Chapter Thirty-Three
Hennessy
By the time I get downstairs, Donovan has made his way in, and I smell fresh coffee and eggs coming from the kitchen. Sure enough, Father Romance is sitting at the bar reading his newspaper. He looks up and smiles when I walk out of the back of the pub.
“Good morning, Hennessey. Quite a tempest we’ve got going on out there, eh?” he says.
“Sure is,” I reply, trying to muster a normal tone. “I’m afraid it’s going to hamper our business today, though. And we really, really needed it to be busy for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I know. The timing is less than ideal. But don’t worry, love, it will be fine. The Lord will provide,” he assures me. I feel the urge to dispute this statement, but I just don’t have the energy. Or the heart, for that matter.
Reading about all those people who were hurt by Bryan and his family made my blood run cold. How could I have been so very wrong about him? It doesn’t even seem possible that he’d be capable of such a thing. But there it was, in black and white.
“Eggs are up!”
I’m surprised to see that it’s Jameson who brings out Father Romance’s breakfast and not Donovan.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I thought you might like a little help this morning. And since Bailey’s home from school today, she offered to watch Jackson.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I grumble. “It’s silly for you to trudge through this mess to get here.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” James says softly. “No need to get upset. We just thought it’d be a good idea for you to have some backup in case Bryan showed up again.”
“Bryan’s gone,” Donovan says as he comes out of the kitchen carrying a plate of toast. “Here, Father, I forgot to send out your whole grain, lightly buttered.”
“Thank you, son,” the priest says without looking up. “What do you mean he’s gone?”
“Uh, just that I saw him this morning. I was shoveling the driveway for Miss Lucy when I saw him put his suitcase in his car and drive off. I asked him where he was headed, but I guess he didn’t hear me. Looked as if he was going for good.”
I feel a weight on my chest, and it slams the breath from my lungs. I don’t know what I expected. I told him to go. He needed to go. So he went. Why should it matter?
They’re all peering at me curiously now.
“Did you know he was leaving, Henny?” Father Romance asks me slowly.
“I–I, uh, may have told him he should go,” I reply softly, hearing the catch in my voice and hating myself for it.
“Why on earth would you do that, child,” he asks, concern coming off him in waves. “I thought things were going so well between you. Why would you send him away?”
“No.” I shake my head and feel tears streaming down my face. “No, no. Bryan isn’t a good guy. He hurt people. Truitt isn’t even his real name,” I say, sounding more like I’m defending myself than accusing him.
Donovan slips back into the kitchen, clearly wanting to be out of this emotional mess. Father Romance, however, is sitting right in the thick of it.
“And do you believe this to be true?” he asks me, his dark, bushy brows furrowed.
“Well, it was there, in the article… He was charged with defrauding people out of millions of dollars,” I explain, going on to briefly recap the story I’d read, Father Romance and Jameson hanging on every word.
“How long ago did this supposedly occur?” he asks when I’ve finished.
“Uh…about five years ago.”
“Hennessy, child, a person doesn’t steal that kind of money from that many people and walk away five years later with a thriving business.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent. He tries another tack.
“Where did you get this information, anyway?”
“Jonathan Pettit. The loan trustee. He recognized Bryan from when it was in the news and in the papers. He said he thought I should know what kind of a man he was.”
“Okay…so, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he says gently. “The man whose job it is to sell this place if you default on the loan—the one who gets a commission of the selling price if he does—he’s the one who told you Bryan Truitt—”
“Broadmore,” I correct him.
“Fine, fine…Broadmore. He’s the one who told you that Bryan is trying to swindle you. Is that right, Hennessy? Have I got that right, love?”
Father Romance’s tone is kind and gentle, but his words feel hard to me, and I’m taken aback by how much it stings. I nod dumbly.
“Jameson, would you please give Hennessy and me a moment alone?” he asks, and she nods, silently going back to the office.
I clear my throat awkwardly and look down at the bar.
Dammit! Why am I the one who feels embarrassed and ashamed? I didn’t do anything wrong.
Father Romance pats the stool next to him.
“Come here, my dear girl.”
I do as he says, walking around to the other side of the bar and taking a seat by his side.
“Tell me, Hennessy, do you recall your First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse seven?”
The popular verse comes immediately to my mind and my tongue.
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” I recite.
“Exactly,” Father Romance affirms with a kindly smile. “When the Bible tells us that love believes all things, it isn’t implying that love is gullible or ignorant. It means that if we love, we see the best in others. We do not think the worst. Do you understand, child? Love will not be deceived, yet it will always give the benefit of the doubt.”
I shake my head, my mind awash in confusion and conflicting emotions. Love. He keeps talking about love…
“You’re saying I should’ve listened to what he had to say,” I whisper at last.
“I am,” he agrees with a nod. “Or, rather, our Lord is saying you should’ve listened to what he had to say. Because there’s also Luke six, Henny. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’”
I suck in my breath involuntarily. He’s right. I passed judgment on someone—someone I’d come to care about. Someone I’d come to maybe love…just a little.
“Have you prayed about all this?” he asks, his voice soft and kind in response to my clear anguish.
“Yes, Father,” I whisper. “Yes, I have. But God doesn’t seem to hear my prayers.” My voice breaks as the tears finally come. The tears that I’ve been holding back since I returned to Mayhem. The priest reaches across the distance between us and puts his large hand on my shoulder.
“Look at me,” he directs me, and I can’t disobey him. In this light, his eyes are black and shiny, like onyx. They pull me in, and somehow he’s able to calm and comfort me with just his expression. “I’ve spoken about prayer a thousand times during my sermons. Surely you recall what I’ve said on the topic?”
I take a shaky breath and nod.
“Then tell me, child. What have I said about it?”
“That we should pray for guidance and support,” I whisper and am rewarded with his huge, dimpled smile.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. The Lord always hears your prayers, Hennessy. But not every prayer is answered because not every prayer is God’s will. So, now you pray for God’s will to be done. You pray that Bryan will be blessed and guided, same as you. You pray that whoever ends up with this bar—whatever it becomes—that it will help bring the people of this community together.”
These last words send a fresh wave of sobs to heave and shake my body. Father Romance puts his hand to my cheek and wipes the tears with his thumb, the way my father used to do when I was a child.
“It’s all going to be all right, Hennessy. I promise you. Put your faith in God, and He will take care of you. Always, always, always.”
I jump to my feet and wrap my arms around my longtime confidant, spiritual advisor, and friend, reveling in the feel of strong warm hands patting my back with comfort and love.
And I pray.