by L. E. Rico
“Oh yeah. I’ll give him a call in the morning,” I say, not offering any further details. Not that that keeps my nosey sisters from asking.
“So, is he like a friend?” Bailey asks.
“No. Like Jameson said, he’s a neighbor.”
She sighs in exasperation and looks at me as if I’m dim.
“Not that kind of a friend,” she explains. “A special friend. A friend with benefits…”
All three of our heads spin to stare at her.
“What? God! I’m not a baby,” she protests. “Plenty of girls at school are already…you know. And I hear things.”
I glower at her. “I hope hearing is all you’re doing, Bailey Irish O’Halloran.”
“Puhhhh-lease. The boys at Mayhem High are so gross. Besides, I’m waiting till I’m in love. Really, really in love.”
“You are?” Jameson asks, sounding pleasantly surprised and more than a little impressed.
“Duh,” Bailey says with a roll of her eyes. “So what about the neighbor guy?” she persists. “What did you say his name was…?”
I laugh and shake my head at the same time.
“I didn’t. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to sleep. James and I will share the big bed, and you guys can take the twins, okay?”
They nod.
“You were great. Pops would’ve been so proud of all of us,” I say, giving each of my sisters a kiss on the head before staggering off.
I’m not sure how long I’m asleep when Jameson comes to bed, or how long she waits to talk to me.
“I’m thinking about leaving Win,” she whispers, probably unsure I’ll even hear her.
I turn onto my left side so that we’re facing one another in the center of the bed.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not yet, anyway. I’m still just thinking. But I had to say it out loud to someone, you know what I mean?”
I do. But I find a different way to give her my answer.
“I think I might… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I think I might kinda sorta like Bryan. A little. Maybe.”
I’m expecting a lecture on “sleeping with the enemy” and am stunned when, instead, her face lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Really?” she whispers excitedly.
I nod more assuredly and smile now, emboldened by her apparent approval.
“Oh, Henny…I think that’s insane and wonderful!”
“Right?” I agree—thrilled that she gets it. “It’s a horrible idea. Terrible. Stupid. Insane. But I can’t help it…every time he’s around, it’s like my pulse goes into overdrive. Tonight he…”
“What?” she asks breathlessly across our pillows. “What did he do?”
“He kind of…cornered me in the back hallway. He just kept coming closer and closer until we were almost touching. And then he whispered in my ear.”
James starts to kick her feet as she stifles a “squee!” The last thing we need is the other two crawling under the covers with us, demanding to know what’s going on. We had quite enough of that when Jameson and I were teenagers and pesky younger sisters Walker and Bailey wanted in on everything.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me!” she insists.
“He said he can’t stop thinking about me,” I whisper into the darkness between us.
“And?”
“And I can’t stop thinking about him. But I’m afraid to let myself go there. I mean, what if he’s just trying to get me to sell to him, James? What if…what if he’s just using me? I just don’t think I could take it right now.”
She’s quiet for what feels like a long time, her green eyes glittering every time they catch the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. I can tell she’s studying me and my every feature.
“Hennessy. I don’t know this guy…and neither do you. Not really, anyway. But you’ve got the best instincts of anyone I know. And if your gut’s telling your heart that there’s something there, then I’d put money on it. Besides, what’ve you got to lose? We’ll either raise the money or we won’t. He doesn’t really have any control over that situation. At this point, our fate is in our own hands.”
She’s absolutely right about that. In more ways than one.
Chapter Eighteen
Bryan
Truittism No.9: It pays to have a finger in every pie…including humble.
“Hey, Hennessy, wait up!” I call as I try to catch her on the sidewalk. She stops and turns, her lips quirking upward as she watches me trying to run in these huge boots. It’s like trying to run in tires. Horizontal tires. Not vertical, rolling tires. The oversize toes keep catching on the sidewalk.
“You’ve got to pick your feet up,” she advises from half a block away. “If you shuffle, you’re going to fall.”
This I know, because I’ve done it twice already today. No witnesses, luckily. Still, I heed her advice, slowing down and making more of an effort to lift my feet up.
“There you go!”
And there it is—the sound I’ve been hoping to hear for days. Hennessy O’Halloran throws back her head and laughs. It’s as sweet and melodious as I suspected…and it’s infectious.
“Hey, I wanted to tell you what a great job you did with the chili cook off.”
She very graciously accepts my lame excuse to talk with her.
“Well, thank you, Bryan. And thank you for judging. You did a great job, too. I’ve gotten a lot of comments from folks who were there.”
“Really? I was sure you’d have them all chasing me down with torches and pitchforks by now.”
She shakes her head. “Nah, we save that for after dark. Makes more sense with the torches, you know?”
“Ah, of course,” I agree with a thoughtful nod. “Makes perfect sense. So, hey, I was just out stretching my legs…”
Total and utter BS. I caught sight of her leaving the pub and pulled on my ridiculous snowmageddon suit so I could stalk her.
“Mind if I walk with you for a minute?”
“I don’t mind at all,” she begins, “but I’m not going very far.”
