Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “What does that matter?” she wails. “Who cares what it’s called if it means I’m going to lose my babies!”

  “Stop it,” I say firmly, grabbing her shoulders. “You need to calm down right now. Do you hear me, Hen? I know this is all very scary—and yes, it’s very serious. But that doesn’t mean you’re automatically going to lose the babies. It just means you’ll need to take special precautions to ensure they stay in there as long as they need to.”

  Bryan clears his throat, and the sound is so unexpected that I jump.

  “Uhh…how long? I mean, how many weeks do they have to be, to be…you know, safe?”

  His voice is as soft and vulnerable as I’ve ever heard and that, in and of itself, is incredibly jarring, coming from a man who is—so often—the loudest, most confident person in the room.

  I take my sister’s hand in mine and twist a little so I can face her husband at the same time.

  “Twenty-four weeks.”

  “Twenty—twenty-four? James, that’s almost five weeks from now!” Henny says with a gasp.

  Bryan picks up her concern.

  “How can we possibly keep them safe when she’s got an underhanded uterus?” he asks.

  I have to work hard not to snicker. This is no time for an attack of the giggles.

  “Incompetent,” I correct him. “It’s called an incompetent uterus. And I’m guessing that Dr. Douglas is going to recommend bedrest—”

  “That he is, Jameson.” The doctor’s booming voice fills the room as he enters. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Henny, Bryan. I came as soon as the ER doctor called to let me know you were here.”

  I jump up from my perch at Henny’s side so the man—who delivered all four of us O’Halloran girls, not to mention my Jackson—can get a closer look at her. He’s got her chart in his hands and is flipping pages even as he approaches where she’s lying in a blue and white hospital gown.

  “Okeydoke,” he declares, slapping the file folder shut and letting his hands drop down in front of him. “I’m going to have a look-see myself, but I’m thinking the diagnosis of incompetent uterus is correct. And it’s not that uncommon, Hennessy—really a matter of gravity. Your cervix is weak, and you’re carrying not one but two babies in there. That’s a lot of weight to be putting against it. So we’re going to alleviate that problem by leaving you in a horizontal position most of the time.”

  She’s already objecting—talking about all the things there are left to do before the twins arrive—gesturing with her hands and shaking her head as she does.

  “Hennessy V.S. O’Halloran Truitt,” he says sternly. “Cooking these babies is the most important thing you have to do right now. And, unless you settle down and let everyone else pick up the slack for you, they might not make it to the finish line. Not to mix metaphors—but you understand what I’m telling you, don’t you?”

  My sister blanches at the harsh realization that she’s about to spend the second half of her pregnancy laid up. It’s my eyes—not Bryan’s or the doctor’s—that she seeks out as this dawns on her.

  “Jameson,” she whispers, “I can’t do this without you.”

  And, just like that, the wedding, the backyard barbecue, the bonfire…they all go up in smoke. But I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to see my sister—and her family—through this. God willing.

  And I pray that He is willing. For all of our sakes.

  Chapter Six

  Scott

  August

  The first time I laid eyes on Danny Noble, he was up to his shirtless, sweaty chest in a ditch, swinging a pickax and cursing under his breath, cigarette dangling from his lips. Foul-mouthed and foul-tempered, he was a perpetual source of entertainment for all of us in those early days of my Project Peace tenure. And, as it turned out, he was a perpetual source of enlightenment—an unlikely dispenser of truth.

  When I got word my brother had gotten married, and not bothered to invite me, Danny pointed out that I hadn’t bothered to let the “blankety-blank so-and-so” know how to get in touch with me. I hate that about Danny. He’s knows just how to hit the nail on the head…and usually it’s the last nail in your coffin. Just the thing you don’t want to hear at just the wrong moment.

  He gave up the smoking years ago, but all those packs of cheap South American smokes—coupled with all those long days in the grueling South American sun, have left him looking quite a bit more weathered than his thirty-three years. Now, as he walks through the door of the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop, I see he hasn’t abandoned the dark blonde hair that hangs just a little too long—or the matching three-day stubble. This guy has somehow managed to elevate scruffy to a sexy artform—as evidenced by the amount of attention he’d draw at every one of his postings.

