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.
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