She gestures to the green awning two doors down.
The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop.
“Oh, right. That’s the one with the…the…” I struggle to find a diplomatic way to say “batty pie lady.”
“The one with the whacky mystic? Yes, it is.”
I drop my voice a little as I explain.
“I’ve been wanting to try the pie shop since your sister Bailey told me about her. But, honestly, I’ve been a little spooked by the whole thing. Do you think… I mean, would it be okay if I maybe went in with you?”
She quirks an eyebrow at me, and I can see I’m pushing my luck. Time to pull out the big guns. The guns with the irresistibly crooked smile. It must work, because she sighs, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head all at once.
“Why do I have a feeling I’m going to regret this?” she asks no one in particular.
“First slice is on me. Does that help?”
“Yes, it does. If you throw in a cup of coffee, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Ah, the woman’s got negotiating chops,” I comment. “I suppose you’d need them in your line of work.”
“You’re not kidding about that,” she agrees, her lovely, bright face darkening with the change in subject.
“What? My spies tell me you’re an amazing attorney!”
She doesn’t seem at all surprised that I have spies.
“That’s the problem,” she mutters. “Come on, before I change my mind about the pie.”
Uh-oh. Gotta get us back on happy ground. I stomp clumsily behind her, trying not to trip over my own feet.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” I inquire, and she glances back at me over her shoulder.
“Sure, I guess…”
“What’s the deal with all the c
ats and the sweaters?”
She seems confused for a moment, but when she spots the cat sunning itself in the window of Kelly’s Books, she understands why I’m asking. This particular feline, a very sexy looking Siamese with bright-blue eyes, happens to be sporting an equally blue sweater with a hoodie.
“The Knitty Kitty,” she says, as if I should understand this bit of code.
“Huh?”
“The Knitty. Kitty.” She repeats it slowly, as if I’m dim.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
She groans in exasperation. Clearly, I’m getting under her skin.
Excellent.
“How can you not have heard of this?” she demands. “The story’s been in like a hundred magazines and papers. Kathie Lee and Hoda even came out here to do a news piece on it.”
“Um, okay, I’m not sure which I’m more confused by, ‘The Knitty Kitty’ or ‘Kathie Lee and Hoda,’” I admit and am treated to more of her tinkly-bell laughter.
“It’s a business run by a woman named Julie Freddino. About five years back, there were those terrible storms down south. Lots of flooding, thousands of people displaced from their houses. Mayhem was one of several towns all over the country that worked with the Humane Society and the ASPCA to adopt stray, lost, and abandoned cats. We must have had at least thirty in all.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I murmur.
“Only problem was that it was one of the coldest winters on record and several of those Southern cats were of the shorthair variety. Julie had taken one of them in, and she knitted a sweater to keep it from shivering all the time. After that, everyone with a cat wanted a sweater. Word got out, and she was taking orders from all over the state. Now she’s a dot com millionaire, selling cat sweaters all over the world.”
“The Knitty Kitty,” I repeat, awestruck and shaking my head. “Amazing!”
“I know, right?” Hennessy grins.
“And they all seem to have weird names,” I note.
She nods. “Yes, most folks decided to name them after real people.”
“Right! Miss Lucy has Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill. And Katty Perry, over at Campbell’s. And King has Barack and Michelle,” I recall.
“Exactly,” she agrees as we reach the front of the pie shop. Then she pauses. “There. Look up in the corner,” she instructs, pointing into a storefront across the street. I follow her finger to the top of a filing cabinet where a black cat is curled up wearing a black and white polka dot sweater. “That’s Liam.”
“Neeson?”
“No, Hemsworth, of course,” she grins at me. “His brothers, Luke and Chris are probably under someone’s desk. And, if you wait long enough, you might get a glimpse of Miley. Her sweaters are a little on the skimpy side.”
“And, Liam Hemsworth…likes polka dots?”
“Well, obviously. I should think you’d have known that, being a Hollywood boy and all…”
“Los Angeles and Hollywood are not the same thing,” I point out with a stupid grin.
“Uh-huh,” is her unconvinced answer. “You sure about this?”
“What? About Liam Hemsworth’s polka dots?”
“No, Bryan, not about Liam Hemsworth’s polka dots,” she replies with mild impatience. “We have an expression in court—you can’t un-ring the bell. Once something’s been heard, or seen, you can’t un-see it or un-hear it.”
“Are you saying I might regret asking you to bring me in here with you?”
“What I’m saying is that Janet Lahti doesn’t lie…and neither does her pie. If you don’t want to know, you don’t ask.”
I answer her by reaching around and pulling the heavy door open. She steps inside, and I follow her, taking a good, long look around. Clearly, I am not alone in my quest for pie, because the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop is packed. Vintage pie plates line whitewashed pine plank walls, and pearl-wearing, apron-clad waitresses look as if they’ve just stepped out of the 1950s.
Hennessy unzips her parka and hangs it on a hook by the front door. I follow suit and make note of the jeans and pink sweater she’s got on, both hugging her in all the right places. God, I swear this woman gets prettier every time I see her.
