Chapter 11Hennessy
Chapter Eleven
HENNESSY
Watching Walker tend bar is mesmerizing. She makes the pouring and the shaking and the stirring into a gracefully choreographed ballet.
“Okay, so now what?” she asks once I’ve walked her through this morning’s catastrophic meeting at the bank.
“Well, there are three ways this can go. A—we can raise the money, pay off the loan, and live happily ever after.”
“I like A,” she says with a nod of approval as she flips a cocktail shaker up in the air.
“Show off,” I mutter with a grin before continuing. “Ah, well, A may not be that simple. Option B is that we sell the pub—preferably to someone who won’t flatten it and turn it into a mega mall.”
“And what happens if we don’t come up with the money or a buyer?” she asks as she dumps the shaker’s contents into a martini glass and pushes it toward me. It’s blue. Like, really blue. I just stare at it. “Go ahead,” she coaxes with a thrust of her chin.
I pick up the drink and take a tentative sip, surprised at the blend of tart and sweet that explodes in my mouth.
“Oh my God, Walker…that’s really good! What is it?” “I’m calling it an Aquatini,” she informs me.
“Mmmm,” I murmur on my second sip. Then I set the glass down so I can answer her question properly. “So, that scenario would lead us to the very undesirable option C. The bank repossesses it, sells it, and we get whatever is left over after they’ve taken out fees and their cut. It’s lose-lose for us.”
In typical Walker fashion, she lets loose a string of expletives that likely has our mother whirling in her grave like one of those fidget spinner things. I patiently wait for her to finish, take a deep breath, and ask me an actual question.
“So, can you please just explain to me how we ended up in this crap situation in the first place? What the hell kind of a loan did Pops take that they can just demand full payment anytime they want?”
I consider how best to explain the complicated arrangement that I, myself, don’t have a total understanding of.“Look, in this case, the loan is based on something called a Deed of Trust. That means that Pops pretty much signed the pub over to a third party when he took the loan.”
“What? He’d never do that!” Walker jumps in. “Who’d he give it to?”
I shake my head and hold up a hand to stop her before she slips into another torrent of profanity.
“No, it’s not what you think. It’s a very common practice with commercial properties. It’s usually a neutral third party—like a title company. They’re supposed to hold the deed to the pub until the loan is paid off, at which time it reverts back to the owner, in this case, Pops. But—and this is a big but—if the loan goes into default, or if—like in our case—the owner of the property should die, the bank can immediately call the loan due in full. That’s what happened here. And that’s where the trustee comes in. That agent is responsible for the sale of the property—not the owner. Not Pops. Not us.”
Walker puts her palms down on the shiny surface of the bar and leans forward, dropping her volume so none of the patrons milling about will overhear.
“Are you telling me that if we don’t cough up the cash or find a buyer ourselves, then someone else is going to decide who to sell to?” she asks in an incredulous whisper.
I nod.
“It would seem so. Which is why Bryan Truitt filed an intent to purchase. It’s not binding in any way, but he’s making it known that he’s an interested party should the loan go into default and the property need to be sold or auctioned off. But, listen, I’m not a real estate attorney, so I don’t know the ins and outs. I can probably get some advice from one of the senior attorneys at my office… But, honestly, I don’t want them knowing my personal business. I’m sure Wally will help us if he can, but based on what I saw this morning, he’s in a little over his head here.”
“Bryan Pruitt,” she says.
“It’s Truitt, actually, but no, I’m talking about Wally,” I correct her, reaching for the azure cocktail again.
That’s when I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking past me. I swivel on the stool, and there he is in his trench coat, briefcase in hand as he crosses the room to where I’m standing.
“Hennessy O’Halloran,” he says brightly.
I turn around slowly, one eyebrow cocked, and find Bryan Truitt with a crooked grin that makes my heart beat a little faster. I have to admit, as ridiculous as his suit may be for this weather, he looks better in it than any of the suit- wearing attorneys I’ve ever worked with. It fits him like a glove, hinting at a broad, well-toned chest and strong arms. And, my God, the pants…
Okay, okay. Enough gawking at the enemy!
“Well hello, Mr. Truitt,” I begin, trying to sound unaffected by his presence. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you’re still here. I just assumed you’d be gone by now, considering there’s nothing for you in Mayhem.”
His smile doesn’t lose a bit of wattage.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Hennessy. Is it all right if I call you Hennessy?”
I give him a “whatever” shrug and notice that Walker is still staring at him.
“Bryan Truitt, this is my sister, Walker O’Halloran.” His face lights with recognition.
“Walker! Of course, we spoke on the phone the other day. See, you told me I needed to speak directly with Hennessy, and I took your advice,” he says with a chuckle. “Are you the one with the baby? Wally mentioned you had children the same age.”
My sister’s eyes practically bulge out of her head. “Baby? What? No, not me,” Walker insists, holding up her palms and waving them as if to protect herself from contagious baby juju.
