"ARE YOU SURE YOU can't stay, Jeffry?" I plead, hugging his lanky frame ferociously. "At least until after Christmas?"

As crowded as our house has been the last few weeks, I love this young man like a third child. I can't stand the idea of him alone in the jaws of New York on Christmas.

"Wish I could, Mrs. Mac, but the gallery's hanging my stuff today, and I said I'd be there for the opening party on Friday."

"But..."

"Mum, release him," warns my daughter, who is standing just behind us in the front hall, waiting for her turn to say goodbye.

"Okay," I sigh and unclasp my arms from around his skinny shoulders but continue to fuss with his jacket, helping him zip it up like he's a grade-schooler. "You have to promise to let us know when you're home safe. And tell us how the opening goes. And make sure you get that no good landlord of yours to fix the hot water. There's a container of cookies in your pack. Now, do you have your bus ticket? No hitchhiking, Jeffry, you hear me? I don't care..."

"Mum, step aside," Maeve orders impatiently, so I do.

After a long bear hug and promises to come back soon, Jeffry picks up his rucksack and steps toward the door.

"Adios, MacKenzies. Until next time." He opens the door and walks out onto the porch, adjusting his toque before heading into the lightly falling snow. He stops halfway down the path. "Oh! Maeve, I almost forgot. I left you a present in the shed. Use it wisely."

She nods at him, and we watch as he heads off down the sidewalk. The two of us stand at the front door, braving the frosty air until we can't see him anymore. Vic, who joined us to see Jeffry off, isn't as sentimental about goodbyes so he clears his throat after a minute and announces that he's going for a run.

"It's snowing," I point out, knowing that won't stop him. I see him glance at the flowers and then look away, saying nothing.

Still stewing about the flowers, then. That's okay, so am I.

But I've come up with a plan.

THE GLASS DOOR SEPARATING the elevator banks from the Carvil Foods lobby whooshes closed behind me, and I am as aware of its closing as an animal who's just walked through a one-way gate. This is the last place I want to spend any number of the free minutes I have remaining before I'm officially a member of staff — not that I expect to have to come in here very often outside of brand leadership meetings, marketing meetings, financial meetings, town halls... who am I kidding? I'll be in here all the time — but it's become clear that I need to sort out a few ground rules with these people. For the protection of my sanity and Vic's trust.

To bolster my confidence, I am borrowing both the attitude and clothing of Corporate Alice.

In my quest for a pant-suit or some equally powerful corporate camouflage, I'd spent more of my precious free minutes this morning rooting through the back of my closet, pulling out 'office clothes' I haven't worn in at least five years. It soon became clear that the lycra and stretch denim wardrobe I've embraced since leaving office life has allowed me to maintain a sort of willful blindness to the ravages of time and middle age (and cookies). Any idea that I could simply slip into my old Nordstrom Off-the-Rack career pants was put to bed after a sobering dance with the unforgiving poly-blend.

Pantsuits off the menu, I opted instead for a no-nonsense black wrap dress with a forgiving tie-around belt and a Hermes scarf tied in a jaunty, cleavage-distracting knot at my neck.

I'd pulled my oversized shoulder bag — empty except for the ready-for-signature copy of the legal agreement Carvil's lawyers were panting for — back into service and slipped my tall black boots on over pantyhose that were already strangling the life out of me.

That is the armour I am now wearing as I check in at the Carvil reception desk. Well, my armour is somewhat obscured by a puffy winter parka and a woolly pom-pom hat because it is, after all, still Toronto in late December, but underneath, I feel ready for battle.

"Excuse me," I say to the young male receptionist in my most firm, Corporate Alice voice, "I would like to see Joss Carvil. I don't have an appointment, but I only need a moment. You can tell him Alice MacKenzie has the papers for him."

The receptionist's eyes land on my woolly pom-pom hat, but he nods and taps at his keyboard. I discretely pluck the hat from my head, hearing the corresponding sizzle of static across my hair.

"You can take a seat, Alice," he says eventually. "Joss is in with Justine for the monthly marketing review. He'll be out momentarily."

I nod and pick my careful way over to the waiting area on heeled boots that I've become unaccustomed to, now favouring, as I do, coffee-splashed sneakers and chunky Sorrels. The only seating options are ludicrously low-slung chairs — all chrome and black leather, looking like hungry, squatting tarantulas. For the sake of not having to squirm my way back up to standing in front of Joss, I opt to throw my bag and coat down on one of the chairs but remain standing, pretending to look interestedly at the series of framed photographs on the wall (Carvil Foods distribution centres across the world) while examining my reflection in the glass for flyaway curls.

