Page 53 of Blame it on the Bet
“First of all, I don’t think he is a… a mother trucker,” she explains. “I think he’s actually a decent guy. You should’ve seen him with the baby. He was great. And the way he looks at Henny…”
I shift uncomfortably. She may know what’s transpired between Bryan and me, but Walker and Bailey don’t. And I’m not so sure I want them to.
“He can’t take his eyes off her,” Jameson informs Walker. “And, let’s face it, we all know he could’ve found a way to strong-arm us into selling to him. Instead, he offered up the possibility of actually gifting the property to us. He even judged the stupid chili cook-off meant to raise the money to pay off the loan so he can’t buy it. Do those sound like the actions of a…mother trucker…to you?”
Walker considers this, but she doesn’t look happy about it. “Maybe. But I don’t trust him. He’s so…West Coast.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“He’s so confident and frickin’ breezy. I hate breezy people. You want me to take you seriously? Get yourself some good, old-fashioned Midwestern angst. Then I’ll take you seriously.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’ve lost your mind, Walker. Seriously. How much of the product have you been sampling today?”
Another glare. We all know Walker never drinks when she’s working the bar. None of us does. It was one rule that Pops hammered into all of us.
“Sorry, sorry,” I apologize quickly. “I’m just freaked out because I don’t know how to feel about him.”
“Wait, you have feelings for him? Like serious feelings?” Walker asks incredulously.
I sit on a barstool and allow my head to slump into my hands on the bar.
“I don’t know,” is my muffled response. “If you could’ve heard him talking about his past and his family when we were at the pie shop. He was like this whole other person. No shiny, glitzy facade, just a regular guy who’s still smarting from serious family dysfunction.” After a moment, I sit up again and look at each of my sisters in frustration. “Ugh! What’s wrong with me? Why do I even care what his life is like? I’m supposed to hate him… Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Walker says.
“No,” Jameson says at exactly the same moment. “Henny, it’s okay to like him.” Jameson takes a seat on the stool next to mine. “Don’t push Bryan away because you think he might be a bad guy. Because it seems to me all the signs to the contrary are right there in front of you.”
“But, James…isn’t he the bad guy? Didn’t he try to snatch up the pub from Pops under false pretenses? And this insane bet! It just doesn’t make any sense. He could just bid on it when the bank forecloses. So what’s his game?”
My sister grabs my hand so tightly that I gasp, and my confused eyes find hers.
Jameson does not look a bit confused. “Listen to me, Hennessy, Pops was no idiot. I haven’t said it to anyone, but I have no doubt he knew exactly what Bryan planned to do with the pub.”
“What? How can you say that?” Walker objects loudly. “Pops was a proud man who was in a bad spot,” James explains. “You want to know what I think? I think he knew his health wasn’t great and he suspected there wasn’t a lot of time. I think he knew none of us really wanted to run the business, and he didn’t want us feeling guilty about that. I think he saw Bryan’s offer as a way to pay off the debt and leave his family a financial cushion without the burden of running a business they didn’t want—out of obligation to him. That’s what I think.”
My mouth hangs open with shock. Not because she said what she said, but because I didn’t. I didn’t see what was so plainly right in front of me. Before I can voice this to my sister, she gives me another tight squeeze.
“And as for the bet, yeah, it is crazy. Unless, that is, you’re looking for an excuse to stick around.”
“I… Wait, I–I don’t…” I stammer.
“Seriously? Hennessy, the man is crazy about you. Crazy enough to spend a month in Mayhem, Minnesota where the cats wear sweaters, the pie tells tales, and there’s snow on the ground six months out of the year.” She laughs, but then her voice softens. “Hen, only a man who’s falling hard does something like that.”
“You’re crazy,” I inform her. “That man is not…not falling for me.”
Jameson shrugs. “Mmmm…I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Well,” Walker pipes up, “after a polka mass followed by a sit-down dinner with Wonderful Win and the little terrorist here, we’re all gonna have a good idea of what this guy is made of.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
…
There are people who grumble that the polka mass is blasphemous. I am not one of them. I am overjoyed that His Mass-ter’s Polka Band is in town and here this morning, providing the music for worship at the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem. And, while the regular mass is beautiful and moving, there’s something celebratory about singing the usual responses and hymns in polka style. Parishioners are swaying and clapping and smiling. Even Father Romance appears more jovial than usual.
And then there’s Bryan. He appears to be perfectly at home in our pew, sandwiched between me and Jackson, who keeps leaning over and patting his clean-shaven face with his tiny hand. I only mention the clean-shaven thing because it’s a departure from the scruffier, more casual look he’s adopted since he’s been in town. The smooth face goes well with the charcoal gray suit that looks so good on him.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…I have had improper thoughts about men’s clothing during mass…
