Page 53 of Holiday Hopefuls
“That is … mildly helpful … ” Despite the semi-positive sentiment, Imogene looks ready to vomit.
“It may be worth considering,” Connie offers. Her soft voice carries in the stupidly big dining room made for companydinners and family parties with relatives you’ve only met twice in your life.
As the soups are taken away, my father rubs his hands together. “Great news, I’ve secured the Aspen Point Grand Ballroom for the annual New Year’s party again this year.”
At the opposite end of the table, Lillian nods approvingly, as if this is something new and noteworthy.
It’s definitely not, since we’ve had the party in the Grand Ballroom every year since I can remember.
Connie looks across me to our father. “Have you decided on a theme, Daddy?”
“Not yet, my darling girl.” Dad’s tender smile accompanies doting eyes reserved only for his favorite daughter. “But I want something classy, timeless. Prescott, any thoughts?”
My oldest brother looks up from tonight’s white alba truffle pasta, mouth completely full with him caught completely off guard. Choking down the bite, heat rushes to his cheeks as he clears his throat. “I’m sure whatever Mom puts together will be perfect,” he says, waving his fork in her direction.
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “And to think, it’s only Tuesday,” he grumbles to himself. Rolling his neck, Dad turns back to his oldest. “Of course it will, but that’s not the point. The point is for you to care about how our family is presented at our annual gathering, since our most important clients will be there.” Disapproving eyes peer down the table at Prescott.
My brother swallows, squaring his large shoulders. If he wasn’t a giant booger of a human, I’d almost be intimidated. Pressing a napkin to his lips, Prescott turns to face my dad. “I do care about how we look to the clients, but that’s why we have a whole events and marketing team that takes care of worrying about things like that—so we don’t have to.”
Connie gathers another bite of pasta. “What about gold and black?” That woman’s voice may sound like a bunny, but it carries authority. She’s nothing if not sure of herself.
Ira’s unamused face stretches into a grin rivaling the crescent moon out tonight. “With mirrorballs everywhere,” he finishes. My father claps his hands together, soft from years spent behind a desk. “That’s brilliant, darling.”
To Connie’s credit, she doesn’t brag. She doesn’t gloat. While all my other siblings would look smug and eternally proud of themselves in this rare moment of validation from our cold father, Connie simply returns to her pasta.
“Oh,” I say, speed-chewing my food so I don’t lose the thought, “Connie, I meant to tell you. Aaron’s band is playing again this Friday.”
On the other side of my favorite sister, Chris’ jaw seems to clamp down on whatever he’s currently chewing.
Connie freezes before remembering she has an audience. Barely turning my way, she shoots me a timid smile. “That’s good to know. Thank you, Calloway.” Pushing around what remains on her plate, her freckled cheeks show the slightest hint of a blush stain.
“Yeah, several of us are going,” I continue. Mainly so the rest of our family doesn’t start the Rutherford family inquisition on why Connie suddenly looks extremely interested in her least favorite dish since childhood. “Ian’s trying to get Aaron to save us a table. You know, so we don’t have to fight our way to a seating arrangement this time.” Awkward laughter echoes, filling the stilted silence.
“Don’t we already have plans this Friday?” Chris turns to his twin. Ginger brows raised, you don’t have to be part of their twin connection to understand his message.
Connie frowns at her partner in crime. “No. Besides, if you want to watch those silly space movies again, you're more than welcome to do so by yourself.”
“You said you loved them,” he accuses, taken aback.
Across the table, Imogene scoffs. “Oh, please. You’re the only one of us who got the super geek gene.” She points an empty fork at him with the accusation.
“Excuse me?” Chris’s ears match his hair.
Imogene shrugs. “I’m just saying, how many comic books do you have in your collection now?”
“Those are collectibles.”
Prescott smirks, taking arms with his sister. “You said the same thing when you were seventeen and couldn’t get a date to the prom.”
“I had better things to do than go to some stupid dance.” Chris puffs up his chest.
“Like sitting at home alone watching your space movies?” Prescott asks, feigning innocence.
Connie’s twin sputters, looking for words while Connie glares at the others from across the table.
It’s always fun to feel a Rutherford sibling riot brewing. The air gets thick. Blood pressures rise. The animals get really quiet. But as much fun as it can be to watch my siblings hurl every insult in the book at one another, I’ve got a busy week.
“So, Scotty boy—”I grin at the dark look shot my way at hearing his least favorite nickname“—is Marigold doing okay?”
