Janet Evanovich - Thanksgiving

Several hours later she once again dragged herself out of bed to stare out her window. Now what? It sounded like more cars in her driveway. She hadn’t had this much company since her neighbor, old Mrs. Wipple, had mistaken the plume of black smoke spewing from Megan’s tail pipe for a barn fire and phoned a false alarm in to the fire department.

A young man saw Megan at the window and waved. “Just delivering your new car, ma’am.”

“I don’t have a new car.”

“You do now,” he said, smiling. “I’ll leave the keys in the glove compartment.”

She pulled on jeans and a sweat shirt, hopped into a pair of boots, and ran downstairs. She threw open the front door and gaped at the shiny red car sitting in her driveway. It was one of those little Japanese cars, brand new, with a big white bow stuck to its door handle. A card had been taped to the window. It said: “Meg, sorry I smashed your car. Pat.”

“Oh, hell.” He was being nice again.

At one – thirty Megan called Pat.

A familiar male voice answered the phone. “Dr. Hunter’s office.Dr. Hunter speaking.”

“Pat? What on earth are you doing answering your own phone?”

“Megan? Did you get the car?”

“Yes. It’s a great car, but-”

“It gets thirty miles to the gallon and has intermittent windshield wipers.”

“I know, but-”

“It has front – wheel drive and radials.”

“But-”

“Is red okay?”

“Pat! I can’t keep this car!”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, how are you paying for it? I know you can’t afford car payments.” A thought flashed through her mind. “Patrick Hunter, where’s your receptionist?”

“Listen, Megan, I’d love to chat, but this is runny – nose season, and I have a waiting room filled with sniffling kids.”

“I don’t want to be obligated to you for this car.”

“You’re not obligated. I was the one obligated. I wrecked your car, and I felt obligated to replace it. Besides, it’s easier for me this way. I’m not constantly worrying about your driving that old maroon piece of junk.”

“You worried about me?”

There was a moment of silence, and when Pat spoke it was in a low, intimate voice. “Of course I worried about you. I care about you.”

She sighed. “In fact, you care about me so much that you’re thinking about thinking about marrying me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t do me any favors,” she said and hung up.

On a Sunday afternoon Megan was perched on a high stool inside the wigmaker’s shop, and peering out at a quickly darkening Williamsburg. When the weather was cooperative she checked tickets outdoors, standing just to the side of the shop entrance, but today the temperature had plummeted, forcing her to move indoors.

The sky was lead gray, and a few snowflakes drifted past the window. Candles had been lit to dispel the gloom in the shop, but their cozy glow did little to brighten Megan’s mood. She hadn’t seen Pat or spoken to him in six days. It seemed like six years.

Snow swirled against the glass panes and dusted the porch railing, isolating Megan from the rest of the world. Sounds were muffled, and visibility was limited to a few feet. Under other circumstances this would have been a time for her to play, but she didn’t feel playful that day. She was relieved when it was five o’clock, and she could go home before road conditions became dangerous.

She said good – bye to the wigmaker and wrapped her black woolen cape tightly around herself, pulling the hood over her head. She’d parked in the lot on Francis Street, just a short distance away, but she was chilled to the bone by the time she reached her car.

Snow clung to her eyebrows and melted off the tip of her nose. She stamped her shoes and attempted to shake the snow from her cape before sliding behind the wheel.

The little red car purred to life, and for the first time in six days she was truly thankful Pat had insisted she keep the car. They’d agreed it would be a loan. He had reduced his receptionist’s hours until after Christmas, when, Megan hoped, she would make enough money from her pottery to take over the car payments.

She slowly drove through the back streets, observing the newly hung eighteenth – century Christmas decorations. Red velvet bows and evergreen sprays adorned many of the private residences. Traditional Williamsburg wreaths of laurel, trimmed with fresh apples, pineapples, pine cones, and peanuts hung on doors. By next week the town would be alive with the spirit of Christmas, bracing itself for the onslaught of holiday tourists. Megan didn’t want to think about it. Christmas was a family time, and she no longer had a family. She had a mother and father, of course, but they were far away.

