Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  Nope. No hiding the fact that I’m having a baby.

  Or that I didn’t tell them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Scott

  November

  She’s crying. Again.

  “Jameson…”

  I make a move to pull her into my arms, but she waves me off with her left hand—even as her right is clutching the tissue she’s using to blow her nose.

  “I’m fine,” she mutters nasally between honks.

  Even with the tissue in her face—which I think we’re counting as her “something blue,” my bride-to-be looks beautiful in a simple, cream-colored dress and an oversized matching jacket that covers her baby belly. It was the only way she’d agree to have pictures taken on our wedding day—and it was a toss-up between the jacket and her holding a bouquet the size of a CrockPot in front of her the whole time.

  “Jameson, please, stop crying!” Bailey urges in a loud whisper, so her voice won’t carry down the long, marble corridor. “This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life…”

  “I know…” Jameson mutters into the Kleenex. “But it wasn’t supposed to be like this! Father Romance should’ve been the one to marry us.”

  “And he would have, honey, but you know his mother’s been sick, and he had to go back to Wisconsin. And since you didn’t want Father Nutty—sorry, Father Buddy to marry us…”

  “No. Puppets!” she hisses.

  I hold up my palms in surrender. There’s no reasoning with her when she’s this upset. And pregnant.

  Is that an insensitive thing to think? Jeez, I can’t tell what is and isn’t appropriate anymore. That’s how insane this whole wedding/baby/nanny saga has gotten in the last few weeks.

  Another sob.

  “And the fact that Henny isn’t here—she should be here!”

  “I am!” comes the tinny replica of Hennessy’s voice. Walker holds up the iPhone so we can all see the eldest O’Halloran’s well-rounded face on screen. “I’m there, Jameson. I can see you and hear you, and Walker is going to have me right there by your side the whole time!”

  I see a tiny smile break through my fiancée’s teary façade.

  “Atta girl!” Henny coos over FaceTime. “I know you don’t want to have this baby out of wedlock—so let’s get you good and wed-locked, shall we?”

  James nods and giggles. Just a little.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord…” I mutter under my breath.

  It took a long while for the four of them to hash this all out. Bailey, Hennessy, and Walker were all pretty hurt that Jameson didn’t share our baby news right away. Jameson was hurt that they didn’t understand her desire to keep it a secret while we got the whole wedding thing sorted out. Between the two expectant mothers, three unborn children, one newly un-crowned princess, and one ever-grumpy bartender forced to hold down the pub while the other three had their meltdowns… I’m amazed the Whiskey Sisters could get their family mojo back in time to see Jameson and me get hitched.

  “She was like this with Jax, too.”

  The familiar murmur in my ear comes from behind.

  “Like what?” I ask Win.

  “Like this. All crying at everything…then giggling. Then sobbing hysterically. Dude, her moods changed so far, so fast that I had whiplash by the time the kid was born! So don’t sweat it. She’ll get over not having the church wedding. She did with me, anyway.”

  I’m tempted to tell my brother that this is exactly the reason Jameson is now his ex-wife, but there’s no need to start a brotherly brawl to follow up on the sisterly spat that’s just resolved itself.

  “Son, I think Jackson is looking for you,” my father says, sidling up to us. He puts a hand on Win’s shoulder and guides him in the opposite direction, shooting a stealthy wink my way as he does.

  Just then, the newest newlyweds emerge from behind the ominous door at the end of the corridor. They’re staring dreamily into one another’s eyes as they hold hands.

  “I love you, husband,” the bride, a tall, willowy young woman with flowers in her long, dark hair says in a breathy voice.

  “I love you, wife,” the considerably shorter, considerably less willowy groom with no hair replies.

  And then they both burst into a fit of giggles as they saunter away from where we’re currently clustered, awaiting our turn at happily-ever-after. The sight causes a fresh wash of tears to spring from Jameson’s moss-green eyes. I can’t stand this anymore, so I walk up to her, pull her into my arms, and hold her firmly against my chest. Then I lean down and speak softly, so only she can hear what I’m saying.

