CHRISTMAS COFFEE: A HOLIDAY ROMANCE Read online

  Palmer replies after looking up from his notes, “Yes, five grand. And you’re forbidden to add to it with your own funds. It’s a challenge and that is the point—we need to see what you can do with that amount of money in forty-five days.”

  I turn and ask, “Who will decide if I succeed or not?” How do we ensure there isn’t a bias against me? I glare at Uncle who is standing beside his desk, jaw locked. His expression is void of emotion. The only thing that gives away his anger is the tiny vein throbbing at his temple.

  “A secret board will decide,” Reginald replies and glances at Uncle, then sighs, “Yes, you have a right to be on the board, as do I. I’m the one who will examine the books and see that profit and paper match. To prove competency you need to net a minimum of two thousand dollars.”

  I still have no idea what I’m selling, but I think I can manage to earn two grand in a month. Either way, it’s this or walk away from everything I worked for. If I hadn’t botched that pharmaceutical deal, I wouldn’t be standing here now. I took full accountability for that when it happened. I pinch the bridge of my nose and consider it for a moment. I have to do this. I worked my ass off to get here and it’s what Dad wanted.

  I press my lips together and feel the resolve building within me. I nod once at Reginald. “You have yourself a deal.”

  Uncle is shaking his head, and snarls, “That’s not good enough and you know it, Reginald. This is for the boy to prove himself and with a bar that low, he’s likely to trip on it. He has to net the full investment amount by December 31st.” His cold eyes bore into me, knowing that the task is highly improbable.

  My spine straightens, but I hold back my venom. It won’t help now. Startups don’t turn profits for years. Asking me to earn that much in that short a period is insane. “That’s impractical. You know yourself that most businesses take years to get out of the red.”

  “Yes, they do, but I have never, in all my life seen someone hemorrhage money the way you do.” With every step toward me, Uncle spits out barbs laced with truth. “Your businesses fail because you have no vision, and no leadership skills. You throw money at problems and make small issues into monsters. I’m not letting you near Bardenbey. I’m not going to sit idly by and watch the company your father and I built get ripped apart by some arrogant young prick. Turn a profit of five grand by New Year’s Eve. That’s my stipulation and it’s more than fair with your shitty track record, Celyn. Take it or walk away.”

  My jaw locks as Uncle stands nose to nose with me. His cold eyes lock onto mine, challenging me to defy him. I won’t back down. I refuse to slink away without a fight. I hiss through my teeth, “This is all I have left of my father, and I won’t hand it over without trying.”

  Uncle’s lips pull into a lazy smile. “Try all you like, but you won’t succeed.”

  I glance at Reginald and ask, “I have to earn ten grand total, after expenses? Five pays off the original $5,000 to start the business and then I have to profit another five grand on top of that?”

  Reginald nods. “Yes, that’s the agreement, but it’s going to be very difficult, Celyn. You have no stock, no inventory, and aren’t likely to get any this close to the holiday season.” Reginald looks at me with those old eyes which seem to apologize for Uncle and then fill with pity.

  I don’t do pity. I’m in a pissing contest with Uncle and if this is the only thing that will appease him, so be it. I jut out my hand toward Reginald Palmer. “Deal.”

  7

  Celyn

  THE PRESENT

  I finish the story and feel the agitation of the encounter flitter under my skin as if it just happened.

  Quin nods and raises a brow, his hands still clutching the steering wheel of his Hummer. “Wow.”

  “No shit. So, what’d you hear at Bardenbey? What was so important that you’d track me down and make me vomit the entire exchange with my uncle?”

  Quin shakes his head slowly, his lips parting slightly, and glances over at me. “I can’t explain it. You’ll have to see it with your own eyes. It sounds—” he shakes his head and takes a deep breath. His hands are strangling the wheel at 10 and 2 as he flies toward the city.

  When we get to Bardenbey we go up to the top floor and down the hallway toward Uncle’s office. Quin is in front of me, walking quickly, his blonde head glancing up and down like he wants to get in and out without being seen.

