Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  Clara reaches down on the table and picks up a beautiful pink rose.

  Wait…what? A rose? Where did she ever find roses in this weather!

  Then I look a little closer, and I realize what it is that’s happening here.

  “You—you’re making my flowers?” I gasp.

  She nods. “That’s exactly what we’re doing. Scott called last night and explained to me what had happened with the ones you ordered. He remembered that Barb and I have made all sorts of flowers in our origami class and wondered if we might be able to make you a bouquet. I told him if we had the supplies…and some extra hands, we could do a whole lot more! Next thing I know, he’s gathered up every bit of paper in the county…in a storm…and had your lovely Father Romance put out a call to all Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, youth group members, the 4-H kids…and anyone else who might be interested in volunteering.”

  “And this many of them came out? For me? For my wedding?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

  “Well, to be honest with you, dear, I think it had more to do with the promise of a warm place to eat pancakes and sneak glances at the opposite sex. You know how teens and pre-teens can be—all stomach and hormones! But, I have to say—whatever the motivation, they’re doing a bang-up job! So well, in fact, that I expect we’ll have bouquets for you and your sisters, boutonnieres for Bryan and Scott, and centerpieces for the reception tables.”

  “I don’t know what to say…” And then I realize that I do. “Hey, you guys? Guys!” I call out, raising my hand to get their attention, and in a moment all is silent. “I wanted to say thank you so very much for this and to let you know that I’d be honored if you’d all come to the wedding and reception tomorrow night…if your parents say it’s okay.”

  Excited squeals and apathetic grunts ring out from every corner of O’Halloran’s.

  I mean, what’s another hundred guests, right?

  …

  By noon, I’ve left my floral arrangements in many very capable hands and braved the mean streets of Mayhem. And I do mean mean. This storm has turned out to be one serious backhanded slap from Mother Nature—the snow coming faster than the plows can clear it. It’s not even “falling” anymore. Falling would imply a vertical motion. This snow is moving horizontally. There are easily three feet piled up on the sidewalks—more where the plows have managed to push it from the roads, blocking doorways and obliterating anything resembling a shoulder in the road.

  Luckily, my old Jeep Grand Wagoneer is impervious to weather of any sort. It climbs over any and all snow elevations like a billy goat, adhering to even the slickest of surface streets as if they were made of Velcro. It doesn’t take me long to make the drive to my sisters’ house which, judging from the porch light—still on from last night—has power. Only, I’m not the first to arrive. In fact, I have to park several houses down and wade my way through the drifts to get to the front door.

  “Hello?” I call out when I go inside, stomping my boots on the mat and pulling them off. “James? Bailey? Walker? What’s going on?”

  An excited cry from the kitchen.

  “Henny?” Jameson comes flying out to greet me. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here now!”

  Or maybe not so much of a greeting as an eviction.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because we’re working on wedding stuff! I thought you might like something to be a surprise…”

  “Please, between the weather and the power and those freaky swans, I’ve had more than enough surprises. What kind of wedding stuff?”

  “The food…”

  “Not the cake?”

  She shakes her head. “No, just the buffet.”

  “I think I can live with knowing what kind of hotdish they’ve managed to slap together,” I say.

  “It’s your wedding,” she says with a shrug. “Come on…”

  I follow her into the kitchen and am, for the second time in four hours, frozen by what I’m looking at. Miss Lucy from the Inn, Sheila from the Mayhem Diner, Karl from Mr. Dunderbox—the German Deli on Queen street—and three other women I don’t recognize are all crowded around the center island of my childhood kitchen.

  “The bride has come to see what we’re up to,” Jameson says brightly.

  “Oh, Hennessy! I’m so glad you’re here! Come, come, come, let me show you!” Miss Lucy says as she excitedly takes my arm and escorts me all around the kitchen.

  It occurs to me, a little too late, that I really should have consulted with these folks before inviting the entire tween population of Mayhem. That’s a lot of little mouths to feed. But the thought quickly dissipates as I’m shown huge tray, upon tray, upon tray. There is hotdish of every conceivable variety—including my favorite, chili Frito corn pie hotdish. At least six trays of sausage and peppers are out on top of one another on the sideboard. Next to them are similar amounts of Chicken Française, homemade mac and cheese, and stuffed shells.

  “Oh, and don’t forget the sides,” Lucy trills as she points to the kitchen table. I take a peek under some of the foil-tented pans and find green bean casserole, three bean salad, baked beans, and at least two varieties of legume dishes I can’t readily identify. They’re joined by six different variations on potatoes and a few Jell-O molds for good luck.

  “My God,” I marvel with a stupid grin on my face. “You must be cooking around the clock! And how are you ever going to store this all…or heat it up, for that matter?”

  “Please,” Nate says with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “We’ve so got this covered. Who needs a fridge when it’s cold enough to store it all in your shed? And we’ve commandeered every hotplate, CrockPot, and can of Sterno in Magawa County. I’m sorry it won’t be a sit down, but it’ll be one helluva all-you-can-eat!”

  “Yeah, well…just so you know, I just invited about a hundred Scouts to come…”

  “Oh, honey, Bryan told us to just go ahead and invite the entire town,” Jameson says with a wave of her hand.

