by L. E. Rico
I’m shaking my head. Partially in disbelief. Partially in confusion. It’s like she’s speaking another language. Swifties…are they like Twinkies? I consider asking her to clarify who all these strange people are and what they have to do with snack cakes when my thoughts are cut short.
“Ah, there she is,” Janet says with a nod toward the front door of the shop.
I don’t see anyone when I look up, but before I can open my mouth to say so, the tiny bell tinkles and in walks Jameson. Janet winks and shoots me a witchy smile before rushing to meet her. Jameson’s wearing jeans and an oversize O’Halloran’s Pub T-shirt—probably the only one that allowed her to fit her casted arm through the sleeve. And she’s pulled her long hair back into a ponytail that swings across her back like a pendulum as she moves.
Janet pulls Jameson into a soft hug, minding the cast, and then ushers her to where I’m sitting, pulling out the other chair for my new guest to join me. My God, she’s beautiful, this woman. Every time she walks into a room my heart beats just a hair faster.
Stop it, Scott. Stop it right now, before this BS gets both of you in trouble.
“Hi,” she says when Janet leaves us to get our coffee.
“Hi.” The reply seems totally inadequate, considering what transpired between us the other night. Of course, I’m the only one aware of that, so I suppose it doesn’t much matter anyway. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you feeling?”
“Yeah. You know, it was the strangest thing, I just had a hankering for a piece of pie that would not leave me in peace. So I walked over here. And I’m not too bad, thanks. I’ve had to switch over to something that doesn’t knock me for a loop…like the other night…” She adds this last part cautiously. “I’m really sorry about…about whatever I did, Scott. I wasn’t myself.”
“No, no, you were fine,” I assure her. “You did sing, though.”
She smacks her forehead with her good palm. “I was afraid of that. What did I sing?”
“Oh…well, I didn’t recognize the tune. Something about rowing down the Thames.”
“The Thames? Really? I don’t have a clue…”
“Uhhh…” I dig deep to remember another line she sang. “Something about having a blank space so I can write my name on your cast…”
“Blank space to write your name…” Her face lights up with recognition. “Oh! That’s Taylor Swift…sort of…”
“Like the snack cake?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Taylor guy. Doesn’t he also make some kind of snack cakes…what are they? Swifties?”
She snorts so loud that people actually turn and look at us. But she’s laughing so hard now she doesn’t even notice.
“First of all, Taylor Swift is a she. And she doesn’t make snack cakes, she’s a pop goddess, and her fans are called Swifties.”
“Oh…Oh! Well, that makes more sense,” I say, considering my earlier conversation with Janet. “But what about Olivia and what’s-her-name…?”
“Her cats? Olivia and Meredith. They wear clothes from the Knitty Kitty.”
“Aha, now it all makes sense,” I say. “Jeez, sometimes coming back here has been like going to another planet.”
Before she can respond, Janet comes rushing toward our table, carrying a tray.
“Uh-oh,” Jameson murmurs. “It would appear one of us has a message from the Great Beyond.”
Janet carefully sets a steaming mug in front of each of us before placing a single plate in the middle of the table. “The pie has spoken. It’s a lemon merengue with a shortbread crust. Does that ring any bells for either of you?”
I look to Jameson, who’s shaking her head. “Sorry, Janet, no bells on my end, either.” The gypsy-esque woman with the flowing skirts and the red/brown curls pulled back in a headscarf gives us a knowing smile. She produces two small forks from her apron, handing one to each of us. Then she looks at me pointedly.
“It will come. In time. And piece by piece,” Janet says cryptically. Then she nods once, as if to confirm her own statement. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a recipe in my head that has something to do with Hennessy…” With that, she blows away to the kitchen, leaving us gaping after her.
“What on earth…?” Jameson wonders aloud. “Did that make any sense to you?”
“Not really. But maybe it will later on.”
