Page 13

“Okay. Well.”

“I don’t mean to pressure you.”

“No, I know. But.”

He said slowly, “I’m hesitant to suggest this, but a couple of our managers mentioned that you could appoint me acting director for the short term while you figure out your next steps. I suspect that might soothe some fears.”

I looked at him in surprise, but it made sense in a lot of ways. Malcolm was not only Bredahl’s sales manager, he’d been married to Astrid for fifteen years. If anyone knew her wishes and plans for the company, it was probably Malcolm. It wasn’t like I wanted the job.

At the same time, I didn’t want to be rushed into making any decisions before I’d had time to think them through.

“It sounds reasonable. Let me take a day or two to think about it.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, as though only too happy to drop the subject. “And what about Saturday?”

I frowned. “What about Saturday?”

“It’s the company Christmas party.”

My heart sank.

“I really don’t think I’m going to be in a party mood.”

Malcolm opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Not to mention that I’d have thought the party would be canceled after Astrid...”

Malcolm looked pained, which was quickly becoming his usual expression with me. “I feel the same, of course, but the party is for the employees. Astrid would expect us to put celebrating them ahead of our own feelings.”

Yes. Astrid would have. That’s why she had been a great director. And why I would be a terrible director. Not least because I’dneverwanted to be director.

“Fair enough. But I don’t know if I’m up to it.” I mean, I knew that was a feeble answer, but it was also the truth.

“I understand.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “And the last thing I want to do is put more pressure on you, Casper, but youarethe company now.

No. With over one hundred employees, one lowly assistant VP—who’d basically inherited the position—was hardly Bredahl Cookies and Cakes. Especially since I’d been gone for the last year. Even when Ihadbeen doing the nine-to-five routine, well, I don’t think anyone had ever looked to me for leadership.

As though reading my thoughts, Malcolm insisted, “You represent continuity, “

“So do you. More so than me.”

He nodded. Not in agreement. “Astrid would expect this of you.”

I felt another of those unexpected flashes of anger.

“If Astrid wanted a vote, she shouldn’t have killed herself.”

Malcolm looked shocked. I was a little shocked myself.

I summoned whatever was left of my good manners.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. All of this is just…a lot right now. Let me think about Saturday, okay?”

Once again, he couldn’t drop the subject fast enough. “Of course. Of course.” When the dinner bell chimed—another historical artifact from the grand old days—he said, “Let’s eat, shall we?”

If it had just been Astrid and me, we’d have eaten in the drawing room. That’s what we did before Malcolm came into our lives, and it’s what we did when Malcolm was out of town on business trips. But Malcolm was a guy for tradition and formalities. So, we sat at opposite ends of the long linen-covered table, and ate our London broil, roasted brussels sprouts, and potato gratin off the aqua-blue and white Royal Albert china.

Malcolm had switched from whisky to wine, and filled my glass despite my demur. I’d barely touched the whisky and I only took a couple of sips of wine. Not that I wouldn’t have loved to get plastered and numb the pain of this encounter, but I could barely contain my emotions as it was: depression, anger, bitterness were my constant companions now.