Page 46 of Christmas Coffee

Celyn

It’s well past nightfall by the time I make it to Bardenbey. The halls are empty for the most part since workers left for the day by seven o’clock. There are a few stragglers here and there, the guys in legal who never sleep, and Uncle who is as energetic as if he just sprung out of bed.

I approach his secretary, who recognizes me. “Good evening. I hope you’re well tonight.” My hair is a mess and I smell like coffee and spilled milk. When I was loading the fridge, I dropped the carton and half of it splashed onto my sweater which soaked it up with sponge-like zeal. The rest spilled on the floor. When I fumbled the milk carton in front of the open fridge my quick hands acted more like hockey sticks and I literally threw dairy products everywhere. By accident. It was very manly. Thank God, Nova wasn’t there.

Perky, I mean Patty, looks up at me from under a veil of inky hair. “I’m doing very well, thank you, Mr. Ryan. I’ll let Mr, Ryan know you’re here.” She presses a button on her intercom and announces me.

Footfalls catch my ear before I can reply and the office doors sweep open. “Celyn, my boy. Come in.” His high spirits are running unchecked. He reaches out, gesturing for me to pass through. Half of me wonders if there’s a firing squad inside, but I venture in anyway. I need to find out what this is all about it.

Reginald was right. Everything from the spring in his step to the way he’s smiling has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I follow Uncle into the vast room and hear the doors quietly hiss shut behind us. “How’s it going out on the Island, Celyn? Reginald told me he was rather impressed.” He’s smiling so hard I can see father in his face, the crinkles around the eyes and the way his lips curve at the corners of his mouth.

I’m incredibly leery, but I hide it from him. I repay his smile in kind and sit down in a leather club chair, placing an ankle on my knee while Uncle heads to the bar and lifts a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. “It couldn’t be better. I’m going to surpass that goal with flying colors, Uncle. Dad would be proud.”

The last part is mostly bluster, but throwing dad onto the end of it unexpectedly makes my throat catch. He would have been proud. Truthfully, I’ve never worked so hard and been so exhausted for so little money in my entire life. It’s taught me lessons I couldn’t have learned otherwise, and I’m grateful for it, despite the circumstances that led to this point.

“He would be very proud. You were the apple of your father’s eye. If he could see you now, eh? Up to your elbows in curdled milk and coffee grinds, putting your nose to the grindstone with your fellow man. He always thought a business built on the backs of its people would ultimately fail, and look at you, following in his footprint to the letter.” Uncle pours two tumblers of whiskey and hands me one as he passes by. I take it, half worried it’s poisoned, but that’s not like him. The man would rather see me suffer and humiliated than dead.

I take a sip and place it on the small table next to my chair. I watch Uncle, expecting him to sit behind his desk, in the taller chair, and tower over me, looking down at me as we speak. The person seated in the tallest chair is perceived as most powerful. He never sits at the same level as everyone else. Even if his chair looks the same, it’s always an inch or more taller and narrower, which makes him look larger than life. So when he sits in the club chair next to me, I nearly choke.

“Celyn, you fought well. I want to commend you.” There’s a finality to his tone that sends ice through my veins.

A trace of a smile lines my lips. “The fight isn’t over yet. Congratulate me when I’ve won.”

Uncle’s cheeks bunch up on one side. “I’m afraid our little sparring match is at an end, Celyn.” He lifts his phone and hands it to me, open to the weather app. There’s a massive cell moving toward New York. “A nor’easter is headed this way. I was alerted first thing this morning as it could potentially affect several of our shipments. Then I thought of you in that tiny shack and three feet of snow and suggested Reginald tell you to come in. Celyn, your aspirations are noble, but it’s over. You can’t do anything buried under three feet of snow.”

I’m shell-shocked. I stare at his phone but can’t think. It’s one of those rare storms that moves up and plants itself over the city. The Island usually gets more snow than the city which means three feet is the minimum. Streets will close and people will stay inside where it’s safe. The few brave enough to venture out won’t be headed to the mall for a cup of coffee. Shit. I could take a hit and still have a shot after one shitty day, but this—I can’t recover from this. When people see a storm coming it completely changes their day to day activities. Instead they run to the supermarket and stockpile food and water. The foot traffic we rely on will die by morning. This isn’t the equivalent of having a bad day, it’s the decimation of having a net loss for a week. When the hut only had a few weeks to start with, it’s a death sentence.

It’s over.

I lost.

I lost everything.