by L. E. Rico
Turns out it’s not a what, but a who. Helen.
“W-What are you doing here?” I mutter hoarsely.
“I work here,” my assistant says tartly as she looks down upon me with undisguised disdain. “It smells like a brewery in here,” she informs me. “And a locker room. Like the locker room of a brewery,” she pronounces with a disapproving tsk of her tongue.
“Huh,” is all I can manage, allowing my eyes to close again. But then she moves away, and I writhe like a vampire burned by the brightening dawn. Is that my flesh I smell burning?
“You have a perfectly lovely condo,” Helen says as she unfolds a white plastic trash bag. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to sleep here.” When she jerks the bag open with a loud snap, I wince.
“Please. Could you please, please, please keep it down?”
But she ignores me, chattering away as she moves around my office, tossing takeout containers and beer bottles into the bag. I can’t make out everything she’s saying, but I catch a word here and there. Something about my hedonistic lifestyle catching up with me someday.
“Why are you here so early?” I grumble. “And what are you doing?”
She stops and looks at me, one garish orange eyebrow quirked.
“Uh, well, let’s see…I’m cleaning up this pigsty that you call an office. Once I’ve gotten all the trash and beer bottles out of the way, I’m going to bring in a guy with a power washer to see if we can’t get the smell out of the walls. But I’m not holding out hope.”
I decide to ignore her and close my eyes again. But a few seconds later I experience a hellish glare. Helen’s opened the blinds all the way, and the sun is now streaming in, washing my wilted body in the unwanted light of day.
“Oh, come on, Helen…” I say. “I’m trying to sleep here!”
She comes and stands over me again, peering at me over the blue-framed glasses, the ones that dangle from a chain around her neck when she doesn’t need them. From this angle, her bright orange hair is particularly puffy. She reminds me of one of those troll dolls. The ones that are kind of cute and creepy at the same time.
“Bryan, it’s after nine. You have to get up. I brought you a change of clothes and your shaving kit.”
I struggle to sit up, my hand acting as a visor until my heavy eyes can adjust to the light. Ugh. I feel like I’ve been hit with a bag filled with rocks. No…something bigger. Hammers, maybe. Yeah, great big hammers. Sledgehammers.
“You let yourself into my place? How the hell did you know I wouldn’t be there? I might have been…you know…entertaining.”
Helen scoffs and rolls her watery blue eyes.
“Please. There aren’t even sheets on your bed. In fact, there’s nothing in that apartment. Not a painting on the wall, not a framed picture. You have exactly one set of dishes and silverware for four. But there’s no food in the fridge, and your oven still has the plastic cling label from when you bought it.”
With some difficulty, I haul myself to my feet so I’m now looking down on the troll doll.
“Helen, how I live is none of your business,” I hiss with an accompanying glare. But she’s unmoved. Clearly I’m not as menacing as I’d like to think. Finally I roll my eyes and go into the small private bathroom in the back of my office. When I get in there, I find a freshly dry-cleaned suit, clean underwear and socks, and my toiletries. After a hot shower and shave, I dress and comb back my damp hair before taking a look in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the door.
“That’s better,” I murmur, taking note of the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes.
When I come back out into my office, I find a steaming hot latte on my desk along with a bowl of…what is that?
“It’s oatmeal,” Helen says from the doorway when she sees me scowling down at the grayish mush. “You need something hot and substantial. There’s also a cup of fresh berries there.”
I sink into the very expensive ergonomic chair behind my desk with a loud grunt. Once upon a time, I would only hire assistants of the leggy, blonde variety. And, while they made for some lovely scenery around the office, none of these women had any actual administrative experience. They were all models and actresses and screenwriters just waiting to be “discovered.” It was a mess all around. And then came Helen.
Five minutes into her job interview I’d pretty much decided to add her to the “don’t call us, we’ll call you” pile. Then she did something very interesting. She pointed out there was a stain on my tie. Who does that? Who risks pissing off—or, worse yet, embarrassing the person who’s conducting your job interview? Helen. That’s who. It was right then and there that I realized she was exactly what I needed. A no-nonsense woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, no matter what was at stake. An assistant who would always have my back. I’ve never regretted that decision. Except for maybe now as she eyeballs me with a mixture of pity and concern.
“Thank you for the breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the low-cholesterol feast on my desk. “And the clothes. I appreciate it.”
She nods curtly.
“I know. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t.” She comes to take a seat in front of my desk. “Now, let’s go over your schedule for the day—”
“Uh-uh.” I interrupt her, shaking my head as I spoon some oatmeal into my mouth.
Damn, it’s actually good.
“The highest priority today is the Minnesota property,” I say. “I pitched it to Cinecore six months ago, and they want to know why the acquisition is taking so long.”
“Still nothing from the owner? What’s his name…O’Halloran?”
I nod. “Jack O’Halloran. He was in. We only had to sign the final papers, and then he just dropped off the face of the earth. I’m guessing he got cold feet.”
“Yeah, I might get cold feet, too, if I were doing business with you,” Helen mutters under her breath, but she continues before I can comment. “All right. How would you like to proceed, then?”
