Page 34 of Blame it on the Bet
I hold my breath, waiting for the dramatic wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth. The whining and complaining that she hates to work with food or doesn’t want to serve people she knows or?—
“Okay,” she says simply, totally blowing my internal checklist of histrionics.
“Okay?” I confirm suspiciously.
Bailey gives me her dazzling smile, courtesy of four years of braces.
“Yeah, Henny, I’ll do it. I want to do whatever I can to help. I’m not a little kid anymore. And I’ll give Mr. Campbell my notice. I’m surprised he didn’t lay me off right after Christmas. I think he felt sorry for me after…” She trails off, and we’re all silent because we know how that sentence ends.
After Pops died.
“No, Bailey, you’re not a little kid anymore. You’re a woman,” I murmur softly, reaching out to put a hand over her perfect pink manicure. “Thank you.”
“Just tell me what you need, Hennessy,” Walker pipes up. Another totally unexpected reaction, this one from my perpetually disgruntled second sister.
“O–okay,” I stutter, once again shocked. I glance at Jameson, whose eyes are wide with disbelief.“You’re the best bartender I know. I’ll take any and all shifts you’re willing to work. In fact, if you’re agreeable, I’d like you to oversee the entire bar. The orders, the schedule, drink specials…”
Now it’s Walkers turn to look stunned. Her dark eyebrows knit in confusion. “Are you serious? You’d trust me to do all that?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say with an easy, confident smile. “I trust you, Walker. And I know that, after Pops, no one’s put in more time at the pub than you.”
She looks like she could be knocked over by a good stiff breeze.
“Close your mouth, or you’ll catch flies in there!” Bailey teases.
It’s a phrase that our mother used to use, and it stops us all in our tracks, even Bailey, who spoke it.
“To Mama and Pops,” I say, lifting my mug of coffee. “May they look down on us and guide us from heaven so we can keep their legacy alive.”
“To Mama and Pops!” they echo, raising their own cups.
We clink over the middle of the table.
“And to the Whiskey Sisters…from cradle to grave,” Jameson says quietly, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“To the Whiskey Sisters,” we murmur, clinking a little more delicately this time around.
Somehow, I know we’re going to be just fine.
…
Two days and one extensive plan later, I’m working the lunch shift at the pub. But I’m having trouble concentrating.
All morning, trucks have been coming and going, dropping things off at the office of the Mayhem Gazette across the street from the pub. It seems as if there’s a different one every time I glance out the front window. Office furniture. Computer equipment. And now a broadband internet company. All of this wouldn’t be nearly so interesting if King Colby, editor of the local paper, weren’t a man who would still be getting his news off a teletype if he could.
Well, as luck would have it, I need to pay King a visit, anyway, so I can scope out the situation while taking care of some business. I wait until the cable truck finally pulls away from his storefront before grabbing my coat and heading out the door.
The Mayhem Gazette is like any other small-town publication. It runs stories about local events, covers local sports, and reports on the occasional local news story. Before Craig’s List or Angie’s List, the good people of Mayhem, Minnesota, sold their cars, offered their services, and traded their wares in the pages of the Gazette.
Longtime newspaperman King Colby has been the paper’s one-man-show for the last decade, serving as its managing editor, reporter, and advertising agent. After retiring from the St. Paul Tribune and moving north, Colby soon discovered that he could leave the news, but the news would never leave him. Now he brings his special brand of grumpy curmudgeon to our newsstands every Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday, with special editions as needed.
He’s at his desk in the front of the office when I walk in. The desk that used to be for the receptionist, back when the paper could afford a receptionist.
“Hi, King.” I greet him with my sweetest smile and an intentional toss of my hair. “I’d like to place an ad in your next edition.”
He eyeballs me. “It’s been a while since I had any business from you O’Hallorans,” he grumbles.
“Yes, let’s see…I suppose that would have been my father’s obituary,” I reply, the smile still in place. He gets the idea, and I see his face soften.
