by Meg Cabot
Rick turned swiftly back to his raking. “I don’t. I don’t.”
“Then try to keep your story straight.” To me, Ryan said, “Drew told me you’re running some kind of pet rescue for all the people who are stuck on the other side of the bridge?”
Startled, I said, “Oh! Yes. I am.” I couldn’t believe that Drew had been talking about me. “I mean, if it’s all right with you—”
“’Course it’s all right,” the sheriff’s deputy said. “I think it’s great. According to the engineers, it might be eight, ten days before we can get that bridge repaired. We’re gonna need all the help we can get—”
“Eight or ten days!” I was shocked. Most of the homes I’d already visited had left only enough food for two or three days. “We’re going to run out of pet food. Do you think Frank over at the Emporium is going to reopen soon?”
Drew was frowning. “Frank and his family evacuated, as well.”
I was horrified. “Where am I going to get food for all the dogs and cats people left behind?” I glanced at the sheriff’s deputy. “Do you think Frank would mind if I broke into his store and took what I needed, then left an IOU?”
Ryan was already shaking his head no in disbelief when Drew laid an arm around my shoulders. “We’d better leave the nice officer to his work, don’t you think, Bree?” he said, gently steering me in the direction of his house. “Be seeing you, Ryan. Thanks for the help.”
“Don’t mention it.” The sheriff’s deputy looked out at his rough-and-tumble crew, one of whom was taking an impromptu break to lean on his rake and flirt with one of the female electric workers. “Hobart!” The sheriff bellowed. “Back to work!”
Drew whistled to his dogs, who tore themselves away from the birds and sand and came loping after us. “Looks like we’ve got a big day ahead of us,” he said, his lips in my hair.
“We?” I loved the heavy weight of his arm around my shoulders. Even more, I loved the intimate way he dipped his head down to whisper in my ear.
“Of course we. You don’t think I’m going to let you run around town, getting all the glory for rescuing every pet in Little Bridge and keep it all to yourself, do you?”
This time, I didn’t mind when he said the word let. I loved his possessiveness.
I wrapped my arm around his waist and hugged him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter Thirty-One
ARE YOU AN EVACUEE OF HURRICANE MARILYN? IS YOUR HOME IN LITTLE BRIDGE ISLAND? DID YOU LEAVE A PET BEHIND?
We know that you didn’t expect to be gone for this long, or that the storm was going to be this bad!
Call the offices of JUDGE JUSTINE and leave a message giving your name, address, type of pet(s), their needs, and a way we can get into your home to care for your beloved Fifi or Fido!
We will feed, water, and care for your animals WITHOUT JUDGMENT!
BECAUSE JUDGE JUSTINE CARES!
Twenty-seven. That’s how many people had contacted my mother’s office since she’d posted the information about the Little Bridge Hurricane Marilyn Emergency Pet Rescue Mission. Twenty-seven!
I couldn’t believe there were that many people stranded outside the island who’d left their pets behind . . . but there were apparently more coming.
“Shawna’s faxing them over later,” Mrs. Hartwell said. She was making copies of the pages she already had. “I hope you don’t mind about the copies, but I think it’s a good idea if we draw up a schedule. That way, we’ll not only know where you are at any given moment, and be able to find you, but we’ll also make sure all the animals are fed and walked every day around the same time.”
Although everything she was saying made sense, the only thing I could focus on was: “Fax?”
“Yes, from your mother’s office. We decided it would be easier if they just faxed over the names and addresses instead of reading them off. That way, we wouldn’t have to sit there, writing everything down by hand.”
That wasn’t exactly what I meant. “You have a fax machine?”
“Well, yes, of course, for the business. It makes ordering stock so much easier.” She stuck a sheaf of papers in my hands. On the top was a fax cover page addressed to Sabrina Beckham, care of the Hartwells. It was listed as being from Shawna Mitchell, personal assistant to Judge Justine Beckham. Peeking beneath it, I saw several pages of neatly typed names, addresses, and notes about pets, their needs, and how to break into their owners’ homes.
