Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  She’d been talking to Billy about something—I didn’t know what—so my abrupt disruption of their conversation and thrusting of an object onto her lap was considerably less graceful than what I’d been planning. Oh well. Bravery was still bravery, no matter how clumsy the execution.

  Shelly gave me a startled look. “Oh, thank you.”

  I glanced at Billy, about to offer an apology for the interruption, but he was staring at me like my discomfort amused him. I decided not to apologize.

  Also my knee was bouncing, fueled by nerves. I squirmed in my seat as Shelly flipped the gift and carefully removed the tape. Then she slipped the book from the paper with excessive caution. I suspected she was having obsessive thoughts about ripping wrapping paper. This was the first time I’d given her a wrapped present, so I had to wonder if this was a new compulsion or an old one.

  I made a note to ask her later.

  Shelly stared at the revealed object, her brows pulling together. “What is this?”

  I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “It’s a book on how to do kintsugi. It’s a Japanese method of fixing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold. I guess they also can use silver or platinum, but gold seems to be the most popular.”

  Her eyes moved over the cover, and then lifted to mine, her gaze telling me she was confused. “You want me to learn how to do kintsugi?”

  I reached forward and flipped it open to a dog-eared page, where a fancy-as-shit teacup had been repaired using the method. The elegant white of its porcelain was interrupted by graceful lines of gold—where the handle had broken off, where the cup had cracked in two.

  “As a philosophy,” I pointed to the cup, “the point of kintsugi is to treat broken pieces and their repair as part of the history of an object. A break is something to remember, something of value, a way to make the piece more beautiful, rather than something to disguise. They use gold, not invisible superglue, because mistakes shouldn’t be considered ugly. Broken pieces and their repair merely contribute to the story of an object, they don’t ruin it.”

  Shelly stared at the page, saying nothing. She stared for a long time, her finger tracing the line of gold traversing the teacup.

  “It is beautiful.”

  I decided to ignore the unsteady quality of her voice, saying instead, “Much more interesting than a plain old perfect teacup. If you think about it, no two teacups break in the same way. So of course each repaired teacup becomes something new, and wholly unique.”

  She closed the book and brought it to her chest, clutching it reverently. “I love it.”

  “Good.”

  Thank God.

  Her gaze landed on mine and it shone with what looked like unshed tears, but she was wearing a smile. Warmth spread outward from my chest to my limbs. It was the kind of smile that made me fuzzy-headed and happy, and aware of the now.

  But before either of us could speak, another present was dropped on her lap.

  “This is from me and Jenn.”

  We both looked up. Cletus was standing in front of us, his arms crossed. “You should open it now. I like it a lot, so if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

  “Cletus,” Jenn hollered from the kitchen, “stop being a bully!”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth and shook my head at my brother. Shelly, however, smiled widely, her attention moving beyond Cletus to the entryway of the kitchen just as Jenn appeared.

  “And I told you to wait to give it to her until I was here.” Jenn wiped her hands on a towel attached to her apron and crossed to Cletus, wrapping her arm around his waist and grinning down at Shelly. “Go on and open it.”

  Shelly carefully removed the tape, just as she’d done with my gift, and set the wrapping paper aside. As she did this, the rest of my family pulled out their wrapped boxes, each similar to the one Cletus had just deposited in her lap.

  My pulse jumped, picking up speed, because I knew what was going to happen next.

  Actually, that wasn’t precisely true. I knew what my family was going to do because I knew what was in the boxes. But I didn’t know what would happen when she opened them. Either she’d hate the gesture, or she’d love it.

  Just own it.

  I braced myself, glancing between her and the box as I bent to the side and grabbed the other two items I’d brought for her. One was a box like all the others—about eight inches deep, wide, and tall—and the other was much smaller, weighing about six ounces.

  As soon as Shelly removed the lid, a small sound of surprise slipped past her lips and her eyes darted to mine. They were wide and rimmed with an alarming number of conflicting emotions.

  “It’s a teacup.”

  “Take it out of the box so you can admire its superiority over all other teacups.” Cletus hugged Jenn to him.

  Shelly breathed in through her nose, swallowed, then reached for the cup and pulled it from the box. As soon as I saw it, my lips parted and my eyes sliced to my brother.

  “Really, Cletus? Where did you even find that?”

  “It’s nice, right?” He grinned. “I’ve discovered the existence of a website entitled Etsy. You can order just about anything custom made.”

  “So you ordered a teacup with stamped on hot dogs?” I didn’t try to hide my irritation.

  “It is hand painted, Beauford,” he sniffed. “And technically, they’re Bavarian bratwursts.”

  Shelly placed her hand on my knee and gave it a squeeze, forcing my attention to hers.

  “I love it,” she whispered to me, then tilted her chin back to look at Cletus. “You’re not getting it back.”

