Mistletoe in Mayhem (Whiskey Sisters) Page 6

  “What’s going on?” I yell over the din of the crying child, the fussing aunts and the polka version of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” that’s piping through the speakers.

  “No! Choco miiiiiiiiiine!” Jackson repeats, hugging the item to his chest and shaking his head adamantly as his aunt Walker, down on all fours, tries to pry it from his grasp.

  She gets to her feet, grumbling something that I can’t hear. But I can take a pretty good guess at what it is…and it ain’t G-rated.

  “He won’t give up the Advent calendar,” Bailey explains loudly.

  “The what?” I ask, having no clue why the kid would want to hang onto a calendar…or why they’d even care.

  “The Advent calendar!” she repeats. “There’s chocolate in it.”

  “In the calendar?”

  She rolls her big blue eyes at me and mumbles something that’s lost to Jackson’s wails—though I’m fairly certain it starts with “Dude!” and ends with “puh-leeze!” That’s when I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. I turn to find Father Romance behind me. He nods toward the bar, and I follow him, grateful to be out of the line of fire.

  “Hey, Father, what’s the deal with the calendar?”

  “Some well-meaning soul thought the lad might like an Advent calendar. See how it’s got a Christmas tree drawn on it? There are twenty-four tiny perforated doors cut into it like little decorations—one for each day of Advent. Behind each door is a little piece of chocolate. The idea is that you can open one door per day. But a child of not-even two can hardly be expected to understand that he can’t have all the candy at once!”

  “Ahhh! The choco!” I say.

  “Choco miiiiiiiiiine!” Jackson screeches so loud that his little voice cracks with the effort.

  “Exactly!” the priest says with a nod. “And now that he’s had his piece for today, he wants to open all the little doors. Bailey and Walker tried to take it back, but the child threw a temper tantrum that nearly took the whole building down.”

  “So I see,” I mutter. “Where’s his mother?”

  “At the hospital,” Walker provides loudly as she stomps back over to where we’re standing. “Lucky her, she got called in to work a shift on the labor and delivery ward. I’d take a dozen women having babies without drugs over this little slice of hell.” She goes behind the bar and starts digging around for something in a cabinet on the back wall.

  “Nooooooooo! I wanna choco! Choco, choco, choco! What the Helllllllen!” Is the rallying cry that’s coming from under a table right now as Bailey tries to coax Jackson out. That one was my assistant, Helen’s, way of breaking him of the “what the hell!” habit he picked up after hearing his father swear.

  I pause a moment to take my own temperature. There’s a small child, screeching and wailing, sending all the adults around him into a tailspin, but I’m still standing. Nope. I’m good. Noooo kid anxiety here.

  “Aha!” Walker says, holding a big plastic box over her head triumphantly. “Got it, Bailey!”

  And then she’s around the bar and under the table, trying to get the kid to trade the chocolate-infused calendar for assorted treasures. He turns his nose up at the crayons, considers the car and, finally, relents at the prospect of a hunk of day-glow pink Play-Doh. He makes a reluctant trade and everyone in the pub breathes a sigh of relief.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on a pogo stick!” Walker squawks as she returns to her spot behind the bar, sticking the offending Advent treat under the bar as Bailey relocates their sniffling nephew into a booster seat.

  “Well, now, that’s better,” Father Romance says, returning to his usual stool, where his usual pint has been waiting for him through this entire ordeal.

  I join him, taking a quick glance at my watch. It’s getting close to the time that Henny and Jacintha are meant to meet me.

  “How’d it go this morning?” I ask tentatively. “With the wedding plans, I mean?”

  “Oh, I left the ladies on their own to finish up their business. Jacintha had a tape measure out and was calculating the number of steps per minute Hennessy will need to take in order to arrive at the altar at exactly the end of the music.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, that sounds like Jacintha.”

  The priest frowns slightly, puts his pint glass down, and swivels toward me.

  “Tell me something, son. How long have you known this young woman?”

  I consider the question for a moment.

  “Oh, about seven years, I suppose.”

  “And did the two of you ever see each other? Socially, I mean?”

