stood there, a pasted smile chiseled on her face. It looked as though she’d lost the pricey Santa, but was quickly inheriting his rosy red cheeks.
“They’d closed O’Hare,” she defended, apparently not understanding that he was only making a joke, but Jeannie didn’t think Mr. Stryker heard her. Instead of responding he started in about a holiday trip from hell his family had taken back when his son, John Junior, was in grade school.
John, now grown and second in command at Stryker & Associates, stood near the stage, interjecting occasionally as his father told the story, and while they spoke, Jeannie smiled and waited patiently.
“Anyway,” the man finally concluded, “I don’t want to ruin a good party by talking too much. But we are only a couple weeks from year-end, and there are some people I want to recognize tonight.”
Jeannie folded her hands in her lap and straightened in her seat.
“Where’s Nick Castle?” Stryker said, and from a spot near the bar, Nick called back, “Right here, Chairman!”
Nick was one of the few sales agents daring enough to give Mr. Stryker a nickname. And from what Jeannie understood, he was one of the few who got away with it. Looking at the man, she suspected he got away with plenty. Nick had the charm, good looks and sharp wit to make a fast path directly to the head of the line. Some people even gossiped that he was better equipped than John Jr. to take over the company, but of course, Jeannie would never repeat it. John Jr. was sweet and kind. He always smiled and said hi when she passed him in the halls, and she liked that he was part of the company even though sometimes it didn’t look as though he wanted to be.
“Does this make three years in a row or four?” Mr. Stryker asked, and Nick shrugged as though he had no idea what the man was referring to.
“It seems to keep happening, anyway,” Mr. Stryker went on. “Nick Castle is ending another year as our top selling insurance agent.”
People clapped and cheered as Nick took a bow, accepting the pats and handshakes he’d worked hard for—and Jeannie recalled a trip to Maui was also part of the prize. The sales force had always been the crown jewel of the company.
Stryker continued down the list of sales awards then moved on to announcements in the middle market, a few milestone anniversaries and some preliminary year-end results, before finally finishing with, “So that’s it. There’s good food, music, plenty of drinks. Let’s get on with the celebration!”
Then she watched as he handed the microphone back to Gordy Goodnite and stepped down from the stage.
As the voice of Bing Crosby filled the room with Christmas cheer, the words repeated in her thoughts.
A job is where you go to make money, not praise.
It did little to ease the lump in her throat or the weight of disappointment from her shoulders, and as she sat there still holding her hands in her lap, she fought the urge to run out of the room in tears.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. After all, it wasn’t like people didn’t know who organized the party. She’d sent out questionnaires and was the recipient of the RSVP list. Everyone in this room knew she was the one to make all this happen, so she really hadn’t needed Stryker to restate the obvious.
She took a breath and the lump eased a little.
Of course, everyone appreciated her efforts, she reassured herself. The night was young, and she’d spent most of it either handling the last-minute details or sitting on the sidelines watching it go by. If she just got up and mingled a bit, she’d get plenty of the thanks she’d hoped for.
“So, anyway,” Troy began, “as I was saying. I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat.
“Jeannie, the bartender’s asking for you.” Jeannie looked up to see one of the accounting managers standing over her. “He’s got questions as to how much to serve, things like that. You might want to get over there.”
“Sure.” She glanced at Troy as she rose from her seat. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
Troy shook it off. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He smiled. “Go do your stuff, Chairman.”
She studied his face for a moment—he was handsome, in a shy, clumsy kind of way. Troy was a nice man and she appreciated his cute words of support.
“Thanks, Troy,” she said, forcing a smile on her face to drown out the remnants of disappointment. And then she went off to do what she did best.
1
“OUR FAMILY PHOTO IS scheduled for Thursday afternoon, so I’ll need you at the house by twelve at the latest.”
Monica Newell sat at her big mahogany desk in her office on the thirty-seventh floor of Chicago’s Willis Tower listening to her mother go over the holiday plans.
“Remember, we’re all wearing green this year,” her mother went on. “You got the color swatch I sent, right?”
“Yes, it came in the mail last week.”
“Make sure you find the right shade.” Her mother added hopefully, “Or you could let me pick out a sweater for you. Really, that would be so much easier.”
“I can pick out my own sweater,” Monica affirmed, though it was likely pointless. She suspected her mother had already bought the perfect green sweater for the family photo and had it on hand in case whatever Monica showed up with was deemed unsuitable. Perfection was Phyllis Newell’s way. Monica may have earned the position of chief financial officer for one of Chicago’s oldest insurance agencies, but that title held no rank when pitted against the Newell family matriarch.
“If you must,” Phyllis said through a sigh. “Just make sure you don’t buy a V-neck. You know how unflattering they look on you.”
Monica smiled tightly. “Of course.”
She made notes as her mother continued to jot off the holiday schedule—five days of meticulously arranged events that would keep the entire family busy through the holidays. The way Phyllis treated the Christmas season one would think the earth would implode if a single toast was so much as missed. Everything had to go a certain way and everyone had to be there. If not—well, up to this point, no one had dared to find out what would happen.
“On Friday we have to move up Christmas Eve brunch an hour because your father has a call to China he apparently can’t get out of,” Phyllis went on, the disappointment clear in her tone. “And did I tell you that Michael didn’t get that big account he’s been working on?”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
Monica’s brother owned a commercial real estate firm in Manhattan and had been spending the past six months trying to nail down a sales contract with a large downtown developer.
“Be a dear and don’t mention it,” Phyllis said. “It’s a sensitive subject and the holidays are a time for cheer.”
“I won’t.”
As her mother went on Monica eyed the crystal clock on her desk. The company Christmas party had started