  My brother’s smile returned—smaller, but more genuine than before—and he nodded once. “I figured as much, so I ordered a set for myself.”

  Ashely and Drew’s cup was next, a vintage cup and saucer with gold lining the interior and large pink and blue flowers painted on the outside.

  Then Roscoe gave her one with little, happy looking dogs, immortalized mid-leap like they were chasing each other’s tails.

  Billy’s was blue and white with faded gold on the handle. Lonely birds lined the rim as though flying in a never-ending circle.

  Sienna and Jethro’s came from an artist in Mexico, a distant relative of hers, and was painted in swirling design with bright colors against a brown background.

  Claire had dropped one off on her way to the McClure’s, a light-blue set with a delicate butterfly for the cup handle.

  Duane and Jess had also sent one from Italy, but theirs was made of ruby red Venetian glass.

  Each time Shelly opened a box, she’d suck in a small breath, holding the teacups like they were priceless treasures. Her eyes were still shining with unshed tears, but the smile never left her lips.

  She’d said, “Thank you,” after the first three, but then stopped talking altogether after a while, giving me the sense she didn’t trust her voice.

  Then I handed her my box.

  I watched as she took a shaky breath and diligently unwrapped the present, slipping the top off and staring at the cup within. She lifted it and her chin wobbled.

  “That’s kintsugi.” I pointed to the gold vein running through the side of the ancient Japanese cup where it had been repaired. “See how beautiful it is?”

  She nodded and she firmed her lips, her eyes avoiding mine.

  Wrapping my arm around her waist and giving a squeeze, I placed the last gift on her lap and glanced around the room. Though each of my siblings and their significant others had taken the time to hand her the teacups, they hadn’t loitered after. They hadn’t gawked at her while she opened the boxes or made her feel like a spectacle.

  They’d given her space to open each one.

  They’d continued their conversations and inspection of their own gifts.

  They seemed to accept and understand that this woman needed privacy, even when in a room full of people.

  The thoughtfulness and generosity of my family blew me away. It was
another reminder of stopping to appreciate the heavenly now.

  “What is this?”

  I shifted my gaze back to Shelly. She was holding a six ounce bar of 18k gold.

  “It’s six ounces of gold.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You bought me six ounces of gold?”

  “No.” I lifted my wrist. “Technically, Hank bought me six ounces of gold. I melted down the band of my watch.”

  A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s for your teacups. So you can repair them when they break.”

  A short laugh tumbled from her lips, sounding like amazement and disbelief, and she covered her mouth just as a tear slid down her cheek.

  I caught it with my thumb, wiping it away. “I love you, Shelly. I’ll love you when you break. And I’ll love you when you put yourself back together.”

  She closed her eyes, leaning forward until her forehead rested on my shoulder, her face turned towards my neck.

  I felt her breathe in and out.

  I felt her relax against me—little by little—and regain her control.

  And I felt the kiss she placed on my neck just before she whispered, “I just realized something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be perfect.”

  I grinned, smoothing my hand down her back and placing a kiss on her temple. “Good. ’Cause perfect is boring.”

  *THE END*

  Acknowledgements and A Note From the Author

  I have to thank my editor first and foremost. Marion suffered right along with me as I wrote this book. She shared my struggles and my burdens (taking on the burden of doing the impossible in an impossible timeframe). She is a super woman.

  I also want to thank Heather, April, and Shan for being the voices of reason.

  * * *

  A note about OCD

  I’d like to thank all the wonderful humans who allowed me to incessantly question them about their experiences with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (treating it and living it). Thank you K., Ta., G., H., To., and D. I have my own experiences with OCD and depression, but I felt it was important to draw upon the experiences of others to inform the character of Shelly Sullivan more fully. Additionally, it is my hope the expertise provided by these shared experiences contributed to an accurate portrayal of how Shelly’s disorder would have been treated (once she finally sought help).

  It’s interesting to me how “OCD” is used in conversation to denote “fastidious” or “particular”. If I had a nickel for every time someone offhandedly mentioned during a conversation that they, “were a little OCD about (fill in the blank),” I’d have 876 nickels.

  I suppose we do this with many disorders and diseases. Except I’ve never heard someone say, “I’m feeling a little cancerous today.”

  I do not presume to instruct or chastise with this observation, but rather to increase awareness. That is all.

  * * *

  A note about Shelly and Neurocognitively Diverse Characters

  One of my BETA readers asked me if I thought Shelly might have too much baggage to be a heroine in a romance novel. My answer was a resounding, “HELL NO.”

  All people who sincerely want love (to love and be loved) deserve to be a main character in a romance novel. I firmly believe we are all puzzle pieces, and no matter our shape, color, size, or level of neurocognitive diversity, there is another puzzle piece out there in the world, waiting to click with our own.