  “Well, we never dated—not exactly, anyway. I mean, I think we maybe went out once, early on. But I wasn’t really her type—Jacintha prefers a guy who can shower her with lots of time and with even more cash. Back then I was working around the clock—hustling for properties and buyers. And God knows the money wasn’t great. But we did start to collaborate on some events and found that we worked well together. She’s a good friend.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he says, as if this was what he suspected all along.

  “Why do you ask?”

  As soon as he sighs, I know I don’t want to hear the answer. But it’s too late to turn back now.

  “It’s just that she’s quite…aggressive…for a wedding planner. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I wondered if perhaps you and she had some history together. Something that might make her especially hostile toward our Henny.”

  “Hostile? Oh, I don’t know about that. Hennessy would’ve told me…”

  “She’s a witch.” That declaration comes from Walker, who’s clearly not in a good mood after negotiating the Great Advent Toddler Truce.

  “Hey, hang on just a sec. You only met her for, like, two minutes!” I protest.

  “Dude, I don’t have to meet her. I know how she makes my sister feel—and that is not cool.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told Hennessy—Jacintha’s used to working in a fast-moving environment, so she’s all business. And that makes her come off as very intense. But it’s only because of the pressure and deadlines she has to deal with.”

  Walker snorts. “Yeah, that’s it. Because my sister, the lawyer, has never had to deal with any fast-moving, fast-talking, serious-business people before. And she’s never been under any pressure to meet a deadline or anything.”

  As she says this, she sets a shot of Jack Daniel’s in front of me.

  “Oh, hey, thanks, but it’s a little early for me,” I start to object.

  She nods her chin at something behind me.

  “You might wanna rethink that, Bry Bry. Henny just walked in with your little Los Angeles playmate, and I happen to know for a fact that’s not her ‘happy bride’ face she’s wearing.”

  I swivel around toward the door. Walker’s right. My bride-to-be looks as if she’d just as soon send a Molotov cocktail rolling down the aisle than walk it. My wedding planner, on the other hand, looks pleased as the peach punch she’s ordered for our reception.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hennessy

  When I see him sitting there on the barstool, looking back at me so sweetly, so hopefully, I’m torn between crying on his shoulders—and ripping his head off them. While Father Romance might have put Jacintha in her place for a brief moment, the Wee Wedding Witch—as I’ve come to think of her—quickly managed to recompose herself and reconstitute her superior attitude.

  By the time we left the church, she’d informed me I’d be walking down the aisle to some obscure French song I’ve never heard of, wearing a four-figure tiara she’d already ordered from someplace in Switzerland, and traveling to the wedding in a glass-covered carriage—a la Cinderella. When I dared to point out the folly of planning for a wagon-wheeled arrival on the icy streets of Minnesota in December, she informed me that no wedding had ever graced the cover of Weddings of a Lifetime magazine without some sort of special conveyance for the bridal party.

  In the end, I opt for something
in between the crying and the killing—choosing to plaster a smile on my face for the good of my sisters and Father Romance. The last thing I need is for any of them to think I’m unhappy with this situation. Because all of them would take it upon themselves to confront Bryan and, as much as I’m disliking Jacintha in the flesh even more than Jacintha on Skype, I don’t want to crush his enthusiasm for our wedding.

  It’ll all be over soon. It’s just the wedding—not the marriage.

  Right?

  I spot Bailey sitting at a table with Jax, who’s pounding out a hot pink Play-Doh pancake.

  “Hey, little man! Whatcha doing there?” I coo, dropping down on my haunches so I’m eye level with my nephew. “Is that a pancake?”

  “Choco mine,” he mutters petulantly, refusing to look at me.

  “Don’t. Ask,” Bailey warns. “Seriously—just don’t.”

  I kiss the top of the little guy’s head and unbuckle him so I can lift him up into my arms. The pancake comes along for the ride.

  “Jacintha, this is my nephew, Jackson. He’ll be the ring bearer,” I explain, walking him closer to where she’s standing, surveying our family business as if she’s just walked into a sausage-stuffing facility.

