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Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

Page 21

by L. E. Rico


  “What?” She looks totally stunned. “But I’m supposed to get the job. It’s the way things work for me…”

  “Yeah, maybe in the book, but then, you’re not really Anastasia Steel, are you?”

  “They’re married!” she spits at me. “She’s Anastasia Grey now!”

  I stand corrected.

  “Yeah, okay, okay,” Bryan says, speaking for the first time in ten minutes. I’d almost forgotten he was there. He joins us on his feet and makes a move to open the door. “Thanks again, Ana—I promise we’ll give your application some thought…”

  In a flash, the young woman has put her façade back together again, big doe eyes fluttering, teeth embracing the pouty lower lip, and her shoulders hunching forward slightly…revealing just enough—

  “Oh, hell no!” I say with indisputable finality.

  I grab the door, open it wide, and gesture for Ana to take her leave of us. Immediately. She opens her mouth to object.

  “If you don’t get out right now, I’m going to give you a personal tour of my red room of pain. And, trust me, Anastasia, it will not make you scream out in pleasure.”

  She leaves. Fast.

  “Red room of pain?” Bryan asks.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Nothing you’ll ever need to know, brother-in-law.”

  Chapter Ten

  Scott

  October

  My father is thrilled. Like off-the-charts, over-the-moon, heart-so-big-it’s-going-to-explode thrilled. After I got the thumbs-up from Jameson, I couldn’t get over here to tell him about the baby fast enough. Not just because I knew he’d be happy…but because I knew he’d be willing to help me—without judging me.

  “Soooo…” my dad says, once the initial elation has worn off and he realizes there’s more to this discussion than baby names and diaper bags. “What’s on your mind, son?”

  I’ve thought a lot about how I’m going to say this, and I’ve come up with several potential introductions to this topic—all of which escape me at this moment. So I do what we men are best known for—I skip the pleasantries, and I blurt.

  “You remember when my friend Danny stopped through town a while back? The guy I was in Project Peace with?” He nods, so I continue. “It’s just that he reminded me of everything that I loved about being there…the work, the people. The wild and crazy times…”

  “And now you’re afraid you’re going to miss something? Is that it?” he asks when I let the thought peter out.

  “A little…kinda… Don’t get me wrong, Dad, I am not looking to bail on James and our family. I just…I just remember how it used to be—how I used to be… And then I feel so guilty! Like I’m afraid I’ll just grab my passport and make a run for it, you know? I mean, isn’t that what Win always says, that I’m a runner? What if…what if I run, Dad?”

  Winston Clarke, Sr. stares at me for what feels like a very long time before he speaks. It’s unnerving—but it’s nothing new. My father has always been one to stop and think before he speaks. It’s one of the things that’s made him such a great attorney over the years. When he’s finally ready, he takes a deep breath and tilts his head to the side, as if seeing me from a different angle for the first time.

  Then he smiles.

  A big, wide, gummy grin that fills his entire face and softens his eyes.

  “Scott, there aren’t enough words to tell you how proud I am of you. Of the man you’ve become. You’re not a runner—at least not in the way that you think you are. You don’t run from things, son. You run toward them. When you left home all those years ago, it wasn’t because you were running away from the past…you were running toward your future. And now, that future is your past. That’s how it works…”

  “So you don’t think I’m going to run away…? Once the baby comes and I realize I can’t do everything I used to do? Be the guy I was down in Mexico?”

  My father leans forward in his recliner so that his forearms are resting on his thighs.

  “You haven’t been that guy since the day you laid eyes on Jameson. In that instant, everything about you changed…didn’t it, Scott?”

  He’s waiting for an answer. I stop. I think.

  I nod. I smile.

  “Yes…” I say in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper. But it’s a joyous whisper, because he’s absolutely right. I may miss some of the things I did…some of the places I went…but I don’t miss the man who I was. “I…I like myself a whole lot better when I’m with her.”

  I speak the realization aloud the instant it enters my mind.

