by L. E. Rico
After a few moments, he pulls his mouth from mine, and then his lips are placing gentle, sweet kisses in a line from behind my ear down to my neck. He pushes the collar of my sweat shirt aside so he can kiss my shoulder, and I groan from the sensation.
“Bryan,” I murmur, “what are you doing?”
“What does it feel like I’m doing?”
“It feels like you’re asking for trouble…”
“Exactly,” he says, standing up and taking me with him. “I screwed this up the last time by doing nothing. I’m damn sure not going to make that mistake again.”
He carries me through the kitchen and down the hall, kicking the bedroom door open with his foot just as Foreigner filters up through the floorboards singing “I want to know what love is.”
Yeah, me too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bryan
Truittism No. 14: If you don’t want fate knocking at your door, then you’d better get yourself a P.O. Box.
It’s after ten o’clock before Hennessy crawls out of bed and stumbles down the hall to where I’m reading the newspaper in the kitchen. She’s wearing a Vikings football jersey that hangs down to her knees, and she has the hottest morning-after hair that I think I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, you,” she rasps, scratching her sexy bedhead.
“Hey, yourself,” I murmur, getting to my feet and taking her into my arms. “Did you sleep well?”
She puts her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, morning breath,” she mumbles through a bashful grin. “Yes, I slept great. I just wish I could’ve slept more.”
I pull her hand away and kiss her softly, ignoring her protests about the morning breath.
“Your wish is my command,” I say between kisses, walking her backward toward the bedroom she just left. “I’m guessing the sheets are still warm. I can bring you coffee, and I got some pastries at the bakery…and then you can show me all the sights.”
“What sights are those?” she asks distractedly as we hobble along down the hallway and my mouth finds her earlobe.
“Your sights,” I murmur between nibbles. “I was hoping to get the guided tour of Hennessy O’Halloran. I mean, I had a look around last night, but it was dark out, and I didn’t get to really appreciate the flora and the fauna…”
She’s giggling happily right up until the moment there’s a loud buzz from the intercom next to the door that leads to the exterior staircase. We both jump, startled by the unexpected sound.
“What the…?” she grumbles as she goes to the door and presses a button.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
The line crackles, and a nasal male voice fills the hall.
“I’m looking for Mr. Hennessy O’Halloran?”
I start to laugh, but one glare from her turns it into a perfectly innocent cough.
“Who is this, please?”
More crackle.
“Uh, my name is Jonathan Pettit. I represent U.S. Title and Trade. I’m the trustee of this property. May I come up and speak with you?”
She looks at me, face suddenly full of concern.
“What should I do?” she whispers, as if he’s standing right on the other side of the door rather than down a flight of stairs and outside in the parking lot.
I shrug.
“Let him up, I guess. You need to talk to him at some point. But I suggest you put some clothes on,” I offer with a lascivious grin.
She rolls her eyes as she pushes the button again.
“Of course. Come on up, Mr. Pettit. Do you mind letting him in?” she asks, already trotting down the hallway to the bedroom.
“Uh…no, I guess not,” I reply, though she’s not listening.
I open the door to find a face to match the voice. Jonathan Pettit looks all pinched and squinty as he comes inside and accepts my outstretched hand.
“Mr. O’Halloran, I presume?”
“What? Oh no, no.” I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. “Actually, Hennessy O’Halloran is a she,” I inform him. His eyes, formerly slits, now pop open wide, and he pushes his large glasses up on his nose.
“Oh my! Well I hope I didn’t offend the lady,” he says, wringing his hands nervously.
“No, no. I made the same mistake when I first met her, too,” I tell him as I guide him to the kitchen table. “I’m Bryan Truitt, Hennessy’s…uh…friend. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Please. Just black, thank you,” he sniffs and takes a seat at the table.
“Sorry. I know it looks as if we’re just getting up…and we are…but it was a late night. They had a pub quiz last night to bring in some extra cash, you see.”
