Page 17 of Blame it on the Bet
Truittism Number 4: Get to know your enemy; otherwise, you’re bound to get your back end handed to you when you least expect it.
I’m sitting up in bed, working on my laptop when I hear the tentative knock at my door.
“Mr. Truitt? It’s Miss Lucy. Are you still awake in there?” Well, if I wasn’t before, I certainly would be now.
“Uh, yes, Miss Lucy,” I call, jumping up and out of bed in my briefs and T-shirt. “Did you need something?”
“You have a phone call.”
A phone call? Here? No one but Helen knows where I am, and she’d ring the cell phone if she wanted to reach me.
Unless…
“Uh…just a second…” I grab a pair of workout shorts from my roller bag and slip them on. When I finally open the door, she holds out a cordless handset for me.
“You can bring it down with you in the morning. I have another one charging in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I say with a brief smile as I take it from her and close the door behind me. “Hello?”
“Mr. Truitt.”
Oh my God. It’s her.
“Miss O’Halloran. How did you know I was here?” “There are only two places to stay in town, and I happen to know that the Mayhem Motel is full-up with ice fishermen this week.”
“So you deduced I’d be at Pink Fuzzy Slipper Inn.”
I hear a distinct snort of laughter from her end of the line.
“I think you mean the Pink Lady Slipper Inn. Pink Lady Slipper is the Minnesota state flower. And yes, I deduced, but Father Romance mentioned it as well.”
“How did he know?”
“He knows everything that goes on in this town,” she informs me.
“Okay…well, as much as I’d love to pass the hours discussing flowers and fathers, I’m curious as to the nature of this call. Have you rethought my offer?”
“Hardly,” she mutters disdainfully. “No, I’m just calling to reiterate that you should go home tomorrow. The pub will not be available for purchase, and I’d hate for you to waste your time here in Mayhem when you could be destroying someone else’s quaint little town.”
My turn to snort.
“Been googling, have we?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Truitt. I particularly liked the article titled Bryan Truitt Wages War on Small-Town America.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Miss O’Halloran,” I suggest amiably. “I’ve been welcomed by more communities than I can count—but they’re not running to the newspapers about it.”
“Really.” The single word isn’t so much of a question as an accusation. She thinks I’m lying to her.
“Really. Next time you’re near a computer, look up Middleman, Idaho, and Ranier, Montana. They were quite happy with the influx of cash and jobs that my company brought to their communities. Communities that’d been struggling—boarded up storefronts, foreclosed homes, unemployed workers—now thriving.”
She harrumphs, and suddenly I’m struck by the desire to hear her laugh. For real. No snarky snorts or disbelieving chuckles. For some reason, I suspect Hennessy O’Halloran’s laughter will be sweet and light, like the sound of tinkling bells on a wind chime.
What the hell, Bryan?
“Yes, well,” she begins, interrupting my bizarre reverie, “be that as it may, this community neither wants nor needs your services.”
“That remains to be seen,” I counter, and I can feel the rage ratcheting up from her side of the phone.
