Chapter Twenty-Two
Bryan
Truittism No. 11: The apple may not fall far from the tree…but that doesn’t mean it won’t roll the hell out from under it.
The kid called me a douche. Again. This time, in front of an entire congregation and God Almighty Himself. That little hiccup aside, the polka mass wasn’t bad at all. I’ve been to a Catholic mass before, mostly for weddings and funerals, and I actually enjoy the ritual of it. This, though…this was something else. Kinda fun, actually.
Jameson took Jackson and ducked out during the final hymn so she could get the afternoon meal ready. Right now, Hennessy and I are waiting in the line of parishioners filing past Father Romance. One by one, they shake his hand before exiting into the crisp, frozen morning. When I reach him, I hold out my hand, but he grabs me instead, capturing me in a bear hug that pushes every bit of air from my lungs.
“Bryan, son, I was so happy to look out and see your face this morning. You are welcome in this church any time,” he tells me, adding a slightly painful slap to my back.
“Thank you, Father,” I gasp, drawing a huge breath when he finally lets go of me. “It was a very cool service.”
He beams down with those impish eyes.
“I’m glad you liked it. It’s a favorite of ours around here. Where are you off to, then? Care to join me for a pint at the pub?”
“Uh, no, I can’t. I’ve been invited to Jameson’s house for supper,” I explain regretfully. He has no idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
His dark, bushy brows draw together in concern as he looks from me to Hennessy and back again.
“You’re bringing him to a meal with Win Clarke? And little Jackson?” he asks her.
“Jameson’s doing, not mine,” Hennessy explains, holding up her palms to indicate her lack of involvement in this plan.
Father Romance nods, and I see the unmistakable shadow of pity pass across his face. Maybe he does have an idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
“I’ll say a prayer for you, Bryan,” he murmurs, so no one else will hear. “A word of advice: sit as far away from the high chair as you can. Understand?”
I nod dumbly and wonder what fresh hell awaits me—so heinous that even the local priest seems to fear for my safety. Or maybe it’s my soul he fears for. Probably both.
…
I leave my car at the church and ride with Hennessy in her SUV. It’s not nearly as rustic as I imagined. Leather seats, nice sound system, moon roof… Yeah, I might just be able to trade in my luxury sedan for one of these babies. Maybe.
“Thanks for letting me join you all,” I say with a glance over to the driver’s seat. She’s all buttoned up in her parka right now, but I happen to know that there’s a delightfully short skirt and tights under there. The thought brings a smile to my lips. She notices.
“Wow, you really did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?” she marvels, misreading my lecherous thoughts.
“Oh yeah,” I assure her. “You have a nice family. I can see why the pub means so much to all of you.”
Her turn to shoot me a glance, though hers is more perplexed.
“Bryan, just tell me, please…”
“What?”
“We both know you could just as easily pick up this property from L.A. if it goes to foreclosure. We both know you don’t need to be here. So…why are you here? I mean, really? I’m tired of doing this crazy love/hate dance we’ve been doing.”
“Did you say ‘love’?”
Her brows furrow as she takes an exit off the interstate.
“It’s an expression.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree, “but a very telling one, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t respond, but she does turn on her blinker and pull over to the side of the road in a suburban development.
“What? Are we here?” I ask, twisting around in my seat.
She huffs impatiently.
“No, we are not here. I stopped because it’s time we addressed this whole…situation…don’t you think?”
I consider her expression carefully. She’s calm. And she’s serious. And she’s right.
“Look, Hennessy, I don’t really know what the answer is. I came here to get a deal done and get out of town as fast as possible. Except now…”
“Now what?” she presses when my voice trails off.
“Except now I kind of don’t want to leave. I like this place. I like the people who live here. I like…you. A lot.”
There. I’ve said it out loud. No innuendo.
She blinks hard, her cool blue eyes never leaving mine. What’s going on in there? I can’t tell if she’s about to kick me to the curb—literally—or…
Before I can come up with an alternative, she’s responding to my declaration.
“Yeah, I know,” she agrees softly. “I like you, too. A lot.”
“What I told you the other day about my family? I’ve never told anyone about that. There’s just something about you that makes me want to spill my guts. I swear to God, this has never happened to me before. With anyone.”
She smiles, seemingly pleased with that little confession.
“We’d better go. James will be waiting for us.”
Okay, then. I guess that’s the end of this discussion. Though, I can’t say I’m any closer to understanding this situation than I was ten minutes ago. Except, of course, that she likes me, too. A lot. I’m grinning from ear to ear by the time we arrive at the front door of her sister’s house.