  I grab his shoulder and stop him. “This is my uncle’s office. You were fucking some girl in here?”

  “No,” he throws my hand off and rounds the corner into the assistant’s office. “We were in here. I had her bent over the desk. The adjoining door made her freak out a little bit when we heard someone enter your uncle’s office, so I sent her off to the ladies’ room to freshen up while I zipped up here. That glass door isn’t soundproof.” He points toward the frosted glass that separates Uncle’s office from his assistant. “I heard him.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and tip my head to the side. “You heard what?”

  Quin’s smirk fades and he steps closer to me, and then puts his ear to the glass door. He holds up a finger to me, indicating that I should keep quiet. Quin opens the door and we both walk into the dark room. No one is here. The room is silent, save the soft hum of the computer.

  Quin stops by Uncle’s oversized mahogany desk and turns toward me. “Your uncle is a dick.”

  “I know that.” Impatience flares across my face. I try to rein it in, but my nerves are completely shot.

  Quin holds up the palms of his hands and says softly. “They were talking numbers. One guy told your uncle that he’s been through the books over and over again, but there’s no sign of it.”

  “Of what?”

  “That’s what I wanted to know, so I hung back after Perky left. Your uncle kept telling him to go over it again, that the man must have made a mistake. But the guy said that he’d done it several times already and the reports don’t lie. Your uncle finally let the guy leave and then made a call.”

  “To who?”

  “I don’t know, but your uncle told the guy the books were botched, and then verbally castrated the man as if it were his fault and suggested an external audit.”

  I frown. That’s not like him. “Why the hell would he want an external audit? That could turn into a clusterfuck faster than anything else.”

  Quin shakes his head. “I don’t know, but it sounded wrong. He jotted something on a notepad and tore it off. I thought if we could get into his office and find the paper, maybe it could help you out. Something’s not right.”

  I nod, following his train of thought and head toward the wastebasket. Empty. I swear. “The cleaning crew already came through.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and lower my head into my hand, thinking.

  “Shit man. I wasn’t fast enough. I should have come in here when he left instead of getting you.”

  “No, I needed to see it. The door, and the way sound carries.” I glance at my friend. “He didn’t hear you two, did he?”

  Quin shrugs. “I don’t know. He stormed in and was so loud, I don’t think he heard a thing. It freaked Perky out. She said your uncle knows everything that goes on in this building. She was worried that she’d get fired.”

  “If he heard, then there should be a pink slip from personnel in the morning. I’ll keep an eye out for it. Actually, I may not have to.” It’s a long shot, but I know where my uncle keeps that pad in his desk—the pink slips. Most companies don’t use them anymore, but Uncle always insisted on keeping a paper trail because computer files can be altered, manipulated. No one can contest a physical signature.

  I walk around to his desk and pull open the drawer. The book of pink slips is next to a legal pad with a note scrawled across the page: 429.

  Quin is by my side a moment later, glancing down into the drawer. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I shake my head. “No clue.” I pull out my phone and snap a picture. Then I run the pads of my fingers over the pink slips. There’s no fresh indent on the pad. “He didn’t fire her. Not yet anyway.”

  I glance at Quin, “What the hell does four hundred twenty-nine have to do with anything? Why would he flip out over such a small amount?”

  Quin thinks for a moment and answers, “I don’t know, but I can visit my perky friend next door to his office more often. It’d be a real sacrifice because there are usually no seconds of this,” he rubs the palms of his hands down his abs, “But I could make an exception.”

  “I thought you didn’t nail her?”

  He scoffs. “I was nailing her. We were interrupted. I think this chick is an exhibitionist. Could be fun.”

  I think about the woman I left in the hotel room, about the promise I’d made to get her car fixed. I need to call in a favor. I won’t let any of this change me. If I make a promise, I keep it. End of story. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  8

  Nova

  THANKSGIVING DAY

  Freshly showered and adorned with Tinselly’s least bedazzled outfit, I wander toward the kitchen to help. My hair is slicked back into a damp ponytail.

