Mr. December

by Macallister, Heather

  “Cases—you’d take us to court?”

  “That’s the only method we have for recovering lost revenue and damages to our reputation.”

  Spencer clicked the monitor back on. The budget glowed into view. “How much revenue are we talking?”

  “That’s for a jury to decide.”

  A jury? Being sued would ruin him, even if he won. He’d never receive another grant. And forget staying here. His fund-raising methods—in particular, the calendar—weren’t popular with the Research Facility brass. They called them embarrassingly bizarre. Spence called them innovative. The regional press loved him. When they needed a quote, they called Spencer and not the facility chairman, which had become a sore point. Spencer knew the man only tolerated him because his popularity with the press had given the facility a public relations boon.

  If Texas Men sued, Spencer’s project would be shut down. His team, the closest thing he had to a family, would be scattered. At the thought of starting over again, the old familiar queasiness settled in his stomach.

  No. Not this time.

  “Tonya, I don’t think either of us wants to drag what amounts to a difference of opinion into the courts. What, specifically, do you need to reassure your publisher that we’ve acted in good faith?”

  “I told you, written testimonials—”

  “Fine. How many?” Spencer grabbed a pencil.

  She hedged. “That’s difficult to say.”

  He needed a quantifiable response. “Give me a number.”

  “Even one is more than I’ve got now!”

  “So I’ll get you one.”

  “Then, Dr. Price, it had better be a heck of a letter.”

  “Oh, it will be.” Even if he had to write it himself.

  “We do, of course, subject any correspondence, both positive and negative, to our usual verification procedures.”

  Nuts. Spencer forced himself to smile. “Of course.”

  He was still gritting his teeth as he disconnected the call. “Gordon!” he bellowed.

  Gordon instantly appeared in the doorway, which meant he’d been listening just outside, a fact Spencer had counted on. What was the good of an open-door policy if no one took advantage of it? Spencer grabbed the message slips and held them up. “You stuck these in the middle of my action file!”

  Gordon failed to look repentant. “Somebody should go through his action file more often.”

  “You’re not putting this on me!”

  Gordon swallowed and eased his way inside the office. “If you could define ’this’ more fully—”

  “You yo-yos are about to get us sued!”

  As he processed the information, Gordon blinked rapidly, like a malfunctioning android. From past experience, Spencer knew he’d be worthless for the next several minutes.

  “Get in here, the rest of you,” he called. “And somebody wake up Rip.”

  “He’s not gonna like that,” came a voice from outside the door.

  “Would you rather have Rip or me angry at you?”

  Silence.

  They’d obviously failed to grasp the gravity of the situation. Spencer stood, pushed past the blinking Gordon and stepped into the open lab. Without a word to the huddled men, he found the broomstick with the foam pad attached and strode toward the bank of boxes opposite the snack machines.

  The six-foot-high stack of boxes formed an Lshape in the rear corner by the rest room and the emergency eye-wash fountain. A blanket had been thumbtacked to the adjacent walls and draped over the top of the boxes. Spencer stood at the entrance to this box cave and blindly shoved the padded end of the broomstick inside until it connected with something.

  He poked. Then he poked again. The broomstick stuck.

  “This had better be very important,” sounded a chilling voice from the depths of the darkness.

  “Get up, Rip.” Spencer was in no mood to play psych games with the brilliant, but socially antagonistic, programmer.

  Sebastian “Rip” Riportella preferred to work alone at night in the lab with only the glow from the computer screen and the soft drink vending machine for light.

  There was a loud exhaling, then the springs of a cot screeched, reminding Spencer of bats. Rip appeared at the opening between the boxes and the wall. “What crashed?”

  “Nothing. We have a public relations glitch.”

  Rip blinked slowly, his pale gray eyes slightly bloodshot. “You woke me for a glitch?”

  “It’s a glitch with potential.” Spencer pointed to the folding table near the microwave. “Gather round, gentlemen.”

