Chapter 21 Natalie
Natalie
The holidays are always busy. In fact, almost every year since the kids started school, the whole month between Thanksgiving and Christmas has felt a bit like a blur.
Holiday parties, one I usually hosted, school events, and parades, along with teacher treats, parent teacher meetings, church parties and service, it all comes over and over like waves crashing over my head.
I still love Christmas.
It’s the best time of the year in every way.
But boy, it gets busy. I’m not surprised that now that I’m running a business and doing the other things all alone, it only feels busier.
There’s some kind of weird property tax loophole that’s closing in Ireland before the end of the year, so Cillian’s been doing showings and prepping paperwork and closes literally from seven in the morning until nine at night almost every day.
He told me to expect that through year end.
And I get it.
I’m a business person too.
“You are an idiot,” Sam grumbles.
“That one went so well,” I say. “Look.” I twist the camera toward her, and the baby’s face, little dimples popping, is the cutest thing in the world.
“Conor wanted to kill that baby every time it squealed.” She’s scowling. “It squealed a lot.”
“That horse is just so gorgeous with the Christmas wreath,” I say. “His coloring.” I make a kissing sound and hold my fingers by my mouth.
“That was our last photoshoot,” Sam says. “I forbid any more.”
I scrunch my nose.
“What?” She almost shouts. “What did you do?”
“They’ll be here in five minutes, and I thought it was fine, because look.” I point. “Conor’s already clean and decked out.”
“If he chucks this next brat off, that’s on you.” Sam stomps out of the tack room, definitely not radiating Christmas cheer.
“They paid double as a rush fee,” I shout after her. “I couldn’t say no. It’s—”
“The off season.” She’s shaking her head as she walks away. “I know. I bloody well know!”
I swear, sometimes I think the girls would prefer we go bankrupt than work hard. Business is all about inconveniencing yourself for the convenience of others. That’s always been what it is, and that’s why you’re paid. When I remind them of that, it just seems to tick them off.
The photo shoot, when the two cute little kids in Christmas plaid arrive, goes beautifully. Even Sam has to admit that Conor liked the little girl with the curls.
“See?”
“Don’t be smug.” She’s scowling. “It’s not cute.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “They were so happy, and now they want lessons for the girl.”
Sam sighs. “Do not say it.”
“I won’t say that I told you so, but only because you already know, so I don’t have to.”
“I sure do love you,” Sam says. But it feels like she means she hates me, and that’s okay.
Someone has to be the boss, and I knew it would be me.
And when we go over numbers, she’ll be happy and relieved that we made a small profit this month, a profit we will all need to pay for our lives and our Christmas gifts for our loved ones.
Now that I think about it, Scrooge might have been misunderstood.
The world does not go around on its own. I mean, the world does, thanks to gravity or science or other stuff I don’t understand. But our checking accounts don’t balance themselves, and someone has to take initiative or our Irish escape will become our Irish Flop, and that would be on me.
By the time everyone reaches my house to decorate gingerbread men, Sam’s in a better mood, thankfully.
“Is that a smile I see?” I arch an eyebrow.
“I finally showered.” But now she’s definitely smiling. “And those photos you sent over were really cute. I think Conor might actually like kids, as long as they aren’t wearing diapers and poking his eyes.”
I roll my eyes. It’s as close as she’ll get to saying I was right, and that’s okay. Vanessa arrives then, and the house explodes with the chattering sounds of children, the little ones running and squealing, and everything else I love about living near my best friends at the holidays.
Together, we make the ugliest gingerbread men I’ve ever seen.
“I am never buying those huge candy eyes again.” I tilt my head, but it doesn’t help.
“I like them,” Vanessa says. “Zombie gingerbread.”
“They look like aliens,” Samantha says.
“We can’t give those away,” I say. “They’ll scare people.”
“Only weak people,” Trish says. “It’s a cookie. How scary can it be?”
I laugh. “Fine.”
“We’ll keep the big-eye ones for ourselves and give away the others,” Sam says. “Aliens only for our cookies.”
The others are pretty ugly too, but that feels rude to say.
“Maybe we could make them some little spaceships,” Vanessa says.
“It’s Christmas,” I say.
“I was going to put wreaths on the spaceships,” Vanessa mutters. “Geez.”
