by L. E. Rico
“Winston,” Big Win begins, “Jameson and Hennessy are family, and you’d do well to remember that, son. And considering you just took over my law practice not six months ago, I’m surprised you can’t empathize with the dilemma your wife and her sisters are facing.”
Holy. Crap.
Winston Clarke, Sr., is a big, beefy man with a fringe of hair around the sides of his head and a bald spot up top. He’s a man of very few words. You’d think that might be a problem for an attorney. Not for him. For forty years he used it to his advantage, wielding awkward silence in the courtroom like a ninja might wield a sword. Now, Win the younger’s eyes drop down to his half-eaten plate of food as two bright scarlet patches form on his cheeks. He doesn’t respond to his father’s words.
“Hennessy,” Big Win says, catching my eye across the table. “Win is rude and inconsiderate…but he’s not wrong. It’s easy to say ‘keep the bar open’ until you think about how to keep it open. I’m not saying it’s impossible; I’m just suggesting you take some time to consider the reality of this situation. Your father was a good man, a dedicated man. That pub was his life, apart from you girls and your mother. But, as much as I’m sure he’d love to see you carry on, he’d never want you to suffer for it.”
“Thank you, sir.” I give him a respectful nod and watch as he gets to his feet.
“Dad, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Jameson asks her father-in-law.
“Afraid so, my dear. This old man’s going ice fishing tomorrow, and I mean to be on the road before dawn.”
He leans over to give Jackson a kiss on the head.
“Goppa!” my nephew exclaims happily.
Big Win says his good-byes and then makes his way through the living room and out the front door.
“We could do it,” Jameson says, so quietly that I think I’ve misheard her.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“We could pay off the loan. Like investors…taking repayments once the pub starts to turn a profit again.”
Win puts his fork down and narrows his eyes at his wife. “We who?”
“We! You and I. Us, Win. It’s not like we don’t have the money.”
“Oh my God!” I gasp, suddenly excited by the prospect. “That could work!”
“No.”
Win utters the single word with such finality that I feel as if I’m watching a father with his wayward daughter.
“I’m sorry…no?” she echoes incredulously.
“That’s right, Jameson. No. It’s my family’s money. Money I earn. I will not let you throw it out the window to support some failing dive money pit.”
I cannot believe he just said that, and apparently, neither can my sister, who’s gone very still. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m in the eye of a storm, where an unsettling calm lies while tumultuous destruction roars all around.
“Hennessy, please excuse us. Win and I are going to speak in the kitchen for a moment.”
“What? But I’m not done eating…” he whines.
One sharp look from my sister and he’s throwing his fork down on the dining room table to follow her.
I get up and move to the chair that Big Win vacated, next to Jackson. He’s looking up at me with that beautiful little cherub face. I pull him out of the high chair and put him on my lap.
“Hey there, sweet boy,” I say, bouncing him on my knee. He smiles, but he’s not his usual playful self. It’s not hard to understand why—the tension in this house is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I can hear snippets of what sounds to be a very intense, hushed conversation not fifty feet away from me. It’s not that I want to listen. In fact, I’m suddenly wishing I’d taken Big Win’s cue and left early. I don’t like seeing Jameson like this—under the thumb of a man for whom she gave up her career. Whose child she raises and whose meals she cooks while he’s out shagging half of Mayhem. I’d like to say that last part is just speculation, but dipstick isn’t especially discreet in his extracurricular activities, clearly believing Jameson to be too dim to figure it out. And, while Jameson is a lot of things, dim is not one of them. She knows full well what he’s up to…though why she doesn’t leave him is a mystery to us all.
“…since when?” I hear Jameson hiss. Then I lose most of his reply, but I do catch the end of it.
“…And if you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”
That’s followed by loud stomping through the other side of the house and up the stairs. I look down at the baby, who’s using his chubby fingers as chew toys.
“Come on, little man. Let’s go see how Mommy’s doing,” I murmur as I stand up and seat him on my hip. When we walk into the kitchen, Jameson is bent over the sink, bracing herself against the counter as she shakes with silent sobs. “Oh, James!” I rush to her and pat her back gently. “It’s going to be okay. Don’t you worry about it…”
“No,” she sniffs, turning to face us. “No, it’s not going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay because I’m married to a horrible human being, Henny.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. She’s right. And I’m not going to blow smoke up her apron just to make her feel better about the creep she’s hitched her wagon to.
Little Jackson reaches out for his mother.
“Maaaammaaaa…” he gurgles.
Jameson abruptly stops crying, wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and pulls her son into her arms.
“Hello, my love,” she coos into his ear as he snuggles in to rest his head on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, baby boy. Mama’s going to take care of everything.” She puts a hand on my forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll figure this out. I wish I could say Win will come around, but that’s not very likely, I’m afraid.”
“What a douche,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hennessy, language, please!” Jameson squawks at me.
“Oh, please. The kid isn’t paying any attention,” I assure her. It’s at that very second that the imp pulls his head off his mother’s shoulder, smiles brightly, and yells.
