Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “Hey there, gorgeous,” I call out from the front porch, already considering how fast I can get her into my arms…and the big, big bed.

  But my stunning, fiery goddess doesn’t look especially keen to do anything but get out of her shoes as she mutters something under her breath.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, starting down the steps toward where she’s trying to lug a bag out of the backseat of the car. “Here, here—let me get that for you,” I offer, putting my hands on either side of her slim shoulders and gently moving her to one side so I can grab the bag.

  “I can get it myself, you know,” she informs me in an uncharacteristic grumble.

  I glance down at her petite form and find her glaring back up at me. I push the bag back inside and close the car door before turning to face her full-on.

  “What is it, James? What’s wrong? Bad day at the hospital?”

  She shrugs without comment, and I’m reminded a little of Jackson when I try to coax him into admitting something. Not that I’d ever be stupid enough to make that comparison out loud. Not unless I were feeling suddenly suicidal. Which I’m not. So I resist the urge, put an arm around her shoulders, and guide her away from the drive, up the steps, and onto the big old porch swing.

  Once we’re both seated, I pull her unresisting body into the crook of my arm and against my chest. From this position, I’m treated to a whiff of peaches and apples—her favorite shampoo—with just a hint of lilac, her favorite body lotion. I know these things now. Not all of them—but many. And I look forward to learning the rest of the beautiful minutia that makes this woman tick over the coming years. Just not at this very moment. At this very moment, I’ve got to figure out what it is that’s got her on the ledge.

  “Tell me.”

  Her left arm snakes around my midsection, and she pulls herself closer to me.

  “It’s just…we lost a baby this morning…”

  I hear the sob in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay? Were you in the delivery?”

  She shakes her head without looking up.

  “No. He was born last week, actually—a preemie. He just…he was born too soon. We were all rooting for him in the NICU, though. Everyone’s taking it really hard.”

  I rub her back in big circles and hold her a little tighter. I love this part of Jameson—the part that feels so deeply for other people. The only problem is how much of their pain she takes on herself.

  “It’s just,” she starts again, “I can’t stop thinking about Jackson. About our children—the ones we’re going to have someday. Scott, there’s so much to worry about all the time. You can’t protect them constantly, you know? Things happen—bad things… What if something happens to Jax?”

  While I understand where all the emotion is coming from, I’m not really clear on how this ties into Jackson—or our not-even-born-yet kids. But something tells me I should keep my mouth shut on this point. Something about this experience is hitting way too close to home for Jameson—for whatever reason.

  “James, nothing’s going to happen to Jax. He’s got so many people looking out for him all the time. You, Win, me, your sisters…the entire town of Mayhem keeps an eye on that kid! He’s as safe as any child can be. As for our babies…well, it’s a little soon to be worrying about them yet, isn’t it?”

  “We haven’t even really talked about it, Scott,” she says with a sniff. “I don’t know if you even want kids! Do you?”

  “I…uh…”

  “See! I knew it! You don’t want them, do you?” She hurls out the accusation with so much venom that, for a moment, it feels as if she’s just slapped me.

  “Jameson! Come on, you know I want kids. How could I not want to make babies with you?”

  The momentary flash of irritation—or maybe insanity—dissipates as quickly as it arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, a fresh wash of tears streaming down her beautifully freckled face. “Losing this baby…it’s just got me all twisted up inside…”

  “Come on,” I murmur, pulling her back down against me. “You’ve had a tough day, and we shouldn’t talk about this anymore. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She nods.

  “Good. I’ll get the steaks on the grill in a few minutes. Hey—I heard from that priest. What’s his name? Father Wacky Jackie? Or was it Father Screwy Louis?”

  She snorts and giggles, and I know the ice is starting to thaw.

  “Father Buddy,” she corrects me, looking up and rolling those gorgeous green eyes at me in faux frustration. Which, by the way, is so much better than real frustration. “Father Nutty Buddy…”

  “Right,” I say, as if it’s just occurred to me. “Right, right, right. Yeah, well, Father Tutti Fruity says that, considering the accelerated timeline here, he’s fine with us skipping the Marriage Encounter weekend—though he’d like to see us after we’re married for the newlywed weekend he’s starting up. You okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with that,” she says, her sweet face right there—right in front of mine. I mean, what’s a guy to do when there’s a gorgeous woman right there? I know what this guy’s gotta do.

  “I love you so much, Jameson,” I say softly, leaning forward to kiss her.

  “I love you so much, too,” she repeats, her voice muffled by my mouth.

  When I’ve kissed her long enough that her lips are bright and slick and swollen, I hold her face in my hands.

  “Will you marry me?”

  “I think we’ve already established that I will.”

  “I know. I just want to be sure that you’re sure.”

  “I am.” Her voice is strong and resolute. Then not so much. “About marrying you anyway. Pulling a wedding together in a matter of weeks…that I’m not really sure about.”

  “Why not? Henny and Bryan did it,” I counter.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t have the resources that Henny and Bryan had.”

  Suddenly I’m wondering if this is something I should be concerned about.

