by L. E. Rico
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’ve lost your mind, Walker. Seriously. How much of the product have you been sampling today?”
Another glare. We all know Walker never drinks when she’s working the bar. None of us does. It was one rule that Pops hammered into all of us.
“Sorry, sorry,” I apologize quickly. “I’m just freaked out because I don’t know how to feel about him.”
“Wait, you have feelings for him? Like serious feelings?” Walker asks incredulously.
I sit on a barstool and allow my head to slump into my hands on the bar.
“I don’t know,” is my muffled response. “If you could’ve heard him talking about his past and his family when we were at the pie shop. He was like this whole other person. No shiny, glitzy facade, just a regular guy who’s still smarting from serious family dysfunction.” After a moment, I sit up again and look at each of my sisters in frustration. “Ugh! What’s wrong with me? Why do I even care what his life is like? I’m supposed to hate him… Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Walker says.
“No,” Jameson says at exactly the same moment.
“Henny, it’s okay to like him.” Jameson takes a seat on the stool next to mine. “Don’t push Bryan away because you think he might be a bad guy. Because it seems to me all the signs to the contrary are right there in front of you.”
“But, James…isn’t he the bad guy? Didn’t he try to snatch up the pub from Pops under false pretenses? And this insane bet! It just doesn’t make any sense. He could just bid on it when the bank forecloses. So what’s his game?”
My sister grabs my hand so tightly that I gasp, and my confused eyes find hers.
Jameson does not look a bit confused. “Listen to me, Hennessy, Pops was no idiot. I haven’t said it to anyone, but I have no doubt he knew exactly what Bryan planned to do with the pub.”
“What? How can you say that?” Walker objects loudly.
“Pops was a proud man who was in a bad spot,” James explains. “You want to know what I think? I think he knew his health wasn’t great and he suspected there wasn’t a lot of time. I think he knew none of us really wanted to run the business, and he didn’t want us feeling guilty about that. I think he saw Bryan’s offer as a way to pay off the debt and leave his family a financial cushion without the burden of running a business they didn’t want—out of obligation to him. That’s what I think.”
My mouth hangs open with shock. Not because she said what she said, but because I didn’t. I didn’t see what was so plainly right in front of me. Before I can voice this to my sister, she gives me another tight squeeze.
“And as for the bet, yeah, it is crazy. Unless, that is, you’re looking for an excuse to stick around.”
“I… Wait, I–I don’t…” I stammer.
“Seriously? Hennessy, the man is crazy about you. Crazy enough to spend a month in Mayhem, Minnesota where the cats wear sweaters, the pie tells tales, and there’s snow on the ground six months out of the year.” She laughs, but then her voice softens. “Hen, only a man who’s falling hard does something like that.”
“You’re crazy,” I inform her. “That man is not…not falling for me.”
Jameson shrugs. “Mmmm…I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Well,” Walker pipes up, “after a polka mass followed by a sit-down dinner with Wonderful Win and the little terrorist here, we’re all gonna have a good idea of what this guy is made of.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
…
There are people who grumble that the polka mass is blasphemous. I am not one of them. I am overjoyed that His Mass-ter’s Polka Band is in town and here this morning, providing the music for worship at the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem. And, while the regular mass is beautiful and moving, there’s something celebratory about singing the usual responses and hymns in polka style. Parishioners are swaying and clapping and smiling. Even Father Romance appears more jovial than usual.
And then there’s Bryan. He appears to be perfectly at home in our pew, sandwiched between me and Jackson, who keeps leaning over and patting his clean-shaven face with his tiny hand. I only mention the clean-shaven thing because it’s a departure from the scruffier, more casual look he’s adopted since he’s been in town. The smooth face goes well with the charcoal gray suit that looks so good on him.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…I have had improper thoughts about men’s clothing during mass…
“Jackson, leave Bryan alone.” Jameson scolds her son softly as he pokes his finger in Bryan’s ear.
“Would you like to switch?” I offer.
He smiles and shakes his head.
“I got this,” he whispers and promptly swings his head around, snapping his teeth as if he’s going to chomp on the tiny appendage.
Jackson squeals with delight, causing several people in the pews around us to turn. On any other Sunday, some of them might glare or tsk or shake their heads. But not on Polka Sunday. Everyone’s in a good mood on Polka Sunday, and by the time we stand up to receive communion, we’re all practically dancing down the aisle to “How Great Thou Art” a la “Roll Out the Barrel.”
“Come on,” I say, gesturing for Bryan to follow me.
“I can’t. I’m not Catholic. I don’t think I’m supposed to…”
“What? Do you think you might set off the alarm system if you try to receive communion?” I tease him with an elbow poke to his ribs.
“Oh, jeez… They actually have one of those?” he asks, his face suddenly growing pale.
I throw back my head and laugh, grateful that the polka band is loud.
“No, silly, they do not have one of those. Come on! It’s okay, he’ll just bless you.”
Reluctantly, he follows me out of the pew and down the center aisle of the church where we wait for our turn with Father Romance.
“This is a beautiful church,” he comments softly behind me.
When I turn around, I find him twisting his head in all directions, taking in the stained glass, the crucifix, the cathedral ceiling, and the choir loft.
