by L. E. Rico
“Perhaps you should join me in a little coffee,” Father Romance suggests with a nod toward his mug.
I shake my head and wave a hand at him. “No, I don’t think my stomach can handle it.”
“Hennessy, could it perhaps be wedding jitters? It’s very common to be having second thoughts right now—especially with the accelerated time table you two are on.”
I lean across the bar at him—not that we’re in danger of being overheard, as the only other person in at this hour is our cook, Donovan, and he’s in the back prepping for lunch.
“No,” I say confidently, then stop and think for a moment. “Maybe,” I add, not so confidently. “I mean, I’m not having second thoughts. But Bryan…I’m not so sure…”
He puts his fork down and gives me his undivided attention.
“What makes you think that’s the case? Did he tell you that?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s just…something’s off. I don’t know… I just have this feeling.” I throw up my arms, sending a shower of glitter raining down on the priest—and his plate.
He picks up his toast, taps it a few times, and takes a big bite as he appears to ponder what I’ve just told him.
“Well, now, I don’t pretend to know the inner workings of the human mind or soul…or the will of our Lord, for that matter, but I do know one thing with absolute certainty—Bryan Truitt wants to marry you more than anything.”
I shrug. “Father Romance, you didn’t see him when he came over the other night. It was like all the blood had drained from his head. He was sweaty, and I’d swear I saw his hands shake. I think it might’ve been him rethinking this whole thing…”
He reaches across the bar top and puts one of his big, warm hands over mine. Since my father’s death last year, Father Grigory Romanski—or, Father Romance, as everyone calls him—has been my go-to sounding board.
“Hennessy, I promise you—whatever else is going through Bryan’s head, leaving you at the altar is not one of them. But, if it’ll make you feel any better, I can have a chat with him—”
“No!” I say a little too quickly, then try again in a softer tone. “No, but thank you, Father. You’re probably right. It’s probably nothing serious.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t say it was nothing serious…”
“Huh? Then what did you just say?”
“I said that I didn’t think he was having second thoughts. Bryan may very well have some other random concern that’s making him act this way. But, you know, Hennessy, your Marriage Encounter weekend will probably help you two to get it out in the open.” I pause for a beat too long. “What? Something about the Marriage Encounter weekend?”
“I was wondering if maybe we could skip it, is all… Surely you’ve got some kind of a ‘get out of jail free’ card that you can call in for us…”
He’s shaking his head sternly before I even finish my thought.
“No, sorry, love. The fact that your husband-to-be isn’t Catholic means there can be no skipping of the pre-wedding classes. So I suggest you and Bryan start packing, because you’re going to Bemidji to see Father Buddy.”
“What?” I gasp, standing up straight, suddenly alarmed. “Father Nutty Buddy?”
Father Romance throws his head back and laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
“I haven’t heard that nickname in years! But yes, he’ll be running the weekend,” he tells me once he can speak again.
“This is not happening…” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief. I’d thought for sure the old geezer would’ve retired by now.
“Oh, now, Henny, he’s a good man, and I’m sure you’ll get a lot out of the weekend.”
I’m not so sure. In fact, I’m concerned that something like this might just send Bryan running for the first flight to LAX. I mean, there’s a reason they call him Nutty Buddy.
“Father, I’ve heard all the stories about him and that…that puppet thing he does.”
“Oh, no!” He chuckles. “Is Father Nutty—is Father Buddy—still using that puppet?”
“He was when my college roommate got married, anyway. She said her fiancé actually stole it. He and the other men in his cabin were going to roast it on a bonfire or something…but the fiancées got wind of it and rescued it before it got too close to the flames. Although, apparently, Father Buddy was perplexed as to how it got singed.”
This time, Father Romance throws back his head with a roar of laughter so loud that Donovan sticks his head out of the kitchen.
“Hey, what’s all the ruckus out here?” he asks, drying his hands on his apron.
Not for the first time, I consider how much business we might pick up if I could find a way to get the very tall, dark, and handsome Donovan out of the kitchen on ladies’ night.
“We’re just talking about Father Buddy,” I explain.
Donovan’s face lights up. “Oh! Father Nutty Buddy! I love his puppet. He brought it to the elementary school when I was a kid.”
I take a clean mug from under the counter and pour a new cup of coffee, swapping it out for the one sitting on the bar top.
“Hey, Don, would you mind getting Father Romance some fresh eggs? We had a little glitter monsoon out here, and they’re all red and green and sparkly now.”
Donovan grins broadly. “You bet. They’ll be up in a sec.”
I turn my attention to the glittery snowflakes that still need to be hung from the ceiling, picking one up and swinging it like a pendulum.
“We haven’t seen much of that so far this winter,” Father Romance comments with a nod toward the white decoration.
“Oh, we’ll get a little snow, I’m sure. Just enough to give our wedding pictures that wintery feel,” I inform him. “That’s Bryan’s plan, anyway. The weather gods wouldn’t dare give us anything but a clear, starry night for our wedding.”
With that proclamation, the priest knocks on the mahogany bar.
“Best not tempt fate, my dear,” he reminds me with a serious expression.
