by L. E. Rico
“Oh, I’m sure there is,” she hisses at me with a sneer that makes my blood run cold. “Because things like this aren’t planned overnight, are they? How many days, weeks, months did you spend plotting this? What happened to the money? And how on earth did you end up back in business when your father was rotting behind bars, Bryan?”
“No. No, no, no… You’ve got this all wrong…”
“Do I? Somehow I doubt that. I’ve defended guys like you because it was my job. But you know what? Those days are over. I will never again stand in defense of a hateful, hurtful, callous criminal like you. Starting right here, right now. I. Am. Done.”
“Hennessy…” I try one last time, but she won’t stand for it.
“I don’t think there’s anything else to say, Bryan Broadmore, or Truitt, or whoever the hell you are. When everyone else finds out—and trust me, everyone is going to find out—you might find yourself in need of a wheelchair. So, I suggest you get out of town while you can still walk.”
“Someday soon, you’re going to realize the mistake you’ve made,” I begin slowly and softly. “And you’ll feel bad about this moment, right here. What you’ve said, what you’ve done. And you’ll wish you had it all to do again. But you won’t, Hennessy. You won’t.”
Her cheeks are flaming red, and she looks as if she’d like to throw a bottle at me. When I turn to go, I’m half expecting the shattering of glass, bracing for it until I’m out the door and walking down the quiet street.
You’d think I’d be used to this by now. You’d think it wouldn’t bother me after all this time.
You’d think.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hennessy
By the time I get downstairs, Donovan has made his way in, and I smell fresh coffee and eggs coming from the kitchen. Sure enough, Father Romance is sitting at the bar reading his newspaper. He looks up and smiles when I walk out of the back of the pub.
“Good morning, Hennessey. Quite a tempest we’ve got going on out there, eh?” he says.
“Sure is,” I reply, trying to muster a normal tone. “I’m afraid it’s going to hamper our business today, though. And we really, really needed it to be busy for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I know. The timing is less than ideal. But don’t worry, love, it will be fine. The Lord will provide,” he assures me. I feel the urge to dispute this statement, but I just don’t have the energy. Or the heart, for that matter.
Reading about all those people who were hurt by Bryan and his family made my blood run cold. How could I have been so very wrong about him? It doesn’t even seem possible that he’d be capable of such a thing. But there it was, in black and white.
“Eggs are up!”
I’m surprised to see that it’s Jameson who brings out Father Romance’s breakfast and not Donovan.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I thought you might like a little help this morning. And since Bailey’s home from school today, she offered to watch Jackson.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I grumble. “It’s silly for you to trudge through this mess to get here.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” James says softly. “No need to get upset. We just thought it’d be a good idea for you to have some backup in case Bryan showed up again.”
“Bryan’s gone,” Donovan says as he comes out of the kitchen carrying a plate of toast. “Here, Father, I forgot to send out your whole grain, lightly buttered.”
“Thank you, son,” the priest says without looking up. “What do you mean he’s gone?”
“Uh, just that I saw him this morning. I was shoveling the driveway for Miss Lucy when I saw him put his suitcase in his car and drive off. I asked him where he was headed, but I guess he didn’t hear me. Looked as if he was going for good.”
I feel a weight on my chest, and it slams the breath from my lungs. I don’t know what I expected. I told him to go. He needed to go. So he went. Why should it matter?
They’re all peering at me curiously now.
“Did you know he was leaving, Henny?” Father Romance asks me slowly.
“I–I, uh, may have told him he should go,” I reply softly, hearing the catch in my voice and hating myself for it.
“Why on earth would you do that, child,” he asks, concern coming off him in waves. “I thought things were going so well between you. Why would you send him away?”
“No.” I shake my head and feel tears streaming down my face. “No, no. Bryan isn’t a good guy. He hurt people. Truitt isn’t even his real name,” I say, sounding more like I’m defending myself than accusing him.
Donovan slips back into the kitchen, clearly wanting to be out of this emotional mess. Father Romance, however, is sitting right in the thick of it.
“And do you believe this to be true?” he asks me, his dark, bushy brows furrowed.
“Well, it was there, in the article… He was charged with defrauding people out of millions of dollars,” I explain, going on to briefly recap the story I’d read, Father Romance and Jameson hanging on every word.
“How long ago did this supposedly occur?” he asks when I’ve finished.
“Uh…about five years ago.”
“Hennessy, child, a person doesn’t steal that kind of money from that many people and walk away five years later with a thriving business.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent. He tries another tack.
“Where did you get this information, anyway?”
“Jonathan Pettit. The loan trustee. He recognized Bryan from when it was in the news and in the papers. He said he thought I should know what kind of a man he was.”
“Okay…so, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he says gently. “The man whose job it is to sell this place if you default on the loan—the one who gets a commission of the selling price if he does—he’s the one who told you Bryan Truitt—”
“Broadmore,” I correct him.