Miraculously, we have the house mostly picked up, the kids in pajamas, and a Christmas movie turned on just in time for me to go on my date. Cillian’s office is having a holiday party, and I’m going with him. It’s the one break he’s had in the last ten days, and I’m pretty excited about it.
Vanessa’s sticking around to keep an eye on all the kids, since teenagers are not exactly always reliable, but that means she and Sam are still there to give me feedback when I emerge in my sparkly red dress.
“Va-va-voom!” Trish tries to whistle. It’s a little like the alien cookies in terms of execution, but the sentiment’s a sweet one. “You, my dear Natalie, are a smoking hottie.”
Vanessa, Samantha, and I all laugh. “Thanks, Trish.”
“If I looked half as good as you do in that dress, I would put it on and stroll up and down main street.” She shakes her head. “Oh, to be young and fabulous again.”
I love Trish. What other person thinks forty-one is young and hot?
Hopefully Cillian will think I look presentable.
One of the things women may not think about when they ogle hot men is that if the guy’s hotter than you, it’s a little hard to feel good about yourself around him.
I’m always wondering whether people feel bad for him, or if they wonder why he’s with me.
I need a shirt that says, “I’m rich. That’s why.
” That would answer their question, at least, only, I suspect Cillian has a lot more money than I do.
There’s a knock at the door, and I poke my head around to see the driveway. Sure enough, his sports car’s parked there. With all the chaos, I didn’t notice when he pulled up.
“It’s GO time!” Trish squeals.
For some reason, when I open the door, Cillian looks nervous. “So, there’s some kind of mess over there, and I’m not sure. . .”
“Mess?” When I walk outside, I realize the stupid, confounded, blasted pig that’s staying in our back pen, because Mason had a work trip, has escaped, and is absolutely ravaging our small backyard garden. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Blaine comes out and starts yelling, which doesn’t help.
Pudge bolts, and she may not move very fast, but it’s faster than I can manage to properly follow in heels.
I nearly catch her, twice, but when I leap at her, the dumb pig heads for the barn, and the gelding Richard gave Sam hates the pig, like, more than giraffes hate turtles, and Rudolph bolts, literally running through the fence.
Luckily, the fence wasn’t very strong there and the red gelding appears to be fine.
By the time we catch the pig, and we check and restrain Rudolph with some Bute—horse Tylenol—my one show-stopping dress is both ripped and dirty. I sigh.
“Let me just go change, and then we can go.”
Cillian looks a little frustrated. I can’t really blame him. He’s the broker at his firm, which means he’s the big boss, and he’s not even at his own party because of me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s totally fine,” he says. “There was nothing you could do about it.” His smile doesn’t look forced, but I can only imagine he’s annoyed as I change into a much less fabulous dress.
When I come back out, wearing a plain, green sheath dress from Boden, he offers his arm.
“You still look amazing. If anything, this lets you shine, and that’s how it should be. ”
“I really am sorry. You’re late to your own holiday party, and now your date looks like. . .well, she looks like a middle-aged mother of five.” I sigh.
“My date looks very smart, and I’m terribly lucky to be going with her.” His smile is both boyish and roguish at the same time. I’m not sure how he manages it, but it looks entirely genuine.
That eases some of my anxiety.
Once we reach his office—not many venue options in a place as small as Lismore—people descend on us en masse.
“—have to announce the winners of the raffle, and employee of the year.”
“We didn’t start the dinner yet, but the caterer’s saying that it’s not their fault if the veg—”
Oh, boy.
That pig is the literal worst. I’m so mad at Mason for giving it to Blaine without talking to me first, and then dumping it on me last minute for some kind of business trip. As if a pig wouldn’t survive in his back yard for a day or two without him. Hasn’t he heard of a water trough?
But Cillian’s managing things left and right with confidence and a smile. He looks really, really good in a suit, and within moments, he’s started dinner, and he’s introducing me to the people at his table.
“I had no idea this company was quite so large,” I admit. “There must be four huge banquet tables of people here for what I thought was a small real estate firm.”
“Mr. Doherty runs three offices,” the woman to my left says. “I run the Waterford office for him, but he comes in once a week. He didn’t tell you?” She glances at her date in surprise.
“I run the Cork office.” A stocky man in a pinstriped suit without a date looks just as shocked. “In fact, I think Cillian does more business than—”
Cillian shakes his head. “It’s about time for us to start the awards and announce the raffle winners.” He’s barely taken two bites before he brushes his lapels off. He turns toward me. “Do I look okay?”