The Mistletoe Kisser: Blue Moon #8 Page 3

  There was a lone rocking chair on the front porch. Limp garland hung unevenly from the railing. He hoped the unnatural blinking orange flames in the windows were electric candles and not several small fires since he didn’t have the energy to play firefighter.

  Romantically inclined visitors would likely be charmed by the country simplicity of the snowy scene. To the pragmatic and weary Ryan, it looked like the kind of place where innocent city dwellers went to get murdered.

  He really didn’t want to go inside. If he stepped foot on that front porch, he was actually going to have to spend the night there instead of driving back to the airport and demanding a one-way ticket home.

  But he’d given his word. He needed to stop doing that.

  He got out of the car, cursing the snow that swamped his expensive loafers and the wintery chill that squeezed him like a fist. Muttering his way through every four-letter word in his vocabulary, he wrestled his bags out of the back of the car and sullenly climbed the porch steps.

  The welcome mat said Thanks for Dropping By. He wiped his feet harder than necessary across the cheerful sentiment. He didn’t want to be thanked for “dropping by.” He hadn’t wanted to “drop by” in the first place. Trying the scarred brass knob, he found the front door unlocked as promised.

  He dumped his suitcase and briefcase unceremoniously on the threadbare rug inside the door and searched for a light switch. He found it under a wad of sticky notes. The notes appeared to be in no particular order.

  Buy new overalls.

  Remember to turn off candles and fireplace.

  Leave Ryan instructions on feeding chickens.

  Breakfast with the BC.

  The living room was a cramped rectangle. Built-in shelves crammed with tractor and chicken figurines surrounded a bulky TV set on top of a stand with a built-in electric fireplace. Next to an ancient recliner was a stack of yellowing Monthly Moon newspapers. The couch looked like something a drunk ninety-year-old picked out for her Florida condo. In 1984. It had orange and pink flowers and sagged in the middle under the weight of what looked like two dozen shoeboxes.

  An upright piano partially blocked the front window that looked out onto the porch and whatever god-awful pastoral scenery was visible in the daylight.

  To his right, oak-stained stairs with a worn green carpet runner went up to the second floor. Straight ahead, he could see the kitchen and dining room.

  “Home sweet home,” he grumbled to the empty house. As if on cue, the electric fireplace flickered to life. Apparently empty houses didn’t get sarcasm.

  Giving in to the exhaustion, he flopped down on the recliner and made a new plan.

  Ryan’s New Plan

  1. Find a liquor store.

  2. Drink half a bottle of whiskey.

  3. Call Mom and break the news that her third favorite uncle had officially lost his damn mind.

  4. Book flight home.

  He felt good about everything except Number 3. But he was nothing if not efficient when it came to accomplishing unpleasant tasks.

  The pink and purple tie-dye letterhead on the metal TV tray at his elbow caught his eye, and he picked it up. The paper smelled like the inside of one of those stores that sold dragon head letter openers and bongs.

  Dear Mr. Shufflebottom,

  It is with the deepest of regrets that the Blue Moon Bank must remind you that the balloon payment on your loan is due by 11:59 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

  If you are unable to make the attached payment, we will be forced to collect the collateral—your farm—and remove you from the premises.

  Wishing you and yours the happiest of solstice celebrations! Don’t forget to cast your vote for us as Local Bank of the Year with the Chamber of Commerce!

  Best wishes,

  Rainbow Berkowicz, Blue Moon Bank President

  Ryan flipped to the attached notice. The amount due made him pinch the bridge of his nose again.

  “Fuck me.”

  New #4: Save Great-Uncle Carson’s farm from foreclosure.

  He needed to see a copy of the loan, the statements. Maybe the bank was pulling something over an elderly, not-right-in-the-head farmer? It wouldn’t be the first time a financial institution screwed over the little guy. The accountant part of his brain started sifting through possible tactics.

  He could use a win. Even if it was against some small-town, patchouli-scented bank that had probably never even heard of mobile deposit.

  The stack of shoeboxes on the hideous couch caught his eye again. He shoved out of the chair to examine them. Each one was labeled: Receipts, Important Papers, Family Stuff, More Receipts and Paperwork, Stuff I Might Need Sometime.

  There was a sticky note on top of the first box.

  Ryan, Everything you need is here.

  Curious, he lifted the lid. The box was crammed full of crumpled receipts, a collection of rubber bands, and coupons for soap that expired in 1988.

  “Nope. Whiskey first,” he decided.

  Grabbing his coat and keys, he headed back outside in the frigid December air, got into his roller skate of a car, and started to bump his way slowly down the snowy lane.

  A large, white blob lumbered out of the dark several feet in front of him. The car’s sensor beeped frantically. Ryan slammed on the brakes just as the navigation’s French voice flatly announced an “object in road.”

  The dull thump seemed to come a second too late, but it still made his stomach turn.

  3

  Dr. Sammy Ames’s festive Santa scrubs smelled like cat pee. The love bite from an ornery parrot throbbed a little under the candy cane-striped bandage. And her Peace of Pizza lunch special had gone cold hours ago in a breakroom decked out in holiday decorations.

