My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

The email he just sent her from his phone while sitting in an empty conference room surely convicted him to damnation. He had to sugar-coat the facts to her. Don’t worry, somebody will do the talking for you.

  A blatant lie.

  He really, truly, sincerely, hated that.

  A table speaker crackled, “Mr. Harcourt, he’s on the way up.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pushed his palms into his eyes, feeling disgusted with himself for telling her to sign and her career would unfold like magic. Then he intentionally left out the part where she’d have to talk to the world.

  Now, his boss?

  Michael Worthington, owner of Big Apple Press, was no simple man. Yet, in comparison to William’s dad, he was St. Nicholas in a Baptist church choir. The man rarely made an appearance.

  William choked down a bagel. “This’ll be fun.”

  He dumped the garbage in a wastebasket, buttoned his blazer, and smoothed back his hair. Respected men didn’t eat bagels. They downed shots of dry malt scotch and dined on caviar.

  The door opened. “Will.”

  “Sir, what brings you here?”

  They shook hands before settling down at the oblong table. The first thing William noticed was that Michael Worthington wore his finest grey suit. The second thing he noticed was that he looked scared.

  His boss replied in that tenor voice. “You know why.”

  “Fine, then I have to tell you we’re not selling to my father.”

  Silver wiry brows drew tight. “It’s my company, you work for me.”

  “You entrusted it to me. Business isn’t failing.”

  Michael ran a hand over a sleek shave. “I know why this bothers you.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.”

  “We’ll still be Big Apple Books, but as an imprint of Harcourt Maxwell and Company. Their image and funding will keep us afloat.”

  “I will keep us afloat. I’m working on a plan building a raft.”

  “Son, I’d like to start taking my vacations in Paris instead of Jersey City. Very few independent publishers make it as far as we have without the help of a Top Five. It’s time.”

  “I’m going to put us in the Top Five.”

  The aging man, still hard as dynamite, pulled open the packet. He pushed a proposal to William. “You can lay off fifteen people, cut the kid lit and fantasy, take a pay cut, and we’ll give it another year. Or, we’ll sell to your father’s company and keep doing what we’re doing.”

  “My father will take it over, Mike. Come on!”

  “He’s a brilliant businessman.”

  “So are you, and so am I. We don’t need him.”

  Another paper-clipped batch emerged. “Our financials here prove otherwise.”

  “My dad doesn’t give a fried fruitcake if our company succeeds. He’s only doing this to squash me like a maggot because he’s got wind that I’m climbing up the food chain.”

  “That sounds like a personal issue.”

  “This is a move on his chessboard and I’m the pawn. Actually, you’re the pawn as of now, and I’m the court jester who was never on the board.”

  “Will you please sit?”

  “You want me to fire half my staff? Do you have any clue how hard it is to find a job in this city?”

  The man closed his packet. “You’re too sensitive about your dad.”

  “Let me ask, did he come to you with this? Was this his idea?”

  “It was.”

  “Then I’m telling you either we have a mole, or he somehow paid for access to our financial records. He’s been looking for a reason to get me back at his company. I mean, why now?”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “My father’s the most manipulative man on the planet. And, by getting me back under his control, he can ensure I’ll never surpass his success, which means he’ll never have to give me an ounce of praise.”

  A pause lingered as the man waited patiently.

  “Why are you smiling?” Will asked.

  “Because when you came to me five years ago, you applied for the job of acquisitions editor. Did you ever wonder why I offered you managing editor instead?”

  “You said you liked my drive.”

  The man crossed his legs. “What you didn’t know, William, was that your father and I had a long history. I’ve known Max for thirty years. I introduced your mother to him.”

  William took the words like a baseball bat to the head. When vertigo set in, he dropped into a chair and held onto the edge of the table. Knew his mother?

  Michael finished, “Adele and I dated in college for two years. She wanted to go to work in the publishing world and I wanted a housewife. We parted as friends, and I introduced her to your father.”

  “My father. But, how?”

  “She was my date at a weekend conference in Boston. He was there, too.”

  William scanned his memory. His parents always confirmed they met in Boston at a publisher’s training conference where they learned all about the 1970’s Linotype modern printing press.

  “He didn’t care for me much,” said his boss.

  “You dated her, as in malt shop dating or late-night HBO dating?”

  He nodded like a gentleman tipping his hat. “Both.”

  “How could you not tell me that?”

  “You came to me full of fire and brimstone, so driven to prove your father wrong. You were proud having quit your partnership with him. Angry that he said you’d fail without him. I also know, young man, that you and your mother loved Christmas. I also know why you pretend that you no longer do.”

  Back to his feet.

  William snapped a pencil in half and paced at the windows with an overview of Fifth Avenue. He gazed down for a front view of the Guggenheim museum; Frank Lloyd Wright’s icon of the twentieth century.

  The heart of art.

  School busses were lined up across the front with rows of kids fluted up the spiral ramp to a domed skylight. No doubt they would head into the eight-story tower next.

  “I knew you wouldn’t take the job if you were aware,” admitted Michael.