Because everyone knows fate does not like to be tempted.
Chapter Four
Bryan
“So, what do you think?”
Scott looks down at the blueprints on the table and then up and around us at the cavernous shell of the former factory.
“It bears repeating, man, I’m no architect.”
“Understood.”
“Okay, well, I don’t think you’d need to raze the building. In fact, I don’t think you’d need to change the footprint at all—the changes that you’re talking about can all be done on the interior. The foundation looks good to me, but again, I’m no expert.” He looks up at the vaulted ceiling, dozens of feet above us. He nods when our eyes connect once more. “Yeah, I think this could work—barring any irreparable structural issues, that is. But if you get a thumbs-up from the inspectors, I’d say you’ve got yourself an excellent prospect for the loft apartments. But what about the zoning?”
“The town council would have to approve a change from industrial to residential, but I have it on good authority that they’d be more than happy to convert this eyesore into something useable. Something that’ll attract more people to the area.”
“And you said this is going to be affordable housing? Pretty nice, I gotta say…”
I chuckle. “Dude, what’d you think it was going to be? Some flea-infested flophouse? Nah, this is part of a program aimed at converting more low-income renters into owners by helping them apply for subsidies. A lot of people don’t even realize they’re eligible for some of the programs out there! It helps to stabilize the community and give people who might not otherwise be able to get the down payment together.”
“Wow, that’s—that’s pretty cool…”
“Yeah. I have to say, I wasn’t really interested in residential properties before, but Minnesota is so progressive in its revitalization efforts that there are a ton of really good prospects.”
I consider myself a “matchmaker”—finding invest
ors and corporations looking to build in the Midwest and pairing them with projects and properties that I think coincide with their interests. For a long time, I was accused of waging war on middle America…and with good reason. I’d buy properties under market value and then flip them into mega businesses that ruined the aesthetic of small towns all over the Midwest. I always got what I wanted.
That’s the way it was supposed to be with O’Halloran’s Pub. And then came Hennessy…and what I wanted changed. Now she and I work together to find projects that meet the needs of the community and are built to match its unique aesthetics.
Scott Clarke has been doing some side work for me as an environmental consultant, and the guy’s really grown on me—so much so that he’s agreed to be my best man. And he’ll be my brother-in-law soon enough, when he and Jameson get married. Right now, he takes out his phone and snaps a few shots around the building, and then we start toward my truck parked outside.
“So I hear you’re doing that Marriage Encounter this weekend. You ready for that?”
“Oh, please,” I snort. “I think I can handle a couple of days with some nervous grooms and a wacky priest.”
“So…you’ve heard of Father Nutty Buddy, then?” he asks cautiously.
I wave a dismissive hand at him.
“Please, Hennessy’s making it out to be some big deal, but I’m not worried about it.” I unlock the car, and we climb in. “But wait—you’re not Catholic. How do you know about Father Buddy?”
Scott gives me his big white grin. How this guy manages to look tan in Minnesota, in December, is beyond me.
“Dude, everybody in the county knows about Father Buddy. He’s been running this thing for years, and he’s legendary.”
“Did Win and Jameson do it?” I ask and immediately regret the question. Win and Jameson’s wedding is probably the last thing Scott wants to think about.
He appears to sense my regret and plays it off casually.
“I was in Mexico at the time, but I know my brother well enough to know there was no way he was going to get married in a church. Any church. We were raised Lutheran, but after our mom died…well, let’s just say we all kind of took a break from the church.”
“It was that bad, huh?”
He nods grimly. “Cancer’s the worst. And…well, you know the rest. Our family just sort of fell apart after she was gone.”
I do know, in fact. Scott was MIA for ten years, working in South America for Project Peace. When Big Win had his stroke this past summer, Scott was called back home. Luckily, things seem to have settled down since then—with all three Clarke men on relatively good footing—all things considered.
We’re silent for what feels like a long time but is probably no more than a few minutes—just long enough for me to navigate us off the wooded back roads and onto the main highway again.
“With Hennessy…” Scott begins, sitting next to me. He pauses and continues. “How long did it take you to realize she was the one?”
Ah. So that’s what’s on his mind.
“Huh,” I begin now, thinking of the best way to explain this to him. “Well, I had to know her from the minute I laid eyes on her, which was when I was stuck up to the waist of my Armani trench in a snowbank. Then, when she managed to get out of our contract, it started to feel like a challenge. I was going to hang around just to irritate the crap out of her. And then, somewhere in the middle of all that, I fell in love. Against all reason, I might add.”
“You gave up a lot to be with her…moving your business here, relocating your entire life. You even changed the way you do business because of her,” he comments.
I shoot him a sideways glance. How do I explain this to him when I can’t even really explain it to myself?
“It never felt like that—like I was giving up anything. In fact, I felt like I’d won the lottery. I tried going back to my life, and it sucked. I was miserable. All I could think about was being here with her. And then one day, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. So I went to find her. And, boy, was that an adventure. But, when I finally had her in my arms again, I swore right then and there that I’d never let her go. And I haven’t.”