“Okay, then…” Jameson agrees, spearing the tip off the piece of pie and popping it into her mouth. She closes her eyes and relishes it before swallowing, and suddenly I feel my face getting hot. “Oh…Oh, Scott, this pie is amazing!” she moans.
Look away…look away….
I take a bite of my own and am immediately transported back in time. I’m a kid. Maybe nine or ten? There are adults everywhere and we’re in O’Halloran’s Pub. My mother is holding a baby. Whose baby is that? There’s a huge cake. A lemon cake—I’m sure of it, though I don’t know why. I’m walking toward the jukebox, where the children are playing. And then…
It’s over as abruptly as it began. When I open my eyes, I find hers staring back at me.
“Did it take you someplace?” she asks quietly.
I shake my head. “Uh, no, not really…I mean it was a flash of something, but I’m not sure what. And you?”
“Nope. I guess sometimes a pie is just a pie,” she observes with a shrug. “Anyway, I think we have something important to discuss.”
Oh, God. Here we go. The moment of truth… The kiss. “Do we?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, though the higher pitch in my voice gives me away.
Jameson nods at me solemnly. “Yes. I came right over here when I saw your dad’s truck out front. I was hoping we’d have a few minutes alone together to go over things…”
“Things?” I venture, still playing dumb.
“Yes. I just want to be sure you’re prepared.”
“For…what?”
“For tonight, of course. If you’re not ready to play the pub quiz, your team is going to chew you up and spit you out, my friend. And I’d hate to see anything ugly go down.”
“The pub quiz? That’s what you came here to talk to me about?”
“Well, yeah. What did you think I wanted to talk about?”
I shrug and paste a nonchalant expression on my face. “I don’t know, I thought maybe you were going to tell me you’re taking singing lessons. Because—and I’m sorry to say this, Jameson—you’re no Tyler Swift.”
“Taylor!” she says, her head slumping onto her arms on the table. I hear a muffled “Taylor. Swift.”
Clearly she really doesn’t remember anything about our time together. Or what I said. Or what she did. What’s not so clear is why I feel relieved and disappointed at the same time.
Chapter Fifteen
Jameson
“Tick-tock, lads and lasses!” Father Romance crows. He’s revived his role as quizmaster for the final round of Tuesday’s pub quiz, which was cut short by the impromptu coronation.
“He really thinks he’s Irish,” Walker snorts. “Maybe he should just add an O and apostrophe in front of his last name and make it official.”
“Grigory O’Romanski. I like it,” I chuckle.
She raises a finger in Henny’s direction, a signal for her to pick up her order. “Hey, how’s the arm holding up?” she asks with a nod toward my wounded appendage.
“Fine,” I assure her. “A little sore but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good, good. Because I’ve got a few tunes ready to go for after the quiz. I thought maybe you could grab the mic over there and give us a little Taylor Swift.”
She grins at me.
“Ha-ha-ha. You’re just soooo funny, Walker.”
“I know, right? I crack myself up,” she quips.
“Walker’s smiling. That’s never a good sign,” Hennessy comments as she approaches.
“Oh, James was just trying to decide if she should sing ‘Look What You Made Me Do’ or ‘Love Story.’
I told her she should encore ‘Blank Space.’”
“Hmmm…” Hennessy puts her index finger to her lips and pretends to ponder the issue. “Well, you know, I think maybe we should ask Scott. I mean, he had a front row seat for her last performance…”
“Okay, okay! Enough with the mocking already,” I plead, joining in their laughter. “I feel silly enough as it is.”
“Well, you couldn’t have done too badly,” Walker comments as she nods toward the tables set up around the pub. “Scotty Clarke hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night.”
I resist the urge to follow her gesture with my glance. “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure he’s much too busy playing the quiz to be watching what I’m doing.”
“I don’t know,” Henny pipes up. “I’m with Walker on this one. I think Donovan just put up a basket of fries for that table in the kitchen window. Why don’t you bring it on over there and say hi?”
“You should’ve said something sooner! I don’t want his fries to get cold,” I say, snatching up the basket sitting in the window of the kitchen under a heat lamp.