“I know, right? When I was a little girl, I used to dream about walking down this aisle with my father. I’d go to weddings of people I didn’t even know just to see the look on the groom’s face when they opened the sanctuary doors and the bride stepped out. Oh God, I’m sorry. That’s so…girly. And cheesy…” I mutter, embarrassed at having shared this stupid tidbit with him.
But he doesn’t laugh at me, or mock, or tease, for that matter.
“I’m sure someday that will be you coming down the aisle,” he says with a sweet smile. “I’m sorry your father won’t be there to give you away, though.”
I’m surprised that such a thing would even occur to him—the very thing that’s crossed my mind every time I’ve been in this church since Pops died. In fact, it struck me so hard on the day of his funeral that I could barely walk. The idea that I was accompanying him down the aisle rather than the other way around was just too much for me to bear at that moment. It’s been a little better since then. But not much.
“Hennessy, the body of Christ,” Father Romance says to me as I open my mouth and he places the wafer on my tongue. Then I step to the side so the curate, Father Jerry, can offer me a sip of wine from the chalice.
“Bryan, may the Lord bless you and keep you.” I hear Father Romance murmur from next to me.
“Wow, that was kind of…cool,” Bryan tells me as we make our way back to the pew.
“Are you even Christian?” I ask with a chuckle. “Did my sister rope a Jew or an atheist or a Muslim into coming to the polka mass?”
He grins and shakes his head, explaining when we’re seated again. “I was raised in a household with a devout Lutheran for a mother and a devout heathen for a father.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but I have a feeling this is more of a comment about his entire upbring
ing rather than just a statement of faith. Something about that makes me feel a little sad for him, and I don’t know quite why. Whatever the reason, there’s no time to speculate, as the last of the parishioners receives the Eucharist and Father Romance returns to the altar. He leads us in the Post Communion Prayer and the Blessing before uttering the words we’re all waiting to hear.
“Let us all now together sing a song of glory,” he commands from the pulpit.
Little Jackson sits bolt upright, snapping out of a sleepy stupor the second he hears the accordion, banjo, and drums start up their rendition of “Amazing Grace.” He chuckles with delight and claps along as the banjo and drums join in.
“Polka mass!” I squeal as quietly as I can, poking him in the belly. Jameson nods and smiles brightly, bouncing her son up and down in time to the music.
When Father Romance instructs us to share peace with one another, I turn to Jameson and give her a squeeze, then I smother Jax’s face until he’s giggling. I’m not even thinking when I swing around to the other side and find Bryan watching me with an eyebrow quirked.
“Peace be with you,” I say, offering my hand for a shake.
He takes it and then promptly uses it to pull me closer. Before I can object, he’s placed a very warm, very soft kiss on my cheek. It’s a kiss that’s totally within the boundaries of church decorum, but there’s something about it that brings a furious blush to my face.
“Peace be with you, Hennessy,” he says as he pulls away.
I’m having a hard time meeting his eyes and am relieved when my nephew pipes up from next to me.
“Brybry!”
“I think he wants to share peace with you, Bryan,” Jameson says.
“Of course, buddy,” Bryan says, leaning past me to take the hand Jackson’s offering. Suddenly the toddler seems bashful.
“Can you say, ‘peace be with you?’” I encourage Jackson.
And then I see it…the look. But it’s too late. The words are out of his mouth before I can avert disaster.
“Peath wit dooooooosh!” Jackson squeals as he bounces in my arms and claps his hands happily.
Jameson looks on in horror, Bryan can’t seem to believe what he’s hearing, and from the lectern, I catch Father Romance pretending to cough so he can stifle his laughter. Well, at least I’m not the only one blushing now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bryan
Truittism No. 11: The apple may not fall far from the tree…but that doesn’t mean it won’t roll the hell out from under it.
The kid called me a douche. Again. This time, in front of an entire congregation and God Almighty Himself. That little hiccup aside, the polka mass wasn’t bad at all. I’ve been to a Catholic mass before, mostly for weddings and funerals, and I actually enjoy the ritual of it. This, though…this was something else. Kinda fun, actually.
Jameson took Jackson and ducked out during the final hymn so she could get the afternoon meal ready. Right now, Hennessy and I are waiting in the line of parishioners filing past Father Romance. One by one, they shake his hand before exiting into the crisp, frozen morning. When I reach him, I hold out my hand, but he grabs me instead, capturing me in a bear hug that pushes every bit of air from my lungs.
“Bryan, son, I was so happy to look out and see your face this morning. You are welcome in this church any time,” he tells me, adding a slightly painful slap to my back.
“Thank you, Father,” I gasp, drawing a huge breath when he finally lets go of me. “It was a very cool service.”
He beams down with those impish eyes.
“I’m glad you liked it. It’s a favorite of ours around here. Where are you off to, then? Care to join me for a pint at the pub?”
“Uh, no, I can’t. I’ve been invited to Jameson’s house for supper,” I explain regretfully. He has no idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
His dark, bushy brows draw together in concern as he looks from me to Hennessy and back again.
