Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology

by Lisa Mondello

  Hank brought in investors, too—people like Colleen Flaherty, who, thank goodness, hadn’t attempted to arrange any more dinner dates with him.

  So Jeff and the other senior partners listened respectfully to Hank. Even though Jeff was nearly doubled over with laughter, Hank knew his mentor wouldn’t toss him out of the building for suggesting that New Horizons fund Abbie Harding’s doggie classes.

  He had to admit it was an odd suggestion. “We’re talking pocket change,” he said. “The investment would be minuscule. Our exposure would be nothing.”

  “Why not tell this client to get a bank loan? Or open a Kickstarter page? I mean, really—”

  “We don’t invest enough in firms launched by women,” Hank argued. “This would be an opportunity to embrace diversity.”

  “Oh, so the client is a woman.” Jeff measured Hank with a look. “Is she pretty?”

  Hank conceded with a sheepish grin. “Yes, but it’s not personal,” he insisted, wondering how true that was. “I just think this would be a fun one-off for us to invest in.”

  Jeff clearly wasn’t convinced. “Have her put something together. We won’t discriminate against her just because she’s a pretty woman.”

  Hank returned to his own office, doing his best to assure himself his pitch on Abbie’s behalf wasn’t personal. Sure, she was beautiful. She looked amazing when she danced, and she’d performed magic with that neck massage she’d given him, and she’d floated in and out of his dreams all night, and he’d been unable to resist the urge to return to his mother’s house that morning, just to see her.

  But really, raising financing for her dog obedience school was business, not pleasure. She seemed to know what she was doing with Priscilla. She had canine expertise. Why not help her achieve her professional dream? The jukebox song hadn’t been about love, or passion, or sex. It had been about business. That was all Hank had in mind. Really

  Most of his work day was consumed by ongoing projects and established clients. He checked his cell phone frequently for new texts but heard nothing from Abbie. This was a good thing, not only because it meant things were going smoothly between her and Priscilla but because if he was going to capitalize her school, he ought to forget about her beauty and her neck massage and all the rest.

  Taking care of business, he reminded himself as he tapped his phone awake one more time and trying not to feel disappointed when there was no message from Abbie. She’d said she would walk Priscilla in the early afternoon, and then return to his mother’s house for another walk at around six p.m. He told himself the reason he left his office by five-fifteen—nearly an hour earlier than usual—was to see how far Abbie had gotten in teaching Priscilla how to heel. If he reached his mother’s house in time, he could observe Abbie’s technique with Priscilla, to get a better idea of whether Abbie truly had what it took to run a dog obedience school.

  Taking care of business, that was all.

  Unfortunately, a fender-bender on Route 128 clogged traffic and slowed his commute. By the time he reached his mother’s house, Abbie and Priscilla were gone.

  Abbie’s van was parked at the curb, though. She and Priscilla were off somewhere, Priscilla no doubt chasing any squirrel that crossed her path and Abbie hauling her back and feeding her those little goodies that she kept stashed in her pocket. Rather than scare Abbie as he had that morning by waiting inside the house for her, he remained inside his car and scrolled through his emails on his phone. Sooner or later, the dog and the dog-walker would return.

  He received another email from his mother: Excellent food. I’m trying not to gain weight. St. Kitt’s tomorrow. I trust you are taking good care of Priscilla. Give her a kiss for me!

  Hank chuckled and shook his head. He was a dutiful son, but he wasn’t going to kiss Priscilla.

  His mother’s email caused him a gut-deep twinge of guilt. He reminded himself of what Abbie had said yesterday—that by hiring her to take care of Priscilla, he was taking care of Priscilla, better care than he would have if he hadn’t hired Abbie. If he hadn’t, he and Priscilla would be battling—and Priscilla would undoubtedly win most of those battles. She would be racing around the yard rather than going on walks, and she would never have received those treats Abbie kept bribing her with to get her to behave. Life for Priscilla would be a hell of a lot worse if Abbie hadn’t entered the picture.

