Through the windows, we can all see he’s right. The snow that was pretty an hour ago is coming down in sheets, already piling up against the door. We’re all here for the duration.
Which is just fine with me.
We wrapped up our last big project before the holiday this morning, and I gave the entire office three weeks off. Aside from our holiday party next Monday night, my responsibilities at the office are on hold until the new year, and I don’t have to be at the luncheon tomorrow until noon.
I’m free to burn the midnight oil with Red, who I’m nowdeterminedto win over. Edward is the prize-winning polo player in the family, but we’re both wickedly competitive.
I never back down from a challenge or a dare, and Red’s quickly becoming both.
“You’re right,” she says, nodding toward Reggie. “I’ll take a pint of whatever’s best for a case of wounded pride then, please.”
Reggie nods. “Pint of Guinness. Coming right up.”
As she limps to the bar with as much grace as one can manage with a broken heel, I consider my options.
Put a song on the ancient jukebox and ask her to dance? Offer my vintage copy of Great Expectations for her entertainment by way of further apology? See if I can find an open shoe store willing to deliver a new pair of heels at this hour?
Not likely in a storm, but worth a try.
As I open a search window on my cell, Red pulls a pen and paper from her purse. She begins furiously scribbling, muttering something about a “career obituary” and “death by poinsettia” beneath her breath.
Death…
Death is not funny.
If she’sthatupset, I owe her more than a new pair of shoes.
I stand, crossing to the bar. When I slide onto the stool two down from hers, she doesn’t look up, but her pen stops moving.
“I am deeply and honestly sorry,” I say, in my most conciliatory tone. “Please, don’t commit death by poinsettia. You seem like a lovely girl, and that sounds like an awful way to go.” I wait until she glances my way before adding, “You’d have to eat an obscene amount of it, as well, since it isn’t actually all that poisonous. And that’s far too much work for someone who’s already down on her luck. So…”
“I was kidding. But thank you. I’ll mark death by poinsettia off my list.”
“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the paper.
After a brief hesitation, she slides it over with a shrug. “Sure, why not? It’s not like tonight can get any more embarrassing.”
Her handwriting is surprisingly tidy for a woman who looks like she’s never met an iron, a hairbrush, or a cup of coffee she wouldn’t spill on her skirt.
Post-Worst-Day-Ever Action Items
1. Track down Belinda Moore and beg her forgiveness on your hands and knees. On your belly, if necessary. Offer to de-thorn roses in her shop until you pay her back for the damage you’ve caused.
2. Find a new career, a gig you can work alone in shame-free isolation. (Librarian? Lighthouse tender? Dog walker? Dogs don’t judge nearly as much as rich people. Especially rich British people)
3. Change name. Get new nose. Possibly new face.
4. Give Maya your share of the business while apologizing profusely for being a failure who fails.
5. Move to a remote island where no one plans parties or has social media.
6. Become hermit.
7. Learn to make furniture from coconuts.
8. Drown sorrows in the ocean.
9. Drown sorrows in island rum.
