by L. E. Rico
I sit up straight, pluck a wad of tissues out of a box on the desk, and blow my nose in a most unfeminine manner. Then I take a long, slow, shaky breath, wipe my eyes, and start opening drawers and rummaging through filing cabinets. I pore over ledgers and inspect invoices.
It takes hours. I stay holed up in the office, no one even aware of my presence there in the back of the pub. I plow through the countless tiny, intricate jigsaw pieces until I finally have a clear understanding of just how deep of a pile of crap we’re standing in. Except, it’s more of a mountain than a pile, and by the time I return the last bank statement to the last file folder and close the last desk drawer, I know the depths to which my father went to provide for and protect his girls.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Jameson says from the doorway. I didn’t even hear her open the door. “Hey! Hey, hey…what is it? You’ve been crying!” She’s kneeling down next to my chair in a heartbeat, taking my hands in hers and searching my eyes for a clue.
“I’m okay now. Really,” I reassure her with a weak smile. “Pull up that stool and come sit with me. I’ve been going through Pops’s papers…”
“But we’ve been through all of those already, Henny. There isn’t anything there…”
“Yes, there is. Not alone, but when you put it all together, you can see the pattern. You can tell where things start to go wrong and how Pops tried to make it right. But he couldn’t. By the time he got involved with this Truitt person, he must have been desperate.”
She looks at me, her green eyes widening with comprehension.
“Wait—what are you saying? Pops knew Truitt? I thought he came into the picture after the bank called the loan. You know, to try and scoop up the property for pennies on the dollar.”
“I don’t think so,” I say softly. “Pops was desperate to leave something for us. And, more importantly, he didn’t want to be a financial burden on any of his children. He was going to sell, James.”
“No!” she squeaks in protest. “Pops would never do that! This…” She gestures at the room around us. “This was his life. His and Mama’s.”
“I’d like to believe he was railroaded or blackmailed into it, but if you follow the money, you’ll see that it was the only option he could find. Jesus, no wonder he had an aneurysm. His blood pressure must’ve been through the roof! Did you notice anything?”
She looks stunned as she pulls up the stool in the corner and sits so we’re eye-to-eye.
“He…he was preoccupied, I suppose. A little forgetful, maybe? Especially in the fall…”
I pick up the papers from The Truitt Group and wave them around.
“And that’s exactly when all this was happening. Near as I can tell, Truitt had some inside information that the pub was in trouble. He reached out to Pops and expressed an interest in the business.”
“So he is a predator,” she says with some satisfaction.
For me, it’s not so cut and dry.
“Maybe, in that he had Pops over a barrel. But honestly, he didn’t try to undercut him. In fact, near as I can tell, he was offering full fair-market value on the pub. Pops would have walked away debt-free with a good chunk of change in his pocket.”
We stare at one another silently for a very long, very awkward moment.
“So…” she begins. “What does that mean?”
I sigh.
“I think it means that Pops saw selling as a way to avoid the embarrassment of foreclosure…and a way to avoid letting on to us just how much debt he was in. He probably intended to play it off as being his plan all along. And by then, there wouldn’t be anything any of us could have done about it, anyway. But now he’s gone, and we know the whole story. And, just maybe, we can still do something to turn this thing around.”
My sister is nodding, her face solemn as she processes what I’m saying.
“So, this isn’t just about money anymore,” Jameson observes.
“No,” I agree. “It’s about pride. His pride…and ours.”
Chapter Four
Bryan
Truittism Number 3: Don’t judge a book by its cover…or its title.
It’s taken me the entire day to get to this godforsaken speck on the map. Three flights and one harrowing drive through the Arctic Circle later, I pull into the town of Mayhem, Minnesota. What a name.
The first thing that strikes me is the snow.