That’s the other thing I like about Helen—she gets right down to business.
I tap a few keys to wake up my computer and then scan my emails. Still no response from the owner of O’Halloran’s Pub. Well, this is his unlucky day because I’m done playing nice. We had a gentleman’s agreement, and I’m about done being a gentleman.
“I’m going to give him a call. If I can’t get an answer out of him—or if he decides to hide like a chicken—then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
“So, it’s a possible Truittism Number Two then?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
I grin from ear to ear. Yes, Helen was a brilliant hire. She’s memorized my entire litany of truisms, or Truittisms, as I like to call them.
“Exactly.”
“All right, I’ll leave you to it, then. Let me know what I can do to help. Meanwhile, I’ll be at my desk answering the messages that came in overnight.”
Once she’s closed the door, I pull out the file and open it on my desk. There are pictures of the property, along with copies of the deed, Certificates of Occupancy, and a ream of banking and loan records that I shouldn’t have…but do. I’ve spent a lot of time cultivating a network of “spies” all over the country. When one of them spots an available property—or a property that’s about to become available—he or she contacts me. If the lead pans out, there’s a nice finder’s fee involved for them. This pub in the tiny town of Mayhem is a perfect fit for one of my projects, and I have no intention of losing it at the eleventh hour.
I pick up the phone on my desk and punch in the number listed in the file, and within a few seconds, a telephone is ringing somewhere in the middle of the country. Once. Twice. Three times.
“O’Halloran’s,” an impatient female voice barks at me across two time zones.
“With whom am I speaking, please?” I keep my tone brusque and businesslike.
“This is Walker.”
Funny, I thought Walker was a guy’s name. Maybe I didn’t hear her righ
t.
“I’m sorry, did you say Walker?” And then I just can’t help myself. “Like Walker, Texas Ranger?”
“Hah! That’s so hilarious,” she replies in a tone that is anything but amused. “’Cause, you know, I’ve never heard that one before. What else you got? Luke Skywalker, maybe? Or one of those zombie things from The Walking Dead? Go ahead, I’ve got all day,” she snarls down the line.
Suddenly I’m not feeling so clever anymore. I clear my throat and start again.
“Sorry about that. I was actually calling to speak with Jack O’Halloran, please.”
There’s a long pause.
“And who did you say you are?” She sounds suspicious all of a sudden.
“My name is Bryan Truitt, of The Truitt Group in Los Angeles.”
Another long pause before I get a chilly response.
“I see. Well, sorry, but he’s not available.”
“Okay, can you tell me when he will be available?” I persist. “I’ve been trying to reach him for some time.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll need to take it up with the manager. That would be Hennessy.”
“Hennessy?”
“Hennessy.”
“Is Hennessy there now?”
“No. I’m here.”
“And you’re not Hennessy.”
“No, I already told you. I’m Walker.”
“So when is a good time to call back?”
“Look, Mr. Pruitt…”
“Truitt. It’s Truitt.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just give me your number, and I’ll leave a message.”
No way I’m letting this go now that I’ve got a real live human being on the line.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to do that,” I inform her coolly.
“Suit yourself. Call back when you are prepared to do that. Until then, you’re not speaking to anyone. Including me.”
An earful of dial tone assaults me before I can object.
“What just happened?” I mutter, still staring at the phone in my hand.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, breathing in for five counts, then out for five counts. In, out. In, out, until I feel my blood pressure drop. My therapist calls it “square breathing” or some nonsense like that. But I have to hand it to her, it works.
In. Out. In. Out…
Oh to hell with this.
“Helen!” I bellow.
In three seconds flat, my door flies open and short, squat Helen is standing in the doorway. “Did I give you the impression that I’m hard of hearing?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling a bottle of aspirin from my desk drawer and pouring a few directly into my mouth, chasing them with a gulp of coffee. “I need you to clear my schedule for the rest of the week and make travel plans for me.”
She nods, making a note on her pad. “Where?”
“Mayhem, Minnesota.”
Helen looks up at me.
“Where?”
“Mayhem. It’s in Minnesota.”
“That’s a place?”
“Apparently. I have no idea how to get there. You’ll have to figure that out. It’d be great if you could get me on the first plane out tomorrow.”
“Return ticket for when?”
“I don’t know yet. Depends on how long it takes me to get what I want.”
Helen snorts and rolls her eyes. “So, tomorrow night, then?”
“You know it. There’s a reason they call the Midwest ‘fly-over country.’” I grin. “Nothing there worth landing for.”
“Apparently there’s something worth landing for, or you wouldn’t want ‘boots on the ground.’ Speaking of which, would you like me to go pick up a few cold-weather wardrobe items before you go? Winter coat, boots, gloves, that kind of thing?”
“Nope. I don’t plan on being there long enough to need them.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You think you’ll be able to get this sale squared away that quick?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“Well, if you’re sure… You know the temperature can drop below zero this time of year, don’t you?”
In the beginning, I used to find this kind of conversation irritating because I thought Helen was questioning my judgment or my ability…or, at times, my sanity. But I’ve since come to realize that she has genuine concern for my wellbeing. Something I still find a little foreign…but not altogether unpleasant.