  Tinselly is doing five different things at once. She thrives on stressful situations. She’s cooking gravy and baking biscuits, while putting the potatoes, stuffing, and turkey on serving dishes. She hands them to Lucas, her husband, and he carries them to the table one at a time.

  Tinselly glances my way when I stop in the doorway. “Need help?” I ask.

  “Nope. Go sit down. It’s going on the table right now.”

  I was hoping to avoid this part, but if I want food, I need to sit and play nice. Tinselly’s table setting looks like it fell out of a magazine and onto the table. Tall tapered candles glow dimly under a cornucopia centerpiece that’s filled with flowers, nuts, and fruit. Gold chargers sit under white plates that line the long table and glisten like snowflakes against the plum tablecloth. Matching napkins are folded into pretty shapes, one on each plate.

  Tinselly is an overachiever. I love this stuff, but when I try to make it, well—it tends to look like the cornucopia threw up a glue gun.

  Tinselly walks in and places a hot dish on a black iron trivet that’s toward the end of the table. It’s a tight fit, so no one has taken a seat yet. Tinselly waves a hand at us. “Sit! The food’s ready.”

  My eye twitches as I scoot in, crammed between a set of twin toddlers, Lucas, my mother, and my grandmother.

  Gran is mostly deaf and somewhat blind, but the woman has the appetite of a grizzly bear. Her little body is squeezed in next to mine, her aerodynamic shoulders sweeping forward from old age, ready to dig in. She’s wearing a silvery wig today with bright blue eye shadow.

  She snaps at Lucas, “Did you cut the turkey yet?”

  Lucas came to this country as a foreign exchange student, married my sister, and periodically looks like he wants to return to the wilds of Scandinavia. I’ve never been, so it’s filled with polar bears and penguins in my mind. And lots of ice. I imagine everyone wears thick sweaters from Land’s End and all the men have beards.

  Lucas smiles at me and then answers Gran. “Tinselly wants to cut the bird. She always does a fine job.”

  Tinselly beams at him, still madly in love. How you can have children and keep the spark in a marriage is beyond me. Between birth and babies, bondage doesn’t seem to fit. At least not in my mind, but then I can’t even manage to keep my fridge full.

  Tinselly opens her mouth to reply, but Gran cuts her off. “A man needs to cut the turkey. It’s bad luck otherwise.”

  I lean back in my seat and gape at Gran even though she can’t see me. “Really? Since when are you all ‘the man must do it?’ You’ve always said that Tinselly didn’t need a man for anything.”

  Her blind gaze cuts to the side as if she can see—sometimes I swear she can—and she grins. “There’s one thing that’s much more satisfying with a man—”

  Tinselly mutters something I can’t make out.

  My eyes widen at the remark and I gently swat her arm, scolding her. “Gran! There are little ears here.”

  Gran shrugs. “What? You asked. I answered.”

  Mom is staring at me like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. Mom looks older today, her skin paler like she hasn’t been outside much. Tinselly is a photocopy of Mom. Add a few years, some polyester, and a massive chip on her shoulder and you have my mother.

  After Tinselly carves the turkey and everyone is served, Mom forces a smile and stuffs a fork full of peas into her mouth. When she’s finished chewing my skin prickles in anticipation of the question. “So, have you and Ben set a date?”

  Tinselly stiffens as she’s cutting up the twins’ turkey into toddler-sized bites. Her eyes cut over to me and she hovers there for a second, laughs nervously, and blurts out, “They already told you, Ma. They’re not ready yet.”

  I mouth thank you to my sister and start poking at my mashed potatoes that are forty percent butter and one hundred percent amazing. I shovel some into my mouth and feel my bad mood lighten, well, until Mom starts talking again.

  My mother doesn’t like that reason. She continues prying, “Nova, you can’t make him wait forever. Not every marriage turns out like mine. You need to pull your life together. You’ve got a nice apartment and a good job. Fill your fridge with food and keep your good man.”

  Gran cackles, holds up her wine glass and blurts out, “It’s time to make the babies.”

  I laugh from discomfort and shock, but more from the fact that she said it like the Dunkin’ Donuts guy. “Gran!”

