Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters)

by L. E. Rico

  “Those are pretty good,” I concede. “And I actually did offer—but James doesn’t want Jackson to feel left out if the baby has a pub name and he doesn’t.”

  “It’ll be like he’s not a member of ‘the club’ or something,” Jameson adds. “He’s been so sensitive about all this baby stuff lately…I just want him to feel included.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” Hennessy agrees.

  Whichever child it is who’s in her possession at the moment—Mick?—opens his mouth for a huge grin, not bothering to open his eyes which are—we’ve been told—the same shade of blue his mother has.

  “Oh my God! Did you see that?” Henny whispers to Bryan. “Little Bud’s first yawn!”

  “What? Oh no! I missed it!” Bryan laments. “Jeez, you can’t blink without them doing something new. And cute. And smart. Is it just me, or are these little guys like exceptionally smart? And handsome! Most babies come out looking like plucked chickens but not our boys! These two could do a diaper commercial tomorrow!”

  I smile to myself, happy to see how proud my friend is. I happen to know that when they got married, he was having some big-time anxiety about being a father. But, here he is, a year later and you’d think he was born to do this.

  It makes me think there might just be hope for me after all. We’ve got nearly two months to find out…and, while that’s not such a long time, something tells me it’s going to be a very long stretch.

  …

  Bud and Mick get their first official Mayhem welcome when they turn three weeks old. O’Halloran’s Pub closes to the public on the last Sunday in January to allow friends, family, and neighbors the chance to come out and see the latest additions to the clan.

  By now they’re much more alert—opening their eyes and even smiling. I can almost tell them apart…almost.

  “Want some practice?” Hennessy asks with just a hint of amusement when she catches me watching as she bounces and jiggles a fussy Mick. Or is that Bud?

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait till he’s a little less cranky,” I inform Henny.

  She smiles. “Suit yourself. But soon you won’t be able to pick and choose your moments. Daddy is a full-time job!”

  “Yeah, so I’ve noticed. Poor Bryan looks like an extra from The Walking Dead! Don’t you guys ever sleep? Jeez, I’d have thought that having not one but two nannies would guarantee you at least a little sleep…”

  “My friend, when there’s a baby in the house, absolutely no sleep is guaranteed. For anyone,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, well, I still wish I could convince your sister that we should get some extra help. Even if you did snatch up the two best nannies in Magawa County.”

  “Yes,” she agrees without hesitation. “Yes, I did—with the help of James. But I might be persuaded to share one from time to time. Look how well they get on together!”

  The nannies, Penny, the Aussie, and Theta, the one who looks like she’s dressed for a USO dance—are double teaming the other child—whichever that one might be. Penny’s carrying him, holding his little body a little bit of a distance out from her, the sour expression on her face saying it all. The kid is ripe. Besides her, Theta is rummaging through a diaper bag as they make their way to the door that leads to the back of the pub, presumably to go to the apartment upstairs. I hope they don’t wake Jameson, who slipped up there for a rest pretty soon after we arrived.

  We’re less than a month out from the arrival of our own stinky little bundle of joy, and it’s hit James like a ton of bricks. She’s taken early leave at work and spends most of her time sleeping. Unfortunately, Jax hasn’t taken too well to his mother’s absence.

  “Uh oh…” Hennessy mutters, pointing to the far corner of the room where Win, his lady friend, Myra, Jackson, and Myra’s son, Billy, are all crowded into a booth.

  Jackson gives Billy a little shove, and Win leans down to say something in his son’s ear, a stern expression on his face. We’re distracted when a cheer goes up from the bar—a cocktail shaker flying up into the air, spinning and dropping down into the familiar hands of Phyllis Pfeffernusse’s nephew, J.B.

  “Hey, since when is he working here?” I ask with a nod in the beefy guy’s direction.

