by L. E. Rico
“Here we go…” she says, pouring coffee into our cups and setting the carafe on the table for our self-service use. Then she sets a plate down in front of each of us.
Jacintha shakes her head immediately. “No, thank you, I’m quite fine with the coffee,” she protests.
“Oh no, dear. That’s for you.”
“No, I—really, I can’t…”
Janet ignores her. “Go ahead, give them a try,” she insists.
“Ahh, so you did have a little something special set aside for us!” I say excitedly. It’s a species of pie that I’ve never seen before…sort of like a custard pie, but thinner. “And what did the pie gods determine we should have?”
Janet beams proudly. “You know, I had this urge to try something I’ve never tried before—in fact, I didn’t even know it existed until I dreamed about it last night. So, when I woke up, I Googled it and, sure enough, it was a real thing. Go ahead, try it,” she coaxes.
Likely realizing that there’s no reasoning with Janet Lahti, Jacintha smiles as she takes the tip off the pie with her fork and puts it in her mouth. Her smile fades almost immediately, and she struggles to choke down the bite. She grabs her coffee and drains the cup in one long gulp.
“Ugh!” she exclaims with a sour face when she’s finally got it down. “What on earth was that?”
Oh, wow. I have never seen anyone have that kind of a reaction to one of Janet’s pies.
“Ah, well, it’s a pie that goes back to pioneer days…”
“It’s awful!” Jacintha howls loudly enough that people have turned to stare. Janet, on the other hand, appears to be unfazed.
“Bryan, try a bite, will you? I suspect it’s just a matter of personal taste.”
“Uh…okay,” I say, hesitant after Jacintha’s strong negative reaction. I take a piece of the pie with my fork and put it in my mouth—rolling it around on my tongue cautiously. I was right in that it’s a custard-based pie. But there’s a hint of apple to it…maybe a Granny Smith? “I—I kind of like it,” I say with an apologetic glance at Jacintha. She’s actually using a napkin to wipe her tongue right now.
“Hmmm, I thought as much,” Janet says cryptically. “That’s a vinegar pie.”
“No wonder,” Jacintha hisses. “I. Hate. Vinegar.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry about that, dear,” Janet says with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it off the bill.”
…
When we walk into O’Halloran’s, Hennessy and Walker are restocking the clean glassware, and I can smell Donovan’s shepherd’s pie coming from the kitchen in back—probably the lunch special. I consider offering Jacintha some but not likely she’ll be eating pie of any variety again any time soon.
“Hello, almost-wife,” I say, planting a kiss on Hennessy’s lips when she comes around the bar to greet us. She looks beautiful in a pale blue sweater dress and boots, her hair somehow coaxed into straight submission.
“I know you two have been Skyping or FaceTiming or whatever, but it’s nice to be able to have you here in the flesh,” I say, turning to Jacintha while keeping an arm around my fiancée.
“Yes, it’s so lovely to meet you in person,” Hennessy says, holding out a hand.
I try not to laugh when Jacintha glances down at it before gingerly shaking the tips of her fingers. That is such a Jacintha thing to do.
“Hennessy. Charmed, I’m sure,” she says and proceeds to do a three-sixty spin around, taking in the warm, dark vibe of the pub. “Interesting place you’ve got here.”
“Mmmm. Thank you. It’s a family business. My parents started it before I was born. We lived in the apartment upstairs for a long time.”
“How…quaint. I’m surprised you didn’t want to have the reception here.”
“Oh, no. Though we might invite everyone back here for the after-party.”
Jacintha quirks an eyebrow. “After-party?”
“I’m sorry, didn’t I mention that to you?” I ask.
“No. I don’t recall having that conversation…”
“Ah, well, not anything for you to worry about,” I assure her. “We’d like you to be a guest for at least part of the celebration, Jacintha. If I know you, you’ll be working the entire wedding and reception.”
“Very sweet of you to think of me,” she says, some of her British ice thawing.
“Of course! And before I forget, let me introduce you to my sister-in-law-to-be, Walker O’Halloran.”
