Page 48 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
He looks up.
His father is standing in the doorway, coat half-off, fresh from the airport.
And he’s seen everything.
Chapter 24
Ben
“What in God’s name is happening here?”
His father’s voice slices clean through the chaos, sharp with authority. It’s the tone Ben’s heard in board meetings, on investor calls, and once, memorably, when a forklift took out a whole pallet of flash-frozen scallops.
The party has ground to a full halt. The staff is clustered in the hallway like they’re watching a very exclusive, extremely uncomfortable play. Everyone is staring at Ben like he’s the lead act in what is very quickly becoming the most memorable holiday party Whitaker Seafood has ever thrown.
“Dad.” Ben tries to sit up. Dignity. Leadership. Something. He manages half an inch before his entire left side seizes, a full-body jolt ofabsolutely not.
Jackson is already there, one steady hand on his back, the other bracing his good arm. “Try not to move,” he says, firm but gentle.
Emergency lights flash through the windows, catching his cheekbones in stark, theatrical red. “With all due respect, sir,” Jackson says, with the exact level of tone people usually reserve for starting bar fights, “your son just got hurt trying to protectyour business from a senior manager forging documents and cutting illegal deals. Maybe try ‘Are you okay?’ before you start demanding a sit-rep from him.”
His dad’s jaw flexes once. The temperature in the room drops five degrees. Ben can see the raw concern in his eyes, but he’s not going to drop the captain of industries act for a stranger with a bad attitude. “I raised my son to be capable in any situation. You underestimate him.”
Jackson scoffs. “I don’t think you put that much consideration into raising him. He’s great, but you got lucky.”
Ben closes his eyes. Just briefly. To mourn his love life and the next two decades of family dinners and his entire professional reputation.
His dad’s eyebrows flick up, the only sign he’s stunned by the tone. He looks at Ben, more baffled than angry. “Who is this man?”
“Jackson James,” Jackson says, like a challenge. Then, because he apparently can’t stop himself, “Silver Shoals Gazette.”
His father processes that with instant, visible disdain. “No reporters. I want you out of here.”
Jackson, of course, doesn’t budge. “I’m not leaving.”
Ben makes a valiant effort to mediate from the floor. “Jacks,” he croaks. “It’s okay.” It isnotokay. Jackson glances down at him and softens, just slightly.
Dad, meanwhile, is motioning to a police officer like he’s flagging down a valet. “Officer, escort this man out. Now.”
“Dad,” Ben manages. “Please.” That’s all he’s got the air for. He wants to say: ‘He’s helping. He’s mine. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him, actually, and this isn’t how I wanted you to find out.’ But all of it gets bottlenecked somewhere behind his aching ribs and shredded nerves and how furious he is with the part of himself thatstillwants to make sure everyone else is okay.
His body hurts. His pride hurts. He’s dizzy, sore, exhausted, humiliated, and deeply done with being the center of attention.
Maybe his father sees that. Maybe he just realizes they’ve reached the limit of what can be salvaged publicly. He lifts a hand, waves the officer off and picks a new fight. “Where are the goddamn paramedics! My son should have been in an ambulance five minutes ago!” The EMTs arrive momentarily.
It’s like a NASCAR pit crew made entirely of compassionate strangers. One starts cutting Ben’s shirt open. Another wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm. A third mutters something about “definitely fractured.” Cold scissors slide along his skin. A warm, scratchy blanket covers him.
They hook him up, strap him down, and ease an oxygen mask over his face. One of the gurney wheels jams. The paramedic has toyankit into place with a loud ka-thunk. He takes mild pleasure in the notion that no one can reasonably ask him to make decisions for at least thirty minutes.
They roll him past rows of officers and rubbernecking coworkers. Kent is in cuffs, still ranting. Lou looks smug. Pina looks worried. The whole company looksriveted. Somewhere, over the low buzz of police radios, Mariah Carey’sAll I Want For Christmas Is Youhas started playing, which feels a little too cute on the universe’s part.
Tom McKenna sidles into view, shrimp skewer in hand, tie undone. “Hell of a night, huh, boss?” he mutters, with a kind of bewildered respect Ben would appreciate more if he weren’t riding a slow parade of shame out of his own party.
Ben gives him the ghost of a nod. That’s all he’s got left.
They hit the front door. The cold night air bites at his cheeks.
He gets one last look: his dad, pale, unreadable, Jackson, furious, arms folded. Sugared cranberries rolling like marbles across the hardwood, eggnog pooling on a table cloth, cocktail napkins trod underfoot. Well, at least people liked the speech.
