Chapter 15Hennessy
Chapter Fifteen
HENNESSY
“Have you seen Father Romance?” I holler over at Walker, who’s concentrating on serving customers three-deep at the bar. She just shakes her head.
Frustrated, I climb atop a barstool and scan the crowd. And I do mean crowd. This Chili Cook-off thing grew some serious legs, and now about half of Mayhem is crammed into our pub. I might be concerned about the fire marshal showing up, were he not already here, stirring his own crockpotted entry of spicy, steamy goodness.
Bailey and Walker spent the afternoon arranging several long folding tables end-to-end to accommodate the fifteen entries into this first annual event. Now, each contestant stands guard over their so-called “secret” recipes, ribbing one another and knocking back beers faster than we can serve them. I mean, I knew this thing would get some interest, but I never anticipated it’d draw a crowd this size.
We offered tickets at ten-bucks a pop, covering a bowl of O’Halloran’s own secret chili and a beer. I figured maybe we’d sell an extra beer or two on top of that, but I’m starting to think I’ll need to call my distributor in the morning to get an extra delivery of inventory. Thank God for Walker, who’s moving effortlessly behind the bar, keeping track of multiple tabs, concocting several drinks at a time, and collecting every penny without missing a beat. As I watch her, I can’t help but think how proud our Pops would be to see her. To see this…
“Henny!” I turn around to see Bailey running back to the kitchen with a tub full of dirty chili bowls. I brace myself for the torrent of whining she’s about to unleash on me. “Oh my God! Do you believe this? I can’t keep up with all the chili! Donovan is in the back working on another huge pot! I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy!”
I’m stunned. My youngest sister, the most narcissistic, self-absorbed little beauty queen I’ve ever seen in my life, can’t stop gushing. I grab her beautiful face with both my hands, lean in over the tub of dirty bowls, and give her a big, sloppy kiss on the forehead.
“Hey!” she protests, wrinkling her nose and giggling at the same time. “What’s that for?”
“Because I love you, Bailey. And because we couldn’t do any of this without you, little sister,” I explain softly. She’s so much younger than me, and in such a different place in her life, that I can’t always relate to Bailey. But since Pops died, I find myself pulling her closer—the opposite of what I did when we were all living together at home. I suddenly find myself simultaneously proud of Bailey and protective of her. We’re all she has now. My youngest sister’s cheeks redden, and her unexpected bashfulness makes her look like a little girl again. I’m about to comment when I see her catch sight of something behind me that makes her eyes widen.
“Holy. Crap,” she murmurs, forgetting I’m standing there.
“What?” I ask, twisting and struggling to see through the crowd.
“Over there, by the door. Look who Father Romance just came in with.” I follow Bailey’s nod and find myself, once again, shocked to see Bryan Truitt walk into our pub.
“What the hell?” I hiss. “I was so careful to keep this thing word-of-mouth only, hoping he wouldn’t get wind of it. Why would Father Romance bring him here?”
Bailey shrugs, smiles, and beats a fast path back to the kitchen as my soon-to-be-ex priest and soon-to-be-deceased nemesis make their way toward me through the crowd.
…
Bryan is sans suit, wearing jeans and a button-down flannel shirt in a shade of blue that sets off his dark hair. And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t tossed the tasseled loafers in favor of a pair of boots.
“Wow,” I say loudly so he can hear me over the chatter around us. “Someone got himself a new outfit.” I mean it to be snarky but am surprised to hear it ring as more complimentary.
He grins. “You should see the parka. I left it hanging on the rack by the door.”
“Nice,” is all I can think to reply, and we experience
an awkward moment of silence amid the din. That is until Father Romance throws a Molotov cocktail my way.
“Henny, dear, I’ve asked Bryan to replace me as judge of the chili cook-off,” he informs me as he puts a heavy hand on Truitt’s shoulder.
“What?” I practically shriek. “Wait, wait, wait… You agreed to do this last week, Father. You can’t back out now.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s just not right. Half the entrants are parishioners of mine. How can I judge them? The good Lord would not look kindly upon me for favoring one member of my flock over another,” he explains, a little too seriously.
“Uh-huh,” I say flatly, raising a single, challenging eyebrow his way. I see him working hard to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. Father Romance knows I’m onto him. “So, you thought Bryan would make a suitable replacement? He’s not even a resident of Mayhem.”
“Yet,” Bryan interjects with a grin, holding up his index finger. “Not a resident yet .”
I glare at him until the grin slides from his face.
“Oh, Hennessy, he’s perfect. No ties to the community. No allegiance to anyone. He tells me he loves chili…and he’s practically a celebrity, being from Los Angeles and all,” Father Romance explains, using the old pronunciation for Los Angeles, with the hard “G” sound that was replaced about sixty years ago with the softer “J” pronunciation.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, knowing full well that this particular horse is already out of the barn. “Fine. Fine, fine,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Come with me.”
He follows me to the back, and I notice Father R. slipping away into the crowd—no doubt to find a beer and hide out in the corner. I make a mental note to investigate the Lutheran church on the other side of town. It might be time for me to convert. Inside the tiny pub kitchen, our cook, Donovan, is happily stirring industrial-size pots of chili with what looks like an oar. Something about the whole scene makes me think of the witches in Macbeth. “ Double, double, toil and trouble. Parties burn and nonsense bubble ,” Bryan says in a witchy voice. I spin around and stare at him.
Did I say that out loud?
“Something wrong?” he asks me, confused by my accusatory glare.
I shake my head. Weird coincidence, that’s all.
“No. Nothing, sorry,” I mumble and continue our trek to the far side of the kitchen. I pull a fresh apron off the shelf and hand it to him.
“Really? Do I have to?” he asks, his upper lip raised in distaste.
“Just for that,” I respond, reaching onto the shelf again, “you have to wear the hat, too.”
When I fluff-up the puffy white chef’s hat, he starts to shake his head.
“Yeah…no, I don’t think so…”
“Look, do you want to do this or not? Because I’ve got a room full of half-drunk chili-guzzlers all rooting for their favorite recipe, and if I don’t get this judging going, they might just start a riot.”
“Please. Dramatic much, Hennessy?” He rolls his eyes, and I snort, slapping the hat to his chest a little too hard.
“You’ll see,” I warn him. I can’t help but take note of the firm plane of flesh underneath the plaid. I clear my throat and turn around before he can see the blush I feel crawling up my neck toward my cheeks.
“Let’s go,” I say, leading him back out into the fray.