Chapter 16Bryan
Chapter Sixteen
brYAN
Truittism No. 8: If you don’t have anything nice to say, then keep your big mouth shut…or get your butt ready to run from the villagers with their torches and pitchforks.
I cannot believe I let him talk me into this. But how are you supposed to say no to a priest? The guy plays dirty, and for a split second, I wonder if I could convince him to leave the church and come work for me. He’d have to keep the collar, though…
Hennessy interrupts my thoughts as she pulls me by the elbow to stand next to the long row of crockpots that have taken up residence on one end of the pub.
“Excuse me,” she says loudly but politely, trying to get the attention of the crowd that’s shoehorned into the space. “Uh, hello?” she tries again, louder.
“Hey! Listen up!”
The words are so sharp, the tone so cutting, that I immediately flash on an image of my mother. Only someone with children can command the attention of an entire room with three words. And I’m not wrong. The demand has come from someone who could only be Jameson Clarke, Hennessy’s younger sister.
Now that they’re standing side-by-side, I see the resemblance…which is odd, considering how different they are. While Hennessy has unruly dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes, Jameson’s look is more classically Irish. Her hair is that shade of red that you so seldom see in redheads. There’s not a trace of orange to it, just a deep, rich coppery color that offsets the emerald green of her eyes. Everyone has turned to stare at us now, and I smile awkwardly as I’m openly ogled.
“Thanks for coming tonight, everyone,” Hennessy says. “We’re about to start the contest, so I wanted to take a moment to introduce our guest judge. If you’ve not met him yet, let me present to you Mr. Bryan Truitt of Los Angeles. He owns a land development company out there and is interested in purchasing this very building so he can erect a huge, multiplex cinema that will bring crowds of strangers into our community, cause a major parking disaster, and lower our property values en masse.”
No, she didn’t!
This woman is trying to get me killed. I keep smiling nervously as the crowd around us starts to murmur and glare in my direction. I catch sight of the priest as he pushes toward us, concern etching his usually amiable features.
Okay. This is not the time to panic. I need to do something. And fast.
“Hello, everyone,” I say loudly and cheerily. I get scowls in return, except for Hennessy. Out of the corner of my eye she looks shocked that I’ve dared to open my mouth. “I just wanted to thank you all for being so welcoming to me. Hennessy’s right. I’ve been scouting locations for a new entertainment center in this region. One that will bring with it hundreds of jobs in the construction of the project—and later in the running of it. I’ve had interest from the town of Barton Pines, just north of here. They’re hurting for jobs and would welcome the influx of cash from nearby residents looking to catch a movie without having to drive an hour to get to it.”
The timbre of the murmur has shifted from anger to curiosity. It buoys me enough to continue.
“Of course, you can’t blame me for looking to Mayhem first. It’s a much more vibrant town, with an active, civically- minded community. That being said, all of this is in flux at the moment. In a perfect world, the O’Halloran sisters will raise the money they need to preserve their family legacy. We can always find a place to put something shiny and new. But I think we all know that it’s impossible to replace something as special as this pub. So, what do you say I start tasting all of this fine-smelling chili?”
Even I am unprepared for the swell of applause and cheers that greets my impromptu little speech. I have no idea how I did it, but I think, somehow, I’ve just won over a substantial portion of the town. Though what, exactly, I’ve convinced them of, I have no idea.
…
This chili-judging thing isn’t nearly as tedious as I’d thought it would be. With fifteen different entries, I was sure I’d be spitting the stuff into a napkin by the time I got to the end of the line. Surprisingly, though, the good chefs of Mayhem are exceptionally skilled in the art of chili making, and I’m met with some stiff competition.
“All right, Mr. Truitt has chosen the top four,” Hennessy says, and all ears are once again on her after our half hour tasting break.
“And can I just say,” I break in, putting a hand on her delicate wrist, “what an honor it is to be here? And how incredibly difficult it’s been to narrow it down to these four? Please, let’s have a round of applause for all the contestants because there isn’t a bad batch in the bunch tonight!”
