Chapter Four
Bryan
Truittism Number 3: Don’t judge a book by its cover…or its title.
It’s taken me the entire day to get to this godforsaken speck on the map. Three flights and one harrowing drive through the Arctic Circle later, I pull into the town of Mayhem, Minnesota. What a name.
The first thing that strikes me is the snow.
This is not the snow of film and television—light, fluffy, glittery flakes of goodness that serenely float down from the heavens. The snow I see now is heaped into scuzzy piles in parking lots, against buildings, and lining the sidewalks like filthy, muddy icebergs. This snow is pocked and scarred from rock salt. It’s dirty from sand and grime. This is not angelic snow. This is angry snow. Snow with an attitude.
“Ugh.” I scowl at it in disgust as I maneuver my rented Lexus sedan down Main Street.
I have no trouble spotting the pub, and I’m happy to find a clear spot to park directly across the street from the quaint two-story building. The building that I should own by now. I take a deep breath and put on my game face. Expensive car. Impeccably tailored suit. Hand-tooled, leather-soled Italian dress shoes. An Armani trench and a buttery leather briefcase. As I open the door and step out onto the street, I’m ready to make an impression Jack O’Halloran will never forget.
I cross the street, careful not to step in any slushy puddles, but when I get to the curb, I’m faced with a dilemma. Some genius has neglected to shovel a path through the stacked snow between the road and the sidewalk. I can either go over the three-foot mound or walk to the end of the block and come back around from the corner.
“Oh screw it,” I mutter, clutching my briefcase tightly and stepping up high to hoist myself over the berm.
No sooner does my foot land than it sinks, the snow beneath it giving way under my weight and leaving me with one leg embedded up to the thigh while the other dangles behind me. I grumble under my breath and try to extricate myself without falling forward or backward—I’m balancing precariously between the two. Except that my left leg—the free leg—doesn’t quite reach the asphalt, so I don’t have anything to push against for leverage in order to pull my right one out of its icy prison.
“What the—”
“Hey, you all right?” comes a female voice at close range.
I’ve been focusing so hard on this conundrum that I didn’t even notice I have an audience. Great. Just what I need, some local yokel come to gawk at the townie.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying, unsuccessfully, to yank myself free. I grunt in disgust at the bottom of my Armani trench, which is now covered in filth from dragging along this iceberg that has absorbed a quarter of my body. “Oh hell…”
“Funny, you don’t look fine.”
I tear myself away from my current predicament to examine the smart-ass on the sidewalk. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but she’s not it.
The woman I’m looking at is, quite simply, gorgeous. Like, heart-stoppingly beautiful. And the funny thing is, she’s not like the women I’m usually drawn to. This is the real girl next door. She’s dressed in jeans, her arms folded across the plaid flannel shirt she’s wearing over a tee that reads O’Halloran’s Pub. On her feet are a pair of boots—and I’m not talking about those tall, leather, spiky-heeled boots that women teeter around on in L.A. These are boot boots. Like the functional kind with navy blue rubber-bottoms and brown leather uppers that lace up high on her shins. Tufts of warm lining peek out around the collars.
Her hair is dirty blond, hanging down around her face in a messy tumble of untamed curls and waves. There’s an arc of freckles dotting the bridge of her slightly upturned nose, and her eyes are the brightest blue I think I’ve ever seen.
Wow.
I’m so busy looking that I’ve actually stopped hearing, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she’s just asked me a question.
“Excuse me?”
“I asked if you’re hurt,” she informs me as she wipes her hands on a half-apron wrapped around her waist.
“What? Oh no. No…just my pride,” I say with a sheepish grin. “I appear to be stuck.”
“So I see.”
“I…I guess I should’ve gone around to the corner instead of trying to climb Everest here,” I kid.
“I suppose you should have,” she says with a smirk. “Would you like some help, maybe?”
Hmmm. On the one hand, I’m embarrassed. On the other, I’ll get to touch this snow bunny. Oh yeah. Plan B it is.
“That would be great,” I say, offering up my most sincere, earnest smile. “Would you mind taking this for me?”
I hold my leather briefcase out, and she comes forward to take it from me. There, that’s better. Now I can use both hands to…to what?
“Here,” she says, coming closer and turning to her side. “Put a hand on my shoulder and see if that gives you enough leverage to pull your foot out.”