  “James, you just say the word and we’re out of here. Right now. The sanctuary repairs will be completed before Christmas, and Father Romance has already said we can have the first available spot that comes up…”

  This gets her attention…though not in a good way. She looks up at me, her brows drawn in, her usually sexy mouth puckered in irritation.

  “And what are you going to tell our baby when he or she asks if we had to get married?”

  “Honey, first of all, the ‘baby’ won’t be looking at our wedding pictures for a very, very long time. We could have them airbrushed—”

  “Oh! So you want to just erase the baby like it’s not even there?”

  “That’s not what I said—”

  “Maybe you’d just rather skip the wedding all together? Hmm? Is that what you want, Scott?”

  Under normal circumstances, this outburst might alarm me. But not now. Not after seven months of riding the adventure-packed emotional rollercoaster of pregnancy with her…not to mention my own relapsing and remitting bouts of irrational wanderlust. I reach down and use my thumbs to wipe her tears.

  “There’s nothing I want more in this world than to be married to you. I don’t care when or where or how—so long as you’re happy.”

  “And the baby?” she snipes back, ignoring some of my best material.

  “What about the baby? I can’t wait for the baby!”

  “Really? Then why have you been googling for answers about passports and hiking gear? Scott, ever since your buddy Danny came through town, I see you peeking at that scraggly little notebook he gave you—flipping the pages and looking all nostalgic. Be honest with me—would you rather go back to South America?”

  My arms drop from her body to my sides at about the same time my bottom jaw drops from the top. And here I was thinking I was the only one impacted by my past. Now I see how very wrong I was.

  “James…you’re right.”

  “So you do want to leave us!” she accuses.

  “What? No! James, listen—you’re right that I miss some things about my time with Project Peace…but none of them—not one of them—compares to what I have here with you.” I put a hand on her belly. “Right here. With our children. And our families.” I sigh, smile a little, and take her face in between my two hands, tilting it upward so she can’t look away. I need for her to see my eyes when I say this to her, or she’ll never hear it. She’ll never believe it. “Don’t you get it? It’s not that I want to go back to all those places by myself… It’s that I want to go back to all those places with you! And Jax, and the baby! And, if you’d bothered to look a little closer at my browser history, you’d see I was wondering about the minimum age for a passport…and what kind of hiking gear they make for three-year-olds.”

  She blinks hard, her face softening in my grasp.

  “You…you were?”

  “I was! Here, look…” I let her go with some reluctance, but only for a second as I dig into the pocket of my charcoal gray suit and pull out said “scraggly little notebook.” I flip to the end—where the ink is fresh and bright compared to the decade-old font on early pages. I point with my index finger and watch as her eyes follow.

  “Marry the love of my life,” she reads aloud.

  “That’s right. And see that space right next to it? That’s where I’m going to put a checkmark today, after you say ‘I do.’ Because I’
m ‘Checkmark Clarke,’ and I aim to tick off each and every dream, fantasy, and wish that I put down in this little notebook. So…what say we get ‘er done, James? I’ve got a baby line-item coming up in a couple of months, and I’d like to have this one finished before then.”

  A clerk steps out into the hall with a clipboard and looks at us.

  “Clarke and…Clarke?” she asks.

  “That’s us,” I reply and hold up a finger before turning back to my fiancée. “Well, what say you, Jameson O’Halloran Clarke?”

  The tears are gone at last, replaced by her soft, sweet smile.

  “I say I do.”

  It’s all I need to hear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jameson

  November

  I manage to squeeze in time for the fifth and final nanny interview during Thanksgiving week. This one looks as if she stepped right out of an episode of I Love Lucy. The deep purple dress is fitted in the bodice, nipped in at the waist, and flared out at the bottom. She’s got cat’s eye glasses, and her dark chestnut hair is tucked into sweet little pin curls that I suspect are actually natural. When she—very demurely—crosses her legs under the puffy skirt, I can’t help but notice her Mary Janes.