“I can have something waiting for you on that end if you don’t want to haul a coat on the plane with you,” she adds.
“Thanks, but I really am hoping to be in and out in under twenty-four hours.”
“All righty, then,” she says, jotting down a few notes on her pad. “You just do whatever you think is best. ”
Oh. I plan to.
Chapter Three
Hennessy
“The Whiskey Sisters.”
That’s what the four of us have been called for as long as I can remember. Never in a derogatory way, though—it was always a sweet term of endearment used by our friends and neighbors. But it was more than a nod to the names our parents chose for us—it was about our relationship to the business itself. “Every O’Halloran has a stake in O’Halloran’s,” our father would tell us. And he wasn’t kidding.
I was drafted to wash dishes when I turned fifteen. Jameson got to file Pops’s paperwork. Walker learned the ins and outs of mixology long before she was old enough to drink. Even Bailey spent her summer vacations serving fish and chips to the tourists passing through town. It was a family business in the truest sense of the word.
After a fitful night’s sleep in my childhood bedroom, I dress and slip down the rear staircase—the one that goes from the apartment kitchen into the back corridor of the pub, where my father’s office and the kitchen are. When we were kids, my mother would send us down that way to kiss our father good night.
Everything is dark and still when I open the door at the bottom of the stairs. It’ll be another hour yet before Donovan comes in to prep for lunch, so I’ve got the whole place to myself. I head into my father’s office without bothering to flip the switch that illuminates the small, narrow hallway. I know it’s exactly eighteen paces from here. I know that I need to lift the door just a hair so it doesn’t catch on the frame. And I know the switch to my left will light the small lamp on Pops’s desk. With a deep sigh, I sit down in his wooden desk chair on wheels, the kind that they stopped manufacturing years ago because the base was unstable.
Sitting at the back edge of the calendar/blotter are framed pictures of us all. Mama and Pops on their wedding day. My high school graduation. James’s wedding to the dipstick. Bailey’s sweet sixteen. My favorite, by far, is a picture of Pops, sound asleep on Jameson’s couch, with a teeny, tiny Jackson also asleep, right atop Pops’s chest. I pick up the silver frame and rub a thumb across the image of my father’s face, so peaceful and content with his first grandson.
When the rage bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, I am totally unprepared. It seems to come out of nowhere. My chest and neck and face grow hot in stages, and I’m sure I must look like a thermometer with its mercury rising higher and higher. Hot tears sting my eyes and threaten to spill down my cheeks. My breath comes in short, raspy pants, and I have to jump up to my feet. I pace the room, my hands raking through my long, thick hair. It’s as if I’m going to come right out of my skin.
Pant. Pant. Pant.
Pace. Pace. Pace.
So many memories missed. So much time lost.
I’ve been such a fool.
The five words hit me like brutal slaps across the face. My head actually turns to one side instinctively, as if to avoid the blows. But they keep coming.
Such a damned fool.
I’m vaguely aware of the huffing sound that I’m making. My heart feels as if it’s going to pound right out of my chest, and my heated skin quickly turns cool and damp with sweat. I know this feeling. This is a panic attack. But I’m helpless to stop
the cycle once it’s started. I pace in circles and pant, waiting helplessly for the deep-seated accusations to float to the surface of my subconscious.
I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I never wanted to be a lawyer.
I gasp and immediately stop pacing so I can bend at the waist and plant my palms on my thighs.
Breathe, Hennessy. Breathe.
Slowly…
Okay. I’m okay.
I went to law school to please my father.
I gulp back a cry that threatens to rise from my throat, but I can’t keep the tears at bay any longer, and they slide in long, salty tracks down my face.
I didn’t want to leave home…but I did.
My next breath is difficult to take against the tightening of my lungs and chest.
I didn’t want to move away. I didn’t want the job.
“Oh…God…” I groan miserably and force myself to sit down again. It’s there. It’s all right there, just under the surface, where it’s been for more years than I’d care to admit. I was the dutiful child, fulfilling her father’s dream of a better life in a big city, where I could be more than just the daughter of the local pub owners. But that’s exactly who I was. Who I still am. And no amount of money, no flashy car, no swank apartment is ever going to change that.
“I’m sorry, Pops,” I whisper to my father’s picture on the desk as I swipe at my tears. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to disappoint you. But I’m so lonely. I’m so unhappy.”
The tears have morphed into a wash down my face now, and the only thing left to do is lay my head atop my arms on the desk and sob. And then something strange happens. My mother’s voice echoes from somewhere in the dark recesses of my memory.
“Cradle to grave, Hennessy,” she says after I’ve had a fight with Jameson over a Barbie. “Your sisters are the only ones who will be with you from the time you’re born to the time you die. Not me. Not Pops. Not Grandma Elsie. Not your best friend or even the man you’ll marry someday. So you must stick together—not fall apart. Do you understand me, Henny?”
I’d nodded but still pouted in my mind, unable to grasp this concept at ten years old. But I’m not ten anymore.