Engagement and Espionage: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #1

by Reid, Penny

  “Oh, I would never say that. I definitely think you should feel ashamed.”

  Her tears stopped, her spine stiffening. “You do?”

  “Yes. You have not been a great mother to Jenn. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be a great mother from now on.”

  We swapped stares for a long while, her gaze growing hazy, then sharpening. Her eyebrows and mouth were doing that thing again, like she was having a conversation with herself. Meanwhile, I lamented my lack of coffee.

  “I think . . .” She finally broke the silence, her shoulders sagging a little. “Thank you for your honesty, Cletus.”

  What?

  I gave her a somber nod because I didn’t know what else to do. Her words surprised me. Then again, I was tired. Maybe I would’ve seen this gratitude coming if I’d slept a few hours the night before.

  “I like that you’re honest. I like that. And you’re right. I wasn’t the worst parent, but from this point forward, I am going to be the best. I am going to make things up to my babies. I am going to give Jenn the best rest of my life. She is going to be all that I focus on. She is going to get all my attention and love.”

  Oh no.

  “That’s not really what I meant.”

  “It’s hard for me, you know, to admit that I don’t know what’s best for my children. Although, I don’t believe the Iron Wraiths are what’s best for Isaac. Does that make me a bad mother?”

  “No. Not wanting your son to be a drug dealer and thief does not make you a bad mother. But your offspring are no longer children. They’re adults. And—”

  “I just feel so mixed up. I feel like my mother compass is broken. My human being compass might be broken too.”

  This was getting mighty personal, and once again, I wasn’t quite certain how to react. As such, I unleashed another somber nod. “I think it’s good you’re coming to these realizations. But I don’t know if I’m the right person for you to talk to about this. Have you considered therapy?”

  “Oh, therapy!” She chuckled like the idea was absurd, more absurd than thought-vomiting all over her daughter’s fiancé. “I don’t need therapy. Besides, I tried that once and I didn’t like any of the therapists I met with. But, you know, there’s this woman—health guru life coach—I might reach out to her.”

  “Life coach.” Good Lord. Here we go.

  “She reached out to us through our Instagram account, about Jenn. We started trading marketing strategies and now we follow each other on Instagram. She talks all about female empowerment, taking control of your life, and not compromising yourself.”

  “Be suspicious of folks who tell you what you want to hear. She might be saying all the right things, but having the depth and breadth of education, especially on how to apply theory is—”

  “Oh, Cletus. You don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s helped hundreds of people.”

  Hundreds. “Through Instagram.”

  “Yes.”

  All right, I’d try a different approach. “Is she a medical professional? I find medical professionals are usually better for mental health issues than Instagram life coaches.”

  “I don’t know, it never came up.”

  “It never came up.”

  I was beginning to realize much of my time—both now and in the future—with Jenn’s momma would be spent repeating the woman’s words so as not to reveal my thoughts and thus generate discord. And that was just fine. Not everybody needed or deserved my opinion. It was just as easy to be beige around stubbornly ignorant folks as it was to be colorful around those with a thirst for knowledge and truth. “She’s based in Boston, near Harvard, if that makes you feel better, and she is just the nicest lady.”

  “Oh yes, proximity to a college makes a huge difference.” There was no need to infuse my tone with sarcasm, the words should’ve spoken for themselves.

  My statement flew over her head and she pressed on. “She said I need to stop judging myself. I should instead focus on course corrections and living my best life.”

  It was time for another cup of coffee.

  I pushed away from the table and crossed to the pot, checking the time on the oven. “You’ve already engaged her?”

  “She gave me the first session for free. As a courtesy, you know.”

  “I see.” I poured just a half cup and lifted it to my lips.

  “She also talks about the importance of self-orgasms.”

  I choked on my coffee.

  Diane squirmed in her seat, pushing her empty plate toward the center of the table and rearranging the fork while I coughed.

  “But I guess I’ll spare you those details because I see I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  “Thank you,” I rasped, walking back to the table and my chair.

  “It’s just, we’ve had such a nice conversation this morning, and I guess I’m not used to talking so freely with folks.”

  “I appreciate you sparing me that conversation.”

  Diane Donner suddenly smiled at something behind me, perking up. “Good morning, Jenn.”

  I turned over my shoulder, once again amazed by how quiet Jenn’s approach was, and indulged myself for a multitude of seconds in every detail of her person. The sleepy smile on her lovely face, the dusty pink of her full lips, her long chestnut hair pulled into a haphazard bun, equally haphazard strands trailing down her neck, the curves and round softness of her body in the light gray yoga pants and white long-sleeve T-shirt she wore.

  What she didn’t wear? A bra.

  Closing my eyes, I turned back to the table and reached blindly for my mug, my fingers closing over the handle.

  “What are y’all talking about?” came her sleep-scratchy voice. Even that was sweet, the cadence and tone, and conjured various and sundry images of waking up next to her—obviously naked—making her laugh, listening to her speak, touching her, gazing at her.

  “Did you know Cletus cooks?” Jenn’s mother’s question reminded me that the woman was still present.

