Blame it on the Bet (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “He’s a handful, that one,” he chuckles. “But, then again, so was his father.”

  “Now, Dad, you know I was an angelic child,” Win calls from the hallway as he returns with a Michelob for me. “Well, angelic by Jackson standards, anyway,” he groans, handing me the bottle.

  “Thanks. Speaking of the little guy, where is he?”

  “He’s hanging with Mommy in the kitchen,” Hennessy replies. “But he’s been asking for you, Brybry. Hey, Jackson,” she hollers toward the kitchen, “Brybry’s here.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I chuckle when I hear a piercing squeal of delight.

  “Brybry!”

  Tiny footsteps can be heard as he makes his way toward us.

  “Brybry!”

  “In here, buddy,” his father answers and squats down to his level when the little boy comes careening into the den. He flings himself into his father’s outstretched arms, and Win plants several loud, sloppy kisses on the boy’s face.

  Jackson chortles and squeals in response, then wraps his arms around Win’s neck.

  I keep hearing what a jerk this guy is, but it’s clear he loves his son. I’m wondering if maybe the O’Halloran sisters’ view of their brother-in-law has to do with his treatment of Jameson rather than his overall demeanor. Maybe I’ll have a better idea by the time I leave here today.

  “Brybry!”

  Jackson points in my direction and squirms to get out of his father’s grasp.

  “Do you mind?” Win asks.

  “Not at all. Come over here, big guy.” I hold out my hands as an invitation, and he makes the leap from Win to me. “Wow, this kid’s solid,” I marvel once I’ve got him.

  “Oh yeah,” Big Win agrees. “Another trait his father had, too.”

  “Not to mention his grandpa,” Win teases, patting his father’s paunch.

  The older man smiles and shrugs.

  “What can I say? Your mother was an excellent cook, son.”

  “That she was,” Win agrees. “Speaking of which, my wife has asked us to make our way to the dining room. Come here, Jax. Let daddy put you in your high chair—”

  “No, daddy, no! Brybry!”

  Win looks at me.

  “Do you mind? It’s really simple. Just help him into it and fasten the little seat belt that’s attached.”

  “All good,” I agree and follow Hennessy to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on a backyard that could pass for a national park.

  The dining table is a long farmhouse table with distressed wood planks atop chunky white legs. Large, rustic ladder-back chairs flank each side, and matching Windsor chairs sit at either end.

  I locate the high chair and secure Jackson, then make a move to sit on the other side of the table. But His Majesty isn’t having it.

  “Nooooooo! Brybry! Nooooooo. Staaaaaaaay!”

  “I think he wants you to stay,” Hennessy notes as she takes the seat next to the one the screecher wants me to occupy.

  “That’s enough, Jackson,” his father warns him as he sets a large platter of ham in the center of the table.

  The baby grins at his father and bats his eyelashes. Funny, I thought that only worked in romantic situations, but even I find myself enchanted by the huge green eyes fringed with long red lashes.

  “No worries,” I assure Win. “As long as he doesn’t call me a…you know…then I think we’re in good shape.”

  Win snorts.

  “The day’s still young, Bryan. The day’s still young…”

  He disappears back into the kitchen. Big Win sits across from me, and Bailey materializes out of nowhere.

  “Hey,” she says with a nod in my direction.

  “Oh, hi! Where’d you come from?”

  “I had a youth choir rehearsal after service.”

  “You sing? Nice.”

  “Oh, she sings like an angel,” Hennessy adds. “She had a solo in the Christmas cantata last year.”

  “I’m going to sing at Hennessy’s wedding,” Bailey announces proudly, just as Win and Jameson return to the table with side dishes and take their seats.

  “Congratulations,” I offer Hennessy, only half kidding. Bailey’s comment has me wondering if there’s someone waiting in the wings that I don’t know about. Someone with serious intentions. Of the marital variety. My stomach churns at the prospect.

  Hennessy rolls her eyes.