Walker dips her head in a gesture of acknowledgment, not bothering to stop what she’s doing long enough to exchange pleasantries.
“I’m sorry, did you say…Walker?” my friend asks, unable to hide her surprise. “Is that some sort of Midwestern nickname then?”
“Nope,” Walker replies flatly.
“I see. My. Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a woman named…Walker before,” Jacintha says, a little too tartly.
Uh-oh. I should have warned her in advance. I know firsthand what happens when you give Johnny Walker Black O’Halloran crap about her name.
“I suppose we’re even then. I’ve never met anyone named…Ja-cin-tha before,” Walker counters with no shortage of snark and an extra emphasis on each syllable.
To her credit, Jacintha knows when to quit. “So,” she says as if this conversational detour never took place. “Much to do, much to see. Where did you want to start?”
“I have a business call that can’t wait, I’m afraid, so I thought Hennessy might take you to the church and then we can meet back here and look over the designs you’ve put together for the tent.”
“Jacintha,” Hennessy interjects when I mention the tent. “Our weather here this time of year is a little…unpredictable, as I’m sure you can imagine. And—well, I just have a feeling we’ve got some serious snow headed this way. Are you certain that a tent will be sturdy enough?”
“Rest assured, I’ve taken all of that into consideration,” Jacintha says confidently. “I haven’t lost a tent yet.”
Henny doesn’t look convinced. “Still…this isn’t exactly Los Angeles…”
“So I’ve noticed. All right then, off with you, Bryan Truitt. We girls have plans to make, and the clock is ticking away.”
I try to give Hennessy a quick embrace, but she holds on a little longer than usual.
“Please don’t be long,” she whispers in my ear.
I nod and kiss her cheek.
“I’ll see you both very shortly,” I promise both of them, though neither seems comforted by that.
I smile to myself as I leave the pub and cross the street to my office. I could have joined them at the church, but I think a little “alone time” is exactly what those two ladies need right now.
Chapter Nine
Hennessy
The first time I laid eyes on Bryan, he was stuck in a snowbank, dressed in Italian leather dress shoes, an Armani trench, and custom-tailored suit—wildly inappropriate cold weather wear. This comes to mind as I suggest Jacintha and I drive the short distance to the church—rather than subject her to the twelve-degree temperature in her micro skirt, sky-high-heeled boots and shrug-masquerading-as-a-parka. Even her fluffy, white cashmere sweater is ridiculously unsuited to December on the Iron Range of Minnesota. Though I do have to say, her chilly demeanor has me thinking I needn’t have worried, because clearly there’s ice water running through Ms. Rowling’s veins.
“I suppose this seems a long way from Rodeo Drive,” I offer as we drive past the row of “mom and pop” shops that dot Main Street.
“More like another planet,” she replies coolly without looking at me.
I figure we’re done with the small talk until she turns in my direction.
“We were very close, you know, Bryan and me.”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to this admission—mainly because I have no idea what her definition of “very close” is.
“It means a lot to him that you’re doing this for us,” I reply at last—imag
es of Holly Homewrecker popping into my mind, unbidden.
Damn that puppet!
“Yes, well, it’s important to me that he’s happy.”
Now that’s an odd thing for her to say. Does she mean she’s glad he’s happy? Or maybe she’s come to determine whether or not he’s happy? I’m still puzzling over this as we pull up to the church.
“Oh, well, this is rather lovely,” she says approvingly when we’re standing in the parking lot of the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem. “Yes, I think I can work with this. May we go inside?”
“Oh, yes, of course. We’re expected.” I lead the way up the broad steps and push open the huge wooden door.
As we enter, she looks at the poinsettia-lined vestibule, which is silent, save for the font of holy water gurgling to the side of the narthex doors.
“Good, good, good,” she murmurs appreciatively. “Yes, plenty of room for you to wait with your father before the processional.”
I catch my breath at the unexpected reference to Pops. Is it possible that she doesn’t know? That neither of us thought to tell her?
