Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  In the mornings, I gave myself a few minutes to study him. If he was around the house during the day, I often caught myself staring at him. When he joined us for dinner in the evenings, I stole glances in his direction, especially during the rare times when he was engaged in conversation with someone or laughing, or any other time I was certain that his attention was directed elsewhere.

  But Roscoe and Jethro had been right; he didn’t talk much. Mostly he listened, observed, studied.

  However, during those rare moments when he wasn’t observing, I observed him. His movements were agile, and he walked with an artless, sensual cowboy swagger. I was sure he had no idea that the way he walked was at all sensual, but it was.

  His voice was lilting and soothing. He was epically dreamy and tremendously gorgeous. But much more than that, his compassion and care for my mother, his patience with my brothers, and his open generosity for all of us would have made me swoon if I’d been the swooning type.

  “If Drew is there, maybe you guys can sing together, like last time.” Beau said this to Billy, leaning forward and tapping his shoulder.

  “We’ll see.” Billy shrugged noncommittally and pulled into the community center, cutting the engine as soon as we were parked.

  I glanced around the lot; there were a fair number of cars, and more were filling the empty spots. Just about 6:00 p.m., and it looked like the place already had a good crowd.

  The building was definitely an old school, though it looked very small from the outside. The red brick and old white trim looked as if it had recently been restored. I quickly surmised that the inside consisted of one large room—the cafeteria—and two hallways. The first, the longer of the two, looked like it contained classrooms; the other looked like it held two or three offices.

  Billy led the way, placing thirty dollars in a donations bucket at the entrance. Two older men sat at the table and stood when Billy walked in.

  “Mr. Winston. Good to see you, sir.”

  Billy shook their hands with deference. “Mr. McClure, Mr. Payton, you know my brothers. I don’t know if you remember my sister Ashley.”

  Their eyes moved to me and warm smiles lit their faces. Mr. McClure offered his hand to me first. I recognized him as the fire chief; he’d visited my elementary school when I was eight.

  “My goodness, you grew up to be right pretty,” he said, whistling and giving me a wink.

  I glanced down at my dress, the first dress I’d worn since I’d been in Tennessee, and smoothed my hand over the light blue woven cotton. I liked the simple eyelet pattern, the square neck and the capped sleeves as well as the fit through the waist. It ended with a flared skirt that reached just below my knees.

  It was by no means immodest. Therefore, I felt the whistling was a bit forward.

  Mr. Payton, who must’ve been no less than eighty, had an exceptionally cheeky grin as he said, “Where have they been hiding you?”

  “In Chicago,” Billy said flatly.

  Cletus stepped forward, and I was thankful for his interruption. “Mr. Payton, I must ask, how is your Ford?”

  “Oh, she’s running like new. You did a fine job.”

  Cletus gave him a little head nod, a pleased smile on his face.

  “Speaking of cars, Duane, while you’re here, would you mind taking a look at my air conditioner? It just aint cool enough, and I checked the fluid.” Mr. McClure stood and motioned for Duane to follow, which he did readily.

  “Save me some coleslaw,” he called over his shoulder, giving us a cheerful wave. “This might take a while.”

  ***

  Duane actually returned within fifteen minutes, though his hands were dirty with grease. He’d identified the issue for Mr. McClure and arranged for the older man to bring his car by the shop.

  Cletus chose a room playing bluegrass and stunned me speechless when, during the first song, he launched into an aggressive and impressive banjo solo. The group played a cover of Mumford and Son’s “Beneath My Feet,” and it was completely awesome.

  The four of us stayed together for the first hour or so, listening to Cletus play his banjo. For my part, it was a wholly surreal experience to sit among my brothers, chitchatting at intervals, and just enjoying their company.

  Billy excused himself after the first hour to go grab some food, and Duane went with him. Cletus’s group was about to take a short break. I heard music filtering in from one of the other classrooms, and I turned toward the hallway, straining to hear what kind of songs the other groups were playing.