“You’re bringing him to a meal with Win Clarke? And little Jackson?” he asks her.
“Jameson’s doing, not mine,” Hennessy explains, holding up her palms to indicate her lack of involvement in this plan.
Father Romance nods, and I see the unmistakable shadow of pity pass across his face. Maybe he does have an idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
“I’ll say a prayer for you, Bryan,” he murmurs, so no one else will hear. “A word of advice: sit as far away from the high chair as you can. Understand?”
I nod dumbly and wonder what fresh hell awaits me—so heinous that even the local priest seems to fear for my safety. Or maybe it’s my soul he fears for. Probably both.
…
I leave my car at the church and ride with Hennessy in her SUV. It’s not nearly as rustic as I imagined. Leather seats, nice sound system, moon roof… Yeah, I might just be able to trade in my luxury sedan for one of these babies. Maybe.
“Thanks for letting me join you all,” I say with a glance over to the driver’s seat. She’s all buttoned up in her parka right now, but I happen to know that there’s a delightfully short skirt and tights under there. The thought brings a smile to my lips. She notices.
“Wow, you really did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?” she marvels, misreading my lecherous thoughts.
“Oh yeah,” I assure her. “You have a nice family. I can see why the pub means so much to all of you.”
Her turn to shoot me a glance, though hers is more perplexed.
“Bryan, just tell me, please…”
“What?”
“We both know you could just as easily pick up this property from L.A. if it goes to foreclosure. We both know you don’t need to be here. So…why are you here? I mean, really? I’m tired of doing this crazy love/hate dance we’ve been doing.”
“Did you say ‘love’?”
Her brows furrow as she takes an exit off the interstate.
“It’s an expression.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree, “but a very telling one, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t respond, but she does turn on her blinker and pull over to the side of the road in a suburban development.
“What? Are we here?” I ask, twisting around in my seat.
She huffs impatiently.
“No, we are not here. I stopped because it’s time we addressed this whole…situation…don’t you think?”
I consider her expression carefully. She’s calm. And she’s serious. And she’s right.
“Look, Hennessy, I don’t really know what the answer is. I came here to get a deal done and get out of town as fast as possible. Except now…”
“Now what?” she presses when my voice trails off.
“Except now I kind of don’t want to leave. I like this place. I like the people who live here. I like…you. A lot.”
There. I’ve said it out loud. No innuendo.
She blinks hard, her cool blue eyes never leaving mine. What’s going on in there? I can’t tell if she’s about to kick me to the curb—literally—or…
Before I can come up with an alternative, she’s responding to my declaration.
“Yeah, I know,” she agrees softly. “I like you, too. A lot.”
“What I told you the other day about my family? I’ve never told anyone about that. There’s just something about you that makes me want to spill my guts. I swear to God, this has never happened to me before. With anyone.”
She smiles, seemingly pleased with that little confession.
“We’d better go. James will be waiting for us.”
Okay, then. I guess that’s the end of this discussion. Though, I can’t say I’m any closer to understanding this situation than I was ten minutes ago. Except, of course, that she likes me, too. A lot. I’m grinning from ear to ear by the time we arrive at the front door of her sister’s house.
Hennessy lets herself in, and I follow into a two-story vestibule. The Clarkes’s home is beautiful, much newer
and bigger and fancier than the houses in Mayhem proper. Miss Lucy clued me in that this area is very “spendy.” She wasn’t kidding.
“Come on,” she coaxes, gesturing for me to follow her down the hall. “My brother-in-law is dying to meet you. He thinks the rest of us are small-town rubes—even though he grew up here like the rest of us.”
She rolls her eyes at me over her shoulder as I follow her down the corridor and into the den.
“Okay…”
When Win Clarke Jr. stands up to greet me, he is incredibly familiar. Not because I know him, specifically, but because I’ve known a hundred guys just like him. He’s tall and broad with boyish good looks. His hair is sandy blond, his eyes are pale blue, and his smile is bright and wide. He’s the student body president, the prom king, and the captain of the football team all rolled into one.
“Bryan Truitt, this is my brother-in-law, Win Clarke,” Hennessy introduces us before drawing my attention to an older man. “And that dashing gentleman sitting in the recliner over there is Win’s father, Winston Clarke Sr. But we all call him Big Win.”
He stands up and joins us, Hennessy giving him a hug and planting a kiss on his cheek as I exchange grips with the younger Clarke.
“Good to meet you,” Win says, pumping my hand hard. “What can I get you to drink?”
I notice the beer bottles on the coffee table.
“I’ll have a bottle of whatever you’re drinking.”
“Would you like something, Henny?”
“Not right now, thanks, Win.”
He nods and ducks across the hall toward what I presume is the kitchen. At least, that’s where the amazing smells are coming from.
“So, Mr. Clarke, I understand you’ve recently retired.”
He nods. “Please, please, call me Big Win,” he insists in a voice that’s somehow both soft and commanding. “Yes, I have. Thought it’d be nice to get in some fishing and spend some more time with the grandson.”
“Ah yes, little Jackson.”
It’s all I have to say. A knowing smile crosses his features.
“He’s a handful, that one,” he chuckles. “But, then again, so was his father.”