They lounged on the couch again, making small talk. Later, she asked, “Ready for some dessert?”
“More than.” He shocked her by standing and pulling her up, scooping her into his arms and heading to the bedroom.
She laughed out loud. “I meant dark chocolate lava cake.”
“That too,” he said putting her down by the bed. “Afterward.”
“Hmm.” His hands went for the hem of her shirt. “May all our interactions be so simple.”
“They won’t be.” She shrugged. “But maybe they’ll all end up in here.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’m game.”
“I am, too.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
I hope you enjoyed the story of Rosie and Maggie. What fun it was to write a book with dogs featured so prominently. If you want to know more about training these animals, you can find it at www.akc.org/products-services/training-programs/canine-good-citizen. And how about that romance between Noah and Maggie? I never expected them to take to each other quite as quickly as they did. But it seemed real to me, as did the way their relationship developed.
If you liked seeing Maggie here, she’s been in my To Serve and Protect series, too: ABOVE AND BEYOND, SAY YOU’LL STAY, ONLY WITH YOU, NO OTHER LOVE and COME BACK TO ME. You’ll meet all the Marino clan and see how her issues grow more serious in each one, how the family tries to help her, and the low point she finally hits. That whole story, as well as her parents’ rocky road to happiness are told in the last book.
Enjoy all of the above, and I hope you’ll continue to read all my work, featured on www.kathrynshay.com.
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
The Magic Jukebox
Judith Arnold
Taking Care of Business: Chapter 1
To be blunt about it, Priscilla was a bitch.
Hank had never gotten along with her. She was selfish and demanding. She raced around carelessly, shoving things out of her way, filling the air with her irritating yapping. And that flirty bow she always wore in her ash-blond hair—the one time he’d tried to get rid of it, she had nearly bitten his thumb off. She had sharp teeth.
He liked his thumb. In fact, he liked all his fingers. So the bow remained.
It was bobbing in her hair right now, a flash of pink satin clipped to the shaggy strands above Priscilla’s beady brown eyes as she scampered around the yard, her feet scattering the thin layer of snow that had fallen since midday. Hank should have worn boots. His feet were turning to blocks of ice as he stood on the patio, moisture seeping through the seams in his loafers. But his afternoon meeting had run late, and he’d been afraid that if he didn’t get to his mother’s house in time to let Priscilla out, she’d leave a monumental mess on the kitchen floor. Or even worse, on the Aubusson rug in the living room.
When he arrived at his mother’s house, he discovered, to his relief, that Priscilla hadn’t left a mess inside. Unfortunately, she wasn’t leaving a mess outside, either. She was too busy having fun, prancing through the snow, chasing after the random white flakes that continued to flurry down from the gloomy gray sky. A squirrel dared to cross her path, and she went wild, chasing the furry little creature until it scaled an oak tree and vanished into the leafless branches overhead.
Priscilla remained at the foot of the tree, snarling and growling, demanding that the squirrel descend the tree. The squirrel, however, appeared to have vanished, leaping from branch to branch, from one yard to the next. It was probably a block away by now.
“Come on, Priscilla,” Hank shouted, waving the plastic bag he clutched, a hint that she was supposed to do her business so he could pick up her poop, tie the bag, and drop it in the trash can in the garage—and then get on with his life. He was a good son, and he’d keep his promise to his mother. But Priscilla had to do her part, too. She had to do what he’d let her out of the house to do.
Forget about counting on that twit to do anything she was supposed to do. A squirrel had flagrantly defied her. How could she possibly empty her digestive tract when she was contending with such a personal affront? How could she take a dump when she knew that squirrel was laughing at her?
Hank would have laughed at her, too, if he’d found anything amusing about her—and if his feet weren’t so freaking cold. “Just go already,” he half yelled, half muttered.
Priscilla barked.