  “Hey, man!” I say as we meet in the middle of the small dining room and embrace warmly, doing the “double-handed man-pat.”

  He pushes me away and takes a long look into my face, his bright blue eyes crinkling with his broad smile.

  “Clarke. You’re a sight for fu—”

  “Gentlemen!” Janet Lahti interrupts before my old friend can rasp out the rest of his expletive. “How wonderful to see a reunion! Welcome to the Iron Range, Danny!”

  He looks at her then back to me, a little perplexed.

  “Danny, this is Janet Lahti. She owns this place, and she’s something of a…a…”

  “I make pies,” she offers with an impish expression. “And, occasionally, deliver messages.”

  “Messages? What? Like Ups?” he asks, pronouncing the carrier’s name as a word rather than its traditional initials.

  “Come, come! Have a seat and catch up. I’ve got a fresh pot of Costa Rican blend on just for you boys. And a special pie that I cooked up for you last night!” She waves us toward my small table in the corner even as she’s scurrying away toward the kitchen, a fascinated Danny staring after her.

  “Is she,” he begins, pointing to the swinging double doors behind which she’s just vanished, “is she, you know…a bruja?”

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  “Are you seriously asking me if that woman is a…a witch?” I ask when I can speak again.

  But my old friend isn’t laughing.

  “Yeah, I am. Cause she’s got that vibe. You remember the woman in Surajuella, don’t you? The one who tossed the chicken bones around and claimed she could see your future?”

  He follows me back to the table and takes the seat across from me.

  “No, I don’t,” I lie, not wanting to get into the time I was a little too over-served on cerveza and allowed the creepy lady with the creased face and jet-black hair the texture of straw read my “bones.”

  “Well, your friend in there’s got that same thing going on.”

  I’m about to defend Janet’s honor when she reappears, long skirts flying, hair sticking out wildly from underneath the gypsy-esque scarf she’s got tied around her head.

  “Here we go!” she murmurs happily as she sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of each of us. “Slices coming up in a jiff…”

  Before I can even thank her, she’s scurried away to the other side of the room, having caught sight of someone else in need of her very unique services.

  “So,” I start, pouring some creamer into my cup, “I was surprised to get the message that you were stopping through town. What brings you all the way up to the Iron Range?”

  He shrugs, tearing and dumping pack after pack of sugar. Five. Six. Seven…I’d forgotten about his ridiculous sweet tooth. In fact, I’m starting to remember that there are a lot of things I’ve forgotten about my previous life south of the border.

  “I’ve got a change in assignment that’s gonna keep me out of the U.S. for a good stretch. Thought I’d better make the rounds—you know, see my ma, all my aunties, and the few friends I’ve managed to hold onto over the years.”

  “Friends?” I snark. “You have friends? Like more than one? I thought I was it!”

&nb
sp; “Ha-ha-ha.” Danny rolls his eyes and then sobers up his tone a bit. “Actually, you’re not too far off the mark. But you know how that goes…you spend a few years bouncin’ around from town to town, working with different units and crews…going wherever they want to send you next… Stayin’ pen pals ain’t exactly high on the priority list, know what I mean?”

  I nod. “Yeah, man. I get it. I spent my first three months trying to figure out the whole smartphone thing. Texting, Siri, FaceTime…all that stuff.”

  He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, first thing my sister did was try to show me some game thing. Like I got time to play games! I’m too busy diggin’ ditches and designing irrigation systems.”

  “So, tell me, what’s this mysterious new thing you’ve got going on?”

  “Uh, well…that’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about, Clarke. Cause, see, it’s your gig…”

  I stop stirring and stare at him. “My gig? What gig?”

