“Why poor me? I love Christmas.” Stacy shot her a puzzled look. “Don’t you?”
“I adore Christmas. I’m totally gutted I can’t make it. I meant poor me, not poor you.” The effort of smiling was making her jaw ache. “Think of me while you’re mingling with elves.”
“Maybe you should come anyway and talk to Santa. You can give him your Christmas list. Dear Santa, please give me the Snow Crystal account together with a massive budget, and, while you’re at it, I’ll have Jackson O’Neil naked. Hold the gift wrap.”
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.”
“We’re together, Alice. That’s why it’s noisy.”
“Happy to reduce the numbers.” Tyler half rose to his feet and Jackson shot him a look.
“Sit down. We’re not done here.”
“I’m done.” Always one to reject authority, Tyler’s gaze burned into his and then he looked at the set of his brother’s jaw and sat. “Remind me why I came home?”
“Because you have a daughter,” Walter barked. “And responsibilities. And there comes a point in a man’s life when he has to do more than tear up the slopes and chase after women.”
“You were the one who taught me to tear up the slopes. You gave me the genes and the skis and you showed me what to do with them.”
Jackson wondered how the hell he was supposed to run this place when his “staff” had more baggage than an airport departure lounge.
“We need to stick to business.” His tone got him the attention he needed. “Tyler, you’re going to help Brenna run the winter activities program.” And that was another problem brewing, he thought. He had a feeling Brenna wasn’t too pleased to see Tyler back at Snow Crystal, and he was pretty sure he knew the reason.
He waited as his mother added a bowl of white icing to the table and handed his grandmother a knife.
With Alice occupied, Elizabeth O’Neil turned her attention to the broken china on the floor.
Jackson felt as if he were walking over the fragments in bare feet.
“I intend to make this business work but to do that I need to make changes.”
His grandfather glowered at him. “It worked just fine when I ran it and when your father ran it.”
No, it didn’t. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the truth about the state of the business but then he saw his mother’s fingers whiten on the broom. Did she know what a mess his father had left behind?
He should have told them straight-out, he thought, not tried to protect them. If he’d done that maybe they wouldn’t be fighting him now.
Jackson looked at his grandfather. “I came home to run the business.”
“No one asked you to.”
Elizabeth O’Neil straightened her shoulders. “I asked him to.”
“We don’t need him here.” Walter thumped his fist on the table. “He should have stayed where he was, running his fancy company and playing the big boss. I could have run this place.”
“You’re eighty years old, Walter. You should be slowing down, not taking on more. For once, swallow your pride and take the help that’s offered.” Elizabeth scooped up china fragments. “You should be grateful Jackson came home.”
“I’m