  My father nods and sits back, as if he knew I’d come to this inevitable conclusion. Before we can go any deeper into the discussion, the front door slams open, and Jackson comes flying in, runs across the living room, and tackles me so hard that I fly back on the couch.

  “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, buddy! How ya doing?” I ask as my nephew climbs atop me and tries to ride my chest like a pony.

  “Unca Sock!” he yells jubilantly. “Piggy back! I want to ride piggy back, Unca Sock!”

  “You don’t know how happy I was to see your car in the driveway,” my brother, Win, says as he crosses the threshold at a considerably slower, calmer pace than his son. “This kid has done nothing but talk about you all day. ‘Unca Sock gives me piggyback, Daddy.’ ‘Unca Sock colors with me, Daddy.’ ‘Unca Sock is going to take me to see Batman’—which you’re not, by the way, take it from someone who knows from experience: his mother will kill. You. Seriously.”

  I flip Jackson over, then scoop him up and throw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He cackles wildly as I swing him around, toss him up and, finally, deliver him back onto the couch into a sweaty, hysterical, writhing mass of ecstatic kid. When I turn around to reach for the bottle of water I have sitting on the coffee table, I catch sight of my father. His smile is broad, his expression knowing as he offers me a simple nod of his chin. And I’m not the only one who notices.

  “Ahhhh, so you told him?” Win asks with his own knowing smile.

  “You already knew?” my father counters with surprise.

  “Please, I’m the one who tipped him off!” my brother declares proudly. “She was baking oatmeal raisin cookies!”

  My father throws back his head and roars with laughter so loudly that even Jax stops long enough to peer at his goppa curiously.

  “Of course! Jameson was bringing those things over here by the dozen when she was expecting this little one!” Dad says, still laughing.

  “Really? I guess that explains why she’s refused to let them out of the house—she was probably afraid that someone else would guess,” I marvel, putting all the pieces together now. “I can’t believe her sisters haven’t figured it out yet…”

  “What? They don’t know yet?” Win asks, sounding concerned. “That’s not good, man. They’ll be pretty cranky if they’re the last to know…”

  “I know, I know,” I assure him. “Not to worry. We’re planning a special dinner after church next week. We’re going to tell them then…that is, if she doesn’t pop. It’s getting harder for her to hide the baby bump.”

  “So you’ll hold off on the wedding?” my brother asks.

  “No. I don’t mind, honestly, but she does. So it’s baby news to the sisters this Sunday, and Father Romance promised us a special Friday night mass as soon as he gets back from sabbatical. You guys can be there, right?”

  “Well, we’ve RSVP’d for all them so far, haven’t we?” my father teases.

  “Hey, hey…it’s only been the two…” I counter.

  “Let’s hope the third time’s the charm,” Win replies.

  From his mouth to the Big Guy’s ears.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jameson

  October

  The church is fairly packed when we arrive a few minutes before eleven. But Walker and Bailey are there already, holding our usual pew about three rows back from the front, on the right.

  “You wanna sit with me, J
ax?” Bailey asks my son.

  He grins happily and nods, scampering up onto the pew on all fours and crawling his way down to my sister. Once he reaches her, he tucks into the space under her arm, snuggling against her chest. Bailey reaches into her purse and pulls out a book for him to read—a new installment of Trevor Train that makes him squeal with excitement.

  “Oh, God bless you, Bailey!” I murmur softly as I take the seat next to Jackson, Scott settling in beside me.

  “I know my little guy,” she informs me, patting his arm and pulling him a little closer.

  Suddenly I feel guilty about the car thing. She’s so good with Jax and so thoughtful. I vow to be more patient and understanding. And then I say a quick prayer for help in keeping that promise.

  At the very end of our pew, Henny is seated in her wheelchair, embracing the once-loathed mode of transport as her only way out of the house. Bryan is seated in the last spot of the bench, holding her hand sweetly. They make me smile. I can’t wait to tell them—and Bailey and Walker—about the baby after church today. And then…by this time next week, Scott and I will be married, too.

