Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(4)

Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? And would a boyfriend have five different engagement rings—all of superior cut, color, and internal flawlessness—sitting in his top dresser drawer, just waiting for the best opportunity to clandestinely ascertain her preference? When would she have five minutes to spare for such an exercise? I had no idea.

In her defense, Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and, unfortunately, her momma was going through a tough time. Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester, was a sinister pain in the ass.

Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, maintained her homestead, car maintenance, and burdened her with absolutely no expectations.

That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of anticipation.

In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.

But New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my anticipation and hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. She’d broken promises before, but that was all in the past, all forgiven and forgotten. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time, come to the jam session, and we’d make up for lost time.

Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a lemony expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.

But there was no Jennifer.

I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.

“Go on with the set if you want. I can jump back in when I return from making my call.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case, and leaned the case against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.

“Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”

I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say “hi” to Jenn from Drew on the off chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say “hi” the next time I happened to see her.

Why did people do that? Send salutations through other people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed: if today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to say “hi” to Jenn, would’ve precipitously decreased my chances of being an unwilling messenger of said “hi” or anything else.

You don’t write a note unless you mean the words. Not like talking. Folks often talk just to hear themselves, maybe because thoughts don’t exist inside their brains. Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.

Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.

Useless.

If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.

Navigating the room, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.

Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall, aiming for the front door of the Green Valley Community Center and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passersby and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.

I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”

I halted, only because the voice sounded like Jenn’s, anticipation refilling my lungs. And there she was.

Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig to cover her dark brown hair, a yellow dress with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck and at her ears. Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.

Jenn jogged to me in high heels, rushing to close the distance between us while I stood stock-still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes. I released a silent sigh.

She must’ve just left work.

As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.

When Jenn was about five feet away, her smile—looking forced, or pained, or worried, or some combination thereof—widened unnaturally and she said, “Hey, there you are.”