This is not the snow of film and television—light, fluffy, glittery flakes of goodness that serenely float down from the heavens. The snow I see now is heaped into scuzzy piles in parking lots, against buildings, and lining the sidewalks like filthy, muddy icebergs. This snow is pocked and scarred from rock salt. It’s dirty from sand and grime. This is not angelic snow. This is angry snow. Snow with an attitude.
“Ugh.” I scowl at it in disgust as I maneuver my rented Lexus sedan down Main Street.
I have no trouble spotting the pub, and I’m happy to find a clear spot to park directly across the street from the quaint two-story building. The building that I should own by now. I take a deep breath and put on my game face. Expensive car. Impeccably tailored suit. Hand-tooled, leather-soled Italian dress shoes. An Armani trench and a buttery leather briefcase. As I open the door and step out onto the street, I’m ready to make an impression Jack O’Halloran will never forget.
I cross the street, careful not to step in any slushy puddles, but when I get to the curb, I’m faced with a dilemma. Some genius has neglected to shovel a path through the stacked snow between the road and the sidewalk. I can either go over the three-foot mound or walk to the end of the block and come back around from the corner.
“Oh screw it,” I mutter, clutching my briefcase tightly and stepping up high to hoist myself over the berm.
No sooner does my foot land than it sinks, the snow beneath it giving way under my weight and leaving me with one leg embedded up to the thigh while the other dangles behind me. I grumble under my breath and try to extricate myself without falling forward or backward—I’m balancing precariously between the two. Except that my left leg—the free leg—doesn’t quite reach the asphalt, so I don’t have anything to push against for leverage in order to pull my right one out of its icy prison.
“What the—”
“Hey, you all right?” comes a female voice at close range.
I’ve been focusing so hard on this conundrum that I didn’t even notice I have an audience. Great. Just what I need, some local yokel come to gawk at the townie.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying, unsuccessfully, to yank myself free. I grunt in disgust at the bottom of my Armani trench, which is now covered in filth from dragging along this iceberg that has absorbed a quarter of my body. “Oh hell…”
“Funny, you don’t look fine.”
I tear myself away from my current predicament to examine the smart-ass on the sidewalk. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but she’s not it.
The woman I’m looking at is, quite simply, gorgeous. Like, heart-stoppingly beautiful. And the funny thing is, she’s not like the women I’m usually drawn to. This is the real girl next door. She’s dressed in jeans, her arms folded across the plaid flannel shirt she’s wearing over a tee that reads O’Halloran’s Pub. On her feet are a pair of boots—and I’m not talking about those tall, leather, spiky-heeled boots that women teeter around on in L.A. These are boot boots. Like the functional kind with navy blue rubber-bottoms and brown leather uppers that lace up high on her shins. Tufts of warm lining peek out around the collars.
Her hair is dirty blond, hanging down around her face in a messy tumble of untamed curls and waves. There’s an arc of freckles dotting the bridge of her slightly upturned nose, and her eyes are the brightest blue I think I’ve ever seen.
Wow.
I’m so busy looking that I’ve actually stopped hearing, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she’s just asked me a question.
“Excuse me?”
“
I asked if you’re hurt,” she informs me as she wipes her hands on a half-apron wrapped around her waist.
“What? Oh no. No…just my pride,” I say with a sheepish grin. “I appear to be stuck.”
“So I see.”
“I…I guess I should’ve gone around to the corner instead of trying to climb Everest here,” I kid.
“I suppose you should have,” she says with a smirk. “Would you like some help, maybe?”
Hmmm. On the one hand, I’m embarrassed. On the other, I’ll get to touch this snow bunny. Oh yeah. Plan B it is.
“That would be great,” I say, offering up my most sincere, earnest smile. “Would you mind taking this for me?”
I hold my leather briefcase out, and she comes forward to take it from me. There, that’s better. Now I can use both hands to…to what?
“Here,” she says, coming closer and turning to her side. “Put a hand on my shoulder and see if that gives you enough leverage to pull your foot out.”