He seems to mull this over for some time, his head turned away from me as he watches the scenery fly by through the passenger window.
“Do you want to leave again, Scott? Is that what this is about?” I ask carefully, trying as hard as I can to not inject any judgment into that statement.
“What?” His head whips toward me. “No! I just…I haven’t…” He sighs in frustration, shakes his head as if to clear it, and tries again. “This is really serious—this thing with Jameson and me. And, as well as my brother’s held it together so far, I know there’ll come a point when he loses his crap on me. I guess I just want to know that I’m fighting for the real deal.”
“You’re the only one who can answer that, my friend. As for Win, I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”
Scott starts to interject, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Just hear me out, man. Your brother’s changed a lot since you came back to town. I mean, I know it was a rough start with your dad being in the hospital and all…but seems to me he’s a lot happier than he was before—even with the divorce. And with you and Jameson getting engaged. Hennessy says he’s on antidepressants now, so I’m sure that has something to do with it. But, near as I can tell, Jameson has done her best to make Win feel secure in their relationship as it pertains to Jackson. They are a family unit—the three of them. I think that went a long way to easing their split. He never has to worry that his son is going to be calling some other guy—including you—‘Daddy.’ Personally, I think that as soon as he finds a nice woman to date, he’s going to be even more relaxed about this whole situation.”
I can see from the way he’s looking at me that he wants to believe everything I’ve just said. Yet, somewhere deep down, he can’t quite let go of the doubt… No, that’s not quite it. Not doubt so much as…
“You feel guilty,” I blurt before I can stop myself. It’s what I think, though I’m sure I could’ve found a better way to say it. To my surprise, my accusation doesn’t seem to faze him.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I do.”
“Dude, it’s not like you’re a home wrecker or anything. They were divorced before you came back. And even if you hadn’t come here, there was no way she was going to get back together with him. He was cheating on her left and right—and not very discreetly, I might add. I was there once for a dinner where he flung a platter of ham at the wall and proceeded to eviscerate her in front of her family and your father. And their son. Nope. No way they were coming back from that.”
I feel, more than see, him relax next to me. And I know what that’s like—needing the reassurance that you’ve done the right thing.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “you make her smile and laugh and play around. Maybe she was like that with Win when they were first together, but that wasn’t the case when I came on the scene. There was this sadness to Jameson. I mean, there she was, with everything! Beautiful family, beautiful home, no money concerns, able to stay at home to raise her son… It all looked so perfect from the outside. But it wasn’t. And she was being crushed by the burden of pretending her life was something that it wasn’t. No, Scott, she’s different with you. She’s happy.”
He looks at me, and I catch his eye for a second.
“Thanks, Bryan.”
“No problem, Scott.”
For a brief moment, I consider telling him about my little meltdown the other night, but I’m afraid he’ll make a big deal about it and tell someone else. Like a doctor. Or, God forbid, Hennessy. It hasn’t happened again, so I’m assuming it was a one-off. Just one of those things. So why worry her? Now…if I start to feel like that again, it’ll be another story. But for now—I think it’s best to keep it under wraps.
So the two of us stay silent, each in our own thoughts, as the miles stretch ou
t ahead of us.
Chapter Five
Hennessy
I reapply my lipstick and consider changing my blouse for the third time. No plaid—just a plain, white cotton button-down. Hair blown out straight and slick. I set up the computer at the kitchen table and align my mirror image on the screen so that there’s a plain white wall behind me. No dated cabinetry, no old refrigerator, no cutesy country curtains. When everything is perfect, I sit and wait.
Jacintha is punctual to nearly the second. When her face appears on my screen, she looks stunning, as usual. Her makeup is flawless over her perfectly tanned complexion. Large green eyes are offset by long, dark lashes and a perfect cat’s eye liner treatment. Her hair, a perfect shade of strawberry blond, is long and sleek around her heart-shaped face. From as much as I can see, she’s wearing a pale green, sleeveless sundress that makes her eyes pop.
My god, she’s a beautiful woman. And I don’t usually notice such things. But there’s no not noticing Jacintha Rowling. She gives me her tight little rose-lipped smile. The one that tells me in no uncertain terms that I am a chore that she must endure in her day full of more important matters.
“Hello, Jacintha,” I say with my warmest tone and grin. “You look lovely today! How are things in Los Angeles?”
“Hello, Hennessy,” she replies in her brittle British accent. “Thank you. Things are very well…and you?” She pauses long enough to let me know she’s just being polite and that I shouldn’t expound on my reply. I don’t.
“Also well, thank you for asking. So, what’s on your list today?”
“Ah, well, several things, actually. Have you had a moment to look over the fabric swatches I sent you for the linens?”
“Yes, I have. And, while they’re all quite lovely, I was hoping for something a little more in keeping with the season. Being married on Christmas Eve and all, I thought perhaps a burgundy or deep green?”
“I see.”
That’s it. Nothing more as those two words hang out there in the ether awkwardly. I know this trick from our previous dealings—she’s waiting for me to capitulate to what she wants. I don’t. I promised Bryan I’d do my best to make this all work, but that doesn’t mean I have to roll over every time this woman tells me to.