Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “Of course,” Walker says as if it’s the most ridiculous question she’s ever heard. “Now, come on, we need to get you to the church before Bryan thinks you’ve pulled a runner on him.”

  I nod and take a deep breath, finally turning away from the mirror. But walking in this much material is a little harder than I anticipated.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Bailey mutters, carefully picking up my train and veil and holding them as she sticks close behind me.

  “Let’s go down through the pub,” Jameson suggests.

  I nod. “I haven’t heard anything about the limos, so I guess they managed to make it over here through the snow and ice,” I comment.

  “I guess,” Walker replies noncommittally, rushing ahead to open the door to the narrow stairway for me.

  I hand her my bouquet so I can clutch the front of my dress with my left hand and the railing with my right. A trip down the stairs wouldn’t be especially ladylike—as amusing as my sisters would probably find it to see me go backside over teakettle in all this fluffy fabric. But I manage to make it to the bottom without incident, and our little posse lurches through the back and out into the pub, where I find Big Win waiting in a tuxedo. For a second, I think he’s going to cry when he sees me.

  “Win…?” It’s all I can think to say when he approaches me and puts a warm hand on my elbow.

  “Hennessy, I knew your parents before you were born. I watched you girls grow up, and nothing made me happier than to see one of my boys marry one of the Whiskey Sisters. I know I’m a poor substitute for Jack O’Halloran, but I wonder if you’d do me the honor of allowing me to escort you down the aisle…on his behalf.”

  This is the most I’ve ever heard Winston Clarke, Sr. speak outside of the courtroom. I’d just assumed I would be going it solo in the absence of Walker and Bailey. But this seems fitting. It seems right. And it makes me smile.

  “Big Win, I’m the one who feels honored. And I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in place of my pops.”

  His beefy face colors with a flush of pleasure, and he nods his acknowledgment. “Then we’d best be going. It’s my job to see you there safely and on time.”

  “Hold on, hold on…let me get a quick pic of the two of you…” a young woman says as she swoops out in front of us with a huge camera affixed to her face.

  “Ummm‚ I’m sorry, but do I know you?” I ask, having no clue who she is or where she came from.

  When she puts the camera down, I’m facing a beautiful woman with ebony skin, close-cropped hair and the loveliest, easy smile I think I’ve ever seen.

  “No, actually, you don’t,” she replies, coming forward and extending her hand, which I shake. “I’m Effie. Effie Taylor? My grandparent’s own the drugstore down the street…”

  “Oh, yes!” I exclaim, remembering Mrs. Taylor mentioning the girl had graduated from some prestigious art school in New York City. “Of course! You’re grandparents are so proud of you…”

  She rolls her big, dark brown eyes. “Ugh, have they been bragging on me again? I’ve begged them to stop but they never listen… Anyway, I managed to get one of the last flights into Duluth and when I heard about all the…well…mayhem happening around here with your wedding—I just got kinda swept up in all the excitement. I asked the groom‚ Bryan, if I could be your photographer and he was so grateful…but I guess he forgot to mention it, huh?”

  She’s chuckling.

  “Yeah, well…he’s had a lot on his mind,” I offer, giggling myself.

  “Okay, well, maybe you two could play ‘getting to know you’ after the wedding?” Walker says pointedly. “We’re on a bit of a timeline, you know?”

  “Oh! Of course,” Effie says grabbing for the digital camera again. “Please, just do what you’ve gotta do and don’t mind me. I’ll get it all for you, Hennessy, I promise.”

  I thank her and she fades into the background as Bailey and Walker take hold of my train. We move toward the pub door at a crawl. But I stop suddenly, catching sight of the vehicle waiting for me at the curb.

  “Wait…that’s not…is that…?” I can’t even form the complete question. It’s just too preposterous.

  “Santa!” Bailey squeals. “It’s Santa! And he’s brought his sleigh! Henny, we’re going to the wedding with Santa!”

  So we are!