She doesn’t have to suggest it twice. I put a hand on her delicate frame and try to extricate myself. Unfortunately, the only thing I succeed in doing is sinking my other foot into the snow bank—though, not nearly as deep. That’s when I feel strong hands around my waist, pulling me backward. And up. And out. My feet slip and slide—first against the snow, and then on the slick road.
“Whoa! Hey…!”
“Hold on there, son, I’ve got you,” a deep voice says from behind me. Once I’m stable again, I feel his grip on me relax, and turn to thank the Good Samaritan, already speaking as I do.
“Thanks, man, I was good and stuck there… Jesus Christ!” I gasp in surprise, startled to find myself staring at a very tall, imposing figure. He’s got dark hair and eyes, and he’s wearing all black. That is, except for his white collar. A priest’s collar. He throws his head back in a loud laugh that echoes on the pavement and down the quiet block.
“Not quite, son, but you’re getting warmer!” he howls at my exclamation.
I think I’ve stepped into a David Lynch film.
“I–I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be offensive, Father…I was just…” The words tumble out of my mouth and he just smiles at me kindly, clearly amused.
“Tell you what,” he says, taking me by the elbow and guiding me around a patch of black ice, “let’s you and I take a walk around onto the nice salted and sanded sidewalk, shall we?”
I nod and allow myself to be led down and back around until we’re standing in front of the pub. In front of the hottie. She looks down at my hand-tooled Italian leather loafers, then back up at me again.
“I know those are some spendy shoes,” she comments, “but you might want to get yourself a pair of boots if you’re going to be in town for more than a day or two. Otherwise, you’re likely to do a header every time you hit a slick patch.”
Spendy?
“Ah, thanks,” I reply, feeling unexpectedly—and uncomfortably—nervous.
What the hell is that about?
“I don’t plan to be in town more than a night or two. I live in Los Angeles, and there’s not much call for snow boots there…”
Something in her smooth, delicate features changes, hardens. Her brow furrows just a touch.
“I’m Bryan Truitt,” I say, stepping forward to offer her my hand.
Now the brows go up as if she recognizes me. Or my name. Before I can ascertain whether or not that’s the case, the priest jumps in.
“Aha! I didn’t think you were from around these parts. Much too tan, don’t you know.” He chuckles. “What is it that brings you to Mayhem, Mr. Truitt?”
“Please, call me Bryan. Uh…I’m here to see a guy by the name of Hennessy. Hennessy O’Halloran. I think he’s maybe managing the pub here…” I gesture toward the large plate glass window with O’Halloran’s painted in large green and gold letters.
“I’m Hennessy O’Halloran,” the blonde cutie informs me.
Really?
That’s when I dazzle her with my witty, eloquent repartee.
“Uh…”
“You seem surprised by that, Mr. Pruitt,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Truitt,” I correct her absently. “You’re Hennessy O’Halloran?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I’m sorry…I thought you were a—you know—a man…”
“Clearly,” she replies, her lovely mouth quirking with some amusement.
Okay, this could go one of two ways. She’s either a daughter or a niece, or—as is more common in L.A.—she’s the obscenely young wife. Time to roll the dice.
“So, you’re Mrs. O’Halloran then?” I venture.
I can see in an instant that I’ve just come up snake eyes.
“What? No!” she says with a surprised laugh. “I’m Jack’s daughter.”
I feel strangely relieved to hear that she’s not the wife.
“Nice to meet you. I wonder if I might come inside and have a word with your father, then? I’ve traveled a very long way to see him.”
She and the priest exchange a look that I can’t quite decipher.
“You can deal with me, Mr. Truitt,” she says, a little colder than just an instant ago.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Regrettably, this is something I can only discuss with the owner…”
“You’re looking at her,” she informs me flatly.
“Funny, you don’t look like a Jack. But, then again, you don’t look like a Hennessy, either,” I snark.
Suddenly, her face hardens, and there’s a brief, awkward beat of silence. Then she just turns around and goes back inside the pub without another word, leaving the good father and me to stare after her.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something?” I ask him quietly.
The priest pats my shoulder.
“Son, Jack O’Halloran died just after Christmas. Hennessy is his oldest girl, and she’s running the place,” he explains quietly.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” I say, then smack a hand over my mouth for taking the Lord’s name in vain…again. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to…”
He offers me an amused smile and pulls the door open.
“No worries, son. Come on inside and warm your bones with a good stiff drink. I’m sure Hennessy will be happy to chat with you after that.”
I nod absently and follow his direction. Dead? Well, I guess that explains the sudden radio silence on his end. But what that means for our deal…I have no clue.