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.
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.