Blissed (Misfit Brides #1) (6 page)

CJ shook his head and lifted his glass. “To shitty days, man.”

“You two don’t know shitty.”

The guy to CJ’s right was sizing him up as if he were trying to decide whether CJ was worth the effort it took to look at him.

“Arthur Castellano?” Basil said.

The older guy dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Our condolences on your wife’s passing.”

CJ had lost the bow tie a good while ago, but the prickly heat around his neck came back, along with some extra pressure where he’d once worn his wedding band.

Arthur looked down at his own finger, and a lost hopelessness blanked his expression. He snagged his shot glass with a wobbly hand and tossed the drink back in one inexperienced motion.

His face went a nice purple color complementary to the neon track lighting above the bar, and he coughed out a long, dry, tongue-out cough that spoke of a man having his first run-in with bottom-shelf whiskey.

“Ho-oly fish sticks,” Arthur gasped. 

Basil gave CJ a nudge. “How about you help the man out.”

“Don’t ever take one on the house unless you know what they’re pouring,” CJ said.

Helpfully.

But Basil shot him one of those pompous don’t-be-an-ass looks that magnified when Arthur slapped a fifty down on the bar. “Keep ’em coming,” he called to the big guy.

The second bartender, a guy so old he probably farted ashes, scowled over at them as if they’d already stiffed him on his tip.

Arthur wheezed out a chuckle. “Go on, Huck,” he said to the old guy. “Try and throw me out. My money works here.”

Huck’s rheumy blue eyes bulged, and his hunched chest puffed out. The crowd went noticeably quieter. Not silent—Saffron’s wedding guests didn’t seem to notice the chill descending—but several patrons in non-formal attire stopped to watch.

The old guy pointed a finger at Arthur. The other bartender stepped between them. He looked about CJ’s age, but the dude could’ve pounded CJ into the ground with just a thumb.

Said something. CJ wasn’t a small guy either.

The big dude slid Arthur’s fifty off the bar and gave him an unreadable look. “Money’s good here, attitude ain’t,” he said. “Don’t want to throw you out, so simmer on down.”

Arthur leaned around him to eye the old guy one more time, then slumped, arms crossed.

The big dude refilled Arthur’s shot glass from a bottle of Jeremiah Weed. Conversation in the bar went back to normal levels, but Arthur was still getting curious glances.

“They don’t like my kind in here,” Arthur said to CJ.

“Mine either,” Basil said.

CJ choked on an unexpected laugh. Old pompous-pants was getting funny in middle age. Wrong—CJ had served many a priest in many a bar—but funny. “Your kind?” CJ said to Arthur, though he had a suspicion getting the guy going wasn’t a wise idea.

Couldn’t seem to help himself today.

“I own a shop on The Aisle. Huck there”—Arthur nodded at the barkeep—“isn’t a fan of the wedding industry.”

“Why not?”

“Guy’s been divorced three times and has a bar called Suckers in the most married-est town on earth. He caters to the underground wedding haters and single groomsmen. Makes his reputation on not liking the likes of me.”

“Bliss Bridal?” Basil said to Arthur.

The older man nodded.

Basil nudged CJ again. “I believe you met his daughter this afternoon.”

Took a minute for CJ to register what Basil meant. But when it registered, it registered big. CJ wasn’t even drinking and he choked.

Arthur grunted. “Which one?”

The crazy one
probably wasn’t the right answer. Neither was
the infuriating one
. And God help them if that didn’t narrow it down. “Natalie.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “She welcome you to Bliss?”

“Suppose you could say that.”

Basil coughed. CJ knew that cough. It was a cover for the fact that Basil had once again momentarily become reacquainted with his sense of humor.

Old Pompous Pants had no idea how
not
funny the whole situation was.

CJ might not have been the poster husband that the dear old Queen General wanted him to be, but he damn sure hadn’t chased anyone’s husband away or wrecked anyone’s marriage.

Other than his own.

Arthur downed his next shot. His eyes bulged, his skin went red from his top shirt button to his receding hairline, and he wheezed out a series of raspy coughs. “Holy Toledo,” he gasped.

The big bartender hid a smile, and CJ felt an affection for the bar take hold. Not warm enough for him to care that there was a Help Wanted sign over the mirror, but warmer than it had been five minutes ago.

“You got kids?” Arthur said to CJ after he’d wheezed himself out.