“Fine, fine…Broadmore. He’s the one who told you that Bryan is trying to swindle you. Is that right, Hennessy? Have I got that right, love?”
Father Romance’s tone is kind and gentle, but his words feel hard to me, and I’m taken aback by how much it stings. I nod dumbly.
“Jameson, would you please give Hennessy and me a moment alone?” he asks, and she nods, silently going back to the office.
I clear my throat awkwardly and look down at the bar.
Dammit! Why am I the one who feels embarrassed and ashamed? I didn’t do anything wrong.
Father Romance pats the stool next to him.
“Come here, my dear girl.”
I do as he says, walking around to the other side of the bar and taking a seat by his side.
“Tell me, Hennessy, do you recall your First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse seven?”
The popular verse comes immediately to my mind and my tongue.
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” I recite.
“Exactly,” Father Romance affirms with a kindly smile. “When the Bible tells us that love believes all things, it isn’t implying that love is gullible or ignorant. It means that if we love, we see the best in others. We do not think the worst. Do you understand, child? Love will not be deceived, yet it will always give the benefit of the doubt.”
I shake my head, my mind awash in confusion and conflicting emotions. Love. He keeps talking about love…
“You’re saying I should’ve listened to what he had to say,” I whisper at last.
“I am,” he agrees with a nod. “Or, rather, our Lord is saying you should’ve listened to what he had to say. Because there’s also Luke six, Henny. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’”
I suck in my breath involuntarily. He’s right. I passed judgment on someone—someone I’d come to care about. Someone I’d come to maybe love…just a little.
“Have you prayed about all this?” he asks, his voice soft and kind in response to my clear anguish.
“Look at me,” he directs me, and I can’t disobey him. In this light, his eyes are black and shiny, like onyx. They pull me in, and somehow he’s able to calm and comfort me with just his expression. “I’ve spoken about prayer a thousand times during my sermons. Surely you recall what I’ve said on the topic?”
I take a shaky breath and nod.
“Then tell me, child. What have I said about it?”
“That we should pray for guidance and support,” I whisper and am rewarded with his huge, dimpled smile.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. The Lord always hears your prayers, Hennessy. But not every prayer is answered because not every prayer is God’s will. So, now you pray for God’s will to be done. You pray that Bryan will be blessed and guided, same as you. You pray that whoever ends up with this bar—whatever it becomes—that it will help bring the people of this community together.”
These last words send a fresh wave of sobs to heave and shake my body. Father Romance puts his hand to my cheek and wipes the tears with his thumb, the way my father used to do when I was a child.
“It’s all going to be all right, Hennessy. I promise you. Put your faith in God, and He will take care of you. Always, always, always.”
I jump to my feet and wrap my arms around my longtime confidant, spiritual advisor, and friend, reveling in the feel of strong warm hands patting my back with comfort and love.
And I pray.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bryan
Truittism No. 17: You rarely end up where you think you’re going, but you always end up where you’re supposed to be.
Turns out, leaving Mayhem, Minnesota, is a lot easier than getting to Mayhem, Minnesota. It takes me less than an hour to clean out my desk at the Gazette, leaving King all my nifty new office supplies along with a brief letter of thanks and an extra check for his troubles. The Pink Lady Slipper Inn is a little more complicated. I feel awful about just leaving like this without so much as a good-bye, but it just can’t be helped.
The huge Victorian is still at this hour, the only sound the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the parlor. Trying not to so much as creak one of the floorboards, I pack up my suitcase and write a more personal note to Miss Lucy, which I leave on the lace-covered sideboard on my way out the door. I’ve also left her my parka and boots, asking her to find them a good home.
The roads are a nightmare, and I white-knuckle my way, skidding and fishtailing, out of town. Once I hit the interstate, it improves vastly, and I breathe a little easier. I don’t know how I’m going to get home to L.A., but I’ll figure it out when I get to the airport. I sent an email to Helen before I left, but it’s so early, and with the time difference, it’s the middle of the night in California.
I keep seeing Hennessy’s face. The look of disappointment that turned to disgust in an instant. The coolness of her voice. I slam a fist on the steering wheel in a moment of rage and frustration.
“Damn!” I yell out to the frozen and deserted landscape as it flies by in the darkness. I swore I’d never do this again. I’d never trust my heart to another living soul. So what was I thinking?
I’d been thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was time that I got to be happy, too. But apparently I was wrong about that.
…
Figuring I could get more flights out of a bigger airport, I bite the bullet and drive the three hours to the Twin Cities. Somewhere in there, Helen has retrieved my email and called. She doesn’t ask too many questions, just assures me that she’ll make my travel plans and send me the details. It’s nearly noon central time when I finally return my car and catch my first flight, which has me changing planes in Chicago.
I literally cringe when I walk off the Jetway and into the terminal at O’Hare. The lights are too bright. There are too many people moving too quickly. And the noise…
“Hey, do you mind?” an irritated man complains from behind me as he tries get around me.
