Shortly thereafter, the guests started to arrive. Nick took coats while Noelle drew their friends in to enjoy the refreshments and the decorations (not necessarily in that order). Soon the house was filled with laughter, the clink of glasses, and exclamations of delight over Noelle’s adorable canapes and lavish holiday decorations.
“She’s outdone herself this year,” Bob Noyes said to Nick as he swirled the ice cube in his Scotch and soda. Bob lived down the street with his wife, two kids, and no cats. He was in insurance and tended to view the Sinclair’s Christmas party as a business opportunity.
Nick swirled his own ice cube and rocked back on his heels. “She sure has,” he replied, then looked Bob right in the eye. “How about you just enjoy the party this year, eh?”
“Huh?” Bob’s eyes widened, as if he had no idea what Nick was talking about. “I always enjoy the party. So does Jean.” He waved his glass at his wife, who was twittering with a group of her friends over a tree that featured angel ornaments.
“I mean,” Nick said with a steeliness that surprised him, “Please remember that my guests are not here to buy insurance.”
“Noelle never seems to mind me drumming up a little business at this shindig,” Bob countered.
“Well, I do. Cool it this year.”
“Okay, okay.” Bob put up his hands in mock surrender. “I can take a hint. Can I at least tell people what I do for a living, Your Highness?”
“Only if they ask,” Nick growled. Inwardly, he grinned. He rather like the sound of “Your Highness.” Up until now, it had only applied to him when he was wrestling the jolly old elf and the reindeer up to the very top of the roof. Tonight, however, it meant that he was in charge for once. He surveyed the guests milling around the refreshment and drinks table. These were his guests, the people he’d put up the trees for, the people he was defending from Bob Noyes’s sales pitch. He began to have a slight misgiving about what he had planned for later in the evening.
“I just don’t know how you do it,” Marguerite Finberry shrilled at Noelle on the other side of the room. “It must take weeks.”
“It is a great deal of work,” Nick heard his wife say. “But I just love doing it.”
“You wouldn’t if you actually did it,” Nick muttered into his Scotch, where the ice cube was melting right along with his qualms about going through with his plan.
The Grand Tour began, of course, in the front hall, where all the women agreed that the foyer decorations were now perfect. All the men nodded and sipped their drinks while their wives snapped photos on their cell phones.
“Do you really think it’s perfect?” Noelle asked her friends on the way to the downstairs powder room where tabletop trees adorned both the counter and the back of the commode. “I was thinking I might–”
“It’s perfect,” Nick cut in hastily. “Absolutely perfect. You don’t need to add another thing.” And you won’t, after tonight.
After the powder room had been duly adored, Noelle led the way up the Persian-carpeted staircase that curved grandly up to the second floor, with Nick bringing up the rear. He watched her dress sparkle and flash as she climbed the steps in the ridiculously high heels that matched her dress perfectly. On the third tread from the top she turned her head to speak to a friend on the step below. Her face was radiant, her eyes bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. But at the moment of turning, one of those ludicrous heels caught on the edge of the next step. Noelle lurched forward, swayed, tottered, flailed, screamed, and then toppled backwards. For a crazy moment, Nick thought his heart must be in his throat, because he couldn’t breathe. Then it must have moved up, because he could breath again, but now there was a roaring and pounding in his ears. The next thing he knew, he was taking the stairs two at a time to catch his wife–but he was too late.