“Doosh! Doosh, Mama! Dooooosh!”
“Yeah…I’ll just let myself out,” I say, gathering my coat and getting out the door as fast as I can.
Chapter Eight
Bryan
Truittism Number 4: Get to know your enemy; otherwise, you’re bound to get your back end handed to you when you least expect it.
I’m sitting up in bed, working on my laptop when I hear the tentative knock at my door.
“Mr. Truitt? It’s Miss Lucy. Are you still awake in there?”
Well, if I wasn’t before, I certainly would be now.
“Uh, yes, Miss Lucy,” I call, jumping up and out of bed in my briefs and T-shirt. “Did you need something?”
“You have a phone call.”
A phone call? Here? No one but Helen knows where I am, and she’d ring the cell phone if she wanted to reach me. Unless…
“Uh…just a second…” I grab a pair of workout shorts from my roller bag and slip them on. When I finally open the door, she holds out a cordless handset for me.
“You can bring it down with you in the morning. I have another one charging in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I say with a brief smile as I take it from her and close the door behind me. “Hello?”
“Mr. Truitt.”
Oh my God. It’s her.
“Miss O’Halloran. How did you know I was here?”
“There are only two places to stay in town, and I happen to know that the Mayhem Motel is full-up with ice fishermen this week.”
“So you deduced I’d be at Pink Fuzzy Slipper Inn.”
I hear a distinct snort of laughter from her end of the line.
“I think you mean the Pink Lady Slipper Inn. Pink Lady Slipper is the Minnesota state flower. And yes, I deduced, but Father Romance mentioned it as well.”
“How did he know?”
“He knows everything that goes on in this town,
” she informs me.
“Okay…well, as much as I’d love to pass the hours discussing flowers and fathers, I’m curious as to the nature of this call. Have you rethought my offer?”
“Hardly,” she mutters disdainfully. “No, I’m just calling to reiterate that you should go home tomorrow. The pub will not be available for purchase, and I’d hate for you to waste your time here in Mayhem when you could be destroying someone else’s quaint little town.”
My turn to snort.
“Been googling, have we?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Truitt. I particularly liked the article titled Bryan Truitt Wages War on Small-Town America.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Miss O’Halloran,” I suggest amiably. “I’ve been welcomed by more communities than I can count—but they’re not running to the newspapers about it.”
“Really.” The single word isn’t so much of a question as an accusation. She thinks I’m lying to her.
“Really. Next time you’re near a computer, look up Middleman, Idaho, and Ranier, Montana. They were quite happy with the influx of cash and jobs that my company brought to their communities. Communities that’d been struggling—boarded up storefronts, foreclosed homes, unemployed workers—now thriving.”
She harrumphs, and suddenly I’m struck by the desire to hear her laugh. For real. No snarky snorts or disbelieving chuckles. For some reason, I suspect Hennessy O’Halloran’s laughter will be sweet and light, like the sound of tinkling bells on a wind chime.
What the hell, Bryan?
“Yes, well,” she begins, interrupting my bizarre reverie, “be that as it may, this community neither wants nor needs your services.”
“That remains to be seen,” I counter, and I can feel the rage ratcheting up from her side of the phone.
“I assure you, it does not, Mr. Truitt,” she spits at me.
From sweet bells to hissing harpy in less than five seconds. Impressive.
“Miss O’Halloran, why are you making this so adversarial? Your father and I had many a pleasant conversation about this. Clearly it was his intention—his wish—to sell the pub and cash out.”
I hear her suck in a deep breath. I’m trying. God knows I’m trying. But she’s making it hard.
“Yeah, well, that’s when he didn’t want us to know what was going on with his finances. Now we know. And now we intend to do something about it,” she informs me coolly.
“Oh? And what do you plan to do—get a loan? Cash in your retirement plan? Oh, wait, you’re a public defender, right? You probably don’t have a retirement plan…” I realize that I’m sounding nasty, so I pause and reset, coming back with a softer, conspiratorial approach. “C’mon, Hennessy, you’re a smart woman. You know what I’m offering is a good deal. There are other, less scrupulous developers who’d come in here and rip it out of your hands.”
There is a long, tense silence.
“Good night, Mr. Truitt,” she grits out at last and hangs up the phone on me.
“Good night, Hennessy,” I murmur to the dial tone.
…
I have to admit, Miss Lucy puts on a better breakfast spread than any hotel I’ve ever stayed at. Fresh fruit along with light and fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon are served up as soon as I come downstairs.
“Wow. This coffee is amazing,” I murmur appreciatively into my mug.
“Oh, nonsense,” she says skeptically, taking a seat across from me at the table. “I’m sure a man like you has had plenty of coffee in places like France and Italy and Costa Rica.”
“Well, maybe,” I agree. “But this is, by far, the best cup I’ve ever had on American soil.”
She doesn’t comment, but I catch the flush of pride that washes over her soft, well-creased face.
“So, what are your plans for today, Mr. Truitt? And should I expect the pleasure of your company again tonight?”
I hold up a finger while I swallow a mouthful of the pancakes.
