Dr. Noah and the Sugar Plum Fairy (2 page)

“Wow, kitty, you look great,” she said as she reached to grab the pen and lipstick that had flown from her purse when the stool slid out from under her. At least that’s what she thought had happened. “I mean you look
really
great. How long have I been out?”

She was on all fours trying to gather her things and check her phone for the exact time when Dr. Barron plowed through the door. “How’s he doing?”

This is not happening, not happening, not happening...

And yet, here he was, rushing to her side and reaching for her arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She avoided his help and scrambled to her feet. “I’m fine.”

“But your forehead. Did you cut yourself?”

“No. Wait. What?”

“Your forehead. It looks like you hurt yourself.”

She pressed her fingers into her skin.

No. Way.

“Oh,
that
.” She paused to choose her words carefully, though there was no way this would not be mortifying. “I’m a little clumsy at times, and I think what happened here is that I fell asleep on that stool while leaning against the cage. What you have here,” she said and gestured toward her face, “are nothing more than sleep indentations. And if I’ve drooled all over myself as well, I would thank you to find a shot of horsey knockout drops and allow me to put myself out of my humiliation and misery.”

He looked away and placed his fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. His eyes twinkled a bit. He was trying not to laugh.

“Go ahead and laugh,” she said. “It’s funny.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Now let me get this old man unhooked and out of this cage. He looks better already.”

He grabbed gloves off the counter, pulled a supply cart towards him, and sat on the same stool she’d completed an ugly dismount from just moments ago.

She continued to right herself and make sure everything was off the floor. She shoved the brochure and business card deep into her purse. “I know you must get asked this every day, but do you come from a family of veterinarians? Is that why your parents named you Noah? Because they figured you might end up working with animals?”

She watched his back as he continued to work, hunched over, half in the cage. Strands of tawny hair danced at his collar.

He stiffened and then shrugged. “By that reasoning, you could say I come from a family of ship builders or sailors or even meteorologists. Wasn’t Noah’s story more about the ark and the flood?”

“Well stated. But I think Noah’s story was more about obedience to God. About doing something God tells you to do, even though it might sound impossible and everyone else thinks you’re nuts. He could have asked him to do anything. It just happened to involve a boat, a flood, and some animals.”

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Is this sermon a long one? ‘Cause I’m almost done here.”

She grinned a little herself but couldn’t think of one thing to say.

He tossed Snowball’s linens on the floor. “My grandfather’s name is Noah. I’m named after him. My parents are people doctors. They’re really quite appalled that I became a vet.”

“That’s too bad.” She placed her purse, coat, and scarf on the counter by the door and set her pet carrier on the table in the middle of the room. “There’s a lot of that coincidental name thing going on in my family, too. My grandfather’s name is Stone.”

“Did you say Stone? As in Stonewall Jackson?”

“Yes, but no. It’s just Stone as in Stone Trumbull Wholesale Landscaping Supplies. He lives with us now, but he had a business in Houston for years. And he sold stone.”

Dr. Barron didn’t really respond, so she kept babbling. It was not one of her more attractive traits.

“Then there’s my sister. Her name is Melody. She’s almost eighteen and, true to her name, she is all things musical. She sings, she dances, she composes. She’ll probably be a famous ballerina one day. She’s incredible. She’s even been to New York to study.” Jane paused to take a breath. “And that leaves me. Just plai—”

“Don’t say it.” He turned with the cat nestled safe against his chest.

“Just Plain Jane.”

He looked down at the cat and gently scratched around his ear. “See? I knew that was coming, and I couldn’t stop her.” He carried the furry ball to the table. “You forgot about Monsieur Snowball. It’s pretty obvious what happened there.”

She rushed to cuddle the cat, being careful not to bump his cheek or the stiff Christmas bandage on his leg. “Yeah, I was ten and not too creative.”

“But why is he
French
?”

