Chapter Nine
Hennessy
“Hennessy, will you be here to accept the delivery today?” our cook, Donovan Douglas, asks as he sets an egg sandwich on the bar next to Father Romance’s cup of coffee.
I’m slipping on my coat as I shake my head. “I’m headed to the bank, and I’m not sure how long I’m going to be. Jameson said she’d swing by in an hour or so, just in case.”
“So…the bank,” Father Romance says, not bothering to look up from the newspaper. “What does that mean? Do you think they’ll help you keep the pub?”
“I hope so, because I have no intention of letting my father’s legacy end up in the hands of a sleaze like Bryan Truitt.”
He looks up and quirks a challenging eyebrow.
“Now, that’s not what you really think, is it?”
I sigh heavily and slip onto the stool next to him.
“No, you’re right. He’s actually not sleazy at all. A little slick, maybe…but professional for the most part. It’s just that I feel as if I need to hang on to every bit of anger I have if I’m going to fight this guy and win. He has too many resources, and I don’t think he’s going to scare easily.”
He seems to consider this as he chews his eggs.
“Are you doing what you feel is right?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I think so. But there is something to be said for the ‘take the money and run’ approach. If I fight, we could lose everything. I’ve got so many conflicting emotions going on. Pops and Mama, the money, our futures… I can’t sort out what’s what anymore.”
Father Romance reaches over and puts a warm hand on my wrist.
“You’ve left something—or rather, someone—out of that equation.”
I look at him, perplexed.
“You, Henny! What do you want to do? You know full well that saving the pub means you’ll have to make some serious decisions about your own future. Will you stay in Minneapolis and keep working as an attorney, or will you move back home? These are big, big questions looming in your mind, I’m sure.”
I stare at him, feeling the familiar prick of tears building in my eyes.
“You know…” I begin, not quite sure where I’m going with that sentence. “I think you’ve always known that law school wasn’t my first choice.”
“I do know that, child. Anyone with eyes could see that plain as day. Anyone but Jack O’Halloran, that is. And you made him so proud. But he’s gone now, Hennessy. It’s time for you to make your own decisions.”
I start to sniffle, and the tears start to fall.
“I know what I want to do. But it feels wrong. After so much work and time and money…”
“You want to come home.” He finishes the thought for me.
I nod dumbly, using a napkin to dab at the dampness on my face.
“The Quakers speak of ‘listening to the light.’ You see, they believe that God is within all of us, and if you just take the time to stop and listen, He’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“What, like meditating?” I sniff.
“Sort of. Just be still and breathe and…listen.”
“And what do you think I’ll hear?”
“The Lord’s will,” says Father Romance. “The Lord’s will is what you’ll hear, and the Lord’s will is what’s going to happen, Hennessy. Good, bad, ugly. It’s all a part of His plan.”
I blow my nose and dry my face.
“I don’t suppose you have any…inside…information about what, exactly, God’s will might be?” I ask, smiling through the last of my tears. “You know, just a little heads-up?”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, dear child, if I did, you can bet I’d be at the track right now, playing the ponies!”
“Now that would be some helpful information,” I agree. “A few well-placed bets and I’d be out of this mess in a jiffy!” I giggle.
“It’s all going to be fine, Hennessy. Whatever comes to pass.”
I give his hand a pat and pull away, getting to my feet.
“I hope you’re right, Father. I hope you’re right.”
…
I decide to take my time and walk to the bank. It’s cold, but there isn’t so much as a breath of wind, and the sky is a cloudless, bright blue. When the sunlight glints off the fresh snow-cover, I’m suddenly surrounded by twinkling, sparkling mounds. I breathe deeply, taking the crisp air into my lungs and then watching it escape my lips in puffs of white mist.
It’s quiet in Mayhem on this Wednesday morning as I pass the storefronts that have lined Main Street for as long as I can remember—like Kelly’s Books with its shelves that run from floor to ceiling, and big comfy chairs scattered all over the massive space so readers can sit for hours, perusing. A few doors down is Annie’s Candies, specializing in a dozen different kinds of fudge. Once you’re inside, a separate—and well-monitored—side door takes you into Andie’s AnneXXX, where consumers over the age of eighteen can check out the “penis pops” and chocolate-covered strawberry “nipples,” among other racy delights.
Just a block from the bank is one of the hottest spots in town, the business run by a New York transplant named Janet Lahti, The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop. For years people have come to Mayhem from all over the Midwest to visit the café. But they’re not just seeking a good piece of pie. They’re looking for some insight into the future. Janet is something of a mystic, predicting the future and communicating with the dearly departed. And, while others of her ilk find their predictions in the bottom of a teacup, Janet finds hers in the bottom of a pie tin. Her rare gift lies in reading pie—interpreting the selections people make and the slices they choose. I’m almost past the storefront when I hear the tinkling bell of the door behind me.
“Well, well. Is that you, Miss O’Halloran?”
That. Voice. I feel my blood pressure spike, even as I plaster on an impassive expression and turn to face him.
Bryan Truitt is, once again, completely underdressed for a Minnesota winter. A trench coat is the closest thing he has to outerwear, and his shoes are so smooth and slippery, he might as well be wearing ice skates. Still, he does look good in his navy suit, And with the hair. And that jaw… Jesus! What is it with this guy’s jaw and me?
Stop it, Hennessy! Stop it right now. This is your adversary, not some hottie who’s just rolled into town. Right?
He’s eyeballing me curiously as I chide myself internally.
“Did you have any pie, Mr. Truitt?” I ask.
He looks blank for a moment.
“Oh no. I was hoping to just grab a cup of coffee to go, but they’re pretty swamped in there right now. I figure I’ll try back later. Really, I was curious. I’ve been doing a bit of exploring here in town.”