  I’m afraid she might be a dud…like the other four we’ve met with since Penny Lovejoy knocked our socks off. Not that we need more than one great nanny, but I can tell Bryan would really like to have a deeper bench.

  “So, Theta, it says here that you spent three years working as an au pair abroad with a family that had—six—children. Is that correct? Six?” Bryan asks, looking between her and the paper in his hand, as if she might have made a mistake in filling out her own application.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” she says with her pleasant voice.

  “How did you manage all those children?” I ask, incredibly curious.

  “Oh, it’s not all that hard,” she informs us nonchalantly. “Kids just need a strict structure. It gives them a sense of security, you know? And, in my experience, they really thrive. I’ve very seldom had to discipline a child.”

  “Huh,” I say, thinking of the three times I had to put Jackson in time-out this morning alone.

  “But surely you’ve had experience with especially stubborn children,” I venture.

  Theta Galloway smiles, bright white teeth set against a shade of red lipstick that I’m fairly certain my grandmother wore when I was a little girl.

  “Of course! But I know they’re just testing their boundaries—they don’t know where they are unless they push a little. As long as I keep that attitude in mind, it’s easy for me to be patient. And, believe me, I can wait out any temper tantrum, hissy fit, or meltdown. I don’t get embarrassed or frustrated or afraid.” She shifts in her seat, the long skirt swishing as she leans forward. “Listen, my references are great, and I have the experience you’re looking for. But I know that’s not what matters—I know you want to be sure those babies are cared for by someone who will be loving—and fiercely protective. Someone who will watch over them the way you do. And that, I can promise you, is what I do best.”

  Bryan looks at me and quirks his brows upward. He likes her. As do I. Theta’s got a great vibe—even if it is a vintage vibe.

  “Thanks, Theta,” he says, extending a hand to shake. “We’ll definitely be in touch.”

  …

  I’m still thinking about Theta Galloway later on as Scott, Jax, and I are cuddled up under the covers, reading the newest installment of Trevor Train. In a striking twist of fate, Trevor and his girlfriend, Jane Train, have also gotten hitched. And, like us, they just happen to have the same last name at the time of their nuptials. I wonder if Jane was also Trevor’s ex-sister-in-law?

  We’re up to the part where Jane announces that there’s going to be a baby train in the mix sometime soon. I try really hard not to think about the logistics of that. Any of that.

  Scott and I have been trying to get Jackson excited about the prospect of being a big brother, but so far he’s been pretty adamant that he wants no part of the new arrangement. Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, and it’s only a matter of time before his theoretical sibling is here, in the crying, pooping, sleeping flesh.

  “Wow, look at that, Jax!” Scott says with an abundance of enthusiasm. “Trevor and Jane are going to have a baby train!”

  “Uh-huh,” Jackson says, trying to pry the page out of my hand so he can get to a part he likes better. A part without a tiny train in diapers.

  “Wait, don’t you want to see the baby?” I ask, holding tight to the page.

  “No,” he replies firmly. “No baby.”

  I glance at Scott, who shrugs and raises his brows. We’re just not sure how hard to push the little guy right now.

  “Don’t you like babies?” I ask.

  He shakes his head energetically.

  Scott gives it a try.

  “Buddy, wouldn’t you like to have a little brother? Or maybe a little sister?”

  It’s hard to describe the look in the three-year-old’s eyes as he, very calmly, puts the book down and looks straight at us.

  “No. Baby.”

  It’s more than a little rattling—bordering on frightening, really. At first, I thought this was Jackson not wanting to use his words. He is, after all, capable of stringing together complete sentences now—many of them fairly complex. A two-word sentence is a rarity for him these days. But now, I realize this isn’t economy of syllables. This is my son making his point as firmly and directly as he knows how.

  “No. Baby,” isn’t a statement; it’s a demand. No—a command.

  And that’s saying something.

