Once Upon a New Year’s Eve
The Snowflake Series
Dr. Amelia Lawson, a veterinarian in Christmas Town (aka Dr. Scrooge) finds Snowflake on her doorstep. Gavin Elliott is dog-sitting and doesn’t realize that Snowflake has a nose for a lonely heart…and tasty dog treats that allow Gavin to read the St. Bernard’s thoughts.
Excerpt:
Christmas was over.
Not that it’d come and gone with much fanfare at Amelia Lawson’s house.
Her mother would most likely have had a heart attack to learn she’d made tuna casserole instead of turkey, and pancakes instead of pumpkin pie. Cards? Not a one. And gifts? She’d sent out electronic gift cards rather than wrapped presents.
Amelia’s one concession to the holiday was a two-foot tall live Christmas tree she’d bought at the grocery store. It’d come with a shiny red and green garland. Having grown up in a household that kept Christmas decorations up year round, she’d felt guilty that it lacked a star. But not guilty enough to do anything about it.
“Ho-ho-ho.” Amelia steeped her tea in her quiet cabin at the base of the quiet mountains on the quiet edge of Christmas Town, Maine. It was the day after Christmas and she had plenty of time before she had to be at work at her veterinarian clinic, which was practically in her backyard.
Ho-ho-ho!
That sounded like…Santa?
Amelia dropped her tea bag in her mug. Had her mother and sister finally come to visit? Doubtful. They were probably prowling the day after Christmas sales for more holiday bling. Besides, they hadn’t talked to her in more than three years.
Ho-ho-ho!
Was it a parade? Doubtful. Christmas Town was known for its holiday celebrations, but who staged a parade on a two-lane highway that passed by a veterinary office and ended at a ski resort?
But out on her deck there arose such a clatter, she had to look up to see what was the matter.
Shades of Christmas poems. Amelia grimaced.
If polar bears lived in Maine and slid wildly across icy decks in real-time slow-mo, she might have been worried. Being a vet and knowing polar bears weren’t indigenous to Maine, she recognized the beast that lost its footing and slammed into her French doors for what it was: a large white Saint Bernard.
The dog righted itself and pressed its black, baseball-sized nose to a pane of glass next to the door handle. An icicle of drool hung from its muzzle.
Ho-ho-ho, he barked and then gave her a panting grin.
Grabbing a dish towel, Amelia hurried across her small living room to her front door. “Are you okay, big guy?”
The dog blew into the house along with a blast of frigid air. Both hit her square in the chest. It was the dog who knocked her to the hardwood.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, he seemed to be saying as his spatula-sized tongue licked her face cleaner than a wet wipe on rib-stained fingers. And then he used her as a springboard to bound toward the fireplace. Shivering, her exuberant guest sat on the hearth where the remnants of last night’s fire were just dying down.
Drool-drenched, she was slower getting up. “You caught me by surprise.” Slower closing the door. “Let’s make a deal.” Slow in her T-shirt and blue jeans to feel warm again. “I dry you off and you won’t tackle me.”
He gave a full-body, ear flapping shake that didn’t dislodge the drool-cicle.
“I’ll take that for a yes.” He allowed Amelia to gently wipe at his mouth, removing fringes of ice and the icicle made of slobber. She cleaned the frost off his face next and then brushed the snow off his back.
His body was pure white – rare for a Saint Bernard – and his fur thick enough she could fist her hands in it. His head was more true to the breed with a brown and black mask. While she rubbed him down, he wiggled his torso against her legs and occasionally wiped his drool on her jeans.
Co-co-cold, he grumbled.
“You’re a talker.” Some dogs were, vocalizing every emotion rather than choosing to express themselves with their eyes. Amelia’s father had been a vet and her hero. She’d been talking to animals since she’d uttered her first word: dog. “Let’s get you a blanket.” She tossed her dish towel over her shoulder and then took the pink fuzzy throw with cats printed on it from the back of her brown couch.
The dog eyed it warily and grumbled something that sounded like, cats?
“Cold dogs can’t be choosy dogs.” Again, he allowed Amelia to rub him down. When she was done, she folded the blanket, damp side together, and laid it on the floor near the fire.
