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Gator shrugged. “Never would have pinned you for one, either, but turns out you shoulda named that mutt Max.”
“Max? Izzy’s a girl.”
“You know from that cartoon about the Grinch. Remember his dog’s named Max.”
The Grinch, huh? Well, Malcolm supposed it could be said his old shriveled heart had grown three sizes. Or, more accurately, it had repaired itself with a new mission in life.
Six months, three weeks, and four days ago, Malcolm had stepped out of the Bentley, heading into the board-of-directors meeting, when a crippling pain struck him. He’d literally dropped to his knees, putting out a hand to a passerby who sidestepped him in panic. Gator had already pulled away from the curb, and there was no one there to help him. He collapsed on the dirty Poydras sidewalk, unable to talk or even breathe.
Someone had called 911 and a doctor dining in a hotel restaurant had seen him from across the street, left his eggs Benedict and administered first aid. By the time Malcolm had reached the hospital, he’d coded twice. The E.R. doctor was on record as stating there wasn’t a prayer’s chance in hell Malcolm would make it.
After a drawn-out surgery where he was nearly declared dead, Malcolm had awoken alone in ICU…and had remained there by himself for four days. When he’d been moved to a private room, he went a whole week seeing no one but the medical staff and Gator. Brennan had come by once to get him to sign power-of-attorney papers so he could run the company while Malcolm recovered.
Malcolm had received tons of flowers, plants, and baskets of cookies, but no visitors.
And that had done something to him.
The reality of being Malcolm Henry, Jr., CEO of MBH, had slammed into him with the same crippling velocity of a massive heart attack. He was a shadow of a man who no one knew and, worse, no one really cared about.
And the realization had hurt.
And it had sobered.
And it had changed him.
As he worked to heal himself physically—changing his eating habits, work habits, and exercise habits—he’d begun to take a hard look at his life. He’d found it grossly lacking in the fundamentals of happiness.
He had no family who cared for him, save Brennan, who was headed down the same dead-end street Malcolm had already walked, and Ellen, who was focused on healing from a bitter divorce. His only other kin, his nephew Asher, lived in Europe and seldom visited. Malcolm had no true peace. No true purpose other than making money. No warmth of human kindness to buffet him when a cold wind blew. His life was a yawning pit of darkness with no light beckoning.
But Malcolm hadn’t known how to change. Eventually he decided he needed a role model which meant a visit to the bookstore. There he bought biographies on people who’d embodied true joy—Mother Teresa, Ghandi, and the Apostle Paul. He read about their lives of service, about their lack of self-importance, about their sheer passion for living.
And his heart had grown three sizes.
“Maybe I should have named her Max,” he said, rubbing her head and earning an adoring swipe of her tongue on his wrist. “I sent Brennan with Miss Gentry for a coffee. Right now, they don’t see eye to eye on this endeavor.”
Gator raised his eyebrows, making his thin, nearly feral face more attractive. He looked fierce but was putty in the hands of old ladies, small children, and cats. Who woulda thunk?
“Brennan is a tough cookie, boss. He might eat Miss Gentry for lunch and pick his teeth with her pinky finger.”
Malcolm smiled.
“What?” Gator grinned, a sort of dawning in his eyes. “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you? She’s not his type. He likes women who scratch.”
“I have a sneaking suspicion Miss Mary Paige isn’t as docile as she appears. She reminds me of a girl I once knew. And this isn’t about matchmaking. It’s more like waking Brennan from his money-drunk stupor.”
Before it could take root, he struck the thought of Grace from his mind because it still smarted to think about his first love. She’d broken his heart and danced away with some schmuck from River Ridge after Malcolm had offered to set her up as his mistress. Who could blame her for wanting a full and respectable life, for refusing a man who would marry the “right” kind of girl while keeping the “wrong” one on speed dial? Malcolm had been too afraid of his father to choose Grace over adding to the family fortune as expected, so he’d lost her. And Malcolm hated losing.
“Well, let’s hope they find some way to make this happen. Don’t think you have time to play Hobo Hal again, and truthfully, I don’t wanna sit in that Dumpster again. Got a sensitive nose, and I still can’t get rid of the scent of rotten milk and molding bread.”
“Pansy-ass,” Malcolm drawled, spinning toward the window and the busy city cranking like gears on a clock spread before him.
“Managing mama hen,” Gator said.
Malcolm had to think about that. “Oh, I don’t have to do any managing of those two. I’m banking on something wonderful happening this Christmas.”
Gator harrumphed.
“Besides Brennan knows the score. He wants to be CEO. I want Mary Paige as my Spirit of Christmas. He better make it happen.”