“Huh. I’m surprised you’re interested.”
He shrugs, seeming unbothered by my snark.
“I am, too, honestly. But it seems as if there’s a lot of local charm here in Mayhem. Anyway, where are you off to on this fine, frigid morning?”
I consider lying to him, but really, there’s no point. Father Romance is right. I need to let go and just have faith it’s all going to turn out right. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.
“Me? Oh, I’m headed to the bank. I have an old friend who’s a loan officer there. He’s going to help me refinance the pub,” I inform him with an air of confidence that I don’t have.
“Good for you,” he says with an easy grin. I almost believe that he’s happy for me. “You know, I was headed that way myself. Mind if I walk with you?”
I glare at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and shrivel up. He doesn’t. He just keeps that stupid smile on his face and waits expectantly for my answer. This guy’s not an idiot. For God’s sake, he must know I want to push him under a snowplow.
“Actually, I’d rather be alone, if you don’t—”
He closes the distance between us and cuts me off before I can finish my rejection.
“I’ve been wondering, where does all the snow go?” he asks me.
“I…I…” I stammer, caught off guard by his sudden change in direction. “What do you mean? It’s on the ground, all around us,” I reply, gesturing to the snow-walled sidewalks.
“No, no, I mean, the snow that’s plowed? I realize there’s a lot of it that ends up here on the sidelines, but surely this is a small portion of the snow you get. Where do the plows take it?”
I’m not sure why I find his question so disarming. Maybe it’s because he seems so earnest.
“Uh…well,” I begin while we continue walking, “it’s relocated. Some of it gets pushed into big parking lots—like at the high school. If there’s a lot of it, it’s loaded up and trucked to other towns with room to hold it until it melts down.”
“Right, right,” he says, nodding as if this makes perfect sense. “Because, really, it could just sit around here for months before it’s warm enough to melt. And then there could be more snow on top of that.”
“Yes, exactly,” I say drily, trying to discourage him from further conversation starters.
“You know…I thought it was pretty unappealing when I pulled into town yesterday. But since we got that dusting of snow last night, everything is so…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Sparkly. It’s like the snow twinkles, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah…I do,” I agree slowly, unsure if he might be setting me up for some insult about Mayhem and the weather. But none comes.
“Seriously,” he continues as we make our way down Main Street. “I didn’t expect much from such a tiny town, but it’s got some serious character. I really like that. It’s such a contrast to the high-rise buildings and ridiculous traffic I see every day. And the people…my God! Everyone’s in such a hurry to get to…I don’t even know where. It’s like you need to get to wherever it is you’re going to as fast as you can, looking as perfect as you can, so you can impress as many people as you can.”
This impromptu little confession about his feelings for L.A. takes me by surprise.
“Well, it’s your home field isn’t it?”
Next to me, he shrugs, still looking straight ahead, and I’m struck by the simple, genuine sincerity of the action. He’s not feeding me a line. He’s being totally candid—something I hadn’t anticipated.
“I suppose so. But not by choice, really. It’s just the best place for me to conduct my business right now.”
“Aren’t you happy there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Crap, Hennessy! What do you care if this guy is happy or not?
This time he shoots me a sidelong glance, and I catch a hint of a smile. But it’s not one that I’ve seen from him before, not placating or snarky or superior. If anything, it’s a little bit…sad? Is that possible? Hell. Maybe he’s trying to play on my sympathies. This has got to be the weirdest approach I’ve ever seen—in or out of the courtroom.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hoping to cut him off at the pass. “That’s none of my business…”
“No, no. It’s actually very…kind of you to ask. Thank you,” he replies, the smile morphing from sad to grateful. “And, well, honestly… No, I can’t say I’m particularly happy there. But I’m probably about as happy there as I’d be anywhere else. So…it’ll do for now.”
He stops short, and I’ve walked a few paces before I realize I’ve left him behind me.
“But this,” he begins, gesturing to the storefronts around us, the snow on the ground and the clear blue sky above us. “This is something special you have here. I know you think I’m out to destroy America’s heartland, but the truth is that I’m actually drawn to it. I could invest in property in the south or the mid-Atlantic or any number of other places. But there’s something about the Midwest and the people who live here…”
“If you really feel that way, then why are you doing this?”
The words come out as a harsh hiss that surprises both of us. Bryan Truitt stares at me for a long moment, looks down at the ground, and then looks up again—with no trace of the wistful softness that was there just a moment ago.
“Miss O’Halloran, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m not doing anything but trying to buy a parcel of land. And, as much as you’d like to cast me as the villain to your damsel in distress, I’m not the one who tied you to the train tracks. I’m the one trying to cut you loose as the train barrels closer and closer.”
I have no response for this ridiculous analogy—and I refuse to give it another second’s consideration. Because if I do, I might have to acknowledge that he’s right. Bryan Truitt isn’t the person who put my sisters and me in this position. But I’m not going to admit to that or anything else right now. I can’t. I won’t.
Without another word, I start to pick up my pace, hoping he’ll get the hint and hang back. He doesn’t. And, before long, we look as if we’re in a speed walking race. By the time we’re in front of the bank, I’m breathing heavy and sweating inside my down parka. Bryan Truitt, on the other hand, looks as calm and put-together as he did three blocks ago. He smiles at me as he opens the door to the bank and holds it for me.
“After you, Miss O’Halloran.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I growl at him.
Literally.
I mean, it’s not like a dog growl or anything. It’s much softer and comes from the back of my throat. Under my breath. But it’s there. No one else can hear it but me. And him.
“Point taken,” he says with a soft chuckle as I roughly push past him and walk into the bank in search of my salvation.