Page 3 of Holiday Hopefuls
Suddenly alone in the massive entryway, I leave my coat and scarf with the trembling maid who only shows up once Prescott has retreated. Because, let’s be real, he’s never been one to appreciate my parents’ staff.
Mom’s clearly had the decorators here in preparation for the holidays. Sticky notes and the beginning of garland strands hang from random places throughout the front rooms. Christmas trees and ornaments wait in boxes on the floor to become something out of a fairytale at a moment’s notice. Paintings featuring snow-covered villages wait to be hung, replacing what is normally stationed on the wall throughout the year. While other kids’ moms made homemade gingerbread and left cookies for Santa, ours brought in private chefs for a gourmet meal and told us Santa is for chumps who don’t believe in hard work and earning everything they have.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends that wanted to hang out at my house around the holidays.
Or ever.
Or, really, any friends at all, thanks to the sinister tone that comes with my family name.
Except Ian and Aaron.
As I walk further into the house, every siren goes off in my system and the feeling that I should’ve brought Gilmore for backup screams in my head.
Noisy chatter comes from the dining room, just at the other end of the front hallway. One deep breath pushes its way out. Then one more, and my feet carry me toward the sound of love and approval that’s never quite been extended to me.
Except from one little girl.
“Aunt Callie!” Marigold hops up from the table and sprints across the large dining room in record time. Dark spirals bounce with each movement while her deep skin radiates joy. Allconversation ceases as my seven-year-old niece throws her arms around me, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous room.
“Hey, Goldie,” I grin, squeezing out all the love I can. “I like the half braids. Did your dad do them?”
Prescott rolls his eyes in my periphery.
She beams up at me. “Thanks, they’re new.”
In the distance, my father clears his throat from the head of the table. “Calloway, take your seat, please. We’ve been waiting on you.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. Quickly guiding Goldie back to her chair next to Prescott, I take my place on the opposite side of the table.
Six pairs of annoyed eyes watch as I scooch around on the uncomfortable chair.
My niece, on the other hand, giggles.
Only when my movements have stopped for a consecutive ten seconds do the salads appear.
“You still look rather casual,” Lillian Rutherford says from the opposite end of the table as my father, eyes never leaving the barely-dressed salad.
Not a soul has to waste time wondering to whom she’s speaking.
I shrug. “Figured jeans were a step up.” Not really. I’d worn a skirt today. Pink tulle—my favorite. But it was way too cold, even with fleece-lined tights. “I know you don’t like leggings.”
My mother narrows unamused eyes in my direction, mouth pinched as she chews.
To my right, Constance coughs to cover a laugh. Connie, my only semi-ally. In a frumpy gray turtleneck, brown slacks and flats, the investment banker isn’t quite the fashion icon of the family. But at least she doesn’t throw insults my way at every opportunity. And unlike our oldest two siblings who favor our mother, Connie and her fraternal twin Christopher look like me with their ruby hair and fair skin.
“Imogene,” my mother finds her oldest daughter, “any luck with the new aircraft piece you’ve been working on?”
“We have a few test samples ready for experimentation.” Imogene squares her shoulders, pride radiating from her form.
“So that’s, what? A few different types of nuts and bolts?” Christopher asks from next to Connie, grinning.
I usually try not to directly piss off my brother since he could probably throw a pretty mean punch with all those muscles, even for a financial analyst.
But Imogene stares at him, undeterred. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over my doctorate.”
Heat floods Chris’ cheeks as he sputters, “Excuse me, but an MBA in Finance is just as good as a PhD in Aeronautical Engineering.”
“Chris,” Connie whispers to her twin, who angrily chews another bite of salad.
