by L. E. Rico
“Henny, dear, I’ve asked Bryan to replace me as judge of the chili cook-off,” he informs me as he puts a heavy hand on Truitt’s shoulder.
“What?” I practically shriek. “Wait, wait, wait… You agreed to do this last week, Father. You can’t back out now.”
“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!
This woman is trying to get me killed. I keep smiling nervously as the crowd around us starts to murmur and glare in my direction. I catch sight of the priest as he pushes toward us, concern etching his usually amiable features.
Okay. This is not the time to panic. I need to do something. And fast.
“Hello, everyone,” I say loudly and cheerily. I get scowls in return, except for Hennessy. Out of the corner of my eye she looks shocked that I’ve dared to open my mouth. “I just wanted to thank you all for being so welcoming to me. Hennessy’s right. I’ve been scouting locations for a new entertainment center in this region. One that will bring with it hundreds of jobs in the construction of the project—and later in the running of it. I’ve had interest from the town of Barton Pines, just north of here. They’re hurting for jobs and would welcome the influx of cash from nearby residents looking to catch a movie without having to drive an hour to get to it.”
The timbre of the murmur has shifted from anger to curiosity. It buoys me enough to continue.
“Of course, you can’t blame me for looking to Mayhem first. It’s a much more vibrant town, with an active, civically-minded community. That being said, all of this is in flux at the moment. In a perfect world, the O’Halloran sisters will raise the money they need to preserve their family legacy. We can always find a place to put something shiny and new. But I think we all know that it’s impossible to replace something as special as this pub. So, what do you say I start tasting all of this fine-smelling chili?”
Even I am unprepared for the swell of applause and cheers that greets my impromptu little speech. I have no idea how I did it, but I think, somehow, I’ve just won over a substantial portion of the town. Though what, exactly, I’ve convinced them of, I have no idea.
…
This chili-judging thing isn’t nearly as tedious as I’d thought it would be. With fifteen different entries, I was sure I’d be spitting the stuff into a napkin by the time I got to the end of the line. Surprisingly, though, the good chefs of Mayhem are exceptionally skilled in the art of chili making, and I’m met with some stiff competition.
“All right, Mr. Truitt has chosen the top four,” Hennessy says, and all ears are once again on her after our half hour tasting break.
“And can I just say,” I break in, putting a hand on her delicate wrist, “what an honor it is to be here? And how incredibly difficult it’s been to narrow it down to these four? Please, let’s have a round of applause for all the contestants because there isn’t a bad batch in the bunch tonight!”
A roar fills the pub and beer bottles are held high. I see all the chili cookers, grinning hap
pily. Oh yeah. I just scored me some major chili points.
“Uh…thank you…Bryan,” Hennessy grits out through her forced smile. “Okay, here we go…our fourth-place winner in the first-annual O’Halloran’s Pub Chili Cook-off is Chelsea St. Pierre and her Barbecue Chili!” Applause erupts, and I see the tiny woman jump up and down, fist-pumping the air while she yells “Woot, woot, woot!”
I guess people take their chili pretty seriously around here.
“Next, taking third place, is our very own mayor, Tom McMahon, with his White Chicken Chili.”
More applause. The mayor, who bears a striking resemblance to the Monopoly mascot with his big handlebar mustache, takes off his chef’s hat and bows for the crowd.
“Okay, that brings us to second place. Let’s congratulate Jacqueline Waldera and her Sirloin Steak Chili!”
Waldera…I didn’t catch that when I was tasting her entry. I’m about to ask Hennessy if she’s related to Wally from the bank, but when he rushes up to throw his arms around the petite brunette, I have my answer. I also have the most unwelcome, uncomfortable feeling of relief.
Relief over what? That he’s married? That he’s not interested in Hennessy? Yeah, that one pings my radar. I take a deep breath and force the thoughts from my mind, focusing on the woman next to me.
“And, finally, the winner of the blue ribbon, bragging rights, and a newly constructed golden crockpot trophy is…Fire Marshall Dean Davidson and his Five-Alarm Chili!”
There’s hooting and hollering the likes of which I’ve never heard as I present the winner with the truly ridiculous looking trophy, which he clutches to his chest with one hand while pumping my hand enthusiastically with the other.
“And let’s have a round of applause for our guest judge, Bryan Truitt!”
It’s Father Romance who issues the call, but it seems as if half the town of Mayhem answers it. I feel my face redden a little as I experience a mix of pride, joy, and belonging—an altogether foreign range of emotions for me, but not an unpleasant one.
Later on, I’ve just returned my borrowed apron and chef’s hat when Hennessy and I both come out into the back hallway at the same time. We’re on opposite ends, about twenty feet apart. Where I’ve come out of the kitchen, she’s walked out of what must be an office. She looks different than when I saw her just fifteen minutes ago—her hair has been liberated from its tight ponytail and is hanging in wild waves over her shoulders and down her back.
“Oh, uh, hi,” she says, clearly surprised to run into me.
“Hi.”
I take a few steps closer. It’s not that I want to make her uncomfortable—I just can’t seem to stop myself. I feel an invisible attraction pulling me toward her and I’m helpless to fight it. Not that I would…if I could.
“Well, thanks for tonight. You did a great job, all things considered.”
“What things considered?” I ask, continuing my slow, casual advance toward her.
Hennessy O’Halloran is looking progressively more fidgety as I close the distance between us.
“I–I…I mean, considering our…you know…our arrangement…” she stammers.
“Which arrangement?” I ask innocently.
“You know…our wager…”
“Oh, that arrangement. Yes, you’d think things might be awkward between us. But they’re really not, are they?” I muse. She doesn’t reply—nor does she make a move to thwart my approach. “Quite the opposite, actually. It’s the damnedest thing, Hennessy. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about…” I let the sentence hang between us until, finally, she clearly can’t take it anymore.
