Page 73 of Blame it on the Bet
“Then what are you doing?” Walker demands. “I think you’ve lost your mind. Pops must be rolling in his grave.”
She knows she’s gone too far the second the words are out of her mouth. That’s clear from the look on her face.
“What did you just say to me?”
My question comes out soft but deadly. Suddenly everything around us seems to stop—the ticking of the wall clock, the whirring of the dishwasher…the beating of my heart.
“I—uh—I didn’t mean it like that, Henny…” Walker stammers, sounding uncharacteristically afraid. As she should be.
“How dare you,” I spit. “After everything I’ve done to try and turn this thing around!”
“Okay, okay. You know what?” James shoehorns herself into my impending implosion. “We’re going to stop this. Right here, right now. Henny, Walker didn’t mean that the way it sounded, and you know it. Walker, mind your own business. Henny’s social life is none of your concern, so just cut it out already. Understood?”
Walker, who looks impossibly pale now, nods her head silently.
“Maybe this would be a good time to crunch the numbers,” James suggests. We need to focus on the pub right now. It’s the only thing that matters.”
She’s right. With a final glare at Walker, I reach around the chair for my purse hanging off the back. I pull out a small notebook and pen and set my phone to the calculator function, ticking off small columns of numbers. Finally, I look up and find my sisters staring at me intently.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out sounding a little froggy and strangled.
“Well, the pub quiz put us just over sixty-five thousand.”
“What?” Bailey gasps. “How can we still be so far off?”
“There’s no way,” Jameson says quietly. “There’s absolutely no way. Those were our two big events. We may pull in a little more from the dart leagues and the specialty nights, but not thirty-five-thousand-dollars-worth.”
I take a deep breath and do a little mental arithmetic. “Well, let’s not forget about St. Patty’s Day. We always pull in a good sum from the corned beef and cabbage dinner. That’ll help. But we’ve got to figure out the rest of the money. Because, short of going door-to-door and asking folks to kick in their spare change, I’m not sure what more we can do.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Bailey says, holding up her hand to stop me. “That’s it! That’s exactly what we’ll do,” she breathes excitedly.
“Oh, no way we’re going begging for money,” Jameson says flatly.
“No, not like that,” Bailey explains. “We’ll set up a Fund My Goal page.”
“Isn’t that what people use to raise money for sick kids?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, yeah, among other things. It’s called crowd- sourced funding, and people use it to raise money for their inventions, to make movies, to pay for funeral costs… I know somebody who started one to pay for her car repairs.” “And people give cash for that?” I ask incredulously.
“I mean, I know the concept, I just didn’t know it could be used for such…mundane things. Why would someone want to contribute to our cause? It doesn’t benefit them.”
Bailey is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table as she gesticulates. “That’s the thing, people do want to help. And it’s not like you’re asking for a hundred bucks a person. We’ll post that great picture of Mama and Pops standing out front of the pub and tell our story. You’d be amazed how many people are willing to give a couple of bucks here and there. It adds up quick. And we’ll throw in an incentive…like the first ten people to give fifty-dollars or more get dinner and drinks for two at the pub. Come on,” she coaxes, “let’s do it. We’ve got nothing left to lose.”
I look at Jameson, who shrugs. “She’s right. We’re getting down to the wire now. We raise all the money, or we don’t. There is no in between here.”
I nod. “Okay, I’m in,” I agree, realizing this is probably what’s going to make us or break us.
…
It’s snowing. Again. I’m watching the huge flakes waft down out of the pitch-black sky and stick onto every flat surface in sight. According to the Weather Channel, we can expect a foot by morning. That’s great news for the skiers, snowboarders, and the kids looking for a day off from school,
not so great news for our St. Patrick’s Day celebration. It’s one of our busiest nights of the year and, as it turns out, it’s our last chance to raise a few more bucks before 5 p.m. on Friday, when the building will go into foreclosure. It’s going to be close—like, a hair’s breadth close—so tonight’s turnout could be the difference.
I’m startled by the vibration in the pocket of my robe. It’s nearly midnight. Who’s texting me now? I pull out my phone and look at the screen to see that it’s Bryan, and he’s only sent me one word.
Pie?
I smile as I type back.
