Mischief and Mayhem Page 2

  I can hear her even before I see her. When the pick-up truck finally reaches our worksite, her head is hanging out the window, long black hair billowing behind her. How she can drive like that and yell at the same time without killing herself is beyond me.

  I hold up my arms, palms toward the sky in a “What’s up?” gesture as she brings the beat-up old Chevy to an abrupt stop, sending a cloud of dust around us. It’s so thick, I can’t even see her as she gets out of the truck and comes toward me. I splutter and cough, pulling up my T-shirt to cover my mouth in a makeshift dust mask. When it finally settles, the small, curvy dynamo is standing right in front of me. And she looks worried.

  That’s more than a little disconcerting, because Marta never looks worried. In fact, she’s just about the toughest woman I’ve ever met in all these years with Project Peace. And that’s saying a lot. Spending time in underdeveloped regions around South and Central America tends to toughen up even the most genteel soul. In the last six months, I’ve seen Marta dig a ditch, put new brakes on the truck, and help deliver a baby.

  “Señor Scott, you have a message,” she informs me now in her thick accent. I speak Spanish, but Marta refuses to converse in anything but English until she’s fully fluent.

  A message? How is that even possible? No one knows where I am, let alone how to get in touch with me.

  “From who?”

  “Emmm…” She searches for the word in English. “The doctor.”

  “What doctor?” I ask, racking my brains to think of the various medical personnel I’ve worked with. I come up short.

  “The doctor en…” She pauses the “Spanglish” thought and furrows her brow, trying to get her mouth around the strange word. “En Meenahota.”

  “Huh?”

  “Meenahota!” she repeats, more confidently this time.

  “Meena…” And then it clicks. “Minnesota?”

  “Sí! Yes, yes! Meenahota!” she says with a look of triumph.

  “I have a message from a doctor in Minnesota,” I mutter to myself. “What’s the message, Marta?”

  “Emm… You must to come home. To Meenahota. Por tú padre. He very much not well.”

  Oh crap.

  “My father is not well and I need to go to Minnesota? Do you mean he’s…sick?”

  Marta nods enthusiastically. “Sick. Yes. Sick,” she repeats.

  An image of my dad’s face comes to mind, bringing with it the usual jumble of emotions—love, longing, frustration, anger—plus a new one, fear. I’ve spent nearly a third of my life avoiding going home to confront my father. But right here, right now, when faced with the prospect of never seeing him again…I realize just how much of a mess I’ve made. With this. With him. With everything. And if I don’t take action right now, I might never have the chance to make it right.

  “Okay,” I say with a decisive nod. “Okay, let’s go, Marta.”

  “Sí! Vamanos, Señor Scott.”

  …

  I might be projecting here, but I’m pretty sure that’s reproach I see in the iguana’s eyes as it considers me from the middle seat. It’s as if it knows instinctively that I’m a bad son. Either that or he’s silently begging me to free him from his spikey collar and yellow “support animal” vest while his owner slumbers in the window seat. But I’m not too keen on the idea of this thing running around underfoot a la Snakes on a Plane, so he’s barking up the wrong tree. Or whatever it is that iguanas do.

  I’m going into hour twenty-two of this pilgrimage—having left my post yesterday on a puddle jumper that took off out of a cornfield with nothing more than a few things stuffed in a duffle bag. A duffle bag that was scrutinized for more than an hour when US Customs agents determined that my twenty-two South and Central American passport stamps were just shady enough to send up a few red flags of the “potential drug mule” variety.

  I’m thankful to be on the last leg—a quick flight from the Twin Cities to Duluth—though I haven’t quite figured out how I’ll get home to Mayhem, which is another hour away, once we land. I tried calling my brother, Win, from Houston and then again from Minneapolis, but he didn’t pick up. Either that, or he doesn’t have the same phone number he had the last time we spoke…which was when he got married. Five years ago. As with my father, Win and I haven’t exactly been in regular contact since I left home.