  He shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, they’re bumping me up from Central American coordinator to South American. You know…your job. There was someone covering it for a while—I think HQ wanted to be sure that you were good and sure before they made a permanent change. But it’s been a year now…”

  Oh. That gig. The one that I spent ten years of my life building up to. The one that was about to launch me into a whole other level in the organization that I’d grown to love. The one that suddenly just faded away when I laid eyes upon the all-grown-up version of Jameson O’Halloran. There was no “growing” to love her because I’ve always loved her. Still, there’s something about the finality of this situation that brings up just a whiff of nostalgia for the good old days.

  “Wow…that’s…that’s great, man,” I say, finding myself working a little too hard to sound sincere. “I had no idea you were interested.”

  He shrugs. “I wasn’t. Truthfully, I never gave it much thought. Figured I’d just bounce from post to post. But after you left, I realized that I’m probably gonna be a lifer…so I might as well start that climb up the ladder.”

  “Lifer? Nah,” I say, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “You’re gonna find the right woman…”

  “Oh, I have, man.”

  “You have?”

  He’s nodding now, unable to hold back a silly, toothy grin. The grin of the love-laden.

  “Yeah…you remember Marta?”

  “Pochotillo Marta? The one who came to tell me my father was sick? The one with truck?”

  He’s nodding happily. “Yup, that’d be the one. We’re gettin’ hitched sometime next year, and Project Peace has agreed to assign us together. So…looks like I’ve got the best of both worlds—I can keep up my wandering ways, but I don’t have to do it alone anymore!”

  I’m struck by the fact that he’s absolutely right. It is the best of both worlds. At least, for guys like him and me. Ones who are constantly drawn to the next mountain or valley or beach or desert. Ones who are happiest when we’re discovering new nooks and crannies in the farthest corners of the most remote locales. And now, Danny Noble has figured out how to overcome the single biggest drawback to that lifestyle—the loneliness. He’s found a woman willing to join him on his nomadic quests around the globe. A woman who lives for it every bit as much as he does.

  “Wow…that’s just…I mean…congratulations, Danny! You and Marta—wow! I’m really happy for you.”

  “Thanks, man! But look at you! How’s your girl? Jameson, is it?”

  I nod and smile, still imagining Danny and his soon-to-be bride holding hands atop some remote mountain top.

  “Uh…yeah. Jameson. She’s great. Great. We’re supposed to get married anytime now. Just a few…just few scheduling issues…”

  “Oh hey, bro, I almost forgot!” Danny begins to dig through his beat-up old knapsack on the floor. After a few seconds, he digs out a small, well-worn, spiral-bound notebook and hands it to me across the table. “Look, man, it’s your checklist!”

  It’s as if my hands recognize the item by its weight and its feel, triggering a whole explosion of memories in my mind. I flip through page after page of my own faded handwriting. I’d spent nearly a decade listing all the spots I wanted to see—all the places I wanted to go, the saloons I wanted to try, the locals I wanted to meet. All the things I wanted to do. Some items, such as: “Get tattoo from biker guy in Guaraldo” were checked off, while others, like: “Have a drink at that saloon where Billy the Kid was” still had a blank spot next to them, just waiting to be checked off by me. By…

  “Checkmark Clarke,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

  “That’s right!” Danny says, slapping the table so hard that the coffee in my cup sloshes over the rim, splashing onto the tabletop. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d give up your list and settle down! But that’s great, man!”

  I’m still staring down at the recovered treasure when I hear Janet’s voice over my shoulder.

  “Sorry to keep you boys waiting.” She’s carrying two plates with two different slices of pie. The first, she sets down in front of my friend. “Here we go, this one is for our weary traveler—a little taste of home!” It’s a custardy concoction that looks and smells familiar…but distant, somehow.

  “Holy crap! Is this a dulce de leche pie?” Danny asks, his smile broadening even more, threatening to crack his face in half.

  Janet nods and smiles proudly.

  “I made it special for you last night, Danny. A little something to celebrate your new adventure.”

  Now my friend looks from her, to me, to the plate, and back again. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He wants to ask her if she knows the chicken bone lady.

  “Don’t,” I warn him and watch as the smile turns to a scowl. I’m ruining his fun.