She’d noted he wore a blue collar and tag during her pat down. The tag proclaimed him to be Snowflake. She didn’t recognize the area code of the phone number beneath his name. “Snowflake. What a fitting name. I bet someone’s looking for you.”
She met his warm, friendly gaze and was struck with the thought that if lost, few people would try to find Amelia.
She stared at her pathetic little tree. If only adding a star would illuminate what was missing in her life. “Nothing like an animal to make you realize there’s an empty space inside you.”
This was the day for deck clattering, but this time the sound was more the boom-boom-boom of Santa’s boots on a rooftop than Snowflake’s willy-nilly slide into home plate.
A man appeared at her door. Tall, dark knit cap pulled low, yellow reflective sunglasses, a nose that looked as if it might have been broken, broad shoulders beneath a worn blue coat. He looked like one of the men from the ski patrol at the resort up the road. Athletic, authoritative.
He removed his sunglasses. Angry.
In her nice warm cabin behind her unlocked French doors, Amelia trembled like a startled Chihuahua.
If she didn’t move, maybe he wouldn’t see her. If she didn’t move, maybe he’d go away. Unless, of course, the dog gave her away.
The dog gave her away.
Snowflake barked and ran to the door, looking over his shoulder when she didn’t immediately follow, a string of drool where the icicle used to be.
“Okay.” She forced her stocking feet to the door. “But only because you’re vouching for him.”
She opened the door and backed away, ready to sound a blustery warning like a startled Chihuahua if letting him in turned out to be a bad idea.
Snowflake pranced outside and herded the man in with a grumbly-growl that sounded like, about time.
“Unbelievable.” The man’s voice rang to the rafters. He was big and loud and unapologetic. “I must have run a mile. Downhill. In snowboots. That is not how I pictured my morning.”
Unconcerned with the man’s outburst, Snowflake trotted happily to the fireplace, where he dragged his paws across the cat blanket to rearrange it to his satisfaction, circled and then dropped on top of it.
“That dog has the right idea.” The man tugged off his boots and set them next to the door. “When did my job become so cold and thankless?”
It was the kind of question that required no answer. For a moment, there was quiet. Only this quiet wasn’t the serene quiet Amelia was used to. It was the unsettling quiet of the unknown. There was a shoeless stranger in her house.
She folded and refolded the dish towel. She wanted him out. But he was…And she was…
At some point in every quaking Chihuahua’s life, they had to step up and act like a Rottweiler.
Amelia stepped forward and said, “Ummm…”
Her bootless guest ignored her and padded over to the fireplace in his thick wool socks. He unzipped his jacket, stuffed his gloves in his pockets and slipped the jacket off, draping it over her fire pokers. His hair was dark, crisply cut, but beanie-mussed. “Oh, yeah. That’s more like it.” His anger was deflating like an inflatable snow globe at daylight.
But nothing about his presence deflated. He had sturdy shoulders and steady brown eyes. He had the rigid posture and wide stance of a commander in chief. You couldn’t knock him down and expect him not to get back up.
“Didn’t catch your name.” Not a question. An order.
“A-A-Amelia.” The man was so at home in her home, she felt off-balance, like the time she’d tried ice skating and discovered her ankles wouldn’t hold. “Amelia Lawson.”
“Ah, the vet.” He dug in his back pocket for his wallet, removed a card and held it out to her. “Gavin Elliot. Boxes and Boughs, interior design and decoration and light displays. I was going to offer to take down your Christmas decorations in exchange for a cup of hot coffee or something, but…” He glanced around. “Ahh…You’re that Dr. Lawson.”
He recognized her name. Amelia snapped his card on the kitchen counter like a Rottweiler snaps at an unwelcome intruder.
His glance landing on her. It was a pitying glance, one that found the weak spot in her armor and pressed on a patience-severing nerve.
He cleared his throat. “You’re the one they call–”
“Dr. Scrooge,” she finished briskly in her mother’s scolding voice.
The Story Behind the Story
I used to watch the old black and white romcoms with my mom plus the occasional Disney romcom from the 1960s or 19070s (back in the days before streaming). I have a fondness for those slightly whacky storylines. But really… Who doesn’t love a good talking dog story? Especially one where the dog doing the talking likes to matchmake humans. LOL. I was just thrilled to be able to tell another Snowy story.
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