Page 11 of Joy to Noel
I decide to fully embrace Clara’s Christmas spirit and turn on a jazzy Christmas playlist. I’ve always admired jazz musicians and their ability to improvise their own notes, to truly go with the flow instead of following sheet music. Pretty much, the polar opposite of how my brain works.
Tackling the technical business tasks is sure to rouse my inner critic’s voice talking me out of this whole thing, so I decide to go a creative route instead. One of the graphic designers from WritInc offered to create a logo design for me when she heard about my plan to try freelancing. I compile a document of inspiration photos and color palettes I like.
I title it “Madison Joy Editorial.”
Chapter seven
Liam
Meow.
“It’s not too much,” I say to Hamlet. He’s sitting on top of the closed toilet lid next to me as I assess my appearance in the mirror, straightening my tie. “I won’t wear a tie every day, but this is my first day meeting all the employees. They need to know what level of professionalism I expect.”
Hamlet slow-blinks before shaking his head.Meow.
“I’ve taken your opinion under advisement, but I’m going with my gut, like always,” I say. He pounces to the floor as I turn off the bathroom light. He’s already eaten breakfast, but I double-check his water dish. I give him a serious look as I add, “No causing any trouble today. Just because this is a small space doesn’t mean the rules have changed—stay off the counters and the table. You can sleep and play with your toys on the floor. Got it?”
After sniffing the air with disdain, Hamlet rubs against my ankle, and I reward him with a scratch under his chin. “See you tonight, friend.” I remove the protective sheet from the lint roller next to the door and quickly roll it over my dark navy suit. All of my suits are expertly tailored, but this is one of my favorites with the subtle plaid pattern. The fit is perfection, and I can alter the precise look I’m going for based on the color of shirt I pair with it.
Today is plain white accented by a pale blue tie. No-nonsense without coming across as over-the-top serious.
Looping my leather satchel bag over my shoulder, I lock the door and turn around to find Madison sitting in an Adirondack chair in front of her cabin. At least, the mass of brown hair piled into a bun and poking out of a blanket mound looks like Madison’s. Hands holding a steaming mug are the only other body parts visible from the layers of fabric bundled in the chair. She shifts when she hears me, and the blankets droop enough to glimpse her smirking face.
“Called it,” she states.
Once again, I can’t resist taking the bait. Taking a few steps closer, I ask, “Called what?”
Madison simply raises her eyebrows. “It’s okay, the whole Henry Golding vibe is a good look for you. You could be his doppelganger.”
“Untrue,” I say. “Henry Golding is of Malaysian descent. I’m half-Korean. We look totally different. And there’s nothing wrong with nice suits.”
“Just accept the compliment, Liam,” Madison counters. “Being told you look like Henry Golding is one hundred percent a compliment. And I never said the suit was bad. Or the haircut. I simply said, ‘I called it.’” She sits forward in her chair, the blankets falling from her shoulders. “Actually, can I tag along for the day? I’d love to watch you walk into a factory full of Noel residents dressed like that. I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Bring Your New Neighbor to Work Day’ anyway.”
Fighting a smile, I shoot back. “Don’t you have an existential crisis to work through today?”
“Oof, low blow, Liam, low blow,” Madison scoffs as she falls back against the chair. “How about I work on my issues and you work on yours, and we’ll compare who’s made more progress at the end of the day?”
“I’d hardly call my job an existential crisis. I think you have an unfair handicap if we’re going to be comparing progress,” I say.
Madison stands, rolling her shoulders forward to better anchor the blanket around her. As she steps closer, I notice that her mug doesn’t contain coffee, but liquid the color of an orange sunset. Before I can comment, she says, “Based on the power presence you’re heading into the factory with today, I’d wager you have more than a few issues to solve. This kind of aura”—she motions up and down my body—“couldonly mean one thing: you mean business. And you need the rest of the employees to mean business. Which means things must currently be a mess.”
I ignore her shrewd observation and make one of my own. “Oolong or white?” I ask, tipping my head toward her mug of tea.
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “White.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t need something stronger before tackling a day of existential crisis management? I have fresh coffee beans inside.”
Madison waves me off. “Not only is tea far superior to coffee, but you also don’t have time to make me coffee. You’d better go make a dent in your to-do list. Good luck.”
I begin taking backward steps away from her as I say, “I don’t need luck. I have everything I need right here.” Tapping my temple, I give Madison a wry grin. “But thanks for the well wishes anyway. I’ll see you later when you admit that I accomplished more than you.”
I replay my conversation with Madison as I drive the few minutes to the production facility. I’m always intrinsically motivated to lead out and work hard to get a job done—not to mention the added motivation of gettingthisjob done in order to get out of Arkansas. But this new productivity competition with Madison is the extrazingof dopamine pumping me up for the first day on the job.
Angie got my full-access ID badge for the facility programmed before I left Houston so that I wouldn’t be slowed down today. I despise being slowed down. After buzzing myself into the building, I briefly introduce myself to the receptionist, ready to walk right past. When she abruptly stands in greeting, I’m forced to pause.
“Hello, Mr. Park, we’ve been expecting you,” she replies. “I’m Amanda. Let me just notify Mr. Olson that you’re here so he can show you around. You’re a few minutes earlier than expected.”
Although mildly irritated that she thinks I need a babysitter, I force a close-lipped smile and wait. As she picks up the phone and dials, I mentally scan my list of important names. Mr. Olson—first name, Beau. Head engineer over machinery. Noel native who temporarily moved away when the old meat-packing plant shut down, only to return when the current facility opened. Several positive recommendations on his LinkedIn profile. Family man with a wife and three children.