  Five of them somberly shuffled toward the snack table. Rip dug in the pocket of his black jeans and shoved quarters into the soft drink machine until two cans dropped. He popped one open and sucked it dry before gliding over to join the group.

  Spencer wondered if the man existed on anything besides caffeine and sugar. He faced his team. “It appears that the women you’ve been dating haven’t been as enamored of you as you’ve been of them,” he said.

  “Is that what this is about?” Dan, a burly programmer, snatched an open bag of nacho-cheese-flavored chips and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

  “Yes,” Spencer confirmed, and sketched in the details of his conversation with Tonya. “And they’re willing to go to court. If that happens, the legal costs will come straight from our research budget.” He looked at them squarely. “And that would pretty much be the end of us as a team.”

  There was silence as everyone avoided eye contact with everyone else.

  “Aw, Spence, why didn’t you just tell her off?” Dan finished off the bag of chips and wiped his fingers on his T-shirt. “What?” he asked when he saw everyone staring at him.

  “Use a paper towel, man.” The usually quiet Bob shoved a roll toward him.

  “Did—did she actually use the s word?” Gordon’s blinking was still erratic.

  “You mean‘sue’?” Spence asked.

  Gordon blinked and nodded.

  “No, but she used the f word.”

  “Did she?” Rip raised a black eyebrow.

  Spencer was in no mood for joking. “Meaning fraud in this instance.”

  “Pity, but still interesting.” Rip favored the group with the driest of smiles.

  “And expensive, unless she starts getting gushy little notes from the women you guys date. The problem is that the women are expecting one thing and you are another. Now, what’s been going on?”

  No one wanted to discuss his dating failures in front of everybody, which Spence should have anticipated. He gave them a face-saving out. “I told Tonya that you all have soft hearts and have been dating everybody. Right?”

  There were nods all around, except from Rip, who sipped his drink.

  “We’ll start there.” Spencer pulled out a plastic chair and sat so he wouldn’t look like he was lecturing, which he was. “Read the letters describing themselves that these women send you and make intelligent choices. That means if a woman mentions her bust size, thinking it’s her best attribute, she’s going to expect reciprocal attributes from you.” He looked significantly at Bob, who ducked his head. “There’s not a thing in the world wrong with that, but you don’t have either the experience, or the, ah, attributes to handle those kinds of women.”

  “Well, how are we going to get experience if we don’t go out with them?” Gordon had stopped blinking.

  “Would you give your 333 MHz Pentium II to a five-year-old to play with? Or would you let him spill his juice on the old 486 until he’s ready to upgrade?” Their looks of horror at the thought of a five-year-old with juice near a 333 MHz Pentium II were replaced by murmurs of understanding.

  Spencer pointed to the mail sacks. “I want you to cull those letters and find women who say that they don’t have a boyfriend because they’ve been busy getting their masters in computer science, or betatesting software, or working on the Mars Probe. And show me the letter before you contact her.”

  “Is that all
?” Rip tossed his empty can into the recycling bin.

  “No. Hand me the calendar.”

  Dan pulled the one above the microwave off the wall and silently handed it to Spencer.

  Wishing December were already at an end so his picture could be covered up by a freebie fractal calendar from the Littletree College math department, he flipped through the pages. Except for Spence and Rip, who was Mr. October, everyone had posed for two pictures. “This is going to take serious damage control. Okay, Steve, you’ve got to wear bulky sweaters with shoulder pads in them. Plan outdoor activities and wear a hat. Goggles, too, if it’s appropriate. Dan, hit the gym and get rid of that beer gut.”

  “It’s not a beer gut!”

  “A nacho gut, then. And start drinking diet. Murray, grow a goatee.”

  “No way!”

  Spencer pointed to one of his calendar shots. “You gave yourself a goatee in the picture. Grow one. Gordon...” He squinted at the picture, then at Gordon. “Hit the gym, go to a tanning booth and...” Spencer shook his head. “I’m thinking toupee.”