Hennessy lets herself in, and I follow into a two-story vestibule. The Clarkes’s home is beautiful, much newer and bigger and fancier than the houses in Mayhem proper. Miss Lucy clued me in that this area is very “spendy.” She wasn’t kidding.
“Come on,” she coaxes, gesturing for me to follow her down the hall. “My brother-in-law is dying to meet you. He thinks the rest of us are small-town rubes—even though he grew up here like the rest of us.”
She rolls her eyes at me over her shoulder as I follow her down the corridor and into the den.
“Okay…”
When Win Clarke Jr. stands up to greet me, he is incredibly familiar. Not because I know him, specifically, but because I’ve known a hundred guys just like him. He’s tall and broad with boyish good looks. His hair is sandy blond, his eyes are pale blue, and his smile is bright and wide. He’s the student body president, the prom king, and the captain of the football team all rolled into one.
“Bryan Truitt, this is my brother-in-law, Win Clarke,” Hennessy introduces us before drawing my attention to an older man. “And that dashing gentleman sitting in the recliner over there is Win’s father, Winston Clarke Sr. But we all call him Big Win.”
He stands up and joins us, Hennessy giving him a hug and planting a kiss on his cheek as I exchange grips with the younger Clarke.
“Good to meet you,” Win says, pumping my hand hard. “What can I get you to drink?”
I notice the beer bottles on the coffee table.
“I’ll have a bottle of whatever you’re drinking.”
“Would you like something, Henny?”
“Not right now, thanks, Win.”
He nods and ducks across the hall toward what I presume is the kitchen. At least, that’s where the amazing smells are coming from.
“So, Mr. Clarke, I understand you’ve recently retired.”
He nods. “Please, please, call me Big Win,” he insists in a voice that’s somehow both soft and commanding. “Yes, I have. Thought it’d be nice to get in some fishing and spend some more time with the grandson.”
“Ah yes, little Jackson.”
It’s all I have to say. A knowing smile crosses his features.
“He’s a handful, that one,” he chuckles. “But, then again, so was his father.”
“Now, Dad, you know I was an angelic child,” Win calls from the hallway as he returns with a Michelob for me. “Well, angelic by Jackson standards, anyway,” he groans, handing me the bottle.
“Thanks. Speaking of the little guy, where is he?”
“He’s hanging with Mommy in the kitchen,” Hennessy replies. “But he’s been asking for you, Brybry. Hey, Jackson,” she hollers toward the kitchen, “Brybry’s here.”
“Gee, thanks.” I chuckle when I hear a piercing squeal of delight.
“Brybry!”
Tiny footsteps can be heard as he makes his way toward us.
“Brybry!”
“In here, buddy,” his father answers and squats down to his level when the little boy comes careening into the den. He flings himself into his father’s outstretched arms, and Win plants several loud, sloppy kisses on the boy’s face.
Jackson chortles and squeals in response, then wraps his arms around Win’s neck.
I keep hearing what a jerk this guy is, but it’s clear he loves his son. I’m wondering if maybe the O’Halloran sisters’ view of their brother-in-law has to do with his treatment of Jameson rather than his overall demeanor. Maybe I’ll have a better idea by the time I leave here today.
“Brybry!”
Jackson points in my direction and squirms to get out of his father’s grasp.
“Do you mind?” Win asks.
“Not at all. Come over here, big guy.” I hold out my hands as an invitation, and he makes the leap from Win to me. “Wow, this kid’s solid,” I marvel once I’ve got him.
“Oh yeah,” Big Win agrees. “Another trait his father had, too.”
“Not to mention his grandpa,” Win teases, patting his father’s paunch.
The older man smiles and shrugs.
“What can I say? Your mother was an excellent cook, son.”
“That she was,” Win agrees. “Speaking of which, my wife has asked us to make our way to the dining room. Come here, Jax. Let daddy put you in your high chair—”
“No, daddy, no! Brybry!”
Win looks at me.
“Do you mind? It’s really simple. Just help him into it and fasten the little seat belt that’s attached.”
“All good,” I agree and follow Hennessy to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on a backyard that could pass for a national park.
The dining table is a long farmhouse table with distressed wood planks atop chunky white legs. Large, rustic ladder-back chairs flank each side, and matching Windsor chairs sit at either end.
I locate the high chair and secure Jackson, then make a move to sit on the other side of the table. But His Majesty isn’t having it.
“Nooooooo! Brybry! Nooooooo. Staaaaaaaay!”
“I think he wants you to stay,” Hennessy notes as she takes the seat next to the one the screecher wants me to occupy.
“That’s enough, Jackson,” his father warns him as he sets a large platter of ham in the center of the table.
The baby grins at his father and bats his eyelashes. Funny, I thought that only worked in romantic situations, but even I find myself enchanted by the huge green eyes fringed with long red lashes.