A roar fills the pub and beer bottles are held high. I see all the chili cookers, grinning happily. Oh yeah. I just scored me some major chili points.
“Uh…thank you…Bryan,” Hennessy grits out through her forced smile. “Okay, here we go…our fourth-place winner in the first-annual O’Halloran’s Pub Chili Cook-off is Chelsea St. Pierre and her Barbecue Chili!” Applause erupts, and I see the tiny woman jump up and down, fist- pumping the air while she yells “Woot, woot, woot!”
I guess people take their chili pretty seriously around here.
“Next, taking third place, is our very own mayor, Tom McMahon, with his White Chicken Chili.”
More applause. The mayor, who bears a striking resemblance to the Monopoly mascot with his big handlebar mustache, takes off his chef’s hat and bows for the crowd.
“Okay, that brings us to second place. Let’s congratulate
Jacqueline Waldera and her Sirloin Steak Chili!”
Waldera…I didn’t catch that when I was tasting her entry. I’m about to ask Hennessy if she’s related to Wally from the bank, but when he rushes up to throw his arms around the petite brunette, I have my answer. I also have the most unwelcome, uncomfortable feeling of relief.
Relief over what? That he’s married? That he’s not interested in Hennessy? Yeah, that one pings my radar. I take a deep breath and force the thoughts from my mind, focusing on the woman next to me.
“And, finally, the winner of the blue ribbon, bragging rights, and a newly constructed golden crockpot trophy is… Fire Marshall Dean Davidson and his Five-Alarm Chili!”
There’s hooting and hollering the likes of which I’ve never heard as I present the winner with the truly ridiculous looking trophy, which he clutches to his chest with one hand while pumping my hand enthusiastically with the other.
“And let’s have a round of applause for our guest judge, Bryan Truitt!”
It’s Father Romance who issues the call, but it seems as if half the town of Mayhem answers it. I feel my face redden a little as I experience a mix of pride, joy, and belonging— an altogether foreign range of emotions for me, but not an unpleasant one.
Later on, I’ve just returned my borrowed apron and chef’s hat when Hennessy and I both come out into the back hallway at the same time. We’re on opposite ends, about twenty feet apart. Where I’ve come out of the kitchen, she’s walked out of what must be an office. She looks different than when I saw her just fifteen minutes ago—her hair has been liberated from its tight ponytail and is hanging in wild waves over her shoulders and down her back.
“Oh, uh, hi,” she says, clearly surprised to run into me.
“Hi.”
I take a few steps closer. It’s not that I want to make her uncomfortable—I just can’t seem to stop myself. I feel an invisible attraction pulling me toward her and I’m helpless to fight it. Not that I would…if I could.
“Well, thanks for tonight. You did a great job, all things considered.”
“What things considered?” I ask, continuing my slow, casual advance toward her.
Hennessy O’Halloran is looking progressively more fidgety as I close the distance between us.
“I–I…I mean, considering our…you know…our arrangement…” she stammers.
“Which arrangement?” I ask innocently. “You know…our wager…”
“Oh, that arrangement. Yes, you’d think things might be awkward between us. But they’re really not, are they?” I muse. She doesn’t reply—nor does she make a move to thwart my approach. “Quite the opposite, actually. It’s the damnedest thing, Hennessy. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about…” I let the sentence hang between us until, finally, she clearly can’t take it anymore.
“About what? What can’t you stop thinking about?” she asks quietly.
We’re only a foot apart now, and she has to look up to see my face. That means I get to look down into her perfect, milky complexion. I’m so close that I could actually count the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. I wonder if she has them anywhere else…
Before I can stop myself, I lower my head close to hers, and for just an instant, I know we both think I’m going to kiss her. But at the final moment, my mouth veers to her left ear. I’m sure she can feel the warmth of my breath as I whisper the single word.
“You.”
Except it doesn’t sound like a word. It’s an exhalation—a sigh—and it floats from my mouth to her ear and heats the space between us for the brief moment before I turn and leave her. I’m sure I can feel her eyes on me as I walk back down the hall, self-satisfied smile on my face.
I am in so much trouble here.