  “Go on. Go check out some of the other rooms.” Beau nudged me with his elbow. “We’ll come find you when Cletus is finished, or just meet us back here.”

  I gave my brother a small smile, which he returned, and I felt an odd sense of wonder and gratefulness that I was lucky enough to be related to these genuinely remarkable, adorable men.

  I slipped out of my seat as quietly as I could and walked to the hall, deciding I would just poke my head into each of the rooms for a song or two then head back to Cletus’s group. This plan worked out perfectly for the first three rooms; they played blues, folk, and country respectively.

  However, when I reached the fourth room, the final room, all thoughts of staying for just one song fled my mind.

  Drew was there.

  He was positioned toward the front of the group, sitting in profile, but all the way against the left wall. He was strumming an acoustic guitar, playing the chord progression along with two other guitars, a bass fiddle, and a violin as two banjos dueled for dominance.

  I quickly searched for and found a seat at the back of the room, at the very end, closest to the door. The piece was entirely instrumental, but they played together as though they’d been practicing for years. Three of the musicians looked to be in their seventies or eighties, two men and one woman. One of the banjo players was no more than sixteen, but he was downright incredible. The other two musicians looked to be Drew’s age or a little older.

  The song came to a close and the audience clapped and cheered, showing their appreciation for the excellent music. I smiled as I watched Drew because he didn’t seem to notice the audience at all. He looked like he’d be happy to play all day regardless of whether anyone—other than the musicians—was there to listen.

  The bass fiddle called out a key—F major, I think—and played the chord progression, leading the others into the theme. Once again, they were off. This time I recognized it as “I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow,” a song made popular by the Coen Brothers’ film O Brother, Where Art Thou?

  My delight was only increased further when Drew and the kid on the banjo began to sing the lyrics in perfect harmony. Then, I nearly fainted when Drew’s face broke out in a huge grin, and he and the banjo prodigy exchanged a meaningful glance like they were sharing a private joke.

  He was so relaxed and completely at ease singing about constant sorrow with a giant smile on his face. I wanted to laugh, not because the scene was funny, but because I was so pleasantly surprised. He appeared to be so happy, and his happiness was infectious. Also, he had a truly remarkable singing voice; a clear, velvety baritone that I felt in my bones.

  I watched and listened, wholly entranced. After he sang of meeting us on God’s golden shore, the song was over. I was bereft amidst the applause. This perfect moment, listening to Drew sing and play with such talent and obvious enjoyment, felt like a sudden and miraculous gift.

  And then it was over.

  The group moved on, and I was stuck. The other banjo player called out the key of G, playing the tonic. Drew fell into the accompaniment with both banjos, the other two guitars, and the violin, providing the chord progression while the bass fiddle lead with the melody of “The Highwaymen.”

  I stared at him for a stretch, still hearing the echoes of his previous performance and feeling melancholy that it was over.

  “That Drew Runous has a nice voice,” a woman in the row just in front of mine whispered loudly to her friend, snaring my atte
ntion. The two women appeared to be about Momma’s age or a little older. Both ladies looked vaguely familiar—like hometown folks that I’d forgotten about—and I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

  “Yes he does, and he’s a might good looking, too,” the other woman said, an indulgent smile on her face. “My Jennifer is sweet on him since he helped with her car troubles when she was stalled on Moth Run, down by the Winston place.”

  “I didn’t know they were an item.”

  “Oh, no, they’re not, but Jennifer wishes they were. She can’t get him to talk; only ever got one-word answers, though she’s been up to the ranger station any number of times with muffins and the like. And you know he’s never in town—well, hardly ever. I can’t get more than three words out of him myself. She finally gave up.” Jennifer’s mother sighed.

  “He is shy, that’s true. Maybe she should be more up front about her interest. She’s a beauty.”

