Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances Myracle, John (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

“I have a special Piglet stuffed animal to make him feel comfortable, and I have a ten-pack of grape Dubble Bubble.”

“Ah, yes, because Gabriel loves grape Dubble Bubble,” Dorrie said.

“Do pigs eat gum?” I said.

“They don’t eat it, they chew it,” Tegan said. “And I have a blanket for him to snuggle on, and a leash, and a litter box. The only thing I don’t have is any mud for him to roll around in, but I figure he can roll in the snow, right?”

I was still hung up on the gum bit, but I pulled myself out of it. “Why not?” I said. “Tegan, that is so awesome!”

Her eyes were bright. “I’m going to have my own pig. I’m going to have my very own pig, and it’s all thanks to y’all!”

I couldn’t help but smile. In addition to being impossibly endearing, there was something else that gave Tegan her distinctive Tegan-ness.

She had a thing for pigs.

A really big thing for pigs, so I guess if she said pigs chewed gum, well, then pigs chewed gum. Tegan, of all people, would know.

Tegan’s room was Pig Central, with porcelain pigs and china pigs and carved wooden pigs on every surface. Every Christmas, Dorrie and I gave her a new pig for her collection. (Tegan and I gave Dorrie Hanukkah gifts, too, of course. This year we ordered her a T-shirt from this cool site called Rabbi’s Daughters. It was white with black baby-doll sleeves, and it read, GOT CHUTZPAH?)

Tegan has wanted a real pig forever, but her parents always said no. Actually, because her dad fashions himself a comedian, his standard response was to snort and say, “When pigs fly, Sugar Lump.”

Her mom was less annoying, but equally unyielding.

“Tegan, that cute little piglet you’re dreaming about is going to grow up to weigh eight hundred pounds,” she said.

I could see her point. Eight hundred pounds—that was like eight Tegans all balanced on top of each other. It might not be such a good idea to have a pet that weighed eight times as much as you did.

But then Tegan discovered—drumroll, please!—the teacup pig. They are beyond cute. Tegan showed Dorrie and me the Web site last month, and we oohed and ahed over the pictures of teensy-weensy piggies that seriously fit inside a teacup. They grow to weigh a maximum of five pounds, which is a twentieth of Tegan’s weight, and which is a much better proposition than an eight-hundred-pound porker.

So Tegan talked to the breeder, and then she made her parents talk to the breeder. While all that talking was going on, Dorrie and I did some talking to the breeder of our own. By the time Tegan’s parents gave their official okay, the deed was done: the last of the breeder’s teacup piglets was paid for and reserved.

“You guys!” Tegan squealed when we told her. “You’re the best friends ever! But . . . what if my parents had said no?”

“We had to risk it,” Dorrie said. “Those teacup pigs go quick.”

“It’s true,” I said. “They literally fly off the shelves.”

Dorrie groaned, which egged me on.

I flapped my wings and said, “Fly! Fly away home, little piggy!”

We’d fully assumed Gabriel would have flown home by now, so to speak. Last week, Tegan had gotten word from the breeder that Gabriel was weaned, and Tegan and Dorrie made plans to drive to Fancy Nancy’s Pig Farm to pick him up. The pig farm was in Maggie Valley, about two hundred miles away, but they could easily get there and back in a day.

Then came the storm. Bye-bye plan.

“But Nancy called tonight, and guess what?” Tegan said. “The roads in Maggie Valley aren’t so bad, so she decided to drive on up to Asheville. She’s spending New Year’s there. And since Gracetown’s on the way, she’s going to swing by and drop Gabriel off at Pet World. I can get him tomorrow!”

“The Pet World across from Starbucks?” I said.

“Why there?” Dorrie said. “Couldn’t she bring him straight to your house?”

“No, because the back roads haven’t been cleared,” Tegan said. “Nancy’s buddies with the guy who owns Pet World, and he’s going to leave a key for her. Nancy said she’d put a note on Gabriel’s carrier that says, Do Not Adopt This Pig Out Except To Tegan Shepherd!”

“‘Adopt this pig out’?” I said.

“That’s pet-store-speak for ‘sell,’” Dorrie said. “And thank goodness for Nancy’s note, since no doubt there’ll be thousands of people storming the pet store, desperate to buy a teacup piglet.”

“Shut up,” Tegan said. “I’ll drive into town and get him the very second the snowplow comes through.” She made praying hands. “Please, please, please let them get to our neighborhood early!”

“Dream on,” Dorrie said.

“Hey,” I said, struck by an idea. “I’m opening tomorrow, so Dad’s letting me take the Explorer.”

Dorrie made muscle arms. “Addie has Explorer! Addie no need snowplow!”

“You’re darn straight,” I said. “Unlike—ahem—the wimpy Civic.”

“Don’t be mean to the Civic!” Tegan protested.

“Ooh, sweetie, we kind of have to be mean to the Civic,” Dorrie said.

“Anyway,” I interrupted, “I would be happy to pick up Gabriel if you want.”

“Really?” Tegan said.

“Is Starbucks even going to be open?” Dorrie asked.

“Dude,” I said. “Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail shall close the doors of the mighty Starbucks.”

“Dude,” Dorrie shot back, “that’s the mailman, not Star-bucks.”

“But unlike the mailman, Starbucks actually means it. They’ll be open, I guarantee it.”

“Addie, there are nine-foot drifts out there.”

“Christina said we’ll be open, so we’ll be open.” I turned to Tegan. “So yes, Tegan, I will be driving into town far too early tomorrow morning, and yes, I can pick up Gabriel.”

“Yay!” Tegan said.

“Hold on,” Dorrie said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I wrinkled my forehead.

“Nathan Krugle?” she said. “Works at Pet World, hates your guts?”

My stomach plunged. In all the talk of pigs, I’d forgotten entirely about Nathan. How could I have forgotten about Nathan?

I lifted my chin. “You are so negative. I can totally handle Nathan—if he’s even working tomorrow, which he probably won’t be,