We’re shown to a small table in the back of the room. The only menu available looks like one of those flip calendars, each laminated page a glossy color picture of a different piece of pie.
“So…how does this work, exactly?” I ask quietly, leaning in toward Hennessy. She looks up from the menu, confused.
“How does what work?”
“This,” I say, gesturing to the room around us. “Will there be a fortune baked into my piece of pie or something?”
She fights back a snort. “No, nothing like that. You pick your pie. Janet slices it and places it on your plate. It may speak to her, it may not. There’s no guarantee you’ll get a reading,” she informs me.
“Okay, then.” I nod and flip the menu in earnest.
“Need a minute?” asks a vintage look-a-like waitress.
“Not me. What about you, Bryan?”
“Bryan!” The waitress shrieks with surprised delight as soon as my name drops from Hennessy’s lips.
“Uh, yes?” I venture.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” she informs me excitedly.
Suddenly I feel as if I’ve stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone.
“You have? Why is that?”
“Janet!” the waitress calls back toward the counter. “Janet! I’ve got Bryan here.”
In an instant, a woman with wavy, reddish brown hair pulled back in a brightly colored scarf, comes flying toward us. The long, flowing skirt she’s wearing billows around her, giving her the appearance of a floating apparition. When she reaches us, she grabs a chair from another table and sits down.
“Hennessy, you darling girl, you’ve brought me Bryan. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess?” My companion shrugs. “Janet Lahti, this is Bryan Truitt.”
Janet beams at me. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you,” she informs me.
“And why, exactly, is that?” I ask.
“Because the pie told me you were coming.”
“It did.”
“Yes, it did.”
Okay, I’ll play with wacko pie lady.
“Was it any particular pie?”
She nods enthusiastically at my question. “Yes, it was, in fact. The sweet potato pie.”
I freeze, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I can’t remember the last time I felt the urge to make a sweet potato pie. I mean, folks in these parts tend more toward the pumpkin. That sweet potato, though, that’s a southern taste. Are you from the South, Bryan Truitt?”
I nod dumbly and notice Hennessy peering across the table at me with renewed interest. She knows something’s going on here. So do I, I’m just not sure what that is.
“Yes, I thought so,” Janet is saying. She gets the attention of a young woman working the counter, waving for her to come to us. She does, with a plate in hand. “Thank you, Madeleine,” Janet says, taking the plate from her employee and setting it in front of me. It’s a perfect slice of sweet potato pie with a perfect dollop of fresh whipped cream on top.
“Take a bite,” she encourages.
I look at it, pick up a small fork, and scoop a section from the point, stopping to pick up some of the cream on the way to my mouth. When I taste the pie, my mind explodes with images of my youth. My parents, our property in North Carolina. The long hot summer and the cool pitchers of sweet tea. Fried chicken with mashed potatoes and my grandmother’s sweet potato pie. It all flashes through my head in the time it takes me to put the morsel in my mouth, savor its taste, and swallow. When I open my eyes again, it’s all gone, and the two women sitting with me are staring.
“Yes. That’s what I thought,” Janet murmurs. “This pie is about your past. It’s about remembering who you really are and where you come from.” She puts a warm hand on
my wrist. “What you need to know is that you can only outrun your past for so long. Eventually, it’s going to catch you. You’re better off coming at it on your own terms.”
With that, the eccentric woman stands up and rushes off to the counter. Our server returns with mugs of coffee and a slice of pie that I don’t recall Hennessy ordering.
“Peach,” she explains at my apparent confusion. “It’s all I ever order. So that wasn’t a psychic moment or anything. It was just them bringing me my usual.”
I nod, still reeling from the pie lady’s comments and the unbidden images that blew through my head.
“Are you okay?” she asks me, looking more concerned. “You’re a little pale.”
“Uh, yeah, I think so…”
I half expect her to mock me. But that’s not what Hennessy O’Halloran does.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “I know it can be unnerving. It’s happened to me, too. I don’t know how she does it or why it happens, it just does.”
There’s something about the way her bright blue eyes are fixed on mine that sends a wave of warmth through my chest. And then she smiles at me.
I’m not a romantic guy. I’ve never believed in all of this love at first sight nonsense. But right here, right now, in this bizarre little pie shop, the earth has shifted on its axis with a single sweet, gentle smile. I can’t really describe it. I certainly can’t explain it. Suddenly, I know without a doubt that I’d give my right arm to wake up to that smile every day of my life.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing her hand and giving it an impulsive squeeze. She looks a little perplexed…and amused. But she doesn’t pull away.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, without so much as a clue that she’s just changed my entire life.
After a long moment, I let her go, and we each return to our little slices of heaven.
Chapter Nineteen
Hennessy
I don’t have the slightest idea what’s just passed between Bryan and me, but I know it was significant. It’s a moment of such intensity that it’s almost painful to sustain it…so I don’t. I break the spell.
“So was Janet right?” I ask him as he savors another bite of sweet potato pie.
“About what?” he mutters through a mouthful.