Chapter 7 Liam #2
"Meredith," I whisper, trying to put her mind at ease, but I can tell she's still confused. Meredith knows nearly everyone in town, and a new face does spark interest. I'm sure someone asked her and she explained why there's a new face around.
It doesn't matter if Violet has been here one day or one hour, someone would know she's not from around here and go to Meredith for answers.
"Yeah," Violet says to Cole, though I catch how her posture tightens slightly at the mention of law enforcement.
"Cole's one of the good ones," I tell her after he's left. "Been keeping this town safe for almost fifteen years."
"I'm sure he is," she says, but there's still a careful quality to her words making me want to ask more questions I probably shouldn't.
The phone rings, startling both of us.
"Your first challenge," I say with a grin. “Do you want to give it a try?"
Violet nods, reaching for the receiver with determined precision. "Mairi Veterinary Services, this is... um..." She looks at me in panic.
"Violet," I supply helpfully.
"This is Violet. How can I help you?"
I listen as she takes down information for an appointment with Tom Bradley's border collie needs her annual shots. I’m impressed by how professional she sounds despite her nerves. Her smell has a sharp edge of anxiety, but she's pushing through it.
"Tuesday at ten works perfectly," she's saying, scribbling notes on the appointment pad. "Yes, I'll make sure to note Shep doesn't like the thermometer. Thank you, Mr. Bradley."
She hangs up and looks at me with a mixture of pride and relief. "How was it?"
"Perfect. Natural customer service approach, got all the important details. You're a natural."
The praise makes her smell bloom with those warm vanilla notes again, and I find myself breathing a little deeper than strictly necessary. There's something incredibly appealing about an omega who's pleased with herself – it brings out every protective instinct I have.
The morning continues with a steady stream of appointments. I handle the medical side while Violet manages the front desk, and I'm impressed by how quickly she picks things up. She's efficient, friendly, and seems to have an intuitive understanding of how to calm nervous pet owners.
Janet Reeves arrives with her ancient Persian cat, Duchess, who needs her monthly arthritis medication. The cat is a cranky old thing who barely tolerates anyone except Janet, but I watch in fascination as Violet somehow coaxes a purr out of her while Janet fills out paperwork.
"You have a way with animals," I observe when they've left.
"I think it's because I understand being defensive," Violet says, and there's more honesty in those simple words than I expected.
Around ten-thirty, we're both in the front area when the door opens and Mrs. Henderson walks in carrying a cat carrier emitting the most indignant yowling I've heard in weeks.
"Good morning, Mrs. Henderson," I call out cheerfully. "How's Whiskers today?"
"Difficult as always," she replies, setting the carrier down with relief. "He's been hiding under my bed for three days, and when I finally got him out, he knocked over my entire spice rack."
I can see Violet watching the carrier with interest, clearly curious about the legendary bad-tempered feline inside.
"Would you like to meet him?" I ask her.
"Will I lose a finger?"
"Perfectly safe. Whiskers is all drama, no real malice." I move toward the carrier, speaking in the soothing tone I use with all my difficult patients. "Besides, you should probably get familiar with our regular customers."
I'm reaching for the carrier latch when the front door opens again with such force the bell above it sounds like an alarm. Dr. Sarah Richards rushes in, her usually calm demeanor replaced by urgency.
"Liam, thank God you're here," she says breathlessly. "I need your help. Crisis at the Peterson farm , their prize bull got into a fight with a neighbor's dog, and there's a lot of blood."
"How bad?" I'm already moving toward my kit, my mind shifting into crisis mode.
"Bad enough they're talking about putting the bull down. But I think if we work together…”
A crash from behind us interrupts her explanation. I spin around to see Violet pressed against the wall, her face white as paper, while Whiskers' carrier lies on its side with the door hanging open.
And there, coiled in the middle of my floor, is about four feet of very confused corn snake.
"SNAKE!" Violet screams, and the sound is so piercing every animal in the building starts vocalizing in response. "OH MY GOD, THERE'S A SNAKE!"
"It's okay!" I call out, moving slowly toward the snake while Whiskers continues his indignant yowling from under the desk where he's apparently taken refuge. "It's just Samson! He belongs to the Henderson boy!"
"SAMSON?" Violet's pitch has gone up another octave. "WHO NAMES A SNAKE SAMSON?"
