Chapter 29Hennessy
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HENNESSY
“Jameson! You owe me twenty-two bucks. Little Man in there used my eyeliner like a Crayola. Again!” Walker squawks.
“Oh, stop complaining. I told you I’ll replace it,” Jameson says, rolling her eyes.
“That was the last one. I got a new one yesterday, and he’s demolished it…”
“Jeez, Walker, twenty-two bucks? What’s it made of? Gold?” I pipe in with a chuckle.
“Says the woman who looks like a model when she rolls out of bed in the morning,” my younger sister grumbles.
“Please,” I object. “We all know you’re the dramatic, edgy, exotic one. If anyone could be a model, Walker, it’s you.”
She looks at me, eyes narrowed, as if searching for a joke in there somewhere. But she won’t find one.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re all pretty,” Bailey mutters from the couch where she’s glued to her phone. “Can we please just get on with this? I have plans later.”
“Not until we get the latest on Henny’s hookup,” Walker says and is greeted with an evil eye from me. “What? Dude, I’m a bartender. I hear everything.”
“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share that information with anyone,” I reply.
“I think that horse has left the barn,” she informs me with a snort. “It’s all anyone can talk about at the pub. I mean, he’s been parked out back overnight three times this week. What the hell, Henny? I understand you not hating the guy anymore but…this? Last time I checked, he was still out to turn our pub into a mega-multi-screen monstrosity! And now everyone in town knows you two are hooking up,” she grumbles. So much for getting all of my sisters on board with this new development.
“It’s not that bad,” Bailey says. “People around here are really starting to like Bryan.”
I lift my head up again. “Really? They are?”
She nods. “Yeah. He went ice fishing with a couple of guys from the factory last week, and he spoke with Lydia Mack’s eleventh-grade economics class about his job. He even agreed to write a guest column for the Gazette. Something about being a newcomer to Mayhem.”
“Yeah, well, not everyone thinks he’s Mr. Wonderful,” Walker informs us. “The Tuesday night darts league is convinced he’s just using you to get the property for a good price. And the guys over at the Elks lodge?—”
“Okay, Walker, that’s enough,” Jameson cuts her off.
I sink heavily into a chair and sigh.
“Look… I think he’s a pretty good guy. I wouldn’t be… you know…with him if he weren’t.”
“But…” Jameson says, sensing my uncertainty.
“But what if we can’t come up with the money and I have to sell the pub to him? He’s going to raze it. No one will be liking him much then,” I predict. “Including everyone in this room.”
“Then what are you doing?” Walker demands. “I think you’ve lost your mind. Pops must be rolling in his grave.”
She knows she’s gone too far the second the words are out of her mouth. That’s clear from the look on her face.
“What did you just say to me?”
My question comes out soft but deadly. Suddenly everything around us seems to stop—the ticking of the wall clock, the whirring of the dishwasher…the beating of my heart.
“I—uh—I didn’t mean it like that, Henny…” Walker stammers, sounding uncharacteristically afraid. As she should be.
“How dare you,” I spit. “After everything I’ve done to try and turn this thing around!”
“Okay, okay. You know what?” James shoehorns herself into my impending implosion. “We’re going to stop this. Right here, right now. Henny, Walker didn’t mean that the way it sounded, and you know it. Walker, mind your own business. Henny’s social life is none of your concern, so just cut it out already. Understood?”
Walker, who looks impossibly pale now, nods her head silently.
“Maybe this would be a good time to crunch the numbers,” James suggests. We need to focus on the pub right now. It’s the only thing that matters.”
She’s right. With a final glare at Walker, I reach around the chair for my purse hanging off the back. I pull out a small notebook and pen and set my phone to the calculator function, ticking off small columns of numbers. Finally, I look up and find my sisters staring at me intently.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out sounding a little froggy and strangled.
“Well, the pub quiz put us just over sixty-five thousand.”
“What?” Bailey gasps. “How can we still be so far off?”
“There’s no way,” Jameson says quietly. “There’s absolutely no way. Those were our two big events. We may pull in a little more from the dart leagues and the specialty nights, but not thirty-five-thousand-dollars-worth.”
I take a deep breath and do a little mental arithmetic. “Well, let’s not forget about St. Patty’s Day. We always pull in a good sum from the corned beef and cabbage dinner. That’ll help. But we’ve got to figure out the rest of the money. Because, short of going door-to-door and asking folks to kick in their spare change, I’m not sure what more we can do.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Bailey says, holding up her hand to stop me. “That’s it! That’s exactly what we’ll do,” she breathes excitedly.
“Oh, no way we’re going begging for money,” Jameson says flatly.
“No, not like that,” Bailey explains. “We’ll set up a Fund My Goal page.”
“Isn’t that what people use to raise money for sick kids?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, yeah, among other things. It’s called crowd- sourced funding, and people use it to raise money for their inventions, to make movies, to pay for funeral costs… I know somebody who started one to pay for her car repairs.” “And people give cash for that?” I ask incredulously.
“I mean, I know the concept, I just didn’t know it could be used for such…mundane things. Why would someone want to contribute to our cause? It doesn’t benefit them.”
Bailey is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table as she gesticulates. “That’s the thing, people do want to help. And it’s not like you’re asking for a hundred bucks a person. We’ll post that great picture of Mama and Pops standing out front of the pub and tell our story. You’d be amazed how many people are willing to give a couple of bucks here and there. It adds up quick. And we’ll throw in an incentive…like the first ten people to give fifty-dollars or more get dinner and drinks for two at the pub. Come on,” she coaxes, “let’s do it. We’ve got nothing left to lose.”
I look at Jameson, who shrugs. “She’s right. We’re getting down to the wire now. We raise all the money, or we don’t. There is no in between here.”
