This year, as Lightkeeper, I would be working alongside the volunteer dressed as Santa to distribute gifts on Christmas Eve.
"The community response has been exceptional," I said, clicking to the next slide showing donation numbers. "We've alreadycollected enough toys to serve every child currently admitted, with surplus going to the children's home downtown."
One of the board members raised his hand.
He was in his sixties, a retired surgeon who had served on the board for over a decade.
His gray eyes were sharp as he looked at me.
"This is all very impressive, Nathan. But I have to ask about the elephant in the room." He paused, and I saw several other members shift uncomfortably. "There's been considerable talk about your involvement in the program this year, given the circumstances surrounding your Lightkeeper appointment."
I set down the remote for the presentation while I tried to gather myself.
I had hoped we could sail through this meeting without this topic being brought up, but when was the last time something went my way? "What circumstances are you referring to?"
"The scandal with your assistant and the nickname the press has given you." He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. "They're calling you Daddy Claus. The nickname's distasteful, and it's reflecting poorly on the hospital's reputation."
Heat rose in my chest, but I kept my voice level. "My personal life has no bearing on my ability to serve as Lightkeeper or to head up this program."
"Does it not?" Another board member spoke up, a woman who ran a pharmaceutical company.
She leaned forward and folded her fingers together as she offered an accusatory expression. "You're the face of this hospital, Nathan. When people see you in the news with that young woman, they associate those images with our institution. We have had donors expressing concern."
I'd hoped to tell them about Ember today.
She and I had agreed that announcing the relationship would be a good thing, to keep HR off our backs.
But the mention of that nickname stopped me cold.
The judgment in their voices made it clear that any defense I offered would only confirm their worst assumptions about my choices.
"Expressing concern about what, exactly?" I asked instead.
"About whether the dean of medicine has the judgment necessary to lead this institution." The retired surgeon leaned forward, and all I could see was my father's face as he said the same words.
I wondered if he'd said something to them the way he threatened to.
I forced myself to remain calm but I was starting to get very frustrated with them.
It felt like I was fighting an uphill battle one-handed.
I understood how image played into a part of the reputation of this hospital, but it felt like the whole world—except my mother—was against me.
And it all came down to people's personal opinions on Ember's age.
If she was thirty-five they wouldn't be saying half of this, and if she was forty, it would be a non-issue.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I ignored it, about to defend Ember and explain that what we had was real and worth protecting.
But the expressions around the table stopped me.
These people would never understand what Ember and I had.
All of them were older than me by at least a year, and not a single one of them would give me grace to even explain my position.
My phone buzzed again almost immediately with another call, and I knew it was important.
No one calls twice in a row that quickly unless it's necessary.
