Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “Good night, Walker,” I say, slipping behind the bar toward the back room.

  “Henny, wait!” she calls after me, and when I turn, she’s there, pulling me into a quick, tight hug. It’s over before I can even register it and, when I do, I can scarcely believe it. My sister Walker is not one for PDAs. “Sleep well,” she says quietly as she turns back to the bar, leaving me to stare after her.

  …

  When I climb the stairs to my apartment, I find it quiet and empty. A note on the kitchen table tells me that my two houseguests are out for the night, helping with a few last-minute details for the wedding, and that I shouldn’t wait up for them.

  With a long, tired sigh, I wander down the hallway to my bedroom—the bedroom that my parents shared when they brought me home from the hospital. I flip on the light and stop short. My dress—my mother’s dress—is on a hanger, suspended from the top of my closet door. It’s so beautiful that it takes my breath away. I reach out and allow my fingertips to just skim its ivory surface.

  When we were little girls, Jameson and I used to sneak a peek inside the big, flat box in her closet. The one with the clear plastic “window” in the top so you could look in at the dress. I can’t believe that I ever—for a single second—considered wearing anything else.

  On impulse, I pull my cellphone from my pocket and dial Bryan’s number. He picks up before the first ring has even completed.

  “Miss me already?” he asks with some amusement in his voice.

  “Tell me the story.”

  “The story?”

  “Tell me our story,” I revise and repeat for clarity.

  He gets it. He doesn’t think it’s stupid. He just takes a deep breath and starts.

  “Once upon a time, I was a lonely guy who only cared about money and power and appearances. And then I went to a tiny little speck in the middle of the map…”

  “Flyover country,” I say.

  “That’s right. Flyover country. And I proceeded to get wedged into a scuzzy pile of snow right in front of the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But I wasn’t there for romance—I was there to steal her father’s business from her…”

  “You were the villain,” I point out.

  “Yes, I was the villain, and you were the damsel in distress—or so I thought. What I didn’t count on was this beautiful woman being so smart and stubborn and sneaky.”

  “Hmmmm.” I don’t know if I like that sneaky thing. He catches it in my tone.

  “Okay, how about ‘wily’?”

  “Like the coyote in the cartoons?”

  “Yes, exactly. It means you’re crafty.”

  I consider this for a second.

  “All right, I accept wily.”

  “Fine. What I didn’t count on was this beautiful woman being so smart and stubborn and wily. She thwarted my every attempt to snatch the pub out from under her.”

  “Oooo, ‘thwarted,’ I like that a lot,” I murmur.

  “I thought you might,” he informs me. “But the more she thwarted, the more fascinated I became by her. So I decided to stick around and see if I could win her hand. And did I try! I bought a mountain of plaid clothing and hideous boots, I started going to mass—and I’m not even Catholic! I showed up at every event she had to try and save her pub…just so I could be close to her. And then…I left.”

  “You did,” I agree solemnly. “You left.”

  “And I regretted it the minute I got on the plane. But I was too proud to turn back around. So I was miserable. Oh, I tried—because this beautiful woman had taught me so much about being beautiful on the inside, too. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Nothing was the same. My work seemed inconsequential. My friends seemed shallow. I was sad. So, so, sad.”

  “Awwww, poor pumpkin,” I coo softly.

  “I know, right? Even the big bad dragon lady, Helen, felt sorry for me. That’s how sad I was.”

  I try to stifle the snort of laughter. I love Helen, but she can be a dragon lady when she wants to be.

  “And then, one night, I wished.”

  “You did? What did you wish for?” I ask, not recalling this part of the story.

  “I wished for the beautiful girl. I wished I could find her again and stay with her forever. I wished she would take me with her, back to her happy kingdom.”

  “So what happened? After you made the wish?”

  “It came true.”

  “It did?”