Finally, I hear Joss' voice behind me.

"Alice, you look fine. Quit fogging up our photos."

I turn smartly, reminding myself not to let him get me on the back foot. I'm here for a reason—ground rules.

"Good to see you, Joss. I hope you don't mind me popping in you like this. I have the paperwork ready and I know your folks have been eager to get that in place."

"No trouble! Always good to see you in the office. We'll be seeing more of you soon, so you may as well get used to the place. Oh," he snaps his fingers, having just thought of something. "We'll get you an access card while you're here today. And a locker," he adds as he takes in my puffy coat and oversized purse.

I follow him into the hallway that leads to the executive offices, throwing a quick wave at the receptionist as I pass.

"That's fine, really. I don't expect to be here that often. I won't need a..."

"Don't be silly. Of course you will! You'll be on our Brand Partners Senior Advisory Team and they meet three times weekly in the mornings. Then, you'll have the PR updates. I'd like you there for those. Keep Eloise in check, given your background. And your one-on-ones with me, of course, and also the finance team to keep on top of your growth strategy. Then—"

We've arrived at what I assume is Joss' office because he sits on the corner of his desk and motions me toward another of those hungry-looking, low-slung spidery chairs.

"Joss," I interrupt him, careful to use my very precise Corporate Alice voice. "It's absolutely impossible for me to be away from the cafe that much. I'm needed on the ground. And as we grow into a new location, I'll be needed there."

He waves my concern away.

"Thought of that. Of course, we'll be bringing in a new manager — a real pro — to take over the day-to-day operations."

"No, hang on. I have a site manager. Her name is Natalie. I'm sure you've met her."

He looks at me blankly.

"Sorry, Alice, I can't claim to remember every member of your crew." He claps his hands with another idea, "But we'll have a big welcome to the family party for all of them, yes? When we're back from Sicily."

A waft of expensive perfume precedes the smooth voice of Justine in the doorway behind me.

"What party is this? Can I come?"

I move sideways to let her in.

"Hi, Justine," I say, still refusing to sit even as she slips expertly into one of the leather and chrome torture devices. "It's good you're here. There's something I need to ask you both about. This might sound—"

"Really looking forward to our dinner tomorrow, Alice. So nice to have a chance to get to know you before... all this happens." She waves her hand vaguely toward her brother.

"All...? Okay, that's fine. But it's related to that. Justine, did you send me flowers and instructions to meet you at the Union Bar tomorrow? Because I thought we were—"

"Union Bar? Sorry, I'm not following," she smiles uncertainly.  "I made reservations for us at the King Edward."

I turn instead toward Joss.

"Okay, then the flowers were from you? I have to tell you, my husband is—"

"What flowers?" asks Joss innocently.

"The flowers!" I say, exasperated by these rich, careless siblings who don't seem to understand what a mess they're making of my perfectly contented life. "One of you sent flowers to my house and signed them "J" with instructions to meet at the Union Bar at 4 pm tomorrow."

Joss hoots. "What kind of flowers?"

Justine rolls her eyes at him.

He repeats, "No, what kind? Because I only send orchids. They're my signature."

Justine laughs. "Of course they are, you total American Psycho."

"Lilies, with evergreens and a red bow. For Christmas. I thought maybe—"

"Definitely not me. Lilies are for cheapskates," Joss folds his arms across his chest like the subject is over.

"I thought they were nice, in fact. But I couldn't figure out—" I stop, seeing the blank looks on their faces. Okay, so the flowers weren't from either of them. Who then?

Jeffry? That can't be right. He's literally on a bus to New York right now.

"I suppose they could have been a mistake," I concede. "They didn't actually say they were for me. Maybe I should ask the neighbours. Or call the florist."

Joss looks bored of this conversation. "Sure, that's an idea. Anyway, listen, Alice. I thought you had some signed papers for me? Are we doing this thing or what?"

I think briefly of refusing to give him the signed agreement. Of just walking away. Out of this office, into the elevator, and back to my small, quiet life.

But I can't do that to my staff. I can't do that to Buddy or Natalie, both of whom are depending on this influx of cash. This is a grow-or-die moment. And I don't want our dream to die.

I reach into my mammoth purse and pull out the sheaf of papers that have been redlined and reviewed and amended by our lawyers, then theirs, then ours again. We've finally settled on terms, and there's nothing for it but to hand this formal declaration over.

"Before I do," I say, "I have a couple of ground rules I'd like to go over."

The siblings look at each other, eyes flitting over me. A barely perceptible nod passes from Justine to Joss.

He says, "Okay, shoot."

I finally lower myself into one of the leather contraptions and patiently outline my terms.