“What’s this, Aunt Lu?” Drew asked. Along one side of the library, Mrs. Hartwell had hung a large bulletin board. On it, she’d stuck a map of Little Bridge Island. The map was dotted with brightly colored pushpins, each connected with color-coordinated yarn. “Your murder board?”
“Certainly not.” Mrs. Hartwell looked down at the list in her hands. “Each pushpin represents a different pet in need. The yellow pins are dogs, red are cats, green are fish or reptiles, and blue are birds. One person has a potbellied pig, so I used white for that. Anyway, I thought this would be a nice, easy way for you to keep track of all the homes you needed to get to, as well as which neighborhood they’re in. As you can see, most of them are over on the Gulf side. But you have a fair number over here, on the Atlantic Ocean side, too.”
Drew stood there, grinning at me, apparently thrilled by his aunt’s take-charge attitude.
“Oh, and Ed said to tell you to use this.” Mrs. Hartwell handed me a small black object.
“A walkie-talkie?”
“That’s right.” She beamed. “It’s Drew’s from when he was a boy, but it still works. It has a range of over a mile. As new calls come in, we can reach you and let you know.”
Drew’s grin was huge. “Wow. Just, wow, Aunt Lucy. Isn’t that great? You’ve thought of everything.”
I had slightly different feelings—of mortification. “I’m so sorry about all this—especially that I, um, wasn’t here to take all these messages for you.”
It seemed to me to be the elephant in the room . . . the fact that I’d been gone all night, then rolled in that morning with her nephew, both of us sporting damp hair and huge, silly grins.
But Mrs. Hartwell seemed nothing but delighted.
“It’s my pleasure! We can’t let the animals go hungry, can we?” Mrs. Hartwell beamed at us. “Now why don’t you grab something to eat from the kitchen if you’re hungry—there’s leftover lobster enchiladas that I just heated up—and then you better get on your way. You have a lot of people’s pets to take care of!”
We did as she suggested—the enchiladas were as delicious as I’d known they’d be—after I stopped upstairs to change into fresh clothes and give Gary his medication.
Gary pretended not to know me at first—I’d never been away from him overnight before—but soon came around when I rolled him over and gave him belly rubs (and some breakfast).
I didn’t want to think too far into the future . . . it was nice to be enjoying the here and now for a change. But what was going to happen if, down the road, things got serious with Drew?
Not that they were going to. This was just a casual fling, probably.
But what if it turned into something deeper? How would Gary get along with the Bobs? He got along well with Patrick and Bill’s pugs, so it wasn’t beyond reason he’d be okay with Drew’s dogs.
But would Drew’s dogs be okay with him? They’d have to be, or there’d be no Drew. That was all.
Why was I thinking about these things after having spent only one night with the guy? Why did I overthink everything? No wonder my parents had never told me the truth about my conception. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I ever just enjoy anything for what it was?
“Oh, hey.” Nevaeh paused in the doorway to my room, which I’d left open. “There you are. Where were you last night?”
Ugh, awkward. Of course my new boyfriend’s niece would ask that.
“I was, uh, around.”
“Well, you totally missed it.” Fortunately, it turned out Nevaeh
was too wrapped up in her own little world to care much about mine. She came into the room and flopped onto the bed. “Marquise and his brother Prince came by to help with the coolers from the restaurant, and these people down the street set up a fire pit in their front yard and they invited us to come toast marshmallows, so we went and Marquise told me I have pretty eyes. It was so romantic.”
I smiled at her, remembering what it was like to be a teenager with a crush. “That’s sweet. Do you like him?”
She looked surprised by the question. “Sure. Everyone does. He’s super popular.” Then she frowned. “Katie likes him, too. Katie really likes him.”
“Well, be yourself. No boy could help but like you if you act like yourself around him.”
She rolled over with a sigh, then reached out to scratch Gary under the chin. “Everyone is always saying that, but I don’t understand what that means, act like yourself. I’m fifteen. I don’t even know who I am!”