  “And this one,” Janet continues as she puts the second plate next to my cup of coffee, “is for you, Scott.”

  But mine isn’t the rich, custardy delicacy that Danny got. It’s a plain old slice of apple. With a scoop of ice cream melting on it—but still, just a slice of apple.

  Janet leans over, putting a hand on my shoulder as she moves closer to my ear.

  “This one’s a taste of your home. To celebrate your big adventure,” she informs me quietly.

  The message—my message—couldn’t be any more clear. No more mountains or deserts or beaches for me. My adventures are about to get a whole lot more domesticated.

  …

  It takes me a couple of days to shake the uneasy feeling that I’m left with after Danny leaves Minnesota. I’ve never once in all these months given a second thought to my decision to leave Project Peace to stay here with Jameson. Not once.

  Until now.

  There’s something about my old friend’s visit that’s unlocked a door. One that really needs to be welded shut because, through that little crack, I’m remembering what’s on the other side of that door…spectacular sunsets over the Gulf of Mexico, the mystical, crumbling ruins of ancient civilizations, and the feel of the hot sun as it soaks into my skin, turning it a golden tan that is now long-faded. What used to be a wistful nostalgia has grown into a niggling, nagging feeling that maybe I’ve given up something I’ll never get back. That my days of adventures are behind me. For good.

  If Jameson notices my reticence on the subject of my old friend, she doesn’t mention it. She’s been pretty preoccupied herself, helping Hennessy and Bryan navigate impending parenthood—with the former laid up in bed and the latter running all over the country in search of the best childcare money can buy.

  Even now, as I stop to check in at the law firm that I share with my father and brother, James is down the street in Bryan’s office, interviewing yet another one of the nanny candidates he’s flown in from yet another place I can’t recall.

  “Hey, man. What’s going on?” I ask when I spot Win at his desk, reading through a deposition.

  He shrugs. “Not much. I’ve got a hearing tomorro
w on the Martin divorce—what a mess.”

  “Yeah? I thought you said it was going to be a ‘friendly’ one,” I remind him, sinking down into one of the chairs across from him.

  Win holds up an index finger and gets to his feet, sticking his head out into the hallway so he can speak to our office manager.

  “Millie? Any chance you’d be up for a run over to the pie shop? I’m treating…”

  I hear her say something about bribery and coconut cream that has my brother chuckling as he comes back into the room and drops back into his seat.

  “That’s a good look on you,” I observe.

  He seems confused.

  “What’s a good look on me?”

  “Happy. Joking. Smiling. Pleasant. Something tells me this isn’t about your win in the Miller case.”

  He shrugs nonchalantly, but I spot the telltale reddening around Win’s neck that tips me off that I’ve hit on something…and so has he.

  “It’s Myra, isn’t it?” I blurt before he has a chance to make something up.

  He stares at me, opens his mouth to say something, shakes his head, looks down, then looks up again, this time with a smile on his face. The entire sequence of events takes less than three seconds, and it tells me more than I thought to ask him.

  “Maybe,” he says finally.

  “You’ve been seeing her for a while now,” I note.

  “Nearly three months.”

  “And…it’s going well, I take it?”

  His expression—the smile that blossoms into an unabashed grin—once again tells me everything I need to know.

  “Yeah… It is going well.”

  Win met Myra, a legal clerk at the county courthouse two towns over, when he bumped into her at the county courthouse and sent her three-foot stack of files flying in all directions. It took them twenty minutes to get the mess sorted, and she’d asked him out for coffee by the time they were done.

  “Has she spent much time with Jackson?” I ask, careful not to put too much intent into the question.

  My brother and I have finally built a fragile foundation out of begrudging respect, familial obligation, and maybe—just a little bit of—brotherly love. Considering the fact that I was gone for ten years before coming back home to challenge his authority, his judgment and his intentions—and eventually to take up with his ex-wife—any one of those things was unlikely to develop. The fact that they all did is nothing short of miraculous. But, then again, there’s been no shortage of miracles in my life since I laid eyes on Jameson.