“Bunch of nieces.” And another couple of punches to the gut every time someone asked him that.

“Do yourself a favor. Let that be enough. Kids got a way of messing with a man.”

So did women.

“Problem with kids,” Arthur said, “is they develop opinions. They take all your hard work for granted, then throw it all back in your face when you’re down. Never say
thank you
for putting clothes on their back, food on their table—”

“Or for walking uphill five miles in the snow both ways,” Basil said with utter seriousness.

“Carrying a hundred pounds of their crap on your back,” Arthur agreed. “And then they blame you for needing therapy.”

“I think he knows Ginger,” Basil said to CJ.

Ginger, the third oldest Blue sibling and the most open about her visits with her shrink. If CJ had followed Basil and Rosemary, he’d need a shrink too.

Probably did anyway.

The big dude passed another shot up the bar, then lumbered away.

“Her mother would’ve known what to do.” Arthur pressed his palms into his eyes and let out a shuddery breath CJ recognized all too well. “Always knew better than I did. With both of ’em.” He tossed his third shot back almost as if he were getting the hang of it, but he still wheezed out a string of dry coughs. 

This would get ugly fast. CJ flagged Huck. “How’re your nachos?”

The old dude sized him up. Slid another suspicious look to Arthur, then to Basil, then back to CJ. 

It occurred to CJ that Huck knew who he was.

CJ glanced around the bar.

The locals weren’t watching Arthur.

They were watching CJ.

Openly. Curiously. Suspiciously.

All
these people knew who he was, or who they thought he was. A military widower. Husband Games winner five years back. The Queen General’s new Knot Fest poster boy.

The man who wrecked Natalie’s marriage?

Wasn’t just hot under his collar now. Nope, he was itchy too. Itchy, confused, and borderline pissed. If CJ had wrecked Arthur’s daughter’s marriage, wasn’t a chance in hell Arthur would be sitting here getting shitfaced with him. So somebody was mistaken. And it wasn’t CJ.

He wasn’t big on being accused of things he didn’t do.

Especially when the accusations reminded him of things he
had
done.

Huck nodded to CJ and signaled the kitchen, making his gray Willie Nelson–like braid swing. “Nachos are good. Soak up the liquor too.” He shuffled on down the bar, and Arthur grunted at the older guy’s back.

On CJ’s other side, Basil shifted in his seat, pulled out his phone, then sighed. “The twins lost Gran,” he said. “Pepper’s asking for reinforcements.”

Hallelujah. Good excuse to get the hell out of here. Maybe get away from himself too.

But Basil clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay. Have fun. Make sure you’re okay to drive yourself home.”

Not a chance. And Basil probably knew it. “How about you point me to the nearest bingo hall, and I’ll go find Gran,” CJ said. Commiserating with a fellow widower—especially this one—wasn’t on CJ’s schedule.

Basil’s eyes narrowed in devilish delight. He made an unmistakable take-care-of-the-drunk nod at Arthur. “I believe you’re still in need of some penance, little brother."

Basil had no idea how long CJ had been paying his penance. And not for marring the sanctity of Old Holy Britches’ confessional. “Somebody should tell God you’re pinch-hitting for Satan,” CJ said.

No denying the spark of humor lightening Basil’s expression. “Curfew at the rectory is midnight.”

Curfew on CJ’s peace of mind passed about nine hours ago.

“And make sure your new friend here gets home safe too.”

CJ bit back a suggestion about what Basil needed to keep safe. But Basil knew the Bliss bingo halls better than CJ did, and his car was more reliable.

And the truth was, CJ couldn’t leave a guy hanging in a bar with no safe way home. Not when he was only seventy percent sure the two bartenders would look out for Arthur. “Yes, Mom.”

While Basil headed for the door, CJ sucked up his
penance
, pushed away his Jameson,
dammit,
and turned to Arthur. Sooner they got the widower’s commiserating out of the way, the sooner they could get Arthur sobered up and both of them out of here.

Without any more talk about Arthur’s crazy daughter.

“How long’s she been gone?” CJ asked.

Arthur scratched his ear. “Six months. Brain aneurysm. Never saw it coming.”

“You done this before?” CJ nodded at the shot glasses.

“Nope.”

“Took me about four times before I realized it wasn’t helping. Tell you what did, though. Skydiving.”

