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Yeah, no. My knees were shaking and I was too close to hyperventilating to risk that. Besides, this was Malcolm’s gig. Tonight was most certainly Malcolm’s. He had been the one struggling to keep the ship afloat after Astrid’s death.

I raised my hands in the respect gesture and made a beeline for our corner table. People were still clapping and patting me on the back, like I’d done something genius by ending up in jail. I couldn’t help wondering if Matilda Seger’s aunties and brother were in the audience. I finally wriggled my way through the crowd to the large round table where the Bredahl family, and whichever department head and spouse was being honored with sharing the bread basket that year, had been seated since time immemorial.

The Chosen this year were Bente from personnel and Vinnie the warehouse and shipping overlord. There were quick hugs and kisses all around as we dodged the hovering waitstaff.

“Long time no see, kid.” Vinnie thumped my back.

Bente said, “Oh God, Casper. I’ve beenprayingfor this.”

Her husband threw her a warning look, and I thought I saw something like guilt flash across her face.

What was that about? I had no time to analyze because Malcolm was still speaking, and people were taking their seats, reaching for their butter knives and dinner rolls.

I sat down, tugged on my tie. I felt flustered but relieved. But maybe I had underestimated, well, a lot of things. I’d basically grown up at Bredahl. For real.

In that first year after our parents died, Astrid had taken me to work with her. I’d played with my cars and trucks on the floor of her office while she worked to reassure customers and investors that Bredahl was still as solid gold as the local butter we used in all our recipes.

I was the office “mailman” and the “official taster” for the bakery’s new recipes.

Even after I went back to school, vacation days were spent helping out at Bredahl Cakes and Cookies. When I hit my teens there was never a question of what my summer job would be. It was only after I went away to college that I began to balk at the idea my destiny had been foretold in cookie crumbs and sprinkles.

Granted, it wasn’t much of a balk. I always ducked conflict, always opted for keeping the peace. I expressed my doubts that I’d be happy running a cookie corporation, Astrid assured me I was quite wrong about that, and eventually I accepted the job of assistant VP to Tom Peyton—who shared my doubts about my suitability.

It was about the only thing Tom and I ever agreed on.

A waitress bent down to ask what I’d like to drink.

“Lemon drop martini.”

She made a note, and asked if I wanted to run a tab.

“Isn’t it a hosted bar?” I handed over my credit card, looking around the table in surprise.

“Nope,” Vinnie said, a little grimly.

It wasalwaysa hosted bar. Treating the Bredahlwork-familywas the whole point of this shindig.

Reading my expression correctly, Vinnie muttered, “Necessary cutbacks.”

I felt my eyebrows hit my hairline.

Bente shook her head. She leaned over and said softly, “You should speak to Brigid.” She nodded meaningfully.

Brigid was our accounting manager.

“Right. Okay.” I was very confused.

“Great speech, Malcolm!” Vinnie gazed past my head.

I managed not to jump as Malcolm came up behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed. “Well done, Casper. Astrid would be proud.”

I turned my head, smiled politely. Astrid would be pleased because I managed to show up nearly an hour late to the holiday party? Not so much. I got it, though. I understood that this quiet praise for doing the bare minimum was intended to let the management team know the bare minimum was almost more than I was capable of these days.

Malcolm moved to take his place beside me at the table and not another significant word was spoken for the next hour. People talked about their Christmas plans, reminisced about the old days. In fact, everyone was so cheerful and pleasant, everything was so normal, I couldn’t help wondering if I was imagining things.

Maybe wewerehaving a rough year. It was hard to understand why, given how much the economy had improved, but I’d been out of the loop for quite a while. Astrid had given no hint during our visits that Bredahl was experiencing a financial crunch, but she wouldn’t. She’d made a point of keeping our visits upbeat and positive, focused on the bright and sunny days ahead, once I was exonerated.

When dinner—chicken instead of the usual prime rib and vegetarian options—was over, a DJ set up shop, and those with energy and enough to drink, hit the chessboard-sized dance floor at the front of the room.