  “She’s been saying that since she was five,” she explains. “Someday, Bailey. But not anytime soon.”

  “Okay, okay, all that polkaing has made me ravenous,” Jameson declares dramatically. “Win, would you like to say grace?”

  “Nope. I’ll pass,” he says lightly, ignoring the beseeching look he’s getting from his wife. “I’m not Catholic,” he informs me.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t say grace,” Jameson reminds him. “It might be nice if your son saw you do it once in a while.”

  But Win just shrugs.

  “I’ll do it,” Hennessy pipes up, bringing the sunniness back to her sister’s face. She begins to cross herself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  I follow suit, slightly behind for my inexperience at the action.

  “Heavenly Father,” she begins in a tone that is both reverent and sweet. “Thank You for this day of song and worship. And thank You for the love of friends and family.” She pauses to clear her throat, and when she resumes again, her voice is a little softer than previously. “Thank You especially for our newest friend, Bryan. We pray that You will watch over us and guide us with Your divine presence, that we may be of service to You. In Jesus’s name, we pray, Amen.”

  We all cross again, echoing her “Amen.”

  “Thank you, Hennessy,” I murmur. “That was really nice.”

  I’m not used to being the subject of other people’s prayers, and it’s kind of touching, actually.

  “We’re happy to have you Bryan,” Jameson pipes up. “Now, dig in, everyone!”

  She passes a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes to her left and an equally impressive serving of green beans to her right. In the center of the table is the spiral ham, slathered in brown sugar glaze. I spot a basket of crescent rolls and reach for it at exactly the same instant as Hennessy.

  “Oh, sorry,” she murmurs when our hands touch.

  “No, please,” I insist, pulling my hand away and holding my palm out like a game show hostess highlighting the attributes of a prize.

  “Oh no, you first…”

  Win snorts.

  “You two sound more like you’re on a first date than like adversaries.”

  We all let the comment go, and I grab a roll for the sake of restoring peace to the table. After that, I load up my plate with a sampling of everything on the table. Miss Lucy’s hotdish aside, I can’t recall the last time I had a meal that didn’t come in a cardboard container.

  “Everything is fantastic, Jameson,” I say appreciatively, shoveling another forkful into my mouth.

  “Thank you, Bryan.” She beams, and I’m struck by how lovely all of the O’Halloran sisters are. Even the sullen Walker, who’s nowhere to be found.

  “So, Bryan, you’re from L.A.,” Big Win comments. “I imagine outstate Minnesota must be quite a culture shock for you.”

  “It certainly is,” I reply with a grin. “I had a little trouble getting used to it at first, but it’s starting to grow on me. Of course, I haven’t had to contend with a snowstorm yet.”

  “Yeah, one good wallop and we might see Bryan making a run back to the beaches and the bikinis.” Win Jr. snorts.

  I shrug noncommittally and reach for my beer.

  “Actually, Bryan’s renting an office from King Colby,” Hennessy tells him. “He’s working on some other Midwestern projects out of there.”

  “Is that so?” Win asks, his eyes narrowing a little. “Now, why would you want to do that? I imagine back in L.A. you’ve got yourself some fancy corner office in a high-rise
and a secretary built like a brick—”

  “Win!” Jameson cuts him off with a tilt of her head toward Jackson, who’s happily sculpting his mashed potatoes with his bare hands.

  He nods his understanding. “Anyway, why are you hanging around here in Mayhem, Bryan?”

  “I like it here.”

  My statement is clear and direct and firm and brooks no room for further comment on the matter. Or at least I thought so.

  Win raises his eyebrows as if waiting for more, and I raise mine to mirror his. Finally, he takes another turn at bat.

  “How long do you plan to stick around Mayhem?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll see how I’m feeling at the end of the month.”

  He’s about to say something else when I catch Bailey’s eye and cut him off. “No Walker today?” I ask.

  “Sleeping,” the youngest O’Halloran informs me. “She was tending bar last night, and she didn’t get home till after two in the morning.”

