Page 2 of Unwrapped

Everyone is congregated in the small kitchen, dressed inappropriately for the office. Sherry sees me first, and she smiles, but I can’t find it in me to smile back. She’s a tall woman with thick glasses and a pronounced overbite. I cringe when I notice the much too tight nurse’s outfit. The dress rides up her large thighs as she walks over and offers me her hand, welcoming me.

“It’s our annual ugly Halloween office costume party and cookie contest.” I look around the room and notice all kinds of pastries. “But over the years, we’ve branched out from just cookies. The only rule is that it must be homemade. Did you bring anything? I sent you an email.”

Two deep breaths and counting to ten twice does nothing to calm down the storm brewing inside of me. Then I count to ten again. Instead of telling this woman I have more important things to worry about than baking artery clogging food—things such as dealing with my thieving ex, selling my house back in Chicago, and trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing with the rest of my life when this job ends—I take another deep breath and walk away. I see the smile leave her face as I walk to the coffee machine.

I pay no attention to the whispers behind me. I don’t even have time to feel bad about my rudeness because all I can focus on is that damn coffee machine that I can’t get to work.

The whispering ends, but what happens next is worse. The music starts to play, and if not for my need for coffee, I’d run screaming out of here. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” How original.

“Is anyone planning on doing any work today, or is that too much to ask?” You could hear a pin drop after my question.

“Joe never had a problem with us having a little fun in the office.” I’m not sure who said that because my back is turned, but whoever it is does not do a good job of hiding their annoyance. The last thing I fucking need today is an employee with an attitude.

“Does anyone see Joe here?” I ask. The peanut gallery is silent, which only makes the music louder. In three seconds, I imagine a million different ways I can smash the offending iPod against the wall.

“Does anyone know how to use this damn thing?” I ask, frustrated at every aspect of my life. I finally turn around to face the room, uncaring about the hateful glares aimed at me. That’s one of the perks of being the boss.

A woman dressed as Mrs. Claus walks over to me. She’s a black woman, probably in her early fifties. She’s short and on the plump side, but not plump enough to make a believable Mrs. Claus. She gets an A for effort if the white wig and round glasses are any indication of her dedication to this costume. She even put rouge on her cheeks.

“I’m confused. Is this Halloween or Christmas?” I ask as I look around the room.

“I’m Mona Moore,” she says, offering me her hand. I give it a firm shake before dropping it. “I was out yesterday, but we’ve spoken on the phone a few times.” She smiles, but I remain stoic. She’s a pretty woman with big brown eyes and smooth brown skin.

“Yes, my uncle talked to me about you.” Her smile widens at the mention of Uncle Joe. She opens her mouth to say something, but I talk over her. “You’re the one who makes his coffee.” The smile disappears from her lips immediately and she pulls her head back as she narrows her eyes at me.

“I do a lot more than make coffee, Mr. Bain.”

“Right. You handle the books. Make calls. Pays bills. Chases down clients who are late on payments. The jack of all trades at the office.” I don’t know why I’m being such an ass to this woman. Uncle Joe speaks so highly of her, you’d think she was his family. When I warned him about trusting someone so deeply, he brushed me off and said he was a much better judge of character than me.

“Yes. I do whatever needs to be done around here. Mr. Bain has always appreciated that about me.” She narrows her eyes at me and looks me up and down, clearly displeased by my lack of Halloween costume.

“Great. Can you make me some coffee?”

The room goes silent again, and for a second, I think Mona is going to slam my head against the coffee machine, but she takes a deep breath, stiffens her spine, and makes the coffee. I might not be the best judge of character, but I’m certain of one thing. I’ve made an enemy in the office today.

Everyone stands behind us, awkwardly watching the scene unfold. Soon enough, the coffee fills a mug, and I pick it up. Feeling like a stranger in my own family business, I look around the room again.

“Who are all of these people?”

“They work in the building. We’ve been doing the Halloween breakfast for the past ten years. All the offices in the building come together for a few minutes. Joe loves it. In fact, we do this for practically every holiday.” She looks at me directly in the eye when she mentions my uncle. “We really miss him around here. I speak for everyone else when I say we can’t wait for him to return where he belongs. There really is no substitute for Joseph Bain.”

Message received.

“Yeah, well, people in hell want ice water. If you can manage to pull yourself away from this fun party, I’ll need to see you in my office in ten minutes.” I walk out of the kitchen without giving her a chance to reply, but I can feel her eyes shooting daggers at me the entire time.

CHAPTER 2

MIRANDA

5 weeks later

“I’m so glad my daughter loves me enough to save me the humiliation of going to this Christmas party alone. It’s not as if my husband doesn’t know about it. It’s on the first Saturday of December every single year. There used to be a time when he put forth an effort, but not anymore. This is what happens after you’re married for too many years.”

I tune my mother out as I flip over the most perfectly seared piece of chicken breast. I add my roasted vegetables to the plate, topped with a scoop of my homemade guacamole because guacamole makes everything taste better.

My father tries his best to ignore her too, but he can’t escape. She sits next to him and just as his fork makes it halfway to his mouth, she snatches it from his hand. He simply reaches for her fork, and this time when she tries to snatch it, he knows to dodge her.

“Woman!” he says, deliberately exaggerating his Jamaican accent, making the word sound more likeoohmon. He calls my mother one of three things, woman, being the most common. To piss her off even more, he starts to laugh right there at the kitchen table. The angrier she gets, the more his body shakes with laughter.

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