  “So, you’re the reason he always tries to outshine me. You tell him everything about me.”

  “Your dad’s proud of you, Will. He talks about you all the time.”

  William pressed his forehead to the glass. Proud of him? The man never uttered two kind words to him in his life. The closest he got to a compliment was a mild appreciation for bringing him Robitussin for a cough.

  “You don’t know him like I do,” said Will.

  “Your father was the commander of a Navy warship. It was his life until it wasn’t. You can’t expect a man like that to be anything less than a great leader of all men. You, son, are a man to him.”

  Enough.

  William pivoted. “I’m going to save this company. I’ve discovered somebody.”

  “Ah, yes, the holiday novelist, the gem. I read your email. Both fast and compulsive, Will. I don’t have the faith that you do in a holiday book or in an unknown author.”

  “I know what I’m doing. We’ll generate enough money to put us in the next bracket. I already have a team waiting to do great things with this book. I started a bidding war on movie rights, even talked to a developer to build the fictional town.” He opened up a file on the table and slid a proposal his way. “You can see what I’m talking about. Imagine if the idea she had in the story was real? A real book town here in the United States. Can you imagine?”

  The man put on his glasses and scrutinized it. “You think if this town is built based on the movie, our company will gain fame for pushing it that way?”

  William added, “Every Top Five publisher has at least one Bibi Roquette. We’ll never make it to the Top Five if we don’t release a phenomenon through the various arts. This book is it; I’m telling you.”

  “You want to make a real town? Sounds more like a book lover’s fantasy.”

  “Ever heard of Cedar Cove? Well, this
time, it won’t just be a book or TV series. It will be a town that revolves entirely around books and is centered on the book industry. I’ve already spoken to several developers and bankers willing to fund the project. It’s all in the packet.”

  “Son, you’re moving far too fast.”

  “Like my father, I build empires. This is right, I know it.”

  “Then where is the author?”

  William took a moment to update him on facts that started with Lucy Carpenter and ended with Bibi Roquette’s agoraphobia that seemed to resemble Joan Cusack’s psychosis in Shameless. He left out the personal emails and talking all about his terrible childhood.

  His boss pulled to his feet. “Get the girl in here.” He went to the far corner near the door and poured himself some coffee from a breakfast spread. “If she’s the answer, I need proof.”

  William said to the speaker. “Please find Ms. Carpenter and send her into conference room B.”

  His secretary replied, “She’s meeting with Ms. Iris, your neighbor, about her book.”

  “Send Iris to somebody else. I need Ms. Carpenter.”

  He needed to stay focused on his goal. The Top Five, nixing his dad, saving the company. Aware his boss regarded him curiously as he added fresh grounds to the filter, his irritation magnified.

  The man knew his mother. Wow. How did he not know?

  “Publishing books for people you know?” asked his boss, dumping old grounds.

  “Iris is a gifted storyteller with the memory of an elephant.”

  Lucy Carpenter barged into the room. “Oh, good!”

  “Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat.”

  She flipped through some notes on a reindeer head notepad, studying it behind purple reading glasses that brought the emerald from her eyes and matched the rich grape color of her dress. He hadn’t noticed before, but her figure very tightly resembled that of Marilyn Monroe’s in a girdle.

  “We have quite the conundrum here,” she started.

  “Ms. Iris?”

  “Delightful, that woman.” Oblivious to Michael, she scanned her notes. “Ah, right, the holidays.”

  “What about them?”

  “I realize this is an unpleasant subject for you, yet it can’t be avoided.”

  “Please proceed then.”

  She cleared her throat. “First, I have to say that the staff and I think you’re brilliant.”

  “Oh?”

  “Certainly, so please don’t get hurt feelings.”

  “Why would I get hurt feelings?”

  “Because I’m about to tell you that your entire staff loathes your rotten guts to the core.”

  Michael glanced his way with a raised brow.

  Despite an urge to defend, not to mention the bad timing with his boss watching, William chuckled. “I see.”

  “Yes, as I said, unpleasant indeed. I’m here to propose a solution.”

  “First you should tell me the problem.”

  “The problem is that it’s Christmastime. People still have to work at Christmastime, but that doesn’t mean they need to be miserable and unhappy or hate their life, does it?”

  “I’ve no clue what you mean.”

  “I’m talking about the holidays.”

  “Yes, they do tend to come around.”

  “This place where we work, it’s like where careers come to die.”

  He leaned an elbow into the top of a leather chair. “Interesting analogy.”

  “The fact of the matter is that there’s absolutely no harm in decorating our cubicles for the holidays. People would work harder for you if they could feel a little festivity.”

  “So, this is about my email last week?”

  “You mean, the death note? Yes, exactly right.”

  “I told you on the phone, you can have a tree.”

  “Frankly, I’m here to tell you that we are having our own holiday Christmas party and we’re doing it on company time. We’re doing it potluck style, decorating ourselves, even bringing games.”

  Michael smirked from the corner where he stirred creamer into his coffee. Nothing like being humiliated in front of your boss. And here she prattled on with her plump pink lips and love-handle waist.

