Chapter 21Hennessy
Chapter Twenty-One
HENNESSY
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say for the hundredth time as we walk into the pub.
“Will you stop it already? Please. I was just being polite.
I felt bad after what Jackson did…”
“What did the Red Menace do now?” Walker inquires curiously from where she’s wiping down the bar.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Oh, he called Bryan Truitt a…” She stops so she can whisper the next word so the kiddo won’t hear it. “A douche. And he threw a bagel at his nose.”
Walker looks at me, then at Jameson, then down at Jackson. She literally hops over the bar in one fluid motion and drops down to her haunches so that she’s face-to-face with our nephew.
“Dude! Outstanding job. Gimme five,” she demands, holding up her palm. Jackson chuckles with delight and smacks her open hand.
“Oh, for goodness sake, please don’t encourage him,” I grumble.
“Why not? He did good! Who’s the douche?” Walker coos at him. “Is Bryan the douche?”
“Brybry doooooshhhhh!” The toddler squeals with delight and bangs his chubby fists on the tray of his stroller.
“ Johnnie Walker Black O’Halloran!”
For a split second, we freeze—it’s as if Jameson is channeling our dearly departed mother, who loved to spew our full names anytime we did something to displease her.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Walker mutters sheepishly and gets back to her feet.
“But that’s not all…” I begin, and Walker’s brows go up. “James invited him to Sunday supper after Mass.”
“You…what? What the hell were you thinking?” Walker hisses with shocked dismay.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Jameson complains to the room at large, raising her palms toward the ceiling in exasperation. “Doesn’t anyone realize that this kid repeats every. Single. Thing. He. Hears?”
We all glance at Jackson, who appears to be happily involved with his sippy cup at the moment. Close call. Douche is bad enough. If the kid starts dropping the word “hell” now, he’ll probably discover the f-bomb by next week. And then Jameson’s head is really going to explode. And that won’t be good for any of us. Once we’re satisfied that he hasn’t noticed Walker’s expletive, we return to the matter at hand.
“Why would you invite that”—Walker stops to consider
her next word—“mother trucker?”
I snort and am met with a glare from Jameson.
“First of all, I don’t think he is a… a mother trucker,” she explains. “I think he’s actually a decent guy. You should’ve seen him with the baby. He was great. And the way he looks at Henny…”
I shift uncomfortably. She may know what’s transpired between Bryan and me, but Walker and Bailey don’t. And I’m not so sure I want them to.
“He can’t take his eyes off her,” Jameson informs Walker. “And, let’s face it, we all know he could’ve found a way to strong-arm us into selling to him. Instead, he offered up the possibility of actually gifting the property to us. He even judged the stupid chili cook-off meant to raise the money to pay off the loan so he can’t buy it. Do those sound like the actions of a…mother trucker…to you?”
Walker considers this, but she doesn’t look happy about it. “Maybe. But I don’t trust him. He’s so…West Coast.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“He’s so confident and frickin’ breezy. I hate breezy people. You want me to take you seriously? Get yourself some good, old-fashioned Midwestern angst. Then I’ll take you seriously.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’ve lost your mind, Walker. Seriously. How much of the product have you been sampling today?”
Another glare. We all know Walker never drinks when she’s working the bar. None of us does. It was one rule that Pops hammered into all of us.
“Sorry, sorry,” I apologize quickly. “I’m just freaked out because I don’t know how to feel about him.”
“Wait, you have feelings for him? Like serious feelings?” Walker asks incredulously.
I sit on a barstool and allow my head to slump into my hands on the bar.
“I don’t know,” is my muffled response. “If you could’ve heard him talking about his past and his family when we were at the pie shop. He was like this whole other person. No shiny, glitzy facade, just a regular guy who’s still smarting from serious family dysfunction.” After a moment, I sit up again and look at each of my sisters in frustration. “Ugh! What’s wrong with me? Why do I even care what his life is like? I’m supposed to hate him… Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Walker says.
