Page 50 of Blame it on the Bet
“Wait, wait, Bryan,” Jameson says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Please let me make it up to you. Will you join our family for Sunday supper after Mass?”
“Mass?” Bryan and I both echo at the same time.
This has suddenly become not-funny. I manage to straighten up and wipe the tears of laughter that have been streaming down my face, hoping to find a way to deflect this
invitation. But my sister presses on, despite my desperately mouthing the word “No!” and shaking my head.
“Mmm-hmm. We attend the eleven o’clock service. Fifth pew on the left,” she explains.
“Uh, I’m not Catholic,” Bryan says.
“Right, he’s not Catholic. Too bad,” I jump in.
“Oh, but it’s a polka mass this week,” she explains with an excited grin. “Those are so much fun. You don’t have to be Catholic to enjoy a good polka mass.”
“Really?” I say, forgetting my concerns about exposing Bryan to the entire insane family at one time. “It’s a polka mass? Oh, I’ve missed those…”
“I’m sorry, did you say polka mass? Like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’? That kind of polka…but like hymns?” Bryan asks, looking between the two of us for some sign that we’re pulling his leg.
“Yes, exactly like that,” Jameson confirms. “Father Romance’s real name is Grigory Romanski—good Polish name. He likes his polkas. Ooooo, Henny, maybe the youth group will sell pierogis in the fellowship hall again.”
“Ohh, you think?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You know, I’m gonna get going. I have some things to take care of back at the office,” Bryan says, pivoting awkwardly in his chunky new boots.
“Sunday. Eleven o’clock. We’ll be looking for you,” Jameson calls after him. He holds up a hand and keeps walking.
“Was that a yes?” she asks me. I shrug.
“I hope not…for his sake.”
Chapter Twenty
BRYAN
Truittism No.10: Beware the people who read between the lines…especially if that happens to be where you’re hiding.
I’m rattled. Not by the bagel-tossing toddler, but by his hair- tossing aunt. What was that back there? Since when do I go all sentimental over a piece of pie? And since when can I not stop thinking about Hennessy?
Well, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve had a hard time extracting her from my head since the second I laid eyes on her. But that was just physical—a perfectly natural response to an attractive woman.
Right?
Right.
So why am I thinking how I’d like to show her the little out-of-the-way restaurant in Malibu? And why am I wondering what her favorite flowers are… and her favorite color? Why is it that I suddenly care about how she feels more than how she looks in her tight jeans? And that last one’s by the slimmest of margins, by the way. Because Hennessy O’Halloran looks damn fine in her tight jeans.
“Ugh…” I groan out loud and pull the chair out from behind my desk, only to find Barack sitting in it. He’s curled up in a small, furry ball, his deep red sweater a bright accent against his tortoiseshell coat. He’s snoring. Yes, apparently this namesake of our forty-fourth president has a bit of a sleep apnea problem. And he drools, too.
“There he is,” King says as he sticks his head into my office. “Michelle has been pacing the place and yowling for him all morning.”
“Yeah, well, I might go into hiding, too, if there was a woman pacing and yowling for me.” I laugh.
The burly, older man squints, pushes his glasses farther up on his nose, and moves closer to get a look at the charts on my desk.
“Is that Iowa?”
“Yes, it is. I have a project in the works there.”
