“Hunter!” I call, stopping him just before he can escape into the men’s room.
He almost-but-not-quite hides a wince. “Hey, Katherine!”
Hunter’s one of those twentysomething guys who, despite being smart, handsome, and genuinely likable, also seems like he’s just one tiny backslide away from regressing to his fraternity identity. One minute, Hunter will uncover a genuinely brilliant precedent, only to utter duuuuuuuuuuuuude when he tries to explain it to me in the next.
He has potential. A lot of it. It just has to be sort of . . . wrangled. Lucky for Hunter, I’m a really good wrangler when I have the motivation. And when it comes to my work, I’m always motivated.
“That updated Hallinger brief on my desk?” I ask.
“By end of day,” he says with what I’m sure he thinks is a winning smile. Hell, it is a winning smile.
It’s going to work wonders on a judge someday. But I’m not a judge, and today is not someday.
I lift an eyebrow. “I hope that when you say ‘end of day,’ you’re referring to yesterday.”
Hunter tugs at his blue tie, which I’d like a lot more if it wasn’t covered in snowmen. “I had to make a quick appearance at the stupid ‘winter brunch.’”
“Why are you saying it ‘like that.’” I add air quotes to mimic his.
Hunter shrugs. “That memo HR sent out about appropriate workplace dialogue. Wishing someone a ‘Merry Christmas’ has always been on the outs—”
“Thank goodness,” I mutter.
“But ‘Happy Holidays’ is on the chopping block too. Apparently, it’s disrespectful to people who don’t celebrate any holidays.”
Huh. I suck in my cheeks, torn between disdain for any policy that demands we treat our colleagues like delicate little flowers and delight that I now have justifiable grounds to report anyone who asks me the location of my holiday spirit.
“Hey, wait,” Hunter says with a frown, snapping his fingers. “Weren’t you in charge of the brunch this year?”
I make a sound of derision and flick my ponytail over my shoulder. “Sure. If by in charge you mean I was coerced by Harry and Joe to ‘take point.’”
Strictly speaking, I’m not a big believer in skipping workplace obligations, even stupid brunches. But I draw the line at forced festive camaraderie during December.
Hence the rare “play hooky” move I’ve pulled off today, one I’m likely to hear about from my bosses.
Harry Kaplan and Joe Gosset are the senior partners at the firm, and I’ve got a lot of respect for them. A lot. They hired me right out of law school. They’re mentors, they’re friends, and they’re genuine miracle workers in front of a jury.
But while they’re typically fairly tolerant of my prickliness （their word） and logic （my word）， when it comes to the holidays, they, like the rest of the world, seem to have their brain matter replaced with tinsel and gingerbread.
Not only do they insist that each associate—that includes me—host a holiday event—sorry, winter event—every single week of December, we’re not even allowed to outsource it to our assistants. We’re supposed to bring a personal touch to this “festive time of year,” to share a bit of ourselves with our employees.
Here’s what I shared:
A blow-up Santa, a tiny fake Christmas tree, and a plastic menorah, all of which I picked up on my way into the office this morning.
And because I’m one step ahead of them and their inevitable, “Katherine, what part of personal do you not understand,” I even rummaged around in my lone decades-old box of Christmas decorations to come up with an ancient string of lights and a few ornaments from my childhood.
I’m sure Hallmark will be calling any minute to write my story.
“Hey, don’t worry about the party thing,” Hunter says, giving me a light punch on the shoulder.
“I wasn’t.” I look pointedly at his hand, which he drops immediately. “What party thing?”
“The food was good, nobody minded that you forgot the decorations.”
I frown and cross my arms. “I wasn’t in charge of the food. And I didn’t forget the decorations.”
I take a few steps forward and look pointedly toward the glass walls of the conference room where I begrudgingly set up the decorations this morning.
“See?” I point.
Hunter comes to stand beside me. “Ah. Yes.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to see the decor through his eyes. Okay, so, the inflatable Santa didn’t quite inflate all the way. And maybe the tree’s got a little Charlie Brown energy to it. But the string lights from my childhood are downright vintage! People like that, right? Even if half of the bulbs are dead?
As if on cue, the remaining bulbs flicker out as well.
I turn back to Hunter. “So. The Hallinger brief?”
Hunter lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. I’m on it.” He tries that smile on me once more. “Anyone ever told you that you’ve got a little bit of a Grinch thing going on, Tate?”
I give his snowman tie a little pat. “I do love a good compliment, but flattery won’t get you an extension, Hunter. I want it before I leave today.”
He brightens. “So that’ll be, what, midnight?”
“Don’t get cocky, I’m leaving at three today.”
Late to arrive and early to depart. Who says I can’t cut loose?
“Good for you!” Hunter says. “You deserve a little holiday break. Doing anything fun before the storm rolls in?”
“Depends. You count Pap smears as fun?”
He winces. “I’ll have it on your desk by three.”
“There you go,” I say. I head to my office, giving the conference room that was the site of the “winter brunch” one last look.
And then I really do feel a little like the Grinch, or whatever, because the now dark strand of lights slips off the tiny, sad tree, throwing it off-balance.
Which knocks over the menorah.
And then the struggling, inflatable Santa apparently decides he’s over the whole scene and slowly deflates into a flaccid plastic mess, letting out a loud farting noise as he does so.
I feel my first genuine smile all day at the scene before me. That’ll have them think twice about putting me on decoration duty.
I’m almost back to my office when I come to a halt. I bite my lip and, after a moment of deliberation, walk back into the now deserted conference room and kneel in front of the pile of defunct decorations. I rummage among the crap, flicking aside a few plastic ball tree ornaments until I find what I’m looking for.
Gingerly, I lift a tiny ballerina. Her frayed pink tulle skirt has seen better days. And her dark brown bun that looks more like a helmet than hair has chipped off in some places, which has left her sporting a couple of bald spots.
I smile and stand, touching a finger to her tiny ballet shoe.
Bringing her in had been a whim, a rare nod to sentimentality, and it’s an impulse I’m regretting. How could I have left her in the conference room like that?
Carrying her carefully back to my office, I set her in my top desk drawer next to the blue-light-blocking glasses we got as a company gift, which I never wear.