Page 50 of Smuggler’s Cove (Twin Lights #1)

Mid-November

New York City

Frankie glanced out the window of her fourteenth-floor office that overlooked Rockefeller Center. The area was cordoned off for the arrival of the famous tree, which was scheduled to be delivered the following morning, then hoisted into place before noon. There was excitement in the air for the eighty-foot-high, forty-three-foot-wide spruce, which would be adorned with over five miles of 50,000 lights over the next coming weeks.

It was a tradition that began in the 1930s from a simple gathering with people singing holiday carols. Over the years, it became a phenomenon, with major recording artists performing at the event. The list of stars that have embraced the tradition includes Cher, Barry Manilow, Darlene Love, and Kelly Clarkson, to name just a few. In 2007, it was one of Taylor Swift’s first live performances, and unless you are living in a cave or under a rock, you know how far she’s come.

Frankie wasn’t sure who was performing that particular year, but she knew it would be grand. She also knew not to leave the building until the festivities were over, and began her own tradition of having Patsy’s Italian Restaurant cater food for the late-working staff.

Frankie chuckled at the thought that her office party had grown over the years. Must be the food, she mused. Frankie was compulsively detail-oriented, which is why her friends counted on her to make the plans.

Her staff and colleagues often depended on her organizational skills for work-related situations, and sometimes for their personal lives, like the time Betsy from the art department begged Frankie to plan her baby shower. Frankie knew precious little about babies, especially baby showers, but she didn’t want to disappoint the woman, who looked like she would give birth any minute. Frankie didn’t ask why none of Betsy’s friends or family could coordinate the event, but she overheard a conversation Betsy was having with her mother. Apparently, this was the first grandchild in the family, and there appeared to be a lot of competition as to who could throw the most fitting celebration. It was better to have someone outside the family circle just in case something went awry, eliminating any blame among the lot.

Frankie’s generous soul graciously accepted the task. In spite of her being a childless cat lady, she was able to figure it out in short order, especially when she roped Giovanni into setting up the restaurant. It was an enormous success, and Betsy gave birth to a beautiful daughter three days later. Talk about a close call. As much as Frankie enjoyed party planning, she wasn’t inclined to start a business and prayed she would be off the hook for future kids’ parties.

Now it was time to plan her grown-up party for the tree-lighting evening. She called Matt into her office to go over the details. Even though the event was three weeks away, it was imperative they get their food order in ahead of time.

Matt strolled in with a few pages of invoices from the two previous years. “You do realize the extravaganza starts at seven, and they light the tree at ten,” Matt said, crossing his legs and tapping his pen on the clipboard.

“Yeah, I know. That really stinks, but proceed,” she said, nodding. “I’ll remind you to spread the word that people can leave whenever they want to, but don’t say anything until the night of the party. I don’t want to minimize it by making it sound unimportant.”

“It is important, and I totally get it.” Matt adjusted his chair and continued, “We’ve gone from a tray of eggplant rolla tini to three, three dozen clams oreganata to five, and two trays of penne a la vodka to four.” He paused. “How does Giovanni feel about you using Patsy’s instead of his restaurant?”

“He couldn’t be happier. Bringing the food to Midtown in all that chaos would make him pazzo!” Frankie used the Italian term for crazy. “Besides, he loves Sal and the Scognamillo family.”

“Is it true that it was one of Frank Sinatra’s favorite restaurants?” Matt asked.

“Yes, indeed. There must be dozens of photos of Frank through the ages on the walls, including tons of others: Pacino, De Niro, Michael Bublé, Ben Stiller, George Clooney, Calvin Klein, Carroll O’Connor, Jon Bon Jovi, and Oprah!”

Matt’s mouth dropped. “Wow. Talk about a who’s who in showbiz. And to think they cater our little office party.”

“I copied the idea from an old friend, Nick Maria. He used to work at Atlantic Records and started that tradition in his office. It was on the second floor and faced directly at the tree. We could look straight out the window and watch the lights go on at seven. Now we have to wait until ten o’clock and crane our necks.” She chuckled.

“Yeah, but the food is still good!” Matt added.

“Exactly!” Frankie said. “I hope people don’t think they have to wait until ten. Every year the event gets longer and longer.”

“People really appreciate that you do this, Frankie,” Matt offered. “It’s much better than the required company holiday party.” He flopped down in the chair across from her desk. “I don’t know why they bother.”

“Neither do I, but I suppose they think it helps us bond.”

“I’d rather bond with the fifty bucks it costs per head.”

Frankie let out a howl. “It’s probably more than that. I actually suggested it to upper management.”

“I guess that didn’t go over well.” Matt smirked.

“Not one bit,” Frankie said, grinning. “At least I tried. Besides, I think they use it as a company write-off.”

Frankie returned to her desk and sat across from him. “Remember, on the night of the party, please let people know they are not being held against their will if they want to dine and dash.”

“Will do.” Matt made a note for himself.

“What are your plans for this year?” she asked.

“The usual. Dinner with people I don’t speak to all year.”

“Because?” she prompted him to explain further.

“Because they live completely different lives. You know, sister is a soccer mom and is on my back to get married. My mother got wise and no longer approached the subject.”