  “Hold up,” Jameson says from behind me, and then I feel something warm and soft draped over my shoulders. It’s a beautiful shawl, crocheted to match my veil trim. “Julie dropped this by earlier. She didn’t want you to be cold on the way to the church.”

  I take a deep, slow breath and nod, afraid that if I comment, I’ll just burst into tears of gratitude for the continuously wonderful surprises, one more magical than the next.

  I’m not surprised to find that it’s Claude Christensen waiting to whisk us to the church.

  “Hennessy, you look absolutely radiant,” he says, extending a hand to help me up and into the horse-drawn sled. There are two benches facing one another, and the four of us plus Big Win fit comfortably.

  “Mind you get under those blankets I put back there for you,” Claude tells us as he takes his perch. “It’s not far to the church, but you betcha it’ll be chilly when we start to move!”

  We take his advice, tucking into the plush, faux-fur throws. When we’re all ready, my very own personal Santa makes a little clicking noise that sets the two white horses in motion.

  It’s not even six o’clock yet, but it’s already dark as we glide along the ice-covered street, the sky stretching out above us, clear and bright, the only sounds the clip-clop of the horses and the beating of my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bryan

  The Santas take up an entire pew in the back of the church. There must be two dozen of them in their red and white costumes, complete with downy white beards—some of them real, some prosthetic, all convincing. Apparently, Big Win once represented a large contingent of Santas in a class action suit against a company that managed malls throughout the Midwest. They’d tried to keep the Santas from unionizing, and Big Win Clarke got them a “big win” in court. So, when he put out the call for all available Santas with sleighs, the volunteers came gliding into Mayhem to help deliver the bridal party, family, and many of the guests to the service.

  As for the rest of the sanctuary, it’s standing room only. There are so many people packed into this church that it doesn’t matter that the heat isn’t on. They’re generating more than enough warmth for the space. As for the lights, Father Romance pulled out every candelabra he could find, placing them strategically around the vast room. Then a group of volunteers took individual tapers and inserted them into tiny, white paper plates to catch the hot wax as the candles burn. Every person sitting in the pews and standing along the sides is holding one, casting a soft, sepia-toned aura.

  At the front of the sanctuary, Walker is sitting at the church’s piano, playing something I recognize as Bach. Her slight hands move deftly up and down the keyboard with the same confidence and efficiency with which she tends bar. Bailey is seated in a chair next to the piano bench, periodically turning pages for her sister.

  “Won’t be long now,” Scott mutters beside me.

  We’ve only been standing out here with Father Romance for a few minutes, having been sequestered in the back until word came that Hennessy was in the building. My fiancée. My bride. My wife. And, someday, the mother of my children. I brace myself instinctively, waiting for the wave of nausea and the sweats. But nothing happens. Not a thing. I let out a long, slow sigh of relief, comfortable that, thanks to my mother and Henny, I’ve finally got a handle on the issues triggering my panic attacks.

  I glance at the first pew, where my mother and Aunt Barb are seated, looking at me with proud smiles. They smile at me and wave. I wave back.

  Father Romance winks at me and gives a slight nod just as Walker finishes the last bit of Bach. She pulls out another piece of music and sets it on the sta
nd of the piano while Bailey stands up, facing the congregation.

  Holy crap. This is it.

  The piano begins with a soft rippling line, clearing the way for something…or someone. And then, as if out of the ether, the most clear, pure voice I’ve ever heard builds from nothing…to everything. Bailey’s singing belies her youth and inexperience, the words floating from her like delicate, sparking little bubbles, rising upward, across the sanctuary and to the rafters. I’m so entranced by her that I forget to be nervous. And I don’t even notice the heavy wooden doors at the back of the room opening until three hundred people all shuffle and shift in that direction.

  First comes Jameson, her long auburn hair released from its usual efficient “mommy” ponytail. It streams down her shoulders and back, her green eyes brilliant, even in this light. I can’t help but notice the expression on Scott’s face. He can’t take his eyes off her.