  The iguana shifts in its seat, considering its snoozing mistress before turning its attention back to me. This thing is huge. In fact, from where I’m sitting, it’s a whole lot closer to the Komodo dragon end of the spectrum than the lizard end. Still, it’s not altogether unattractive. I get brave and hold out a hand in front of it, hoping the thing won’t bite off my index finger. Do they even have teeth? Well, they certainly have tongues, because this one slips his out and gives my hand a good long taste-a-roo.

  “Oh! Look at that—he likes you!” I’m startled by the voice of its owner, who is now wide awake and watching with some amusement as my new friend and I get better acquainted. “And he doesn’t like many people.”

  “Oh, uh, sorry…” I mutter sheepishly, having been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Sort of. Not really. “I didn’t mean to touch your…uhhh…service animal…”

  But she’s shaking her head and waving a hand at me. “No, no, not to worry. That’s Fluffy.”

  “Fluffy?” I have to work at not snorting.

  The middle-aged woman shrugs. “I was going through an ironic period. He keeps me calm on planes. Turns out they’re really great pets…though Minnesota isn’t the best climate for them.”

  “No, I imagine not,” I say, envisioning this creature scampering over a snow bank in February.

  “That’s why we’re headed up north, actually. There’s this little shop called the Knitty Kitty where they make sweaters for cats. They’re going to give Fluffy a custom fitting tomorrow morning. I can’t believe it—we’ve been waiting close to a year!”

  “Uhhh…wow, yeah, that’s a long time… The Knitty Kitty, huh? Sounds vaguely familiar… I’ve been out of the country for a while.”

  “Oh, yes. Very popular with the celebrities, don’t ya know! It’s in this quaint little town called Mayhem. Oh, and the pie shop there is out of this world! So Fluffy and I are making a weekend of it, aren’t we, Mr. Fluffernutter?” She’s leaning over the armrest and actually talking baby talk to the iguana—which stares back at her impassively.

  I put on my most charming smile and reach down to stroke the Fluff Man’s long, scaled tail.

  “Yeah, he’s a real beauty, this guy. I’m Scott, by the way—did you say you and…Fluffy…are headed to Mayhem?”

  Chapter Three

  Jameson

  I can’t stop thinking about Big Win, lying in his hospital bed. I should be there. I would be there, except that it’s Tuesday and O’Halloran’s is always a zoo on Tuesday because of our very popular pub quiz.

  “So you still have no idea if Scott’s even coming?” Hennessy asks as we help our younger sister, Walker, fill drink orders at the bar.

  I shake my head. “No clue.”

  “Are you sure he got the message?” Walker asks. She’s wielding a pair of cocktail shakers like they’re maracas.

  I set two martini glasses down in front of her and watch the magic as she pours both at the same time. Walker has elevated bartending to an art form.

  “I called the Project Peace Headquarters, and they promised to let him know as soon as possible. How long that’ll be, I have no clue. And then—how long it takes for him to make travel arrangements… Anyway, it looks like I’m on my own for now.” I glance around at the packed pub, torn between staying here and going to my former father-in-law’s bedside. Henny knows me well enough to recognize my emotional dilemma almost immediately.

  “James, you were there all day,” she reminds me. “Doc Douglas knows where to find you if he needs you, and you could be there in under ten minutes if you had to be. Besides, you don’t want to miss…you know what.” Her voice
drops to a whisper for the last three words so no one will overhear.

  “Hey, Walker, you got those martinis for the Pink Ninja team at table six? They’re getting a little rowdy…”

  I glance at my youngest sister with her torn jeans, O’Halloran’s T-shirt, and apron. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail. She looks cute—just like always. But considering what’s going on tonight…

  “Hey, Bailey?” I begin tentatively.

  “Hmmm?” She doesn’t look at me as she loads up her tray with drinks.

  “You know…those jeans are looking a little…raggedy… Why don’t you grab a pair of Henny’s from upstairs? Or maybe even that cute denim skirt of hers that you like so much…”

  Her head swings around in my direction, and I see this is not going to be good even before she opens her pink-frosted lips. She puts her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrow.

