Chapter Eight
Bryan
Truittism Number 4: Get to know your enemy; otherwise, you’re bound to get your back end handed to you when you least expect it.
I’m sitting up in bed, working on my laptop when I hear the tentative knock at my door.
“Mr. Truitt? It’s Miss Lucy. Are you still awake in there?”
Well, if I wasn’t before, I certainly would be now.
“Uh, yes, Miss Lucy,” I call, jumping up and out of bed in my briefs and T-shirt. “Did you need something?”
“You have a phone call.”
A phone call? Here? No one but Helen knows where I am, and she’d ring the cell phone if she wanted to reach me. Unless…
“Uh…just a second…” I grab a pair of workout shorts from my roller bag and slip them on. When I finally open the door, she holds out a cordless handset for me.
“You can bring it down with you in the morning. I have another one charging in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I say with a brief smile as I take it from her and close the door behind me. “Hello?”
“Mr. Truitt.”
Oh my God. It’s her.
“Miss O’Halloran. How did you know I was here?”
“There are only two places to stay in town, and I happen to know that the Mayhem Motel is full-up with ice fishermen this week.”
“So you deduced I’d be at Pink Fuzzy Slipper Inn.”
I hear a distinct snort of laughter from her end of the line.
“I think you mean the Pink Lady Slipper Inn. Pink Lady Slipper is the Minnesota state flower. And yes, I deduced, but Father Romance mentioned it as well.”
“How did he know?”
“He knows everything that goes on in this town,” she informs me.
“Okay…well, as much as I’d love to pass the hours discussing flowers and fathers, I’m curious as to the nature of this call. Have you rethought my offer?”
“Hardly,” she mutters disdainfully. “No, I’m just calling to reiterate that you should go home tomorrow. The pub will not be available for purchase, and I’d hate for you to waste your time here in Mayhem when you could be destroying someone else’s quaint little town.”
My turn to snort.
“Been googling, have we?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Truitt. I particularly liked the article titled Bryan Truitt Wages War on Small-Town America.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Miss O’Halloran,” I suggest amiably. “I’ve been welcomed by more communities than I can count—but they’re not running to the newspapers about it.”
“Really.” The single word isn’t so much of a question as an accusation. She thinks I’m lying to her.
“Really. Next time you’re near a computer, look up Middleman, Idaho, and Ranier, Montana. They were quite happy with the influx of cash and jobs that my company brought to their communities. Communities that’d been struggling—boarded up storefronts, foreclosed homes, unemployed workers—now thriving.”
She harrumphs, and suddenly I’m struck by the desire to hear her laugh. For real. No snarky snorts or disbelieving chuckles. For some reason, I suspect Hennessy O’Halloran’s laughter will be sweet and light, like the sound of tinkling bells on a wind chime.
What the hell, Bryan?
“Yes, well,” she begins, interrupting my bizarre reverie, “be that as it may, this community neither wants nor needs your services.”
“That remains to be seen,” I counter, and I can feel the rage ratcheting up from her side of the phone.
“I assure you, it does not, Mr. Truitt,” she spits at me.
From sweet bells to hissing harpy in less than five seconds. Impressive.
“Miss O’Halloran, why are you making this so adversarial? Your father and I had many a pleasant conversation about this. Clearly it was his intention—his wish—to sell the pub and cash out.”
I hear her suck in a deep breath. I’m trying. God knows I’m trying. But she’s making it hard.
“Yeah, well, that’s when he didn’t want us to know what was going on with his finances. Now we know. And now we intend to do something about it,” she informs me coolly.
“Oh? And what do you plan to do—get a loan? Cash in your retirement plan? Oh, wait, you’re a public defender, right? You probably don’t have a retirement plan…” I realize that I’m sounding nasty, so I pause and reset, coming back with a softer, conspiratorial approach. “C’mon, Hennessy, you’re a smart woman. You know what I’m offering is a good deal. There are other, less scrupulous developers who’d come in here and rip it out of your hands.”
There is a long, tense silence.
“Good night, Mr. Truitt,” she grits out at last and hangs up the phone on me.
“Good night, Hennessy,” I murmur to the dial tone.
…
I have to admit, Miss Lucy puts on a better breakfast spread than any hotel I’ve ever stayed at. Fresh fruit along with light and fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon are served up as soon as I come downstairs.
“Wow. This coffee is amazing,” I murmur appreciatively into my mug.
“Oh, nonsense,” she says skeptically, taking a seat across from me at the table. “I’m sure a man like you has had plenty of coffee in places like France and Italy and Costa Rica.”
“Well, maybe,” I agree. “But this is, by far, the best cup I’ve ever had on American soil.”
She doesn’t comment, but I catch the flush of pride that washes over her soft, well-creased face.
“So, what are your plans for today, Mr. Truitt? And should I expect the pleasure of your company again tonight?”
I hold up a finger while I swallow a mouthful of the pancakes.
“No offense, Miss Lucy, but I hope not. I’d like to be on a plane home tonight. But I can’t leave until I settle some business here.”
“O’Halloran’s?”
Christ, does everyone know everything in this town?
“Uh…yes, actually,” I say with a nod, as I tuck into another pancake.
She looks down into her mug and swishes the contents around. I get the distinct impression she’s considering this situation, an impression that’s confirmed when she speaks again.
“Mr. Truitt, are your parents still with us? That is, if you don’t mind my asking…”
“No, not at all,” I assure her. “They are both alive, yes.”
“And are you close?”
I pause and consider telling her a lie, but there’s no point.
“No, ma’am. We’re…estranged.”
She nods as if she expected as much.
“You see, the O’Halloran girls were very close to their father, especially after their mother passed away while the little one was still in elementary school. And now, don’t ya know, they see that pub as a part of their father. And…”
I can tell she’s not sure she should continue.
“It’s all right, Miss Lucy, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please, go ahead.”
She gives me a sweet, pink-lipped smile.
“Mr. Truitt—Bryan—you seem to me to be a decent sort. But keep in mind that while you see O’Halloran’s as property—a thing—the girls see it as something far more personal and valuable. Consider my advice…until Hennessy feels you respect what the pub means to them emotionally, she won’t even listen to what you have to say—no matter how reasonable or generous your offer may be. Simply put, this isn’t about the money.”
I think my mouth might be hanging open. Here I thought this woman was a sweet simpleton, and it turns out she’s got a keener instinct than a lot of professional developers I know.
“Thank you, Miss Lucy. That is very sound advice, and I will absolutely take it into consideration.”
She smiles broadly and gets to her feet again.
“Now, let’s get that coffee topped up for you…”