I couldn’t help letting out a laugh. “I know who you are. You’re Nevaeh Montero, soon-to-be high school sophomore, who, from what I hear, gets almost straight As, cares a lot about her family, and works her butt off at her aunt and uncle’s restaurant.”
She sighed. “Yeah, you see? If there were any justice in the world, all the boys would love me. I get great grades and have an actual job. What man wouldn’t prefer a smart woman with her own cash?”
If only it worked that way, I thought. Instead, I said, “From your lips to God’s ears. Can you do me a favor and look after Gary again for me today? I have to go take care of other people’s pets with your uncle Drew.”
“Sure.” Nevaeh stuck her finger in Gary’s direction, and he rubbed his head against it. “You’ve been hanging out with my uncle Drew a lot lately. Do you like him or something?”
I couldn’t suppress a grin. “I do. Would it be weird for you if he and I . . . hung out?”
She smiled. “No. I think it would be good. It’s about time he finally had a normal girlfriend.”
I wasn’t certain I liked being called “normal,” nor was I sure it was a ringing endorsement. But considering the source, it was probably the best I was going to get.
“Thanks, Nevaeh,” I said, and bounced from the bed just as Drew popped his head into the room.
“What are you two yakking about in here?”
“You,” Nevaeh said, without a second’s hesitation.
“Why would I think it would be anything else?” Drew tossed something onto the floor. Two somethings, actually. “Here, Bree, try these on.”
I stared. “Hiking boots?”
“Yeah, they’re my sister’s. You look like you two probably wear the same size shoe. Considering what we’re going to be doing today, I think you need some sturdier footwear.”
I recoiled. “Oh, no. I’ll be just fine in my sneakers.”
“Do you remember that laundry basket that attacked you at your landlady’s? If you’d had on those boots that thing never would have stood a chance. Try them on.”
Realizing he had a point, I reluctantly laced on his sister’s Timberlands. And was disappointed when they fit just fine.
“Oh, my mom’s shoes look good on you,” Nevaeh commented. “You look kinda like a pink-haired Lara Croft.”
I chose to take this as a compliment. “Okay,” I said. “Well, we’d better go. We have a lot of pets to look after.”
“I’d offer to come with,” Nevaeh said, “but Uncle Ed says he needs me at the café again today. He’s serving food all day until curfew.” Her tone suggested she was making a great sacrifice, but I wasn’t fooled.
“And I suppose Marquise will be there, too,” I teased.
She turned away with a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
But I saw that she’d flat-ironed her hair to an extra sheen, belying her indifference.
Grabbing Drew’s tool kit and all the extra pet food we could scrounge from the Hartwells, as well as their generous neighbors, we got back on my scooter and jetted to the first few houses on Mrs. Hartwell’s list.
There didn’t appear to be any sort of common denominator among the people who’d left their pets behind. It wasn’t merely students like Sonny and Chett. It also turned out to be wealthy but slightly senile widows who lived in mansions like Mrs. Hartwell’s and who’d left their beloved cats in the care of ne’er-do-well sons who’d abandoned them. Or large and loving families who had been unable to find room in their car for their enormous fish tank (both cat and fish turned out to be fine, if ravenous).
Then there were the homes in which we found no sign of pets at all. No food bowls, no litter boxes, no leashes, squeaky toys, or pet hair. These turned out to belong to people who’d lied to get on the list in order to have their homes checked for damage. Because there was no other way to communicate with anyone on the island—unless you knew someone with a landline or a satellite phone—a few people had said they had a pet in order to get us to go and check to see if their house was still standing, having seen all the dramatic reports on the news about the severe damage sustained by the island.
These people, we decided, would receive no answers to their questions as punishment for wasting our time.
For other homes, however, the news was not so good, nor the reasons behind the owner’s decision to leave their pets behind so easy to understand.