“No worries,” I assure Win. “As long as he doesn’t call me a…you know…then I think we’re in good shape.”
Win snorts.
“The day’s still young, Bryan. The day’s still young…”
He disappears back into the kitchen. Big Win sits across from me, and Bailey materializes out of nowhere.
“Hey,” she says with a nod in my direction.
“Oh, hi! Where’d you come from?”
“I had a youth choir rehearsal after service.”
“You sing? Nice.”
“Oh, she sings like an angel,” Hennessy adds. “She had a solo in the Christmas cantata last year.”
“I’m going to sing at Hennessy’s wedding,” Bailey announces proudly, just as Win and Jameson return to the table with side dishes and take their seats.
“Congratulations,” I offer Hennessy, only half kidding. Bailey’s comment has me wondering if there’s someone waiting in the wings that I don’t know about. Someone with serious intentions. Of the marital variety. My stomach churns at the prospect.
Hennessy rolls her eyes.
“She’s been saying that since she was five,” she explains. “Someday, Bailey. But not anytime soon.”
“Okay, okay, all that polkaing has made me ravenous,” Jameson declares dramatically. “Win, would you like to say grace?”
“Nope. I’ll pass,” he says lightly, ignoring the beseeching look he’s getting from his wife. “I’m not Catholic,” he informs me.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t say grace,” Jameson reminds him. “It might be nice if your son saw you do it once in a while.”
But Win just shrugs.
“I’ll do it,” Hennessy pipes up, bringing the sunniness back to her sister’s face. She begins to cross herself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
I follow suit, slightly behind for my inexperience at the action.
“Heavenly Father,” she begins in a tone that is both reverent and sweet. “Thank You for this day of song and worship. And thank You for the love of friends and family.” She pauses to clear her throat, and when she resumes again, her voice is a little softer than previously. “Thank You especially for our newest friend, Bryan. We pray that You will watch over us and guide us with Your divine presence, that we may be of service to You. In Jesus’s name, we pray, Amen.”
We all cross again, echoing her “Amen.”
“Thank you, Hennessy,” I murmur. “That was really nice.”
I’m not used to being the subject of other people’s prayers, and it’s kind of touching, actually.
“We’re happy to have you Bryan,” Jameson pipes up. “Now, dig in, everyone!”
She passes a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes to her left and an equally impressive serving of green beans to her right. In the center of the table is the spiral ham, slathered in brown sugar glaze. I spot a basket of crescent rolls and reach for it at exactly the same instant as Hennessy.
“Oh, sorry,” she murmurs when our hands touch.
“No, please,” I insist, pulling my hand away and holding my palm out like a game show hostess highlighting the attributes of a prize.
“Oh no, you first…”
Win snorts.
“You two sound more like you’re on a first date than like adversaries.”
We all let the comment go, and I grab a roll for the sake of restoring peace to the table. After that, I load up my plate with a sampling of everything on the table. Miss Lucy’s hotdish aside, I can’t recall the last time I had a meal that didn’t come in a cardboard container.
“Everything is fantastic, Jameson,” I say appreciatively, shoveling another forkful into my mouth.
“Thank you, Bryan.” She beams, and I’m struck by how lovely all of the O’Halloran sisters are. Even the sullen Walker, who’s nowhere to be found.
“So, Bryan, you’re from L.A.,” Big Win comments. “I imagine outstate Minnesota must be quite a culture shock for you.”
“It certainly is,” I reply with a grin. “I had a little trouble getting used to it at first, but it’s starting to grow on me. Of course, I haven’t had to contend with a snowstorm yet.”
“Yeah, one good wallop and we might see Bryan making a run back to the beaches and the bikinis.” Win Jr. snorts.
I shrug noncommittally and reach for my beer.
“Actually, Bryan’s renting an office from King Colby,” Hennessy tells him. “He’s working on some other Midwestern projects out of there.”
“Is that so?” Win asks, his eyes narrowing a little. “Now, why would you want to do that? I imagine back in L.A. you’ve got yourself some fancy corner office in a high-rise and a secretary built like a brick—”
“Win!” Jameson cuts him off with a tilt of her head toward Jackson, who’s happily sculpting his mashed potatoes with his bare hands.
He nods his understanding. “Anyway, why are you hanging around here in Mayhem, Bryan?”
“I like it here.”
My statement is clear and direct and firm and brooks no room for further comment on the matter. Or at least I thought so.
Win raises his eyebrows as if waiting for more, and I raise mine to mirror his. Finally, he takes another turn at bat.
“How long do you plan to stick around Mayhem?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll see how I’m feeling at the end of the month.”
