Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(3)

― George Eliot, Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe





Cletus





“What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our makeshift 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 handwritten note showcasing their superior pen(wo)manship, or a mime routine with or without the painted on face, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized yet readily available 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 blond 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 were in response to the frown affixed to my features because I should have been pleased. I was not pleased.

I’d semi-coerced my brother Billy into singing with us. A rare achievement. Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session. Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and with Billy on vocals we sounded like one of those real, bluegrass studio bands.

Again, I should have been pleased. And yet, I was not pleased.

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 read it ten times. “I need to make a call.”

Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared. 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 just as the quiet words left his mouth, the man sidestepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach 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 a 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 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.

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.

Dammit.

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 to his instrument, his attention coming back to me.

“I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend; it was definitely more of a nip than a bite.

He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”

“Apparently.” I said this under my breath.

It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon-to-be just Donner) 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 smoky fire of restlessness rekindled in my stomach. Over Thanksgiving, we’d—

Well, I’d—

Dammit.

The truth was, we’d discussed marriage once. Just once. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that.

But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. Furthermore, when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.

Boy. Friend.