She doesn’t have to suggest it twice. I put a hand on her delicate frame and try to extricate myself. Unfortunately, the only thing I succeed in doing is sinking my other foot into the snow bank—though, not nearly as deep. That’s when I feel strong hands around my waist, pulling me backward. And up. And out. My feet slip and slide—first against the snow, and then on the slick road.
“Whoa! Hey…!”
“Hold on there, son, I’ve got you,” a deep voice says from behind me. Once I’m stable again, I feel his grip on me relax, and turn to thank the Good Samaritan, already speaking as I do.
“Thanks, man, I was good and stuck there… Jesus Christ!” I gasp in surprise, startled to find myself staring at a very tall, imposing figure. He’s got dark hair and eyes, and he’s wearing all black. That is, except for his white collar. A priest’s collar. He throws his head back in a loud laugh that echoes on the pavement and down the quiet block.
“Not quite, son, but you’re getting warmer!” he howls at my exclamation.
I think I’ve stepped into a David Lynch film.
“I–I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be offensive, Father…I was just…” The words tumble out of my mouth and he just smiles at me kindly, clearly amused.
“Tell you what,” he says, taking me by the elbow and guiding me around a patch of black ice, “let’s you and I take a walk around onto the nice salted and sanded sidewalk, shall we?”
I nod and allow myself to be led down and back around until we’re standing in front of the pub. In front of the hottie. She looks down at my hand-tooled Italian leather loafers, then back up at me again.
“I know those are some spendy shoes,” she comments, “but you might want to get yourself a pair of boots if you’re going to be in town for more than a day or two. Otherwise, you’re likely to do a header every time you hit a slick patch.”
Spendy?
“Ah, thanks,” I reply, feeling unexpectedly—and uncomfortably—nervous.
What the hell is that about?
“I don’t plan to be in town more than a night or two. I live in Los Angeles, and there’s not much call for snow boots there…”
Something in her smooth, delicate features changes, hardens. Her brow furrows just a touch.
“I’m Bryan Truitt,” I say, stepping forward to offer her my hand.
Now the brows go up as if she recognizes me. Or my name. Before I can ascertain whether or not that’s the case, the priest jumps in.
“Aha! I didn’t think you were from around these parts. Much too tan, don’t you know.” He chuckles. “What is it that brings you to Mayhem, Mr. Truitt?”
“Please, call me Bryan. Uh…I’m here to see a guy by the name of Hennessy. Hennessy O’Halloran. I think he’s maybe managing the pub here…” I gesture toward the large plate glass window with O’Halloran’s painted in large green and gold letters.
“I’m Hennessy O’Halloran,” the blonde cutie informs me.
Really?
That’s when I dazzle her with my witty, eloquent repartee.
“Uh…”
“You seem surprised by that, Mr. Pruitt,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Truitt,” I correct her absently. “You’re Hennessy O’Halloran?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I’m sorry…I thought you were a—you know—a man…”
“Clearly,” she replies, her lovely mouth quirking with some amusement.
Okay, this could go one of two ways. She’s either a daughter or a niece, or—as is more common in L.A.—she’s the obscenely young wife. Time to roll the dice.
“So, you’re Mrs. O’Halloran then?” I venture.
I can see in an instant that I’ve just come up snake eyes.
“What? No!” she says with a surprised laugh. “I’m Jack’s daughter.”
I feel strangely relieved to hear that she’s not the wife.
“Nice to meet you. I wonder if I might come inside and have a word with your father, then? I’ve traveled a very long way to see him.”
She and the priest exchange a look that I can’t quite decipher.
“You can deal with me, Mr. Truitt,” she says, a little colder than just an instant ago.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Regrettably, this is something I can only discuss with the owner…”
“You’re looking at her,” she informs me flatly.
“Funny, you don’t look like a Jack. But, then again, you don’t look like a Hennessy, either,” I snark.