  “He’s not. Things got a little backed up behind the bar, and he just kind of stepped in. I’m amazed Walker hasn’t chewed him up and spit him out yet. She must like him. Anyway, tell me, how’s my sister holding up? All she’ll say is that she’s fine.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know about ‘fine.’ Honestly, I think she just hasn’t wanted to worry you with the babies and all. She spends a lot of time resting in bed—which is fine by me. The only thing is that she doesn’t want to set foot outside. We’re only here now for the babies.”

  “Oh! I told her to stay home! Poor thing’s exhausted.”

  I’m about to comment when a blood-curdling scream silences the entire room. All eyes are on Jackson, who’s standing on his chair, holding a tiny toy train over his head.

  “Miiiiiiiine!” he yowls as Billy tries, unsuccessfully to climb up on the table. “Noooooooo! It’s miiiiiiiiiine, Billlllly! Leave it!”

  I can see my brother muttering something from here. He tries, unsuccessfully, to wrench the train from his son’s hand, causing the three year old to have a total and utter meltdown. The kid gets down from the chair, drops onto the floor, and crawls under the table of the booth, wailing at the top of his lungs the whole time.

  “Oh, boy,” I mumble, “I’d better go see what’s happening over there…”

  I leave Henny to tend to her children and her guests and head over to see if I can help. Win is on his hands and knees now, trying, unsuccessfully, to reach his son, who has scooted so far back that we’ll have to actually move the table to get to him.

  “Jackson! That’s quite enough!” Win spits. “Come out right. Now!”

  “It’s mine! Mine, mine, mine!” the toddler screeches in return.

  “Here, let me try,” I offer, dropping down onto my haunches next to my brother.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” he mutters.

  “Hey, Jax, don’t you want to come out and see your new baby cousins?”

  His big green eyes narrow suspiciously.

  “It’s myyyyyyyyy train, Unca Sock. Mine!”

  “No! My train!” Billy yells belligerently, adding to the growing chaos. “Mine, mine, mine, mine!”

  “Billy! Stop that!” Myra chides her son.

  And then they’re both yowling and wailing in turns—Jackson rocking the table from underneath and Billy banging on it with a second train car that, for some reason, isn’t as attractive to either of them than the identical one my nephew has taken with him down below.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What’s all this ruckus over here!” Father Romance calls out loudly, trying to be heard over the din.

  “They’re fighting over a train car,” Win explains. “And now Jackson won’t come out…”

  In a flash, the good Father is down on his hands and knees, smiling at Jackson, who continues to cry.

  “Oh, come now, son, I’m sure you and little Billy here can share the train.” He extends his arm—which is longer than either mine or Win’s—and has nearly gotten Jax to take his hand when he gets ambushed from above.

  We’re all so focused on Jackson that no one is paying attention to Billy—who, apparently—is no angel either. The duplicate train sails through the air with uncanny force and precision, landing squarely on the priestly posterior—AKA…the holy Roman rump.

  “Owwwww!” Father romance cries out, twisting around to see what kind of missile he’s been assaulted with, only to bang his head squarely—and heavily—on the underside of the table.

  The stream of expletives that fly from Father Romance’s mouth are enough to make a sailor blush. They make me burst out laughing. Win, also struck by the hopeless hilarity of the situation, joins me and, in a few moments, we’re howling as loud as the kids are.

 
; That’s when the whistle comes.

  It’s loud and shrill enough to cut through the cacophony and make everyone in a three-miles radius stop in their tracks. My cackle winds down as I look up to see Phyllis’s nephew, J.B., staring at us.

  “Seriously?” he says with more than a little disgust.

  I start to sputter out a defense, but the guy drops to the hardwood floor, elbowing everyone aside, including the injured Father Romance, who’s getting to his feet slowly with the help of Walker.

  “Hey, Jackson, whatcha doing down here?” the man asks curiously.

  “I hiding,” the kid informs him with a pout.

  “Time to come out, little man.”

  “No!”

  “See?” I say, feeling vindicated that the boy is giving Mr. Mom here a hard time, too.

  J.B. glares at me over his shoulder but doesn’t say anything. When he turns back toward the cave under the table, he extends a big hand out.

  “Okay, c’mon. Out ya go.”