  “It did. Her beautiful but grumpy sisters told me where to find her. And when I did, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. And I knew I would never, ever, ever let her go again. So I returned with her to the happy kingdom, and we even brought the dragon lady with us. That’s how I learned to live among the villagers. And with every day that passed, I was more and more certain that there was no other woman in the entire world for me. And I decided that I had to make her my wife. So I asked her to marry me…”

  “And she said yes.”

  “And she said yes. And now, here I am, on the eve of marrying that beautiful woman, and I can hardly believe my dumb luck.”

  “Oh, it was never luck,” I inform him. “It was meant to be.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, I think I can buy into that. Anyway, in less than twenty-four hours, I’m going to be waiting at the end of the aisle for her to come to save me yet again. Because this time, I’m the one in distress. And I will be until I can pledge my life to her in front of God and family and friends.”

  I’m quiet for a long moment, swiping at the tears that have sprung to my eyes, unbidden. When I finally speak, my voice is nothing more than a whisper.

  “And what happens then?”

  His turn to pause.

  “We live happily-ever-after, Hennessy.”

  “We do?”

  “We do. Now, go climb into bed, my sweet, beautiful bride, and when you wake up, it will be our wedding day.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you,” he says softly.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Sweet dreams, my love.”

  “Sweet dreams,” I reply quietly, reluctantly pushing the red button that disconnects me from him. Then I put on my pajamas and climb into my bed, a soft nest of blankets and pillows that will hold me and cuddle me and keep me safe until I can sleep again—in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bryan

  Normal people have a limo take them to their wedding. Maybe even a classic Rolls or some other vintage car. I’ve even heard of weddings where the bride shows up on a motorboat or in a helicopter. But none of those weddings took place on the Iron Range at the end of December.

  I got a call first thing this morning that the limousine meant to take Hennessy to the church is snowed in, three towns away.

  Of course it is. Because, God forbid a single thing go as planned.

  “No luck in Montford,” Scott says, stuffing his cellphone back in his pocket.

  “Same in Duluth,” his brother, Win, adds.

  The three of us turn toward the kitchen, where Big Win has been running his search “Old School,” complete with the Yellow Pages, a landline, and a pencil and paper. I hold my breath as he hangs up the phone and comes to join us in the living room. He’s shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Bryan. They’re all either not working the holiday, stuck under the snow, or booked.”

  I sigh deeply and rub my temples.

  “Okay, okay, think, Truitt, think,” I command myself as I start to pace the length of the room. “Helicopter. Train. Big rig…”

  “What is he doing?” I hear Win ask his brother.

  “I think he’s trying to brainstorm.”

  I ignore them and continue my litany of transportation modes.

  “Bicycle. Motorcycle. Scooter. Segway. Wheelchair. Baby carriage. Hang glider—”

  “Wait!” We all stop what we’re doing when Big Win hollers at us. I’ve never heard him speak any louder than an “insid
e voice,” so this is a little startling. And disconcerting.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That last one…”

  “Hang glider?” I ask incredulously, trying to imagine Hennessy floating in, dress flapping behind her like some kind of a matrimonial superhero.

  Big Win shakes his head and waves at me. “No, before that.”

  “Uhhh…wheelchair?”

  “No!” he says, getting agitated. “Before that. There was something there that made me think…”

  “Baby carriage?” Surely that’s not what he’s looking for. And yet, he’s nodding vigorously, his eyebrows drawn together in deep concentration.

  “Carriage,” he says quietly, and then his entire face lights up with realization. “That’s it! A horse drawn carriage!”

  The three of us look at one another and then back at Big Win.

  “I—uh, well, yeah, that could work, but where are we going to find one?” I ask, not daring to get my hopes up.

  A big smile crosses his face.

  “Santa.”

  …

  B: Pssst! Hey you! Girl in the dress!

  H: You talking to me?

  B: Yeah, you! You’re smokin’ hot

  H: Why thank you! Too bad you didn’t come around sooner. I’m about to be off the market. Permanently.

  B: What? No! Leave the idiot and run away with me!