“No,” Jameson says at exactly the same moment. “Henny, it’s okay to like him.” Jameson takes a seat on the stool next to mine. “Don’t push Bryan away because you think he might be a bad guy. Because it seems to me all the signs to the contrary are right there in front of you.”
“But, James… isn’t he the bad guy? Didn’t he try to snatch up the pub from Pops under false pretenses? And this insane bet! It just doesn’t make any sense. He could just bid on it when the bank forecloses. So what’s his game?”
My sister grabs my hand so tightly that I gasp, and my confused eyes find hers.
Jameson does not look a bit confused. “Listen to me, Hennessy, Pops was no idiot. I haven’t said it to anyone, but I have no doubt he knew exactly what Bryan planned to do with the pub.”
“What? How can you say that?” Walker objects loudly. “Pops was a proud man who was in a bad spot,” James explains. “You want to know what I think? I think he knew his health wasn’t great and he suspected there wasn’t a lot of time. I think he knew none of us really wanted to run the business, and he didn’t want us feeling guilty about that. I think he saw Bryan’s offer as a way to pay off the debt and leave his family a financial cushion without the burden of running a business they didn’t want—out of obligation to him. That’s what I think.”
My mouth hangs open with shock. Not because she said what she said, but because I didn’t. I didn’t see what was so plainly right in front of me. Before I can voice this to my sister, she gives me another tight squeeze.
“And as for the bet, yeah, it is crazy. Unless, that is, you’re looking for an excuse to stick around.”
“I… Wait, I–I don’t…” I stammer.
“Seriously? Hennessy, the man is crazy about you. Crazy enough to spend a month in Mayhem, Minnesota where the cats wear sweaters, the pie tells tales, and there’s snow on the ground six months out of the year.” She laughs, but then her voice softens. “Hen, only a man who’s falling hard does something like that.”
“You’re crazy,” I inform her. “That man is not…not falling for me.”
Jameson shrugs. “Mmmm…I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Well,” Walker pipes up, “after a polka mass followed by a sit-down dinner with Wonderful Win and the little terrorist here, we’re all gonna have a good idea of what this guy is made of.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
…
There are people who grumble that the polka mass is blasphemous. I am not one of them. I am overjoyed that His Mass-ter’s Polka Band is in town and here this morning, providing the music for worship at the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem. And, while the regular mass is beautiful and moving, there’s something celebratory about singing the usual responses and hymns in polka style. Parishioners are swaying and clapping and smiling. Even Father Romance appears more jovial than usual.
And then there’s Bryan. He appears to be perfectly at home in our pew, sandwiched between me and Jackson, who keeps leaning over and patting his clean-shaven face with his tiny hand. I only mention the clean-shaven thing because it’s a departure from the scruffier, more casual look he’s adopted since he’s been in town. The smooth face goes well with the charcoal gray suit that looks so good on him.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…I have had improper thoughts about men’s clothing during mass…
“Jackson, leave Bryan alone.” Jameson scolds her son softly as he pokes his finger in Bryan’s ear.
“Would you like to switch?” I offer. He smiles and shakes his head.
“I got this,” he whispers and promptly swings his head around, snapping his teeth as if he’s going to chomp on the tiny appendage.
Jackson squeals with delight, causing several people in the pews around us to turn. On any other Sunday, some of them might glare or tsk or shake their heads. But not on Polka Sunday. Everyone’s in a good mood on Polka Sunday, and by the time we stand up to receive communion, we’re all practically dancing down the aisle to “How Great Thou Art” a la “Roll Out the Barrel.”
“Come on,” I say, gesturing for Bryan to follow me.
“I can’t. I’m not Catholic. I don’t think I’m supposed to…”
“What? Do you think you might set off the alarm system if you try to receive communion?” I tease him with an elbow poke to his ribs.
“Oh, jeez… They actually have one of those?” he asks, his face suddenly growing pale.
I throw back my head and laugh, grateful that the polka band is loud.
“No, silly, they do not have one of those. Come on! It’s okay, he’ll just bless you.”