“Yes, yes, I’d heard that the family was going to try and put together the money to pay off the loan…”
The odd little man stops his sentence short and looks at me for a beat longer than I’m comfortable with. The wheels are turning; I’m just not certain in which direction.
“Something wrong?” I ask, setting a cup of black coffee down in front of him.
He squints at me.
“No…yes…I mean, you just seem so familiar to me, Mr.…Truitt, is it? I’d swear we’ve met before.”
I’m quite sure we haven’t. No way I’d forget this guy. Not a chance.
“I don’t think so. I’m based out of Los Angeles, actually. I run a real estate development company—The Truitt Group. I match investors with properties, predominantly here in the Midwest,” I explain, hoping to move him off of who I am and on to what I do.
He’s nodding his head slowly…and then he’s shaking it.
“I’d swear—” he begins, but I’ll never know exactly what he was going to swear because Hennessy chooses that moment to breeze back in.
She’s upped her wardrobe game a little with black dress slacks and a tailored blouse. Definitely part of her lawyer wardrobe. She managed to smooth her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s put on more makeup than I’m used to seeing on her. The effect is stunning. I have no clue how any of her male adversaries can concentrate on their own cases when Hennessy O’Halloran is in the courtroom.
“Mr. Pettit, nice to meet you. I’m Hennessy O’Halloran,” she says, extending her hand with a bright smile.
And, just like that, old Squinty McTwitchypants over here has forgotten all about me.
“P–pleased to meet you…” he murmurs with a goofy, lopsided smile.
“Oh, good, Bryan’s gotten you some coffee,” she notes as she pours herself a cup and joins us at the table. “Now, what brings you here?”
“Well, you see, I’m the designated trustee on your father’s loan. Now, more often than not, these things are handled via internet and fax and such. But, as it so happens, my branch office is down in Rochester. And when my wife heard I was handling a property in Mayhem…well, she was adamant that we make the trip in person. Something about pie…”
“Of course,” Hennessy nods. “The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop.”
“Yes, exactly!” he exclaims, seeming surprised that such a place really exists.
“Ah, well, it’s the best slice of pie on this side of the Mississippi.” Hennessy smiles warmly and then brings things back around to the business at hand.
And I’m glad because the sooner this guy is gone, the sooner we can—
“Yes, yes. I suppose I’d like to get a sense of where you are with things. There are only about two weeks left, and I’ve had conflicting reports from the bank regarding your plans.”
“Yes. Well, ideally, we’ll raise enough money to pay off the loan and keep the pub. We’re getting closer…” she says, her voice trailing off a little hesitantly, “but we’re not quite there yet.”
“How much closer?” he asks, pulling out a pad and pen and starting to jot down a few notes.
She clears her throat a little awkwardly, and it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be here for this. It’s not really appropriate.
“You know, I’m going to run downstairs to th
e pub. I think I left my”—I cast around in my head for an item—“body wash down there.”
“Your what?” Hennessy asks.
“You know, my body wash. I really like it, and I…I don’t want anyone to use it.”
It’s ridiculous, but it gets me down the back stairs with a quick wink at her over my shoulder.
The place won’t be open for another hour yet, so I park myself at a small table in a corner, the same one where Hennessy and I made our deal. The thought of it makes me smile. It also makes me wonder what the trustee is going to think about our crazy wager—if she even tells him about it, that is. Any financial guy worth his salt would consider it ridiculous and tell her I must have an ulterior motive. And I do.
I’d like to spend more time in Hennessy’s bed.
I pull out my phone and start flipping through emails and messages. Apparently I’ve been off the radar a little too long for some people’s liking. The first voicemail is from a local number that I don’t recognize. But the moment I hear the voice, I know exactly who it is.