  The others hooted as Gordon self-consciously fingered his fast-receding hairline. “I’m not wearing a toupee!”

  “Glue a baseball cap to your head, then. Bob.”

  Bob ducked his head as his face reddened.

  “Shoulder pads for you, too. Grow your hair out and get contacts.”

  “Aw, man.”

  After several seconds of grumbling, everyone fell silent and looked at Rip. He propped a stockinged foot on the chair next to him.

  He’d posed at night, shirtless, with a black cape and his shoulder-length hair swirling around him, and a full moon—computer generated—in the background. The chest in the calendar was more robust than the one possessed by the tall, lean—some might say gaunt—man, but that wasn’t what worried Spencer. “Rip, have you answered any of the letters?”

  A half smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I dallied with a couple of aspiring nymphs of the night, but they were unworthy.”

  Spencer hated it when he talked that way. “Make sure anyone you ask out is a night owl like you, got it?”

  Rip bowed.

  Spence stood. “Everybody hit the mail sacks and remember that I screen before you call.”

  “What about the budget projections?” Murray asked. “The chem department needs a man-hour estimate.”

  Spencer had already started for his office. He turned back around. “Don’t you get it? There won’t be anything left to budget if we have to use all our money to hire lawyers.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be favoring a young lady with your company?” Rip’s half smile held a challenge.

  “No,” Spencer said. “Me dating was never part of the deal.”

  “And why not?” Holding the calendar, Rip moved forward. “Of all of us, you are the most likely to generate bits of breathless prose to Texas Men.”

  “You’re wrong.” He spoke to Rip, but included all of them in his gaze. “I limit my social engagements to women who have no expectations beyond what I’m offering.”

  Murray snickered. “He’s talking attributes, guys.”

  “If you will.” Spencer mimicked Rip’s bow.

  “Rip’s right, Doc.” Gordon grinned. “Think of what’s at stake, here.”

  Rip dangled the calendar. “‘What lucky woman wouldn’t like to find Mr. December in her stocking?”’ he quoted in his deep voice. “So how about it, Doc?”

  Spence glared at them. They were all nodding in agreement with Rip. He might as well concede this point. “One.” He held up a finger. “One, and one only.” Grumbling to himself, he stalked back to his office and glared at the mail sack.

  Well, which lucky woman would it be?

  AFTER STUDYING the building roster, Lexi, armed with Texas Men, headed for the lab at the end of the hall. There didn’t appear to be a receptionist, so Lexi just opened the door and walked in, blinking at the whiteness of it all.

  There was a huge open area with workbenches, swing arm lights, thick, black cables snaking over the floor, machines with their electronic entrails exposed, computers and more computers. At the far end was the snack area, littered with fast-food debris, soda cans and coffee mugs, and to the right of that, a mountain of boxes. It was a minute before she realized that human beings were also present.

  It appeared that she’d interrupted a meeting. The men had pulled chairs around two of the computer stations where they were intently...going through mail? No one had noticed her. Lexi opened the Texas Men magazine.

  “Look at this!” One of them suddenly jumped up. “I’ve got a math teacher!” He kissed a piece of paper before waving it around. “Read it and weep, guys.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “Quit gloating, Gordon.”

  “She got a sister?”

  “Why do all women like long walks on the beach?”

  Everybody looked at a slight man with thick glasses. “Because that’s what you said you liked, Bob.”

  “You told me to!”

  “You know better than to listen to everything Steve tells you.”

  One of them wadded up an envelope and threw it at him. The man with the glasses retaliated.

  “Excuse me,” Lexi said before the paper fight got out of hand.

  At the sound of her voice, all movement stopped and six vaguely familiar-looking men turned to stare at her.

  “Could you tell me where I can find...” Lexi stared at the magazine and, avoiding Mr. December for now, picked a name at random, “Gordon Emerson?”

  The man who had been waving around the letter pushed aside the guy with the glasses and approached her. “I’m Gordon Emerson.”

