Sleigh Bells in the Snow (2 page)

Dragging open her drawer, Kayla pulled out indigestion tablets and swallowed two. She wondered whether taking the lot would put her out until after Christmas. “Can’t, sorry, but I appreciate the invitation.”

“There will be Christmas trees, elves—”

“Oh, God, poor you.”

“Why poor me? I love Christmas.” Stacy shot her a puzzled look. “Don’t you?”

“I adore Christmas. I’m totally gutted I can’t make it. I meant poor me, not poor you.” The effort of smiling was making her jaw ache. “Think of me while you’re mingling with elves.”

“Maybe you should come anyway and talk to Santa. You can give him your Christmas list. Dear Santa, please give me the Snow Crystal account together with a massive budget, and, while you’re at it, I’ll have Jackson O’Neil naked. Hold the gift wrap.”

The only thing she wanted for Christmas was for it to be over as fast as possible.

Memories hit her with a thump, and Kayla stood up abruptly and paced to the window. All around her were reminders of Christmas, so she paced back to her desk and sat down again, vowing to book a cruise to Antarctica next year. Whale watching. Whales didn’t celebrate Christmas, did they?

The phone on her desk rang and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness.

Stacy snapped into professional mode and reached across the desk, but Kayla stopped her.

“I’ll get it. I’m expecting a call from the CEO of Extreme Explore. I’d rather the man wasn’t deafened by the sounds of sleigh bells, or jingle bells, or whatever bells are ringing out there, so it would be great if you went back to the party and closed the door behind you. Thanks, Stacy. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.” Waiting until she closed the door, Kayla whimpered and leaned forward, banging her head on the desk. “Christmas. Crappy, miserable, horrible Christmas.
Please
be over quickly this year otherwise I’m going to need every last shard of ice in Vermont to chill all the alcohol I intend to drink.” Pulling in a deep breath she sat up, raked her hair away from her face and picked up the phone. “Oliver?” Afraid he might hear her desperation, she pinned the smile back on her face, thankful it wasn’t a video conference. “It’s Kayla. Great to speak to you. How’s it going? I read through your business plans for next year. Exciting!”

This,
she thought,
this she could do.

No Christmas. No Santa. No memories.

Just her job.

If she kept her head down and focused on winning the O’Neil account, it would eventually all be over.

* * *

“
W
HAT
THE
HELL
kind of nonsense is this?” Eighty years old, but with all the energy of a man half his age, Walter O’Neil thumped his fist on the kitchen table while his grandson Jackson lounged in his chair, biting his tongue and reining in his temper.

Every meeting was the same.

Every battle they fought came back to the same theme.

This
was why he hadn’t wanted to work with his family. It wasn’t a job—it was personal. There was no space to operate. Any hint of a new idea was strangled at birth. He’d built his own successful company from the ground up and now he felt like a teenager helping out in the store on weekends.

“It’s called public relations, Gramps.”

“It’s called a waste of money. I wouldn’t have done it that way and neither would your father.”

The blow landed deep in his gut. Jackson exchanged a swift glance with his brother, but before either of them could respond there was a crash. His grandmother stared in dismay at the shattered remains of the plate.

The puppy whimpered and retreated under the table for safety.

“Grams—” Jackson was on his feet, his own pain forgotten, but his mother was there before him.

“Don’t worry, Alice, I always hated that plate anyway. Ugly thing. I’ll clear it up.”

“I’m not normally clumsy.”

“You’ve been baking all morning. You must be exhausted.” She sent a reproachful look at her father-in-law, who glared right back, unrepentant.

“What? Are you saying I can’t talk about Michael? Are we all going to pretend this isn’t happening? Do we brush his memory under the rug like crumbs?”

Jackson didn’t know which was worse—the sight of his usually feisty grandmother so subdued or the shadow in his mother’s eyes.

“I need help decorating the gingerbread Santas.” She cajoled and soothed, keeping everyone happy while ignoring her glowering father-in-law, and within seconds she had Alice seated at the table in front of a rack of freshly made gingerbread men, various bowls of colored icing laid out in front of her.