“Skydiving?”

“When your wife dies fighting a war, you gotta find a way to prove she didn’t have bigger balls than you. Skydiving did it for me.” So he told himself.

“You stay married thirty-four years, you don’t have to prove who’s got the bigger balls. Just take it for granted she does.” He swayed on his stool, then emitted a giggle.

With all those sisters, CJ knew a thing or two about giggles. Knew a thing or two about fast drunks too. “Those nachos?” he called to Huck.

The old man pointed to the kitchen. “Can’t hurry good food. Keep your pants on.”

Arthur’s head dipped, and his goofy grin swung a one-eighty until CJ thought the dude might cry. “I shouldn’t have yelled at her.”

More guilt welled up in CJ’s chest. “They forgive us, man.” He hoped.

“Not Karen. Natalie.” Arthur waved his shot glass at Huck. “It’s hard on her, being on that committee. She’s doing the best she can. Doing better than I could, even with her circumstances. I knew it, and I yelled anyway. She should’ve told me how bad things were.”

CJ swallowed hard. “Women make us crazy.”

Seemed appropriate. And safe.

“Me and Karen, we were going to retire in another five or ten years and go see the world. Sell the shop. Didn’t think Nat wanted it anymore. But now Karen’s gone, and I thought Nat was fitting in. I can’t—I wasn’t—I can’t sell it. That shop and our girls—they’re all I have left of her. Can’t win today. Just can’t win.”

They sat in silence until Arthur slanted an almost passably sober glance CJ’s way. “You gonna play in the Games?”

“Not likely.”

“Supposed to tell you it’s good publicity for the town.” Arthur wobbled on his stool, his voice wobbling with it. “Marilyn says we’re showing our best colors when we honor a war widower. Tell you what, though, if I play, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

No doubt most of the whole town could. “Thirty-four years, was it?” CJ said.

“Thirty-four years. Damn good years.”

“Eleven months for me, and she was deployed three of those. You tell me, who’s a better representative of what marriage is all about?”

Arthur swayed. “Was she your everything?”

For a while.

Until he screwed it up.

“Don’t tell anybody I told you this, because it’s bad for business,” Arthur said, “but the only thing that matters is that she’s your everything. The wedding, the legalities, the rings, the dresses and cakes and Games don’t add up to a hill of beans. If you loved her with all your heart and you honor her memory with how you live your life, she was your everything. If not, get the hell out of my town.”

CJ eyed his Jameson.

“Thirty-four years, she was my everything. But it doesn’t mean shit, because I wasn’t a big enough man to teach my daughters that lesson.” He pointed a finger at CJ. “One day, son, you’re gonna find yourself your everything. When you do, you tell her. And then you make sure you live it. Live it every day.”

The big dude slid a heaping plate of nachos between them. Arthur dug in. “Good nachos. Should come here more often.”

CJ wished he’d stayed with the squawkers. He hadn’t been Serena’s everything. And it was too late to fix it now.

Chapter Four

N
ATALIE HAD THOUGHT multiple brushes with death-by-mortification were the worst part of her day, but living through Noah’s meltdown over her not-as-good-as-Grandpa’s reading of
How I Became a Pirate
took top honors.

As if she hadn’t had enough reminders today that she was a failure. She needed one last kick from her four-year-old flesh and blood.

He had finally settled down, and she’d snuck back into his room to snuggle him until he drifted off in the middle of singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to himself. It would’ve been so easy to stay there with him, listen to his soft breathing, and let his snug body warm her chilled soul.

But she had a clandestine meeting about Golden Husband Games security to arrange with the Bliss Chief of Police, a handful of e-mails to answer from concerned Husband Games vendors who hadn’t seen signed contracts yet, and probably an apology to issue to her dad. So she staggered downstairs in search of hot chocolate and perspective.

Instead, the first thing confronting her in the small office-slash–sewing room across the hall from Dad’s bedroom downstairs was her dog-eared copy of Diana Gabaldon’s
Outlander
.

Nat had started rereading it during a precious free moment last weekend, but today the thought of a copper-haired Highland warrior made her stomach attempt a full acrobatic routine. Cursing herself for not starting the new Mae Daniels book with its dark-haired, charming Southern hero instead, she shoved the book in the bottom drawer of the desk, then almost squashed Noah’s favorite dinosaur when she flopped down in the chair.