  “Is that right?” posed Will.

  “You see, here’s the thing. People are more creative when they’re happy. Christmas is a happy time of year, and decorating reminds them it’s Christmas when they’re locked in their cages.”

  “Cages?”

  “Cubicles.”

  “I see.”

  “I read an article that swears people who decorate for Christmas live an average of six years longer than those who don’t. So, by proxy, when you forbid us to decorate, you’re in a sense killing us off early.”

  “You read that where?”

  “Time Magazine, I think. Or, somewhere on the Internet. Either way, it’s the truth.”

  “If the Internet says so, it must be.”

  She stuffed her nose into her notes, which he found utterly adorable. “By not letting us have a holiday party, you’re taking years off our lives.”

  “Yikes, some horrible boss I am.”

  “People spend eight hours a day at their jobs. Would it really cause harm to munch on a candy cane or watch a silent music box spin circles? And, honestly, forbidding Christmas coffee cups? It’s like you’re afraid Santa will blow his top right out of the cup and shoot us all with an Uzi.”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw that in a movie once.”

  She slapped her notes down on the table. “I’m as serious right now as Christmas morning is to a child.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a writer’s knack for words.”

  Her eyes snapped up to him faster than a cop to a convict. “That’s absolutely absurd.”

  “Have you ever given writing a stab?”

  “I’m a professional, Mr. Harcourt. A recruiter of talent who doesn’t have time for frivolous hobbies.”

  Even as she made the statement, her face paled to whiter than a snow cone. She backed up just a few feet and held her arms crossed in front of her with a slouchy spine.

  “I hear your concerns,” he assured, a little distracted by the soft dip at the base of her throat where lily-white skin begged to be felt. Despite the tough exterior, Lucy Carpenter was all soft spots. Honestly, he found her complaints and quirkiness completely adorable, which she likely didn’t bank on.

  “Would a little hot cocoa in the break room or lights on cubicles cause any harm?”

  “I suppose not,” he said.

  “Seriously, no Christmas party? Why not ask us to stare into the abyss and solve world hunger while telling no one?”

  A fume of sweet cranberry hit his nose. He assumed it was the same cranberry and juniper hand lotion he spotted on her desk. The deliciousness made it hard to keep his focus.

  “So, you’re a Jim Carey fan?” he asked, trying hard to focus.

  “Everybody knows it’s his most famous line from The Grinch.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Personally, I have to say, you do resemble him nicely.”

  If only she knew how much of a compliment that was. He found Lucy Carpenter to be charming, delightful, and downright entertaining; like watching John Ritter in Three’s Company light a cake on fire on his chef-school exam day.

  “Mr. Harcourt, we’ve decided that if you refuse a Christmas party, you’ll need to increase our salaries.”

  He coughed into his fist. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “After all, you’re taking six years off of our lives. So, whatever we would have gotten paid those six years, we believe should be divided up annually into our salaries.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “It seems fair, I assure you.”

  “So, you’re the employee liaison now?”

  She smoothed down her dress in a way that made it hard not to watch. “The truth is, they think you’re a sarcastic, foreboding brute, and they
’d like to see you dangle from a hook.”

  “A hook?”

  “You see, they call you the ice-fish.”

  “Brute, huh? Well, I do exercise a lot.”

  He wasn’t sure what bothered him more; the fact that his employees thought of him as a sea creature, or the fact that the announcement was made in front of a friend of his mother’s. It didn’t matter that his boss heard the confession from a work standpoint. Michael Worthington understood stern management.

  This was different.

  It felt like the spirit of Adele Harcourt floated over the table before plummeting flat on the floor after hearing her son viewed in such a harsh manner. He knew she’d be disappointed over his militant mannerisms.

  “Are you listening, sir?” grilled Lucy as if snow-bent on making a point.

  “I am.”

  “You don’t seem disturbed by this.”

  Of course, he was disturbed. Showcasing it meant all loss of leadership respect.

  “Your concerns are noted,” he chose to say.

  Lucy linked her fingers politely in front of her hips. “I see my efforts are bootless on you.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Meaning?”

  “On a treadmill.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “In one ear and out the other, you know.”

  “Not at all,” replied Will, casually. “But I do hear you.”

  “You give no relevant caliber to appease my woe.”

  His smile emerged against a great effort to suppress it. The truth was that learning his employees’ opinion of him wasn’t a shock. He valued hard work where respect was held and money made.

  “Please convey my apologies to the staff,” he said with a sigh.

  Huge green eyes grew too massive. “You mean that?”

  “I’ll send out a memo that everybody gets Christmas Eve through the day after Christmas off.”

  “Including me?”

  “You’re free to come in if you like, but I’ll be the only one here.”

  “You mean, you’ll actually pay people to stay home?”

  “Yes, and I agree with you about the Christmas party. In fact, I’m delegating the arrangements to you.”

  Her mouth sagged open. “You are?”

  “Since this is so important to you, I’d like you to arrange and host the party. No need for a potluck; I’ll have it catered. Find out what people want, hire a company, and give me the bill.”