“No offense, Miss Lucy, but I hope not. I’d like to be on a plane home tonight. But I can’t leave until I settle some business here.”
“O’Halloran’s?”
Christ, does everyone know everything in this town?
“Uh…yes, actually,” I say with a nod, as I tuck into another pancake.
She looks down into her mug and swishes the contents around. I get the distinct impression she’s considering this situation, an impression that’s confirmed when she speaks again.
“Mr. Truitt, are your parents still with us? That is, if you don’t mind my asking…”
“No, not at all,” I assure her. “They are both alive, yes.”
“And are you close?”
I pause and consider telling her a lie, but there’s no point.
“No, ma’am. We’re…estranged.”
She nods as if she expected as much.
“You see, the O’Halloran girls were very close to their father, especially after their mother passed away while the little one was still in elementary school. And now, don’t ya know, they see that pub as a part of their father. And…”
I can tell she’s not sure she should continue.
“It’s all right, Miss Lucy, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please, go ahead.”
She gives me a sweet, pink-lipped smile.
“Mr. Truitt—Bryan—you seem to me to be a decent sort. But keep in mind that while you see O’Halloran’s as property—a thing—the girls see it as something far more personal and valuable. Consider my advice…until Hennessy feels you respect what the pub means to them emotionally, she won’t even listen to what you have to say—no matter how reasonable or generous your offer may be. Simply put, this isn’t about the money.”
I think my mouth might be hanging open. Here I thought this woman was a sweet simpleton, and it turns out she’s got a keener instinct than a lot of professional developers I know.
“Thank you, Miss Lucy. That is very sound advice, and I will absolutely take it into consideration.”
She smiles broadly and gets to her feet again.
“Now, let’s get that coffee topped up for you…”
Chapter Nine
Hennessy
“Hennessy, will you be here to accept the delivery today?” our cook, Donovan Douglas, asks as he sets an egg sandwich on the bar next to Father Romance’s cup of coffee.
I’m slipping on my coat as I shake my head. “I’m headed to the bank, and I’m not sure how long I’m going to be. Jameson said she’d swing by in an hour or so, just in case.”
“So…the bank,” Father Romance says, not bothering to look up from the newspaper. “What does that mean? Do you think they’ll help you keep the pub?”
“I hope so, because I have no intention of letting my father’s legacy end up in the hands of a sleaze like Bryan Truitt.”
He looks up and quirks a challenging eyebrow.
“Now, that’s not what you really think, is it?”
I sigh heavily and slip onto the stool next to him.
“No, you’re right. He’s actually not sleazy at all. A little slick, maybe…but professional for the most part. It’s just that I feel as if I need to hang on to every bit of anger I have if I’m going to fight this guy and win. He has too many resources, and I don’t think he’s going to scare easily.”
He seems to consider this as he chews his eggs.
“Are you doing what you feel is right?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I think so. But there is something to be said for the ‘take the money and run’ approach. If I fight, we could lose everything. I’ve got so many conflicting emotions going on. Pops and Mama, the money, our futures… I can’t sort out what’s what anymore.”
Father Romance reaches over and puts a warm hand on my wrist.
“You’ve left something—or rather, someone—out of that equation.”
I look at him, perplexed.
“You, Henny! What do you want to do? You know full well that saving the pub means you’l
l have to make some serious decisions about your own future. Will you stay in Minneapolis and keep working as an attorney, or will you move back home? These are big, big questions looming in your mind, I’m sure.”
I stare at him, feeling the familiar prick of tears building in my eyes.
“You know…” I begin, not quite sure where I’m going with that sentence. “I think you’ve always known that law school wasn’t my first choice.”
“I do know that, child. Anyone with eyes could see that plain as day. Anyone but Jack O’Halloran, that is. And you made him so proud. But he’s gone now, Hennessy. It’s time for you to make your own decisions.”
I start to sniffle, and the tears start to fall.
“I know what I want to do. But it feels wrong. After so much work and time and money…”
“You want to come home.” He finishes the thought for me.
I nod dumbly, using a napkin to dab at the dampness on my face.
“The Quakers speak of ‘listening to the light.’ You see, they believe that God is within all of us, and if you just take the time to stop and listen, He’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“What, like meditating?” I sniff.
“Sort of. Just be still and breathe and…listen.”
“And what do you think I’ll hear?”
“The Lord’s will,” says Father Romance. “The Lord’s will is what you’ll hear, and the Lord’s will is what’s going to happen, Hennessy. Good, bad, ugly. It’s all a part of His plan.”
I blow my nose and dry my face.
“I don’t suppose you have any…inside…information about what, exactly, God’s will might be?” I ask, smiling through the last of my tears. “You know, just a little heads-up?”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, dear child, if I did, you can bet I’d be at the track right now, playing the ponies!”
“Now that would be some helpful information,” I agree. “A few well-placed bets and I’d be out of this mess in a jiffy!” I giggle.
“It’s all going to be fine, Hennessy. Whatever comes to pass.”
I give his hand a pat and pull away, getting to my feet.