  “Wow, must’ve been busy,” I comment.

  “Hardly,” Win snorts. “Once that new sports bar opened, everyone ditched O’Halloran’s. I mean, my father-in-law was a great guy, but he didn’t have a clue as to how to keep up with the younger generation. Nobody wants an Irish pub these days. They want half-price apps and video poker and—”

  “Win, please,” Jameson says quietly from her end of the table. “Can we just have a pleasant meal together without bringing all of this up?”

  Her husband holds his palms up toward the crown molding.

  “James, I don’t mean any offense. Whatever his reasons for sticking around, I just think maybe Bryan being here is a sign that you should let it go once and for all.”

  He turns to me again, and I’m immediately on guard. No good can come of this conversation, at this time, in this place. Someone is going to leave this table pissed off, and it won’t be me.

  “You don’t want to tell us why you feel like hanging around, fine. But let’s just cut to the chase here about the pub. You’ve obviously got big plans for that parcel of land. Plans that are going to net you some serious coin. So let’s forget about this asinine bet that makes absolutely no sense and just tell me what your highest offer is. Your real highest offer.”

  A quick glance at the horrified expressions around the table tells me that no one expected this. No one except for me, that is. There’s always a guy like this. A guy who fancies himself a savvy businessman. And, you know, the strange thing is, Win really doesn’t mean any offense. He’s blunt and insensitive, but I can tell that, in his warped mind, he’s just trying to do right by his wife. Considering what this house must be worth and what he probably makes running the law firm, I don’t think this is about him wanting to get his hands on the cash. I try to keep this in mind as I address this question.

  “You know, Win, there are certainly instances when I’m holding out for the best deal that I can get. But, as I’ve said, the town of Mayhem is growing on me. As are its residents,” I mention, with a casual glance to Hennessy on my right. “Besides, Hennessy is the executor of her father’s estate, and she’s already informed me that she doesn’t wish to sell the property at this time. But if she changes her mind—and if she wants you to—you should absolutely advise her during negotiations. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m trying to take advantage of a grieving daughter.”

  He blinks once. Hard. Not what he was expecting.

  “But beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t really say any more on the subject, as you have no interest in this property.”

  I couldn’t resist. Just had to get that little dig in there.

  Crap. What’s wrong with me? I know better than to antagonize a guy like Win.

  “I represent the interests of my wife, not to mention those of my son,” he informs me in a tone that’s much less congenial than it was thirty seconds ago.

  “Win…”

  Jameson’s tone as she utters his name through gritted teeth should be setting off alarm bells in this guy’s head. But he’s too tone deaf to hear them.

  “Uh-uh, James. Something’s not right about either this guy or this situation,” her husband counters a little too loudly.

  “Son, I think you’d best take it down a notch,” advises Big Win in a calm, deliberate tone from the other side of the table.

  “Dad, I think you need to stay out of this,” Win II spits at Win I.

  Oh my. Things just got really interesting.

  There is a long, very pregnant, very awkward, very disturbing pause.

  “I suggest you check yourself, Winston,” Big Win says in the same quiet tone. “You’re out of line, son. Now, what say we enjoy this wonderful meal that Jameson has made for us and talk about something more pleasant? Why don’t you tell Bryan about the murder case that you caught last week.”

  Yes, please, dear God, let’s talk about the murder. A much less thorny topic, for sure.

  The son sniffs like a petulant teenager but begins, begrudgingly, to tell us the bizarre story of the woman he’s defending. She’s been accused of killing her husband with a frozen turkey then cooking the evidence and serving it to her in-laws.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I stop him, shaking my head. “Isn’t that the plot of an old movie? It sounds really familiar…”

  Big Win grins and points his fork at me.

  “Damn straight, Bryan. It was an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I suppose she figured it was old enough that no one would recall and suspect anything.”

  “Holy shh…sugar!” I catch myself before I can give little potty-mouth any more ammunition to use against me.