  “Wait, wait, wait…he did what?”

  Holy crap. How can we manage that many people?

  “We’ve got six each of spiral ham, pork roast, and roast beef. They’re being fostered all over town—each family taking responsibility for preparation and delivery to the venue. And, just to be safe, we’ve asked anyone who comes to bring a dish for the potluck table. That way we know everyone will be covered—food-wise, anyway.”

  My head is swimming with numbers. The amount of food, the number of volunteers, the entire town being invited…

  “But we can’t get that many people into the pub!” I protest. They all stop and look at me as if I’ve sprouted an additional head. One with snakes for hair and a giant eye in the middle of its forehead.

  “Hen, don’t you know? We’re not having the reception at the pub,” Jameson informs me, looking a little alarmed that I might think that.

  “But where else has power? And is big enough?”

  “Do you really want to know?” she asks me cautiously, afraid to spoil anymore surprises.

  I nod emphatically.

  “Parson’s.”

  “The old dairy farm?”

  “It’s tremendous inside—now that there isn’t any more livestock there. All the machines are gone, and it hasn’t lost power. But even if it does, they’ve got a generator bigger than the one down at the pub.”

  “But how…?” I ask, even though I know exactly what my sister is about to tell me.

  “Bryan,” we say in unison.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bryan

  “Miiiiiiiiiiiiine!” Jackson yells when Jameson tries to get him to take off his hat. Thanks to Julie Freddino, the orange knit cap now has “ears” attached to it, so he looks like a little cat when he wears it. Problem is, he doesn’t want to take it off. Ever.

  “Jackson Winston Clarke! You take that hat off this instant!” Jameson hisses at him, her face reddening with frustration and embarrassment.

  “I knew this reh
earsal was a bad idea,” Hennessy mutters, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill in the church. “What will we do if there’s no power—no heat—tomorrow night? And light! I doubt there are enough candles to illuminate the entire nave.”

  I pull her into my arms, reveling in the feel of her soft curves pressed against my chest, and rest my chin atop her blonde head. She buries her face into my sweatshirt.

  “Hennessy, honey, you need to stop worrying about all the little details. We’ve come this far and, with the help of a whole lotta people, we’re going to have a beautiful wedding. With or without heat. With or without light. As long as you’re there with me, up at the altar, then nothing else matters,” I murmur into her hair.

  She looks up at me with pale blue eyes, brows arched in concern.

  “Bryan, I don’t consider heat and light ‘little details.’ And the roads—they’re like ice! How will anyone get here safely? How will we get here safely?”

  I sigh and brush the hair back off her forehead.

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” I ask. “And that’s not a rhetorical question.”

  “I think I have some idea,” she replies, the corners of her mouth quirking up a little.

  I shake my head.

  “No, I don’t think you do. I wanted this wedding to happen fast because I couldn’t wait another day to be married to you. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter—none of it matters. In the end, it’s just you and me taking a vow before God. It’s not the wedding, Hennessy. It’s the marriage.”

  Her eyes study mine for a long moment before she puts a soft hand to my cheek.

  “Are you…okay?” she asks a little coyly. “With everything, I mean?”

  I nod. “No heavy breathing, or ringing ears, or spinning rooms. Not so much as a heart beat out of place since I talked to my mom. And since you reminded me that we’re in this together.”

  I lean down, my lips finding hers. It’s a beautiful, candlelit moment. Until it’s not.

  “Noooooooooo, Mama! Miiiiiiiiiiine!”

  Our kiss transforms into a double-sided snort of laughter. We pull away from one another, chuckling. When she opens her mouth to say something, I hold up my index finger to stop her.

  “And before you worry about Jax being too young, or too unpredictable, he’s a little detail, too. An incredibly loud, incredibly destructive detail…but a little one, nonetheless.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we should reconsider letting him be the ring bearer,” she says.

  “Why? You don’t think he can handle it?”

  “Uh, well, you know the plastic bottle cap ring we’re using for practice?”

  “Yeah…” I nod, wondering where she’s going with this.

  “He just swallowed it.”

  “What?” I swing around to see what she’s looking at over my shoulder. Sure enough, Jameson is poking around in his mouth frantically.

  “Spit it out, Jackson! Right. Now!” she orders.

  “Mmmmmmm. Yum!” he replies, rubbing his little potbelly for emphasis.

  “Point taken,” I agree, making a note to give the rings to Scott.

  …

  It’s stopped snowing by early evening, the storm having dumped enough powdery whiteness to obliterate the sidewalks of Main Street Mayhem, Minnesota. Between what actually fell from the sky and what the plows pushed up onto the sidewalks with each pass, shopkeepers are going to have some serious digging out to do. Already snow blowers can be heard for miles around.

  I park my truck in front of the pub, which looks warm and inviting…and already dug out. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds this appealing, because the place looks to be packed.

  “Wow,” Hennessy says on the heels of a low whistle.

  “Most people still don’t have power,” I point out. “O’Halloran’s is bright and warm, and it’s serving up hot food and liquor. What else could you ask for?”

  “I suppose you’re right. My father was smart to put that generator in.”

