“I said, ‘make sure it’s to your mother’s standard,’ not fucking bankrupt this family. Go fix it and then get to the atrium and starting making sure people feel welcome.”
I don’t hear any response from Adair, but instead footfalls coming toward me. I turn my back to the door and study a painting on the nearby wall, wanting to avoid seeming like I’ve been eavesdropping. It’s an irrelevant gesture, though, because Angus MacLaine explodes out the door in his wheelchair in a hazy, whiskey-scented cloud. I notice the naked hatred in his eyes as he looks at the people in the room. His gaze passes my way, but he gives no indication he registers my presence.
“Malcolm!” he roars to no one in particular, and Adair’s brother appears, hustling over with a worried look on his face. He bends down to the chair.
Angus whispers something to his son I can’t make out, but I overhear Malcolm’s reply. “I’m sure Ginny’s looking into it.”
“She’s a stupid cow!” hisses Angus, and a few heads nearby turn in surprise, though of course no one says anything.
“There you are,” Adair’s voice calls softly. I turn to find Adair, a look of relief on her perfect face, and for a moment I’m lost for words. I had no idea her family was so abusive. She always said they were terrible, but I imagined cold and stoic, not pure venom. I wonder if Angus is normally like this, or if it’s just harder for him because his wife is gone—not that it would excuse his behavior.
“Here I am, Lucky,” I pull her to me, wrap my arm around her, well above her butt, and give her a hug. She could use one, even from someone as bad at it as I am.
“I’m so glad I found you,” she says, reaching up for a kiss which I gladly give her.
“Adair!” hisses her father’s voice behind us, and he wheels over to us, his cheeks and nose red from the spidery web of blown blood vessels all drunks eventually get. “What did I tell you to—”
The service corridor doors burst open, and a long file of servers holding trays of champagne streams out.
“’Bout time you did something for a change,” grumbles Angus.
Adair’s hand finds mine, her nails biting into my palm from the effort of not screaming.
“My friends! Find a glass of champagne and let us have a toast!” Angus calls loudly, bringing the bustling room to a sudden hush.
People snap up the champagne in moments, and Angus rolls in front of the choir platform. He raises his hands above his head like a carnival barker, champagne flute in hand. “Another year come and gone. Another Christmas party here at Windfall.”
A number of people in the crowd clap politely and off in the corner someone with a drunk’s swaying gait actually whistles sharply, which puts a self-satisfied smile on Angus’s face.
“For Windfall and for God!” He swigs deeply from his champagne flute as nearly everyone in the room follows his example.
“Wow,” I say as a server passes us. I refuse a glass of champagne, but Adair takes one.
“Now, I’ve got a little entertainment in store for you all tonight. The Collegium Chorale of Valmont University will be performing a selection of Christmas carols for your enjoyment. Merry Christmas!” he shouts before clapping sharply twice. The doors a few feet from Adair and me swing open again, and a line of college students in tuxes and sequined dresses makes its way to the stage.
In a flash, Adair grabs my hand and pulls me against the throng of people headed toward the performance. As the first carol—O Come All Ye Faithful—starts, we manage to slip out of the atrium and into a long corridor less well decorated than the one we entered through.
“Another service corridor?” I guess.
“Yes,” Adair says, pushing me against a storage cabinet and pulling me down for a kiss.
“Aren’t you worried someone will say something to your father if we get hot and heavy in the hallway?” I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the rules of Adair’s world. If she keeps kissing my neck, I’m not sure I care.
“They like me better than him,” she says, covering my mouth with a hungry kiss. Her hands reach around to grab my ass and I’m not sure how much longer I can resist taking her, party be damned.
I scan the corridor as she pulls at my bowtie, desperate to expose more of a target for her lips.
“Let’s find somewhere more private,” I say, and pull her towards a small swing door near the atrium entrance. Inside, I find a narrow stairwell leading both down and up. From below I hear the sounds of clanking glassware—no doubt the servants in the cellar are hard at work getting everyone drunk enough to enjoy the stuffy party. I lead us up, landing after landing, until I begin to feel the cold walls suck the heat from our bodies.
“I think this leads outside,” she says, trying the knob.
She doesn’t know?
A blast of cold air whistles loudly through the opening, and I hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs below us, although it’s impossible to tell if the person is coming all the way up. Adair pulls us through the door and onto a small, flat section of roof overlooking the atrium below. The door catches the wind and begins to slam shut, but I’m able to grab the knob in time.
It’s lucky I did, as I notice the door is designed to stay locked from the outside. I don’t relish the thought of yelling down to the party below for someone to let us in. I spot a piece of broken roof tile near the door and prop it open so we can get back in.
When I turn back to Adair, I can see how cold she is, so I take off my jacket and throw it
