Chapter 11
I heard the words, but they didn’t make sense, not at first.
“She what?”
“Ms. Campbell died last spring,” Elizabeth said, her voice gentle. “It was very sudden. A heart attack, I think. Everyone took it really hard. Mr. Fezziwig was a wreck for months, still is.”
The air in the room thickened and the party sounds receded. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I tried to summon a response, something more eloquent than just standing there with my plate of food in mid-air, but my tongue didn’t work right.
Elizabeth noticed and patted my arm. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, still trying to process it. “No. It’s—I’m—I didn’t know.”
Alaric’s arm tightened around my waist. I looked at him. His features broadcasted nothing but concern.
For the first time all night, I wished I were back home in Chicago, in my tiny apartment, with its unyielding efficiency and utter lack of surprises and remorse.
When had I last spoken to her? I should’ve kept in touch, sent a card, something.
The regret burned, then froze, then slid somewhere behind my lungs, where all the other bits of old, unshed grief accumulated.
Elizabeth and Alaric kept up their conversation, both of them acting out some version of normal while I cycled through the first stages of grief.
After a while, Elizabeth turned back to me and rested a hand on my arm.
“You have to keep in touch this time,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Everyone here misses you.”
I nodded, trying to force myself back into the current.
She held my gaze a second longer. Giving us both a little parting wave, she disappeared into the shifting current of the party.
After she left, the ambient sound rushed back in, the party resuming its velocity as though nothing had changed.
Alaric let the moment breathe, then rubbed his palm up and down my back in a gesture so expert in its comfort, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d comforted someone he cared about.
I could count my own number on one hand, and that thought was depressing.
After a minute, I said, “She was a good person.”
He nodded, “She sounds like she was.”
“She liked me,” I said, voice thick. Not many people did.
He nodded again, and didn’t offer any platitude, which was perfect.
I found myself scanning the party again, this time with a different lens.
Everyone here probably owed a little something to Ms. Campbell, I realized.
Maybe that was what was meant by the word legacy, or maybe it was just the way people went on after someone was gone.
Either way, the room seemed brighter for it.
I faced Alaric. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice pitched just above the background noise.
I heaved a watery sigh. “Not really,” I admitted. There was no upside to pretending otherwise.
He took my plate, which I hadn’t realized I was still clutching, and set it on the nearest tray. Then he took my hand—just took it, with no warning or hesitation, as if it were his to take—and pulled me out of the noise, down a carpeted hallway, and into the blessed hush of the stairwell.
We stood in the landing, the only light from an overhead fixture flickering as if it, too, had a touch of malaise. I realized I was still holding his hand, and that my other hand was balled in a fist. I relaxed it, trying to slow my breathing.
Alaric watched me, his head slightly cocked, his eyes taking in everything. Without a word, he led me up another flight, through a battered metal door, and out onto the roof.
It was cold, slicing through your clothes and straight to the architecture of your bones kind of cold. The air stung my cheeks and my lungs, but I didn’t mind. Somewhere, distantly, the horn of a commuter train sang into the night.
We stood in silence for a while and snow had started to fall, adding to the atmosphere of quiet between us. I looked over at Alaric. He held perfectly still, staring forward with a thoughtful expression.
Unexpectedly, he turned, paused, and then—without preamble—pulled me into a hug.
He wasn’t tentative about it. He just put his arms around me and held me with a steadiness that made it clear he didn’t plan to let go unless I asked.
It was so unexpected, so completely outside the parameters of anything I had prepared for this night, but I let it happen and I leaned into him.
Mortifyingly, I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes.
I fought them, not wanting to be the person who sobbed on a rooftop.
The fight was half-hearted. I let myself snuggle closer to his chest, just for a minute, just until I could be certain I was steady on my feet.
He didn’t say anything or do anything except hold on, breathing slow and steady, letting me decide when to surface.
Eventually, I pulled away, swiping at my cheeks, hating the way the cold contributed to my runny nose. “Sorry,” I said. “I—sorry.”
