“You too,” I said automatically, and I meant it.
“I like your hair cut,” her eyes moved over me, appraising, and her smile returned just before she wrinkled her nose, “and your beard. I’m not used to seeing it so short, though. It’ll take me a while to get used to it.”
I stroked the shorter length and scowled. “My barber takes too much liberty.”
She chuckled, lifting her hand like she was going to touch my face, but then she snatched it away and lowered her eyes to the ground. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I asked dumbly, half of my wits still back in the kitchen with her fingers placing a banana crème puff in my mouth. I glanced at the fingers in question. Her nail polish was burgundy.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and ensnared my eyes. “Thanks for pushing Billy into going on that date. I’m going to make him a banana cake to say thanks, as he really went above and beyond.”
“Is that so?” I frowned, and it was not on purpose. It was just a plain-old frown based entirely on what she’d said. “Define above and beyond.”
“Well, funny thing about that. He was a real gentleman, even when Jackson approached me.”
“You mean at the jam session?”
“No. I mean at The Front Porch. Jackson was there, at the restaurant, and he came over to our table while Billy was in the men’s room.”
My frown intensified. All on its own. Without consulting me.
“What?” My question arrived much sharper than I intended.
“Cletus . . .” Jennifer’s eyes were wide with an emotion I couldn’t quite read and she was twisting her fingers.
Meanwhile, my heart was beating erratically. All on its own. Also without consulting me.
“What is it?” I stepped closer and placed a hand on her arm, needing to touch her for reasons I didn’t understand.
“Cletus, Jackson asked me out.”
I stared at her and her words, not grasping her meaning. “What do you mean? Out where?”
She gathered a large breath, her gorgeous eyes searching mine, her expression oddly circumspect, and said on the exhale, “He asked me out on a date.”
CHAPTER 13
“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Cletus
I was early.
The appointed time for our Monday lesson was 9:30 PM. It was now 9:17 PM.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel of my car and glared at the back door of the bakery, debating my options.
On Saturday, after Jennifer had detonated the Jackson James bomb, her mother promptly bellowed for her to return. We didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation because Jennifer left me standing on the edge of the parking lot while she jogged in her high heels back to the kitchen.
I’d been fixating and distracted since.
Witnessing Jennifer’s command of the kitchen had been a sight to see. I kept thinking I was proud of her, but then dismissed the thought. I had no right to be proud of her. I wasn’t responsible—indirectly or otherwise—for her success and abilities. She was responsible. I just hoped she was proud of herself.
And then there was the small matter of Jackson James and his intentions. My intuition told me his intentions weren’t pristine.
And yet . . .
My eyes flickered to the dashboard. It was now 9:28 PM. Two more minutes.
What to do about Jackson wasn’t my call. I’d signed on to help Jennifer find her backbone so she could use it in all facets of her life, and that was still the plan. Although she very clearly used it already in her kitchen. With ease.
But still . . .
The back door opened and Jennifer peeked her head out. She was scanning the lot for my car. I saw the moment she spotted it. She stepped more completely out of the kitchen and waved me over. I exited my automobile and strolled with measured steps to where she stood, endeavoring to mask my internal conflict.
“Come on in,” she whispered as I approached. “I made you some crème puffs. And Billy’s cake is ready. Do you mind taking it back to him?”
“Not a problem.”
Jennifer moved to the side, giving me a wide berth, then closed the door. It was cold and I was wearing my jacket. She stepped around me and crossed to the stove. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her yellow dress, her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she’d washed the mask of makeup from her face.
I thought maybe this is what she’d look like at home, after work, with that husband of hers she so desperately wanted. Whoever he might be, I was coming to realize he’d be a very lucky man.
“Do you want something to drink? It’s been chilly today. I can make tea.” Water was boiling, or had just been boiling, from a blue and white kettle.
“Tea would be nice.”