Page 17 of Go Back to December

“Badger’s daughter?”

“Oh, look, there she is. Alicia!” The cravat extends a hand.

Everyone’s attention centers on the woman standing next to Sybil. She’s a twenty-first century Grace Kelly, blonde hair over blue gaze, demure white smile. She dons a sleeveless top in wintergreen silk over satin cigarette pants that highlight her long legs. As she crosses toward us, and heads turn approvingly, terror grips me.

Winning over Alicia could help garner Badger’s support for the café. But only if I can convince the rest of these potential investors—who are all exchanging bilateral cheek kisses with Alicia—that we’re worth it.

“Alicia darling, we want to introduce you to Melanie.”

“Melody,” I murmur with a wan smile. After all the kissing exchanges, extending my hand toward Alicia is forced and clumsy. It brings the conversation to a crashing halt.

“Pleasure.” Alicia drops my hand quickly.

The Moneys stare at me. It’s showtime, but I’m stuck; I don’t know where to start.

Alicia’s face remains placidly blank as she waits. The onus is on me to make my supplication; her role is to grant favor. That’s how the system has worked for centuries.

My serf brain refuses to cooperate. All I can do is stand here like a silent fool. How can I possibly find the words to describe the café’s value? Who could distill years of their life’s work into a sound bite?

Only a silver-tongued poser like Baz could connect the dots between cocktail party curiosity and the mission of the café, and I hate him more for it.

He hasn’t moved from his post next to Blackhart. From behind that stony mask, he stares pointedly at Alicia’s back.

“What about you, Melanie?” Alicia asks.

I blink back at the group, oblivious of where the conversation has turned. “It’s Melody.”

The Moneys laugh like I’ve delivered a punchline of pure comedy genius.

Lacy’s arrival saves me. She bursts out of the elevator, whips off her trench, and throws it at the coat check, giving me a valid reason to mumble my excuses and flee this train wreck.

“There’s a water-main break near the city hall,” Lacy pants. “And a traffic fatality. And a protest.”

“We should talk to the mayor about these holiday events clashing on the calendar.”

She groans. “The media aren’t coming.”

I should be disappointed, or appropriately nervous at the repercussions of this setback, but in the wake of my cerebral freeze, I’m thankful for a reprieve.

Lacy snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Where are we?”

“Crashing and burning.” I scrub a hand down my face. “I totally choked. In front of Badger’s daughter. I can’t do this.”

“If you want to save the café, you will.”

This is what founders do, her chiding look implies.

“Lacy, we’re not that desperate that you needed to tell Baz about the plan! Enlighten me on the insane decision tree that led there.”

“Baz is connected to every influencer here who could help us.”

“His trash study is the reason we’re walking the plank.”

She snort-laughs as she guzzles her champagne. “His study?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” the ancient bandleader shouts into the microphone. “Happy Holidays. May I present Mr. Dennis Blackhart, managing partner.”