“Hi, Mom!” I say. Ryan grins wide at my forced tone.
“When are you coming home? You know your father has planned an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner next week, and you’re expected to be there,” she reminds me.
I watch Ryan as he looks at me. “As long as I can get home, I’ll be there after I volunteer in the morning. I’m currently snowed in until the plows come out this way. Could be tomorrow or a week,” I explain.
“I guess we’ll have to send our pilot out there to pick you up then,” she states, but I know she’s serious.
“Mother, there’s no way a helicopter could land here. There’s too much snow. I’m fine for now. If I can make it, I’ll be there. If I’m not, well, Dad will get over it.”
She gasps. “He won’t.”
“He’ll be forced to. I can’t control the weather. It wasn’t a part of my plans
