The only thing she wanted for Christmas was for it to be over as fast as possible.
Memories hit her with a thump, and Kayla stood up abruptly and paced to the window. All around her were reminders of Christmas, so she paced back to her desk and sat down again, vowing to book a cruise to Antarctica next year. Whale watching. Whales didn’t celebrate Christmas, did they?
The phone on her desk rang and she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.
Stacy snapped into professional mode and reached across the desk, but Kayla stopped her.
“I’ll get it. I’m expecting a call from the CEO of Extreme Explore. I’d rather the man wasn’t deafened by the sounds of sleigh bells, or jingle bells, or whatever bells are ringing out there, so it would be great if you went back to the party and closed the door behind you. Thanks, Stacy. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.” Waiting until she closed the door, Kayla whimpered and leaned forward, banging her head on the desk. “Christmas. Crappy, miserable, horrible Christmas. Please be over quickly this year otherwise I’m going to need every last shard of ice in Vermont to chill all the alcohol I intend to drink.” Pulling in a deep breath she sat up, raked her hair away from her face and picked up the phone. “Oliver?” Afraid he might hear her desperation, she pinned the smile back on her face, thankful it wasn’t a video conference. “It’s Kayla. Great to speak to you. How’s it going? I read through your business plans for next year. Exciting!”
This, she thought, this she could do.
No Christmas. No Santa. No memories.
Just her job.
If she kept her head down and focused on winning the O’Neil account, it would eventually all be over.
* * *
“WHAT THE HELL kind of nonsense is this?” Eighty years old, but with all the energy of a man half his age, Walter O’Neil thumped his fist on the kitchen table while his grandson Jackson lounged in his chair, biting his tongue and reining in his temper.
Every meeting was the same.
Every battle they fought came back to the same theme.
This was why he hadn’t wanted to work with his family. It wasn’t a job—it was personal. There was no space to operate. Any hint of a new idea was strangled at birth. He’d built his own successful company from the ground up and now he felt like a teenager helping out in the store on weekends.
“It’s called public relations, Gramps.”
“It’s called a waste of money. I wouldn’t have done it that way and neither would your father.”
The blow landed deep in his gut. Jackson exchanged a swift glance with his brother, but before either of them could respond there was a crash. His grandmother stared in dismay at the shattered remains of the plate.
The puppy whimpered and retreated under the table for safety.
“Grams—” Jackson was on his feet, his own pain forgotten, but his mother was there before him.
“Don’t worry, Alice, I always hated that plate anyway. Ugly thing. I’ll clear it up.”
“I’m not normally clumsy.”
“You’ve been baking all morning. You must be exhausted.” She sent a reproachful look at her father-in-law, who glared right back, unrepentant.
“What? Are you saying I can’t talk about Michael? Are we all going to pretend this isn’t happening? Do we brush his memory under the rug like crumbs?”
Jackson didn’t know which was worse—the sight of his usually feisty grandmother so subdued or the shadow in his mother’s eyes.
“I need help decorating the gingerbread Santas.” She cajoled and soothed, keeping everyone happy while ignoring her glowering father-in-law, and within seconds she had Alice seated at the table in front of a rack of freshly made gingerbread men, various bowls of colored icing laid out in front of her.
Tyler sat at the far end of the table, restless and impatient. “I thought this was going to be a family meeting, not a family argument.”
“Argument?” Alice turned troubled eyes to Elizabeth. “Is it an argument?”
“Of course it isn’t. People are just having
their say.”
“Families are supposed to stick together.”