Page 15 of Please Send Snow
“I have an idea,” Maddie tells him. “I think we should write the snowman’s story.”
“His story?” Dylan echoes.
“Sure,” she tells him. “Anyone can write a story if they want. What’s the snowman’s name?”
“Froggy,” he replies immediately.
I wait for her to correct him. Everyone knows that snowmen are calledFrosty.
But she nods as seriously as if he’s just handed her a briefcase full of nuclear codes.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s decide three things about Froggy and then we can start writing.”
By the endof the day, the two of them have finished their story, played a board game, added a wing to his fort, made their own grilled cheese since I was on a call, and come back to the living room. Now they’re starting on more illustrations for Froggy’s story.
And I’ve finally got my head around the numbers, so I pull my phone out of my pocket to call my finance guy.
He picks up on the first ring.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” I tell him without saying hello. My people know I don’t like small talk.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Without even seeing him, I know he just pushed his wire rimmed glasses up his nose and grabbed a pencil to start taking notes. Doug doesn’t question me. It’s why I hired him and why I keep him on.
“The trouble is the trees,” I tell him. “There are a ton of them and they’re all enormous and overgrown—it’s a hazard. And the hillside is steeper than it looked in the photos. Construction will be tough. We’ll need to factor in a massive retaining wall for each house.”
“Okay,” Doug says softly, in that way that tells me he’s taking careful notes.
“I also get the sense that getting anything done in this tiny town might take a lot of time,” I go on. “They’re sentimental, so doing a teardown might mean pushback.”
“Tricky on permits,” Doug says as he writes.
“Yeah, the Angel Mountain council will be stingy about permits,” I agree. “Plus it’s Christmastime. Where’s the snow?”
A funny tingle dances down my spine, and I realize that the living room is silent. I turn to see that Dylan is still bent over his artwork, but Maddie is staring at me.
Blowing out a breath, I turn back to the kitchen in relief.
Women stare at me. That’s nothing new. And never more than in the boardroom when I’m going on a rampage about a project. My ex-wife used to tell me that women like thebrooding alpha type, whatever that means.
It’s probably just about the money. Most things are. And me talking about business deals is a reminder of the money.
But Maddie doesn’t need my money.
I wrap up the call with Doug as fast as I can and by the time I hang up, I see that Maddie is on her feet, pulling on her jacket.
“Sorry,” she says when she catches me looking. “I actually need to run. But I can come back tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Give me two minutes and I’ll drive you down.”
“No, no,” she says. “I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Maddie,” Dylan chirps happily. “We can write more of my story.”
“You bet we can, dill pickle,” she tells him.
“Dill pickle,” he squeaks in delight at the nickname. “Dill pickle.”