  Life for Hank would be a hell of a lot worse, too.

  Raising his eyes from his phone’s screen, he spotted the woman and the dog a few blocks away, approaching the house. Priscilla trotted calmly alongside Abbie—heeling. Abbie knew her stuff.

  He considered climbing out of his car to greet them, but that might make him seem too eager to be with Abbie. Instead, he waited in the car until they’d reached the house, then swung open the car door. “Hi,” he said, hoping Abbie wouldn’t notice how happy he was to see her. Her hair was windswept, her cheeks pink from the brisk evening breeze, and her eyes shimmered with a pleasure he suspected had to do with Priscilla and not him.

  “Hi,” she said. “You really don’t have to check up on me, Hank. I’m doing what you’re paying me to do.”

  “I’m not checking up on you,” he said. “But I did want to talk to you about putting together a business plan for your obedience school, something I can present to my firm.”

  “You were serious about that?”

  “Why would you think I wasn’t serious?”

  Priscilla lunged toward him, barking as if he were a slab of steak she wanted to devour. He fell back a step, and Abbie gave the leash a sharp tug and said, in a firm, commanding voice, “No.” Priscilla peered up at Abbie, her expression incredulous. She seemed to be asking how Abbie could possibly not recognize the threat Hank posed, the obvious need to attack him.

  “No,” Abbie said again, unmoved. “No barking. No jumping.”

  Priscilla growled.

  “No,” Abbie warned.

  Priscilla subsided. Hank could tell she was pissed off, though.

  Abbie started up the driveway, heading for the back of the house. Hank followed, giving Abbie a head start in the hope that Priscilla would forget he was there. The dog continued to growl and sniff, but she kept pace with Abbie.

  Only after they’d entered the house through the mudroom did Abbie answer his question. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious because it’s a school for dogs. I know what venture capital firms finance, and it’s not schools for dogs.”

  “They can finance whatever they want. I don’t suppose you gave any thought to writing up a business plan today?”

  She filled Priscilla’s water dish and set it on the kitchen floor near the sink, then turned to Hank. “I’ve got some notes.”

  “We could look them over this evening,” he suggested. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

  “No, I…” She paused, gave him a sheepish smile, and said, “No other plans. Except to let Priscilla out for her final pit stop around nine o’clock.”

  “Do you have any other dogs you have to take care of tonight?”

  She shook her head. “The rest of my gigs are daytime only, while the dog owners are at work.”

  “Then why don’t we grab a bite to eat and brainstorm your dog school proposal?” he suggested.

  Her hesitant look implied that she didn’t think brainstorming her dog school proposal was his chief motivation. But she relented with a tentative smile. “Okay.”

  He waited impatiently while she took care of Priscilla, drying off the dog’s paws with a towel and then opening a can of gourmet dog food and plopping it into the food dish. While Priscilla ate, Abbie hung the leash on its hook in the mudroom. It irked him that she had to take care of Priscilla before she could give Hank her full attention, and it irked him that that irked him. He was paying her to take care of Priscilla, after all. She was doing her job.

  Sibling rivalry, he thought, glowering at Priscilla as she slobbered over her food. He started toward the sink to rinse out the can, but Abbie
beat him to it, scrubbing it clean and then carrying it to the recycling bin in the garage. While she was there, Priscilla lifted her head from her food dish and gave Hank a superior look, as if to say, I’m her top priority. You’re not.

  He glared back at Priscilla.

  Abbie returned from the garage and wasted more time lavishing affection on the dog, cooing about what a good girl she was—yeah, right, Hank thought—and promising to return in a few hours. She located a few of Priscilla’s chew toys in the den and brought them to the kitchen. “No going in the living room,” she said as she rubbed Priscilla behind the ears.

  To be jealous of a dog was ridiculous, Hank reminded himself.