  “James…does that bother you? That we don’t have that kind of money? Because, you know, I’ll be making more once I finish my law degree and pass the bar. Our new environmental practice is already starting to pick up… I mean, I’ll never have the kind of money that Bryan has, but we’ll be more than comfortable…”

  Her brow furrows in concern. “What? Oh, Scott, that’s not what I meant! No, I don’t care if we have to live on a budget the rest of our lives! I just meant that I don’t want to spend the kind of money it would take to get everything done last-minute. Besides, my sister’s going to need all the help I can give her once those twins come. And Bailey’s been all over the place lately with school and work… And don’t get me started on Walker—”

  “Hey!” I interrupt. “Hey, hey, hey! I think maybe you need to spend a little less time worrying about your grown sisters’ lives and spend a lot more time focusing on your life…including our wedding.”

  She takes a deep breath and then nods resolutely.

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  She laughs—just a little, and I feel my heart swell. A lot.

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Mr. Clarke! I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.”

  I pull her closer to me, resting my chin atop her head.

  “As long as I can go to bed and wake up to you every morning, then nothing will ever be wrong again, Jameson,” I say without a hint of surprise. Or doubt.

  Just confidence. And love.

  Chapter Five

  Jameson

  August

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, taking one last look at the guest list, trying to figure the final headcount for our backyard barbecue post-wedding extravaganza. It’s not many people—at least, not as many as I’d have liked to include, but considering the short timeline here, we didn’t have much choice. It’s also been u
nseasonably cool, but my brilliant husband-to-be suggested a huge bonfire might be just the thing to take the chill out of the late-summer evening.

  He’s thrilled to be moving things along so quickly, Henny’s thrilled she might actually be able to find something big enough to wear, and I’m thrilled to be feeling…well…thrilled. I’ve found a little more energy and enthusiasm, now that we’ve actually got a date fixed on the calendar. At this point, it’s just a matter of sorting out the details like a dress, the cake, and the honeymoon—which I’m thinking might be another lovely cabin, maybe this time up in Canada.

  I’m still fantasizing about a warm tangle of blankets on a wide-planked floor in front of a stone fireplace when Bailey saunters into the kitchen. She’s dressed in her floor-length blue formal, blond curls tucked up into a tiara with sneakers on her feet and earbuds in her ears. She’s wearing her “Princess Mary” sash texting away with furiously flying thumb action. All things considered, she’s a dead ringer for Millennial Barbie.

  “Hey, James?” she asks, a little too loudly.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I take your car? I have a ribbon cutting at the Super Mega Mall in like an hour.”

  My head jerks toward the clock on the microwave.

  “In an hour?”

  “What?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

  “Please take those things out of your ears.” I pantomime the action I’m requesting.

  She indulges me but rolls her eyes as she plucks the bits of rubber from her dainty little ears.

  “So, can I have the car?”

  “Bailey, I thought you were going to have your transmission repaired this week?”

  She shrugs her dainty little shoulders.

  “I thought so too…I just haven’t had the time, you know? This is my third ribbon cutting this week. Last week, I got to christen a trawler, and next week we get to crown the new Princess Mary. Then I’m off the hook.”

  Since my youngest sister received the honor of being chosen Princess Mary of Midwestern Dairy last summer, it’s been a never-ending string of grocery store openings, jam judging duties, and special appearances at trade shows, hospital wards, and the occasional polka fest. At this point, we’re all ready for her reign to come to an end. Long live the new Princess Mary, whomever she might be.

  “Okay, okay—just come home right after, okay? I don’t like being here without a car…just in case.”

  “Where’s Scott?” she asks, looking around as if suddenly aware of his absence.

  “At his house. Where else would he be?”

  “Uh, here? I can’t remember the last time he slept at his house…”

  I stare at her incredulously.

  “What do you mean? He always sleeps at his house!”

  Bailey puts a hand on her hip, purses her dainty little pink lips, and quirks a perfect blond brow.

  “Really, James? I’m nineteen—not nine. I know he sneaks in and out of here all the time.”

  I drop the pen I’ve been holding, and it rolls off the table, onto the linoleum floor with a clatter. This is news to me. And here I thought we were being so stealthy!

  “You—you know about that?” I ask, reaching down to grab the ballpoint escapee.

  “Duh! Why is he sneaking around, anyway? Jax sleeps like the dead. No way he’d wake up and find you two…you know…”

  “I know…?” I hold up a hand, immediately regretting the response. “Wait, no, don’t expound on that. I can’t un-hear whatever it is you were about to say.”

  She’s chuckling now.

  “Anyway, I know he’s, you know, like sort of living here. I don’t know why you guys just don’t move in together.”

  “Because we’re not married, Bailey.”

  She snorts.

  “Yeah, like that makes a difference. Please! You guys are ‘as good as,’ and it’s not like you’re not already—”

  “Please, just…don’t,” I interject, holding up a palm. The last thing I want to hear is my sister’s take on the sex life she’s not supposed to know that I have.

  “Whatever, James. I’m just saying…You don’t have to worry about me. I know what’s going on. And it’s not like I’m all, ‘Hey, let me go out and find someone to live with cause my big sister’s doing it.’”