  As Dr. West says to Beau, “One person’s experience with OCD can be night and day different from another person’s.” I know this to be true. Therefore, it is very important that you, dear reader, do not walk away from this book with the misconception that, through Shelly, I’ve endeavored to write an accurate portrayal of all people with OCD.

  I have not.

  One character/person can never be—and should never be—fully representative of an entire group of people (unless it’s The Borg; and even then, in later episodes, we see some surprising diversity). I am not the Lorax of OCD, I do not speak for the anxious.

  Rather, what I have endeavored to do (and what I struggle to do with all of my characters) is to write a person who is believable as herself. Like all *real* people, she is not one thing. She is artist and mechanic, strong and weak, brave and cowardly, rational and irrational.

  But above all, she is Shelly Sullivan. She is herself. And she is worthy of love, both giving it and receiving it.

  * * *

  A note about Beau:

  I loved writing Beau.

  I loved writing a character who was considered simple and straightforward, but through his interactions with a multifaceted issue, his own complexity is discovered. We all do this, or have an opportunity to do it, over the course of our lives. We have our ideas of right and wrong, but then are faced with a situation where right and wrong don’t apply.

  We can either chose to continue in ignorance, sticking to the yellow brick road of simplicity, or educate ourselves and unlock a spectrum of possibility.

  So here’s to people like Beau, and being receptive to the spectrum of possibility.

  About the Author

  Penny Reid lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband, three kids, and an inordinate amount of yarn. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she writes books.

  Published in 2017, ‘Beard In Mind’ is Penny’s 15th novel.

  Come find me-

  Mailing list signup: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/ (get exclusive stories, sneak peeks, and pictures of cats knitting hats)

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/PennyReidWriter

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/reidromance/

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance

  Email: pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)

  Blog: http://pennyreid.ninja

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ReidRomance

  Ravelry: http://www.ravelry.com/people/ReidRomance (if you crochet or knit…!)

  * * *

  Read on for:

  Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

  Sneak Peek: Dating-ish, book 6 in the Knitting in the City Series (Available Now!)

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Knitting in the City Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

  Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

  Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

  Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

  Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

  Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

  Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)

  Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5)

  Dating-ish (#6)

  Marriage of Inconvenience (#7, coming 2017)

  * * *

  Winston Brothers Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

  Truth or Beard (#1)

  Grin and Beard It (#2)

  Beard Science (#3)

  Beard in Mind (#4)

  Dr. Strange Beard (#5, coming 2018)

  Beard Necessities (#6, coming 2018)

  * * *

  Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid

  (Contemporary Sports Romance)

  The Hooker and the Hermit (#1)

  The Pixie and the Player (#2)

  The Cad and the Co-ed (#3)

  Sneak Peek: Dating-ish (Available Now!)

  By Penny Reid, book #6 in the Knitting in the City series

  DeepMind

  A neural network that learns in a fashion similar to that of humans and may be able to access an external memory like a conventional Turing machine, resulting in a computer that mimics the short-term memory of the human brain.

  –Source: Google’s Artificial Intelligence Program

  I was sweating.

  “Is this
seat taken?”

  My head whipped up from the book I wasn’t actually reading to look at the café employee. Her hands rested on the only other chair at my table and she gazed at me with an affable, expectant smile.

  “It’s taken,” I shrieked. Like a lunatic.

  But, man, I need that chair!

  She lifted her hands, recoiling as though the metal singed her skin, and gave me a wide-eyed stare. My attention moved behind her and I spotted the nearby table of university students, obviously hunting for an extra seat.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I shook my head, gathering a deep breath and telling myself to calm down. “I’m meeting someone and he’ll be here soon. I’m a little early.”

  “Okay, no problem.” She affixed a polite smile and moved to another table, making the same enquiry.

  Longingly, I gazed at the booth by the window. Every café or coffee shop has that one coveted table, where two to four friends can gather and spend an afternoon not being overheard while sharing ideas and stories. Or where a person can go to work—impervious to the room and its distractions—headphones on, laptop open, losing count of how many lattes and croissants were consumed over an eight-hour day.

  I did not have that table. I had a mediocre table, set in the center of the coffee shop, surrounded by other mediocre tables.

  But I would not let my mediocre table get me down.

  My attention flickered to the door of the café, then to the clock above it. He wasn’t late. Yet.

  Squirming, wishing I’d worn anything other than this sweater dress, my eyes returned to the book on my lap.

  Pay no attention to me, nothing to see here. I’m just perspiring, wearing a sweater dress in May, and not reading while waiting for my perfect match.

  Derek Simmons. Six foot three with a well-maintained beard, great smile, gray eyes, tan complexion, and short hair. He didn’t work out regularly—which was great, because that meant he didn’t expect me to work out either—but enjoyed some outdoorsy activities. Engineer. Thirty-nine. Divorced, two kids.