“You’re thinking of Jameson,” I explain, making a mental note to kick Wally’s butt for giving this guy personal information about our family.
Bryan Truitt is silent for a few seconds, looking as if he’s trying to work something out.
“Okay, so…” he begins slowly. “You’re Hennessy.” He points to me and I nod. “Your other sister is Jameson…” Again, I nod. “And you’re Walker?” he asks her.
“Are you deaf?” my sister snipes at him.
“So your parents named the three of you after liquor?” he asks with clear delight. “Because I assume that Walker— not as in Walker, Texas Ranger —is a tip of the hat to old Johnnie Walker.”
I nod, taking delight in needling my sister about the name she hates—even to this guy.
“Her full name is Johnnie Walker Black O’Halloran,” I explain as Walker scowls.
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. “And our youngest sister is Bailey Irish O’Halloran. Now, do you want a drink or would you like me to walk you through the whole freaking family tree?”
“Sorry, sorry… I didn’t mean to offend,” he assures her, making a small bow as a gesture of mock repentance. “But yes, a drink would be great. Can I please have a Stoli? Oh, hey! Now that wouldn’t be a bad name.”
Walker just turns back to the bar, shaking her head in disgust.
I lead him to a high two-top in a quiet corner. We’ve barely sat when my sister arrives with his drink. She doesn’t say a word, but she does shoot Bryan a warning glare. He grins when she leaves.
“Not so much sweetness and sunshine, that one, huh?” I’m smirking before I can stop myself.
No, no, no! No smiling at the enemy.
In an instant, I’ve reverted to my impassive expression.
He notices.
“Oh, come on—don’t be like that,” he cajoles. “No reason we have to be enemies. It’s only business.”
“And that, Mr. Truitt?—”
“Bryan.”
“Fine. And that, Bryan , is where you are dead wrong. O’Halloran’s isn’t just a business. It’s an institution. It’s a beloved gathering place in this community. And it’s my parents’ legacy,” I spit at him.“That’s the difference between us. Where you see just another strip mall, or movie theater, or whatever the hell it is you plan on building, I see a life’s work and the business that put food on our table. And upstairs is the home where we lived when I was a child. So, no, Bryan, it is not just business.”
He considers me for a long moment before looking down at his hands, folded on the tabletop. When he meets my eyes again, something has changed.
“You’re right, Hennessy. That was very insensitive of me. See, I don’t usually spend much time in the towns where my projects are. Most of my business is conducted by phone and email—I hire local inspectors to come and scout out the potential properties before I move to acquire them. So this is all a little new to me, being in a place like Mayhem.” His mouth quirks up into a smile. “But I have to admit, I like what I see so far.”
I feel the blush as it rises from under my collar, spreading up my neck and face.
Dammit! Why couldn’t he be a chubby, balding guy with bad teeth in his late-sixties? Why does he have to be all handsome and funny and…and like a guy I’d be attracted to were he not trying to ruin my life?
“Well, trust me, Bryan,” I say, my cool tone belying my flaming face. “You’re much better suited for La-La Land. So go home. Go back to your skyscrapers and all the beautiful people who live in the beautiful sunshine. Go. Home. Because, as I said before, there’s nothing for you here in Mayhem.”
“Ugh,” he groans, dropping his head onto his forearms on the tabletop and shaking it. “I hate it when people call it that,” comes his muffled voice.
Seriously? That’s the only part of my little speech that he caught? La-La Land?
“What should I call it then?” I huff. “‘The left coast?’” He sits up and faces me again.
“How about ‘The City of Angels?’ or ‘The Big Orange?’ La-La Land is just so…so cheesy,” he says with disgust.
“How about you just call it ‘home.’ Because that’s what it is for you, and that’s where you’ll be headed. Soon.”
I see something mischievous flash in his eyes. And I don’t like it one. Bit. No mischievous. No playful. He’d better just start acting like the dark menace that he is, or I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Bryan Truitt takes his shot glass and tips it back to his lips, swallowing its contents in one gulp.
“You seem to be in quite the rush to get me out of here, Hennessy,” he says once he’s swallowed the vodka. He catches my sister’s eye and holds up the empty shot glass.
She nods.
“Maybe I should just hang around a little longer— get to know the good folks of Mayhem, Minnesota.”
I shake my head violently.
“Nope. Not necessary. Trust me, the good folks of Mayhem have no interest in getting to know you.”
“Is that so?”
“Please, Bryan. You wouldn’t make it here a week. Look at you,” I say, gesturing to his loafers and trench coat.“You’re dressed for a foggy day in London, not a sub-zero night on the Iron Range. We’ll likely see another two feet of snow before the end of the week, and your little Rent-a-Rolls—or whatever the hell that is you’re driving—won’t even make it out of the parking lot.”
Bryan Truitt’s smile is way too confident. And I realize, too late, what I’ve done. I’ve proffered a challenge.