  “You have everything.” Gran says.

  “No, I don’t.” I gape at her. Is she insane? I’m broke and if things work out well, I’ll turn into the old lady in the cat car.

  “Yes, you do. You’ve had everything to catch a man for a while.”

  I blanch when she gestures her hand to the side and accidentally swats my girls. Lucas’s face turns red as he pretends he didn’t see and turns his attention to the toddler nearest him.

  “No harm in pointing it out.” Gran swats a withered hand at me, making the silver bracelets on her wrist clatter. Gran could be easily mistaken for a gypsy fortune teller with her tiny arms packed with glittering metal and a crocheted shall over her shoulders at all times. The only difference is that Gran’s pants are polyester rather than a billowy skirt.

  Mom picks up where Gran left off. “Guys like Ben don’t wait around forever. If you keep putting him off—” she gapes at me as I suddenly begin shoveling food into my mouth in a very unladylike way. “Novatin Nikolaev!”

  Just as Tinselly finally sits down to eat a now cold meal, I scrape the last bit of stuffing off my plate and shove it into the Thanksgiving buffet in my mouth. I feel bad, I really do, but I can’t do this right now. The speeches about how I had everything and blew it will reduce me to a bag of tears. No way. I’m out of here.

  I stand and hear Gran pish posh me, but Mom just rolls her eyes as if she knew I was incapable of adult conversation. That’s totally okay, because it’s true. I talk with my mouth full as I wave the tips of my fingers at the twins. “This was so good, Tinselly. Your cooking is amazing. The house is perfect. Add a baby Jesus to the front lawn and you’ll be all ready for Santa.”

  The twins cheer in unison, chubby little hands in the air like they really don’t care, which makes their food go flying. Cranberries splat on Lucas’s cheek. He acts like nothing happened, and wipes it off with his hand, and licks his fingers before going back to his plate.

  Tinselly stares flatly at me, fork in one hand, knife in the other—paused above her slice of turkey. I see it in her eyes. Pity laced with annoyance, but then compassion floods in and wins out. She knows I’m miserable. I’m treated to a warm empathetic look. “Thank you. If you wait a second, I’ll make you a baggie and grab you a piece of pie.”

  Everyone knows the only thing in my fridge is condensation and an empty jar of pickles.

  I’m already walking by the twins, kissing the tops of their heads, and making a beeline for the door. “No need. I’ll stop by tomorrow. You wanted to hit the sales, right?”

  Tinselly pauses half way to the kitchen and turns. “Yes, but—”

  I wave to the kids as I back away and only slow to grab my purse. Tinselly follows me as Mom mutters from the dining table to my brother-in-law about responsibilities and that I need to buckle down. I’m about to lose it. I shove outside without my pocketbook on my shoulder.

  Tinselly comes out a moment later. She smiles calmly. “You don’t have to do what they did. No one in their right mind gets married that young anymore.”

  I’m mad, pacing across her sidewalk and onto the crunchy dead grass that’s covered in a thin dusting of freshly fallen snow. I want to rant and throw my hands in the air and scream. Instead, I let out a huff and turn back to Tinselly. “You did. Mom did. Gran did. So I’m nearly twenty and have no desire to marry anyone. That doesn’t mean I’m some sort of social pariah.”

  “I know,” Tinselly says soothingly. “I happened to find the right guy. Mom didn’t. Gran did. The point in all this is that it’s your life. If Ben wasn’t the one, he wasn’t the one.”

  Tears are prickling at the back of my eyes. She doesn’t know why we broke up. I never told her in the text messages. I didn’t say anything about the other woman, or that he has a warm bed. I’m alone again. I thought Ben was going to be the one. I thought that he loved me and only me. But he didn’t. He cheated.

  I feel hollow inside. When people look at me, very few see a teenager, a nineteen-year-old. I’ve been called an ‘old soul’ for as long as I can remember. I’ve seen things that most kids never have to endure. I was a frightened child when it happened and it changed me. But, I’m the wiser for it. It also separates me from the other women in my family, and the rift feels like a chasm at times.