  Walker leans forward so we can hear her over Bailey.

  “Well, the good thing about Father Romance being away this week is that we’re sure to finish up right on time,” she says. “Father Buddy can’t go more than an hour without a cigarette break.”

  “I don’t know,” Bailey adds, “I hear he’s on the patch now. So no cigarette breaks for him.”

  “The patch?” Scott echoes from next to me.

  “A nicotine patch,” I explain.

  “Oh! That kind of patch. I thought maybe you were talking about an eye patch or something…you know, like a pirate priest.”

  Walker snorts loud enough to get the attention of the elderly Farrell sisters sitting in the pew in front of us.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, still unable to wipe the smirk off her face.

  She’s no sooner uttered the word when the man himself manifests with a blast of the pipe organ. The doors of the narthex open with a loud squeak, and the procession begins. We all stand, except for Jackson, who’s way too enthralled with Trevor’s new love interest, a cute little pink caboose named Jane Train.

  Father Buddy approaches the altar, last in the processional line, looking calm and cool and…well, priestly. Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary here—and not a puppet to be seen. Could it be that Father Buddy has grown a little less nutty? I’m almost convinced that this is the case when we cruise through the first half of the service and reach the homily without incident.

  Almost.

  Because—if there’s any place things might start to go south, it’s here—where the priest has center stage—and a captive audience. And suddenly my gut is telling me something bad is about to happen. Either that, or I ate too many oatmeal raisin cookies for breakfast this morning.

  I try to put the thoughts—and the churning—out of my mind as I take a deep breath and focus on Father Buddy, who’s settling in for the homily.

  “I see so many familiar faces!” he declares a little loudly, causing the lavalier mic affixed to his lapel to first pop, then crackle and, finally, squawk so loud that we all cringe at the same time—Jackson throwing his hands up to protect his tiny ears. “Whoops! Sorry about that,” the priest says with a chuckle. “Yes, several of you have gone through the Marriage Encounter weekend with me. And those of you who haven’t have probably heard a thing or two about the experience…especially my use of puppets in the marital ministry. Well, today you’re going to have a chance to see them for yourself.”

  “Oh, nooooo…” Walker moans.

  Scott, on the other hand, seems to be excited by this prospect.

  “Yes!” he says with a little fist pump. “I’ve been dying to see these things since Henny and Bryan did Marriage Encounter last year! What were they? Nathan Temptation…?”

  “And Holly Homewrecker,” Bailey pipes up.

  Before I can ask her how she knows about premarital puppetry, Father Buddy has ducked behind the altar to pull out two bright red, black-horned devil moppets. One is your basic, garden variety Mephistopheles. A “worker bee” devil, if you will—with a white number one on his chest. The other is much more sophisticated—a sort of metrosexual Satan with wavy, dark yarn hair and matching beard. He’s dressed in a white, button-down shirt and a black cape. Oh, yeah, this is the head heathen for sure.

  We’re all riveted as Father Buddy dons first one puppet and then the other, his hands bringing the two characters to life.

  “There is a fable,” the priest begins, facing the congregation, “that tells of three apprentice devils who were coming to earth to finish their apprenticeship. They were talking with Satan, the chief of the devils, about their plans to tempt and to ruin humanity.”

  At this point, the lesser devil—on the left hand—addresses the uber devil on the right.

  “I will tell them there is no God,” the first devil puppet says to Satan, and I’m transfixed by Father Buddy, who’s lips barely move as he delivers these lines on behalf of the puppets.

  “‘That will not delude many, for they know there is a God,’ Satan replies.

  “That’s when the second devil comes along,” Father Buddy informs us, taking the less-impressive devil, putting it behind his vestments and pulling it out again—this time with a white number two on its chest.

  “How did he do that?” Scott whispers from next to me. “He’s got puppets on both of his hands! How do you suppose he swapped out the numbers like that?”

  Before I can tell him I don’t know—and I don’t really care—the homily resumes.