Reluctantly, he follows me out of the pew and down the center aisle of the church where we wait for our turn with Father Romance.
“This is a beautiful church,” he comments softly behind me.
When I turn around, I find him twisting his head in all directions, taking in the stained glass, the crucifix, the cathedral ceiling, and the choir loft.
“I know, right? When I was a little girl, I used to dream about walking down this aisle with my father. I’d go to weddings of people I didn’t even know just to see the look on the groom’s face when they opened the sanctuary doors and the bride stepped out. Oh God, I’m sorry. That’s so… girly. And cheesy…” I mutter, embarrassed at having shared this stupid tidbit with him.
But he doesn’t laugh at me, or mock, or tease, for that matter.
“I’m sure someday that will be you coming down the aisle,” he says with a sweet smile. “I’m sorry your father won’t be there to give you away, though.”
I’m surprised that such a thing would even occur to him—the very thing that’s crossed my mind every time I’ve been in this church since Pops died. In fact, it struck me so hard on the day of his funeral that I could barely walk. The idea that I was accompanying him down the aisle rather than the other way around was just too much for me to bear at that moment. It’s been a little better since then. But not much.
“Hennessy, the body of Christ,” Father Romance says to me as I open my mouth and he places the wafer on my tongue. Then I step to the side so the curate, Father Jerry, can offer me a sip of wine from the chalice.
“Bryan, may the Lord bless you and keep you.” I hear Father Romance murmur from next to me.
“Wow, that was kind of…cool,” Bryan tells me as we make our way back to the pew.
“Are you even Christian?” I ask with a chuckle. “Did my sister rope a Jew or an atheist or a Muslim into coming to the polka mass?”
He grins and shakes his head, explaining when we’re seated again. “I was raised in a household with a devout Lutheran for a mother and a devout heathen for a father.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but I have a feeling this is more of a comment about his entire upbringing rather than just a statement of faith. Something about that makes me feel a little sad for him, and I don’t know quite why. Whatever the reason, there’s no time to speculate, as the last of the parishioners receives the Eucharist and Father Romance returns to the altar. He leads us in the Post Communion Prayer and the Blessing before uttering the words we’re all waiting to hear.
“Let us all now together sing a song of glory,” he commands from the pulpit.
Little Jackson sits bolt upright, snapping out of a sleepy stupor the second he hears the accordion, banjo, and drums start up their rendition of “Amazing Grace.” He chuckles with delight and claps along as the banjo and drums join in. “Polka mass!” I squeal as quietly as I can, poking him
in the belly. Jameson nods and smiles brightly, bouncing her son up and down in time to the music.
When Father Romance instructs us to share peace with one another, I turn to Jameson and give her a squeeze, then I smother Jax’s face until he’s giggling. I’m not even thinking when I swing around to the other side and find Bryan watching me with an eyebrow quirked.
“Peace be with you,” I say, offering my hand for a shake. He takes it and then promptly uses it to pull me closer. Before I can object, he’s placed a very warm, very soft kiss on my cheek. It’s a kiss that’s totally within the boundaries of church decorum, but there’s something about it that brings a furious blush to my face.
“Peace be with you, Hennessy,” he says as he pulls away.
I’m having a hard time meeting his eyes and am relieved when my nephew pipes up from next to me.
“Brybry!”
“I think he wants to share peace with you, Bryan,” Jameson says.
“Of course, buddy,” Bryan says, leaning past me to take the hand Jackson’s offering. Suddenly the toddler seems bashful.
“Can you say,‘peace be with you?’” I encourage Jackson.
And then I see it…the look. But it’s too late. The words are out of his mouth before I can avert disaster.
“Peath wit dooooooosh!” Jackson squeals as he bounces in my arms and claps his hands happily.
Jameson looks on in horror, Bryan can’t seem to believe what he’s hearing, and from the lectern, I catch Father Romance pretending to cough so he can stifle his laughter. Well, at least I’m not the only one blushing now.