by L. E. Rico
“I hope you’re right, Father. I hope you’re right.”
…
I decide to take my time and walk to the bank. It’s cold, but there isn’t so much as a breath of wind, and the sky is a cloudless, bright blue. When the sunlight glints off the fresh snow-cover, I’m suddenly surrounded by twinkling, sparkling mounds. I breathe deeply, taking the crisp air into my lungs and then watching it escape my lips in puffs of white mist.
It’s quiet in Mayhem on this Wednesday morning as I pass the storefronts that have lined Main Street for as long as I can remember—like Kelly’s Books with its shelves that run from floor to ceiling, and big comfy chairs scattered all over the massive space so readers can sit for hours, perusing. A few doors down is Annie’s Candies, specializing in a dozen different kinds of fudge. Once you’re inside, a separate—and well-monitored—side door takes you into Andie’s AnneXXX, where consumers over the age of eighteen can check out the “penis pops” and chocolate-covered strawberry “nipples,” among other racy delights.
Just a block from the bank is one of the hottest spots in town, the business run by a New York transplant named Janet Lahti, The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop. For years people have come to Mayhem from all over the Midwest to visit the café. But they’re not just seeking a good piece of pie. They’re looking for some insight into the future. Janet is something of a mystic, predicting the future and communicating with the dearly departed. And, while others of her ilk find their predictions in the bottom of a teacup, Janet finds hers in the bottom of a pie tin. Her rare gift lies in reading pie—interpreting the selections people make and the slices they choose. I’m almost past the storefront when I hear the tinkling bell of the door behind me.
“Well, well. Is that you, Miss O’Halloran?”
That. Voice. I feel my blood pressure spike, even as I plaster on an impassive expression and turn to face him.
Bryan Truitt is, once again, completely underdressed for a Minnesota winter. A trench coat is the closest thing he has to outerwear, and his shoes are so smooth and slippery, he might as well be wearing ice skates. Still, he does look good in his navy suit, And with the hair. And that jaw… Jesus! What is it with this guy’s jaw and me?
Stop it, Hennessy! Stop it right now. This is your adversary, not some hottie who’s just rolled into town. Right?
He’s eyeballing me curiously as I chide myself internally.
“Did you have any pie, Mr. Truitt?” I ask.
He looks blank for a moment.
“Oh no. I was hoping to just grab a cup of coffee to go, but they’re pretty swamped in there right now. I figure I’ll try back later. Really, I was curious. I’ve been doing a bit of exploring here in town.”
“Huh. I’m surprised you’re interested.”
He shrugs, seeming unbothered by my snark.
“I am, too, honestly. But it seems as if there’s a lot of local charm here in Mayhem. Anyway, where are you off to on this fine, frigid morning?”
I consider lying to him, but really, there’s no point. Father Romance is right. I need to let go and just have faith it’s all going to turn out right. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.
“Me? Oh, I’m headed to the bank. I have an old friend who’s a loan officer there. He’s going to help me refinance the pub,” I inform him with an air of confidence that I don’t have.
“Good for you,” he says with an easy grin. I almost believe that he’s happy for me. “You know, I was headed that way myself. Mind if I walk with you?”
I glare at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and shrivel up. He doesn’t. He just keeps that stupid smile on his face and waits expectantly for my answer. This guy’s not an idiot. For God’s sake, he must know I want to push him under a snowplow.
“Actually, I’d rather be alone, if you don’t—”
He closes the distance between us and cuts me off before I can finish my rejection.
“I’ve been wondering, where does all the snow go?” he asks me.
“I…I…” I stammer, caught off guard by his sudden change in direction. “What do you mean? It’s on the ground, all around us,” I reply, gesturing to the snow-walled sidewalks.
“No, no, I mean, the snow that’s plowed? I realize there’s a lot of it that ends up here on the sidelines, but surely this is a small portion of the snow you get. Where do the plows take it?”