  H: Why should I do that? He’s handsome. He’s got $$$. He’s funny. He’s sweet…

  B: All right, all right already. So you’re not going to leave him.

  H: Nope.

  B: Never?

  H: Never. Ever. No way. No how.

  B: So…got any single bridesmaids you can introduce me to?

  B: Hello?

  B: Hello? Are you there…? Hey! Where’d you go?

  …

  “Meow!”

  “Come on, buddy, time to get off the floor,” Win says to Jackson, who’s under the kitchen table, pretending to be a cat. “I’ve got a few choice words for that Julie Freddino,” he mutters under his breath. “She had to give him a cat hat? Now he won’t take the stupid thing off! I’m going to have to bring him to the wedding like that and Jameson’s going to have—”

  “Kittens?” I offer with a grin. Win is not amused.

  “A fit. I was going to say ‘a fit.’ But, yeah, she’ll probably have a few kittens, too.”

  “Meowwww!” Jackson mewls. “Meeeooooowwwww!”

  I walk over to the table and squat down so we can communicate eye to eye, human being to feline.

  “What’s up, pussycat?”

  “Meow!” he shrieks with delight.

  “You know, Jackson, Father Romance says that no cats are allowed to be at the wedding today.”

  He considers me seriously, trying to figure out if I’m telling him the truth. Time for backup.

  “Isn’t that right, Unca Sock?”

  “No cats at the wedding!” Scott calls out from the living room, where he’s ironing his dress shirt for the third time. This guy is hopeless with any and all appliances.

  Jackson’s face pinches up into a full-on pout.

  “Do you want to go to the wedding?”

  “I go!” he demands.

  “Sorry, buddy. Not as a cat. You have to go as Jackson.”

  “No!” he says, shaking his red head stubbornly.

  “Trust me, Bryan,” Win says from behind me. “There’s no reasoning with a toddler.”

  Clearly this guy has never seen my negotiating skills in action.

  “How about this, Jax?” I try again. “You can be Jackson at the wedding and kitty at the reception. What do you think of that, kitty?”

  “Meow,” he says softly this time as he nods.

  “Okay, and what about you, Jackson? Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes!” he squeals, jumping up excitedly, thumping his head on the underside of the table so hard that I wonder if he’s cracked his skull. He must be thinking that, too, because his face scrunches up as it turns beet-red, his eyes are closed tight, and his mouth forms a perfectly round “O.” For a split second, we are in the eye of the storm. The calm place where the chaos swirls around. And then we’re not.

  His scream is deafening.

  “Daaaaaaaddddddyyy!” he wails.

  “Okay, okay!” Win says, rushing to the table and dropping to his knees. He pulls his son to his chest, allowing him to cry and slobber all over his crisp white shirt. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. Shhhhh,” Win comforts him softly, rocking him back and forth. “Shhhhh. You’re okay.”

  I used to seriously dislike Win. I thought he was a crap husband and a crap father. I may or may not have been right about the former, but I was definitely wrong about the latter. In a few minutes, Jackson’s histrionics have been reduced to a few twitching, breathy hiccups.

  “Are you guys ready to go to the church?” Win asks us over his shoulder.

  “I am,” I say. “Not sure about Mr. Crumply Pants over there.”

  “Hahaha,” Scott replies, not amused. “I’m ready.”

  Win gets up slowly, careful not to knock Jackson around anymore than he already has been. But when he reaches for the cat hat, the little boy grabs both sides and pulls it tighter onto his head.

  “Jackson, you made a deal with Bry Bry. No cat at the church.”

  “Meow!” he spits defiantly.

  Oh, jeez, we’re back to this again.

  “Win, just let him…”

  That’s when Big Win, aka “Goppa,” steps in.

  “Jackson, you know Santa comes tonight. And if you don’t listen to Mommy and Daddy, he won’t bring you any toys,” Big Win tells him.

  The cat/child narrows his eyes and stares up at his grandfather’s face as if trying to decide whether or not the old man is pulling his paw.