  “The second devil said, ‘I will tell them that there is no hell.’ Satan answered, ‘You will deceive no one that way. They know even now that there is a hell for sin.’”

  Whoa. Satan is not having that answer either. Away with devil number two—behind the back once more, returning with the number three emblazoned on him this time around. Father Buddy continues his narration.

  “The third devil said, ‘I will tell them that there is no hurry.’”

  Clearly devil number three is “the man” as Satan is high-fiving him after this suggested course of action.

  “‘Go,’ said Satan,” Father Buddy conveys, “‘and you will ruin people by the thousands.’” At this point, the priest drops both of his arms down to his sides, so that the fuzzy characters are hanging upside down. “The point here, my friends, is that the most dangerous of all delusions is that there is plenty of time. We think we have forever to ensure our mortal souls will live on in the Kingdom of Heaven. We do not. And anyone who is fool enough to believe he has all the time in the world will find himself in a very, very precarious position…”

  I’ve stopped hearing what Father Buddy is saying. Everyone has. Because what he doesn’t know is that the impressive mane on Satan’s head has gotten a little too close to one of the candelabras and, in an instant, his hair is on fire. Literally.

  “…that’s why we must ask for guidance from the Lord…” the priest drones on, totally unaware as we all just stare, as if hypnotized by the devil himself.

  “Father! You’re on fire!” a young acolyte yells from the side of the alter where he’s just looked up from his iPhone to see the catastrophe in the making.

  Father Buddy looks over his shoulder at the teenager and smiles proudly. “Why, thank you, young man! But you really should hold your compliments for after the end of the sermon…”

  “No! You’re on fire!” the choirmaster calls out.

  At last the spell is broken as parishioners point at the dangling inferno and yell. I don’t know if it’s the increasing alarm…or the increasing heat, but Father Buddy finally realizes what’s happened.

  “Oh! Oh, my dear… Oh! Oh! Oh!” he exclaims, using the little devil to pummel Satan in an attempt to snuff him out. No such luck—this tactic only serves to propel the lesser Lucifer into his own blazing ball. The priest stands there, both hand
s raised in front of him, looking from one fiery hand to the other.

  “Scott! Go get the fire extinguisher!” I yell, pointing to the wall-mounted cabinet closest to our pew.

  He springs into action, along with several other churchgoers who run around the sanctuary with the same idea. Soon, there are no fewer than four extinguishers en route to the front of the church. But Father Nutty B is on it—his temporary shock wearing off as he makes a beeline for the baptismal font full of holy water and submerges both hands.

  As soon as fire touches water, there is a hissing, sizzling sound reminiscent of the Hellfire and Brimstone fajitas they serve up at Señor Diablo’s Restaurant over in Remington.

  Father Buddy breathes a sigh of relief, holding up one hand with the charred, sopping remains of one of the devils—which, I can’t be sure of, as the corpse has been burned beyond recognition.

  “It’s all right! Stay calm, everyone! Do not panic!” he calls out in a confident voice meant to keep us all from fleeing the church in hysterics, trampling one another. But none of us is moving. We’re all too stunned to do anything but stare.

  “Oh. My. God!” Scott says from beside me. “Best. Mass. Ever!”

  I look at him and have no sooner opened my mouth to tell him to shut his when an obscenely loud alarm starts to screech throughout the sanctuary. A split second later, the sprinkler system kicks in and the heavens open up, rain pouring down.

  Jackson has climbed on top of the bench and is jumping up and down, deliriously happy as the waterlogged cushion squishes under his little shoes.

  “It’s raining, Mama!” he crows with delight. “It’s raining in da church!”

  “Yes it is, honey,” I say more to myself than to him.

  That’s when I notice my sisters. They’re staring at me. At my tummy.

  Sometime during this freak interior monsoon, my nice, baggy church dress has become plastered to my nice, rounded belly. The one that’s clearly housing an additional lifeform of some sort. And I’m guessing they’re not thinking I’ve got an alien about to hatch in there.

 

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