  “Sounds to me like he did a lot of smart things.”

  She looks at me with a bittersweet smile.

  “It just doesn’t seem right—getting married without him. I’d always planned on him giving me away.” Her eyes glisten with tears.

  “No, no, no,” I say softly, shaking my head. “No more tears. This is the night before our wedding. Besides, I have a feeling he’ll be there, one way or another.”

  She nods. “I know that.”

  “And I think it’s pretty cool that Bailey and Walker are going to escort you down the aisle.”

  This makes her perk up a little.

  “Yeah, actually, that is pretty cool. And then James as my maid-of-honor. It’s the four of us, cradle to grave, just like Mama used to tell us.”

  “The Whiskey Sisters.”

  “The Whiskey Sisters,” she echoes. “Are you coming in?”

  “No, I’ve got some last-minute things to see to, and the swans need to eat.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Not too bad, actually. The garage is heated, so the water in the kiddie pool hasn’t frozen over. In fact, Rufus and company have been flying in and out of it all day.”

  “You’re making that up!” she accuses with a disbelieving laugh.

  I pull out my phone and poke it a few times until we’re looking at a video of Ophelia and Jane circling the pool placidly while Rufus looks on with some interest.

  “That’s so funny! Have you made plans to have them transported home after the thaw?”

  “I don’t know,” I respond with a shrug. “I’m kind of liking them…”

  “Seriously? You want us to have swans…as house pets?”

  “Maybe…”

  She leans in close and presses her lips to mine.

  “I’m really happy to be marrying you, Bryan Truitt,” she whispers in between gentle kisses. And then they’re not so gentle anymore.

  The seat belts are off in about three seconds flat, and we’re leaning toward one another, over the middle console between our seats. My hands are in her hair, hers are on my chest. Suddenly she pushes back, breathing hard.

  “Okay…let’s just put a pin in that until tomorrow night, shall we?” she pants.

  “Yeah…good idea,” I agree, sounding equally winded. “Do you want to see me tomorrow? During the day, I mean.”

  “I want to…but I think maybe we should just plan to meet at the altar. Otherwise, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do to you,” she murmurs with so much sexy in her voice that I feel like dragging her into the backseat with me so we can fog up the windows.

  I rest my forehead against hers.

  “I’m really happy to be marrying you, Hennessy O’Halloran,” I whisper, though happy doesn’t even come close to how I’m feeling at this moment.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hennessy

  The nuns are cackling so loud that I can hear them all the way over on the other side of the pub when I walk through the door. Saturday nights at O’Halloran’s are usually our busiest night of the week…but that’s mostly a younger, louder crowd who come to see the band playing that week. Not nuns. Not usually.

  “You wouldn’t believe how busy we’ve been,” Walker says as I approach the bar, trying to be heard over the din. She squirts some Coke into a glass with ice and rum, sticks a lime wedge onto the rim of the glass, and plops it onto a tray to join three other drinks.

  “Those are for Father Romance’s table,” she informs me with a nod in that direction. “Their fourth round. And it’s not him!” she hisses. “He’s only had two pints of the Guinness. But man, can those nuns knock it back!”

  Well, that explains their exceptionally high spirits. So to speak.

  “Looks like the kitchen’s pretty busy, too,” I note.

  Walker nods. “Ohhhh, yeahhhhh. Poor Donovan’s been hopping all night. A lot of people without power looking for a hot and hearty supper. He limited the menu, though. He’s got
vats of chili, and stew, and chicken soup. Some sandwiches, too. None of his fancy stuff, though…not that there are any ingredients left anywhere in town with all the preparation for your reception tomorrow night!”

  I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it! Say, want me to run this over to Father Romance’s table?” I ask, gesturing to the drinks she’s just assembled.

  “Absolutely not!” Bailey says from behind me.

  “She’s right. You need to go upstairs and chill. It’s your last night as a single girl!” Walker agrees.

  “I just wish we’d been able to throw you a bachelorette party,” my youngest sister laments with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve always wanted to see those guys dancing in their underwear.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Walker grins and shakes her head.

  Bailey has been boy-crazy since the days my mother would take her out in her stroller. Even as a toddler, she knew how to bat those big baby blues and toss her gold-spun curls anytime there was a member of the male persuasion in close proximity. Size, shape, color, age—she was an equal opportunity flirt before she could even walk. And things haven’t changed much now that she’s eighteen.

  “Well, how about we raincheck that little adventure for your twenty-first birthday?” I suggest.

  “Oh, please. That’s two-and-a-half years away!” she whines.

  “Bail, you’d better bring those drinks over there and fast. I think the nuns are getting ready to riot,” Walker says, nudging the tray in her direction across the bar.

  “Fine, fine, fine. So what time do you want us to come help you get ready?”

  “Oh, I hadn’t really thought about it. Let’s work backwards…ceremony is at six, we leave for the church about five-thirty…uh, how about three?”

  She nods and, much to my surprise, leans over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Sweet dreams, Hennessy,” she says before disappearing with the drinks.

  I consider making the rounds of the pub, but I know I’m going to have trouble sleeping tonight…so better get upstairs and get cozy while I can.