by Penny Reid
Now he looked confused. “Then why don’t we fix up the carriage house? Building something new when we already have one on the property seems wasteful.”
“Because I want to build it in the woods.”
She wasn’t coming back. I needed to move on, but I couldn’t, not with the ghost of Scarlet everywhere I looked. The need to contain my longing for her had been nagging at me, and I’d already made up my mind to switch rooms with my brothers. But I also thought perhaps, if I built a space where I could remember her, a place I could go when I needed to feel close to her, I’d be able to exorcise the worst of it. I’d find some peace.
“You want to build it in the woods?” Duane’s usual surly expression fell from his face, replaced with surprise.
“Yeah.”
“But you hate the woods.”
I took a breath, a deep one, held it in my lungs as I studied my little brother. “Not in the winter,” I said.
“That makes no sense.” He glowered, looking so much like her.
Now that I knew the truth, the resemblance was obvious, and not just the way Duane looked. They shared mannerisms, traits. How he widened his eyes, how he turned his head and squinted when I did or said something he thought was suspicious. Beau had traits that resembled her as well: his optimism, his delight in telling jokes, making folks laugh, his quickness to smile, to help, to be grateful.
They were a lot alike, those two. A lot alike.
It was strange, how knowing the truth of something brought reality clearer into focus. I saw my twin brothers every day, but now they were new, shadows of their sister in every look and word. Unless they discovered the truth, I was probably seeing them and would understand them in a way they would never see or understand themselves.
It’s for the best.
I’d promised my mother never to breathe a word of the truth and I intended to keep my promise. Having Christine St. Claire and Darrell as parents would’ve been cumbersome for anyone, and I was convinced never knowing was the best thing for my brothers. They thought Bethany was their momma, and so she was. They reflected her, they saw pieces of her sweetness and kindness in themselves.
As Marcus Aurelius had said, “The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.” Their souls were the color of Bethany, and that was good.
But it did make me wonder, what did Scarlet see when she looked in the mirror? Who did she try to reflect?
“Are you okay?” Duane asked, interrupting my train of thought, which—as usual—was about Scarlet.
Frowning, I shook my head to clear it. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
“You’ve been staring off into space a lot, ever since you got back, just like Cletus. And neither of you smile or laugh anymore.”
“So, what do you say?” I ignored his last statements, picking up our previous conversation. “You want to build a cabin with me in the woods? It would help keep you busy, keep your mind off other things.”
Duane stared at me for a stretch, his stained-glass irises considering, calculating. “Are you going to pay me?”
I blinked at him, his question also reminding me of Scarlet and her bartering. “Only in my time, if you want it. It would be something just for you and me to do together. No one else.”
A rare earnestness claimed his features. “Not even Cletus? What if he finds out?”
If I could get Cletus interested in helping us build—heck, if I could get Cletus interested in anything at all—I would absolutely include him.
He’d been withdrawn since the events of last year, sticking mostly to himself, never talking about what happened. He’d become much more somber and serious, distrustful of folks and their motivations, and I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t going to push Cletus to be more sociable, but if he wanted to help, I would welcome his participation.
“How about it’ll be just you and me until Cletus catches on,” I suggested to Duane. “Nothing we can do to stop him from helping, if he wants. But until then . . .” I lifted my eyebrows meaningfully.
Duane nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”
“Good.”
“When do we start?”
“How about today? This afternoon?”
He grinned, looking so much like his sister the ache in my heart clawed at the air in my lungs.
God. I miss her.
“Fine. If you give me a list of things you need, I’ll start getting the stuff together. Then we can plan. We’ll plan it all out.” Duane hit the table lightly with his palm. He liked making plans, having things settled.
“Sounds good. I’ll get a pen and paper.” I motioned to my plate. “Right after I finish my breakfast.”
“Duane! Where are you?” Beau’s hollering sounded from someplace in the house. “Hank and I are going fishing. Do you want to come or what?”
Duane frowned, looking torn for a split second. But then he turned over his shoulder and yelled back, “No thanks! I’m busy!”
“Doing what?” came Beau’s response, still hollering from somewhere.
Duane opened his mouth, like he was going to keep yelling instead of standing and finding his twin so they could talk like normal people. So I touched his hand, bringing his attention back to me.
“Would you please go find Beau instead of screaming?”
Giving me a sheepish smile, he ducked his head and stood, saying to me, “I’ll be right back, don’t move.” And then yelling to Beau, “Where are you, dummy? Billy doesn’t want you hollering in the house!”
I shook my head, thinking before I could stop myself, I should tell Scarlet about this.
Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore, so I pushed my plate away. Leaning my elbows on the table, my forehead fell to my hands and I closed my eyes.
Maybe I’d done it to myself a little, using her name, thoughts, and memories of her as a way to cope when they’d beat me, when I woke up in pain, when I struggled during those first months of rehab. If I hadn’t loved her when she left, I loved her now. Her name an incantation and a prayer, she’d become something other than just a person I’d known, and wanted, and loved. She’d become my angel in hope and despair.