  “Oh, she did that.” The second woman chuckled a little and leaned closer to her friend like she was going to tell a scandalous story. I also leaned forward, irrationally invested in what was about to be spoken. I even went so far as to fiddle with my shoe to disguise my intent.

  “Jennifer went down to the Cades Cove station knowing he’d be there. She brought her banana cake—you know, the one she won second prize for at the fair? Well, she wore that yellow dress that her daddy doesn’t like, and what do you think she did? She sidled right up to Drew, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.”

  The first woman pulled away, her expression shocked with disbelief. “Oh, my dear Lord,” she loud whispered. “What did he do?”

  The mother sighed. “He let her down gently, but he was a real gentleman about it.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. At the beginning of the summer, I guess. But you know he’s been in town for years and aint never been attached to any girl that I’m aware of.”

  The two women shared a knowing look, as though Drew not being attached to a woman for several years automatically meant he was either suffering from some fatal illness, or he was gay.

  I straightened in my seat and affixed my eyes to the front of the room when one of the ladies glanced over her shoulder. Fighting a guilty blush, I made the mistake of looking at Drew just as he turned his head, sweeping the crowd.

  Our eyes met, and he did a double take. His mouth parted slightly, his eyes widened just a hint. Then he smiled.

  Despite my red cheeks, I smiled back and gave him a little wave. I kept my eyes glued to the front of the room even when I felt the two ladies turn and peer at me.

  I sat as still as a statue, and thought about making a quick escape, but Drew kept glancing my way through the remainder of the melody, a hint of a smile on his face, his eyes anchoring me to my chair.

  When the song came to its conclusion and the bass fiddle announced that they would be taking a half hour break, I knew I couldn’t cut and run, because I didn’t want to leave.

  He set his guitar down behind him, resting it against the wall of the musicians’ space. The crowd filtered out of the room. In order to avoid being caught in the swell by the door, I moved further in, walking to the far wall so Drew would have a clearer path if he chose to come talk to me.

  His eyes never leaving my face, Drew navigated the theater seats, wooden chairs, pews, and stools, making his way to me.

  I noted that several people moved to talk to him, but he put them off, gently saying, “Excuse me,” or “I’ll be right back.” My heart rate increased as he neared, as did the size of his smile, and I felt a tad bit out of breath.

  I didn’t realize I was smiling until I spoke. “Hi, Drew.”

  Not breaking stride, Drew backed me up against the wall, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth unexpectedly meeting mine for a soft, sweet, caressing kiss.

  I’m not going to lie. I kissed him back. But it was a confusing kiss for several reasons.

  First, it gave me zings in my things, as Sandra would say. Maybe it was the beard; more likely, it was the man attached to the beard.

  Second, it didn’t feel like a friend kiss despite the fact that it was over in less than five seconds. But it didn’t exactly feel like it was planned to be something more. In fact, I don’t think he’d planned to kiss me at all. It was a truly spontaneous kiss.

  Third, his kiss made me feel like I’d been filled up with a bolt of lightning; my restless energy increased tenfold the moment our lips touched.

  I felt distinctly dazed as I gazed up at him.

  “Hi, Ash.” His eyes danced over my face. He looked happy, at least happier than I’d ever seen him. “It’s great to see you.”

  I smiled up at him. “You saw me this morning.”

  “But you weren’t wearing this dress.”

  Still dazed and finding no response for his statement, I said dumbly, “Cletus plays the banjo.”

  “Yes, sugar. I know that.” His grin intensified as he removed his hands from my body and stepped back two steps. I almost followed him to stay in his orbit, but I managed to put a mental leash on my instinctual desire to do so.

  “Did you enjoy the music?” His eyes were cheerful.

  “Oh yes…you all were just great. You especially were fantastic. I loved watching your fingers move—you have great fingers. They’re very long and really know how to move.”

