Page 40 of Blame it on the Bet
“I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s just not right. Half the entrants are parishioners of mine. How can I judge them? The good Lord would not look kindly upon me for favoring one member of my flock over another,” he explains, a little too seriously.
“Uh-huh,” I say flatly, raising a single, challenging eyebrow his way. I see him working hard to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. Father Romance knows I’m onto him. “So, you thought Bryan would make a suitable replacement? He’s not even a resident of Mayhem.”
“Yet,” Bryan interjects with a grin, holding up his index finger. “Not a resident yet.”
I glare at him until the grin slides from his face.
“Oh, Hennessy, he’s perfect. No ties to the community. No allegiance to anyone. He tells me he loves chili…and he’s practically a celebrity, being from Los Angeles and all,” Father Romance explains, using the old pronunciation for Los Angeles, with the hard “G” sound that was replaced about sixty years ago with the softer “J” pronunciation.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, knowing full well that this particular horse is already out of the barn. “Fine. Fine, fine,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Come with me.”
He follows me to the back, and I notice Father R. slipping away into the crowd—no doubt to find a beer and hide out in the corner. I make a mental note to investigate the Lutheran church on the other side of town. It might be time for me to convert. Inside the tiny pub kitchen, our cook, Donovan, is happily stirring industrial-size pots of chili with what looks like an oar. Something about the whole scene makes me think of the witches in Macbeth. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Parties burn and nonsense bubble,” Bryan says in a witchy voice. I spin around and stare at him.
Did I say that out loud?
“Something wrong?” he asks me, confused by my accusatory glare.
I shake my head. Weird coincidence, that’s all.
“No. Nothing, sorry,” I mumble and continue our trek to the far side of the kitchen. I pull a fresh apron off the shelf and hand it to him.
“Really? Do I have to?” he asks, his upper lip raised in distaste.
“Just for that,” I respond, reaching onto the shelf again, “you have to wear the hat, too.”
When I fluff-up the puffy white chef’s hat, he starts to shake his head.
“Yeah…no, I don’t think so…”
“Look, do you want to do this or not? Because I’ve got a room full of half-drunk chili-guzzlers all rooting for their favorite recipe, and if I don’t get this judging going, they might just start a riot.”
“Please. Dramatic much, Hennessy?” He rolls his eyes, and I snort, slapping the hat to his chest a little too hard.
“You’ll see,” I warn him. I can’t help but take note of the firm plane of flesh underneath the plaid. I clear my throat and turn around before he can see the blush I feel crawling up my neck toward my cheeks.
“Let’s go,” I say, leading him back out into the fray.
Chapter Sixteen
BRYAN
Truittism No. 8: If you don’t have anything nice to say, then keep your big mouth shut…or get your butt ready to run from the villagers with their torches and pitchforks.
I cannot believe I let him talk me into this. But how are you supposed to say no to a priest? The guy plays dirty, and for a split second, I wonder if I could convince him to leave the church and come work for me. He’d have to keep the collar, though…
Hennessy interrupts my thoughts as she pulls me by the elbow to stand next to the long row of crockpots that have taken up residence on one end of the pub.
“Excuse me,” she says loudly but politely, trying to get the attention of the crowd that’s shoehorned into the space. “Uh, hello?” she tries again, louder.
“Hey! Listen up!”
The words are so sharp, the tone so cutting, that I immediately flash on an image of my mother. Only someone with children can command the attention of an entire room with three words. And I’m not wrong. The demand has come from someone who could only be Jameson Clarke, Hennessy’s younger sister.
Now that they’re standing side-by-side, I see the resemblance…which is odd, considering how different they are. While Hennessy has unruly dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes, Jameson’s look is more classically Irish. Her hair is that shade of red that you so seldom see in redheads. There’s not a trace of orange to it, just a deep, rich coppery color that offsets the emerald green of her eyes. Everyone has turned to stare at us now, and I smile awkwardly as I’m openly ogled.
“Thanks for coming tonight, everyone,” Hennessy says. “We’re about to start the contest, so I wanted to take a moment to introduce our guest judge. If you’ve not met him yet, let me present to you Mr. Bryan Truitt of Los Angeles. He owns a land development company out there and is interested in purchasing this very building so he can erect a huge, multiplex cinema that will bring crowds of strangers into our community, cause a major parking disaster, and lower our property values en masse.”
No, she didn’t!