“Oh, Bryan, this is Lucy Van der Hoovenwald. The cats and I have been worried sick since we heard about the melee at the pub last night. Winston Churchill was beside himself! You know he coughed up a hairball right on top of my lace toilet tank cover? You betcha that’s classic stress! Okeydoke, then, I’ll just see you when you come back. There’ll be a pork and beans hotdish with Raman noodle salad tonight if you’d like to have dinner.”
I snort at the idea of Winston Churchill and his hairball. Clearly he hates the lace as much as I do.
Next come three voicemails in a row from Helen.
Hi, Bryan, I just wanted to let you know that Jess from the First National Bank says you’re good to go. Call me later. Bye.
That’s Helen letting me know that our Iowa project is ready to go to contract. Her next message came last night while I was mid-quiz.
Bryan, Clara Broadmore called three times for you. I told her you were out of town and unavailable, but she kept calling, asking me to get in touch with you. I promised her I would pass on the messages. Bryan…she sounds really…scared. I hope you’ll consider calling her. Okay. Bye.
That’s Helen letting me know that my mother is looking for me. Again. I’m not sure I even want to hear her last message because I’m sure it must be a lecture about how I really should return her calls. But I hit play anyway, and discover that I’m wrong. This isn’t a lecture at all.
Bryan, Clara Broadmore rang again. She wants me to let you know that her husband has died. She didn’t want to leave any details about a service. I’m sorry—I hope that’s not someone you’re close to. Let me know if you need travel arrangements. Okay, then, I’ll wait to hear from you. Please call me…I worry about you. Bye.
And that’s Helen letting me know that my father is dead.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hennessy
“Jameson! You owe me twenty-two bucks. Little Man in there used my eyeliner like a Crayola. Again!” Walker squawks.
“Oh, stop complaining. I told you I’ll replace it,” Jameson says, rolling her eyes.
“That was the last one. I got a new one yesterday, and he’s demolished it…”
“Jeez, Walker, twenty-two bucks? What’s it made of? Gold?” I pipe in with a chuckle.
“Says the woman who looks like a model when she rolls out of bed in the morning,” my younger sister grumbles.
“Please,” I object. “We all know you’re the dramatic, edgy, exotic one. If anyone could be a model, Walker, it’s you.”
She looks at me, eyes narrowed, as if searching for a joke in there somewhere. But she won’t find one.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re all pretty,” Bailey mutters from the couch where she’s glued to her phone. “Can we please just get on with this? I have plans later.”
“Not until we get the latest on Henny’s hookup,” Walker says and is greeted with an evil eye from me. “What? Dude, I’m a bartender. I hear everything.”
“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share that information with anyone,” I reply.
“I think that horse has left the barn,” she informs me with a snort. “It’s all anyone can talk about at the pub. I mean, he’s been parked out back overnight three times this week. What the hell, Henny? I understand you not hating the guy anymore but…this? Last time I checked, he was still out to turn our pub into a mega-multi-screen monstrosity! And now everyone in town knows you two are hooking up,” she grumbles. So much for getting all of my sisters on board with this new development.
“It’s not that bad,” Bailey says. “People around here are really starting to like Bryan.”
I lift my head up again. “Really? They are?”
She nods. “Yeah. He went ice fishing with a couple of guys from the factory last week, and he spoke with Lydia Mack’s eleventh-grade economics class about his job. He even agreed to write a guest column for the Gazette. Something about being a newcomer to Mayhem.”
“Yeah, well, not everyone thinks he’s Mr. Wonderful,” Walker informs us. “The Tuesday night darts league is convinced he’s just using you to get the property for a good price. And the guys over at the Elks lodge—”
“Okay, Walker, that’s enough,” Jameson cuts her off.
I sink heavily into a chair and sigh.
“Look… I think he’s a pretty good guy. I wouldn’t be…you know…with him if he weren’t.”
“But…” Jameson says, sensing my uncertainty.
“But what if we can’t come up with the money and I have to sell the pub to him? He’s going to raze it. No one will be liking him much then,” I predict. “Including everyone in this room.”