“About what? What can’t you stop thinking about?” she asks quietly.
We’re only a foot apart now, and she has to look up to see my face. That means I get to look down into her perfect, milky complexion. I’m so close that I could actually count the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. I wonder if she has them anywhere else…
Before I can stop myself, I lower my head close to hers, and for just an instant, I know we both think I’m going to kiss her. But at the final moment, my mouth veers to her left ear. I’m sure she can feel the warmth of my breath as I whisper the single word.
“You.”
Except it doesn’t sound like a word. It’s an exhalation—a sigh—and it floats from my mouth to her ear and heats the space between us for the brief moment before I turn and leave her. I’m sure I can feel her eyes on me as I walk back down the hall, self-satisfied smile on my face.
Oh God.
I am in so much trouble here.
Chapter Seventeen
Hennessy
I try to put it out of my mind for the rest of the night, but it’s damn near impossible, and that’s pretty frustrating because there’s too much to do for me to waste time figuring out Bryan Truitt’s latest mind games. As it is, we don’t get everyone out and the place cleaned up until after two in the morning. And by then, we’re all exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. This was the first event we’ve done without Pops, and despite the insanity of the night, I think we all felt his absence acutely.
Up in the apartment, the four of us are in our pajamas, agreeing that a sleepover is in order. The only person unhappy with that decision is Win, who objected to a solid eighteen hours with his own child on principle. I nearly choked when I heard James tell him to “man up and be a father” to his son for a change.
Walker has been sorting the cash bar money while Bailey tallies the credit card receipts. Jameson is adding up the piles, one by one, as they’re handed to her. When the last number has been punched into her desk calculator, she rips the long white piece of register tape and examines the totals.
“Okay, so…we’re adding the bar tabs, the admission tickets, and the chili entry fees. Both Carly and Donovan have asked not to be paid for tonight, though I insisted they keep the service tips. Bailey and Walker have both put their tips back into the total as well—thank you for that, by the way. You two worked your butts off tonight,” Jameson notes as she looks at them over the top of her reading glasses. My two youngest sisters nod and smile.
“So, that leaves us with a net profit of…” She pauses to do her version of a drumroll. “Five-thousand-eight-hundred-dollars.”
We all look at one another, unsure of what to say.
“I know this is going to sound stupid,” Bailey begins, “but how much were we hoping for? I mean, is that good or what?”
I start to chuckle. “She’s right; we never did discuss what our goal was…and I’ve never done a chili cook-off before. So, is that a good amount? Or did we just get our butts handed to us?”
Surprisingly, it’s Walker who lays it all out for us.
“Well, I was projecting a crowd of seventy-five to eighty, and about ten entrants. We doubled the attendees and exceeded the entrants by fifty percent. On top of that, the average bar tab was about fifty bucks, and the tips were right around twenty percent. I had conservatively predicted a net profit right around 3k. So, yeah, we kinda kicked ass tonight,” she says so earnestly that I’m not smiling anymore. I’m staring at my sister with undisguised shock…and appreciation.
“Wow, Walker…that’s really impressive,” Jameson says quietly from next to me.
She shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s just something I do. I like numbers and trends. I’m acing my economics classes this year.”
“Still,” Bailey says before we can fall too far down the well of awe for Walker, “it doesn’t seem like much compared to what we have to raise. What’s that, like six percent? We’ve got ninety-four percent left to raise? That kinda sucks.”
“I know it seems like a drop in the bucket, but keep in mind that just a few hours ago, we had a hundred-thousand to raise. I’ll take six-thousand toward that.”
They nod their agreement.
“Hey, what about that Bryan Truitt?” Jameson says in a hushed, dramatic whisper.
“What about him?” I ask, suddenly afraid someone saw
something in the back hallway. Not that there was anything to see…
Walker smacks a palm to her forehead. “Jeez! Can you believe him? And that Father Romance—I wanted to strangle him with his rosary beads.”
“Now, now, let’s not be blasphemous,” James chides her with a wry smile.
“How’d you like his outfit?” Bailey asks. “That’s one I picked out for him. Brings out his dark features, right?”
I sit up and gawk at her. “Are you saying you went over to the Inn and actually helped him pick out his clothing?” I suddenly feel queasy.
“What? Ewwwww! No way! He’s like ancient. Besides I’m not stupid, I don’t go to men’s hotel rooms. God, Henny, Pops raised me, too, ya know,” Bailey reminds me indignantly. “It was one of the outfits he bought from me at Campbell’s.”
My alarm dissipates, and I experience a pang of guilt for thinking something like that about…who? My sister…or him? Thankfully, Walker jumps in before I can examine that question too closely.
“You never did say, Bailey, what was he like with you? Was he a total jerk or what?”
Bailey shakes her head.
“No, he was really nice, actually. But he did try to pump me for intel.”
“Intel about who?” I ask, a little too quickly. “Did he ask about me?”
A broad, knowing smile crosses my sister’s face.
Crap.
“Oh, I get it. You wanna know if the cute guy was talking about you,” Bailey teases. “Yes, in fact, he did ask a few questions. And, I’ve gotta say, Henny, you could do worse.”
“She has done worse,” Walker groans. “And that’s not saying much.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply flatly.
Jameson is watching me closely. A little too closely…and it’s making me nervous.
“You know, Henny, I forgot to tell you…” she says, effectively ending further commentary on Bryan Truitt. “You had a call earlier at the pub. Guy said he was your neighbor. He wanted to let you know your plants were okay.”
Damn. I shouldn’t have ignored FWB’s last few texts. He’s just checking in on me to make sure I’m okay.