“Slow down, why don’t you?” I suggest.
“Yeah, well, some of us have real lives, buddy,” he says, squeezing past in his custom-tailored Armani suit. “Hey, do us all a favor and go back to whatever hick town you came from, why don’t you?” he shoots over his shoulder at me, shaking his head in disgust at my jeans and plaid shirt.
I move to the side so as not to hold up any other rushing passengers and watch the man walk away, cell phone now glued to his ear. That was me. Not two months ago, I was that arrogant, impatient jackass on my way to my next score. My next conquest. I take a look down at my new, casual look and try to see myself through his eyes. Through my eyes, not so very long ago. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I pull my phone out of my pocket and switch it out of airplane mode and see that there’s a text from Helen.
Terminal 2 concourse E Gate 16. 12:45 departure. E-ticket to come.
Ticket to come? They’ll be boarding by the time I get from Terminal C to E. I text a message to Helen, but when she doesn’t respond in a couple of minutes, I grab my bag and start my sprint toward the shuttle. Thankfully, I’ve been through this airport often enough that I don’t need to waste time figuring out where to go. Still, it takes longer than I thought, and I’m startled to hear my name crackling over the airport PA system.
“Airfleet USA Flight 1229, paging Mr. Bryan Truitt. Your flight is ready to depart out of Gate E16.”
I sprint down the long terminal, past gate after gate of departing flights, barely registering the people around. When at last I have the desk in sight, the gate agent has her hand on the door, about to close it.
“Wait! Please, wait!” I cry out, wheezing, sweating, and shaking when I finally arrive in front of the perfectly calm and composed blonde in the navy uniform.
“Mr. Truitt?” she asks.
I nod, unable to speak.
“Just a second…” I try to catch my breath while she goes to her computer, prints out a boarding pass, comes back and scans it. She tears the bottom off and hands it to me.
“You’re in first class, Mr. Truitt, Seat 13B.”
I nod again and prepare to run, but she puts a hand up to stop me. “It’s okay,” she says gently. “This plane isn’t going anywhere without you. Take a breath, and then take your time.”
I’m stunned by the unexpectedly kind words. “Thank you,” I say with a weak smile, rolling past her and down the ramp to where another woman, this one a petite brunette, is waiting for me.
“Mr. Truitt! So glad you made it. Here, I’ll take your bag and find a spot for it. Once we’re at thirty-thousand feet, I’ll come by and make sure you get a cocktail.”
“Oh, bless you,” I murmur gratefully as I pass her the handle to my bag. I spot my aisle seat and sink down into it before buckling myself in. I close my eyes and finally allow myself the luxury of a long, deep exhale.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Helen says from next to me.
Wait. What?
I open my eyes and gawk at the orange-haired woman with the rhinestone-studded glasses sitting in the window seat. My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes are wide with shock as I try to process a scenario in which she should be here with me on this flight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Airfleet USA flight 1229 with non-stop service to Charlotte, North Carolina…”
“Charlotte?” I yelp so loudly that the flight attendant pauses to give me a quizzical look. She motions for her colleague to stand by for a moment and comes to hang over my seat.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Truitt?” she asks with concern.
“I–I think there’s been a mistake,” I stammer. “I’m supposed to be on a flight to Los Angeles…”
Helen reaches over
to put a pink-nailed hand on my leg. “No, dear,” she says quietly. “You’ve got business in North Carolina. There’s a garment bag with a black suit hanging up front, and I’ve made reservations at a hotel near your mother’s house.”
The flight attendant is looking back and forth between us. “We’re fine, really,” Helen assures her. I’m so stunned that I can’t disagree.
“What the hell, Helen?” I hiss when we’re alone again.
“Shh,” she says quietly.
“Helen, I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, patting my shoulder now. “It’s okay, Bryan.”
I have a moment of pure, blinding rage. How dare she? How could she possibly presume to know what I want or need or…
“Look at me,” she says. I do, certain that the anger I’m feeling is written across every square inch of my face.
She just smiles at me sweetly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers softly, leaning close to me. “About your father. About Hennessy. About all of it.”
“How did you know about Hennessy?” I manage to ask.
She gives me half a smile. “It’s my job to know, silly,” she says, grasping my hand and giving it a squeeze. “And, more than that, I want to know. Because I care about you.”
Her words should surprise me, but somehow, as I study her well-worn face, I realize that she does care, and that I’ve always known that. I squeeze her hand tightly and feel the anger melt away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hennessy
When the alarm goes off on D-Day, I feel as if I’ve been hit by a dump truck. A dump truck carrying five tons of dog crap. Repeatedly.
“Ugh!” I groan, pulling the pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the morning sun and the memories that I know will come flooding back in the bright light of day.
“Henny?”
I jump a full foot off the mattress when I hear a voice in the room with me, even though it’s a familiar one.
“James? What are you doing here?” I demand, my heart feeling as if it’s going to pound right out of my chest.