by L. E. Rico
“Oh, that would be great, wouldn’t it?” Julie agrees. “But don’t you worry, because we can do something about snow removal.”
“Well, there is that,” I agree, thinking I need to add the Department of Transportation guys to our ever-growing guest list.
“Okay, I’m off,” Julie says, shrugging her parka back on. “I promised this little guy I’d put a new pompom on his hat,” she says, tussling my nephew’s red head.
“Bad swan!” he tells us.
“That’s right, Jackson… But don’t you worry. Those swans are going to be a whole lot happier soon,” she assures him.
“What does that mean?” Jameson asks for all of us.
“Well, I’ve got four people working on swan scarves right now,” Julie replies.
I think I must’ve misheard her. Or misunderstood her. She can’t possibly…
“Julie…”
“Yeah, you heard me right,” she volunteers before I can ask. “Scarves for the swans.”
“But they don’t get cold, do they?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. But those birds came all the way from sunny California, and I’m sure they’ve never seen a winter like we have in these parts.”
“Okay…”
She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and leaves in a rush, waving at my sister and me as she goes. I’m still shaking my head as I carry the bulky box upstairs to my apartment. Maybe this is going to be okay after all.
I’ve no sooner had the thought when the bell above the front door jingles and I look over to see Bryan standing there. And it’s immediately clear that something’s not right.
And just like that “okay” slips right out that front door, down the street and off into the frigid arctic sky.
Chapter Eighteen
Bryan
“Okay, just…just tell me,” Hennessy says once we’re finally alone upstairs and I’ve coaxed her into a seat at the kitchen table. “Did something happen? Is someone hurt—”
“Hurt? No, why would you think that?”
“Have you seen the expression on your face?” she asks.
She’s right. I can feel my forehead bunched up with the stress and effort of this impending confession. My mouth is tight, too. And I’m guessing my body language is more than a little tense at this point.
I reach across the table and take her hand, forcing myself to relax each muscle group one by one. Then, I take a deep breath and jump right in.
“So…I’ve been having these things. These panic attacks—”
Her beautiful blue eyes grow wide with concern, brows drawing down in alarm.
“Panic attacks? Oh, Bryan! Sweetie…is it because…because of the wedding? Are you having second thoughts about getting married?”
It’s painfully clear to me that was a painfully difficult question to ask.
“No,” I say as firmly as I can manage, shaking my head emphatically. “Absolutely not. Hennessy, I am counting the hours—no, the minutes—until you’re my wife. I’ve loved you since the second I saw you, when I was stuck in that stupid snowdrift.”
Her face softens a fraction and she allows herself a breath.
“Okay, then what?”
“I…I think it has something to do with kids…”
Her perfect face collapses in on itself again and I feel a stab in my gut. I’d give anything to spare her this worry.
“You don’t want them?” she ventures in a whisper. “You don’t want to have children with me?”
“No! It’s not like that… I love kids, Henny. Look at me and Jax; we’re the best of buddies, right?”
She nods but doesn’t speak, waiting for me to continue.
“I think it has to do with my dad. About being afraid that I’ll turn out like him…be the kind of father he was.”
All at once the tension in her features lifts, her eyes brighten, her mouth turns up into a sweet smile, and she’s gripping my hand as if I’m dangling over a crevasse on Everest and she’s the only thing keeping me from swift and frigid death.
“Oh, Bryan! Sweetie! Why didn’t you just come to me? We could have talked about this…”
“I didn’t know. Not really, anyway. I didn’t even realize it was a panic attack until Jameson explained…”
“Wait, James knew?”
Uh-oh. Time to face the music.
“Yes, she did. Because I passed out and Scott called her. I didn’t really think it was anything serious, but once she told me what was going on, it made sense. I—I had one Thanksgiving weekend. And at the Marriage Encounter weekend…”
“What?” she practically yips.
I hold up a hand to stop her from going off on me again.
“Father Buddy helped me through that one. So…” I pause to make sure she’s looking at me—hearing me. Because this is important. “I’m sorry, Hennessy. I’m so sorry I didn’t come to you right away. It’s just that I’m so used to being on my own, you know? After the stuff with my father, it was all me. I mean, when you realize you can’t count on your own dad to have your back, how can you trust anyone else to have it for you? I just got used to carrying everything and anything on my own because there simply was no one else. But now…now I have you. And I needed your sister to remind me of that fact.”
She considers me for a long moment in which I have no clue which way she’s leaning…will she kick me to the curb for keeping this from her? Or will she forgive me?
To my great relief, it’s the latter.
Hennessy is up, out of her chair, and around the table in less than three seconds, throwing herself into my lap, straddling my thighs and the back of the chair so that our faces are only inches apart.
“Never,” she says resolutely. “Never as long as I walk this earth will you be alone again, Bryan.”
“So…you’re not angry?” I venture cautiously. “Or hurt?”
She shakes her head as she takes my face in her soft, warm hands.
“No. Because I get it. I was exactly the same way when you rescued me from myself, Bryan. You’ve been helping me to carry the heavy stuff since the day we met… I don’t know why it never occurred to you that it works both ways, but it does.”