I’m not sure why I find his question so disarming. Maybe it’s because he seems so earnest.
“Uh…well,” I begin while we continue walking, “it’s relocated. Some of it gets pushed into big parking lots—like at the high school. If there’s a lot of it, it’s loaded up and trucked to other towns with room to hold it until it melts down.”
“Right, right,” he says, nodding as if this makes perfect sense. “Because, really, it could just sit around here for months before it’s warm enough to melt. And then there could be more snow on top of that.”
“Yes, exactly,” I say drily, trying to discourage him from further conversation starters.
“You know…I thought it was pretty unappealing when I pulled into town yesterday. But since we got that dusting of snow last night, everything is so…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Sparkly. It’s like the snow twinkles, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah…I do,” I agree slowly, unsure if he might be setting me up for some insult about Mayhem and the weather. But none comes.
“Seriously,” he continues as we make our way down Main Street. “I didn’t expect much from such a tiny town, but it’s got some serious character. I really like that. It’s such a contrast to the high-rise buildings and ridiculous traffic I see every day. And the people…my God! Everyone’s in such a hurry to get to…I don’t even know where. It’s like you need to get to wherever it is you’re going to as fast as you can, looking as perfect as you can, so you can impress as many people as you can.”
This impromptu little confession about his feelings for L.A. takes me by surprise.
“Well, it’s your home field isn’t it?”
Next to me, he shrugs, still looking straight ahead, and I’m struck by the simple, genuine sincerity of the action. He’s not feeding me a line. He’s being totally candid—something I hadn’t anticipated.
“I suppose so. But not by choice, really. It’s just the best place for me to conduct my business right now.”
“Aren’t you happy there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Crap, Hennessy! What do you care if this guy is happy or not?
This time he shoots me a sidelong glance, and I catch a hint of a smile. But it’s not one that I’ve seen from him before, not placating or snarky or superior. If anything, it’s a little bit…sad? Is that possible? Hell. Maybe he’s trying to play on my sympathies. This has got to be the weirdest approach I’ve ever seen—in or out of the courtroom.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hoping to cut him off at the pass. “That’s none of my business…”
“No, no. It’s actually very…kind of you to ask. Thank you,” he replies, the smile morphing from sad to grateful. “And, well, honestly… No, I can’t say I’m particularly happy there. But I’m probably about as happy there as I’d be anywhere else. So…it’ll do for now.”
He stops short, and I’ve walked a few paces before I realize I’ve left him behind me.
“But this,” he begins, gesturing to the storefronts around us, the snow on the ground and the clear blue sky above us. “This is something special you have here. I know you think I’m out to destroy America’s heartland, but the truth is that I’m actually drawn to it. I could invest in property in the south or the mid-Atlantic or any number of other places. But there’s something about the Midwest and the people who live here…”
“If you really feel that way, then why are you doing this?”
The words come out as a harsh hiss that surprises both of us. Bryan Truitt stares at me for a long moment, looks down at the ground, and then looks up again—with
no trace of the wistful softness that was there just a moment ago.
“Miss O’Halloran, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m not doing anything but trying to buy a parcel of land. And, as much as you’d like to cast me as the villain to your damsel in distress, I’m not the one who tied you to the train tracks. I’m the one trying to cut you loose as the train barrels closer and closer.”
I have no response for this ridiculous analogy—and I refuse to give it another second’s consideration. Because if I do, I might have to acknowledge that he’s right. Bryan Truitt isn’t the person who put my sisters and me in this position. But I’m not going to admit to that or anything else right now. I can’t. I won’t.
Without another word, I start to pick up my pace, hoping he’ll get the hint and hang back. He doesn’t. And, before long, we look as if we’re in a speed walking race. By the time we’re in front of the bank, I’m breathing heavy and sweating inside my down parka. Bryan Truitt, on the other hand, looks as calm and put-together as he did three blocks ago. He smiles at me as he opens the door to the bank and holds it for me.