“Not that you’re looking for an excuse to go over there or anything…” I hear Walker say as I walk away.
I harrumph at them and carry the fries across the room, skirting the various team tables until I get to the one he’s a substitute for, the Mayhem Fire Department.
“Someone order fries?” I ask with a broad smile.
“Ohhhh yeahhh,” Scott says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Hot and greasy—just the way I like ’em!”
“Hey! We don’t talk ‘hot and greasy’ at this table,” says Mitch DiSteffano, one of the volunteer firemen. “There’s almost always some flames along with those two.”
“Oh, sorry about that,” Scott says and then turns to me. “The guys have made me an honorary rookie tonight, since I’m filling in. Look!” He reaches under his seat and pulls out a plastic fireman’s hat.
“Niiiiiice! Hey, Mitch, think you can get me one of those for Jackson?”
“Sure, sure, Jameson. Why don’t you bring the little guy by one afternoon and we’ll let him sit in the fire truck?”
“He’d love that! Thanks, Mitch.”
And then his expression changes.
“Hey, Jameson…before you go…you might wanna stick your head outside. I think I saw Bailey headed that way with one of those punks from the fraternity team.”
“Oh, no, I doubt that, Mitch…” I say, scanning the room so I can point out where Bailey is serving food or picking up empties. But she’s nowhere to be seen. “Huh…”
I start to walk away when Scott gets to his feet and catches up with me. “Let me go outside with you,” he suggests.
“Yeah, okay,” I mutter, going out the front door and peering down Main Street in both directions.
No Bailey.
I walk around to the east side of the building.
No Bailey.
And then around to the back where the parking lot is.
Bailey…and some guy. A big guy, whose got her pressed up against the side of the building in a lip lock. I don’t know what it is that sets me off. She’s dated before. She’s kissed, I’m sure. But this guy looks so much…older. And more experienced.
“Jameson, wait…” I hear Scott behind me, as if he knows what I’m going to do an instant before I do it.
“Hey, you! She’s underage, you know! I suggest you step away from my sister or I’m going to beat you bloody with my cast!” I spit, brandishing the hot pink weapon.
The guy stands up straight and puts a few feet between himself and my sister. My sister who looks really, really…ticked off.
“Jameson, what’s wrong with you?” she demands, stomping in my direction, hands on hips.
“What’s wrong with me? With me, Bailey? I come back here and find this drunk college kid pawing you in the alley, and you want to know what’s wrong with me?”
“Oh. My. Gawd!” she screeches. “Could you be any more embarrassing?”
I sense Scott slipping back a little further, giving us some sisterly space. As for the frat boy, he looks like he’d rather be crushed by a rogue asteroid than stand here right now witnessing our meltdown.
I realize, too late, that I might have misread the situation. Clearly she wants to be back here with this guy. In the parking lot. In the shadows.
“Are you seeing this guy? Is that what it is?” Suddenly I flash upon an image of a very pregnant Bailey in her princess sash and tiara. “Oh my God! Are you—are you having sex?” I lower my voice and hiss the last two words.
Her white-blond brows go up in surprise, and her perfect pink mouth forms a perfect pink “O.”
“What? No!”
“Because, trust me, you can’t handle a baby, Bailey—”
“Stop it!” she demands with such ferocity that I do. “Just—just stop it! Not that it’s any of your business, but this is Harry. He’s not drunk and, guess what, he’s only seventeen, too! We had AP chemistry together sophomore year and now he’s taking summer classes at the U.”
I feel my righteous indignation fall from my puffed-out chest to the pit of my stomach, where it lodges itself into a nauseating ball of dread.
Oh my dear good God. What did I just do?
Suddenly I’m scrambling through my mind trying to think of how I can walk this back. But there’s no going back from this one. I can only swallow my pride and move forward and hope I don’t come off as totally insane as I feel right now.
