Page 13 of A Holiday Lift
“Hi, Misty.”
“Hey, Dean, sorry to bother you . . . I know you have the next four days off, but we have a big problem.”
My assistant wouldn’t call if it weren’t something serious. “What’s going on?”
She relays all the facts about the client and how they’re getting ready to walk. I had everything shirred up before I left work on Friday.
“How did it get this bad?” I ask.
“It seems the client wasn’t really on board from the beginning. Matthew has been trying to keep them happy, but . . . I guess they’re a few hours away from cutting all ties with us. I . . .”
I look over at my mother and Holly. “I’ll be in the office in forty minutes. No one touches anything.”
And with that, all the stress I thought was gone, is back again.
7
“The apartment looks lovely,” Dean’s mother notes as she moves around. “And which is your room?”
Oh, I am going to kill him when he gets back. “Did you want to get unpacked?” I ask, hoping to avoid her question.
“No, no, it’s fine. Do you know when Dean will be back?”
I shake my head. It’s been three very long hours. At first, it was fine, we came home, put her bags in the spare room, and then went to the grocery store for provisions that I apparently missed. While I thought I got most of what I needed for our dinner tomorrow, Mrs. Pritchard wanted to make a few special dishes that her family eats each year that she didn’t tell me about.
Then we called her mother, who won’t be in until later tonight, but that phone call only gave me twenty minutes where I was not-so-patiently waiting for Dean to return.
Now, though, we were done adding a few decorations to the tree, final touches she thought would make it look a little more festive, and . . . still no Dean.
“I don’t,” I admit. “I’ll text him.”
My fingers fly over my phone, which hasn’t left my hand, and I send a frantic text.
Me: Babe, where are you?
I keep staringat the phone, willing it to respond. I look over at her with a smile. “He’s probably dealing with the client.”
She nods. “Does he do that a lot?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean does he disappear often for work?”
“We are both very busy, and I understand it,” I reassure her.
“He’s always been this way.” Her smile reaches her eyes. “As a child, he would be in his room, perfecting his papers as though each word had to be perfect. He could never quit until it was exactly the way he wanted it.”
Mrs. Pritchard takes a seat on the couch, patting the cushion beside her. I make my way over, nerves starting to settle a bit. This kind of thing I could do. “He’s still like that. I can’t tell you how many nights I would wake up hearing the pounding of his fingers on the keyboard. It’s why he’s so successful at the company.”
“I’m very proud of him.”
“I am too.”
We share a kinship here. “You love my son, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“He is very much in love with you too.”