  “No. No Santa!” Jackson shoots back petulantly, opting to believe his goppa is BS-ing him.

  “No? Well, how about we go ask him?” Big Win suggests.

  Jackson looks confused. He’s not alone.

  “Come on then, son,” the older man says, holding out his hand to the little boy. “He’s right outside.”

  I’m wondering what it is, exactly, that Big Win is going to show this kid when he gets him outside. So, when Jackson reluctantly puts his tiny hand into his goppa’s meaty paw, I follow them out into the living room. Big Win turns the knob and pushes the door open.

  Jackson’s jaw seems to hit the floor at the same time as his eyes grow to the size of saucers. His breath hitches in his throat as he releases his grandpa’s hand to wrap both arms around the older man’s leg, looking back and forth between him and Santa Claude, who’s standing beside a horse-drawn sled, parked out on the street in front of the house.

  Oh. Holy. Night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hennessy

  Her hand reaches out toward mine—one delicate finger extended in a gesture of desired contact…connection. She is incredibly beautiful, this woman—so much more beautiful than I am. Her hair is a honey blonde where mine is “dirty” blonde. Her lips and cheeks are the colors of rose petals where mine are pale and freckled. Her eyes sparkle and twinkle while mine simply observe. Her neck is long, her waist tiny, and she is nothing short of feminine perfection.

  And I have no idea who she is.

  My three sisters stand around me in front of the full-length mirror, admiring their handiwork. They’ve smoothed my wayward tresses into long, silky finger waves that frame my face before falling gently around my shoulders, accentuating the sweetheart neckline of my mother’s dress. My dress now. And the veil. It is simply perfection in the way that it floats out behind me with every step and twist and turn.

  I’m shaking my head in disbelief at what I’m seeing.

  “I—I’m so pretty,” I murmur. It’s not a statement of vanity, but of surprise.

  “Of course you are,” Jameson says, smiling at me over my shoulder. There are tears in her eyes.

  “O
h, no. No, no, no—please no tears. We don’t have time to redo any make-up.”

  They laugh at my concern for such a practical thing at such an emotional moment. I take a deep breath and turn to face them.

  “Okay…what’s next?”

  Bailey produces a tissue-wrapped parcel from the bed and hands it to me.

  “Bryan’s mom asked me to give this to you. It’s your bouquet,” she says.

  I peel the thin paper away layer by layer until I find the ribbon-wrapped stems. The “flowers” themselves are a collection of lilies with long, bowed petals—made not just of solid-colored paper, but also tiny little prints. Pearl-headed pins and delicate little beads create beautiful stamens and pistils—if my memory for high school biology is still good.

  “It’s so perfect!” I say breathlessly as I hold it in the internationally accepted bridal bouquet pose and look in the mirror again. “How on earth did she ever get this done?” I marvel.

  “Are you kidding?” Walker snorts. “That woman was running a sweat shop out of our pub! Those kids were folding until their fingers bled!”

  Jameson gives her a playful punch on the shoulder. “Oh, stop it! They were having a ball! I had to chase them all out at the end of the day.”

  “They got so much done, though,” Bailey adds. “Jameson has a bouquet, too, and they made lapel flowers for Bryan and Scott.”

  I turn around to face them. “Wait—what about you two?” I ask Walker and Bailey. “Don’t you get bouquets, as well?”

  “Corsages,” Bailey says.

  “But if you’re walking me down the aisle, you should have them,” I protest.

  I don’t like the glances they exchange. There’s something they’re not telling me.

  “What? What’s wrong now?”

  Please, God, I can’t take another “make lemonade” moment.

  “We can’t give you away, Henny,” Walker says. “Because we’re going to provide the music.”

  I practically drop the bouquet in my shock. My two youngest sisters were the sole recipients of our mother’s musical talents, Walker being an incredibly gifted pianist who refuses to play in public and Bailey with the voice of an angel who limits her performing to Taylor Swift sing-alongs with her girlfriends.

  “Really? You’d do that?”