Perhaps I’d be able to contain thoughts of her by building the cabin on her campsite and switching rooms with my brothers, perhaps not. But I’d never be able to forget her, not as long as Duane and Beau were so close. Not after everything we’d been though, even though most of it had happened after she left.
But that was fine. I don’t want to forget her.
If the soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts, then my soul was Scarlet.
-The End-
Read on for a Sneak Peek of what’s coming up next for Billy and Scarlet!
About the Author
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
Come find me -
Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance
Email: [email protected] …hey, you! Email me ;-)
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek of Beard Necessities, book #7 in the Winston Brothers Series
2. Penny’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: Beard Necessities, Winston Brothers Book #7
Part 1: 2007, May: Otherwise Engaged, Scene 1
“For my entire life I longed for love. I knew it was not right for me — as a girl and later as a woman — to want or expect it, but I did, and this unjustified desire has been at the root of every problem I have experienced in my life.”
Lisa See, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan
*Claire (aka Scarlet)*
&nb
sp; I’d known about the engagement party for months.
I’d been consulted on the guest list (I’d been too nervous to have an opinion).
I’d gone shopping with Ben’s momma and his Aunt Mary for a suitable dress—which I was currently wearing.
And yet, I couldn’t quite wrap my mind about the simple fact that I was, right this minute, back in Green Valley. On purpose. Except, I wasn’t back. Scarlet St. Claire wasn’t back. Claire McClure was. And Claire McClure hadn’t ever been to Green Valley before because she hadn’t existed until three years ago. Well, more precisely, three years and one day ago.
Presently, I stood in the corner of Mrs. McClure’s big, fancy dining room. It was bright. So bright, my eyes hurt. Mid-May sunshine beamed through a wall of windows and their sheer, white lace curtains, aggressive in its cheerfulness. The rays bounced off white walls, white carpet, and the white tablecloth covering a long, solid wood table. On the table were zealously adorable finger foods on clear glass—sorry, not glass, crystal—serving pieces.
Then there were the people. So many fancy people. Even Judge Payton was here, dressed in a suit. He’d brought Mrs. Annabelle Cooper, who everyone knew had more money than the Pope on account of being widowed seven times (all of her husbands had been wealthy).
The Leffersbees, the Macintyres—two sets of them—the Mitchells, the Buchanans, the Smiths, the Sylvesters, the Lees (but not the Hills, there we just too many Hills; if you invited one you had to invite them all and Mrs. McClure didn’t think her garden could handle it), the Sheriff and his wife, the Boones, the Bevertons, the Simmonses (was the plural of Simons ‘Simonses’ or ‘Simonsi’?) plus loads more. Even Scotia and Karl Simmons’s daughter Darlene had come. In high school she used to call me Sweaty Scarlet. And now she was here, and she’d congratulated me, and she’d told me she liked my dress.
It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. My life suddenly looked like a picture from a Martha Stewart magazine. I couldn’t stop staring at my surroundings like a spectator. Everything shimmered. Even my palms. Because they were so sweaty.
“You want some punch?” Tammy McClure, Ben’s momma, appeared at my elbow all of the sudden and I yelped, nearly upending the crystal cup of red raspberry punch she held.
“Goodness gracious!” Mrs. McClure twisted, protecting the crystal serving vessel, her eyes wide and worried. “Are you okay? Did I sneak up on you?”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” Closing my eyes, just in case my outburst invited attention, I pressed my hand against my chest where my heart galloped and imagined an alternative ending to my clumsiness. One where the raspberry punch splattered the white carpet and curtains and walls, a murder scene with no victim other than the end of perfection. Just scarlet, everywhere.
I laughed at the thought and at my nerves. Yeah. That’d be just like “Scarlet,” for sure.
But I wasn’t Scarlet. Not anymore.
Mrs. McClure placed her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, you poor dear. You’re shaking. I know you told me not to hover and to enjoy myself, so I won’t hover, and I’ll enjoy myself. But please let me do something to help.”
Opening my eyes, I gathered a deep breath. Peering around and realizing that no one was paying us any mind, I smiled at the woman who was technically my mother-in-law. Though—as far as most folks were concerned—I was newly engaged to her son, not already married to him.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Mc—”
She squinted at me, her pink-painted lips pressing into a line that looked more like a smile than a frown. “Claire. What have I told you about calling me Mrs. McClure?”
I took another breath, my smile more natural. “Sorry. Mom. Sorry.” She’d insisted I call her mom, and so had her sister. I felt more comfortable with Ben’s Aunt Mary than I did with Tammy McClure, partly because I’d been living with Mary and her husband Pete since I’d left town, and partly because I suspected I’d always think of Tammy McClure as my former high school’s chorus teacher.
“Stop apologizing. Goodness, you’re all wound up. Here, drink your punch.” She lifted the glass toward me in slow motion, like she was afraid of making any sudden movements.
