As he should be.
“Anyway,” I laughed lightly. “Look at me, getting all emotional. Again, I’m sorry for my outburst. Should I send a check over? With the deposit for this year? Or how do you want to handle that?”
“Uh . . .” He glanced at the ground, looking like he was frantically trying to find his wits. “I guess, uh, a check is fine.”
“Glorious!” I clapped my hands together. “I’ll send my momma over on her way home from the hotel.”
Now he stiffened and his face blanched. “Your—your momma?”
“Yes.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile. It was no secret in Green Valley that my momma was as well respected as she was feared, especially with the local business owners.
“Mrs. Donner-Sylvester?” His voice cracked again and he pulled at his open shirt collar like it was too tight.
“It’s just Ms. Donner now,” I reminded quietly.
“Oh, yes. That’s right.” Mr. Badcock pushed his fingers through his sweaty hair, frowning as he glanced down at his clothes. “What time would she be by?”
“About nine, I suspect. As long as that’s not too late or disagreeable to you.” Glancing at my watch, I saw it was now half-past three. This egg-encounter had taken much longer than I’d expected. I needed to get those four dozen eggs back to the bakery and in the fridge soon. Three new orders had come in—all for custard—and the way I made it, the mixture needed to rest overnight.
Plus, I didn’t want to be late for the jam session.
Oh no, I certainly do not want to be late for that.
“Well, alright then.” Mr. Badcock, seeming both overwhelmed and resigned by the turn of events, motioned me forward. “Let’s go up to the house and get you those eggs.”
I followed dutifully, happy to have avoided a disaster.
At least, for now.
Part 2
Choking the Chicken
Cletus
Why must people always talk?
“What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our make-shift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.
Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up.
If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a hand-written note, or a mime routine, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized resource, for example.
A silence ordinance: that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.
“Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.
We’d just finished the last stanza of ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question was in response to the frown affixed to my features.
I should have been pleased.
I was not pleased.
Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and I’d talked my brother Billy into singing–a rare achievement as Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session.
But Jenn was late.
Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.
“It’s time to take a break” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already looked at it ten times. “I need to make a call.”
Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared, and then he smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.
“Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”
A person walked between Drew and I, side stepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach my brother Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.
Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as, One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.
Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned him happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.
He should’ve been a musician. Or, he could’ve been one of those Ph.D. engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro-football player.
But no.
Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator, next. And after that, a congressman.
Good lord.
My expression of displeasure intensified.
I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.
She better not be working.
I swear, if that dragon-lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .
I would . . .
I won’t do a thing.
Damnit.
I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.
“Where’s Jenn?” Drew repeated the question, apparently convinced the lumbering disrupter was no longer a threat, his attention coming back to me.
“I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend, it was more of a nip than a bite.
He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”
“Apparently.” I said under my breath, It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon to be ex-Sylvester) on behalf of her daughter. It was up to Jenn to stand up to her mother, set and enforce boundaries. Jenn needed to be the one to call the shots. I knew that.
But I didn’t have to like it.
Maybe once we get married. . .
A knot of unease twisted in my stomach, adding a heaping helping of restlessness on top of my frustration.
Over Thanksgiving, we’d—
Well, I’d—
Damnit.
The truth was, we’d discussed marriage. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that. If or when she needed help planning the wedding, I surmised she would ask me.
But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. And when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.
Boy. Friend.
Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? Good lord.
Then again, in her defense, marriage wasn’t the only thing on her mind as of late. Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and on top of that, her momma was going through a tough time, seeing as how Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester was a real pain in the ass.
I’d hardly seen her for going on six weeks. When I did see her, it was either a Winston family affair where we had no privacy, or me showing up after work at the Donner Bakery. We’d fooled around a little—a very little—but mostly, Jenn had been exhausted.
Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, and maintained her homestead, plus car maintenance and absolutely no expectations.