Chapter 7 #2
Pete took the baby, cuddling her close. I realized that he kind of looked like the baby. Or the baby looked like him. I never did pay attention in biology, but I guessed he was Baby Ginny’s dad.
Then Sis hugged me so hard, all the breath left my body. Then she kissed me on the cheek. Then the Mom did, too. Jasmine. Her name was Jasmine, and she looked like a runway model with her hair in a glossy dark bun. Fierce. Smart. Sharp.
“You did good,” said Dad. He had a little round belly and a genial smile. “I’m Nathanial. Call me Nate.”
“Call me Beck,” I said, faint, feeling out of sorts, like I was up against the hardest gang on the meanest street in Denver. (No, not Colfax.)
“I’m Lottie,” said the beautiful young woman who’d handed the baby over.
Then a young man came in. Maybe he was nineteen, the spitting image of Alex, only more slender.
He was dressed like he’d just stepped out of a Yale portrait, pressed slacks, a sweater vest. His name was Timothy-Call-Me-Tim.
Everybody, it seemed, had a shortened version of their name, except for Jasmine.
Finally, finally, Alex came over and slapped me on the back, but gently, his smile warm and familiar.
Receiving it made me wish we were alone together in that old cabin on a mountain hillside, unable to go anywhere because we were knee deep in snow with nothing to do but make love on that fabulous bed all the live long day.
“Let’s sit down, everybody,” said Nate. “We don’t want to keep the staff waiting.”
Staff meant a bunch of waitresses, a wine sommelier, someone to carve the roast beast, and other staff to clear away after each course. I counted five, and each one was huge, everything fancy, not much I recognized.
All during this meal, the chatter was friendly and light.
Nobody got drunk and tried to punch anyone.
When someone said pass the mashed potatoes, they of course said please, and nobody, but nobody, threw any food.
All of this was followed up by the most amazing slice of apple pie (with cheddar cheese on top of each slice, of all things), and then sweet wine and cheese.
I was shocked by several things.
One, that everybody was nice to me, and nobody laughed when I got gravy on my chin.
The waitress replaced my napkin at least two times, and still nobody made any mean remarks.
I might have been raised by wolves (which I was, really), but I got treated like a little prince, which was quite a nice feeling. Weird, but nice.
Second, was that when I told them about what I did, which was work on cars for a rich guy on a ranch, they acted all interested, rather than bored.
Third, was that I learned what they did for a living.
It went a little like this:
“Hey, Alex, did you get the contracts signed in Tokyo?” asked Nate.
“Dear, I thought we agreed not to talk about business,” said Jasmine with a disapproving frown.
“Yes, dear,” said Nate as he chewed politely on his mouthful of food. “I just need to know, so I am ready for the board meeting in a few days.”
“He can give you the write up about it later,” said Jasmine.
“Sure did, Dad,” said Alex. “The sign on the hotel will say what they all do, but they want the web brochure and any marketing materials to also say it in Japanese.”
“How doe that go?” asked Tim.
“It sounds like Za ankarejji,” said Alex. “Looks like I’m going to have to learn Japanese.” But he smiled as he said this, like it wasn’t a hardship and actually was something he looked forward to doing.
“What does it stand for?” I asked. When I was in school, I could have cared less. (Or I couldn’t have cared less, I can never be sure.) But after having known Royce, who might or might not have been a good influence on me, I had started to become more curious.
“It stands for The Anchorage,” said Nate. He waved his fork in a general way. “It’s the name of our hotel. All over the world, our hotels are called The Anchorage, but the Japanese are very culturally minded and want to share their beautiful language.”
“So that’s okay, then,” said Alex.
“I know you already told them yes,” said Nate, but he was smiling, so again, there would be no argument about anything.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry to be breaking into this weird exchange that was making my head spin. “Are you saying you own this hotel?” That would certainly explain the sudden move to the penthouse suite and schedule my whenver-the-fuck-you-want hot tub reservation.
“And more than a dozen like it,” said Jasmine, gesturing to the wine sommelier for another pour into her glass.