“Oh, no. That’s okay. I’m so nervous and I don’t want to spill it on my dress. I just—I just—”
“Drink the punch, baby.” Tammy McClure reached for my fingers, gently lifted them to accept the cup, and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, but Mary and I put something special in all of ours, to help with the nerves. We’ve already had two cups each.” Then, she winked. “Go on. It’ll help. Trust me.”
I was stunned. I’d never seen either woman drink even a glass of wine. Ever. Not once!
Just because you didn’t see something doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, Scarlet.
I glanced between her and the cup. “Uh. . .”
Tammy McClure leaned closer, lowering her voice. “It’s vodka. The good stuff.”
My mouth dropped open as she retreated, and I noticed the pink hue in her typically pale white cheeks, nose, and forehead. And then I took another look at her lips. That’s not lipstick.
She winked at me again, and then blinked several times, a little giggle escaping the older woman. “Oh my goodness, did I just wink again? I gotta stop doing that, otherwise Ben’s daddy will notice.”
Giving my hand one more pat, but clearly fighting against the urge to wink a third time, Tammy McClure turned and left me to my corner and my vodka laced punch. Staring at it, I debated my options, but then a voice I recognized rose over my contemplations, carrying from the sunroom behind me, and I stiffened.
“ . . . just swept me off my feet and that was that. We’re so happy, and I love living in Austin.”
Samantha Cooper. Or, I guess Samantha Winston now.
Dun, dun, DUN!
Without thinking, I downed the entire cup of punch, which I discovered must’ve been more than half alcohol. But that was fine. In fact, it was good. Good. Good. Good. Better alcohol than feelings.
Dear Lord in heaven, if Billy Winston is here with his wife, please let me not see him. Or if I do see him, please . . .
Shit.
I darted out of my corner just long enough to grab a napkin from the table. The truth was, despite yesterday being my birthday, I’d had a rough and confusing twenty-four hours. My emotions had been in a state of entropy since last night.
Therefore, if Billy Winston was here, I didn’t wish to see him. And I definitely didn’t wish to see him with a red vodka-punch mustache above my upper lip—not that I cared one whit what he thought.
Lies.
Okay, so a part of me did care. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to think about Billy Winston, so I tried not to think of him at all. Irritated that he still occupied my thoughts after so many years, I decided I was angry. Anger was tidier than any of the other alternatives.
Ben’s Aunt Mary told me praying for folks you’re mad at helps you be less angry with them, so I’d been praying for Billy Winston constantly since leaving Green Valley.
At first it was, Dear Lord, please help Billy realize his GIGANTIC ERROR IN JUDGEMENT and come to me. Then, Dear Lord, please help Billy to know he should write me a letter or call or something. I miss him so much. Then, Dear Lord, please help me not hate Billy for abandoning me and making me believe he cared about me. Then, Dear Lord, Wherever Billy is, please don’t let him feel how much I hate him right now. But if you do, that’s fine too. Then, Dear Lord, please help me stop thinking about Billy all the time.
And yet, no matter how much I prayed, I was still . . . angry. Yeah. Angry. I’m angry. That’s all. Angry. I’d never thought of myself as the grudge holding type. But apparently, I was.
The room behind me—the sunroom—exploded in feminine laughter and I cringed, wishing I had more vodka-punch. I needed to move from my corner, but I didn’t know where to go. Everyone had been so nice, but everywhere I went I felt eyes follow, like they recognized me, but couldn’t quite place
where they’d seen me before.
It had been Ben’s idea to change my name, a suggestion he’d made shortly after I’d left town. “Just to keep you safe,” he said. “So your daddy can’t find you and take you away.”
I trusted him. Completely. Ben had protected me, first by taking me away from Green Valley and to his aunt’s house in Nashville; then by getting a court order for our marriage from Judge Payton six months later; and then in so many other ways. He and his family had taken care of me, made me feel safe and cherished and important.
“It’s doesn’t have to be a real marriage, if you don’t want it to be,” he’d said on the day he suggested we marry—my fifteenth birthday—showing me the court order, the marriage license, and the application to legally change my name. All the documents needed were my signature. “We could get married for your birthday, you change your name, it’s all arranged. And you’ll get military benefits as my wife, health care, spousal support.” And again, he’d added, “It’s just to keep you safe. So your daddy can’t find you or take you away.”
Since then, he’d often remarked that it was my double birthday: once as Scarlet, and now a new birthday as Claire McClure, his wife. Except, no one knew but his family and Judge Payton knew we were married, hence the dog and pony show, fake engagement party today.
And then, last night . . . Technically, as of last night, I shouldn’t wear white to my future fake wedding. FYI.
I fought against a wave of nausea, eventually winning as I accepted the cool embrace of numbness. I wasn’t going to think about last night, about Ben’s “18th birthday present” to me. There was no changing it, no going back in time, no point. Last night was nothing important. Don’t be a dummy, Scarlet. If it made Ben happy, it was worth it. He’s done so much for you.
“It’s true.” Samantha’s comically loud whisper met my ears again, setting my teeth on edge and a million fire ants racing over my skin. I prepared to leave my cozy alcove.
