“No, they’re all out of the country. I think I’ll just go to the farm and then return to my hotel room and—”
“No family on Christmas?! Alone in a motel? No, no, that is not doing proper for such a good Greek boy.” Zina pinched my cheeks before turning to her husband. “We will set plate for him, yes?”
“Oh, yes. Will be fun to have more children at the table. Meet us at Our Lady of Fatima out on Bayberry Road for mass. Eleven-thirty services so farm chores are done. Then we will have dinner at our house.” I threw a look at Acosta, who was over by the buffet tables. “It will make for him good to have a friend at the table. No worries!” Mr. Melios clapped me on the shoulder, then led his wife to the food tables. I sat there in shock. I was pleased, of course, to be invited instead of locked in my motel room watching old black and white holiday flicks and shoving junk food into my face as part of my yearly “Why can’t I have a Christmas like the kids on the TV shows do?” eating my emotions festival.
There was a brief but highly charged discussion between the elder Melios duo and their boy. Acosta flung me a look as sharp as a ninja star. It stuck in my flesh just like one. Inhaling and blowing out a long breath, I began girding myself for Christmas Day with the Melios clan.
Should be fun.
That was sarcasm, right?
Oh yeah, big time.
* * *
“Okay,so this is how we handle things. Oh, a bunny! Get out of the road, bunny. Skedaddle. Poor little bunny. The snow is so deep. There should be plowed bunny lanes for the bun-buns.” I crawled along the dirt road leading to the rescue at a whopping twenty miles per hour. It was still dark out and I did not want to run into a bear as he ate precious bunnies who were loitering in the road. “Sure, he says the bears are hibernating, but are theyreally?”
No one answered because I was alone. As always. On Christmas. Deck the halls and fa-la-la-la-freaking-la. You’d think I would be used to it, and on many levels I was, but still it was a big fat kick in the face. What kind of family spent the holidays scattered across the globe?
“Dysfunctional ones, duh, Decker.” I was so right. “Okay, so this is the plan. We do not act like we had sexy times together. We go into the barn in our new boots and present ourselves as Mr. Professionalism. And we do the work and we do it well. Acosta will be impressed with my cleverness and quick learning skills and promote me to chief poop shoveler. Maybe we’ll kiss. No!” I shook my head to clear the dirty imagery away. “No kissing or flirting. Just hard work. A good work ethic will impress him more than your tongue massaging his glans.”
My new pastel barn boots—they only had ladies sizes in spring colors in the stock room—slipped off the gas. I fishtailed a bit on the firmly packed snow, my fingers white knuckling the wheel until the car straightened out.
“Phew. Okay, Decker, no more oral sex fantasies while driving. We’ll wreck and all that will be found of you out here will be your bear gnawed bones. The woods are wild, dark, and deep as Mr. Robert Frost once said. Deep and full of bears.”
Another country western song hit the airwaves, the prerecorded music filling the car with the rapturous voice of Kenny Rogers singing about it being Christmas every day. If I had to listen to this stuff much longer, I just might drive into the woods and offer the bears my spleen.
“With a nice chianti,” I said in my best imitation of Hannibal Lecter, which was as far from holiday cheer as one could get other than running over ones grandmother with some reindeer. “Right, here we are.” I glanced over at the new pair of work gloves the salesperson at the feed store had talked me into. I disliked blisters, so gloves it was. “Now, between you and me, gloves, I think we got this. Smiles, everyone. Smiles!”
I slithered up the driveway, parked by the barn, and plastered my best PR face on. Which lasted exactly fourteen seconds after I walked into the barn. Acosta was moving the tractor, easing the manure spreader down the walkway, when I stepped into the barn and was nearly flattened by the poop flinging wagon. I could see his mouth moving, but the tractor was so loud it drowned out what he was saying. Judging by the deep V of his eyebrows and the fire in his eyes, not hearing his tirade was probably for the best.
The engine died. I waved at him with my new gloves. “Good morning and Merry Christmas! I have come prepared and decked to the halls!” I waved my gloved hands, jazz style, and then picked up a boot. Acosta’s mouth dropped open a wee bit. “They’re springy, I know, but they were sold out of all other chore boots. Must be they’re the hot ticket item in Miller’s Lake this year! Still, a splash of lilac and buttercup is nice in the cold heart of winter.”
“Blah! Blah! Blah!”
“Bitsy!” I ran to greet her, dropping to one knee, not even caring if I dropped down into a pile of pooh. My new dungarees were made just for such misadventures, according to Larry at the feed mill. Something about denim not allowing fecal matter to soak through to the—andmy knee was wet. Damn it, Larry! I threw my arms around the goat’s long neck, snickering softly when she ran her tongue over my ear and then lipped at my hair. “You silly goat. I missed you last night. Did you stay warm by the stove?” I sat back on my heels to stare into her beautiful goatie eyes. “My room was chilly. They lock the thermostat. Can you imagine? And the cable channels were terrible. Mostly news, weather, and a few old black and white shows. Not even any room service! Thankfully, I was full from the amazing meal your grandparents made for the fire hall.”
Someone tapped my shoulder. I glanced up. Acosta was standing over me, his expression difficult to read.
“They’re not her grandparents. Her grandmother is living with one of the 4-H kids and her father was sold to a young couple down Scranton way.”
“Gasp!” I covered her ears with my now gloved hands. “How dare you sell her Pap-Pap off to a life of drudgery and slavery?!”
“He literally does nothing all year but eat grain and alfalfa hay and breeds several does for a few weeks. Yep, that’s a life of sheer torture. I should be so damn lucky.”
“Would you breed girl goats or would you prefer breeding boy goats?” Crap. Why did I ask that? That was not in the least professional. He stared at me for the longest time. Millicent the llama began making hungry llama sounds behind me. I hoped she didn’t spit. Goat slobber in my hair was bad enough but llama expectorant was just too much. “Or do you prefer girl goats and boy goats?”
“I prefer not answering those kinds of questions.”
“That’s fair.” I kissed Bitsy on her nose and stood. “Look, I know that this is not the ideal Christmas Day for you. If you want, I can leave now. I’m sure I can find something to do in town. I think there was a bar on the outskirts. I can have a light bite and a Margarita then retire to my room for the night.”
“Do youwantto leave? If you leave, you forfeit.”
“I know. I don’t want you to feel pressured to eat with me due to my sex appeal making—what?”
His scoff was unwarranted.
“You do think highly of yourself,” he tossed at me, to which I merely flung a zinger back.