  Her vet tech would have doubled over with laughter if he could see her now. But Demarcus was celebrating Hanukkah with his in-laws so there were no witnesses to her temporary foray into clinical veterinarian medicine.

  It hadn’t been a bad day, she decided, taking another bite of stale pizza.

  She’d enjoyed the challenge of filling in at the veterinary clinic. But she was very much looking forward to returning to her own large animal practice in the morning. Her days were typically filled with house calls to inoculate livestock, perform ultrasounds on pregnant mares, birth calves. She was outdoors more than in, her patients much larger than the ones she’d seen today, and her clients were down-to-earth farmers.

  Rolling out her shoulders, she checked the time on the kitty cat clock mounted to the wall. Its eyes ticked to the left as its tail tipped right. Closing time was twenty-seven minutes away. Which meant she was only an hour or so from a hot shower, clean pajamas, and some serious crafting time. If she didn’t get her ass to a craft store and block out some serious hours over the next three days, her “great fundraiser idea” was going to be a gigantic failure.

  “Hey, Dr. Sammy. Thanks again for filling in for Dr. Turner,” Nimbus Miller, a swarthy former high school football star turned vet tech, greeted her as he bopped into the room and headed for the vending machine. The puffball on the end of his Santa hat swayed as he considered his options.

  “It was no problem,” she said. “I hope he’s feeling better.”

  “Bet he’ll rethink the family hot dog eating contest next time,” Nimbus predicted, pressing the buttons for an apple walnut granola bar.

  Dr. Turner had called in the favor at midnight the night before. Diagnosis: Listeria-induced diarrhea. He’d been on the schedule at the clinic for a twelve-hour shift. Still mostly asleep, Sammy had mentally kissed her own day off goodbye and agreed to take his shift.

  It put her even further behind on Project Holiday Wreath, but this way, all the appointments were kept and animals were treated without delay. After all, that was the most important thing.

  “Oh, hey. Think you’ll have any wreaths with little icicles on them?” he asked.

  “I’ll save one for you,” she promised, making a mental note to buy plastic icicles.
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br />   Her phone buzzed on the table. Nimbus threw her a salute as he chomped down half of the granola bar in one bite on his way out the door.

  She wiped her hands on her scrub pants and answered. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Samantha.” Dr. Anastasia Ames managed to convey quite a bit with one word. Aggravation, expectation, a vague annoyance that always accompanied her conversations with her daughter.

  “What’s wrong?” Sammy asked, biting back a sigh.

  “First of all, I heard that you’re working at the Turner Clinic today.”

  Her mother had retired from the practice to pursue more academic challenges. Those challenges required her parents to move closer to New York City, but the Blue Moon grapevine was long and tangled, delivering gossip to a wide network of past and present Mooners.

  “You heard right. Dr. Turner had a medical emergency—a human one,” Sammy explained. “He’s taking my calls on Christmas Eve.”

  “I fail to see how you’re going to build up the reputation of your own practice if you’re too busy swapping shifts with some run-of-the-mill spay and neuter office.”

  “Mmm,” Sammy hummed and took another big bite of cold pizza, knowing a defense wasn’t actually expected.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how hard I worked to establish the practice you now run.”

  “Of course not,” Sammy agreed, picking up the garden center’s seed catalog.

  “Not to mention how I think further dividing your attention by starting this non-profit is a huge mistake that you’ll live to regret,” Anastasia continued.

  While her mom plowed through the list of baffling disappointments, Sammy paged through the catalog. Some daughters got guilt trips about not getting married or producing grandchildren fast enough. Sammy got lectures on carrying the family mantel. Dr. Anastasia Ames may have moved on from actually practicing livestock medicine—she taught it and spoke at conferences about it—but she still expected Sammy to somehow make her proud… without outshining the original Dr. Ames.

  It took three pages of alfalfa and grass seeds before her mother’s lecture began to wind down.

  “Oh. While I have you,” she said as an afterthought, “your father and I aren’t coming for Christmas Eve. I’m giving a lecture the night before in Boston, and we’ve been invited to brunch with the Secretary of Agriculture. I don’t want to have to rush off. So your father will put your gifts in the mail, and we’ll touch base after the holidays on rescheduling.”

  Only Anastasia would put “by the way, I’m not spending Christmas with my only child” in the back seat in favor of leading with a lecture on duty and family responsibility.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll miss you guys,” Sammy said because it was expected.

  “Yes, well. Have a Merry Christmas,” Anastasia said, also because it was expected. “Talk soon.”

  And just like that, her mother was gone. Dr. Ames was an important, busy woman who didn’t have time for things like goodbyes.

  Sammy hadn’t even put the phone down when it buzzed in her hand. It was a text message from her father.

  Dad: Already missing you, Sammy Girl! I had big plans for getting your mother drunk on eggnog so she’d go to bed early and we could watch Die Hard together without her complaining about “unrealistic stunts”.

  There was a collection of characters after the text, and Sammy guessed he’d been trying to send a frowny face.

  Sammy: I’ll miss you, too! Maybe we can watch it together after New Year’s?

  Dad: Sounds like a plan. Good luck with your fundraiser! Send pictures of your sold-out stand! Merry Christmas, kiddo. Love you.