  To my absolute astonishment, Jackson gives a frustrated huff and crawls out, taking the proffered hand.

  “My train,” Jax mutters.

  “You know what? I’ve got something way better than a train. Give that to your friend and I’ll show you.”

  The child seems to consider this for a moment, decides to take what’s behind door number two, and hands his father the contentious toy as he hops out, easily springing to his feet so the man can lead him away from the table and over to the bar.

  “Holy. Crap,” Win mumbles. “Who is that guy?”

  “He’s Jackson’s new nanny,” I say.

  And Win doesn’t protest.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jameson

  February

  It’s been two months since I moved out of the little house on Orange Avenue—the one that I shared with Walker and Bailey—and moved in with Scott.

  My husband.

  My husband, Scott.

  I just love to say that. I just love being a newlywed again. Although, this time around, it’s a whole lot less sexy and a whole lot more uncomfortable. I’ve moved on from appearing to have swallowed a basketball…to appearing to have swallowed a watermelon. Whole. A big watermelon. It felt as if one night I went to bed, marveling that you still couldn’t tell I was pregnant from the back—even in my third trimester—to waking up in the body of a piñata.

  With a few weeks to go yet before we seriously start the baby countdown, I gave Scott permission to go ice fishing with his father and his brother. Once this baby comes, he’ll be lucky if he gets out of this house for anything but work and diaper runs. He made me promise I’d let J.B. take Jackson off my hands for a few hours tonight before bedtime and even arranged for my sisters to bring me some dinner.

  “Are you sure about this?” Walker asks. She and Bailey are sitting at the dining room table, helping me to eat the Chinese takeout they brought.

  “About J.B.? Ohhhhhhh yeah,” I mumble through a mouthful of my second eggroll.

  “I have to admit, he’s a decent enough bartender…but nanny?”

  “We did a thorough background check on him,” I assure her. “He was in the military—some special forces unit. He’s been helping Phyllis with the kids at the nursery school for a while now—I just didn’t know. He had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get certification to work with children. I can’t say he’s great with adults, but man, does he know how to handle a three-year-old!”

  “I know!” Bailey agrees enthusiastically. “It’s like he’s some kind of ‘toddler whisperer’ or something.”

  “So, what does the J.B. stand for, anyway?” Walker demands, still not convinced. “Sounds kinda shady to me.”

  “His initials sound shady to you?” I chuckle. “Well, you’ll appreciate this especially,” I promise. “His given name is Jack Black Daniels.”

  My sisters stare at me for a long moment.

  “Seriously?” Bailey asks.

  I hold up my palm as if I’m taking an oath. “Seriously.”

  “Walker, that’s so close to your name!” Bailey exclaims, clearly tickled by the similarity of Jack Black Daniels and Johnny Walker Black O’Halloran—which is her full name.

  For whatever reason, this revelation seems to soften Walker just a hair. She’s always had a love/hate relationship with the moniker, and I imagine finding someone with a similar cross to bear has its attraction.

  “Well…I’m gonna be keeping an eye on him,” she promises. But the suspicion is gone from her tone now.

  “Good. He’s in the playroom downstairs with him right now. Why don’t you go hang out there for a little while?” I suggest without any hint of pretext. “You know, just so he knows you’re keeping an eye on him…”

  My sister checks to see if I’m teasing, and finding me to be serious—or, at least, doing a good job at pretending to be—hops up from the table, grabbing the last pair of spring rolls and a bottle of pop on her way toward the basement. When she’s safely out of earshot, Bailey and I look at one another and smile.

  “Oh, she is so intrigued!” my youngest sister says excitedly. “I knew it! I knew she was checking him out.”

  “Well, near as I can tell—she could definitely do worse,” I agree. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you…intrigued…by anyone?”

  She quirks a golden blonde brow over her china blue eyes.

  “Jameson, I thought you were sick and tired of us bringing you all of our drama,” she reminds me.

  I sigh deeply, rubbing my huge tummy in an attempt to break up some of the gas bubbles that have been giving me so much discomfort all day.