“Then what are you doing?” Walker demands. “I think you’ve lost your mind. Pops must be rolling in his grave.”
She knows she’s gone too far the second the words are out of her mouth. That’s clear from the look on her face.
“What did you just say to me?”
My question comes out soft but deadly. Suddenly everything around us seems to stop—the ticking of the wall clock, the whirring of the dishwasher…the beating of my heart.
“I—uh—I didn’t mean it like that, Henny…” Walker stammers, sounding uncharacteristically afraid. As she should be.
“How dare you,” I spit. “After everything I’ve done to try and turn this thing around!”
“Okay, okay. You know what?” James shoehorns herself into my impending implosion. “We’re going to stop this. Right here, right now. Henny, Walker didn’t mean that the way it sounded, and you know it. Walker, mind your own business. Henny’s social life is none of your concern, so just cut it out already. Understood?”
Walker, who looks impossibly pale now, nods her head silently.
“Maybe this would be a good time to crunch the numbers,” James suggests. We need to focus on the pub right now. It’s the only thing that matters.”
She’s right. With a final glare at Walker, I reach around the chair for my purse hanging off the back. I pull out a small notebook and pen and set my phone to the calculator function, ticking off small columns of numbers. Finally, I look up and find my sisters staring at me intently.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out sounding a little froggy and strangled.
“Well, the pub quiz put us just over sixty-five thousand.”
“What?” Bailey gasps. “How can we still be so far off?”
“There’s no way,” Jameson says quietly. “There’s absolutely no way. Those were our two big events. We may pull in a little more from the dart leagues and the specialty nights, but not thirty-five-thousand-dollars-worth.”
I take a deep breath and do a little mental arithmetic. “Well, let’s not forget about St. Patty’s Day. We always pull in a good sum from the corned beef and cabbage dinner. That’ll help. But we’ve got to figure out the rest of the money. Because, short of going door-to-door and asking folks to kick in their spare change, I’m not sure what mo
re we can do.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Bailey says, holding up her hand to stop me. “That’s it! That’s exactly what we’ll do,” she breathes excitedly.
“Oh, no way we’re going begging for money,” Jameson says flatly.
“No, not like that,” Bailey explains. “We’ll set up a Fund My Goal page.”
“Isn’t that what people use to raise money for sick kids?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, yeah, among other things. It’s called crowd-sourced funding, and people use it to raise money for their inventions, to make movies, to pay for funeral costs… I know somebody who started one to pay for her car repairs.”
“And people give cash for that?” I ask incredulously. “I mean, I know the concept, I just didn’t know it could be used for such…mundane things. Why would someone want to contribute to our cause? It doesn’t benefit them.”
Bailey is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table as she gesticulates. “That’s the thing, people do want to help. And it’s not like you’re asking for a hundred bucks a person. We’ll post that great picture of Mama and Pops standing out front of the pub and tell our story. You’d be amazed how many people are willing to give a couple of bucks here and there. It adds up quick. And we’ll throw in an incentive…like the first ten people to give fifty-dollars or more get dinner and drinks for two at the pub. Come on,” she coaxes, “let’s do it. We’ve got nothing left to lose.”
I look at Jameson, who shrugs. “She’s right. We’re getting down to the wire now. We raise all the money, or we don’t. There is no in between here.”
I nod. “Okay, I’m in,” I agree, realizing this is probably what’s going to make us or break us.
…
It’s snowing. Again. I’m watching the huge flakes waft down out of the pitch-black sky and stick onto every flat surface in sight. According to the Weather Channel, we can expect a foot by morning. That’s great news for the skiers, snowboarders, and the kids looking for a day off from school, not so great news for our St. Patrick’s Day celebration. It’s one of our busiest nights of the year and, as it turns out, it’s our last chance to raise a few more bucks before 5 p.m. on Friday, when the building will go into foreclosure. It’s going to be close—like, a hair’s breadth close—so tonight’s turnout could be the difference.