A Billionaire for Christmas

Raji said, “Let’s go.”

The woman started walking to the snowmobiles. “I’m Vivica. I figure we should be on a first name basis. I’m sorry, but we’re going to get a bit up close and personal. I’m going to ask you to sit on the front of the snowmobile but facing backward, so the wind hits your back. I’m going to wrap more blankets around you. We’re going to go as quickly as is safe to get the baby to medical care but not die in a snowmobile accident. Are you okay with this?”

“Yes, I’m good,” Raji said.

After a quick snowmobile ride that froze Raji’s back, they met an ambulance on the street. Raji climbed in, and they closed the doors before they opened her coat to take the baby from her. A blasting heater warmed the back of the ambulance in less than a minute.

The EMT took the baby carefully from Raji, holding the child with two hands. “Good color. You did a good job keeping her warm,” the woman said, checking the baby’s vitals. Her grape fingernails bulged through her beige gloves. Her voice rose. “It’s okay now, baby girl. We’ll take care of you.”

Vivica drove Raji back to Peyton. This time, Raji rode behind her on the snowmobile.

When they got back, one of the other social workers had loaded the woman onto another snowmobile, promising her, “We’ve got a lovely place for you to spend the night. It’s warm, and I promise there will be black bean soup. Good job sitting on the snowmobile. Now, I’m just going to get on behind you, here.”

They drove off, crawling over the frozen snow toward the road where Raji had seen another ambulance waiting.

Jennifer turned to Peyton. “You have some weird talent for sniffing out homeless people.”

Peyton waggled his phone at her from where he clutched the blanket around his shoulders. “It’s a good thing I still have you on speed dial. Usual contribution?”

“Not everyone gives us ten thousand dollars when they find a homeless person who needs our help.”

“I’ll transfer the money when I get back to my hotel.”

“It’s appreciated, Peys. We’ll take care of them.”

Jennifer and the others drove off on the snowmobiles, leaving Peyton and Raji to trudge the short distance back to the path and then back to their hotel.

On the way, she asked him, “You just happened to have a social worker on speed dial?”

He shrugged. “I lived over by Lincoln Center for six years, until last summer. I have a weird knack for finding homeless people in crisis. It’s not so much a talent as an obvious outcome when you’re roaming the streets, going to performances and clubs and parties until all hours of the night. After a couple of my calls were routed through the police, which sometimes caused setbacks, Jennifer and I figured out a more direct connection. She works for Catholic Services.”

At the hotel, Raji let Peyton warm up in a hot shower before she pounced on him. “You’re giving her ten grand?”

“That’s my usual contribution when I make their lives harder by insisting that someone needs help immediately.”

“Every time?”

He frowned. “It was two or three times a year, not every week, and I don’t even live here now.”

“Whatever happened to your Old Money policy of not paying the bill when someone else will?”

“What?” Peyton asked, toweling the water from his hair. The tops of his ears were a little too pink like he might have gotten a mild case of frostbite. His skin, usually golden and tanned, was mottled pink and white.

She sat behind him on the bed, leaning against his back, trying to warm him up some more. “When you and Xan Valentine were bickering over who was going to hire Andy as the band doctor, you said that the Cabots hadn’t kept their wealth by arguing when others were perfectly willing to pay the bill.”

“That’s an entirely different situation,” Peyton said, waving away her protestations. “Andy should be the doctor for the whole band, and she’s good at it. She treated Tryp’s ulcers the first months, thank God. This is different. It’s charity, desperately needed charity. I have routes set up for donating to charities. In the other case, well, you know how I told you that the Cabots are Old Money?”

“Yeah.” Hell, yeah, she remembered.

“We’re American Old Money, meaning that our wealth goes back to the Revolutionary War when some family members financed piracy against the British, which was a very lucrative investment. Let it suffice to say that Xan Valentine is European Old Money, which means they’ve had centuries, even a millennium, more time with their money at compound interest. The Cabots are rich, but Xan Valentine is wealthy. His family is orders of magnitude wealthier than us newbie Cabots. I mean, If he wants to pay the good doctor’s salary, he’s welcome to.”