  Finally, he and Abbie were able to escape from the house. He suggested that they leave Abbie’s van where it was parked and travel together. She agreed to that, and he suppressed the urge to race back into the house and gloat to Priscilla, who had never had the privilege of traveling anywhere in a car with Abbie. His own pettiness amused him.

  “What are you in the mood for?” he asked before rattling off the names of several restaurants in town.

  “Punjab Palace,” she said once he’d run through the list. “I love Indian food.”

  Hank nodded. That restaurant always had loud sitar music playing, which might make conversation difficult. But if that was where Abbie wanted to go, that was where they’d go. He ushered her down the driveway to his car and opened the door for her. She smiled up at him as she settled into the seat.

  Business, he reminded himself. This was not a date. It was business.

  Like hell, he thought as he joined her in the car and pulled away from the curb.

  Taking Care of Business: Chapter 6

  They chatted about Priscilla. Abbie mostly shared how sweet the dog was and how adorably her little butt shimmied when she trotted along on her stubby legs, while Hank offered an occasional grunt or snort—until the waiter took their order. Once he was gone, Abbie pulled a few folded sheets of paper from her purse and handed them to Hank.

  “These are your notes?” he asked, skimming the papers and then gazing at her in surprise. “When did you find the time to print this up? You said you’ve got other dogs you walk during the day.”

  “Actually, I put that information together a month ago,” she admitted. “I’ve applied for a business loan at several banks in town. I did these calculations for them.” As he perused her notes, she went on. “I don’t know if there’s a specific format I should have followed, but that’s the general idea. By my calculations, I’d need to have three classes a day, with at least five dogs per class, five days a week, to be able to afford the rent on one of the available commercial spaces in town. And I honestly don’t think I could get that many students that quickly. So I was thinking I could partition off some of the space for dog grooming and find a partner to be in charge of that. I was thinking, something like what my friend Cali does with her yoga studio. She holds classes in it, but she also rents the space to a ballet teacher and a martial arts teacher. It helps offset her expenses. The other instructors bring in their own students. If I hired a groomer as an employee, I’d have to pay her salary and benefits, and I just don’t see the numbers adding up. I think it would make more sense to contract out to a dog groomer, the way Cali does with the other teachers at her studio. I also thought I could include a small retail sale operation—dog food, training treats, toys, harnesses and leashes—”

  He studied the pages more intently. When he shook his head, she faltered.

  “It doesn’t add up, does it,” she said glumly.

  He lifted his gaze to her. “Sure, it can add up—depending on your income from sales and doggie school tuition.” He lifted his gaze to her. “What did the banks say when you applied for loans?”

  Her memories of those encounters with bank loan officers brought a sour taste to her mouth. “One of the loan officers said he didn’t think there was enough demand for my services. Two of them offered loan packages with sky-high interest rates. One of them called me ‘honey,’ called this a hobby, and advised me to find a nice husband and have him finance the school.”

  “Ouch.” Hank mirrored her frown.

  “I got in touch with the Small Business Administration,” she continued, “but they just sent me back to the banks.”

  He glanced at the papers again, then set them down on the table. “It’s not like you need a fortune in start-up funding.”

  “It looks like a fortune to me,” she said.

  “I’m thinking, compared to other ventures.” He paused while the waiter set steaming plates of food in front of them, bowed slightly, and departed. “You’re not building a factory. You’re not looking at thousands of square feet of commercial real estate. You’re not hiring a huge work force. You’ve got insurance issues, health issues—but we’re not talking break-the-bank capitalization.” One final glance at the papers. “This proposal is great. We can work with it. It’s clear you’ve given the business a lot of thought. I didn’t expect you to provide something this detailed and analytical.”

  “Why?” She labored to suppress her annoyance. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No, of course not.” His smile vanished. “But you’re a dog walker. Not a business school graduate.”

