At the end of the aisle, a woman wearing a floppy felt hat and glasses looked up. Her eyes went wide and she tried to duck behind a display of holiday-themed wine gift bags.
“Hi, Gram!” chirped Aurora, the underage tequila shoplifter.
“You’re not invisible, Mom,” Beckett said dryly.
The mayor’s mother popped back up, abandoning the charade. Just then, everyone paused and shouted “Fiiiive golden riiings!”
“Oh, hi, Aurora, Beckett, Bruce…” Her gaze tracked to Ryan. “Man I don’t know.”
“This is Carson Shufflebottom’s great-nephew Ryan,” Beckett said.
“From Seattle. The one with the condo with the concrete countertops,” Bruce added.
Ryan added Santa Bruce to his list of things he didn’t like about Blue Moon right under “spontaneous singalongs in liquor stores”.
“Hi, Ryan. I’m Phoebe. This one’s mother and that one’s grandmother,” she said, pointing to Beckett and then Aurora with a large bottle of merlot.
“Uh. Hi,” Ryan said, growing increasingly uncomfortable. He wished the aisle was wide enough to escape this conversation.
“What are you doing here, Mom?” Beckett asked. “I’m supposed to have the kids to your place in fifteen minutes.”
Phoebe joined them in the aisle, crowding Ryan even further. “I’m preparing to babysit,” she explained, shooting a pointed look at Aurora. “How are you liking Blue Moon so far, Ryan?”
Don’t be an asshole, Ryan cautioned himself. It wasn’t a babysitting grandmother’s fault his life was a disaster. “It’s uh… very festive,” he said. “Full of livestock.”
“It certainly is,” she agreed. “What brings you to town?”
Bruce was making a suspicious slashing motion across his throat.
Phoebe’s eyebrows rose over her glasses. “Oh,” she said as if someone had answered her question. “Well, good luck with… everything.”
Beckett rolled his eyes toward the ceiling while Bruce laughed nervously.
Ryan had the distinct impression that he was missing something. Not that he cared to figure out what that something was. No small-town shenanigans could measure up to the hell he’d endured this week.
“Gram, I picked this out for you,” Aurora announced, proudly holding up her tequila. “You can have some while I give Grampa a makeover!”
The kid was going to be a menace in her teenage years, Ryan predicted. Mother and son shared a silent and pointed exchange. You owe me, Phoebe’s face said to Beckett.
“Let Gram see that bottle,” Phoebe said with a sigh. Aurora handed it over and her grandmother studied the label then shrugged. “Good enough for me and Grampa Glamorous.”
“Yay!” Aurora squealed. “Mr. Oakleigh, can I pick something for you?” She was already reaching for a bottle of something called Sour Apple Pucker. It looked like NyQuil.
“That’s quite all right,” Bruce said, patting her on her snarl of red curls. “But you can tell your daddy how much I need his attention regarding an issue with the state auditor.”
“Nah. I’d rather pick a drink for you,” the kid said.
“What’s the problem, Bruce?” Phoebe asked.
“Well, it seems that there is a problem with our paperwork—”
Beckett cut him off. “Bruce is town supervisor. He’s going to supervise. I am going home to my beautiful, impatient wife, and you,” he said, pointing at Phoebe, “are taking my children so Gia and I can speak in complete sentences for one whole night.”
“But—”
Beckett cut off Santa Bruce with one raised hand. Bruce, looking like a recently kicked puppy, slunk off down the aisle.
Ryan tried to do the same, but his way was blocked by a store employee with a cart of stock for the shelves.
“I expect you to be feeling very grateful toward Franklin and me, favorite son,” Phoebe said cagily.
“Extremely,” Beckett agreed.
“How extremely?” she pressed.
“Day spa for you and Franklin at that place you like.”
“The Hershey Spa? Hmm. Three treatments each,” she said, cocking her head.
“Two treatments, plus lunch,” her son bargained.
“Deal,” Phoebe said smugly.
Ryan decided it was beyond time to extricate himself from the conversation. He attempted to squeeze past Aurora, but she very deliberately stepped in his way and grinned. Diabolical child. He turned to try the other way, but a couple in matching corduroy bell-bottoms was hogging half the aisle and making excited exclamations over some kind of organic wheatgrass vodka.
In desperation, he snatched a bottle off the employee’s cart. “Well, I need to go take care of… this bottle,” Ryan announced, holding up the bottle.
Phoebe clinked her tequila to his whiskey. “It was nice meeting you, Ryan. If you need anything while you’re in town, let me know.”
“Uh. Thanks,” he grumbled. He’d be on a plane by tomorrow and doubted there was anything he’d need help with in less than twenty-four hours.
Phoebe turned her attention back to her son and granddaughter. “I’ll see you two in—” she glanced down at her watch. “Not very many minutes.” With a wave, she headed toward the cash register.
“Don’t drink all of the tequila before we get there,” Beckett said, playing tug-of-war with Aurora over a cheap bottle of peach-flavored vodka.
The frustration and abject fear on Beckett’s face made things click into place. Ryan snapped his fingers. “Goat Guy.”
Beckett won the battle and pulled the bottle free. “What Guy?”
“Goat Guy,” Ryan repeated. “That’s who you look like. I met him at the vet clinic. Do you have a brother?”
“Two. Which one was it?” Beckett asked.
Ryan couldn’t remember anything besides not liking the way the guy flirted with the vet. “He’s the one with all the goats.”
He assumed that would narrow it down enough. He assumed wrong.
“Big beard or short beard?” the mayor asked, stroking a hand over his own neatly groomed beard.
Ryan had never been asked to classify facial hair before. “More stubble than beard.”
The mayor nodded. “That would be Jax. He’s the youngest. The goat hates his guts.”
Jax, the cheek kisser. Ryan still thought it was a stupid name.
Aurora giggled. “Clementine wants to eat Uncle Jax. It’s sooo funny! Also, he looks nice in blue eyeshadow.”
Ryan didn’t want to know how she’d obtained that information. He didn’t care for how the little girl was studying him like she was trying to figure out if he’d look better in spring or winter colors.
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” he lied, thankful that the aisle had finally cleared, leaving him with an actual escape route.
“You as well,” Beckett called after him.
“Bye, Ryan!” Aurora waved.
He ducked into the checkout line closest to the door. There was a display of hideous, hand-knit hats, mittens, and scarves. He averted his eyes from the rainbow of lopsided winter gear and stared at his shoes to thwart any more conversations with strangers. The bell jingled, and two more customers entered, bringing with them a cloud of frigid winter air.