“After you, Miss O’Halloran.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I growl at him.
Literally.
I mean, it’s not like a dog growl or anything. It’s much softer and comes from the back of my throat. Under my breath. But it’s there. No one else can hear it but me. And him.
“Point taken,” he says with a soft chuckle as I roughly push past him and walk into the bank in search of my salvation.
Chapter Ten
Bryan
Truittism No.5: No one touches what’s mine.
Including what I want to be mine.
She actually growled at me.
And it was the hottest damn thing that I’ve ever seen—or heard, for that matter. I’m having a hard time wiping the stupid-happy grin off my face as we enter the lobby of the First National Bank of Mayhem—which smells more like a Starbucks than a financial institution. I like that. A lot.
In the small waiting area, just past the lobby where the teller’s windows are, there is an entire cart dedicated to coffee service. I fix myself a cup, welcoming the warmth that seeps into my frozen hands. I’d never say anything in front of Miss Fluffy McWarmPants over there, but I’m seriously considering buying a pair of gloves. At least. Maybe a hat, too.
When I glance over my shoulder, she’s signing her name on the clipboard to meet with a banker, already having hung up her parka.
“Can I make you a cup, Miss O’Halloran?” I offer, just now noticing that she’s managed to wrestle all of her hair into a bun on top of her head.
Gone are the jeans and plaid shirt, traded in for a black turtleneck and a short black-and-white plaid skirt. She’s wearing some sort of thick tights, or maybe those legging things women like? I can’t tell, but I assume it’s so she won’t freeze to death.
“No, thank you,” she replies coolly, taking a seat.
I bypass the clipboard to join her with my coffee.
“Aren’t you going to sign in?” she asks me with some irritation. “Or don’t big shots like you need to follow such pedestrian practices?”
I smile, remembering the growl.
“No, that is certainly not the case, Miss O’Halloran,” I inform her and take a sip of the strong, sweet, creamy brew in my hand. “In fact, ‘big shots like me’ don’t like to wait. So in order to ensure our time will not be wasted, we make use of that quaint old tradition known as ‘the appointment.’”
Before she can comment, a short, balding man comes out of his glass-encased office to greet us. He seems surprised—but very happy—to see Hennessy O’Halloran.
“Henny!” he exclaims happily.
“Wally!” she yelps, throwing herself into his arms with a big hug.
Oh. I don’t like this one bit.
I clear my throat, but they ignore me, chattering excitedly.
“How are you?” he’s asking her, his hands on her forearms. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.”
“I’m good. I mean, you know… This is all difficult. And we really had no idea about the loan…”
“I know.” He nods sympathetically. “What a mess, right?”
I clear my throat, and they both turn to me, looking a little startled—as if they’d forgotten I was here at all. The guy lets her go and extends a hand in my direction.
“Hello, there. You must be Bryan Truitt,” he says with a pleasant enough smile. “I’m Randall Waldera, but everyone calls me Wally.”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, Wally. Everyone calls me Bryan.”
He seems slightly bewildered, by my lame little joke, but doesn’t bother to comment. “Yeah…well, okay. How about you and I head into my office. Hennessy, were you wanting to see me today, too?”
“Well,” she begins, suddenly the picture of feminine dismay, “I was hoping I could just slip in and steal a moment of your time. I really do need some good advice about how to proceed with the pub…” She caps off her performance by batting her substantial eyelashes and offering up a hopeful smile in combination with a furrowed brow.
Damn, this woman is good.
They both look at me again, clearly expecting me to do the chivalrous thing and offer her my slot.
No. Way. Two can play this game.
“Ah, well, sorry I can’t help you,” I say with genuine-sounding regret, “but I hope to be on a plane this evening.” I stop suddenly, holding up one finger as I pretend to have an idea. “But you know…we could share the appointment,” I suggest.
“Share?” she echoes. “How does that work, exactly?”