“Uh, actually, my father passed away about ten months ago,” I inform her quietly.
For a split second, I think she’s going to offer me some well-meaning after-the-fact condolences, but I’ve thought wrong.
“Oh, my! Well, I wish someone had told me sooner. This is terribly inconvenient,” she huffs with a scowl. “All my preparations and charts have allowed for a father to give you away. Can’t you find a suitable replacement?”
Is she serious?
“I—uh…well…”
“An uncle perhaps? Grandfather? Really anyone with a tuxedo will do. He’s really just a placeholder for the pictures.”
Holy crap. Does she have any idea how insensitive—not to mention offensive—she’s being?
Pick your battles, Henny.
“I’ll look into it,” I reply through gritted teeth.
She harrumphs. “Fine. Now, let’s see what else we’ve got here,” she orders, using her hand in a sweeping gesture to signal that I should open the nave doors for her.
“Okay, then…” I mutter, pulling back on the heavy brass handle.
The view from this particular location is stunning. The entire perimeter of the church is wrapped in exquisite stained-glass depictions of scenes from the Bible, casting the rows of mahogany pews in a dappled rainbow of light. The aisle is wide and long, the flagstone floor covered in a deep burgundy runner that serves as the runway for each bride who passes through these doors. At the end of the aisle is an impressive altar, flanked by lush Advent wreathes with pink and purple pillar candles set within.
We’re immediately met by the smell of fresh greenery emanating from what must be hundreds of feet of garland strung throughout the cavernous space and the two huge Christmas trees set at either end of the sanctuary.
The centerpiece of the church is, of course, the crucifix. I’ve seen more than a few in my lifetime, all of varying styles. Some are so realistic that I find them to be a little hard to look at. Others are so vague and representational that I find myself wondering exactly what it is I am looking at. But here, in my home parish, the image of the crucified Christ is magnificent. The sculptor was somehow able to capture anguish, peace, and triumph in the face and body language of this iconic scene. It takes my breath away each time I enter this sanctuary.
Jacintha walks slowly toward the front of the church, some silent wedding march playing through her head as she counts off the steps. I follow her to the end of the pews and stop to genuflect in front of the cross. Her expression of mild amusement sets my teeth on edge, and I say a silent prayer for Christian patience and forgiveness.
“Henny, love! So wonderful to see you!” Father Romance’s voice is amplified in the empty sanctuary. “Sister Sylvie told me you’d be stopping by with your wedding planner. And this must be her,” he says, offering up his warmest, most welcoming smile. Saints and sinners alike find that smile irresistible. Yet I’m not surprised to find Jacintha unimpressed.
“Father Romance, I’d like you to meet Jacintha Rowling. She’s an old friend of Bryan’s and our wedding planner. She’s come all the way from Los Angeles to have a look at Mayhem—and especially the church,” I explain.
“Ah, well, welcome, Miss Rowling. It’s a pleasure to have your company.”
She’s staring at the priest, her strawberry blond eyebrows drawn in over her green eyes in confusion.
“Father…Romance?”
He smiles broadly and nods. “Yes, yes. A moniker I received many years ago. My name is Grigory Romanski, you see. And since I seem to have a knack for comforting and guiding my parishioners in their relationships, I’ve been dubbed ‘Father Romance.’”
Jacintha snorts, and I feel the color rising to my cheeks. But Father Romance doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“Sorry, Father,” she sputters. “It’s just the irony of a priest—a celibate priest—dispensing romantic advice…well, it’s just too…rich!”
Oh, no. No, no, no—she did not just say that. I’m embarrassed by her and for her at the same time. Still, Father Romance’s expression remains impassive.
“Indeed,” he says simply. “Now, tell me, Jacintha, are you familiar with the Catholic wedding mass? I’ve worked with other wedding planners who requested a copy of the order of the mass for reference. That way you’ll know what’s going to happen and when.”
Jacintha’s not laughing anymore. She puts her professional hat back on and considers the tall, lean man in front of her. The priest. The priest who is more than twice her age.
