Becoming Hank: A Trellis Family Novella (Building the Circle) Read online

  Becoming Hank

  A Trellis Family Novella

  Maggie M Lily

  Copyright © 2021 by Maggie M Lily

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters and situations involved are wholly imaginary.

  Paperback Print ISBN: 978-1-954552-02-9

  for all the readers that wanted just a bite of Trellis fun in short format…

  And a special shout out to Sue Babyak, who wanted to be a side character, even though there are no side characters.

  Contents

  Becoming Hank

  The Truth About Santa

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Interlude — Sam & Beth

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Interlude — Sam

  Chapter 14

  Interlude — Sam

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue — Sam & Beth

  Thanks for Reading!

  The Call - Building the Circle - Book 1 Sample

  Opening

  Sixteen Months Earlier

  The Call - Chapter 1

  Also by Maggie M Lily

  Becoming Hank

  The Truth About Santa

  Bethany Rose Trellis sat on the living room floor, staring at the Christmas tree.

  "What's with you, squirt?" Her elder brother, Sam, wandered in to flop down on the couch.

  "Kid stuff," Beth mumbled.

  "Uh oh. Making the list?" Sam asked, rubbing his eyes.

  She frowned at him, a tiny crease forming between her little girl eyebrows. "Go take a nap!"

  "You're not the boss of me," Sam replied, sticking out his tongue.

  Beth wouldn't dignify that sort of behavior with a laugh. She scowled at him.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Santa's not real," she blurted out, turning quickly so he wouldn't see her tears.

  "I beg your pardon?" Sam replied, affronted.

  "Someone asked Mrs. Witman today, and she told us it's all make-believe. Everyone lied to me."

  Sam's eyes narrowed. "Did you talk to Mom about this?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Because Mom's going to gut Mrs. Witman and hang her intestines like tinsel."

  "Eww!" Beth squealed as she fought off laughter. Her face turned serious again. "You lied to me?"

  "Nope," Sam replied easily.

  "Santa's not real! I know that now. You lied to me."

  "Nope," Sam said again. "We told you Christmas presents are given in the spirit of love and appreciation. That is absolutely true. Gifts are shared with jolly good cheer after eating lots of food and stuffing our tummies. We wander around in jammies all day. Sometimes they're even red flannel pajamas, just like what Santa would wear."

  Beth didn't react, still watching him with glassy eyes, her tears not quite falling.

  Sam continued. "We're more apt to celebrate our appreciation for friends and family who are good to us and to others who need to know they're loved. We're less likely to invest time or energy into someone who has decided to be naughty and mean. Where's the lie?"

  "There's no Santa. You lied to me!"

  "Beth, do you really want a creepy fat dude with miniature reindeer wandering around our house at night? You're eight years old—old enough to know that's weird."

  Her face scrunched up again, this time in disgust. "Well, when you put it that way..."

  "Saying 'Santa is coming' is shorthand. It's an easy way for us to remember the delight of giving and receiving gifts. There are people in this world who love us and celebrate with us. The idea of Santa is the embodiment of that love."

  "Sometimes, there are no gifts. Sometimes Christmas just brings love," she said, testing out one of their dad's favorite talking points.

  Sam nodded. "True. Sometimes people don't get gifts wrapped in boxes at Christmas. It doesn't mean they're not loved. Like when Mom and Dad first got married. They didn't have gifts, but they had each other."

  "And they were happy?" Beth asked, eyes damp again.

  "Bethany! You know Mom and Dad love each other very much!" Sam frowned, confused.

  "Dad said Santa brought him Mom's love. If that's not true, then how did Dad get Mom's love?"

  Sighing, Sam rolled off the couch to join his little sister on the floor.

  Beth giggled at the silliness of her most serious brother rolling across the living room to her.

  Her laughter tugged a tiny answering smile across Sam's face, as little girl laughter is prone to do.

  Popping up to a sitting position beside her, Sam spoke again. "Mom gave Dad her love. Dad lost and then found her love again, just in time for Christmas. That first year, they gave each other love, and they wanted for nothing else. That's the way Hank's Holiday Parable ends. Don't doubt that, Beth."

  Beth nodded. "But Dad wasn't Hank when he lost Mom's love," she said knowingly.

  "That's right," Sam confirmed. "Dad was 'Trip' until he married Mom."

  Beth giggled again, as she always did at the mention of their dad's old nickname. They were back on familiar ground.

  "Tell me the story!" Beth demanded.

  Sam lifted his eyebrows.

  "Okay," Beth allowed. "Tell me the kid-friendly version of the story."

  "You want me to tell this story? Really?" Sam smiled at the challenge. He sat a little straighter, thinking through his words.

  There was another nose crinkle. "No, you're bad at telling stories. Is Ethan home, too?"

  She climbed up from the floor, off to find a brother who told better stories, not noticing the vacant-eyed expression falling across Sam's face.