Yeah, he was a good son. Too good, he thought as he swiped a hand through his hair, feeling the dampness as snowflakes melted into the strands. He had grown up in Massachusetts, and people who grew up in Massachusetts prided themselves on being impervious to the cold. They wore shorts and flip-flops year-round, and donned hats and parkas only if they were skiing or digging out from a blizzard. This light snow wouldn’t have bothered him if Priscilla were a little more efficient about going to the bathroom.
He pulled his cell phone from an inner pocket of his blazer and tapped a quick message to Nick Fiore, whom he’d promised to meet for a drink at the Faulk Street Tavern at five o’clock. It was now quarter to five, the sky was fading to black, and Priscilla was doing what she did best—being a bitch. Running a little late, he texted. Get there when I can.
A rhododendron, its leaves shriveled in the cold, suddenly became more intriguing to Priscilla than the absent squirrel. She sniffed the shrub eagerly, her stubby tail wagging with joy. Then she romped across the snow to the holly bushes. Would their berries poison her if she ate a few? Hank could hope.
Not a good-son thought. He swallowed a curse, turned up the collar of his blazer to protect his neck from the cold, and…oh, thank you, God! Priscilla finally did what she should have done twenty minutes ago.
He stomped across the snow, aware that he could no longer feel his toes, and scooped her shit into the plastic bag. “All right,” he snapped. “Back inside.”
She raced away, returning to the oak to bark some more at the invisible squirrel, then digging through the snow as if hoping to unearth a great treasure—a bone, a toy, a dormant tulip bulb. Hank traipsed after her, nearly managing to snag her twice. His third attempt, when she stood cornered by the hedge, was successful. Her fur was wet. He’d have to towel her—and himself—off before he left.
She growled and snapped at him as he carried her into the house. He’d learned to cradle her in such a way that she couldn’t puncture his skin with her nasty teeth. As soon as he reached the kitchen, Hank dropped her and let the warmth of the indoor air wrap around him, thawing him out. Wiggling his toes inside his shoes, he sighed as they burned with the return of sensation.
Priscilla ran to her water bowl, banging into it and splattering water across the floor. Hank dropped the knotted plastic bag into the sink and grabbed one of the old towels he’d left on the counter. He did his best to dry Priscilla, but his best wasn’t very good; she clearly felt sprinting in circles and barking insanely at her empty food dish took priority over letting him dry her off. He gave up on her and used the towel to sop up the spilled water, instead.
Ten minutes later, the floor was dry and Hank had filled her food dish with a can of some overpriced gourmet dog food his mother insisted on buying. According to the can, it was a blend of chicken liver, pumpkin, brown rice, and herb extracts. Priscilla ate better than many adults, Hank thought as he rinsed out the can.
She sniffed the dish and gave him a skeptical look. He showed her the can, as if she could read the label for herself, and she growled at him. “Go hungry, then,” Hank grumbled, shaking the can dry. “If it was up to me, you’d be eating dry kibble.”
She growled again.
He carried the can and the plastic bag to the garage. Through the mudroom door, he heard her yipping indignantly.
“Shut up,” he snapped, not because he expected her to obey, him—obeying people was not among her few skills—but because saying it felt good.
♥ ♥ ♥
Fifteen minutes later, he entered the Faulk Street Tavern, stomped his feet on the rubberized mat inside the front
door to remove the snow from his shoes, and scanned the room. He spotted Nick seated in one of the booths, nursing what appeared to be a tall glass of ginger ale. Nick didn’t drink hard liquor, but he liked the Faulk Street Tavern. Hank liked it, too. It was inexpensive and unpretentious, a Brogan’s Point landmark. Gus Naukonen, the owner and chief bartender, was a friendly, quiet woman, uncannily tuned in to her customers. She knew what they were drinking, when they needed a refill, when they’d had enough. Even before he’d moved back to Brogan’s Point, Hank had always felt at home when he’d entered the tavern.