“It does,” I echo softly, turning my head to the side so I can kiss one of those delicate little hands. She responds by leaning forward so that her forehead is pressed up against mine.
“It does,” she repeats. “Now, when your mom gets here, you guys need to have a talk—because she’s the only one who can help you get through this. She’s the only other person who lived that experience with you. And she’ll know what to do—what to say.”
“She will?” I ask, marveling at how beautiful her eyes are even now that they’ve morphed into one big cyclops eye.
She’s smiling…I think. It’s hard to tell because her mouth is so close to mine and getting closer by the second.
“She will.” The two words come out as an exhalation—a warm breath on my lips.
I pull her as close to me as I can, wrapping my body around hers and reveling in the ecstasy of relief as my burden is lessened by half.
…
We’re waiting by the door when Scott’s monster truck rolls up, easily crunching through the blowing and drifting snow that’s been falling from the sky faster than the plows can clear it. We rush out, and I yank the heavy passenger door open to find my mother bundled up like an Eskimo, my aunt Barb next to her in the middle of the bench seat, looking much the same. In the driver’s seat, Scott appears to be exhausted.
Because of the mammoth tires, the two women have to practically jump into my arms to get down to street level. Hennessy immediately hustles them into the warm pub, where a hearty beef stew and Irish soda bread await them. I hop up into the passenger’s seat and pull the door closed against the gale.
“Hey man, I don’t know how I can ever thank you…” I begin, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Nah, dude, I was happy to do it. I’ve been itching to take this bea
st out on a trip like that ever since I bought it back in October! Besides, what’s a best man for?”
“Stag parties. Not spending nearly twenty-four hours on the road in a blizzard, half of them with two women chattering away at you.”
“Are you kidding?” he asks, brows going up. “They were awesome! I have never met two hipper women over the age of forty in my life. Your mom—she’s got a wicked sense of humor. And Barb? Jeez! She’s got more dirty jokes than a sailor!”
I stare at him, waiting for the punch line, but none comes.
“You’re serious.”
“Of course I am!” He laughs. “Anyway, get me up to speed. How’s everything going here? Are we all out of catastrophes?”
“Not quite… We just found out that the truck carrying the flowers broke down somewhere outside of Rochester.”
“You’ve got time yet, and they’re saying the roads…”
His voice trails off when he sees me shaking my head.
“Too late. They froze in transit. So…no bouquets, no boutonnieres, no centerpieces…”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad you can’t just ‘make’ flowers,” I mutter, reaching for the handle to get out of the truck. “Anyway, you go home, pop open a beer, and get some rest. You’ve earned it, my friend.”
“My thought exactly.” He grins. I hop out, slam the door, and wave after him as he pulls away.
I’ve barely walked three steps when he rolls down the window and calls me back.
“Listen, something you said…that thing about not being able to make flowers…”
“Yeah…?”
“Your mom and Barb, they do make flowers.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m starting to think he’s suffering from highway hypnosis or some other bizarre affliction that comes from being trapped in the cab of a truck with two older women for hours on end with no liquor.
“Origami! They love to do that origami stuff! Your aunt Barb told me they make a mean flower.”
“You can’t be serious…”
“Ask her!”
“Okay. I mean, they keep bugging us about what they can do to help… But wait. Don’t you need those little scraps of paper to do that?”
He considers this for a second.
“Yes. She said it’s a special paper…sort of like tissue paper but thicker.”
“Dude…where are we going to find that at six o’clock on December twenty-second in the middle of a snow storm?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but don’t worry, I’ll find it.”
“What? Are you crazy? You just drove like a thousand miles!”
“Listen, man, I love Jameson. Jameson loves Hennessy. If I make Hennessy happy, I make Jameson happy. And I’m still in the doghouse for that swan thing…”
I wince at the mention of the swans. Rufus, Edgar, Ophelia, and Jane have made a lovely little nest by chewing through the patio furniture stored in the garage and pulling apart the foam cushions, beak-full by beak-full. They then proceeded to peck open the fifty-pound bag of grass seed to snack on.
“All right…if you really don’t mind…”
“I don’t. Consider your tiny paper needs met,” he says firmly, rolling up the window and roaring down Main Street.
“Honey, I really hate to put Hennessy out like this,” Mom says once she and I are alone upstairs in the apartment above the pub. Aunt Barb has gone to take a shower, and I decide it’s now or never.
“No bother, Mom,” I assure her. “I’d put you at my house, but I use my spare room as a home office, so I don’t have a bed. Besides, this way you don’t even need to venture outside if you don’t want to.”
She waves a hand at me. “Honey, it’s not as if I were born in Florida, you know. I haven’t even lived there a full year! I’ve seen plenty of winters in my time.”
“I know, I know. You and Dad saw a good bit of it in the Carolinas, didn’t you?”
“That we did,” she agrees, picking up her wine glass for a sip of merlot.
“Umm…so…about Dad, Mom…”
She sets her glass down and gives me her full attention. “Yes, sweetheart, what about him?”