I nod. “Okay, I’m in,” I agree, realizing this is probably what’s going to make us or break us.
…
It’s snowing. Again. I’m watching the huge flakes waft down out of the pitch-black sky and stick onto every flat surface in sight. According to the Weather Channel, we can expect a foot by morning. That’s great news for the skiers, snowboarders, and the kids looking for a day off from school,
not so great news for our St. Patrick’s Day celebration. It’s one of our busiest nights of the year and, as it turns out, it’s our last chance to raise a few more bucks before 5 p.m. on Friday, when the building will go into foreclosure. It’s going to be close—like, a hair’s breadth close—so tonight’s turnout could be the difference.
I’m startled by the vibration in the pocket of my robe. It’s nearly midnight. Who’s texting me now? I pull out my phone and look at the screen to see that it’s Bryan, and he’s only sent me one word.
Pie?
I smile as I type back.
Closed.
After a few seconds, I see the familiar animated dots showing me that he’s writing.
Got one to go.
“Hah!” I laugh out loud into the empty apartment.
Sure! Coffee? And maybe a little dessert with your dessert?
…
On. My. Way. :)
Five minutes later, he’s standing in my hallway, a bag from The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop in one hand, snowflakes stuck to his hair and eyelashes. He stomps the snow off his boots on the big rubber mat, and I take the pie from him so he can pull them, and his coat, off.
“Damn! It’s really coming down out there!” I hear him say as I slip the pie out of its box and set it on the table,
where I’ve already laid out a couple of small plates and fresh mugs of coffee.
“Yup. Typical for this time of the year. The plows are out already, though.”
“Wow, you look sexy,” he says, leaning in the kitchen doorway.
“Please!” I scoff, looking down at my fluffy pink robe and bunny slippers. “I’m sure Victoria’s Secret would love to do an intervention with me.”
“Oh, now, that I’d love to see,” he murmurs with a naughty grin. He walks toward me, takes the pie cutter out of my hand, and sets it on the table. Before I know what’s happening, his lips are on mine, his hands wrapped around my waist and pulling me closer to him.
“Hi,” I say, looking up at him, when we finally allow a few inches separation between our faces.
“Hi.” He smiles down. “I missed you today. How was the meeting with your sisters?”
“Some good, some bad. We’re getting close… I’m sorry, Bryan, can we please not do this?”
“Do what?” he asks, his dark brows furrowed in confusion.
“This. I can’t pretend that you’re rooting for me to win this. We both know that you’re not and whatever…whatever this is between us right now, we both know that it’s going to come to an end soon enough.”
“It doesn’t have to…”
“Doesn’t it? It’s not looking like we’re going to raise this money. I’m going to have to sell to you. You’re going to knock down this huge piece of my life and turn it into a parking lot.”
“Entertainment complex,” he corrects me.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get past it, much as I might want to. And if, by some miracle, I do raise the cash to buy out the loan, what then? You’ve got no reason to hang around here. You’ll go back to your life on the West Coast.”
He looks down at me, his dark, penetrating eyes never breaking contact with mine.
“You could come with me, you know,” he offers in a near whisper.
I smile at his sweet face and then extricate myself from his hold, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He joins me.
“I’m not kidding, Hennessy,” Bryan states as he watches me spoon sugar into his coffee.
“No, I know you aren’t,” I agree.
“You’ve already taken a leave from your job. Why not just quit and come out west? There are plenty of law firms there…”
“But that’s just it. I don’t want to be a lawyer anymore. I don’t know what I want long term, but I do know that, right now, I want this.”
“This…what?” he asks cautiously.
“This pub. Running this business. Being here in this town.” I slide the cup over to him and put a hand on his forearm. “And, if I’m honest with myself, I want this to go on for a bit longer. What’s going on with you and me. But I’m not naive. I know that’s not going to happen. So…what do you say we just pretend—for a little while longer—that this is our life. You. Me. The pub. The town.”
He sighs and takes a long look down into his mug before answering. “Yeah. I’d like that,” he says, looking up at last with some cross between sadness and regret and wistfulness. “What kind of pie did you get?” I ask, looking to get off of the sad stuff.
“Oh, man, it’s this amazing apple-cranberry-walnut pie. I had a slice the other day, and it blew. Me. Away. So, when Janet called to tell me there was a whole pie with my name on it, I ran right over there. Actually, that was less than an hour ago. It’s probably still warm—” Bryan stops suddenly when he looks at the shock that must be plastered all over my face. “What? What is it? We don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.”
“Like it?” I gasp, my voice unexpectedly thick with emotion. “Bryan, that was my mother’s favorite pie. When she died, Janet retired it. I don’t think she’s made this pie in close to ten years…”
I feel the tears as they slip, unbidden, from the corners of my eyes.
“Holy crap. That’s a little spooky,” he mutters, wide- eyed. “She had me try a piece the other day, and then she asked me what it tasted like.”
Wow. That is so Janet. She was testing him with the slice…and then she sent him the whole pie, knowing he’d bring it here to me.
“And? What did it taste like?” I ask, letting my voice trail off, a little bit afraid to hear his answer, knowing it’s likely to be something ridiculous.
Bryan considers me for a moment, the soft, amber glow of the light fixture above us reflected in his dark brown eyes. He looks so much softer than he did when he first arrived in Mayhem. And it’s not just the change of wardrobe. He’s lost that big city edge, replacing it with a much more easy-going manner.
“Home,” he says simply. “I told her it tasted like home.”
He got it right. He got the answer right.
I’m in his arms again in a heartbeat, the pie uncut on the table and the coffee growing cold as we stumble down the hallway to my bedroom.