Send the Snowplow
Authors: Lisa Kovanda
Tags: #Genre Fiction, #romantic suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #Holiday humor, #Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), #Suspense, #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Holidays
SEND
THE
SNOWPLOW
LISA KOVANDA
Woodchippers and Wings
Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Kovanda
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Woodchippers and Wings
Lincoln, Nebraska
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Send the Snowplow/Lisa Kovanda. -- 1st ed.
Chapter 1
Jaycee Roberts brushed aside her stethoscope as she adjusted the rear view mirror of her Ford Escape. A typical suburban soccer mom vehicle, and the four-wheel drive was essential to get around in the Colorado mountains during the winter. It had already been snowing most of the day, and now, on Christmas Eve, she was headed for her overnight shift at Pleasant Meadows Hospice. Sick people didn’t care about snow, holiday or not. There never really was a good time to die, if you thought about it.
The ring of her cell phone pulled her from her thoughts. She pushed a button on her radio console and placed the call into speaker mode. The in-dash navigation screen displayed her soon-to-be ex-husband, Derek’s, photograph and information.
“What’s up?” Jaycee tried to keep the ice out of her voice.
“Are you driving? Nothing’s open on Christmas Eve.”
She imagined his expression matching the judgmental tone of his voice.
“Some of us have jobs where going to work on holidays isn’t an option. Hospice units are one of them. Unlike yours.”
Exasperation flooded his voice. “Can’t let it go, can you? Where are the kids?”
They’d been separated for nine months, and nothing had changed. He still thought he had the right to use guilt to manipulate her while he could do whatever he wanted without consequences.
“Miranda’s with them tonight. I’ll be with them to open presents on Christmas morning, which is more than you can say.” Yeah, there was more than a little snark in her voice, and she didn’t care.
She didn’t have time to enjoy imagining his response as the Escape hit a patch of ice and skidded sideways. It spun in a series of tight donuts that would have impressed any teenage boy. Four-wheel drive might get you going, and helped with control, but once you lost traction—a spin was still a spin. She screamed and hated herself for doing it with Derek on the other end of the line. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tight they turned as white as the snow falling in huge icy splotches on her windshield.
Derek’s panicked voice blared through her radio speakers. “Jaycee? Jaycee? Are you all right?”
She drew in a few deep breaths. “I’m fine, but I need to get off the phone.”
“Jesus Christ. You should have called in. Who goes to work in a blizzard?” Derek’s sigh came over the speakers. “I left those chains in the trunk, right?”
Still sealed in the store packaging.
“You never got around to showing me how to put them on.”
“Just turn around and go home.”
There it was... that damn condescending tone where he let her know in no uncertain terms how much smarter, more in charge he was, and how much she—well, wasn’t. Ice flared through her reply, and she didn’t care. “Guess what? You lost the right to tell me what to do when you left me and the kids. Merry Christmas.”
She disconnected the call before he had time to reply. Childish? Perhaps, but she didn’t care. “Asshole.” He hadn’t heard that last bit, but so what?
The radio came back on to the ending of a Christmas song. The announcer’s voice followed. “Looks like we’re going to get that white Christmas. The entire listening area is in a winter weather advisory.”
Like she didn’t already know that?
***
“Jaycee?” Derek stared at the now blank screen of his phone. Typical. The going gets a little tough, and she hangs up on him. His finger sat poised to redial the call, but he thought better of it. She was driving in a snowstorm and already upset. It wouldn’t help the situation at all. Instead, he shoved the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket.
His hotel bed held an open suitcase with neatly folded piles of clothes nearby. He’d had plenty to think about during the nine months since he’d left his wife and children—and none of it was good. So, now when he had Jaycee on the phone, why did he go right back to the same old crap?
Derek pulled a small jewelry box out of his pocket and fingered the delicate bow. It was too little, too late, but he’d never know if he sat here and did nothing. Maybe it wouldn’t work out, but he had to try.
Chapter 2
“Everyone who could talk a doctor into a release pass went home with family. Should be quiet.” Betsy, one of Jaycee’s closest friends and fellow nurse at Pleasant Meadows, gave a quick shrug as the pair made their way down the halls for change of shift rounds. The muted shades of the decor were accented with designer Christmas ornaments and lights. All quite... tasteful, if not impersonal. Molly, a Chocolate Labrador therapy dog padded along beside them, festooned in a Christmas elf doggie costume.
“Don’t say that!” Jaycee had to resist the urge to cross herself for good measure. Nurses had their quirks and jinxing the oncoming shift by saying it would be a quiet night ranked right up there at the top of the list of no-no’s.
The bells on the elf costume jangled as Betsy bent down and ruffled the dog’s head. “We don’t believe in that ‘cursing you superstitious crap,’ do we, Molly?” Her words slid like mocha and matched the delicate cafe au lait of her complexion.
Jaycee didn’t even miss a step as they rounded the corner. Marilyn, a former Hollywood scream-queen, now hospice resident, dangled from a green and red scarf tied to the wall handrail. The first few times she’d discovered Marilyn in some form of grisly repose, it had scared the daylights out of her. Now, it was so commonplace, she didn’t even flinch. Kind of sad that the woman who made her name dying in spectacularly gory fashion in the movies was going to meet her demise with something as ordinary as cancer. Ugly, no matter how you tried to dress it up. Jaycee laughed, in spite of herself. “I like the scarf. Bonus points for originality.”