  “I did, Momma. And you did too. Remember Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “I guess I didn’t put two and two together. Or I did put them together and my math was wrong.” In an odd turn of events, Diane Donner’s chuckle didn’t sound at all forced. “And he’s a damn fine cook, who cooks good food, not like those dinners your daddy used to make—dry baked chicken and steamed broccoli. Blech.”

  “Cletus’s sausage is famous.”

  I felt Jenn’s warm hand come to my shoulder. She then placed a kiss on my cheek followed by a whispered, “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Forcing my grip on the mug handle to relax, I opened my eyes, but focused only on the rim of the cup.

  I truly had no idea, when I’d reluctantly surrendered to loving this woman, how difficult it would be to navigate every day when we could not spend our lives together like I wanted. No wonder my brother Billy was so bitter about Claire McClure, no wonder he couldn’t be in a room with her without turning to ice or lashing out, for what he wanted, felt he needed, but was constantly denied.

  “I think I’ll go get dressed.” Diane’s chair scraped against the tile floor as I sensed her stand from the table.

  “Do you need help, Momma?”

  “No. I should be fine. And you should have some of that divine quiche your man made. Be back in a bit.” The older woman’s footsteps receded. A moment later, a door closed down the hall.

  But in the very next moment after that, Jenn’s hands were back at my shoulders and she said, “Move.”

  My attention flickered to her, and I perceived she wished for me to push back from the table, which I did. She then placed her bottom on my lap, her arms around my neck, and her lips on mine for a kiss. I kissed her back, insomuch as was sensible.

  Eventually, she wiggled, huffing, and leaned back, spearing me with an accusatory glare. “You’re not kissing me properly.”

  “Given our present location”— and given the level of my frustration—“I doubt proper kissi
ng would be prudent.”

  Her shoulders slumped, her mouth tugging to the side in a sad twist. “I guess you’re right. But what are you doing tonight?”

  “Likely bringing y’all dinner again.”

  She looked pained. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “That we’re kinda stuck here for the next few days, looking after my mother.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Besides, I think she’s starting to like me.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yep. One taste of my sausage is all it took.”

  She pursed her lips like my statement did not impress her, eyelids lowering to half mast, and she wiggled on my lap again. “Hey, what’s that?”

  “What?”

  “The hard thing in your pants.”

  “Well, Jenn, when a man desires a woman, he—”

  She hit my shoulder, her eyes dancing for me. “No, not that. The thing I’m sitting on is small, hard, and has corners, not big, hard, and shaped like one of your sausages.”

  “Ah. That.”

  “Yes. That.” She twisted her arms tighter around my neck and brushed her mouth against mine. “Should I frisk you?”

  Pausing, I considered how best to maneuver, change the subject while keeping our positions just the same. But then, on second thought, I wondered if maybe now would be a good time to ask her. She’d said last night she hated this house, had no good memories here. Maybe I could give her one, a new one, that would make visiting her childhood home less difficult.

  And I’d let fate choose the right ring. I had no idea which of the rings currently dug into her thigh. Let fate choose and be done with it.

  I pressed my lips together to stop a smile at the sudden idea and the gleam of suspicion in her eye. “Feel free to frisk me if you need to.”

  Grinning wide, she dropped her arms from my neck, leaned to one side, and searched behind her, feeling up my thigh until she found the cube in my pocket. Grin still in place, eyebrows pulled together thoughtfully, she reached inside and withdrew the velvet box, bringing it between us. A split second later, she launched herself off my lap and ran to the other side of the kitchen before I could react.

  “Wait. Wait a minute.” I chased after her. I still needed to kneel and ask her properly.

  “Nope. Ha ha! It’s mine!” Jenn kept her back to me. As such, I couldn’t see what she was doing, but I did hear her gasp.

  Just as I made it to her, she spun, shoving the open box toward me. “This is some sort of decoy, isn’t it? A trick.”

  “No.”

  “Cletus. Where is my ring?”

  “So . . .” I rocked back on my heels. “What you’re saying is, this ring isn’t to your taste?”

  Visibly baffled, she gave her head a little shake, glancing at the new ring distractedly. “What? No. It’s beautiful. But it’s not the ring from yesterday.”

  “So . . . what you’re saying is, of the two rings, you prefer the other one.” I lifted my chin, inspecting her closely.

  Jenn’s nose wrinkled, her confusion intensifying. “Cletus Byron Winston.” She held out her empty hand, palm up, her eyes hardening. “Give me back my engagement ring right now and stop toying with me.”

  I sighed. This was all wrong. “I promise, I’m not toying with you.”

  “Then what would you call this?” She held the other ring higher, shaking it for emphasis.

  “A market survey?”

  Saying nothing, Jennifer glared, her lips now pressed into a thin, frustrated line.

  “Fine.” I shoved my hands in my various pockets, withdrawing the other ring boxes and placing them in her outstretched hand. “Here.”

  She fumbled to not drop them, eventually clutching them to her chest. “What on earth—?”

  “The one from yesterday is there, if that’s the one you want.” Glad to be rid of the lot of them, I pushed my fingers into my hair and sighed again, still tired, but somehow less weary.