“All over the world,” said Tim. His beaming smile showed perfect teeth, and an energy that told me straight off that he was going into the family business and that he was happy about it.
“Do you want more apple pie, Beck?” asked Lottie. She was rocking Baby Ginny in her arms, her chair pushed back a litte way from the table. She literally had her hands full, and yet she was making sure I’d had enough pie.
“Maybe you’d like some coffee instead of that wine,” said Jasmine.
Her sharp eyes had not missed that I’d barely drunk any wine.
I prefer a nice beer, a whisky, and of course a G&T.
But she was already gesturing to the nearest hovering waiter, with a little scowl as if my having to do without a preferred beverage—even for a single second—was going to get the poor guy fired.
“Coffee’d be great,” I said, grateful that her sharp eyes shifted away from me. I had a feeling that she’d be a hoot if she ever got drunk, and would have great stories to tell. Sober, she scared the shit out of me.
I was halfway through my coffee and pie, and did my best to keep from looking at Alex, who was on the other side of the table and felt miles away. Soon this little dinner would be over, and the Westmore’s obligation to me would be a thing of the past.
That was how things went for me. Flashes of cool shit followed by the equivalent of grubby back alley blow jobs and the like. The one thing I could take pleasure in was the fact that Alex looked happy.
He was alive because I had saved him from a frozen death. I guess I was smiling (I’m a scowly kind of guy), because Alex caught my eye, smiling in return, and for a second everyone was looking at me.
So many smiles. So much love. They all looked like they were going to say something nice in unison like God bless us, everyone or Merry Christmas, I love you, and all at once it got overwhelming.
Baby Ginny saved me by becoming restless, making petulant noises in her mother’s arms.
“I’ll take her,” said Pete, standing up, reaching out for the baby.
“You look done in, dear,” said Jasmine.
“That’s me, too,” said Tim. “I have to go wrap the last of my presents to everyone.”
“You’ll be here for Christmas breakfast, won’t you, Beck?” asked Jasmine. “That’s when we open gifts.”
I grew very still, like a teeny tiny little bunny that a wolf has just found.
“Um.”
“It’s a madhouse,” said Nate. “We always try to keep a limit to the presents—” He paused to scowl at everyone, but they just smiled and laughed as if you say, You have no power over us. “But the food is very good.”
“Yes, the food was good,” I said, my mind racing. I couldn’t come to a breakfast such as that. I didn’t have any presents to give and surely they’d want to be alone as a family on Christmas morning.
“We eat breakfast at eight, Beck,” said Jasmine, and as she stood up, I realized that was the signal that the official Christmas Eve dinner was over. “Here in this room.”
Everybody stood up, and the waitstaff was on hand to clear everything away without any of the Westmores lifting a finger. Of course, rich people. They were born with money and never had to work very hard.
In the back of my mind I guess I was trying to sever the connection to these people because it would hurt less that way. They were nice, awful nice, but they were rich, which surely meant they were horrible and selfish and very self-absorbed.
Then I saw that before Nate and Jasmine walked out, she spoke to the sommelier. She was whispering, but I was close enough to hear her say, “Make sure. It’s twenty-five percent for each of them on top of the overtime. I don’t care if all they did was deliver the pats of butter. Understand?”
The sommelier just about bowed as he said, “Yes, ma’am.” No, he actually did bow.
Overtime and twenty-five percent? Holy fuck. Made me wish I worked for them. Except I didn’t have any skills they needed. Or the references. Or anything.
“I have to take this call,” said Alex’s voice from behind me.
“On Christmas Eve?” everybody asked in unison.
“It’s the last one. The last call,” said Alex.
I turned to look at him. He was already on his phone, hurrying out of the room, totally focused on business.
Not my circus, not my monkeys. In the general hubbub, I slipped out of the room and hurried out of the restaurant and across the lobby to the elevator to the penthouse.
It was only when the doors closed I could see nobody was following me. Good. Fine. It was better this way. I’d spend Christmas Eve with my lonely self, skulk about the hotel for a few days, and then drive home.
And that would be that. Christmas for Bad Boy Beck was already miserable, so why should this one be any different?