“Did I say sister? I meant second cousin on my mother’s side. She’s like a sister me,” Carson said. “Anyway, that’s why I’m on a plane to Boca.”
Ryan came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the lane. “You’re what?” he asked.
“On a plane.”
“I thought you were the one with the emergency,” Ryan reminded him.
He’d flown across the country and rented the world’s stupidest clown car on zero sleep for nothing. He could have been home in sweatpants, halfway through that expensive bottle of whiskey he’d been saving for the special occasion that had never arrived.
“I do have an emergency,” Carson insisted. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help others. It’s the Blue Moon way. My sister’s emergency—” His uncle’s voice cut off, and Ryan thought he heard someone else murmuring on the other end. “I mean my cousin just broke her… fetlock joint. She’s having surgery.”
Fetlock joint? Ryan was an accountant, not a surgeon. Even so, he was ninety-seven percent certain that the human body was devoid of fetlock joints.
“Okay,” he said, blowing out a breath and counting backward from ten. It wasn’t Carson’s fault he’d gone batshit delusional. “Why did I fly across the country if you’re not even here?”
“Because while I’m helping my cousin, you’ll be helping me,” Carson shouted from the speakers. “I need you to save my farm by Christmas Eve.”
Christmas Eve was four days away.
“That’s not an emergency, Carson,” Ryan said, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering if this was what an aneurysm felt like. “That’s a damn Christmas movie.”
He’d made the mistake of dating Marsha, a TV Christmas movie enthusiast. It had taken a valiant effort to overlook her obscene love of the campy, predictable entertainment. But her pluses should have evened out that annoying quirk. She was a smart, practical, well-dressed actuary with an impressive retirement account.
On paper, they made sense. However, in real life they just didn’t add up. The entire relationship had been a misstep, putting him a full year behind on his plan to add a partner to his life before he made partner at the firm.
They’d broken up three days before last Christmas Eve when he found her planning the perfect outfit for the surprise Christmas morning proposal she was expecting. Apparently Marsha’s practicality only extended to her career and wardrobe, not her love life.
A ridiculous, romantic proposal after only six months of dating was not in his life plan.
Ryan’s Life Plan
1. Make partner at the firm.
2. Buy a bigger condo with solid resale potential.
3. Find a suitable girlfriend to date for 18-24 months before proposing. Maybe an attorney or a financial advisor. No Christmas movie enthusiasts allowed.
“Christmas movie? You always were a joker,” Carson wheezed.
Ryan had never once in his life been accused of being a joker.
“I’m counting on you, kiddo,” his uncle continued. “I’m in a bit of a financial bind.”
With gritted teeth, Ryan eased the car farther down the lane. Low banks of snow piled up on either side made it difficult to see what was beyond the driveway. He despised not knowing where he was going.
“What kind of trouble? Is some evil real estate developer going to take over your farm and build a bunch of environmentally unfriendly condos?” Sarcasm was Ryan’s second language. He’d seen that movie four times. Or maybe it had been four movies with the same plot line. Either way, they’d all starred one of the actresses from Full House.
“Huh. Yeah. That!” his uncle said cheerfully. “Everything you need is in the house. It’s unlocked. I’m counting on you.”
“Counting on me to what?”
“Save the farm. Save the day. You’re my only hope. Uh-oh. You’re. Breaking. Up. Going through… tunnel.”
This time Ryan very definitely heard someone else hiss in the background. “Not a tunnel, you nincompoop! You’re on a plane.”
“Oh, right. The plane is going through a sky tunnel. Bye!”
The call disconnected at the same moment his headlights cut through the gloom to illuminate a white clapboard farmhouse and a barn that had seen better days. Dusk had fallen like a heavy, wet blanket thanks to an unsettling lack of streetlights.
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.