  Or perhaps it’s Jackson he can’t take his eyes off of. There’s the little guy in his micro-tux, carrying the pillow that carries the rings. He’s holding his mother’s hand, periodically looking up at her for guidance. She smiles down at him. I happen to know that Santa’s request that he be a good boy for the wedding weighed very heavily on the toddler. No one wants to let Santa down. Especially not on Christmas Eve.

  They move at a leisurely pace until they’re standing in front of us. Jameson nudges Jackson, who presents his pillow to Scott. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when I see the wedding rings still secured to the pillow and not ingested by the ring bearer. Scott takes the rings, hands the pillow back to Jackson, and then squats down, whispering in the little boy’s ear. He points to the second pew where his father is sitting. Jameson bends down to kiss her son’s head and gives him a gentle push toward Win’s waiting arms, then she takes her place to the left of Father Romance, across from Scott.

  The Ave Maria continues on to its second verse, and when I look back at the open doorway, Hennessy steps out of the dark vestibule and into the candlelit sanctuary.

  My breath hitches in my chest.

  My heartbeat slows to a crawl.

  Time stands still.

  …

  The first time it happened, I was stuck in a snow drift, acting like an arrogant fool. The second time it happened, I drove all night—through a different snow storm—to beg her for a second chance. And now, for the third time in less than the turn of a calendar, I have fallen in love with the woman headed toward me down the long, candlelit aisle.

  Everyone who had a seat to begin with is on their feet now—joining the ranks of onlookers who have crowded in to stand along the sides of the pews and up in the organ loft to watch. They are as mesmerized by her as I am…but they couldn’t possibly know the swell of pride and awe that has taken hold of me at this very instant.

  I’m afraid to blink for fear that I’ll miss something—because there is so much to take in. Her ivory gown is simple—the skirt fluttering slightly as she walks, giving the impression that she’s floating down the aisle toward me. Like an angel. Furthering that illusion is the long veil fastened to the crown of her head like a halo.

  I feel the corners of my mouth twitching of their own accord into a kind of disbelieving smile. This is so much more than I ever thought possible. She is so much more than I ever thought possible. I want to laugh and weep simultaneously. But that doesn’t concern me in the least—because I know this isn’t panic.

  It’s love.

  And suddenly, she’s here, beside me, as the music comes to a soft cadence. I’m just now realizing that Big Win has been with her the entire journey toward the altar…and I never even noticed him—because I couldn’t tear my eyes from her.

  “Please be seated,” Father Romance asks the congregation. Once they’ve complied, he turns to Henny and Big Win. “Who gives this woman to be wedded in holy matrimony?” he asks.

  “I do, on behalf of her parents, Eileen and Jack O’Halloran,” Win Sr. replies in a voice that is soft and yet still manages to carry across the church. He first shakes my hand before gently placing Hennessy’s into my grasp. Win’s about to turn away when she touches his elbow. When he faces her again, she presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers something in his ear that I can’t hear. Whatever it is, the man reddens…but there’s no mistaking the smile of pride as he makes his way to his pew.

  Father Grigory Romanski talks about the sanctity of marriage and cautions that it is not something to be entered into lightly. Your typical wedding ceremony fare. But then he veers into unexpected territory.

  “I realize that many people think that Christmas Eve is a strange time to be married—perhaps even an inappropriate time. But I don’t agree. Christmas Eve is a magical time. It’s a time for miracles…and, if you’ve been within a hundred-mile radius of Mayhem in the last week, then you know how miraculous it is that we’re standing here tonight.” The Father puts a hand on each of our shoulders and nods with his chin in the direction of the congregation. “Turn around for a moment,” he coaxes.

  With a little help from Jameson, Hennessy carefully twists, taking her train and veil with her. When we’re settled, facing the packed congregation, he speaks again.

  “There are people here who have known you since you were a child, Hennessy. And there are people here who have never laid eyes upon you before this very night. There are people who aren’t here at the ceremony because they’re busy preparing your reception. It was the hands of all these people that made this possible. Against those who would wish you harm. Against the elements. Against the odds. The decision to make this commitment was your own. But it was the hands of everyone in this room, in this town…and beyond…that made it possible for you to be here, doing this, right here…right now.”

