“So that’s okay, then,” said Alex.
“I know you already told them yes,” said Nate, but he was smiling, so again, there would be no argument about anything.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry to be breaking into this weird exchange that was making my head spin. “Are you saying you ownthishotel?” That would certainly explain the sudden move to the penthouse suite and schedule my whenver-the-fuck-you-want hot tub reservation.
“And more than a dozen like it,” said Jasmine, gesturing to the wine sommelier for another pour into her glass.
“All over the world,” said Tim. His beaming smile showed perfect teeth, and an energy that told me straight off that he was going into the family business and that he was happy about it.
“Do you want more apple pie, Beck?” asked Lottie. She was rocking Baby Ginny in her arms, her chair pushed back a litte way from the table. She literally had her hands full, and yet she was making sure I’d had enough pie.
“Maybe you’d like some coffee instead of that wine,” said Jasmine.
Her sharp eyes had not missed that I’d barely drunk any wine. I prefer a nice beer, a whisky, and of course a G&T. But she was already gesturing to the nearest hovering waiter, with a little scowl as if my having to do without a preferred beverage—even for a single second—was going to get the poor guy fired.
“Coffee’d be great,” I said, grateful that her sharp eyes shifted away from me. I had a feeling that she’d be a hoot if she ever got drunk, and would have great stories to tell. Sober, she scared the shit out of me.
I was halfway through my coffee and pie, and did my best to keep from looking at Alex, who was on the other side of the table and felt miles away. Soon this little dinner would be over, and the Westmore’s obligation to me would be a thing of the past.
That was how things went for me. Flashes of cool shit followed by the equivalent of grubby back alley blow jobs and the like. The one thing I could take pleasure in was the fact that Alex looked happy.
He was alive because I had saved him from a frozen death. I guess I was smiling (I’m a scowly kind of guy), because Alex caught my eye, smiling in return, and for a second everyone was looking at me.
So many smiles. So much love. They all looked like they were going to say something nice in unison likeGod bless us, everyoneorMerry Christmas, I love you, and all at once it got overwhelming.
Baby Ginny saved me by becoming restless, making petulant noises in her mother’s arms.
“I’ll take her,” said Pete, standing up, reaching out for the baby.
“You look done in, dear,” said Jasmine.
“That’s me, too,” said Tim. “I have to go wrap the last of my presents to everyone.”
“You’ll be here for Christmas breakfast, won’t you, Beck?” asked Jasmine. “That’s when we open gifts.”
I grew very still, like a teeny tiny little bunny that a wolf has just found.
“Um.”
“It’s a madhouse,” said Nate. “We always try to keep a limit to the presents—” He paused to scowl at everyone, but they just smiled and laughed as if you say,You have no power over us. “But the food is very good.”
“Yes, the food was good,” I said, my mind racing. I couldn’t come to a breakfast such as that. I didn’t have any presents to give and surely they’d want to be alone as a family on Christmas morning.
“We eat breakfast at eight, Beck,” said Jasmine, and as she stood up, I realized that was the signal that the official Christmas Eve dinner was over. “Here in this room.”
Everybody stood up, and the waitstaff was on hand to clear everything away without any of the Westmores lifting a finger. Of course, rich people. They were born with money and never had to work very hard.
In the back of my mind I guess I was trying to sever the connection to these people because it would hurt less that way. They were nice, awful nice, but they were rich, which surely meant they were horrible and selfish and very self-absorbed.
Then I saw that before Nate and Jasmine walked out, she spoke to the sommelier. She was whispering, but I was close enough to hear her say, “Make sure. It’s twenty-five percent for each of them on top of the overtime. I don’t care if all they did was deliver the pats of butter. Understand?”
The sommelier just about bowed as he said, “Yes, ma’am.” No, he actuallydidbow.
Overtime and twenty-five percent? Holy fuck. Made me wish I worked for them. Except I didn’t have any skills they needed. Or the references. Or anything.
“I have to take this call,” said Alex’s voice from behind me.
“On Christmas Eve?” everybody asked in unison.