  I consider this mash-up of smart young woman and typical teen. She’s grown up a lot since Pops died nearly two years ago now. Before I can say another word, the front door flies open, and Walker comes stomping in.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bailey asks, noticing her mood right away.

  “Henny and I had an argument. I had to get out of there,” she grumbles.

  “An argument over what?” I inquire, not sure I really want to know. Spats with our oldest sister have become more common as she’s grown bigger, more uncomfortable—and more hormonal.

  “I just made a comment about this stroller monstrosity that they’re buying—it’s like a couple thousand bucks! I know they need a two-seater, but does it have to have a motor, GPS, and cellphone charger? This thing is like a land yacht for babies. It’s ridiculous!” She holds up her index finger and wags it. “Oh! And it’s a convertible.”

  “Convertible?” Bailey echoes.

  Walker nods.

  “Yup. You push a button, and this whole contraption unfolds itself and morphs into a little roof to protect the kids if it’s raining or the sun’s too hot or whatever! Jeez, my car doesn’t have the stuff this stroller has! Anyway, so I asked why they needed so much crap, and she bit my…flipping…head off!”

  I’m grateful she’s remembered to insert a kid-friendly expletive. Once Jackson gets ahold of a word or—now that he’s getting older—a phrase, he’s like a dog with a bone. He just can’t let go of it.

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” I murmur. “Scott says Bryan’s been going crazy with all the high-tech baby gear. Ridiculous! But they’ve got the cash, and it’s their kids…”

  “If Mama were alive, she’d give Henny a good talking to,” Walker speculates.

  The thought makes me stop in my tracks.

  “Walker, if Mama were alive, she’d be too happy about having twin grandbabies to worry about something like that. Maybe you should just mind your own business,” I chide—maybe a tad too harshly. But I’ve been trying to keep in mind what Scott said about my sisters being grown women. Grown women who need to take care of their own lives.

  Walker levels her dark gray eyes on me. It’s not a pleasant sensation, but I don’t care.

  “You know, you’re not my mother,” she reminds me.

  This statement used to hurt my feelings, but not anymore. Now it just ticks me off.

  “No, I’m not. Maybe you should remember that the next time you ask me what’s for dinner, if I ironed your white work blouse, or if there are any more of those oatmeal raisin cookies you love so much?”

  “Whoa!” Bailey mumbles under her breath, clearly not expecting this newer, tougher version of me. “You PMS-ing or something, James? You’re super-cranky today.”

  “Yeah,” Walker adds, “clearly Henny’s not the only one acting like an A-1—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare!” I threaten, certain she’s about to break the “no cussing” rule.

  There’s a long awkward pause, filled only by the sound of cartoons coming from the television in the living room, where Jackson is riveted by Paw Patrol. I take a deep breath and will my pulse to slow. Bailey might be right, come to think of it. PMS might explain all my wedding angst, emotional overloads, and short temper. When is my period, anyway? I’ve somehow lost track of the days. And weeks. And, if I’m really honest, the months. The overnight shifts at the hospital have a way of skewing the passage of time. Not that I’ve ever had a regular cycle anyway. And not that I’m willing to admit that to these two…

  “Ummm…so, James,” Bailey interrupts my thoughts a little sheepishly. “About the car…”

  “Fine, fine…” I mutter as I walk over to my purse to
get the keys for her. That’s when I spot my cellphone—which I’d put into silent mode earlier in the day and forgotten to turn it up again. Which is a big no-no since we ditched the landline last year.

  Six missed calls. Ten missed text messages. I use my finger to scroll through the messages, growing more alarmed with each one.

  “James? James, what’s wrong?” Walker asks, all anger gone from her voice now.

  I look at both of them.

  “It’s Henny…”

  …

  My sister starts crying when I arrive at the hospital—though it’s clear she’s done a good bit of that before I got here.

  “Oh, James!” Hennessy whines miserably, holding out her arms for me from the big, gated bed.

  Bryan moves aside so I can take his place, sitting down and pulling her up into a tight embrace.

  “Shh, shh,” I murmur into her hair. “Shhhhh. Don’t cry. It’s all going to be okay. Really.”

  She pulls back and looks at me, hiccupping loudly as she does.

  “I’m so afraid! What if… What if I…”

  She can’t finish the sentence, and I can’t blame her for that.

  I shake my head firmly. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” I pat her belly, which seems to have doubled in size since I saw her only a couple of days ago. “These little ones are going to be just fine, Hen. Trust me.”

  “But—but the doctor in the ER said I have a—” She breaks off as a new round of sobs shakes her slight form. Finally, she takes a long, measured, and trembling breath before trying again. “The doctor said I have an…incognito uterus!”

  Fresh tears wash down her lovely face. I glance over my shoulder at Bryan, who’s being uncharacteristically silent. He looks grim as he stares down at the linoleum floor. I can talk him off the ledge later. Right now, Hennessy is the one most in need of comfort.

  “Okay, look, first of all, it’s an incompetent uterus, not an incognito uterus…”