“Okay, so…I’ve been having these…these things. These panic attacks…”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than she’s slapped a hand over hers. She shakes her head in disbelief.
“You, too?” she asks when she’s recovered from the shock of my revelation.
“What do you mean, ‘me too’?” I ask suspiciously.
“Well, honey, I’ve had them almost all my life. I never dreamed that you… I mean, I’d have told you about it if I’d ever thought for a single second…”
So, it would appear this particular affliction runs in families. Good to know.
“Yeah, so…it would seem that they kind of hit me when I start to think about…” I clear my throat and continue. “They hit me when I think about kids.”
There. I’ve said it. And, surprisingly, my mother doesn’t look surprised.
“Bryan, do you want to have children with Hennessy?” she asks matter-of-factly.
“Well, yes, of course!”
“So, it’s not that she wants a family and you don’t? And be honest, son. It’s okay if you don’t want to be a father. Not everyone is meant to have children…”
I shake my head emphatically.
“No, that’s not it at all, Mom. It’s just…when I start to think about…I don’t know…raising them, I guess, that’s when everything just sort of goes haywire.”
It feels good to say all this out loud to her. Henny was right, my mother really is the only person who could possibly understand. And it’s clear to me that she gets that as she takes my hand into her warm grasp.
“Sweetheart, of course you’re anxious about raising kids. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might just be concerned that you’ll be like your father. That you’ll let your own children down—hurt them, even. The way that he hurt you.”
Oh my God. Now that the words are out there, I realize she’s absolutely right. I’ve been walking around terrified as I look at other peoples’ happy, well-adjusted, healthy children…and compare them to the kind of upbringing I had. Afraid that I’ll somehow screw up my own children, simply because my dad was a self-serving creep of the highest order.
“You don’t…you don’t think it could be genetic?” I ask. “Like the panic attacks?”
She shakes her head gently and smiles. “No, honey, I don’t. And while I understand your concerns…I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. Because, Bryan, you only got the best bits of your father. His business savvy, his confidence, his drive. Except you’ve used them to build your own life, not to destroy other people’s. So, no, I don’t believe you have anything to worry about. You’re going to be an exceptional father. And, remember, you won’t be in it alone. You’ll have Henny and her sisters. And me. And your aunt. And all of the people in this community who so clearly love you. The ones who are moving heaven and earth to give you a wedding you’ll never forget. No, son, you don’t have a thing to worry about there. Everything is going to be fine.”
She’s no sooner uttered those six words when everything goes dark.
Chapter Nineteen
Hennessy
Okay, I’m not going to panic. Not gonna freak out…or hyperventilate…or scream and cry. Just because the power’s been out all night doesn’t mean it won’t come back on again later today. Or tomorrow—which is Christmas Eve. Which is my wedding day. For now, the behemoth generator my father had wired into the electrical panel of the pub is keeping us warm and lit. But if the power doesn’t come on before tomorrow evening, we’re going to have to decide between getting married where I’ve always dreamed of being married and getting married when I’ve always dreamed of getting married.
When I get up, I find Bryan’s mother and aunt gone. I text Bryan.
H: Have you heard from your m
om yet today?
B: No, why?
H: They’re gone.
B: Gone?
H: Yes. Gone. Not here. Absent. Unaccounted for. AWOL…
B: Ok! I get the idea! A walk maybe?
H: Uh, have you looked out the window?
B: Good point. Have you tried downstairs in the pub?
H: But why? I have coffee and food up here.
B: IDK. I gave up trying to understand women years ago.
I send him a face-palm emoji and pad down the interior staircase to the back rooms of the pub. I follow the sound of chattering in the dining room and stop short, one foot through the threshold, one foot…not.
“Hennessy, love! How’s the bride-to-be this fine morning?” Father Romance calls out when he spots me hovering there in the doorway, blinking hard to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
“What on earth…?” I mutter.
I scan the entire length and width of the room. Every seat at every table is occupied. Every stool at the bar, too. There are probably close to a hundred boys and girls aged eight to eighteen with stacks of brightly colored paper squares set stacked on every surface. And there, in the center of the hustle and bustle are Bryan’s mother and aunt.
“What are all these kids doing here?” I ask, trying to process the peculiar sight.
Father Romance pats my shoulder with his big, meaty hand.
“Origami. The ancient art of paper folding.”
Does not compute.
He chuckles under his breath and waves in the direction of my mother-in-law-to-be. “Clara! Look who’s up!”
A hundred pairs of eyes turn to see whom it is the priest is hollering about. I pull my robe tighter around my body, wishing I’d put on some clothes.
“Oh, Hennessy, good morning!” Clara Truitt calls out. “Look, kids! This is Hennessy—this is the bride!”
Girls with sparkly-pink-nailed hands clap for me while the sullen, mostly hoody-clad boys of the group give me a noncommittal nod—the really outgoing ones throw in a grunt as well. I give them a shy, bewildered wave as Clara beckons me closer.
“I don’t understand…” I say quietly when I’m standing beside her. She takes me by the hand and leads me to one of the tables where a gaggle of girls, probably in their early teens, are silently folding flowers, their faces intent on the task.