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Signed by Malcolm Henry Jr.
TheMalcolm Henry of Henry Department Stores.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is this some kind of joke?” she asked.
The man grinned. “No joke. I have found you. Finally. My Spirit of Christmas.”
At that moment, a light blinded her. She squinted at the invasion and started to stand. A well-dressed man emerged from behind the Dumpster so quickly that he startled Mary Paige. She stepped back, hitting an uneven patch of pavement and fell right onto her bottom. Water seeped through her newest skirt, chilling her flesh. She couldn’t seem to find her legs, so she just sat there, holding the check like a moron.
The older man leaped up, suddenly spry and full of energy. The other man, still filming held out what looked to be a cashmere coat and nudged a box that had been sitting against a dumpster with his foot. The formerly homeless dude grabbed the box, withdrew a pair of lined hunting boots, and shoved his feet, still clad in the garish socks, into them. He clapped his hands in delight and walked over, extending his hand to her.
Mary Paige took hold of it, bobbing a nervous glance at the other man who was busy filming the oddest thing that had ever happened to her in her life …and she’d once been bitten by a llama, for heaven’s sake. She rose and pushed the check toward the older man, who suddenly didn’t look at all like a homeless person. His coat no doubt cost a month’s salary. Maybe two.
“No, no. That is all yours, my dear. I had despaired of finding a kind soul worthy of the danged thing. I’ve been hanging out here for four days with nary a notice from anyone save the clerk who yelled at me every time she came out for a smoke break.”
Mary Paige looked down at the check. And back up at the man. She felt like she was another person, standing there with a wet bottom and an empty plastic bag in her hand holding a check for … two million dollars?
Dear God.
“It’s okay, my dear. But perhaps I should at least introduce myself. I’m Malcolm Henry, and I must tell you that I love these socks.”
2
BRENNANHENRYSTUDIEDthe huge Christmas tree towering in front of the glass elevator of his office building. The thing was nearly thirty feet tall and took up so much space on the marble floor everyone had to walk several feet out of the natural path to the elevators. And the lights blinked in time with loud holiday music that spilled from overhead speakers.
Ridiculous.
He would have his secretary pen a strongly worded letter to the owner of the building—who happened to be his grandfather. Didn’t matter. A letter would be official. After all, Brennan didn’t mind people enjoying the upcoming holiday season, but not at the expense of others’ sanity.
The elevator shot up to the top floor and swooshed open, revealing the tasteful lobby of MBH Industries, the company bearing his great-grandfather’s initials. An attractive receptionist gave an automatic smile, which deepened when she saw him stride out. “Good morning, Mr. Henry.”
Brennan gave her little more than his normal clipped smile. “Mr. Henry is my grandfather, Cheryl.”
She laughed because it was a game they played every day. A small flirty little game he allowed himself, like an extra shot of cream in his coffee. He pushed on toward his office in a far corner and entered his assistant’s area.
“Good morning, Brennan,” Sophie Caruso said, looking up from her keyboard and spinning toward the antique sideboard housing the coffee. The office smelled like cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and his stomach growled.
“Good morning, Sophie. You have those quarterly sales reports from Mark yet?”
She pressed the button on the one-cup coffee machine before sifting through the folders on the corner of her desk. “Right here. They were waiting for you this morning.”
She pulled a folder covered with lime-green and red paisleys from the stack of plain manila and held it toward him.
He looked at it as though she’d handed him a writhing rattlesnake.
“What?” she asked. “He’s trying to get into the spirit and swears paisleys are all the rage this year.”
“This is a place of business,” Brennan muttered, downing some coffee and heading toward his office, holding the ridiculous folder with the reports Mark had promised. Next time, Brennan would request his director of marketing send them as an email attachment. Mark was adamant about using a highlighter and doing things old-school. He swore it kept him from missing important trends, but if the man kept decorating his folders like a schoolgirl on crack, Brennan would insist on electronic versions.
He pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Hey, Mrs. Caruso, could you bring me a plain—”
The door opened and his assistant entered with a manila folder and his second cup of coffee.
“You’re wonderful,” he said, accepting the mug and placing it next to the nearly empty one, before sliding the stapled reports he’d already pulled from the colored folder into the much more businesslike one she handed him.
“I know,” she said, turning toward the door. She spun around and snapped her fingers, the motion making her silver-strewn brown hair stand out like a flying saucer. “Your grandfather called and said he was bringing by the centerpiece for the new ad campaign. Said you needed to call Ellen and have her sit in on the meeting. Boardroom B at ten.”
She shut the door before he could mutter a really dirty word under his breath.
