Beauty and the Mustache

Everyone else was busy with the holidays, I reasoned. Really, it was just an excuse. If I’d called, they would have answered, they would have listened, they would have helped. I didn’t call because I didn’t want to. I wanted to hurt, as crazy as that sounds. I wanted to mourn privately—for Momma, for Drew, for myself—before I had to talk about my stupidity with someone else.

Christmas now loomed as an inescapable doom. Since air travel was so spotty around the holidays, I planned to drive from Chicago to Tennessee over two days. Jethro didn’t want me to go by myself—even though I’d explained that I was perfectly capable—so he and Beau decided to take a road trip up to fetch me. They’d rented a car for the way up. We were going to take my truck for the trip back to Tennessee.

I think Jethro suspected I might back out of a Tennessee Christmas if I was left to my own devices. I honestly didn’t know what I would have done if left to my own devices. Probably curl up in a ball with cookie dough, fruitcake, and wine.

As it was, I had little choice but to spend two weeks in Tennessee with my adorable, loveable, tremendously fantastic hillbilly brothers. Thoughts of drowning myself in a punch bowl full of moonshine eggnog got me through the requisite motions of packing.

They were due to arrive at 4:00 p.m. We would spend one night in the city to give them a chance to rest, then start on the journey to Tennessee the next day.

Presently, I was sitting on the couch watching Dr. Phil, drinking wine and eating fruitcake and cookie dough when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, prepared to let it go to voicemail. I’d been avoiding Sandra and Fiona’s calls for the last week in particular. They were worried about me, I could tell. I just wasn’t ready to face them and their sympathy.

To my surprise, it was a Tennessee number that I didn’t recognize. My heart skipped a beat and I stiffened, gripping the phone tighter. I cleared my throat, swallowed, and brought the cell to my ear.

“Hello?”

“You have been avoiding my calls.” Sandra’s stern voice cut through the line.

I sighed. “I haven’t…I’ve just been…busy.”

“That’s a lie. I can tell when you’re lying.”

“What number are you calling from? It’s a Tennessee number.”

“Alex hacked the line and got me a Tennessee number. I suspected you wouldn’t pick up if you thought it was me.”

I sighed again, rolling my eyes. “Can’t you just let me wallow?”

“No, hon.” This was Fiona, apparently also on the line. “We can’t let you wallow. That’s not how we roll. You know better than that.”

“Plus,” I heard Janie’s voice, “we don’t know what you’re wallowing about.”

“Last time we saw you was three weeks ago. You’d just received that burned journal.” Elizabeth, it seemed, was also on the call. “You never told us whether you read it, and we have no idea what’s in it. Feel free to keep the details to yourself, but something happened; don’t try to deny it.”

Marie was the last to speak. “Now let us in. We’re downstairs and we have wine.”

I glanced at the bottle on my coffee table and the half-empty glass next to it.

“Isn’t it a little early to drink wine?” I asked.

“Don’t give me a line about wine,” Sandra’s voice was still stern. “I know you’re up there right now and feeling just fine. As you can see, I’m so upset I made up a rhyme.”

“She’s really upset,” Marie chimed in. “Best to let us in before things get ugly.”

I groaned, closing my eyes, and rubbing my forehead. “Fine. Fine—bring up your wine.”

I hung up the phone and crossed to the door, opening it and waiting for them to arrive. They made a big commotion climbing up the stairs, and I heard the tail end of their plans right before they reached my landing.

“…Let her do the talking. She looks trustworthy.” Marie said this, but to whom, I do not know.

Then Fiona said, “Thanks. Always nice to know I look trustworthy.”

Sandra snorted and said, “Little do they know….”

Then they were at my door.

I stood there and regarded them. They all gazed back at me with sympathy—wretched, wretched sympathy. Sighing for a third time, I turned from the door and called over my shoulder, “Come in, and bring your wine.”

Disrobing commenced—winter attire—and then I was assaulted from behind by a group hug.