  1

  "It does not matter if the customer understands, Trip. All that matters is that they buy. These people bought the product and signed the papers. It's not our fault if people don't research before they buy," J.R. Trellis grated out. "We've discussed this."

  Henry "Trip" Trellis paused to consider his words. "I know, sir. I know we've talked about it. But this family made the investment, expecting it to payout over ten years. Thirty-two days later, the untimely death of the father—"

  "Ah. 'Untimely death.' Two of my favorite words. They should be your favorite words, too, son. It's a bonus for us. Let it go. This is not our problem. We're not paying out a single penny more."

  "Sir, he was shot in the line of duty during a rob—"

  "We can't save the world, Henry. We did not make this world. We just live in it, and we're going to make the most of it. Your bleeding-heart liberal bullshit has no place in our business. We're here to make money. I'm done with this conversation. Don't bring it up again."

  Trip stared at the nameplate on his father's desk: Henry C. Trellis, Jr.

  He stared at the nameplate every time he sat in his father's office.

  "Was there something else?" J.R. asked.

  "No, sir," Trip mumbled.
>
  "Good. Get out. I have afternoon plans."

  Trip wandered through the building, taking the long way back to his own office, thinking through options. By the time he made it through his door, his best friend, Thomas Dermot, was waiting.

  "Failed again?" Tom asked.

  "Yup. I expected nothing less. He has absolutely no issue with misleading people into bad investments. The more uneducated, the better. No scruples or ethics whatsoever."

  "Not that you're judging." Tom chuckled. "What are you going to do?"

  "Unsure," Trip muttered.

  "Where's your nameplate? You know he'll lose his mind if it's not on your desk," Tom nagged.

  "I don't care about the nameplate, Tom." Trip sighed, annoyed.

  "Henry C. Trellis III, wear your name with pride. You are the third generation of Trellis men—" Tom did a spot-on impersonation of J.R.

  Trip threw the hidden nameplate at his best friend's head.

  "That would have sucked if it landed, but you can't throw for shit." Tom laughed, picking up the nameplate and centering it properly on the spotlessly clean desk. "You know what you need?"

  "Ten thousand dollars for a widow with four kids and a bad eye for investments?" Trip suggested.

  "Nope." Tom's voice lost its cheer as Trip's face showed defeat. "You can't win them all."

  "How about one? Can I win one? Can I talk him into doing the right thing just once? What I need is a more compelling argument," Trip muttered.

  "J.R.'s an asshole. Unless you can demonstrate that ethical behavior is more profitable, there is no compelling argument. No, what you need is pizza and beer. And maybe the company of an impressionable, lovely young lady who hungers for your time and attention. Let's get out of here, man. It's Friday. That new pizza place is open."

  "Don't you have stuff to do before you wrap up for the day?" Trip asked.

  Thomas's family ran a prestigious law firm that shared space in the same Chicago high-rise. "Nope. My shit's done. Tell J.R. you're leaving for a meeting and let's go!"

  "I don't need to tell him. He has 'afternoon plans.' He won't be back today," Trip muttered, shaking his head.

  Tom shrugged. "You let his extracurricular activities bother you too much. I've met your mother. I don't know how he sleeps next to her for fear of disembowelment."

  Trip shook his head again. "They're a nightmare. It doesn't bother me. It's not my business. I just don't understand why they stay married if they hate each other. Same with my sister. I don't understand why she got married in the first place. She hated Jerry, even before they were married."

  Tom shrugged again. "She's an idiot. Anyway, let's get gone."

  "So much for the company of a lovely young lady." Tom sighed as they grabbed a booth. "It's dead in here."

  "It's four o'clock in the afternoon. What did you expect?"

  "Ugh, you're such a cranky asshole. Come on. It's the weekend, Trip. Let it go."

  Trip's eyes narrowed. "Did you and Claire split? Why are you on the prowl? I didn't think about it until just now. What happened?"

  "Pfft. No. We didn't split. Claire and I will be together forever and have like fifteen kids. The sex is great and she's quirky. I'm done prowling."

  "Too much information," Trip muttered.

  "She's at her cousin's this weekend, out of town. I'm on my own and dutifully playing the role of your wingman. You need a date. If we don't find you a woman soon, you're going to end up married to Vanessa Canton."

  Trip shuddered. "No. The claw-like fingernails and the permanent sneer remind me too much of my mother."

  "Uh-huh," Tom didn't bother hiding his doubt.

  "I don't see a reason to get married. Everyone I know that is or was married is miserable... as a result of the marriage. No, thanks. Back to you. You think you're going to convince your parents about Claire?"

  "Are you kidding? No. They hate Claire. She's 'low class' and used the wrong fork to eat her salad last week."

  Trip snorted.

  "It's a fork. Who gives a shit? But what are they going to do? I'm an only child. Most of the family dough is already entrusted to me." Tom shrugged.

  "God forbid they think of your happiness before dinner forks," Trip mumbled as he glanced out the window, looking at nothing in particular.