Suddenly, her face hardens, and there’s a brief, awkward beat of silence. Then she just turns around and goes back inside the pub without another word, leaving the good father and me to stare after her.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something?” I ask him quietly.
The priest pats my shoulder.
“Son, Jack O’Halloran died just after Christmas. Hennessy is his oldest girl, and she’s running the place,” he explains quietly.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” I say, then smack a hand over my mouth for taking the Lord’s name in vain…again. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to…”
He offers me an amused smile and pulls the door open.
“No worries, son. Come on inside and warm your bones with a good stiff drink. I’m sure Hennessy will be happy to chat with you after that.”
I nod absently and follow his direction. Dead? Well, I guess that explains the sudden radio silence on his end. But what that means for our deal…I have no clue.
Chapter Five
Hennessy
O’Halloran’s Pub is dark. Dark paneling, dark wood floors. A huge, dark bar and matching dark barstools accented in dark burgundy. A half-dozen dark tables and chairs. And, all of these deeper hues might make the place depressing, it’s actually quite the opposite. The atmosphere of the place is warm and welcoming—the perfect spot to get out of the cold and into the cozy. We’re between lunch and dinner service right now, and there isn’t another soul in the place when Bryan Truitt follows the father inside. I level my best disdainful look on him from behind the bar.
“I’m really sorry,” he says sincerely. “Sorry for your loss and sorry for acting like a jerk—”
“You had business with my father?” I cut in coolly, not interested in his platitudes.
He nods.
“Well, it couldn’t have been too important, seeing as how you didn’t even know he was dead,” I point out. Before he can reply, he’s saved by a bit of divine intervention.
“Henny, love, how about a drink for our weary traveler, hmm? You can put it on my tab.”
“Please, Father Romance,” I begin.
“Father…Romance?” Truitt blusters.
A huge toothy grin from our local man of God.
“Nickname, son. I’m Father Grigory Romanski. I’m the rector at Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem.”
Our guest snorts—though, I’m not sure if it’s over the name of the chur
ch or the priest.
“What are you drinking?” Father Romance asks, unoffended.
“Uh…Stoli, please, neat.”
I fix the drinks and set them out in front of the two men.
“What is that you’re drinking?” Truitt asks, peering curiously into Father Romance’s cocktail
“Ah, an oldie but a goodie! It’s a Rye Presbyterian.”
“What, don’t you Catholics have your own drink? You have to borrow one from the Protestants?” he quips, and the two of them laugh.
I’m not so easily amused as I shoot some seltzer into a glass of my own and lean across the bar so I can get a good look at this guy’s face when I speak to him. All in all, it’s not a bad face. His jawline is well defined but not too angular. His nose has the slightest hint of a bump—a previous injury, perhaps? It’s flanked by eyes the color of warm, golden-brown caramel. His hair is tousled but not in any organic way. There’s some sort of product holding the thick, dark-brown strands perfectly in place. Oh yeah. This guy’s got “Big City” written all over him.
“All right, Mr. Truitt. What, exactly, did you and my father have going?” I ask, not letting on that I’m already aware of his dealings with my dad.
He pulls a file folder from his briefcase and hands it to me. I open it and scan the pages, flipping quickly from one to the next. This all looks to be in line with the documentation I have back in the office.
“So he was going to sell the pub to you,” I murmur.
“He was,” he answers cautiously—clearly unsure of where he stands with me. I might understand a little of the densely worded pages I’m looking at, but then again, I might not. He bets on the latter. “We were just about to formalize the deal when your father…he…well, you know. But I assure you, Miss O’Halloran, everything is in order. This is a perfectly valid contract. I suppose—if you really wanted to spend the money—you could consult an attorney. But keep in mind that can be a considerable expense just to be told it’s a done deal. I mean, I’m here. I’ve got the cash. Why don’t you and I just finish what Jack and I started?”
He’s confident and casual, one brow arched in a gesture that screams, “Go ahead, challenge me, I dare ya!”