“We’re both here regarding the same matter. I have no problem with you hearing my discussion with Wally here.” I give the guy a good, manly thump on the back. “Unless, of course, you’d like to speak to him in private…”
I leave the suggestion hanging out there like a dare. And, good as she is, Hennessy O’Halloran rises to the bait.
“No. I have nothing to hide,” she pronounces.
And, just like that, we’re side by side in Wally’s glass cubical like a pair of newlyweds applying for their first mortgage. Except only one of us needs it, and it’s not me.
“So, Mr. Truitt,” Wally begins, “I understand you have registered an intent to purchase the pub property.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I confirm. “I’ve made numerous offers to Miss O’Halloran, and she’s turned them down. So now I’d like to proceed with plans to purchase it once the loan defaults.”
“Hey!” she objects from next to me. “You seem awfully certain that we won’t be able to pay off that loan.”
I turn toward her with a genial shrug.
“I just call ’em like I see ’em. And what I see is someone short on funds and short on time. Someone who can’t put aside her nostalgia in order to do the right thing for her family—” I stop short, remembering what Miss Lucy had just said to me.
I can feel the heat of her fury as it comes off her in waves. I’m secretly hoping she’ll growl again. That was so hot.
“My family is none of your concern,” she hisses. “And, for your information, I’m here to speak with Wally about alternative options and financing so we can pay off this debt and I can get you out of my life once. And. For. All.”
“Ouch!” I yelp dramatically.
My feigned hurt only aggravates her more.
“Wally? What can I do? Mortgage the house on Orange Avenue? Cash in my retirement fund? Can we just take out a second mortgage to pay off the first one? I know that can be done sometimes…”
Wally is shaking his head because he knows what I already know.
“Afraid not, Hennessy. I’ve been going over the numbers you emailed me and looking through Jack’s estate papers. The house is in trust until Bailey finishes college, so there’s no tapping that equity. And even if we could, the comps on housing prices in your neighborhood aren’t great. The house simply isn’t worth enough. You’d have
to pull out every cent of equity, up to eighty percent. But it still wouldn’t get you close enough, and, truth be told, I’m not certain you’d qualify.”
Well, that’s not necessarily true…
“Why not?” she demands indignantly. “I have a good job…”
“You do,” he agrees, “by outstate standards. But then, our cost of living is considerably lower than that of the Twin Cities. So, what you’re earning there is pretty much sucked up into your living expenses. Now, if you were working for some swanky law firm instead of as a public defender, it might be a different situation. Those folks tend to pull down healthy six-figure incomes. Attorneys in your position…not so much.”
I find myself indignant on her behalf—a totally foreign sensation. She traded in a big salary to help people, and this is the thanks she gets? Before I can say as much, Wally continues.
“And then there’s the matter of your student loans. Your father covered your undergrad degree, but, as you know, only the first thirty-thousand of your law school tuition. I believe you still carry that debt?”
Doesn’t this guy know student loan debt doesn’t carry as much weight as commercial debt?
“I can move back up here, to Mayhem,” she offers quietly.
“And then you won’t have that income anymore, will you?” Wally points out.
I suddenly realize what a bad idea this was. I’ve made this exponentially harder by forcing this woman to confront her situation in my presence. Because of me, she’s got embarrassment to add to her plate full of emotions.
Oh hell…what’s wrong with me? I don’t do empathy. Right?
So why do I suddenly want to tell this woman that everything is going to be okay? Why am I suddenly regretting the fact that I’ve forced her to experience this humiliation in my presence? I’m talking before I can help myself.
“That’s not strictly true, Wally…I mean, there are higher interest loans available for higher risk applicants.”
They both turn to stare at me, wide-eyed. After all, why would I help the enemy? Maybe because I don’t want to think of her as an enemy?
Enough, Truitt! You’re not here to pick up another blonde. You’re here to pick up a very lucrative property.