He let me go slowly, reluctantly, and then stepped back and leaned against the edge of the roof, hands braced on the concrete at either side of his waist while facing me. The snow had begun to dust his hair.
Alaric’s gaze was steady and unblinking. “She clearly meant a lot to you.”
I nodded, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead. “They both do—did—both Fezziwig and Campbell.” I took a breath, trying to gather the words.
He nodded, scanning the rooftop as if searching for ghosts or wisdom or both. “What made her so special?” he asked, voice gentle.
“I don’t really want to talk about it.” I could barely get the words out without my voice cracking.
He nodded again, as if that answer made perfect sense. Then he waited again, letting the silence be what it was.
After a minute, I found my composure, or at least something that could pass for it. I tucked my hair behind my ears and looked at him. “Do you want to go back to the party?”
His gaze sharpened, the blue of his eyes almost iridescent under the rooftop lights, then shrugged. “Not really. That place was kind of a dump, don’t you think?”
I flinched, then bristled. “This place isn’t fancy, like I’m sure your offices are, but it’s efficient and is a boon for this community.”
“Really? It seems so shabby.”
I flinched again. “Excuse me, but Ms. Campbell and Mr. Fezziwig don’t waste the money of their patrons by buying unnecessary, superfluous decorations just to impress potential investors. All the decorations downstairs and in this building were donated by grateful clients.”
He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’re right. They do seem to have some eclectic pieces. So, this isn’t where you learned your approach to spartan decoration?”
Annoyed at the dig, I crossed my arms. “I don’t understand the purpose of decorating an office. An office is where people work. What’s the point of art on the walls? It’s distracting.”
He tilted his head, expression growing more thoughtful. “So, you were distracted when you worked here? By all the art?”
“No. And I don’t know why we’re talking about office decoration.
” My tone was pure frustration, sharp-edged and urgent.
“The point is, Campbell and Fezziwig—for an investment firm focused on ethical investment strategies—are exceptional at their job. Clients can trust them with their money, not just that they’ll receive a return on their investments, but also that the money will be invested into global funds that help lift people out of poverty. ”
He pursed his lips as though pondering this information.
“But isn’t that kind of investment a waste?
” Before I could respond, he continued philosophically, “Wouldn’t they make their clients more money—and themselves more money—if they focused on profit margins?
And you say they’re not wasteful? Isn’t throwing a Christmas party every year wasteful? They could be working.”
“They pay for it out of their own pocket. It’s their money, they can spend it however they like.” I could hear the heat in my own voice, but didn’t bother to modulate it.
He leaned back on his elbows. “They pay for the party themselves? No wonder it’s just a potluck.”
What the hell? Who was this version of Alaric? He was flippant and smug and condescending and entirely unrecognizable!
“It’s a potluck because people who work here and their community of clients want to show their appreciation, so they bring food and they show up every year.
And everyone here loves them—not because of how much money they spend on a Christmas party, but because of all the effort and thought they put into everything they do, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. ”
After a moment, he said, “You have to admit, they could make a lot more money if they took a different approach. One where they don’t fret over whether the funds they purchase are ethical, and one where they valued worktime over parties.”
I sputtered, trying to bite back my retort, but it slipped out anyway.
“Obviously, but that’s not the point of their business model, or who they are as human beings, or what they value.
And who the hell are you to criticize them?
They’re not just good people, they are the best. And I’d rather work someplace like Campbell and Fezziwig’s than at some soulless, profit hungry investment firm where no one is paid a living wage and everyone. . . everyone. . .”
He watched me, rolling his lips between his teeth, eyes twinkling as I ran out of words and breath and steam.
The silence after my rant was so abrupt I almost laughed. But I didn’t, because I was suddenly, and quite forcefully, embarrassed.
I understood what he was trying to do—or rather, what he’d succeeded in doing, which was tricking me into admitting that money and efficiency weren’t the end all, be all of a life well lived—but my hard-coded-to-the-DNA stubbornness couldn’t capitulate without a fight.