  “Nice.” Hennessy smiles appreciatively. “Glad to see you learned your lesson after the whole douche thing—” She stops cold, immediately realizing her mistake. We all do, including little Jackson Clarke, whose little laser focus is on me an instant before he yells:

  “Doooooosh! Brybry dooooosh!”

  Which comes an instant before he hurls a fistful of potato mush into my hair.

  The entire table erupts at once. Hennessy slams a hand across her mouth just as Jameson throws her fork down on the table in exasperation. Bailey is literally falling out of her chair while Big Win shakes his head and chuckles. Even Win is having a hard time keeping the corners of his scowl from tilting up into a smile.

  Out of the mouths of babes…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hennessy

  While I didn’t mind the idea of riding with him to Jameson’s, now I’m faced with the awkwardness of the ride home with Bryan after our earlier car conversation. Not to mention the very spirited luncheon discussion. Between Win and Jax, I don’t think the poor guy got a mouthful of food down.

  “You must think my entire family is nuts,” I say at last, breaking an especially long stretch of silence.

  “I think every family is nuts,” he assures me with a grin and then seems to think of something. “He’s not all that bad, you know. Win, that is.”

  I take a long deep breath.

  “I know it must seem that way to you. But there’s a lot of water under that particular bridge.”

  “He loves his son,” Bryan points out.

  “He does,” I agree. “But he could love his wife more and the rest of the women in Minnesota a little bit less.”

  It takes him a second to get my meaning.

  “Oh. So he’s…fooling around on her?”

  “Yeah, afraid so. And he’s not very discreet about it. But you know what the worst thing is? I believe he really does love her…just not enough to be faithful to her. And, my God…” I pause, my voice catching. “It just kills her. It hurts her more than anything he could ever possibly do to her. He’s promised to stop. They’ve gone to therapy, even, but he just can’t seem to help himself.”

  Bryan nods slowly as he processes what I’ve told him, glancing out the passenger’s side window as I navigate the back roads toward Mayhem. After what feels like a long time, he speaks again.

  “You
know, Hennessy, men cheat or sleep around for different reasons. Some like the thrill. Some are hooked on the sex. Others just don’t give a damn about their wives. Still others feel justified because they don’t think they’re getting what they need at home. And then there are guys who screw around again and again and again because it makes them feel something—even if it’s just for an hour. They feel some approximation of love…”

  “But she does love him,” I object but he holds up his hand to stop me.

  “I know, that’s obvious. But maybe he doesn’t love himself. Or maybe he doesn’t feel loved by his own family.”

  There’s something in Bryan’s tone that makes me think there’s something in Bryan’s heart that relates to this story.

  “Do you feel that way, Bryan?” I ask softly.

  “I do—I did. For a long time. There were a lot of women who meant nothing. A lot of flings and short-term relationships that went south as soon as I realized there was still something missing inside me. You know what it’s like?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “It’s like being hungry. And there’s a perfectly good, healthy meal in front of you, but you keep choosing the Snickers and a can of Coke, thinking they’ll satisfy this deep, nagging hunger inside of you. It works for a little while, maybe gives you a little rush, but eventually you’re gonna slump. And big time. When that intense sugar-high wears off, you’re twice as hungry as you were, and now you’re disgusted with yourself to boot.”

  I hate to give Win the benefit of the doubt. About anything. But I can’t deny that what Bryan is saying makes some sense. There really is something about my brother-in-law that conveys a love-hate thing. And not with Jameson, either. Is it possible that he’s got something going on? Depression or self-esteem issues?

  No. Can’t be. He’s an egomaniac.

  “And before you write him off as a narcissist, I don’t think that’s the case.”

  Not for the first time, I wonder if I’ve actually expressed my thought out loud.

  “Um, why is that?” I ask, a little spooked by his perceptiveness.

  “A narcissist doesn’t care about his kid like that. A narcissist doesn’t care that his father disapproves of him. A narcissist doesn’t try to protect his family—”