Fiona, the trustworthy-looking one, spoke first. “Ashley, darling, we’re not leaving until you tell us what happened and why you’ve been avoiding us for nearly a month.”

“It’s only been three weeks,” I said in lame protest.

Just then, the buzzer to my building’s outer door went off. I glanced at the wall clock. It was only 10:20 a.m. I had another six hours of wallowing planned before my brothers were set to arrive.

“Who is that?” Janie asked as the group hug dissolved. “Are you expecting anyone?”

I shrugged. “My brothers aren’t supposed to be here until four,” I said, and I shuffled to the door and pressed the button.

“Who is it?” I said into the intercom, and in the background, I heard Sandra say, “Her brothers are coming? Did anyone know about this?”

“It’s Jethro and Beau. We’re outside.”

I stared at the speaker for a long second then buzzed them in. I’d been saved by the buzzer and my brothers’ randomly excellent timing. I unlocked and opened the door a crack so they could walk right in.

“Sorry to cut this short, but—as you heard—Jethro and Beau are here to take me to Tennessee.”

Fiona put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Nope. As soon as they see you they’ll want to join the intervention.”

I glanced at myself, noticed I had fruitcake crumbs on my sweatpants. Absentmindedly, I brushed my hand up and down to dust myself off. “What are you talking about?”

“Ashley, you look like you haven’t brushed your hair in days.” Elizabeth said this as a concerned friend, with no condemnation in her tone.

“And you have dark smudges on your cheeks.” Marie pointed to her own cheeks and jaw to show me where.

I touched my face and my fingers came away with soot stains. It was from Drew’s book. I’d been reading it off and on.

Jethro and Beau walked in and filled the arched entry to the living room. They were glancing around my apartment, obviously absorbing the lack of décor and lack of general splendor.

“Hey, ladies.” Beau waved to my friends.

They all exchanged greetings for a minute or two. I felt like I was watching the beginnings of a very bizarre nature program on PBS.

“Nice place.” Beau said this like he meant it.

I gave him a flat smile and shrugged. “Thanks.”

Jethro turned his gaze to me, and I watched as his eyes swept up and down, narrowing on the return pass.

“Ashley Austen Winston, you look like a lard bucket full of armpits.”

“Right?” Sandra said, her hand coming up in a swooping motion then falling flat against her thigh with a smack.

I gave him a flat smile and shrugged. “Thanks.”

My oldest brother put his hands on his hips, his gaze piercing and irritated. “Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes darted between my friends, who surprisingly remained silent.

At length, apparently making up his mind that he could speak freely, he asked, “Is it Momma? Are you having a hard time with…with everything?”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s a big part of it.”

He watched me for a long minute, his expression softening, then he shocked the bejeebus out of me by asking, “Did you get my package?”

All of the ladies in the room gasped, and I felt their eyes shift to me. I stared at Jethro, I stared at the words he’d just said, my mind going quiet then loud then quiet again.

When I spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “What did you say?”

He shifted on his feet, his eyes darting to Beau, the ladies, then back to me. “The journal. Did you get it? Did you read it?”

“Did you…” I blinked like a hummingbird flaps its wings, falling off the non-blinking wagon spectacularly and with style. “Jethro Whitman Winston, did you send that journal to me?”

Jethro frowned at me. “Of course I did. Didn’t you get my note?”

“Note? Note?” Still blinking in rhythm to my confusion, I shook my head, glancing at Sandra, “No! What note?”

She held her hands up. “I didn’t see a note either.”

“Go get the journal. I’ll show you.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I jogged into my room, grabbed the journal from my desk, and sprinted back to the living room.

Beau had crossed the room and picked up my fruitcake. He took a bite, leaned close to Janie, and confessed, “I’m starving.”

She gave him a pleasant smile. “I’m not surprised. Based on your height and weight, you likely consume over three thousand calories a day, assuming you engage in moderate exercise.”