  “I am. I was, anyway…but right now I’m desperate for a little drama. I’m climbing the walls here! Scott’s afraid it’s too icy for me to go out anywhere. And I’m too big and too tired, anyway. But then, when I try to sleep, I can’t get comfortable…and I have to get up for the bathroom every five minutes. Like now…” I use the tabletop to brace my arm so I can lumber up onto my feet.

  And that’s when I feel the wetness rushing down onto my southern hemisphere. “Oh…no…!” I groan, puckering my face in disgust.

  Of course I can’t make it to the bathroom! Why would I? Why allow me that last little bit of humility!

  “Go ahead,” I tell Bailey with a dismissive wave of my hand, “make fun of your huge sister who can’t even hold her bladder long enough to walk twenty feet to the bathroom.”

  But Bailey’s not making fun of me—she’s staring at me. With growing alarm. Even as I’m watching, her eyes grow huge, and her face pales.

  “Walker!” she screams so loud that I’m sure the neighbors can hear. “Walker! Come quick!”

  “What, Bailey? What is it?” I ask, hearing the warble in my own voice. But I know. Somewhere, deep inside, I know. And I can’t look down—because if I do…then that means it’s really happening. Every single second that I can keep from looking down is a second more that I don’t know for sure…

  “Jeez, Bailey!” Walker grumbles as the door to the basement slams open, and she stomps down the hall. She stops dead in her tracks. “Oh my God,” she whispers when she gets a look at me. “Jameson…you’re…there’s blood—”

  “Call an ambulance, Bailey,” I murmur, slowly lowering myself back down into the chair, wincing at the feel of my sodden leggings against my thighs. It must be coming fast because I feel woozy all of a sudden. And cold. “Walker, I need you to help me get on the floor,” I say, hearing my own voice grow weaker.

  “What? Why?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at Bailey, who’s on the phone with the 911 operator.

  “Because I’m going to pass out soon and I don’t want to fall. I might hurt the baby…” That is, if there still is a baby.

  No. No, no, no, no. I’m not going there.

  “Come on,” I order as harshly as I can, holding out my arm.

  It takes every ounce of strength the tall but thin Walker
has just to help me scoot off the chair and slide down—first to my knees, then onto my side, and, finally, onto my back.

  “They’re on the way, James,” Bailey says from far above me. She grabs a pillow from the couch and squats down, putting it under my neck.

  “Listen to me,” I tell them while the spots start to dance across my line of vision. “Walker, you go downstairs and tell J.B. what’s going on. See if he can stay with Jackson for a while—maybe overnight.”

  My sister nods her understanding and jumps up, heading toward the basement door at a jog. I turn to Bailey.

  “Honey, I’m really sorry to ask you to do this, but I need your help. I don’t want Jax to come up here and see all this blood…”

  “Don’t you worry, Jameson. I’m on it. Walker can go with you in the ambulance. I’ll clean up here and meet you there. But…what about Scott?”

  “Wait until I’m on my way to the hospital, then try to get either Win or Big Win on their cells. If they’re out of range, call them at the lodge—the number’s on the fridge. Tell them what’s going on and let them tell Scott, okay? It’s really important that he doesn’t get all panicky and hop in the car to rush back here. It’s icy out there… Do you understand?”

  Bailey, my sweet baby sister, nods stoically. Poor thing. She had to grow up too fast after our mother died. She’s strong and independent…but when I look in her face now, all I see is that terrified, shocked little girl who stood by Mama’s coffin. I reach out, and she takes my hand in hers.

  “Jameson…” she begins but then stops.

  “I know, honey. I know.”

  I’m still looking into those blue, blue eyes when I hear the wail of the ambulance in the distance, and the world around me starts to go dark.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Scott

  February

  The day that my first child is meant to come into this world is the worst day of my life. My father and Win are trying to distract me with inane platitudes about how everything will be okay and how Jameson is a strong, strong woman. I ignore them, too far gone down the rabbit hole of my own terror and guilt.