"My grandson," Mrs. Henderson says calmly, apparently unbothered by the chaos. "He's supposed to be in his terrarium, but he's an escape artist."
Dr. Peters is staring at the scene with the kind of fascination usually reserved for medical anomalies. "Is this normal for your practice?"
"Unfortunately, yes," I mutter, crouching down to coax Samson into my hands. He's a beautiful snake with reddish-orange on his golden skin, and completely harmless. "Come here, buddy. Let's get you back where you belong."
Violet has climbed onto the desk chair and is eyeing Samson like he might spontaneously develop legs and chase her. "Is it poisonous?"
"Venomous," I correct automatically. "And no, corn snakes are completely harmless. They're actually great pets , because they’re easy to care for, good for teaching kids responsibility."
"I don't care if it does my taxes," Violet says firmly. "I don't like snakes."
“Okay,” I assure her, gently retrieving Samson and heading toward the terrarium setup in the back room. "Lots of people have snake phobias. It's very common."
When I return, Violet is still on the chair and Whiskers is still under the desk, apparently sulking.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together. "Crisis averted. Violet, how about you help me in the back today instead of reception? Sometimes it's good to ease into things gradually."
"The back?" she asks hopefully.
"Cleaning cages, organizing supplies, basic maintenance. Less chance of unexpected reptile encounters."
"That sounds perfect."
Twenty minutes later, I'm starting to question my judgment.
"Oh God," comes Violet's voice from the kennel area, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."
I finish suturing a small cut on Dr. Chen's patient, a mixed breed named Charlie who got into it with a porcupine, and rushes to check on my new assistant.
I find Violet bent over a mop bucket, her face green and her smell absolutely saturated with distress. The kennel she was supposed to be cleaning, but it is recently vacated by a Great Dane with digestive issues, and sits only half-finished beside her.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently, offering her a glass of water.
"I'm so sorry," she gasps between heaves. "I thought I could handle it, but the smell... and the texture... and oh God, I think some of it splashed on my shoe."
Her smell is so sharp with nausea and embarrassment it makes my alpha instincts flare with the need to comfort her. I find myself moving closer, letting my own smell of clean cotton and chamomile begin to drift toward her in hopes it might help settle her stomach.
"Hey, it's okay," I murmur, rubbing gentle circles on her back. "Everyone has their limits. No shame in discovering cleanup after a sick Great Dane isn't your calling."
"But I need this job," she says miserably. "I can't afford to be useless."
The desperation in her words makes something ache in my chest. This isn't just about the job, but there's real fear underneath her frustration, the kind coming from having nowhere else to turn.
"You're not useless," I tell her firmly. "We just need to find the right fit. Come on, let's get you cleaned up and try something else."
I lead her to the small break room, helping her wash her hands and face while she apologizes repeatedly. Her smell is slowly returning to normal, though there's still an underlying current of anxiety making me want to wrap her in blankets and feed her something comforting.
"Feeling better?" I ask when she's settled in a chair with another glass of water.
"More like embarrassed,” she admits. "Though the jury's still out on whether I'm going to keep this water down."
"Let's try the phones again," I suggest. "Reception work might be more your speed after all."
"Even with the potential for surprise snake encounters?"
"I'll make sure all the terrariums are secure before your next shift."
She laughs, and the sound is like sunlight breaking through clouds. Her smell brightens too, those honey notes becoming warm and golden instead of sharp with stress.
"Phones it is."
The afternoon brings a steady stream of calls, and with Violet’s natural telephone manner, it makes it a lot smoother. Her tone is warm and professional, and she seems to have an intuitive understanding of how to handle different types of callers.
Unfortunately, she also seems to have some kind of mental block when it comes to remembering our standard responses.
"Mairi Veterinary Services, this is Violet," she answers cheerfully. "How can I... oh, hello Mrs. Patterson. Yes, I remember you from this morning." A pause. "You'd like to schedule Duchess for... what was it? A nail trim?"
I look up from the lab work I'm reviewing to see her frantically flipping through the appointment book.
"Of course we can do it," she continues. "When would be good for you? Tuesday at... oh, wait. Let me check if Dr. Mairi does nail trims on cats." She looks at me hopefully.
I nod and hold up ten fingers, then point to the price list taped to the desk.