“That won’t be necessary, Father…Romance,” she replies, taking a little too much delight in savoring his nickname. I’m afraid she’s getting very close to toeing that line again between ignorant and offensive. “You see, I have a copyrighted wedding service outline that all my brides use. I find it keeps the service short and sweet so guests don’t get antsy and the couple can be done with the dull bits and onto the celebration…and, of course, the honeymoon.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s not so much what she’s said, but how she’s said it. Without a single shred of respect for the man who has brought so many of us closer to God. I’m preparing to say something that will get her attention, but when I open my eyes again, Father Romance gives me the slightest shake of his head. He wants me to let him handle this.
“Jacintha, come sit with me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks, gesturing to a pew. She nods and follows him, while I hang back, just within earshot. “My dear, I’m quite certain you do a lovely job—and what a joyous career! You have the privilege—the honor—of helping couples to navigate one of the most important moments of their lives.”
A self-satisfied smile creeps across her face, and she nods proudly. Clearly she’s unfamiliar with Proverbs 16:18, “Pride goeth before destruction, and haughtiness before a fall.”
“But, my dear,” he continues, his face suddenly stony, “do not make the mistake of thinking that this grants you license to walk into a house of God and expect to supplant the traditions—the sacraments of our faith. It is you, Miss Rowling, who must work around God—and me, by extension. I will be happy to supply you with an order of the mass, as well as a list of guidelines for what is and is not permissible in a Catholic wedding service. I’m also going to take the liberty of including a few thoughts on issues of—shall we say—respectful behavior within these walls and in dealing with those who worship here. Are we clear?”
Now it’s Jacintha’s turn to get a little red-faced. Beet red–faced, to be precise. He’s waiting patiently for her answer, his eyes burning into hers. At last she manages to squeak out some semblance of an affirmation and a small nod. And, just like that, the priest is all sweetness, and smiles, and sunshine again as he pats her on the arm.
“There now! I knew we could come to an acceptable solution,” he says with a grin, getting to his feet.
/>
“All right then, Henny, my dear. You ladies take all the time you need. I’m headed over to the pub. I hear Donovan’s got shepherd’s pie on for today’s lunch special.”
“He does,” I say and watch him close the distance between us. When he reaches me, he leans down and murmurs in my ear.
“She’s not a bad woman, Henny. She’s just a sad, lonely woman. Keep her in your prayers.”
“I will,” I respond quietly. He pats my face with his big warm hand and slips out one of the side doors.
“So,” I say, trying hard not to sound too awkward. Or amused. “Let’s talk about flower placement, shall we?”
Chapter Ten
Bryan
Despite the presence of one priest, several faux-snowflakes, and one ten-foot-tall Christmas tree, it would appear that all hell is breaking loose when I walk into O’Halloran’s Pub. I almost turn around and walk back out onto the sidewalk again. Almost. But the little devil who appears to be causing all the chaos spots me and extends one chubby finger in my direction. For a split second, I feel like I’m on the wrong end of a smiting from the almighty Himself.
“Bryyyyyyy Bryyyyy!” Jackson wails miserably from where he’s melted into a red-headed, red-faced puddle on the floor. “What the Helen Bry Bry! Miiiiiiiiiiiine! Choco miiiiiiiiiiiine!”
There aren’t many people inside—possibly because it’s early…or possibly because they’ve managed to escape. My money’s on the latter as Walker and Bailey try, unsuccessfully, to wrestle something cardboard from the toddler’s tear-slicked grasp. But he’s not budging.
See, now, if Father Nutty B. were right about me having an aversion to kids, I’d probably run screaming. Right? But, no, I walk into the fiery abyss without so much as a wayward blink, let alone a fainting spell. I left the Marriage Encounter weekend with a promise to speak with someone about my so-called panic attacks, but I’m still not convinced that’s what they were. And if they weren’t, then I’m off the hook. Right? So I set out to prove the priest’s theory wrong by helping to sort out this mess unfolding in front of me.