He and Nick had grown up together in town, and had been unlikely buddies. Nick’s childhood had been hard; his father had been abusive, and Nick had wound up on the wrong side of the law when he and Hank had been in high school. Hank’s childhood had been the exact opposite: Affluent, responsible parents. A big house in the ritzy northern end of town, with central air, two wood-burning fireplaces, and those fancy Aubusson rugs. Private college for Nick, followed by a graduate degree in business and a challenging, well-paying career with a venture capital company, funding high-technology start-ups.
He and Nick had been basketball teammates starting in middle school, and despite their wildly different backgrounds, they’d clicked. Nick had been the better player, but Hank had had a reliable outside shot, and he could pass with unerring accuracy. They’d admired each other for different reasons, but the admiration had flowed both ways. Now they were both living in their hometown, where Nick ran the Community Center. Hank had moved back to town two years ago, after his father’s diagnosis. He’d wanted to help his mother, and he’d wanted to spend as much time as possible with his father.
Henry Patterson Sr. had died a little more than a year ago, but by then his namesake son had settled comfortably in Brogan Heights, a pleasant condominium community full of unmarried professionals like him. Working in Boston satisfied any cravings he might have for city life, and the townhouse he’d bought was just a short drive or a very long walk from Brogan’s Point’s beautiful ocean beaches. Hank’s mother had been grateful to have him around after her husband died and she made the difficult adjustment to widowhood.
That adjustment, she insisted, had been a lot less difficult once she’d adopted Priscilla from a rescue shelter. “I need company,” she claimed. “Priscilla is wonderful company.” As if a dog could replace a husband in the woman’s heart.
Hank would rather be marooned on a remote island in the Pacific than have a ghastly beast like Priscilla for company. Maybe if his mother didn’t spoil the dog so much, Priscilla would be more tolerable. He doubted it, though. The first time he’d met her, he’d been wearing sandals, and she’d bitten his big toe, drawing blood. It had been hostility at first sight.
He crossed the dance floor at the center of the room and slid onto the bench facing Nick in the booth. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I’m pet-sitting, and the pet doesn’t want to be sat.”
“Your mom’s dog?”
Hank sighed again, feeling sorry for himself. “She’s awful. I never should have agreed to take care of her.”
“Why did you?”
A server approached, and Hank requested a Guinness. Once the server was gone, he answered Nick’s question. “My mother refused to let a total stranger take care of the dog at a kennel. Either I agreed to take care of her or Mom wouldn’t go on her cruise. My sister was putting pressure on me. ‘Mom’s got to go on that cruise! She’s just got to!’” he mimicked Lillian’s pleading. “I was tempted to cart Priscilla over to a kennel the minute my mother’s plane to Miami took off. If I got lucky, maybe some big dog would have sat on her and crushed her to death.”
Nick laughed.
“But I gave my word to my mother that I’d take care of the dog myself. Big mistake.”
“Everyone likes dogs,” Nick insisted. “Every good person, anyway. If you don’t like dogs, you’re evil.”
“I like dogs,” Hank defended himself. “I just don’t like this dog. She doesn’t like me, either. It’s a mutual thing.”
“Next time, go with a kennel,” Nick advised.
“If there’s ever a next time. You don’t know how hard Lillian pushed to get our mom to take this stupid cruise.”
“Who doesn’t want to take a cruise?”
“It’s a singles cruise,” Hank explained. “Lillian thinks our mom ought to start dating again. I agree. She should date. But she’s not dating anyone around here. That stupid dog of hers is her one true love.”
“If she isn’t ready…”
“It’s been a year since my father died. She’s still got plenty of life left in her, and she shouldn’t be spending it with a spoiled mutt. Lillian found this Caribbean cruise out of Florida that’s supposed to be for older singles. Mom agreed to go on the condition that I take care of the dog. If I didn’t go along with everything, Lillian would never speak to me again.” At the time, he’d wanted to keep the peace with his sister. But Lillian lived in Chicago. She didn’t have to deal with Priscilla. Hank did, and now he was wondering if he loved his sister more than he hated Priscilla.