  Splitting her attention between me and the boxes, she opened one of the remaining four, her eyes widening with what looked like surprise. She then opened the others, taking a moment with each to inspect the ring inside.

  Confoundedly, she didn’t react to any one of them with more zeal or preference than any of the others. Now I was truly at a loss. How was I supposed to read her mind if she never gave away what she was thinking?

  Once she had all five boxes opened and lined up, she shook her head, her mouth opening and closing for a moment before she blurted, “I don’t understand.”

  “I bought them all.”

  “All? Why?”

  “For you.”

  Jenn looked from me to the rings, to the room, back to the rings, overwhelmed. “What—why would you buy me five engagement rings?”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets again, taking solace in the fact that they were now empty. Apparently, all my rings are on the counter, had become the new, all my cards are on the table.

  “You deserve to have the ring you want, not just any old ring I pick for you. You’re the one who has to wear it for the rest of your life, not me. It should be the right ring. For you.”

  “So you bought five rings.” She reached for my arm, tugging my hand from my pocket and threading our fingers together, no longer looking or sounding perplexed. In fact, she was fighting a grin. “Oh, honey.”

  For some reason, I had difficulty meeting her eyes. I tucked my chin to my chest and cleared my throat. “You should pick one.”

  She breathed a little laugh, stepping closer, her other hand coming to my jaw. “You are one in a million.”

  “And you are one of a kind.”

  Jenn laughed again, angling her head such that she could kiss me, her warm, soft lips coaxing my chin up, her hands sliding to my shirt front to grip the fabric, hold me closer.

  “I love you,” she whispered, her tone raw with vulnerability and determination. “I love you so much, and I miss you. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Cletus Winston.”

  “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Jennifer Sylvester.” Leaning my head back, I lifted my chin to the row of rings. “Just as soon as you pick an engagement ring.”

  Grinning wide again and holding my gaze, she reached over and placed her hand on a box, seemingly at random. Plucking it off the counter, she found my hand and set the box in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it.

  “This one.”

  “This one?” Now I wrinkled my nose. “Do you know which one you picked?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Jenn lifted to her tiptoes and gave me a quick kiss. “All that matters is who I’m marrying, not what I’m wearing when we do it.”

  I gave her the side-eye. “In that case, how do you feel about wedding ceremonies at nudist colonies?”

  She threw her head back and laughed, and I laughed too, because her laughter was—is—contagious.

  Well, the time has come.

  Lowering to my knee in her momma’s kitchen, at 8:30 AM on a Monday, the second week of January, I opened the velvet box to her mystery ring and held it up to her. An offering.

  A ecstatic, post-laughter smile affixed to her mouth and shining from her eyes, she gazed down at me—not the ring, at me—and I witnessed the reaction I’d been waiting for, the zeal, the preference. Beau had been right. The ring didn’t matter. It was the man she wanted.

  Which made it easy to say, “Jennifer Anne Sylvester, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? And allowing me to become your husband?”

  Her smile wobbled as happy tears flooded her eyes, and she nodded immediately. “Yes,” she whisper-croaked. “Yes. Absolutely. Yes.”

  Then she was down on her knees, her arms thrown around my neck so tight I could hardly breathe. But I didn’t mind, because she was laughing and crying and holding on to me how I wanted to hold on to her.

  Then Diane Donner’s voice bellowed from down the hall, growing closer with each syllable. “Jennifer! You are neve
r going to believe what your daddy did. All the money in the lodge renovation account is gone. Gone! I called the bank and they said he—what on earth. . .”

  Jenn’s hold relaxed and we both turned our heads, watching as her momma halted in the doorway, wide eyes bouncing between us. The woman reached for the doorframe as though to steady herself, her attention flickering over our heads, presumably to the rings on the counter, then to the vicinity of the open box still in my hand.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh my goodness gracious.”

  “Momma—”

  “Did y’all just get officially engaged?”

  “Ms. Donner—”

  “Wait, wait. Stop. Just—dear Lord in heaven—just answer me this.” Jenn’s momma held up her hand, her skin devoid of all color, her eyes rimmed with what looked like worry or shock. “I know there’s a lot going on right now, a lot of chaos and disorder, things up in the air. But I need to know—” her face crumpled, like the answer to her next question might make or break her “—are you pregnant? And can I plan the engagement party?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It's easier to bleed than sweat.”

  ― Flannery O'Connor, Wise Blood

  *Jenn*

  Jenn: Where are you right now?

  I texted while jogging, which I do not recommend. However, the cakes were with the regional offices for first round judging and I was finally free to see Cletus after three days of stolen moments. Between taking care of my momma, my responsibilities at the bakery, and his responsibilities at the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, we’d barely had a moment alone together.

  He texted back just as soon as my car’s engine came to life.

  <3 Cletus <3: At Daisy’s, picking up a late lunch and having a meeting. Do you want anything?

  Jenn: Do you have time to eat with me?

  I set the phone in the holder, plugging it in. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I reminded myself not to speed. The snow tires he’d installed last Monday made a huge difference, one I could feel while I drove up and around the mountain switchbacks, like my little car stuck better to the road.