Frankie smiled. “What about your brother?”

“Ah. My brother the bum.”

“Bum?” Frankie said, and cocked her head.

“He’s twenty-nine and hasn’t ever had a real job.”

Frankie crinkled her brow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. He lives in my parents’ basement.” Matt thought for a moment; then he chuckled. “Maybe that’s why my mom is off my back.” He paused again. “At least he does the laundry.”

“See. There is a bright side to everything.” Frankie grinned. “Okay”—she began to rattle off the list—“conference room reserved?”

“Check.”

“Tablecloths, dishes, flatware, napkins?”

“Check.”

“Extra trash cans and liners?”

“Check.” Matt stopped. “Only you would think about extra trash cans.”

Frankie snorted. “Where else are all the dirty dishes going to go?”

“Good point.”

“Menorah, Kwanzaa candles, and a small tabletop tree for the centerpiece?”

“Check.”

“How many people have RSVP’d?”

Matt checked. “Twenty-four.”

Frankie chuckled. “Word’s out.”

“Yep. And I cannot believe you pay for this out of your own pocket.” Matt shook his head.

“Are Ira and Steven on the list?”

“Yep. Ira is a yes.”

“Excellent. Nothing like having the COO come to your party. Maybe we can figure out a way to get the company to pay for it next year and make it the company holiday party instead.”

“The conference room can’t hold a hundred people,” Matt said.

“I have some ideas.” Frankie raised her eyebrows.

“Okaaay … shoot.”

“The halls are wide enough on the executive floor to set up high-tops along the walls. We can have a service bar at each end, and the food can be set up in the large conference room. I am willing to bet it will save the company money, and no one will feel compelled to dance.” She blinked several times. “Why do they do that? Hire a DJ and expect people to cut a rug? Nobody wants to hang around and pretend they’re having fun. Besides, with my plan, people will be able to eat, drink, and mingle, which is what’s supposed to happen.” She sat back and folded her arms.

“Sounds like you’ve been to too many company holiday parties,” Matt said, smirking.

“Oh, don’t get me started. We used to go off-site for sales conferences, which in itself wasn’t a bad thing. You had the opportunity to chat with people you never see. But”—she paused—“you were required to attend the evening banquets, dance, then spend the rest of the evening at the hospitality suite. Man, did I dread it. By the end of a long day, you just wanted to go to your room and order room service.” She let out a huff. “There has to be a happy medium.”

“If anyone can figure it out, it’s you,” Matt said.

Frankie smiled. “I have a few things to review, and then I am outta here. Why don’t you stop for the day?”

Matt was a conscientious, loyal assistant. He never left work before Frankie unless she threw him out the door, a common state of affairs between the two of them. “Now, shoo.” She waved him away.

“Right, boss.”

“That’s Ms. Bossy Pants, buster.” Frankie feigned a frown.

He gave her a nod and disappeared.

Frankie began checking the project report to be sure everything was running on schedule. The cookbooks for spring were already copyedited and on their way for final proofing. Next was the batch of cookbooks for the following year. So far, no glitches. She checked the publicity plans for the books that were already on sale. All of her authors were behaving themselves, running on time to their TV appearances and book signings.

Over the years, Frankie knew how to keep her head down and her nose to the grindstone and was eventually promoted to an executive position running her own imprint at Grand Marshall Publishing. It was a star-studded roster of celebrity chefs, each book dedicated to raising money for a charity; hence, her imprint was called Cooking for a Cause.

Cookbooks were having a boom—books from celebrities, to kids, to real chefs. Short-form videos were turning into long-form books. But it wasn’t all glamour all the time. Authors could be royal pains in the butt, especially celebrity chefs, whom she dealt with on a regular basis. Through trial and error, she found her own way to navigate the publishing world and the idiosyncrasies of her authors.

By the time she had finished checking her list, she noticed it was past seven and called Giovanni.

“Amore mio!” he greeted her with an affectionate pet name, and followed with, “Che se dice?”—an Italian term for “what is happening?”

“Just finishing up here. What’s for dinner?”

“What would you like?” Giovanni asked.

“Something warm and delicious.”

“Ah, but you are warm and delicious,” he teased.

Frankie couldn’t help but blush. “Stop,” she said in a soft voice. “What’s the pasta special?”

“It’s-a Friday. Linguine with clam sauce.”

“Make mine white, easy on the garlic.”

“Do you want to come to the restaurant or bring to the apartment?”

“I’ll come down to the restaurant. I want to go over the menu for the family and friends dinner for the night when everyone is here.”

“Positivo. How soon?”

“I’ll grab a ride. Should be there in a half hour.”

“Perfetto. Be careful, bella.” Frankie could feel the warmth in his sultry voice. “I will go feed Bandit and Sweet P so you can relax.”

“You are the best! See you shortly.” Frankie pulled up the app for one of the rideshare companies and made a request. She was happy it was only a five-minute wait, especially this time of year. Things were starting to get terribly busy. Everywhere. She unhooked her coat from the back of her door, pulled her tote from the bottom drawer of her desk, turned off the lights, and briskly walked to the elevator bank.