “So, Charlie….”

  “The name is Drew.”

  Sandra ignored the correction. “How often will we be…seeing you?”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Daily.”

  “Reeeeally.” Sandra lifted her chin. I could tell she was sizing him up. Heck, even Drew could tell she was sizing him up.

  Neither spoke for a prolonged minute. Elizabeth and I glanced at each other, and I shrugged.

  I was about to break the weird stink-eye stalemate with a suggestion that I walk Drew out—even though the thought made me strangely nervous—when Sandra said very gently, “Not all women are bad, you know. We’re not all viperous bloodsuckers. There are some good ones…like Ashley. She’s a good one. You might have noticed: the outside matches the inside.”

  My mouth fell slightly open, and I shifted back a step as Drew’s eyes flickered to mine. They were such a steely cold blue that they nearly knocked me off my feet. His gaze was shuttered and hard, and his mouth was set in a firm, unhappy line.

  “Good night,” he said, and then he walked away, his steps audible as he descended the stairs.

  *dpgroup.org*

  CHAPTER 6

  “If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.”

  — Robert Frost

  The three of us stood in place for several beats, and I knew without a doubt that my face held an expression of stunned bewilderment. I was still tired, and this day had started out on a bizarre note and was still circling the drain of strange. Maybe it was just everything happening all at once, but I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around what had just occurred.

  Therefore, I blurted, “I’m so confused.”

  “He is too.” Sandra said this thoughtfully, still looking at the spot where Drew had been standing. “But not as confused as you are, because he’s not blinded by grief.”

  “Sandra.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Don’t meddle. Ashley has enough going on.”

  I was sentient enough to detect an edge of warning in Elizabeth’s tone. I glanced between them as the implication of their non-conversation hit me like a slow-moving river of molasses. “You can’t…you can’t possibly mean…?”

  I didn’t finish the thought because it was entirely ridicul
ous, like turning down fried pie at the state fair.

  “Uh…yeah.” Sandra shut the door and faced me. “I do mean that the good Dr. Runous is a smitten kitten. Or, maybe a better way to put it is a turned-on python.” She frowned and her eyes moved to a position over my shoulder. “That’s not a very good analogy either. I’m going to have to think on this.”

  “No, no, no. You are wrong. You are so, so wrong. He doesn’t like me at all.”

  I’d been around plenty of good-looking guys in my life. I’d dated a few I’m-too-sexy-for-this-pizza-place narcissists. I knew better than to be attracted to the top one percent of good looking single men. The top one percent didn’t believe in monogamy, or human decency, or manners, or—honestly—good sex. Sex was a stage and, after their curtain call, the show was over.

  Drew was definitely in the top one percent. Therefore, I knew better. Furthermore, I was intensely aggravated with myself for noticing that Drew was in the top one percent. Additionally, why in tarnation was I thinking about sex?

  “He may not like the fact that he likes you, but he does.” This came from Elizabeth, her words reluctant and laced with an apology she verbalized as she continued. “I’m sorry, Ashley. But the guy is into you.”

  “By the way, what’s in that little notebook he carries? The leather one with the Norse symbols on it?” Sandra asked us both, as if either of us would be in Drew’s confidence and have any earthly idea.

  “How should I know? I met him yesterday. We don’t know each other. All of our interactions have been unsavory.”

  “But he looks at you like you are savory,” Elizabeth said, “like he knows you, like he knows you knows you.” After a brief pause, she added in a soft voice, “Like he’s invested in you.”

  “You’re misreading things.”

  “Both of us are misreading things?” Sandra snorted. “That’s unlikely.”

  “No. You’re wrong. He seems truly dedicated to my mother and my brothers. If you’re seeing anything resembling warmth or affection it’s because of them.”

  Neither of them looked convinced. It occurred to me that they probably weren’t convinced because I wasn’t convinced.