  Sammy: Merry Christmas, Pops. Love you.

  It wouldn’t be the same, and they both knew it. But overt sentimentality wasn’t tolerated within the Ames family. Sammy and her father had learned to sneak it past Anastasia wherever possible.

  She opened a separate text conversation and started typing.

  Sammy: Okay. Who had my parents canceling Christmas on the 20th?

  Layla: Yes! Me! Suck it, bitches!

  Eva: Oh no! I’m so sorry! Does this mean you’ll be alone for Christmas? That’s so sad!

  Sammy couldn’t help but smile at Eva’s response. She was the newest addition to the group of otherwise life-long friends. Not only was the woman a romance novelist who couldn’t tolerate unhappy endings, she was also pregnant and hormonal. When she wasn’t throwing up, she was crying.

  Sammy: You’re crying right now, aren’t you, Eva?

  Eva: Who would leave their only daughter all alone on Christmas? It breaks my heart!

  Eden: What did I miss? Davis just made me orgasm twice in the kitchen, and I blacked out for a minute.

  Eden was Sammy’s best friend since third grade. They’d bonded over the unfortunate death of the class hamster while he’d been in their care. Mr. Biscuits had died of natural causes, but Sammy’s mother still held a grudge for the dent it put in her reputation as a veterinarian.

  Sammy: Eva, stay hydrated. Eden, I hope you sanitized the work surfaces after your orgasmic bliss.

  Layla: Hey, remember the good old days when we used to all be single and no one was getting laid?

  Eva: Layla, maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones or writer’s instinct, but I get the feeling your sexy next-door neighbor wouldn’t mind making you not single.

  Layla: N-O. Huckleberry Cullen is NOT my type. Besides, Sammy was the one at the top of the Beautification Committee’s victim list.

  Sammy shuddered. The Beautification Committee was a thin disguise for a diabolical matchmaking organization.

  Sammy: I have zero mental energy to start a relationship right now. If the BC tries to pair me up with some bachelor Mooner right now it might just push me into the nunhood.

  Eva: We’re pretty busy with our nude calendar sales at the moment though. But our record speaks for itself. True love waits for no mental energy!

  Eva and her sister Emma were the newest Beautification Committee recruits.

  Layla: Don’t waste your time. Unless the BC is planning to deliver the Mistletoe Kisser to Sammy’s front door, you’ll all be wasting your time.

  Sammy: Do NOT give them any ideas. They burned a house down in the last match.

  Eva: Allegedly! ALLEGEDLY burned a house down. And that was an accident. Also, it totally worked out in the end. You’re welcome, Eden!

  The Beautification Committee had—through accidental arson—managed to end a fifty-year feud and match Lunar Inn manager Eden with the next-door winery general manager Davis. The two were happily having sex everywhere and planning on building a house that would sit astride their respective property lines.

  Eden: Hang on. Does this mean Christmas Eve Pajama Happy Hour is back on?

  Layla: YES! I’ll bring a slightly nicer veggie tray purchased with my new gambling winnings. I’ve also been saving this bottle of moonshine I got from some crazy West Virginia town. Bootleg Straps? Springs?

  Eden: You can count on Davis and me for the wine and the dogs as if you need more animals running around your place.

  Eva: Donovan is working Christmas Eve and I can’t drink, but I’ll bring snacks and freezer bags for me to throw up in.

  Sammy: Best Christmas Eve ever.

  She meant it. She didn’t mind quiet holidays. She had good friends, great pets, and plenty of Christmas movies to keep her entertained in between naps and eating all of the cookie trays her clients insisted on giving her. It was a damn good life.

  Sure, it would be nice to have someone around to swap stories of the day with in front of the fireplace with a tall glass of wine. Someone to have regular, awesome sex with. But where in the hell was she going to find a guy who didn’t mind sharing a half-renovated house with three weird cats and a significant other that ended every day smelling like a barnyard?

  For now, she’d stick with the plan. Finish the damn wreaths. Get her damn farm fixed up. And officially start the damn rescue.

  “Get back here,
Horatio!”

  Sammy jolted as a humongous, hairy, half-washed dog bolted into the breakroom.

  Jonica, the long-legged vet tech, slid into the room in soaking wet scrubs. The reindeer antler headband on her Afro was crooked.

  Horatio, ninety pounds of mischievous mutt, evaded his captor by ducking under the table.

  “Express his anal glands and he’s fine, but try to give him a bath and he loses his damn mind!” Jonica complained as she crawled under the table.

  A chair tumbled to the floor as the wrestling match ensued. Sammy was just getting ready to join the fray when a pissed off tomcat hissed in the doorway.

  “How did Mufasa get out?” she yelped.

  Horatio stopped squirming and made a mad dash for the evil cat.

  Sammy did the only thing she could, executing a flying leap and tackling the dog one foot from the bad-tempered tiger cat.

  The dog went pancake-flat under her and then wriggled around to give her face and hair a lick with his giant pink tongue. She swore he was laughing at her as the hissing cat wandered off.

  “You big doofus,” she said, getting a firm grip on the dog’s collar.