  “I went to graduate school,” she retorted, vexed that he’d pigeon-holed her as a dimwit like the loan officer who’d called her proposal a hobby and told her to get married. To keep herself from ranting or storming out of the restaurant, she focused on her plate of chicken tiki masala. The spicy aromas permeating the air, the ragas whining from the ceiling speakers, and the pungent flavor of her dish pleased her enough to suppress the urge to lash out at Hank for being a judgmental jackass.

  “Did you go to graduate school in business?” he asked as he slid his tandoori lamb from the skewers on which it had been served.

  “No. Psychology,” she told him, wondering if he heard the resentment in her tone. “But yes, I spent four years in college and one year in graduate school before I decided I’d rather walk dogs than be a scholar.”

  “I’ve never thought you were stupid,” he said, his tone gentle. “When it comes to dogs, you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me.”

  True enough. He looked so earnest, she decided to forgive him. “My parents were furious when I dropped out of grad school,” she explained. “They’re both academics. My sister and brother have advanced degrees, too. I lined up some dog-walking gigs when I started my doctoral program—the university’s financial support was pretty skimpy. And I discovered that I’d rather be walking dogs than sitting in seminars and reading about cognitive neuroscience.”

  “Even I would rather be walking dogs than reading about cognitive neuroscience,” Hank joked.

  “Dogs do have psychological issues,” she told him. “But they’re usually less complicated than humans. I don’t need a doctorate to psych them out.”

  He nodded his agreement, then took a sip of his Indian beer. “Are your parents nearby?” he asked. “Are they still giving you a hard time about school?”

  “They’re in California,” she said. “They both work at U.C.-San Diego. My mother teaches in the sociology department, and my father’s in administration. And yes, they still give me a hard time. They’re good people, I know they love me, but…” She finished the thought with a shrug.

  “San Diego, huh? I bet February is a lot nicer there than here. How did you wind up in Brogan’s Point?”

  “I like winter,” she said. “And I wound up here because…” Why not tell him? He was going to finance her school, which meant that, despite the heat she felt emanating from him whenever their eyes met, this dinner—and everything between them—was only about business. That heat wasn’t going to burst into flame. She could reveal something personal without it becoming a thing.

  “I came here because my boyfriend at the time got a job in the area, so when he finished his degree, I dropped out of grad school and we moved here together. Then
we broke up. He left. I stayed.” She scooped up a forkful of rice.

  Of course the break-up had been a lot more dramatic. There had been arguments, accusations, Eric’s condescension—so similar to what she’d encountered with that bank loan officer. His assertion that because he was making more money than she was, his needs would take priority. And his insistence that she liked dogs better than him—which, in retrospect, she had to concede was true. When he’d accepted a job in Atlanta, she’d sent him on his way alone. She’d been broke and frightened, all alone in a place that hadn’t felt like home, but she’d realized she would rather be broke and alone, doing a job that brought her pleasure, than trying to be the perfect partner to Eric, or the perfect daughter to her parents..

  She’d found winter in Brogan’s Point beautiful, the town buried layers of snow that sparkled like crystal. Then spring had arrived, thawing the ground and delivering lush flowers and delicate tree buds. She’d loved the changing seasons. Scrambling and scrounging, she’d worked at the pizza parlor until she had enough dog clients to pay the rent on the tiny apartment upstairs.

  Less than six months later, Eric had phoned her from Atlanta to tell her he was engaged to be married. She’d politely congratulated him and counted her blessings that she wasn’t his fiancée.

  “I guess I liked Brogan’s Point better than I liked my boyfriend,” she told Hank.

  He gave her an enigmatic smile. “When I moved here, I was afraid my social life would disappear. There’s a lot more action in Boston—more clubs, more restaurants, more people. When it comes to hanging out and socializing, what does Brogan’s Point have? The Faulk Street Tavern?”

  “And Punjab Palace,” she said, sweeping her hand through the air. “And the Lobster Shack, which is wonderful and cheap, too.” She reflected on his words, and on his mother’s elegant colonial house. “I thought you were a lifer here. You lived in Boston?”