  “James, you know I love that you and Jax moved back home. But I’m not a kid anymore…and you’re not my mother. So would you please just quit with all the ‘helpful’ suggestions? I can dress myself.”

  She spins around, grabs her drink tray off the bar, and stomps off before I can utter a single word. I try not to look as hurt as I feel. Her comment shouldn’t sting, but it does. She’s right, I’m not her mother. And God knows I’d give anything to have the woman who is her mother—and mine—walk through that door right now. But she won’t.

  “Oh…wow,” Henny murmurs. “Just…wow…”

  “Ha! She’ll regret not listening to you when her picture’s in the paper tomorrow and she’s wearing that outfit.” Walker chuckles.

  “Ummm…well, I guess we know she doesn’t suspect anything,” I mutter.

  “James…” Henny starts to say something that I’m sure is meant to comfort me, but her boyfriend, Bryan, interrupts her. I’m actually relieved.

  “Did I miss it?” he asks, emerging from the back of the pub where there are stairs up to the apartment that he and Hennessy share.

  “Shhhh!” we all say at once.

  Bryan holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry!”

  “All right already, enough with the drama!” Walker snipes. “We’ve got, like, eight orders pending here and I could use a little help. So how about it? Or are you two lovebirds too busy planning your next eco-friendly strip club or something?” She’s referring to their new real estate venture—creating smart, ecologically sound buildings that still fit within each town’s character. Though, as far as I know, they haven’t tapped into the adult entertainment industry. Yet.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Bryan replies with a wagging finger and faux indignation, “nothing wrong with a conscientious gentlemen’s club! Haven’t you heard? We’re all kinder, gentler, and more sensitive now.”

  He’s beaming, Walker’s scowling, and I keep glancing at my watch. “They should be here any minute now.”

  “Right…now, tell me one more time… Bailey’s going to be crowned Princess Lisa of Midwestern Pizza?”

  “Ugh! How many times do I need to explain this to you?” Henny groans, swatting him with a bar towel.

  “She’s going to be crowned as one of the four princesses of the Magawa County Fair’s Royal Court,” I explain once again for our incredulous L.A. boy. He knows what’s going on, he just likes to hear us say it. “They do public appearances, there’s a big parade, and a sculptor carves their busts in butter.”

  Bryan’s eyes grow wider as I explain. “Butter? Now that part I haven’t heard before! They actually make…butter busts?”

  He’s holding his pecs, using his hands as a makeshift push-up bra.

  “Jeez! Are you a perv or what?” Walker accuses with a scowl. “Bust, Bryan, bust. Think: ‘A bust of Beethoven sitting on a piano’ or ‘Shakespeare sitting on a bookcase.’ That kind of bust.”

  “Ah. Okay,” he says, nodding. “That makes more sense…although…” He stops short when Hennessy shoots him a warning glare. “Yeah. Butter. Got it.”

  “Anyway,” I continue on with my Mayhem civics lesson, “the court consists of four princesses, each representing a different industry—there’s Princess Di of Midwestern Pie, Princess Reed of Midwestern Feed, Princess Drew of Midwestern Brew and the most coveted title of all, Princess Mary of Midwestern Dairy. About a week before the fair opens, the previous year’s princesses just sort of ‘pop up’ all over the county to surprise the girls who’ve been chosen for this year’s fair.”

  “This is starting to sound like a Cohen Brothers movie,” he observes with a chuckle. “So which princess is Bailey?”

  “We won’t know until they show up,” Hennessy says as she hands him a beer. “But I think we’re about to find out. Look over there by the entrance!”

  When the front door to the pub opens, it takes the young woman a few tries to wedge herself—and her outrageously puffy dress—over the threshold. But once she’s through, the petite brunette appears to float across the floor on a sparkly cloud of taffeta, tulle, and satin. People are beginning to notice, including Father Romance, who’s been serving as quizmaster tonight. We let him in on the secret earlier, and now he can barely contain his excitement as he offers the princess a hand up onto the dais with him.

