The clock read fifteen minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and the party had descended into arguments instead of winding up for the big calendar change. Melissa and Jake were yelling in the foyer; Drew and his new girlfriend glared at each other over the punch bowl, and Julie and Maye stood at opposite ends of the room, each looking away or down.
The evening had started so peacefully. Ashlie sighed as she surveyed the standoffs and registered the growing tension in her home. She had no idea where Cole had vanished to. Was he also angry?
“Almost time!” She raised her voice over the dance music blaring from the speakers. No surprise that no one was dancing. She brought out her bag of noisemakers and passed them out. She had “Auld Lang Syne” programmed to play at the stroke of twelve. She’d hung mistletoe in several strategic doorways. The champagne was chilling in the fridge, the flutes ready on a fancy tray in the kitchen.
Where was everyone’s holiday spirit?
“Cole?” she called. Even if he was in a foul mood, he could at least help pour the bubbly when the time came—which was approaching quickly.
He didn’t appear, so she texted him. No response. Was he sulking in the bathroom? If so, she was on her own.
A crash and the sharp tinkle of breaking glass from the foyer. Someone—Melissa?—screamed, “I hate you!”
Petra, a colleague from work whom Ashlie had invited at the last moment, appeared at her side. “Show me where the broom is and I’ll go clean up the mess.”
Ashlie blinked in surprise. “Thanks.” She directed Petra to the supply closet. “There’s a broom and a dustpan in there. I’ll go open the champagne. Only five minutes left . . . ”
She filled the flutes halfway and carried the tray into the great room. “Grab a glass! And let’s count down.”
The guests swarmed the tray, apparently setting aside their differences for the moment. “Ten, nine, eight . . . ” They joined in the recitation, erupting in applause and raising their voices to blend with the song on the speakers, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . . ”
Just like clockwork, Ashlie thought, relieved that the annual tradition could still dampen disagreements and bring people together. Tomorrow they could resume their spats, but not while the party continued.
Then Jake, who had moved into the great room after the foyer incident, called out, “It’s after midnight, right?”
“Has to be,” Drew said, belting back his champagne. “We already sang the new year’s song.”
“But you didn’t kiss me under the mistletoe,” his girlfriend said, with a pout. Ashlie couldn’t recall the woman’s name.
“Still time,” Jake said, holding up his phone. “Mine’s stuck at 12:00. Weird.”
“Mine’s stuck, too,” Julie said.
Several others echoed her. “Mine, too.”
Ashlie pushed through the kitchen door to check the digital clock on the range. It read the same: 12:00. But it had to be at least a quarter past the hour already.
She opened another bottle of Moutard Brut and refilled glasses held out to her.
“Might as well drink up while time stands still,” Drew said.
“Here, here,” Maye called from the couch.
Ashlie noted that Cole had reappeared and was seated next to Petra. Maybe the night would never end and she would not have to face him and his excuses.
Turning to the Spotify app, she cued up its New Year playlist and tapped on Play. Nothing happened; just a spinning circle. The wifi must be down, or maybe the modem. She switched to her music app and started a downloaded album, anything to fill the silence of the room.
With the speakers once again booming, a few people stood to dance. Drew pulled his girlfriend into a doorway for a deep kiss. The time remained stubbornly stuck at midnight, but no one seemed to care. Even Melissa rejoined the group, and a few moments later, followed Jake to an open spot on the carpet to move as one to the music.
It was a party, after all, and they’d keep the bash going ‘til dawn … if it ever came.
More of Dianna’s stories are in the following anthologies:
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The clock read fifteen minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and the party had descended into arguments instead of winding up for the big calendar change.
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Today was her birthday, but her closest friends were busy, so Nicole took herself out to dinner. The Purple Potted Plant was her favorite restaurant for special occasions, and this year qualified as one: her fortieth.
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The post promised an autumnal birding phenomenon not to be missed. Steph wasn’t really a birder—she could never tell one sparrow from another—but she did like birds.
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An overnight stay at a small New England inn proves a challenge when the guests in the next room launch their own plans for the evening.
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In the shade of a red maple, Ana helped spread the tablecloth over the picnic table and stepped back to let her family lay out the food: tuna salad, pasta salad, chips, grapes, strawberries, brownies, muffins.
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