People who I met when I was a boy, but whose names don’t ring a bell, congratulate me on a job well done. I direct them to Hector, allowing the spotlight to soak us both. This isn’t the basement bash they’re used to. Sure, it’s not the Met Gala, but to them, this is a night they won’t soon forget.
As the last of the guests arrive, grabbing their table cards from the organized display, I head in to ensure everything is all right. We decided last-minute to do away with the tables right around the Christmas tree. In their place, we used leftover string lights to create a circular barrier between the dining area and the tree. This was both to give the Christmas Present section its own special moment and to create a ring where couples could dance.
Within it, Dean Graft holds his wife, a beautiful brunette woman in a shiny, deep-green dress. Wendy Samson is there too, looking ravishing in red. She dances with Kendra from the salon. All of them sway in time to Swingin’ Six who are set up onstage, playing a jumpy rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” The air is abuzz, and the smell of the hors d’oeuvres wafts from roving trays. I stop one of Christina’s girls, wearing spotless white gloves and rented tails, and grab a risotto ball.
Hector comes up beside me. “Look what we did.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say.
“I told you hard work feeds the soul,” he says. I roll my eyes, knowing he’s right but not wanting to give him that satisfaction. “Can I have this dance?”
I take his hand. “Gladly.”
He leads me out onto the dance floor, and I do a general sweep for Mom. I don’t need her prying eye perceiving this perfect moment. Thankfully, she’s dipping out the side door in the direction of the restrooms, phone in hand.
At ease locked in Hector’s embrace (it’s clear he’s been practicing), I look at all the happy faces sampling food and sipping drinks. I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of pride and a second equally overwhelming wave of purpose. I spent so much time feeling like my friends and peers had their lives figured out for themselves. I felt such deep shame dropping out of NYU. Now, I see that this is my calling—this is what I’m meant to do.
I decide that when my accounts are unfrozen and when the world realigns itself again in the New Year, I’ll go to Nan, Dad’s mom, and ask for a loan to start my own business.
Yes, a loan. Not free money. I will pay her back. With interest. Like everyone else. Because while I may be from means, if these last few weeks have shown me anything, it’s that if you don’t earn it, it doesn’t mean anything.
At the end of the song, Hector kisses me on the cheek. There it is—proof that Noelle’s supposed holiday magic exists. It’s in the way Hector’s lips send a glitter elixir coursing through my body. I’m shining from the inside out.
“Am I a better dancer than Greta from the nursing home?” I ask.
“Tough call, but I think so.” His laugh is soothing. “I should go check in with Christina and Siena to see if they need anything before dinner is served.” He squeezes my bicep through my paisley blazer and disappears into the crowd.
I venture over toward the silent auction table. The SBA did an amazing job of reaching out to their members and getting the grade A bidding items I couldn’t shake out of them myself. There’s a full-service spa package complete with at-home robe and slippers. There’s a basket full of expensive wines and all the makings for a classy charcuterie board. There are TVs, e-readers, and even season tickets to see the Patriots. All in all, our collection is valued at just over $20,000 and with the number of interested bidders, we’re well on our way to making a sizable chunk of change for a good cause.
Grandma catches me peering over at her. She excuses herself from a conversation with Rosalie and makes a beeline toward me. She’s wearing a flowing black skirt matched with a jade-colored blouse and a festive wrap.
“Dear, you do know how to throw a shindig for the ages,” she says. She attacks with her usual cheek pinch.
“You’re going to mess up my makeup!” I cry. I save all my best concealers and such for special occasions, so I decided to put on my full face for the evening. Even Hector, who I was afraid might go dude bro on me when he saw it, complimented me on my highlights.
“I’m floored with what you’ve done here,” Grandma says. Tears appear at the edges of her eyes. I offer her my monogrammed handkerchief and a side hug.
“We did it for you. And the other businesses, obviously, but mostly for you. Hector told me the store is struggling, and I want to help. In any way I can.”
“You’ve already helped so much,” she says, gesturing to the crowd.
“Beyond this. I mean it.” I wait a beat before I add, “I feel terrible for how I acted when I got here. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distant these last few years. I think I got my priorities mixed up.”
She shakes her head. “Dear, we don’t hold it against you. You’re growing up and figuring things out, deciding how family fits into the fabric of your life. It’s a process. We went through it with your mother, so we know.”
“I know she can be—”
“No,” she says with certain authority. “Not tonight. She’s here. She’s present and she seems happy.”
That’s when I spot her rejoining the crowd. Not too far from the bar, she takes a seat next to Arthur, who cleans up quite nicely and looks handsome in his Christmas-tree bow tie. Their bodies are angled in toward each other, subtly giving away their history to the whole room.
“I’m happy too,” I say.
Swingin’ Six is closing out its first set. Hector pops up near the stage. It’s almost time for my speech. I crack my knuckles, roll out my neck, and put on my cheeriest expression.
You’d think, as someone who spent most of his young life being paraded around on press tours and at red carpet events and galas just like this one, I wouldn’t fall victim to stage fright. But, as I stand onstage before this town—one I’d previously seen as beneath me in many ways—I feel a lump in my throat. I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or intense feelings of gratitude. Hector gives me a big thumbs-up from the steps, and it’s enough to buoy me for now.
“May I have your attention, please?” I say into the microphone. “My name is Matthew Prince Jr.—you may know me as Lorna and Doug Winston’s grandson—and I am happy to be one of your co-organizers for this year’s Holiday Charity Gala.”
