Page 15 of Blame it on the Bet
“Sell it?” Jameson squeaks at her husband. “The pub is older than we are. It was our parents’ dream…”
“Then your father should’ve taken more care with it, don’t you think?” he challenges.
What. A. Jerk.
I think about how satisfying it would be to wrap my hands around his neck. But I don’t think Jameson would let me do it in front of Jackson. Or Win’s father, Big Win, for that matter. Dinner at my sister’s house is, perhaps, not the best place to contemplate murdering my brother-in-law. Instead, I take a deep, slow breath and will my pounding pulse to settle.
“Hennessy,” Win says, sending me into tachycardia again, “if you take the deal this guy…what’s his name?”
“Truitt,” I grit out. “Bryan. Truitt.”
“Right. If you take the deal this Truitt guy is offering, you can pay off the loan and have cash left over. Bailey’s got college next year, too, don’t forget.”
How could I? That’s been one of my biggest concerns since this all blew up. I consider the jerk carefully. He’s not wrong. For once.
“You make some really good points,” I say begrudgingly. He nods as if to affirm what he’s known all along.
“But Mama and Pops worked their whole lives for that place. There must be another way,” Jameson interjects.
Win turns toward his wife and cocks an eyebrow.
“And who, exactly, is going to run the pub, even if you do manage to find the money? You’ve got the baby, Bailey’s in high school, Walker’s in college…”
“What about me?” I pipe up before I can stop myself. “I could run it.”
“Last time I checked, Hennessy, you don’t live here. So how are you planning on helping out?” Win’s question isn’t so much curiosity as a challenge. “Or were you thinking you’d play barkeep for a little while and then run away back to your real life—your real job—when you get tired of doing inventory and washing glasses?”
I’m about to respond to his snarkiness when his father intervenes in the most unexpected manner.
“Enough!”
We all jump at the uncharacteristically harsh sound of Big Win’s voice…and then we all gawk at him. Even little Jackson has put down his fistful of mashed potatoes to look up at his grandfather with wide, green eyes.
“Dad, you don’t need to get involved in their family business,” Win says, assuming that his father is frustrated by Jameson and me. But my brother-in-law has assumed wrong.
“Winston,” Big Win begins, “Jameson and Hennessy are family, and you’d do well to remember that, son. And considering you just took over my law practice not six months ago, I’m surprised you can’t empathize with the dilemma your wife and her sisters are facing.”
Holy. Crap.
Winston Clarke, Sr., is a big, beefy man with a fringe of hair around the sides of his head and a bald spot up top. He’s a man of very few words. You’d think that might be a problem for an attorney. Not for him. For forty years he used it to his advantage, wielding awkward silence in the courtroom like a ninja might wield a sword. Now, Win the younger’s eyes drop down to his half-eaten plate of food as two bright scarlet patches form on his cheeks. He doesn’t respond to his father’s words.
“Hennessy,” Big Win says, catching my eye across the table. “Win is rude and inconsiderate…but he’s not wrong. It’s easy to say ‘keep the bar open’ until you think about how to keep it open. I’m not saying it’s impossible; I’m just suggesting you take some time to consider the reality of this situation. Your father was a good man, a dedicated man. That pub was his life, apart from you girls and your mother. But, as much as I’m sure he’d love to see you carry on, he’d never want you to suffer for it.”
“Thank you, sir.” I give him a respectful nod and watch as he gets to his feet.
“Dad, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Jameson asks her father-in-law.
“Afraid so, my dear. This old man’s going ice fishing tomorrow, and I mean to be on the road before dawn.”
He leans over to give Jackson a kiss on the head.
“Goppa!” my nephew exclaims happily.
Big Win says his good-byes and then makes his way through the living room and out the front door.
“We could do it,” Jameson says, so quietly that I think I’ve misheard her.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