She laughed out loud. “I was very much consumed with dance myself back then. My sister and I danced so much that my parents put a practice barre in the game room between our bedrooms. Monsieur Snowball and I spent many hours speaking broken ballet French. He was my Nutcracker Prince, and I was the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Snowball wandered back across the table and pressed his nose against Dr. Barron’s long fingers to ask for another scratch. “He should be dancing again in no time, but take it easy.”

“It’s not like I do that now,” she said as further embarrassment set in. Surely he didn’t think she carried on that way as an adult. As if she were going to rush home and don a classic pink tutu and pointe shoes and make her suffering cat watch her
demi plié, tendu, and releve
at the barre. That would be crazy. Not entirely untrue when the cat was well, but crazy. “I gave up serious dancing a long time ago. In fact, now I’m one semester away from graduation and my first teaching job.”

“Yes, I know,” he said simply. “Mrs. Salmons told me you were home on break. What age and subject do you want to teach?”

Oh, mercy, what else had Mrs. Salmons said? “I hope to be certified K-12, but I prefer to teach English-Language Arts and writing at the junior high level.”

“Are you at UT?”

“No, I’m an Aggie. And before you get too alarmed, you’re new here, so I’ll tell you it’s more common than you think that Austinites sometimes leave Austin and go to Texas A&M.”

“I’m not completely new to Texas. My grandparents lived in Wimberley.”

“So you know what’s what then.” She opened the pet carrier door and made kissing and clicking sounds until Snowball meandered inside. “What else did Mrs. Salmons tell you?”

“Nothing. Just that they’ve known Snowball since he was a kitten and your families attend the same church. She also said that—her words now—your family is a hoot.”

Jane sighed. Kiss. Of. Death.

“Thanks so much, Dr. Barron. Have a good rest of the night. Or I guess it’s well into Saturday morning now.” She reached in her purse and pulled out two postcards. “My mother says I have to give these to everyone I meet. Please consider visiting our church during the holidays. There are a lot of services to choose from. I promise I won’t be preaching about any Old Testament heroes. And this is an invitation to
The Nutcracker
being performed by our community dance company. There’s one night you can get in free if you bring a blanket and a jar of peanut butter or jelly for the county’s food pantry and shelter. You should come. My sister is the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“You’re not dancing the part?”

“Of course not. I gave up serious dance, remember? But I do help out. You might say I’m Melody’s personal assistant.”

“All right. I’ll be here all weekend if Snowball needs anything. Don’t forget what I said. He’s getting older and this infection is hard on him.”

“I understand. I’ll take good care of him.” She gathered her things. “Good night, Dr. Noah, emergency vet from California and returning-prodigal-to-Texas and most likely cowboy wannabe.”

“And good night to you, slightly clumsy Un-plain Jane, cat lover, soon-to-be teacher and probably not really ex-ballerina.”

****

‘Twas the second night of Christmas break

Monsieur Snowball seemed better,

Jane helped her mother bake

And finish the holiday letter.

The stockings were hung

And the chimney was swept,

Jane crawled into the attic

Where the giant wreath was kept.

The cat ate tuna pâté,

And to his pillow did creep,

Jane settled in beside him

For some much needed sleep...

Despite her total lack of sleep from the night before and the massive amounts of all things Christmas she and her mother had accomplished during the day, Jane was once again awake at two in the morning. Snowball was sound asleep on his own blanket at the end of the bed. The cat barely lifted his head as Jane slid from under the covers and headed for the game room. There was no light from under her sister’s door, only the soft glow of the moon as it drifted through the shuttered window and onto Melody’s various piles of dance shoes and clothing. Jane clicked on the small accent lamp on the table. Melody’s Sugar Plum Fairy costume glistened from a hanger at the end of the barre. Jane touched the edge of the stiff, classic pink tutu and reverently ran her fingers across the silver beads and clear sequins that accentuated the bodice. The straps were simple and there didn’t appear to be any upper-arm cuffs. That was good because Melody had great ballet arms, and they should never be covered with excessive costuming. In a bag attached to the same hanger, Jane found the headpiece. This year’s wardrobe mistress had chosen a classic, lightly-embellished tiara with just enough sparkle to catch the attention of all the little girls with ballerina dreams, but not enough to detract from Melody’s shimmering blonde hair.

