Page 11 of Blame it on the Bet
“Well, it couldn’t have been too important, seeing as how you didn’t even know he was dead,” I point out. Before he can reply, he’s saved by a bit of divine intervention.
“Henny, love, how about a drink for our weary traveler, hmm? You can put it on my tab.”
“Please, Father Romance,” I begin. “Father…Romance?” Truitt blusters.
A huge toothy grin from our local man of God. “Nickname, son. I’m Father Grigory Romanski. I’m the rector at Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem.”
Our guest snorts—though, I’m not sure if it’s over the name of the church or the priest.
“What are you drinking?” Father Romance asks, unoffended.
“Uh…Stoli, please, neat.”
I fix the drinks and set them out in front of the two men. “What is that you’re drinking?” Truitt asks, peering
curiously into Father Romance’s cocktail
“Ah, an oldie but a goodie! It’s a Rye Presbyterian.”
“What, don’t you Catholics have your own drink? You
have to borrow one from the Protestants?” he quips, and the two of them laugh.
I’m not so easily amused as I shoot some seltzer into a glass of my own and lean across the bar so I can get a good look at this guy’s face when I speak to him. All in all, it’s not a bad face. His jawline is well defined but not too angular. His nose has the slightest hint of a bump—a previous injury, perhaps? It’s flanked by eyes the color of warm, golden- brown caramel. His hair is tousled but not in any organic way. There’s some sort of product holding the thick, dark-brown strands perfectly in place. Oh yeah. This guy’s got “Big City” written all over him.
“All right, Mr. Truitt. What, exactly, did you and my father have going?” I ask, not letting on that I’m already aware of his dealings with my dad.
He pulls a file folder from his briefcase and hands it to me. I open it and scan the pages, flipping quickly from one to the next. This all looks to be in line with the documentation I have back in the office.
“So he was going to sell the pub to you,” I murmur. “He was,” he answers cautiously—clearly unsure of where he stands with me. I might understand a little of the densely worded pages I’m looking at, but then again, I might not. He bets on the latter. “We were just about to formalize the deal when your father…he…well, you know. But I assure you, Miss O’Halloran, everything is in order. This is a perfectly valid contract. I suppose—if you really wanted to spend the money—you could consult an attorney. But keep in mind that can be a considerable expense just to be told it’s a done deal. I mean, I’m here. I’ve got the cash. Why don’t you and I just finish what Jack and I started?”
He’s confident and casual, one brow arched in a gesture that screams, “Go ahead, challenge me, I dare ya!”
I do dare, because I know better. Bryan Truitt may have an outstanding poker face, but he has absolutely no idea who he’s playing against.
“So…you don’t think I need to have an attorney look this over?” I ask innocently. “I mean, there’s a lot of jargon here…” My brows furrow in concern as I scan the page in my hand.
His lips tip up into a placating smile that I might find offensive—if I didn’t find it to be so…sad. He has no idea he’s about to hang himself, so I just keep handing him the rope. I catch a glance of Father Romance out of the corner of my eye. He has a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
“You know, I can just give you the gist of it. No reason to pay some bloodsucking ambulance chaser,” Bryan says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disgust. “They’ll just eat away at your father’s estate until there’s nothing left.”
I set the papers down on the bar and look him straight in the eyes. Maybe I’d have gone easier on him if he hadn’t just dropped my father into this. I take a long, deep breath and plaster a “sweet as pie” smile on my face.
“Well, you’re just so…so very kind to be so concerned for me and my family.”
“Ah, well, anything I can do to help you out at a difficult time like this,” he replies, placing a reassuring hand over mine. It’s warm and strong. “Hey, what do you say we find a notary, sign the paperwork, and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner to celebrate.”
Father Romance coughs now, trying to disguise a laugh. I slide my untouched glass of seltzer his way and return my concentration to Mr. Bryan Truitt, who still has his hand on mine.
“Oh, that’s so tempting!” I exclaim. “But I’m afraid I have some work to do for my job. My real job. You see, I’m just in town long enough to get things settled here. Then it’s back to Minneapolis for me.”
“Oh ho! That’s the big city around here, isn’t it? And what does a lovely lady such as yourself do in a hustling, bustling metropolis such as Minneapolis? You aren’t, by chance, a brain surgeon, are you?” he teases.
I throw back my head in an amused laugh.
“You’re so funny,” I gush. “No, actually, I have to review some case notes for my boss. I’m first chair on a big trial coming up.”
I watch as his face goes ashen. Suddenly he’s not looking so confident anymore.