Tyler sat at the far end of the table, restless and impatient. “I thought this was going to be a family meeting, not a family argument.”

“Argument?” Alice turned troubled eyes to Elizabeth. “Is it an argument?”

“Of course it isn’t. People are just having their say.”

“Families are supposed to stick together.”

“We’re together, Alice. That’s why it’s noisy.”

“Happy to reduce the numbers.” Tyler half rose to his feet and Jackson shot him a look.

“Sit down. We’re not done here.”

“I’m done.” Always one to reject authority, Tyler’s gaze burned into his and then he looked at the set of his brother’s jaw and sat. “Remind me why I came home?”

“Because you have a daughter,” Walter barked. “And responsibilities. And there comes a point in a man’s life when he has to do more than tear up the slopes and chase after women.”

“You were the one who taught me to tear up the slopes. You gave me the genes and the skis and you showed me what to do with them.”

Jackson wondered how the hell he was supposed to run this place when his “staff” had more baggage than an airport departure lounge.

“We need to stick to business.” His tone got him the attention he needed. “Tyler, you’re going to help Brenna run the winter activities program.” And that was another problem brewing, he thought. He had a feeling Brenna wasn’t too pleased to see Tyler back at Snow Crystal, and he was pretty sure he knew the reason.

He waited as his mother added a bowl of white icing to the table and handed his grandmother a knife.

With Alice occupied, Elizabeth O’Neil turned her attention to the broken china on the floor.

Jackson felt as if he were walking over the fragments in bare feet.

“I intend to make this business work but to do that I need to make changes.”

His grandfather glowered at him. “It worked just fine when I ran it and when your father ran it.”

No, it didn’t.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the truth about the state of the business but then he saw his mother’s fingers whiten on the broom.
Did she know what a mess his father had left behind?

He should have told them straight-out, he thought, not tried to protect them. If he’d done that maybe they wouldn’t be fighting him now.

Jackson looked at his grandfather. “I came home to run the business.”

“No one asked you to.”

Elizabeth O’Neil straightened her shoulders. “
I
asked him to.”

“We don’t need him here.” Walter thumped his fist on the table. “He should have stayed where he was, running his fancy company and playing the big boss. I could have run this place.”

“You’re eighty years old, Walter. You should be slowing down, not taking on more. For once, swallow your pride and take the help that’s offered.” Elizabeth scooped up china fragments. “You should be grateful Jackson came home.”

“I’m not grateful! A business is supposed to make money. All he does is spend it.”

Jackson sat still, holding back the anger that simmered. “It’s called investment.”

“It’s called wasting money.”

“It’s my damn money.”

“No swearing in my kitchen, Jackson O’Neil.”

“Why the fuck not?” Tyler was as restless as a caged beast. Jackson knew his brother hated being trapped indoors only marginally less than he hated authority. All he’d ever wanted to do was ski as fast as was humanly possible, and since the injury that had curtailed his racing career, his mood had been volatile.

“Don’t wind your grandfather up, Tyler.” His mother tipped broken china into a bag. “I’ll make tea.”

About to point out that what they needed wasn’t tea but teamwork, Jackson remembered his mother always made tea and baked when she was stressed. And she’d been stressed for the past eighteen months. “Tea would be great, Mom.”

“If you expect me to sit here I’m going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.” Tyler helped himself to another beer from the fridge and tossed one to his brother.

Jackson caught it one-handed. He knew that for all his outward impression of indifference, Tyler hated this situation as much as he did. Hated the fact they might lose this place. Hated the way his grandfather refused to let go of things.

He wondered if he’d been wrong to come home.

And then he saw his grandmother’s lined, anxious face and his mother focusing extra hard on icing gingerbread Santas and knew there was no way he could have stayed away.

His grandfather might not want him here, but there was no doubt he was needed.

He watched as his mother bustled around taking comfort in the ritual of caring for people. She placed a plate of freshly baked cinnamon stars in the center of the scrubbed pine table and checked the bread she had baking in the oven.