“Hey, I know this house,” Drew said, as we pulled up beside a small “Conch” home close to the marina. Called “Conch” homes because they’d been built in the late nineteenth century by Bahamian immigrants, the houses were known for their timber framing, large windows, and high ceilings, all constructed to allow cooling in the days before air-conditioning.
“Oh, really?” I glanced down at the list that had been faxed to us. “You know Duane Conner?”
“Yeah, I know Duane.” Drew was already off the back of my scooter and heading toward the house. “He’s got two pit bull mixes. I see him all the time with them down at the dog beach.”
I pulled off my helmet. It was a hot day, and I’d been sweating beneath it. “There’s a dog beach? I thought you lived on the dog beach.”
“No, there’s another beach, over on the Gulf side, where everyone’s allowed to let their dogs off leash. Duane takes his dogs there all the time. They’re good dogs, just a little rough unless Duane is around to handle them. Are you sure that information is right?” He stood in the middle of the storm-ravaged yard, staring at the house. “Duane would never evacuate without Turbo and Orion.”
I checked the list. “It says here that Duane was out of town when the storm hit, and he left his dogs in the care of his brother, Max, and that Max called and said he freaked out and took off without them.”
Drew shook his head angrily the second he heard the name Max. “Damn it. Yeah, that would explain it. Max has always been less than reliable. Okay, come on. How are we supposed to get inside?”
“We aren’t,” I said, a feeling of dread growing in my stomach. “It says Max may have left the dogs tied to the back porch.”
Drew swore.
But that’s where we found them—after climbing over a back fence. Two very sad-looking pit bull mixes. It was clear by the water line along the house that the floodwaters had reached the porch, and that the dogs had been forced during the storm to swim for a while.
The waters had then receded, and the dogs were fine now.
But they’d had no food for some time, since whatever Max had left out for them had floated away in the flood.
The dogs were overcome at the sight of us, barking and crying with joy.
“Next time I see him, I’m going to kill Max,” Drew said, as he saw the bedraggled mutts, their backsides wiggling with pathetic excitement.
I pressed my lips together to keep myself from saying anything I’d regret.
“At least he was honest,” I said, instead, tipping over the bag of dry cat food we’d brought with us into the dogs’ bowls. It was the only food we had left and was courtesy o
f Mrs. Hartwell. She saved it for the feral cats from the church down the street, both of whom were fine and accounted for.
The dogs didn’t care what kind of food it was. They devoured it eagerly, then looked up, anxious for more.
“At least he told Duane the truth about abandoning the dogs, and Duane called us.”
“I don’t care if Max told him the truth,” Drew said, untying the dogs’ leashes from the back porch railing. “I’m still killing him. And we’re taking them. They’re my dogs now.”
“No, they’re not.” Drew said this at practically every home we visited. “You can take them for a walk, or even take them back to your aunt’s, if you want, until their owner gets back into town. But you can’t keep every pet we find.”
“I’m keeping them until Duane gets back. I’m not surrendering them to anyone but Duane. And if I see that idiot Max, I’m killing him!”
“At least Max told his brother the truth, so he could call us,” I repeated.
I didn’t want to think about how many animal owners hadn’t seen or heard about my mom’s online post, and so hadn’t contacted us yet.
It was as I was telling myself firmly not to think about this that I heard a rumble. It seemed to be coming from the sky. I looked up just in time to see it . . . a large, dark gray jet plane. It was flying awfully low. It was the first man-made object I’d seen overhead since the hurricane, and it was flying awfully low.
“Military cargo jet,” Drew said, answering my unuttered question. “They must have gotten the runway cleared.”
“FEMA?” I asked hopefully. If it was FEMA, there was a chance it might be carrying pet food.
“Doubt it. They usually send military personnel first. But it’s good news, anyway.”
It wasn’t to me. It meant that my mother might make good on her threat about arriving.
“How many is this, anyway?” Drew asked, tapping the list I’d pulled from my backpack.
“Oh.” I checked. “Twenty. We have seven more to go. Then we should probably head back to your aunt’s and see if there’ve been any more faxes. I’m sure there have.”