  Something rather alarming.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Scott

  December

  “Well, I’ve never seen anything like it!” Phyllis Pfeffernusse squawks loudly, bony hands on her narrow hips as she chicken-necks.

  No, I don’t suppose she has. I know I haven’t.

  “Umm…well…I really don’t think he intended to do it, Mrs. Pfefferno—er…sorry, Pfeffernusse—” I scramble for the correct name after so many years of referencing her as Pfeffernosy. She is, after all, one of the busiest busybodies in the town of Mayhem. I try again, feeling myself reddening under the weight of her bug-eyed glare. “I’m sure it was an accident, Phyllis.”

  But we both know better than that.

  Jackson is sitting in a pint-sized chair facing into the corner of the nursery school classroom. He periodically glances over his shoulder at us and scowls.

  I knew this was a bad idea. He’s three years old! I suspect that whomever it was who decided to involve the pre-pre-school kids in this year’s church Christmas pageant might have had a touch too much communion wine.

  “Are you sure Mrs. Clarke shouldn’t be here for this?” she asks for the third time.

  “Again, Mrs. Pfeffernusse, she’s assisting in a delivery right now and can’t be reached…”

  She takes my non-correction of Jameson’s marital status and pounces on it.

  “Oh! So, she is Mrs. Clarke again!” she declares with great satisfaction, as if she’s just gotten me to confess to robbing a bank on the witness stand.

  “W-what?”

  “It’s all over town, you know…”

  “What is?” I ask, my voice pitching up just a little too high.

  “The fact that you two secretly got married last month. I heard it from Elsie Alexander, who heard it from her sister-in-law, Charlene, who’s brother’s ex-wife works at the courthouse over in Manitou County.”

  Holy crap. This is not happening. This whacky woman is not standing here, lecturing me on my stepson/nephew’s behavior while trying to confirm the latest small-town gossip.

  “Mrs. Pfeffernusse,” I begin coolly, “I don’t see how our marital status is any of your concern. And I’ll thank you not to spread your tawdry gossip about us to everyone in Mayhem.”

  Now, if it’d been Jameson saying this to Pfeffernosy,
the woman would be soundly chastised and ashamed at this point. But I’m not Jameson. And this lady’s not anything but amused as she just smirks and quirks an eyebrow. She’s a smirker and a quirker, this one. “Regardless,” I say, casting around for an alternative point, “this is about Jackson…”

  “Pffft. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years of preparing the Christmas pageant.”

  My eyes follow hers to Jackson, whose head swivels back to the wall when he realizes he’s been caught peeking in our direction.

  “I think maybe you’re being a bit extreme here—”

  “Extreme? Extreme, Mr. Clarke? I realize that you are of the…Protestant inclination,” she says, the word dripping with disdain, “but, surely, you are aware of the sanctity of the baby Jesus in the manger…”

  “Well, yeah, of course,” I manage to mutter before she steamrolls me again.

  “So to have such a blatant disregard for the most precious of icons is just…well, it’s just blasphemy, Mr. Clarke!”

  I snort. I just can’t help myself.

  “Mr. Clarke, I hardly think this is a laughing matter!” And that’s when she opens the top drawer of her desk and pulls out the headless, plastic carcass. She dangles it by one of its tiny, grubby hands.

  That’s when I totally lose it. I’m laughing so hard I have to double over and grab my sides. Tears run down my face, and I can’t catch my breath. And, all the while, Phyliss Pfeffernoodle—or whatever her name is—glares at me, growing a darker shade of crimson by the second.

  “Mister Clarke!” she hisses. “Please! Compose yourself!”

  It takes a few more hysterical seconds, but I somehow manage to get control over my body.

  “Ummm…so…what’s the problem now?” I ask in a slightly choked voice as I use the back of my hand to wipe the moisture from my face.

  “The head, Mr. Clarke!” she practically spits at me. “The little boy will not tell me where he hid the head!”

  It takes everything I have not to break down again.