Page 39 of Puppy Christmas
“Forever, if you want.”
Ford stilled. “I’m not sure I follow. Are you proposing to me?”
“We’re reducing the department, not closing it altogether. The powers that be have decided they can get a lot more productivity out of three or four artists working on-site than with the current setup. And I agree.” Giles paused again, but with a kind of smug triumph this time. “I pulled some strings. It seemed the least I could do, considering our history together. Starting the first of the year, it’s nine to six, Monday through Friday, full benefits and a tidy retirement package.”
“And by on-site, you mean…?”
“Seattle, naturally. It’s a dream job, Ford, and in one of the most vibrant cities in the world. And it’s only across the state, so it’s not like you’d have to move far. There’s literally nothing holding you back.”
Sure, if byliterally nothinghe meant a home and a child, a familiar routine of doctors, a cost of living that didn’t include avocados at twelve bucks a pop. “I don’t suppose you offer day-care services and flexible parent hours in there, do you?”
“Of course not. You know most of our team is male.”
Ford didn’t point out the obvious. There was no need. Even if Giles could be brought to understand that children were created from the combined efforts of both men and women, he’d never admit that a job might come secondary to family.
“There’s not much of a bump in pay, I’ll admit, but you’ll love working with a team again. Client dinners, trips overseas… I just got back from one of our factories in Mexico. I’m still working off the effects of all that tequila. You used to love Mexico. And tequila, if I remember correctly.”
Of course he had. Everyone under the age of twenty-five loved tequila. It was one of the rules of being a millennial, right up there with twelve-dollar avocados. But “You know I have a daughter, right?” he said. “My whirlwind tequila days are over.”
“Just think about it, Ford, that’s all I’m asking. I can give you until Christmas Eve to decide, but then I’ve got to start sending these pink slips out.”
“Rolling out the jolly old Krampus right on schedule this year, are we?”
“What’s that? You have a cramp? Are you sure you’re not drinking?”
Ford sighed. Giles never did have much of an imagination. Or a sense of humor, now that Ford thought about it. “Never mind. It’s not important. Thanks for letting me know in advance and for, uh, pulling those strings.”
Giles paused. “There is a zoo here, you know. And one of those museums where the kids can touch all the exhibits. Emma would like that.”
Ford didn’t bother correcting him—either about Emily’s name or on the fact that an occasional visit to the zoo was hardly compensation for a forty-five-hour workweek with an hour-long commute thrown on top. There was no need. The decision had obviously already been made. All Ford had to do was take it.
“Thanks, Giles. I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up the phone and returned to his drafting desk, even though it wasn’t of much help. Instead of the coffee makers he was contracted to finish by next week, he’d spent the past hour sketching various images of Lila in a whirling, twirling yellow sundress.
“I betsheknows who Krampus is,” he muttered as he picked up his pen again. Not once had he been forced to explain any of his jokes to her, never had she struggled to keep up with his rambling asides. She met him stride for stride, with no signs of feeling winded. “I bet she could defeat him, too. With puppies. And tea. And fancy braided whips.”
Even though he knew he should focus on drawing the best coffee maker in the history of coffee makers, he pushed his illustrations aside. Why bother? He could hardly getmorelaid off than he already was, and this was a much more enjoyable way to blow off some steam.
Which was why, with a square-jawed, white-toothed vision of Santa’s evil doppelgänger beginning to take shape in his imagination, he set about putting a whip in Lila’s hand and letting her free to do her worst.