“Bailey,” I begin, trying to sound calmer, “I’m sorry—I…I was just worried about you. And it looked like he was…”
She takes a deep breath and appears to calm down before walking right up to me and putting her hands on my shoulders.
“Jameson, I don’t know how many times I have to say this to you, but you’re not my mother. So please, save the concern for Jackson.”
She spins around again, long hair fanning out around her as she does.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Can we talk about this?” I call after her.
“No,” she says flatly. “I mean it, James. I love you, but you need to get over this ‘mama bear’ thing you’ve got going on. I’ve been managing on my own just fine since Pops died. I’ll let you know if I need your help or your advice or whatever, but I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one!”
Before I can say another word, she’s turned her back on me and is headed toward the back door of the pub.
“Come on, Harry,” she mutters.
The kid looks at her and then back at me uncertainly and somehow finds the courage to speak.
“Uhhh, it was nice to meet you…?”
Chapter Sixteen
Scott
When I was a kid, I remember thinking how cool it was that the O’Hallorans lived in an apartment over the pub. I was especially intrigued by the back staircase that runs from a door off the back hallway right up to the kitchen. On the few occasions that we were dragged to parties at the pub, the girls enjoyed showing it off to all the kids, telling us how they could sneak down in their pajamas and watch the grown-ups dance and drink and play darts sometimes.
Now, as I chase after Jameson, the back staircase feels small and narrow compared to the cavernous tunnel it seemed like back then. When I reach the top, I rap on the door gently with the back of my knuckles and let myself in. I find her sitting at the kitchen table, makeup running down her tear-stained face.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry, Jameson. It’s not so bad. You were just worried about her…”
She shakes her head miserably, opens her mouth to say something, but then just bursts into more tears.
“Okay, okay, stay right here,” I tell her softly.
Then I go down the hall to the bathroom and run a clean washcloth under the tap, wring it, and bring it back to the kitchen table where she’s sitting now. I take her chin in my hand so I can tilt her face upward, using the damp cloth to pat her skin until all traces of
the night are gone from it. Then I put water in the kettle on the stove and make us both a strong, hot cup of tea. She doesn’t say a word, just sniffs, wiping at the occasional rogue tear that slips past her defenses. I bring the mugs back to the table and sit with her, sipping quietly, waiting for her to speak first. Because it has to be her.
“My mother would have known how to handle this. She would have figured out a way to make sure Bailey was safe…without embarrassing her. Without acting like a lunatic in front of some boy she likes…”
“But your mother isn’t here,” I remind her gently.
She sighs, the tears finally slowing to a trickle. “No, she’s not. And that’s the thing…Bailey was so young when she died. She’s had to manage so many things on her own. But when I try to be like a mother to her, she doesn’t trust me. And who could blame her? I mucked up my marriage—jeez, my own kid is a terror! I’m not exactly a role model for the future Princess Mary of Midwestern Dairy, am I?”
She hiccups, and I try to suppress a chuckle—unsuccessfully.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she demands, those green eyes sparking with fire.
I shake my head and hold up my palms. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m thinking about the look on poor Harry’s face. Jeez, Jameson, I had no idea such a tiny person could sound so intimidating! I swear, I think he might’ve wet himself when you threatened him with the cast…”
My attempts to coax a smile out of her are falling flat.
“Well, I don’t think any of it’s funny.” She sniffs into a napkin. “I think I’m a fool and failure at being a mother and a sister.”
On impulse, I reach across the table and take one of her hands in both of mine. She feels so fragile in my grip, I’m afraid to squeeze too hard. “Listen to me, Jameson. You are a phenomenal mother. I’ve seen you with Jackson, and there’s no one on the planet who could deny that. As for Bailey, well, I don’t know much about sisters, but I do know she loves you. And you know how when I got here you reminded me that she’s all grown-up now? Well, maybe you forget that sometimes, too. It’s easy to do. I mean, every time I look at Win I still see that sneaky little turd who broke Mom’s antique lamp and told her I did it.”