  Amen to that.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hennessy

  You have not lived until you’ve seen twenty-something Santas form a conga line. I’m laughing so hard that there are tears running down my face.

  “Ugh! You’re just determined to ruin your make-up,” Bailey clucks at me, producing a compact from her bag and enveloping me in a cloud of powder.

  “Jeez, Bailey, give it a rest!” Walker complains with a cough as she waves the cloud away from the table.

  The makeshift dance floor is full now, several people deciding to join in the conga line, including Jameson and Win, who are holding Jackson between them. This might have made Scott jealous—were he not busy chatting over martinis with Win’s date, a pretty brunette clerk at the courthouse. If memory serves, Big Win was an attorney, and his wife Margie was a clerk when they met years ago. She’s a nice woman, and it’s good to see Win, Jr. smile for a change.

  “You should get one last look at the cake before they serve it,” Janet Lahti says as she walks past our table. She’s right.

  We’ve already done our cake-cutting thing, but I would like to get one last look before it’s carved up into three hundred pieces. Janet outdid herself, disappearing for the entire week only to resurface this afternoon with a request for a flatbed truck to transport the behemoth thing. Turns out it took three guys to move it, with Janet overseeing every step of the journey.

  I leave Bryan, who’s being dragged toward the ever-growing, Santa-led conga line by his aunt and mother, to have one last look-see. It really is spectacular—a tower of pies, stacked one atop another in diminishing size from the bottom up. The base layer must be three-feet in diameter, a sturdy pumpkin pie. She’s placed tiny plastic supports in the pie itself so that the next layer can sit on top of the first without actually touching it. After the pumpkin is a slightly smaller apple pie. Atop that is a chocolate silk. Those are followed by cherry, chess and pecan. The very top tier—the one made just for Bryan and me—is my favorite, peach. Sitting atop that are an adorable blond and brunette bride and groom, crafted from marzipan.

  I look around and find myself unattended for the first time in hours. I take advantage of the breather to step back into the shadows and take it all in.
I want to remember every single moment. There must be a thousand Edison bulbs dangling from the rafters, casting the perfect ambient light. And strung in between them, there must be a thousand origami butterflies in myriad colors and patterns. I cried when I saw them. Bryan must’ve told his mother about the connection my sisters and I have with butterflies and our mother.

  In lieu of the hip band Jacintha hired and then fired, there’s been a revolving line-up of polka band, jazz combo, and now salsa band from a couple of towns over that happened to have cancellations for a Christmas Eve party.

  This huge outbuilding once housed milking cows and, as a result, small stalls surround the perimeter of the interior. The brilliant catering team set up a series of stations in each one. Carving stations, side dish stations, Italian, hot dish…someone took the time to make up signs so guests could easily find what they’re looking for. Someone—probably Walker—opted to keep the open bar centrally located, just off the dance floor. I can just imagine what next week’s inventory is going to look like…

  My dress and veil, now bustled up behind me so I don’t drag them all over the floor, have a lovely way of swishing around my ankles as I walk, and I enjoy the feel as I make my way through the shadows, secretly taking it all in. Bailey seems to be juggling three different suitors—surprise, surprise—while Walker is trying to dodge a very tenacious accordion player, though for different reasons. After hearing her play at the church, he’s trying to recruit her for the polka band.

  “Honnnnnnnnka!”

  My eyes fly to the dance floor again when I hear the unmistakably shrill cry of the wild Jackson. He’s broken free of his parents and is chasing something…is that?

  No. Way.

  Bryan didn’t!

  He wouldn’t!

  Would he?

  The swan I’ve come to recognize as Rufus is waddling his way across the parquet tiles toward Jackson, flanked by his swan posse. They’re all wearing what appear to be knit scarves. Julie Freddino’s handiwork, no doubt. I suppose the Knitty Kitty will be diversifying soon. Knitty Kneckies, maybe?