  “I see,” she says flatly, without managing so much as a half-hearted smile for the child.

  The feeling is clearly not mutual, as Jax appears to have an immediate and intense fixation with this exotic new stranger. First, he flashes her his coy smile, followed up by the batting of his long, long lashes. Then he extends the Play-Doh out to her in his hammy little grip, as if he’s presenting her with the most precious of jewels on the planet.

  For her part, Jacintha looks from the little boy, to me, to the gift he’s proffered.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” she mutters, turning her back on him abruptly.

  Not put off by her rejection in the least, Jackson watches, mesmerized as she walks to where Bryan and Father Romance are seated at the bar.

  “How’d it go?” Bryan asks.

  I’m guessing Father Romance has already given him an earful about his dear old friend from Los Angeles.

  “Oh! Splendidly,” she informs him with the sweet, bright smile she couldn’t muster for Jackson. Or me, for that matter. “And this charmer here,” she says, patting a surprised Father Romance’s arm, “he was so very gracious! Making me feel right at home in a house of worship. I do love how the clergy go above and beyond to accommodate the wishes of each bride. They really have the power to make…or break…what should be the best day of a woman’s life.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Ugh! I can’t even think the things that are running through my mind right now—let alone speak them—when I have my sweet little nephew in my arms. Even Father Romance appears to be stunned by her brazenness.

  “Go see Auntie Bailey,” I whisper in Jackson’s ear, setting him down and giving him a gentle push in my sister’s direction.

  When I turn around, Walker is looking on from behind the bar, her face the picture of disdain. Jeez, she could go round for round with Jacintha on expression alone.

  “Oh, Jacintha,” Bryan says, happily oblivious to what’s transpiring around him. “This is Hennessy’s sister, Bailey.” He nods toward my youngest sibling, who’s getting to her feet, even as Jackson is toddling in her direction. “You’ve already met Walker here, and I’m afraid Jackson’s mom, Jameson, had to work this afternoon, so you won’t get to meet her today.”

  But our wedding planner has zero interest in Jameson. She’s too busy gawking at Bailey.

  “Bailey? The four of you are called Hennessy, Walker, Bailey…and Jameson? Like the liquors?”

  “Boy, can’t get anything past you, Ja-cin-tha,” Walker comments in her best dumber-than-dog-poop tone.

  But, apparently, Jacintha is tone deaf—as she doesn’t even attempt to conceal her amusement at our unusual monikers.

  “I see. My. Well, it would seem your parents had a penchant for very…unique…baby names.”

  Oh. Bad, bad move. She’s invoked the name of our beloved, dearly departed Mama and Pops.

  “Um, excuuuuuuuse me?” Bailey pipes up from where she’s moved right behind me. “You did not just throw shade at our parents. Because that would be a seriously uncool thing for you to do.”

  Jacintha twists around, eyeing Bailey up and down until a spark of familiarity forms on her face.

  “Oh! You’re the one!” she declares delightedly. “You’re the one who posed for a lard sculpture or some such nonsense! I saw the pictures when I was cleaning up Hennessy’s social media accounts. Can’t have anything embarrassing posted when the editors of WOAL do their bridal background checks!” She looks over to me reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I scrapped all the more…regrettable…photos and posts you’ve made in the last year or two.”

  “What the…Helen…is WOAL?” Walker asks.

  Jacintha rolls her eyes. Jeez.

  “Why, Weddings of a Lifetime, of course! It’s only the premier periodical for elite weddings around the country. Rumor has it I’m due to be honored as Wedding Planner of the Year, so I can’t have any unfortunate family decisions reflecting poorly on our bride—and me, by association.”

  I feel my face growing hot, and I’m sure I must be turning a lovely shade of crimson at this point. To his credit, Bryan jumps in to try and smooth things over.

  “Okay, then,” he says, rubbing his hands together, like he does when he’s nervous. “I’m thinking we should probably go upstairs and start hammering out some of the details—”

  His attempt at diplomacy is cut short as Jacintha’s eyes grow large and she gasps loudly.

  “What the…?”