He’s about to say something else when I catch Bailey’s eye and cut him off. “No Walker today?” I ask.
“Sleeping,” the youngest O’Halloran informs me. “She was tending bar last night, and she didn’t get home till after two in the morning.”
“Wow, must’ve been busy,” I comment.
“Hardly,” Win snorts. “Once that new sports bar opened, everyone ditched O’Halloran’s. I mean, my father-in-law was a great guy, but he didn’t have a clue as to how to keep up with the younger generation. Nobody wants an Irish pub these days. They want half-price apps and video poker and—”
“Win, please,” Jameson says quietly from her end of the table. “Can we just have a pleasant meal together without bringing all of this up?”
Her husband holds his palms up toward the crown molding.
“James, I don’t mean any offense. Whatever his reasons for sticking around, I just think maybe Bryan being here is a sign that you should let it go once and for all.”
He turns to me again, and I’m immediately on guard. No good can come of this conversation, at this time, in this place. Someone is going to leave this table pissed off, and it won’t be me.
“You don’t want to tell us why you feel like hanging around, fine. But let’s just cut to the chase here about the pub. You’ve obviously got big plans for that parcel of land. Plans that are going to net you some serious coin. So let’s forget about this asinine bet that makes absolutely no sense and just tell me what your highest offer is. Your real highest offer.”
A quick glance at the horrified expressions around the table tells me that no one expected this. No one except for me, that is. There’s always a guy like this. A guy who fancies himself a savvy businessman. And, you know, the strange thing is, Win really doesn’t mean any offense. He’s blunt and insensitive, but I can tell that, in his warped mind, he’s just trying to do right by his wife. Considering what this house must be worth and what he probably makes running the law firm, I don’t think this is about him wanting to get his hands on the cash. I try to keep this in mind as I address this question.
“You know, Win, there are certainly instances when I’m holding out for the best deal that I can get. But, as I’ve said, the town of Mayhem is growing on me. As are its residents,” I mention, with a casual glance to Hennessy on my right. “Besides, Hennessy is the executor of her father’s estate, and she’s already informed me that she doesn’t wish to sell the property at this time. But if she changes her mind—and if she wants you to—you should absolutely advise her during negotiations. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m trying to take advantage of a grieving daughter.”
He blinks once. Hard. Not what he was expecting.
“But beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t really say any more on the subject, as you have no interest in this property.”
I couldn’t resist. Just had to get that little dig in there.
Crap. What’s wrong with me? I know better than to antagonize a guy like Win.
“I represent the interests of my wife, not to mention those of my son,” he informs me in a tone that’s much less congenial than it was thirty seconds ago.
“Win…”
Jameson’s tone as she utters his name through gritted teeth should be setting off alarm bells in this guy’s head. But he’s too tone deaf to hear them.
“Uh-uh, James. Something’s not right about either this guy or this situation,” her husband counters a little too loudly.
“Son, I think you’d best take it down a notch,” advises Big Win in a calm, deliberate tone from the other side of the table.
“Dad, I think you need to stay out of this,” Win II spits at Win I.
Oh my. Things just got really interesting.
There is a long, very pregnant, very awkward, very disturbing pause.
“I suggest you check yourself, Winston,” Big Win says in the same quiet tone. “You’re out of line, son. Now, what say we enjoy this wonderful meal that Jameson has made for us and talk about something more pleasant? Why don’t you tell Bryan about the murder case that you caught last week.”
Yes, please, dear God, let’s talk about the murder. A much less thorny topic, for sure.
The son sniffs like a petulant teenager but begins, begrudgingly, to tell us the bizarre story of the woman he’s defending. She’s been accused of killing her husband with a frozen turkey then cooking the evidence and serving it to her in-laws.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I stop him, shaking my head. “Isn’t that the plot of an old movie? It sounds really familiar…”
Big Win grins and points his fork at me.
“Damn straight, Bryan. It was an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I suppose she figured it was old enough that no one would recall and suspect anything.”
“Holy shh…sugar!” I catch myself before I can give little potty-mouth any more ammunition to use against me.
“Nice.” Hennessy smiles appreciatively. “Glad to see you learned your lesson after the whole douche thing—” She stops cold, immediately realizing her mistake. We all do, including little Jackson Clarke, whose little laser focus is on me an instant before he yells:
“Doooooosh! Brybry dooooosh!”
Which comes an instant before he hurls a fistful of potato mush into my hair.
The entire table erupts at once. Hennessy slams a hand across her mouth just as Jameson throws her fork down on the table in exasperation. Bailey is literally falling out of her chair while Big Win shakes his head and chuckles. Even Win is having a hard time keeping the corners of his scowl from tilting up into a smile.
Out of the mouths of babes…