Molly licked Marilyn’s face as she disentangled herself and stood up. Her mane of white hair flowed around her as she shook her finger at the nurses. “One of these days, it’ll be real. My headstone’ll read,
I told you so.
”
Jaycee laughed as the slender woman disappeared into her room. You had to hand it to Marilyn, the old gal had a lot of style. When her time came to face death, she hoped she could pull it off with half the grace and humor. Then again, she could have flipped her car into a ditch and never had to worry about it. You never knew.
“Her son’s plans fell through so Marilyn’s still here.” Betsy gave a sad shrug.
“Poor thing.” It was all the former actress talked about for weeks, too. Alone in a hospice unit on Christmas, and with all likelihood she wouldn’t see another holiday. Staging a few little macabre scenes for attention didn’t seem so silly in light of such sobering thoughts.
Their next stop was to check in on Walter. If there was anyone on the unit who was a polar opposite of Marilyn, it was him. Until a few months ago, he’d been in full high-powered CEO mode. Until a nagging cough brought him to the doctor. No big deal, right? Wrong. Lung cancer had other ideas for his prospectus.
In spite of the ravages of failed radiation and chemotherapy, Walter still looked every bit the part of the in-charge CEO. Even though she didn’t have proof, Jaycee was convinced the laundry staff hand-pressed his button-down, monogrammed, dress shirts and two thousand thread-count sheets. He looked up from his Wall Street Journal as they entered.
Betsy nodded. “You need anything, Walter?”
Walter reached for a folded sheet of paper stuck under the edge of his coffee cup. “You want my list?”
Betsy raised an eyebrow. “No.” It was an ongoing game... sort of.
He sighed, gave a couple flicks of his monogrammed wrist, and shooed them out of the room. “Then, I guess not.”
Jaycee slid the note from under his cup and tucked it into her pocket. “Go to bed. Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.”
Walter snorted and didn’t lift his gaze from the paper, but gave a reluctant a smile.
Molly led the way to the next room and waited while Jaycee pushed the door open. Soft snores came from Brad, the skeletal shell of a former college all-star athlete. His pregnant wife, Valerie, dozed in an overstuffed recliner at his bedside. Her baby bump was more of a baby mountain under the blanket covering her. Jaycee pulled the door back shut, but not before she noticed the couple holding hands in their sleep. “I don’t know how Valerie does it.”
Betsy shrugged. “You stand at that altar and promise, til death do us part. Fifty minutes, or fifty years, that’s family.”
The words hit her like a sucker-punch to the gut. Jaycee slumped against the wall. She’d made that promise and failed.
Betsy marched over and grabbed Jaycee’s shoulders. “Stop beating yourself up. It happens.”
“First Christmas since he left, and it sucks.”
“Girl, you got this.” Betsy jerked her head toward the nurses station.
She did have this, and even if she didn’t, it was Christmas Eve, and Jaycee wasn’t about to make her friend stay a minute longer than she needed to. They were nearly bowled over by Chris Kadavy, a nurse with Harlequin romance-cover good looks, and he damn well knew it, and Harold, a craggy retired car salesman with Hugh Hefner delusions of grandeur, as the pair raced wheelchairs down the hall toward them.
Betsy put her hands on her hips and gave them a ‘mama’s gonna whip your hiney’ stare. Chris cowered like he expected her to do it, too. Jaycee had witnessed that stare bring grown men to their knees. It was one of her goals to master the look—preferably before her kids reached their teenage years.
Chris popped out of the wheelchair like it was on fire. “High five.” He and Harold did their own version of a rap-star handshake. “On the side.”
Harold grinned as they slapped. “Down low.”
Chris pointed at Harold and gave Betsy a wary glance. “Gotta go.” He pushed the wheelchair down the hall and disappeared near the storage closet.
Harold eyed Jaycee like she was the main course on a dessert buffet and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Looking good, Miz Roberts.” He preened a moment. “You gonna do that new fangled thing and change your last name now that you’re on the market?”
Jaycee hadn’t known it was possible to create an audible flinch, but apparently it was. Betsy covered for her and snapped her fingers. “Diana, isn’t it about time for Harold’s whirlpool?”
The co-ed nursing assistant sauntered over, her cleavage nearly bursting through her too-tight scrub top, and her bubble gum snapping. Harold’s eyes about bugged out of his head. Betsy glanced between the two. “Might want to make it a cold one.”
Harold laughed. “I heard that, Betsy. Stop trying to cramp my style.”
“I’m sure you did, you old fool, You wouldn’t know style if it hit you upside your thick skull.”
Harold cackled as Diana wheeled him away.
Betsy put her things away and grabbed her purse from a drawer under the desk while Jaycee watched. “You always talk to him like that?”
“He that crazy cousin. Every family’s got one.” Betsy paused and her smile turned somber. “It’s gonna break my heart when that old jackass dies.”
“He does kind of grows on you.”
“Like a case of herpes.”
The random absurdity of the statement puckered Jaycee’s face into an expression that had to resemble a straight shot of lemon juice. Betsy burst out into laughter. “Diana yammers on about her sexual escapades like she’s on reality television. Some things I don’t want to know about. Herpes is one of them.”
She had that much right. Molly wandered into the nurses station and pawed at Jaycee’s leg. “Okay, Molly, we’ll go outside.”