  Having known Trip since kindergarten, Tom recognized the cue to drop the topic. They sat in companionable silence for a moment as Tom fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.

  "Do you ever sit still?" Trip asked, tone sharp.

  "You know the answer to that."

  "Hey guys, sorry for the wait! Didn't see you come in. I'm Darla; I'll be your waitress. What are you drinking?"

  Dropping the saltshaker, Tom grinned at the tiny brunette. "Hi, Darla. We're going to drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of pizza because my buddy's a cranky asshole. Can we get a pitcher?"

  "Sure thing." She smiled as she poked Trip with her pen. "Be a cranky asshole with him, not with me. Got it?"

  Trip rubbed his arm. "Do you have to poke so hard?"

  Darla rolled her eyes, smirking. "Cranky, sissy asshole. Got it."

  Trip grinned, watching her walk away.

  "She's cute," Tom noted. "It's nice when she bounces."

  Trip glared at his best friend. "Stop it."

  "Oh, come on. She's adorable; flirt with the cute waitress, Trip. Get out of your funk. You can't save the world. When she swings back this way, enjoy the curvy bits and then tip generously. You're buying."

  That made Trip laugh. "You're such an ass."

  "The cranky sissy is laughing? That didn't take long!" Neither Trip nor Tom saw her coming. Darla's teasing grin fell. "Why do you both look guilty?"

  Trip felt his cheeks turning red.

  Darla rolled her eyes at them again. "They're boobs, boys. You can look but not touch. A good tip makes up for a lot of ogling."

  Tom and Trip both choked on guilty laughter.

  "Darla, I love you. You understand men. Would you please marry my best friend?" Tom asked.

  "I just served the first pitcher of beer. The marriage proposals don't usually roll in until pitcher number four." She looked back and forth between the two of them.

  "Is this the best friend?" She asked Tom, with a head tip toward Trip.

  "It is."

  "You want me to marry the cranky, sissy asshole? What'd I ever do to you?" she demanded.

  "I think he'd be happier if he had boobs to play with," Tom replied.

  Darla poked him with her pen. Vigorously.

  "Gah! That does hurt! That's not nice. I was only teasing!" Tom rubbed his arm.

  "Ugh. You're both babies. What's going on the pizza, boys?"

  Half a pizza and two pitchers of beer later, the restaurant and bar were filling up. Trip watched with amusement as Darla made her way between the tables, charming, teasing, and flirting in turns.

  "Ask her out," Tom suggested.

  Trip started. "Huh?"

  "Ask. Her. Out."

  Trip glared at his best friend again.

  "Why not?"

  "At least four other guys have tried to paw at her in the time we've been here. She doesn't need another asshole hitting on her."

  "She didn't look annoyed or repulsed when I suggested you get married," Tom reminded him.

  "Well, there's a sure sign of interest." Trip's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  "Fine, there are a couple of ladies sitting at the bar. Let's go say hi." Tom started scooting out of the booth.

  "Meh."

  "You're terrible at this."

  "I'm aware." Trip gave a half-smile.

  "Boys, how's—" Darla started.

  Tom jumped. "How do you keep appearing like that? I didn't see you coming again. I'm going to bring a bell for you next time we're here."

  "I'm tiny and stealthy," she deadpanned. "Also, you're sitting with your back to the room."

  "You are tiny," Tom agreed.

  Darla smirked. "Thank you for stating the obvio
us. How're things over here?"

  She picked up the empty beer pitcher and the pair of dirty plates.

  "More beer? Want something else, Quiet and Cranky?" she asked, meeting Trip's eyes.

  He smiled. "I'm not cranky anymore."

  "Of course, you're not. I'm too charming for you to be cranky. More beer? Or are you just going to keep staring at me?"

  "Maybe both?" Trip gave a quick grin as his cheeks turned pink again. "Sorry."

  Darla turned to Tom. "He's terrible at flirting?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Okay. Hi," Darla drawled, tone teasing. "My name is Darla. What's your name?"

  "Hi, Darla. My name is Tom!"

  Darla and Tom turned in unison.

  Trip sighed. "Hi, Darla. My name is Henry, but friends call me Trip."

  "I'm sorry," she said with a straight face.

  Trip's lips turned up. He was almost smiling again.

  "What the hell kind of friend are you that you'd call him 'Trip?’" she bitched at Tom. "Is he really that big of an oaf that you need to rub it in his face constantly?"

  Both men cracked smiles, as she intended.

  "My name is Henry Christopher Trellis III. The third. Triple. Trip."

  "Don't worry," Darla replied, eyes rolling. "That doesn't sound pretentious at all."

  "Oh, please believe me. I know. My grandfather is Henry. My father is J.R."

  "Why not go by 'Hank?’" she asked.

  "'Hank' would not serve as a constant reminder of the family legacy he was born into and is expected to continue," Tom said mockingly. "He comes from a long line of cranky assholes."

  It was Darla's turn to chuckle. "Yeah. That's how that usually works. More beer, Hank?"

  Trip laughed. "Please."