Sighing, he leaned back in his seat and felt his tension drain slowly away. For the next twelve hours, he wouldn’t have to deal with Priscilla. After a long day, he could finally put her out of his mind and indulge in happy thoughts about the productive meeting he had with a new investor that afternoon. He could relax with an old friend. He could drink his beer. He could pretend Priscilla didn’t exist.
“So, how’s married life treating you?” he asked.
Nick smiled. “No complaints yet.” His smile widened. “Diana thinks we should get a dog.” At Hank’s snort, Nick added, “I hear they’re easier to potty-train than babies are.”
True, Priscilla had waited to go outside to pee and poop—today. Yesterday evening, while his mother’s cruise liner was easing out of its slip, carrying her and, hopefully, a few charming, eligible, age-appropriate men off to festive adventures, Hank was mopping a puddle of Priscilla’s piss off the kitchen floor. At least she hadn’t peed on the rugs.
The server appeared with Hank’s Guinness, and he thanked her and lifted his glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. He savored the beverage, sour and mellow and just the right temperature, his reward for having dealt with Priscilla.
The tavern was busy that evening, the post-work crowd filling the tables and lining up at the bar. Laborers, professionals, retirees—the place was packed.
A small knot of people stood around the jukebox, one of the tavern’s focal points, the other being the bar itself. The jukebox was an antique Wurlitzer with a polished wood veneer and a colorful stained-glass façade of peacocks. It played old rock-and-roll, music from Hank’s parents’ era and earlier. Someone must have fed some money into the machine, because—as if the noise level in the tavern wasn’t high enough with all the patrons talking at top volume—the atmosphere suddenly vibrated with a song about how everyone had gone surfing, surfing USA. Not particularly appropriate, given the flurries that continued to swirl through the evening air outside, but the happy summer song quickly filled the dance floor at the center of the room.
Sipping his beer, Hank watched the dancers—some older folks flailing around with a glorious lack of inhibition, some younger ones moving so smoothly and gracefully Hank was tempted to applaud them. A circle of young women danced together, shimmying their hips, waving their hands, and singing along with the bouncy song. As far as Hank was concerned, watching women dance was one of the great joys of life. By the end of the song, he had all but forgotten his annoyance with Priscilla, a female he would definitely not want to watch dancing.
One particular woman in the circle caught his eye. Her long black hair swung and swayed with her movements, and the string of beads and shells she wore around her neck emphasized the slender elegance of her throat. What really caught his attention, though, was her smile, big enough to brighten the entire dance floor.
Nick must have detected that Hank’s at
tention had been snagged by one of the dancers. He twisted in his seat and easily picked out the woman Hank had zeroed in on. “Oh, man,” he said. “She’s the answer to your prayers.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“No, seriously.” Nick swiveled back to face Hank. “That’s Abbie Harding.”
“You know her?” Hank ruminated for a moment, then asked, “Is she unattached?”
“I don’t know her that well,” Nick said. “But she advertises her business in the Community Center newsletter.”
“What kind of business?”
Before Nick could answer, the song ended. The dark-haired woman must have spotted Nick, because her smile widened and she sauntered over to their booth, as graceful when she walked as when she danced. “Hey, there, stranger!” she greeted Nick, sliding onto the banquette next to him. She turned to Hank, blinding him with her megawatt smile. “Hi!”
“Abbie, this is Henry Patterson, Jr. Hank, Abbie Harding.”
Hank had stood when Abbie approached—he knew his manners—and resumed his seat once she’d settled beside Nick. “Hank,” he emphasized as they shook hands across the table. “Henry was my father.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, then dismissed him and turned back to Nick. “Have you discussed my proposal with your board yet?” she asked. “I really think I could make it work.”
“I’m sure you could,” Nick said, “but we can’t do it. There are kids in and out all the time. Some of them have phobias. Some have allergies. The rules are pretty hard-and-fast.”
“But if I kept it all enclosed in a single room, with the door shut…” Her smile lost a bit of luster. “I’m having a heck of a time finding a space that can accommodate a class.”
Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology Page 17
