Howard’s eyes sweep back and forth over the carpet as he sorts through his memories to confirm that I am, in this one instance tonight, telling the god’s honest truth.
“Dammit.” He slumps, looking defeated for the first time in all the years I’ve known him. “How are we going to fix this?”
“Fix what?” I ask, playing dumb. “So far so good, right? The food’s been great. The drinks are creative. The potential investors seem to be getting along, other than Bethany’s husband not liking birds.”
“The birds!” Howard explodes, apparently past caring who overhears his distress. “The fucking birds! Who puts birds in the middle of a Christmas party?”
“That was all you, though, wasn’t it? The architect.” I hide my smile and tilt my head in an expression of concern. “Maxine said you signed off on every contract. “
“Yes, but—but—I’m very busy!” He sputters. “I trusted Maxine.”
“Of course you did,” I say soothingly. “We all did. She’s going to be impossible to replace.”
But he’s already on to the next complaint.
“And what do you mean the food is great? The food is torture! Who’s the chef? I want him fired!”
“I’m sure Legal can review the contracts to see if he failed to deliver on his one-night contract, but?—“
“Fuck,” Howard seethes.
He’s a man at the end of his rope. Time to keep fraying it.
“Okay, I tell you what,” I say soothingly. “Why don’t I come back to your table and see how it’s going?”
He looks at me with naked hope, and I could almost feel bad for him, if not for every retiree whose savings he stole and the millions he pocketed in kickbacks. And, oh yeah, that time he manipulated CJ into nearly destroying my division, almost destroying her career in the process.
We make it to the back of the room where I find one of the private equity bros missing and the other passed out, fast asleep, or faking death on the table, while the rest of the group looks even more miserable.
“Jesus, Howard.” I have to cover my nose with the crook of my elbow as we approach. “What happened back here?”
“I don’t know,” he whines. “There’s nothing wrong with the plumbing. No other part of the room smells like this. It’s like a portal to hell opened up and death poured out.”
It’s the most poetic this man has ever been, and I clasp his shoulder in faux sympathy. “Well, we only have two ‘Twelve Days’ verses and one dessert course left, then you can seal the deal and call it a night.”
He exhales hard, straightens his shirt cuffs, and proceeds, with me breathing shallowly behind him and reminding myself to never get on CJ’s bad side again.
“What an evening,” Radha says when I take the seat next to her and Gerry.
“But memorable,” I say. “Looks like dessert’s rolling out soon, though.”
“How can anybody eat in these conditions?” Bethany mutters.
Franklin, who’s green-tinged despite his ruddy face, brightens and pats his belly. “Never turn down a dessert, I always say.”
Howard laughs weakly along with him and like magic, Drea appears with a tray in hand.
“Mexican chocolate torte. Flourless and delicious.” Her delivery is flat, and it doesn’t change as she deals with the stench and the vehement “no’s” from Bethany and Joanne. The rest of the table opts for cake, and my tough, tenderhearted sister even leaves a piece next to the possibly dead Dillon or Dale.
Howard’s covetous eyes have followed her progress around the table, and if necessary, I’m ready to haul his ass outside for being inappropriate with another of my sisters. But he’s more excited by the dessert than the server.
“Chocolate cake! My favorite!” He makes a yummy sound and, true to form, grabs the largest slice on the tray.
Oh, Howard. Hopefully by the end of the night, he’ll finally have learned that greed always gets you in the end.
I’m the last person Drea serves, and she taps the side of her nose twice when she sets the cake in front of me. I return the gesture with a smile, tickled to see her finally getting into the saboteur spirit. Before we can pick up our forks, Max and company play the second-to-last verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” A murmur sweeps the room when the lights dim, the service entrance door opens, and a man in a cream-colored tunic steps out. He’s followed by another man in the same pale tunic, then another and another, until eleven men in total form a semicircle on the stage, staring out at the crowd in absolute silence.
If their identical shirts, tan leggings, and hand-sewn leather boots weren’t unsettling enough, each man’s straight, pale hair is styled into a bowl cut.