  “Uh, well, ladies and gentlemen, it would appear we are in the presence of royalty!” he exclaims excitedly into his microphone. “Oh, and look who else is here…Mayhem’s own Mayor Ollie Erikson!”

  A small, fussy man with a comb-over, Ollie strides up to Father Romance, leans in, and says something that makes both of them laugh. Then our priest hands over his microphone and steps back so Ollie can address the bewildered but excited audience. All around us people are starting to murmur.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Ollie begins, “on behalf of the Magawa County Fair, I’d like to introduce you to Molly Forky, a member of last year’s royal court.” A hardy round of applause goes up for the sparkly girl as she swishes her long skirt from side to side and smiles pretty. “As you know, the princesses are chosen from among the county’s finest young women—all of them standouts in their academic careers and their commitment to community service. I’m pleased to say that a member of this year’s royal court is right here, right now.”

  “Where’s Bailey?” I ask, scanning the room until Bryan points her out.

  She’s leaning against the wall, trying not to look too interested as she hugs a big round serving tray to her body like a shield. I see what she’s feeling, and I know it well—hopeful…but afraid to be too hopeful. Oh, yeah, baby sister has no clue what’s coming her way, and the idea of it gives me my first real smile in the last two days. My eyes dart back and forth between her on the one side of the room and the mayor on the other.

  “Our Princess Mary graduated from Mayhem High School with honors. But she’s not just an exceptional student, she also gives to her community by volunteering at the county food pantry and singing in the choir of the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem.”

  I feel my eyes well up with tears as she realizes that she’s the one the mayor is talking about. A hand flies to her mouth—but only for a second, because she knows what’s coming next. In three seconds flat, Bailey’s tossed the tray on a nearby table, lost the apron, pulled her hair out of the ponytail, and is pinching her cheeks to make them rosy—a trick our mother taught us before we were old enough to wear makeup.

  “It is my honor to present to you this year’s Princess Mary of Midwestern Dairy,” Ollie says, pausing for dramatic effect. “Miss Bailey Irish O’Halloran!”

  Bailey looks a little shy—a rarity for her—and absolutely stunning as she takes the dais.

  I feel a swell of pride for the young woman she’s become. “Mama and Pops would’ve been so proud,” I murmur, my comment lost in the raucous applause as the tiara is fitted to Bailey’s head. I take a deep breath, still applauding as I walk to the bar and grab some napkins for my damp face.

  It isn’t until I turn around again t
hat I see him.

  He’s standing there just to the right of the front door, all long legs and broad shoulders. There’s a hint of scruff on his face, as if he hasn’t been in the company of a razor for a day or two. It looks good against his golden brown complexion. And his eyes…I can’t see the color from here, but there’s an intensity to them that travels all the way across the room as he watches me watching him. I gasp involuntarily as an electric pulse zaps through me right to my core.

  What on earth…?

  It’s then that I realize, to my great surprise, that this isn’t a totally unfamiliar feeling. And that he’s not a totally unfamiliar man.

  I’m looking at my ex-husband’s brother.

  I’m looking at Scott Clarke.

  And he’s looking back at me.

  Chapter Four

  Scott

  She’s just standing there in front of the bar—a tiny, delicate thing. Her hair, which is the color of pennies, cascades down around her face and shoulders like waves of liquid copper. And her eyes… My God…those eyes that lock on mine from all the way across the packed pub. I barely notice the people standing around me, cheering for something I’m not interested in—because I can’t take my eyes off this woman. And it’s not just because she’s beautiful, although she is.

  There’s something so familiar about her…and about this entire scene—a sense of déjà vu so strong that it makes me gasp out loud. I’ve been here before. Looking at her. But how? And when? No way I’d forget a girl like that. Hell, no way I’d lay eyes on a girl like that and let her out of my sight ever again. I’m sifting through the backlog of faces stored in my memory banks, trying to age them backward by ten years. Classmates, colleagues, friends, neighbors…