  Our eyes—all of our eyes—are drawn to her…upper torso region. Not one of us has had our attention trained on the tiny, wicked little human with the impish laugh. And that has proven to be a rather large oversight. On everyone’s part.

  Jackson is smiling up at Jacintha, batting his long, red eyelashes, proudly pointing to the two perfectly shaped brown handprints placed in the perfect center of her perfectly perky bosom. The snowy white fluff of her cashmere sweater has been matted down in what would seem to be melted chocolate. With little bits of hot pink Play-Doh embedded like tiny sprinkles. Lying on the floor nearby are the discarded shreds of the gutted Advent calendar.

  Jacintha closes her eyes for a moment, as if trying to calm herself. But then she begins to shake. It’s really more of a tremor at first, but it quickly escalates to the perfect imitation of a full-blown grand mal seizure as she trembles from head to toe in rage.

  “Chocoooooooooo!” Jackson squeals delightedly, jumping up and down. “Choco, choco, choco!”

  Perhaps Jacintha might have kept her cool…had my nephew not opted to take things one step further—intent on showing Jacintha how well-versed he is in the sounds of the animal kingdom.

  “Oink! Piggy oink-oink-oink-oink-oink-oink!” he shouts with extra emphasis on the final oink, all the while gleefully pointing at her.

  Suddenly, it’s as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Jacintha’s face morphs into something akin to a melting Salvador Dali clock just before she spews enough vitriol to cover the entire town of Mayhem at a decibel level I’d have thought impossible from someone of her slight stature.

  “You. Little. Wretch! You bloody little bratty child! I should take your diaper down and smack your bum until it’s black and blue!”

  Everyone is silent as her hateful words bounce around the beams, and brick, and eaves of the pub my father—Jackson’s grandfather—built with his own two hands. Everyone’s eyes are huge and fixed—glances divided evenly between Jacintha’s enraged face and my terrifyingly calm one. Everyone gulps, audibly, as Jacintha seems to realize the imminent danger she is in, surrounded by three fiercely protective aunts, one almost-uncle, and one supremely peeved priest.

  What she doesn’t realize—what she will never truly know or appreciate�
�is how very lucky she is that Jameson isn’t here. Had my eldest sister witnessed this spectacle, the lovely bridal planner would be fish-chow for the walleyes at the bottom of Lake Superior right now. But Jameson isn’t here, so this little task falls squarely upon my shoulders—as Jackson’s godmother, as the bride-to-be, and as the one who has had enough Jacintha Rowling to last a hundred weddings of a lifetime.

  And it’s a task made all the easier when Jackson lets out a wail fraught with so much fear, and hurt, and loss that I’m quite sure Janet Lahti has heard him and is already working on a tiny pie to comfort him.

  I. Am. Done.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bryan

  The last time I saw Hennessy V.S. O’Halloran angry—really and truly enraged—was the day she sent me packing. That miserable, frigid, horrible night when I left Mayhem, tail between my legs, believing I’d just ruined the best thing that had ever happened in my life. On the joyous day she took me back, I swore I’d sooner die than do anything that would put that expression on her face again.

  It’s only now that I realize what I’ve done to her with all this wedding insanity—with my oversized ego and its overworked plans to “show the world” how much I love her. The truth is, I’ve been showing the world what an incredibly insensitive jerk I am. And right now, at this very moment, I’d hurl myself under the A21 bus that runs from Mayhem to Duluth if only it hadn’t passed by the pub five minutes ago.

  I take a step forward, as if to intervene, but Father Romance grabs me by the forearm. When I look up at him, somewhat confused as to how his hand came to be wrapped around my appendage, he shakes his head with as stern an expression as I’ve ever seen him wear. I nod, dully, and stand down so that Hennessy can do what only she can do.

  Jacintha seems to be vaguely aware of the fact that she’s gone way too far. What she doesn’t seem to have any awareness of is that this is already over. There is no back-peddling. There is no apologizing—not that she’d be inclined to do that under any circumstances. And there is certainly no turning up her nose and haughtily stomping off in the throes of a hissy fit.