The smell evoked memories of childhood. The large friendly kitchen had been part of his life forever. Now it was the closest he had to a boardroom and his infuriating, exasperating, interfering, lovable family were his management team. Two octogenarians, a grieving widow, his daredevil brother and an overexcited puppy with training issues.

Beam me up.

His mother placed a steaming mug of tea next to his beer and he felt a twinge of guilt for wishing he were back in his old office with his experienced team around him and only work to take up his attention. That time seemed so long ago. His life had changed. Right now, he wasn’t sure it was for the better.

“The changes we’ve made will make a difference, but we need to tell people about those changes. I’m employing a public relations firm and I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket.” Given the state of the Snow Crystal finances, he didn’t have much choice about that. “If I’m wasting money then it will be my money.”

His grandfather gave a snort of disapproval. “If you’re willing to throw away your own money you’re even more foolish than I thought.”

“I’m employing an expert.”

“You mean an outsider.” Walter sniffed. “And maybe you should be talking to your other brother before you make decisions about the family business.”

“Sean isn’t here.”

“Because he has the good sense to leave the running of it to others. I’m just saying he should know what’s going on, that’s all.”

“He’ll be home for Christmas. I’ll talk to him then.” Jackson leaned forward. “I need someone who can get Snow Crystal the attention it deserves. We need to increase occupancy. We need heads on beds.”

“Is it about proving yourself? Because you’ve already done that with your big-shot ways, your fancy company and your fancy cars.”

Change,
Jackson thought.
They hated change.

All his grandfather understood was blunt, so he gave him blunt.

“If we leave things the way they are, we’ll lose the business.”

His grandmother spilled a puddle of icing on the table, his mother turned a shade paler and his grandfather’s eyes burned a fierce blue in his tanned, craggy face.

“This place has been in our family for four generations.”

“And I’m trying to keep it in the family for the next four.”

“By spending a fortune on a fancy New York company that can’t even find Vermont on a map? What do they know about our business?”

“Plenty. They have a division that specializes in Travel and Hospitality, and the woman heading it up knows what she’s doing. Have you heard of Adventure Travel?” Jackson leaned forward in his chair. “They were going under until Kayla Green took on the account. She had their business mentioned in every key media target.”

“Jargon,” Walter muttered. “So what is she? A magician?”

“She is a PR specialist. Right at the top of her game. She has media contacts that the rest of us can only dream about.”

“She’s not the only one with media contacts.” Walter O’Neil sniffed to show exactly what he thought of Kayla Green’s abilities. “I’ve been bowling with Max Rogers, editor of the
Snow Crystal Post,
for the past twenty years. If I want a piece in the paper, I ask.”

The
Snow Crystal Post.

Jackson didn’t know whether to laugh or punch a hole through the table.

Wrenching the running of Snow Crystal away from his grandfather was like trying to pull fresh meat from the jaws of a starving lion.

“Local press is great, but what we really need is attention from the national media and international media—” He opened his mouth to add
social media
but decided not to get started on that one. “PR is more than talking to the press and we need to think bigger than the
Snow Crystal Post.
”

“Bigger isn’t always better.”

“No, but small can mean bust. We need to expand.”

“You make us sound like a factory!”

“Not a factory, a business. A business, Gramps.” Jackson rubbed his fingers over his forehead to ease the throb of his tension headache. He was used to walking in and getting the job done. Not anymore. Not with his own family because there were feelings to consider.

He decided that the only thing they’d respond to was hard facts. “It’s important you know how things stand at the moment—”

His mother pushed a plate toward him. “Have a gingerbread Santa.”

On the verge of revealing just how black the future looked, Jackson found himself staring at a plate of smiling Santas. They wouldn’t look so damned cheerful if they knew how precarious their future was.

“Mom—”

“You’ll sort it out, Jackson. You’ll do what’s right. By the way, Walter—” her tone was casual “—did you see the doctor about that pain in your chest? Because I can run you over there today.”