Cory has been my type A receptionist since my mother retired, keeping this place running far better than I ever could. Eight years later, she has earned her vet technician credentials but refuses to give up the office role, so she juggles both—booking appointments and running blood tests （and of course, accepting a larger paycheck） with proficiency. I’d be lost around here without her, and I will be should she ever leave. I’ll need to hire two people to replace her.
My gaze wanders out the window again, to the cabin nestled among the snow-laden trees. It’s a small, one-room structure, meant as a rustic, short-term guesthouse rather than the permanent residence I’ve turned it into. My father would crash there sometimes when this place was his and he didn’t want to make the two-hundred-yard trek to our house on the other side of the property.
Sometimes I wish for more—more space, more privacy, more charm—but most of the time, I’m happy in my little home. Plus, can’t beat free rent, and the walk across the parking lot to work is especially handy when I have a sick patient to check on overnight.
I’ve invested in it over the years, installing better insulation to cut the draft on the cold nights, a new red metal roof that pops against the crisp white backdrop, a kitchenette, a proper shower to go along with the toilet, and a small, screened-in porch where I spend many evenings, sitting in my Adirondack chair.
Decades ago, when my parents bought this parcel of land and opened this little clinic, Wasilla was barely more than a supply base for miners. People thought my dad was crazy. But then came the highway, and the city exploded with new development, turning the Mat-Su Valley into a viable and affordable suburb for commuters into Anchorage.
By the time my father retired and I took over, there were six other clinics around Wasilla and Palmer, all of them set up in shiny new builds as opposed to this old place that’s required plenty of upgrades and fixes over the years.
But given where we’re located, on the far western fringe of the borough, away from the busy hub and closest to Alaska’s dogsled mecca, we’ve always had enough clients and patients to keep Cory and me busy. Sometimes I call my father in to lend a hand. I hazard Dr. Sidney Lehr appreciates venturing away from his riveting games of solitaire and Mom’s fussing every so often.
Sure, the lobby could use a refresher—a coat of paint, brighter light fixtures, and more colorful lobby chairs, a new receptionist counter to replace the clunky one my mother sat behind with an infant me on her lap, and sturdier shelving for the small selection of specialty dog and cat food we carry—but I’ve focused my efforts on the back of the clinic, ensuring I have the latest equipment to do my job. Pretty chairs and freshly painted drywall don’t save animals.
I check the clock. It’s one p.m. on Sunday, the sun is shining, and there are no patients in the clinic to worry about. I have the entire afternoon to do … something before dinner at my parents’ tonight. Maybe I’ll grab my cross-country skis and head up to Hatcher Pass to—
“Oh! Before I forget!” Cory beckons me to the computer monitor with a wave of her hand. “I’m going to print this out and put it up there.” With a nod toward the clinic staff’s photo gallery wall, she mutters under her breath, “To replace your mug shot.”
I chuckle as I pass the picture in question. I’m grimacing more than smiling, my complexion is sickly thanks to my white smock and poor studio lighting, and my mascara is smeared from the downpour, but the photographer didn’t tell me! Sadly, it was the best of the lot that day, and we chose it as a temporary joke that has now survived ten years.
I round the desk just as Cory’s clicking on an email from Calla.
“I mean, you’re beautiful, anyway, but this”—she gestures toward the candid shot of me in my black evening gown, standing on the frozen lake outside Jonah and Calla’s house—“is incredible. Whoever they hired to photograph the wedding was, like, amazing. I need their number for Joe and me.” She adds quietly, “If he ever gets around to proposing.”
A twinge stirs in my chest as I study the genuine smile that crinkles my eyes. I remember when that picture was taken. I was watching Jonah shift from foot to foot as Calla strolled down the snowy path toward the red-carpeted aisle on the ice, as if he might implode if he had to survive not being married to her for one more second.
At that moment, I was thrilled for my best friend. Jonah has found the woman he’s going to spend the rest of his life with—of that, I have no doubt. Those two couldn’t be more different and yet more perfect for each other.