  A small, amused frown creased his brow, and as the words spilled out of my mouth, his grin became massive. He glanced at the floor, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and lifted his blue-gray eyes to mine. “Well…thank you, Ash. I’ll keep your admiration for my fingers in mind for future reference.”

  My neck started to itch as we stared at each other, likely because my brain slowly caught up with the conversation. It rewound what had just emerged from my mouth, and heated embarrassment swirled upward from my chest to my cheeks.

  “I…I mean,” I stammered, and I could feel the smile fall from my face as mortified understanding of what I’d actually said took the place of my kiss-daze.

  “I know what you meant.” He said this quietly, in a way that was meant to ease my embarrassment.

  I cleared my throat and glanced at the floor then back to him. “Well, you also have an amazing singing voice.”

  His grin became a little self-conscious, but no less sincere or warm. “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”

  “I mean it.” I nodded vigorously, wanting him to understand that I was being honest. “I don’t hand out false compliments because that only serves to diminish their value. I’m telling you, Drew Runous, you have an amazing singing voice. You should be singing all the time. You should live your life singing all your words—starting now.”

  He laughed. His eyes reminded me of shining silver bells on Christmas, merry and bright. “All right, I believe you. Thank you.”

  “Your Viking name should definitely be Drew the Singing Marauder, or I still like Drew Never-A-Dull-Moment.”

  He lifted a single eyebrow as he responded, “Nah, most people would call me Drew the Boring,” his tone was flat and dry.

  I snorted. “What people? Alligator wrestlers? Somali pirates?”

  He shrugged and spoke plainly without bitterness or malice like he was explaining a universal truth. “Normal people want to go to bars, parties, hook up; socialize, be seen. Money, power, influence….” He took a deep breath before adding, “I’m not like that.”

  “What are you like?” I asked before I realized that I’d spoken.

  His single eyebrow lifted again at my bold question, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. When he answered me, his voice held a suggestion of Texas swagger and charm, catching me off guard. “Sugar, I think you know what I’m like.”

  I couldn’t stop the pinpricks of awareness dotting the skin of my arms, neck, and chest; nevertheless, I tried to flatten my grin. “Tell me anyway.”

  He just shook his head at me like I was a little st
range. The truth was, I just wanted to hear him talk, and he so rarely spoke about himself.

  “Okay…how many people our age debate philosophy? Read poetry? Learn about invasive species and the effect they have on sensitive ecosystems? Or how about moving to the middle of nowhere and just being? Just simply living?”

  I got the impression that Drew was referring to someone in particular; maybe that gold digger my mother had mentioned. As well, I felt like he was giving me a rare glimpse into Drew—who he was, why he was always poking me with the Nietzsche stick—and I admired what I saw.

  “Very few,” I responded honestly. “And those who do usually end up being attacked by bears.”

  Drew laughed like I’d caught him off guard, and the sound was contagious. Soon we were laughing together. As the laughter receded, we watched each other for a stretch, during which I nearly lost myself in his silvery eyes.

  I was thinking about living in the middle of nowhere with Drew, reading poetry, debating philosophy, and learning how to just be. I didn’t think that sounded boring at all. If I added in my knitting group and books, it sounded like paradise—especially if he were shirtless.

  Or naked.

  When that image shot through my mind, I blushed scarlet and looked away, pretending to be extremely interesting in the crowd milling about.

  “It’s good to see you like this,” I finally said when I was brave enough to look into his eyes again.

  “Like what?” He stepped forward, smiling down at me, and I lifted my chin to meet his eyes.

  “I’ve known you going on a month. Usually you’re….”

  “I’m what?”

  “Honestly, you’re persnickety and intense, but…” I gripped his arm to stay any potential retreat, “…you’re never boring.”

  We shared a smile and a gaze. It was one of those incredibly rare I like who you are and I want to know you better moments in life when you look at another person and know that they’re feeling a similar degree of affection and esteem for you too, and excitement at the possibility of a deeper acquaintance.