She grimly stared at the back – street houses and wondered what activity was taking place behind the wreaths and bows. Windows glowed golden through the curtain of snow, and smoke curled from old brick chimneys. It was easy to imagine the laughter of children as they hunted for boots and scarves and begged their parents to get sleds down from summer hiding places in the garage.

She purposely avoided passing by Pat’s house and Tilly Coogan’s apartment. She couldn’t bear the thought of being on the outside, looking in. She couldn’t bear the pain of not belonging.

She carefully traveled the country road, becoming more tense as the snow deepened, grateful for the new tires and front – wheel drive, which held the car on the slick surface. She briefly closed her eyes in silent thanks when her driveway appeared. Be it ever so lonely, she thought, it was still good to be home.

She locked the car and went straight to the barn, cautiously opening the paddock door for the horse. When she’d first moved to the farm she’d tried to make friends with the animal, but it had been aloof, disdaining her clucking noises and ignoring offered apples. When its owner had appeared recently on Megan’s doorstep at seven one Saturday morning, looking for a weekend horse sitter, Megan had jumped at the chance.

It wasn’t the prettiest horse she had ever seen, nor the most charismatic, but it intrigued her all the same. And besides, she needed the money. Two scoops of grain, a slice of hay, and let it come inside for the night. Those were the instructions. Very simple.

It was a nice horse, Megan told herself as it obediently plodded toward its stall. It had soft brown eyes and a glossy black coat. It was just that horses were so big, and this particular horse seemed bigger than most, with a huge belly, large, clomping hooves, and enormous teeth. She gave it grain and hay and filled its water bucket with fresh water.

“Nice horse,” she told it timidly, giving it a good – night pat on the forehead.

Once inside her house Megan retreated to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot chocolate and a ham sandwich and sat at the round wood table, sketching new designs and planning formulas for new glazes for her pots.

Outside the wind howled under the eaves, and snow pinged against frosted windowpanes. When a particularly ferocious gust of wind buffeted the old house, Megan looked up in surprise. It was eleven – thirty by the cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall.

The barn door blew open with a slam, and she scowled at the thought of going outdoors. She had to check on the horse, she reminded herself firmly. She had to make sure it was warm enough.

This was silly, she thought as she trudged through the snow. She wouldn’t know a cold horse if she saw one, and if it was cold, she wouldn’t know what to do about it. She switched the barn lights on and was greeted by a low whinny that caused all the little hairs to stand up on her neck.

The horse was moving about its large box stall, restless and agitated. It rolled its eyes at Megan, showing the whites, and gave another whinny from deep in its throat. Its belly bulged awkwardly hanging heavy.

“Holy smoke,” Megan whispered. The horse looked deranged. Probably from carrying that bloated stomach around. It looked as if it had eaten a small cow.

“Listen,” she said to the horse, “don’t worry about it. I’ll get a vet. He’ll know what to do. Probably you just need some Pepto Bismol. About two gallons of it.”

She copied the vet’s number from the barn wall, ran back to the kitchen, dialed the number, and waited. No answer. Great. The horse was dying at eleven – thirty on a Sunday night in the middle of a raging blizzard. Her chances of finding a vet were about as good as her chances of flying to Tokyo without a plane.

Stay calm, she told herself. If you can’t get a vet, then call a doctor! That was insane. What doctor would come out on a night like this to look at a hyper horse? Pat.

Half an hour later Pat slowly drove his car into a ditch at the entrance to Megan’s driveway. He crawled through the passenger side window, catapulted himself off the tilted chassis into a waist – high snowbank, and quickly ran through his entire repertoire of expletives.

He was wading through the storm of the century, in the middle of the night, to examine a horse. He’d have liked to think it was a ruse Megan had constructed to bring them together, but he knew better. Not even Megan could think up something as dumb as this. A horse, for crying out loud. He didn’t know anything about horses.

He’d been in a black mood for six days, and slogging through knee – high snow wasn’t doing much to improve his disposition. He missed Megan, dammit. He missed her every second of every minute of every day. And he was furious with himself for missing her. He should have known better than to fall in love with a stubborn redhead. When Megan did something, she did it all the way. A hundred and three percent. She was… overwhelming.