There were four new packages of white tights on the floor below and about a mile of wide pink ribbon on the coffee table where her mother had no doubt been sewing bright new ties into a variety of ballet shoes. Jane moved the hanger from the barre to the door frame where the costume could dangle freely with no danger of being crushed.

She returned to the barre and rested her right hand on it. She relaxed her elbow and adjusted her posture. Head up, eyes front, left arm floating on air in front of her with a perfectly shaped ballet hand. And just as she’d done every time she was home and found herself alone in the game room, or every time she’d taught a class at a studio near her college, or any time she’d taken a class at the Dance Science Department at A&M, she started through her practice and strengthening routine. First position, heels touching, feet turned out. Second position, like the first only feet apart. Third position, then fourth and fifth...

Sometime later, Jane returned to her bedroom. Monsieur Snowball was not on the bed. She began the search around the house. Not in the litter box, not near the food bowl, not at his very own trickling water fountain. She went back to her room. Sometimes, if she left the closet open, he would find his way onto a pile of her dirty clothes. Not this time. Then she remembered her doll house, long abandoned now and tucked into a corner of her room under little used clothing and cumbersome accent pillows. Her mother reported Snowball often slept there on an old chenille blanket when Jane was away at school.

Jane flipped on the bright overhead light and dashed to the corner. The cat was there, nestled inside.

Something was definitely not right.

She dropped to the floor and met him nearly nose to nose. “What is it, buddy? Are you feeling bad again?”

He stretched his right front paw onto her cheek. Frozen seconds slowed and then crept up on each other and clicked away faster as Jane realized what she was seeing. She touched the cat’s head and stroked his forehead with her thumb.

And after one small matter-of-fact meow, Monsieur Snowball slipped quietly away.

****

Noah propped open the back door of the clinic and headed outside with Bridget, a Border Collie mix that had been hit by a car a week ago. The owner had yet to come forward, and the person who’d discovered her by the road and dropped her at the clinic had refused to leave information. Noah let her off her leash to run along the massive drainage ditch that stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction behind his clinic. He whistled and the dog scampered back, sniffing every blade of grass as she came. He patted her black-and-white head.

“Good job. How could someone not be looking for you? You’re so smart.”

Then again, he found most Border Collies—mixes or otherwise—to be extremely intelligent. Smarter than most people and with far more common sense, he could probably send Bridget to the corner store for juice all by herself. At the very least it would probably take fifteen minutes to train her to retrieve his jacket so the next time he stepped outside in cold, spitting rain, he could send her back for it.

He trudged along the well-worn path, avoiding fresh rain-slicked muddy spots and swiping the occasional drop of water off his face. It would take time to reacquaint himself with winter Hill Country weather. One day it was forty-six degrees with scattered showers, and the next it could be sixty-five and sunny.

At any rate, Christmas in his clinic in Texas was going to be a lot better than his Christmas in California a year ago. His parents’ home, with its pretentious and fake holiday spirit had driven him to dislike the season years ago. There was no warmth, no true meaning of Christmas. Any attempt to fit in there seemed trite and insignificant and, for all involved, it was probably best he just stay busy on Christmas and not go home for the rest of his life.

It was also best he didn’t see Skye or her father. She’d broken their engagement last Christmas after a car accident that claimed her mother’s life. He’d accepted the blame, and gladly bore the burden of her death in hopes Skye would recover and somehow they would find a new normal. That plan backfired and their relationship disintegrated under the rapid force of an emotional wind storm out of control. Christmas, such as it was, seemed destined never to be a happy time of year.

The latest assistant in his parade of substitute help stood by the door as he headed back across the path. Bridget darted ahead to collect her head pats and get out of the drizzle.

“Full house, doc,” she called out to him. “Dr. Salmons is here to help.”