  Lexi blinked, then stared down at the calendar picture of a man waterskiing. A tanned, fit, square-jawed man. She looked up. “I mean this Gordon Emerson.” She showed him the magazine.

  His smile faded. “Guilty.”

  Acutely aware that she’d just insulted him, Lexi tried to salvage the situation. “Oh, I see now. It’s...it’s the light in here.” Which was very bright. “And—and the goggles, and, uh...you are?” Forget salvaging, she had to find the calendar men. On the drive over, she’d convinced herself that nothing less than a Phi Beta Kappa Mr. Universe would stand up to the glory of Emily.

  Flipping through the magazine, she walked toward the group as she compared the rest of them to their pictures. There were vague resemblances—enough to tell her she’d come to the right place. “You all are the men from the calendar?”

  They nodded, looking irritated and sheepish at the same time.

  Okay. They weren’t superhuman after all, but they were probably decent guys who might be talked into Christmas dinner. Still, Lexi decided she wouldn’t tell Francesca. Let her have her Mr. December fantasies.

  “And you are...?”

  The rumbling question came from a man she recognized as Mr. October. He sat on the counter next to a soft drink machine and eyed her as he drank from a can. In the photograph, he’d looked dangerously forbidding. Now he just looked dangerous. She mentally crossed him off her list of potential Christmas dates. Besides, Halloween was an element she didn’t want to introduce at Christmas.

  “I’m Alexandra Jordan. I’m on the faculty at Littletree.”

  “And how might we be of service?” Mr. October asked.

  Lexi hadn’t anticipated making her request to all of them at once. “I saw this.” She held up the magazine. “And thought I’d skip a couple of steps and come over here.”

  There was a silence before the man with the glasses spoke. “Y-y-you mean you want to go out with Gordon?”

  Lexi remembered his glee at finding the math teacher. “I didn’t have any one particular man in mind.” Yes, you did. “I just...” She trailed off as the meaning of the sacks of mail sank in. This was a bad idea. She should leave while her dignity was still semi-intact. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “What do you teach, Alexandra?” Mr. October slid off the ledge.


  Lexi backed up. “Piano.”

  He gestured to the group. “Which of you gentlemen can converse on the topic of music?”

  “Dan, over there, can play the guitar,” Gordon said.

  A frowning barrel-shaped man raised his hand.

  There was a sneeze. “I played clarinet in the band until my asthma got too bad.”

  Lexi gazed at them. They were being polite, which was more than she’d been so far. “That’s great—not about your asthma. Look, I see that a lot of women responded to your profiles—”

  “I know you!” One of the previously silent men got out of his chair and approached her, hand outstretched. “Murray Bendel. I teach chemistry at Littletree.”

  Not bad. Nothing like his picture, but not bad. Lexi shook his hand, careful to protect her fingers from a crushing grip. Murray’s was fine and Lexi relaxed.

  “Let me introduce you to Doc,” he said.

  “Hey—”

  Murray sliced a look toward the group. “Doc needs to meet her.”

  Doc could only mean Spencer Price, Mr. December. Lexi found she didn’t want her fantasy destroyed, either. “No, really, that’s okay.”

  But Murray was propelling her toward the only office in the area. “Hey, Doc,” he said, pulling her to the doorway. “Meet Alexandra Jordan.”

  The man had his back to her, his eyes glued to a computer screen. As he swiveled his chair around, he said in a harsh tone, “Murray, I told you to show me the letter before you contacted anyone.”

  “I didn’t write a letter,” Lexi said just before she caught sight of his face.

  It was Mr. December. In the flesh, or rather not as much flesh as his calendar shot, but she didn’t have trouble recognizing him at all because he looked exactly like his photograph. Or better. Yes, better. Much better. No fantasies destroyed here.

  The dark eyes in the picture had come to life, looking intelligent even without the photographer’s umbrella light reflected in them. And they moved in an up-and-down sweep that made her suck her stomach in.