Page 75 of Blame it on the Bet
“This…what?” he asks cautiously.
“This pub. Running this business. Being here in this town.” I slide the cup over to him and put a hand on his forearm. “And, if I’m honest with myself, I want this to go on for a bit longer. What’s going on with you and me. But I’m not naive. I know that’s not going to happen. So…what do you say we just pretend—for a little while longer—that this is our life. You. Me. The pub. The town.”
He sighs and takes a long look down into his mug before answering. “Yeah. I’d like that,” he says, looking up at last with some cross between sadness and regret and wistfulness. “What kind of pie did you get?” I ask, looking to get off of the sad stuff.
“Oh, man, it’s this amazing apple-cranberry-walnut pie. I had a slice the other day, and it blew. Me. Away. So, when Janet called to tell me there was a whole pie with my name on it, I ran right over there. Actually, that was less than an hour ago. It’s probably still warm—” Bryan stops suddenly when he looks at the shock that must be plastered all over my face. “What? What is it? We don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.”
“Like it?” I gasp, my voice unexpectedly thick with emotion. “Bryan, that was my mother’s favorite pie. When she died, Janet retired it. I don’t think she’s made this pie in close to ten years…”
I feel the tears as they slip, unbidden, from the corners of my eyes.
“Holy crap. That’s a little spooky,” he mutters, wide- eyed. “She had me try a piece the other day, and then she asked me what it tasted like.”
Wow. That is so Janet. She was testing him with the slice…and then she sent him the whole pie, knowing he’d bring it here to me.
“And? What did it taste like?” I ask, letting my voice trail off, a little bit afraid to hear his answer, knowing it’s likely to be something ridiculous.
Bryan considers me for a moment, the soft, amber glow of the light fixture above us reflected in his dark brown eyes. He looks so much softer than he did when he first arrived in Mayhem. And it’s not just the change of wardrobe. He’s lost that big city edge, replacing it with a much more easy-going manner.
“Home,” he says simply. “I told her it tasted like home.”
He got it right. He got the answer right.
I’m in his arms again in a heartbeat, the pie uncut on the table and the coffee growing cold as we stumble down the hallway to my bedroom.
Chapter Thirty
BRYAN
Truittism No. 15: A cat out of the bag is worth one sitting duck in the bush.
Barack is cuddled up under my desk with what appears to be a new friend—a giant, orange striped cat that must weigh close to thirty pounds.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, bending down to pet the newest staff member of the Mayhem Gazette. “What’s your name?”
“That’s Donald,” King says from my doorway.
“Oh no. Tell me you didn’t,” I say, shaking my head and grinning. “He’s not…”
“Yes, sir. Donald Trump. He’s a rescue from St. Paul, our capitol. How could I not name him Donald? I’ve already got an order in to the Knitty Kitty for a sweater that has a little tie attached to it,” he tells me proudly.
I throw back my head and laugh. “Well, I’m happy to see he and Barack are hanging together in the name of bipartisan leadership.”
“Nah. They’re just hiding from Michelle. She can be a real ballbuster, that one,” he informs me before walking back out into the main office, where the front door jingles with the entrance of a visitor.
I pull my cell phone out and start a text to Hennessy. I’ve spent every night this week with her. No reason to think tonight will be any different. I hope. But before I can tap an outgoing message, an incoming one flashes on the screen. It’s from Helen.
Services on Saturday morning at Mt. Mourne Baptist Church with interment to follow at Shady Hollow Cemetery. She’s held off on the services in hopes that you’d come. She asked me to tell you she can’t wait any longer. This is your last chance.
I don’t have time to even process this before King sticks his head through my doorway again.
“You don’t pay me enough to be your secretary, you know,” he says in his best curmudgeonly tone.
“No, I don’t,” I agree. “But, then again, I don’t recall asking you to be. Why?”
“Cause there’s some weasely looking little man out here wanting to see you,” he grumbles.
“Who?”
