Page 23 of Not Home Alone

“But I haven’t been here in five years.”

He pats me on the back. “Well, I don’t expect you to deal with all of this today, sweetheart. It’s your vacation! You can tackle this tomorrow.”

He gives me a wink because he’s kidding, but I feel really guilty about staying away for so long. It is also Grant’s fault that I decided to stay away for so long. Literally everything is Grant’s fault.

My dad picks up a dusty old, framed photo of himself and his dad and his grandfather standing in front of the store. He’s smiling, but he sighs. It’s such a sad sigh. “Things always work out,” he says, more to himself than to me. “It’ll be fine.”

And that’s when I know I have no choice but to protect my dad’s legacy. I can fix this. And if I also happen to get some sort of public retribution for what Grant did ten years ago, so be it. But I’m not going to like it.

I go over to give my dad another hug. I have years of missed hugs to make up for. “Yeah. It will be fine. But you really need to trim your nose hairs and eyebrows.”

“I don’t think Connie will let me. You gonna come by for dinner tonight?”

“I actually have plans. That’s another thing we need to talk about—I don’t know why you didn’t tell me you decided to sponsor The Notcracker, but Joy told me last night.”

“Oh yeah…” Now he looks worried. About me. “She told you, huh? I wasn’t sure if you’d want to know on account of… y’know.”

“Yes. I know. But it’s a great idea. I mean, it sounds like you were in over your head, and I’m glad you didn’t give them too much money, since you can’t afford it, and also we really need to ramp up publicity about the store’s sponsorship—but the good news is…” I attempt a bugle sound effect with my hand. “I’m going to be directing and starring in it!”

“You’re kidding!” He nudges my shoulder. “Oh, honey. This is fantastic news. My daughter, the director! Look at you go. You go, girl! Is that what I should say?”

“No, Dad. You should never, ever say that. So, I thought I’d stop by the house later? Pick up some stuff I saved from the production I did in high school. Is it still in the basement?”

“You betcha. Preserved under a delicate layer of the finest dust in the Midwest.” He gives me a thumbs up.

I stay behind in his office after he goes back out front, to send Grant a text.

MERRILY: Fine. I’m in. But only if you stop your dad from raising the rent. We’ll discuss more terms tonight.

Just as I lock my phone screen, I get a notification from my boss, Karla. She’s asking me if it’s okay for Brock to send me the post-event report he wrote up for last night’s event so I can double check everything before he sends it to the client. As a favor to her. They need it by the end of day.

Remembering what Grant said last night about acting like I deserve the promotion I want, I boldly text back:

MERRILY: Hi, Karla. Have you had a chance to look at my proposal for the Nexus Solutions corporate retreat in February? I’d love to pitch them my ideas for team-building activities with performance elements, immersive brand experience, and creative programming. They’re an innovative company, and I think they’d be open to it!

It is ridiculous how my heart is racing as I wait for her reply. I do love having medical and dental insurance and a 401k, but my talents are being wasted at this job. I’ve pitched her so many innovative ideas for two years, and she’s claimed she was too busy to consider them, so I waited all year until trying again. I’m really doing her a favor by offering to let her use me more! I jump when I get a notification of her response.

KARLA: Great. I’ll look at your proposal when I have time. Did you see my message re: the favor?

I have this momentary vision of myself texting her back, asking if she could do me a fucking favor and pay me while I’m working over my Christmas vacation. And it feels good. Until I remember that I don’t do that kind of thing. Grant Moody does that kind of thing. I’m a nice person. And even though I already know that Brock’s report will be full of errors, and I’ll probably have to reformat it, I also know that I am awesome and can fix everything in fifteen minutes from my dad’s computer. As long as he’s still paying for Wi-Fi.

NINE

GRANT

My dad has always told me not to form an opinion about the character of people you meet in a business context if there’s any possibility at all of making a profit off them. I understand that attitude. But I will never adopt it myself. I am repulsed by Patrick Voss. He’s a soulless billionaire from Chicago who’s looking to expand his business to small towns. My dad seems to be losing his moral compass the closer he gets to retirement, but I know for a fact that Voss never had one. He started out as a corporate raider. He uses terms like “streamline,” which would mean hundreds of layoffs. He says “revitalization” and what he means is displacement. He has predatory relationships with suppliers. He cuts corners to “maximize shareholder value.” I advise my clients to avoid guys like Voss all the time.

It’s insane that my dad is considering selling the family business to this shithead, even if he’s doing it to light a fire under my ass. He was lowkey thrilled that I showed up uninvited to this meeting. I can tell he isn’t buying a single word that comes out of Patrick Voss’s mouth either, but he doesn’t care. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t terrify me a little that this is who my father has become. It would have broken my mom’s heart if she saw him like this.

I’m about to pull a power move and tell Voss we have to get to another meeting, but I hear singing and laughter outside my dad’s office door. It’s ruining the vibe. But at least it’s an excuse to walk away.

I get up, open the door, and find my dad’s secretary, Judith, doing a choreographed dance with a tall blond guy in an elf costume. They’re singing “Jingle Bell Rock” in the waiting area like this isn’t the waiting area of an office where people are working. This is one of the top five reasons I hate Christmas—people think it’s an excuse to work less and sing more. It’s not. Not at the office. Not at my house.

“Can I help you?” I growl at the elf man.

It is very disappointing how joyful he continues to look.

“Oh, Mr. Moody!” Judith says, catching her breath. “Greg’s here for you, actually!”