Linny's Sweet Dream List

by Susan Schild

  Ruthie gave her a kind glance. “It’s scary when your puppy’s sick. We’ll get Roy looked at in just a minute.”

  Linny took a seat. Chewing at a nail, she fervently hoped that the vet whom they’d see would be one of the four other vets in the practice, but a moment later, Jack Avery called them back to the examining room. Linny reddened as she remembered crying in front of him last week. She would have been even more chagrinned had she not been so scared about the unnaturally languid puppy she cradled in her arms. Despite the fact that he was wearing half-glasses dotted with Pink Flamingos—no doubt another loaner from Ruthie—Jack’s face was closed as he asked about Roy. He probably thought she was slightly crazy.

  As she described Roy’s symptoms, he jotted down notes. “Anything else unusual going on?”

  She hesitated. “He did get into some carrot cake last night. And he may have eaten a half a can of cream cheese frosting.” Did she sound like the absent-minded mother who left the baby on the roof of her car? She hurriedly added, “There were two other dogs in the kitchen and I’m not sure who ate what.”

  Jack nodded, looking serious. “Cake and frosting can cause real trouble.”

  Linny started talking too fast. “He was only out of my sight for just a minute, and he had to climb up on a chair to get to the counter to get it. . . .” A wave of panic swept over her. What if Roy died?

  The vet studied her, and his face softened. “Puppies get into everything. It’s not your fault. Slow down, now. We’ll get blood work run, and see what we’ve got.”

  Linny gave a jittery nod, but felt a rush of relief as she handed Jack the leash. Roy was in capable hands.

  Twenty minutes later, he strode back into the examining room and frowned. “Looks like Acute Pancreatitis—inflammation of the pancreas. High doses of fatty foods can cause enzymes to be released and begin to digest the body itself. This will give you more detail about the illness.” He handed her an article. “Right now, we’re starting him on IVs and medication.”

  Linny scanned the information sheet and gasped quietly. “ ‘Respiratory failure, brain damage, hemorrhages, sepsis . . .’ It sounds so serious.” Her knees started to buckle, and she backed toward a chair.

  He held out a hand, and steadied her elbow. “It is.” He nodded gravely. “We’ll need to keep him for few days so we can get him rehydrated, and monitor him. Depending on how he responds, you may be able to take him home at night. Ruthie will call you later with a progress report.”

  “Thank you, Jack.” Her voice was tight and strained. “That dog is my sweetheart.”

  The vet gave her a crooked smile. “I understand.”

  Her gaze caught his, and held it for a moment, wishing that he’d tell her Roy would recover fully. Instead, he closed the chart, and giving her a perfunctory smile, opened the door for her. Thanking him again, she ducked out.

  Back home, she read every online article she could find about Acute Canine Pancreatitis. Instead of being reassured, Linny was even tauter with anxiety. Ruthie said they’d call at four with an update. Time crawled. Linny’s stomach tightened into a knot as she imagined Roy gasping and writhing. Slipping the trusty rubber band back on her hand, she practiced banishing negative thoughts until her wrist was red. He would recover fully, she told herself. Linny made another disappointing attempt at pacing in a too-short trailer, and tried to distract herself with her Sweet Dream List, but could only concentrate enough to doodle.

  On the computer, she scanned the job boards, blinked slowly, and woke several minutes later. Disgusted with her lack of drive, she gave herself a shake and brewed a pot of extra-strength coffee. Back at the desk, she sipped, desultorily played Bejeweled, watched the clock, and compulsively checked email and Facebook.

  She slumped as she examined the photo her friend Shawn had posted—she and her husband Allen gazing at each other soulfully against a sunset backdrop at their Bald Head Island home. After wine at book club a few months ago, Shawn had told Linny that she and Allen were on the verge of divorce because of his online gambling.

  She scrolled down. Her friend Jones posted, ‘My heart hurts for the impoverished people of this island nation.’ Made it sound like he was on a mission trip, but the photo was of him and Nicholas framed by palm trees, grinning and toasting each other with drinks in coconut shells. Linny raked her fingers through her hair and gave a noisy sigh reminding herself again that she just needed to quit Facebook, especially now.

  An email notice popped up. Linny stared at the screen as her heart beat faster. The note was from an old favorite client from her days at Kipling.

  Linny,

  Heard you’d left Kipling. Aaron gave me your contact info.

  I’m now VP of Human Resources at Grayfeather Networks. We have an opening for an internal trainer.

  Attached is the job description. Look it over, and I’ll give you a call within the next week or so to discuss it. Am waiting for leadership team to approve the position.

  It’s a great company. Love to have you on board. Corporate headquarters in Austin.

  Robert Bryant

  Linny reread the message, and examined the attachment. When she Googled the company, her pulse quickened. Analysts called Grayfeather Networks “a winner” that was “well positioned for the future,” and the stock price had risen steadily over the past five years. She drew a deep breath and released it in a long whoosh, feeling a buzz of excitement. A job with Grayfeather Networks would give her a fresh start and the security of a salary and benefits. If Robert had any say in it, she’d probably get the position if she applied for it. After she got one of his most obstreperous teams to work better together, he thought Linny hung the moon. The note felt like a vindication after her humiliating release from Kipling.

  Tilting back in her chair, she mulled it over as she gazed out the window and watched puffy white clouds drift in the cornflower blue sky. Could she leave North Carolina? What would she do without the anchors in her life—Dottie, Mary Catherine, Kate and Jerry? She didn’t want to miss the birth of her niece or nephew, or not be a part of the child growing up. What if her mother got sick? She gave an involuntary shudder. Sighing, she took a slug of her now cool coffee, and felt overwhelmed. When the phone rang, she jumped. She glanced at the caller ID, hurriedly rubbed the Lucky Duck, and picked up. “Everything okay, Ruthie?”

  “Roy is coming along.” Ruthie’s voice was reassuring. “He’s responding slowly. He’s not out of the woods yet,” she cautioned. “But he can spend the night at home if you bring him back in the morning. You can pick him up at five forty-five.”

  When Linny arrived at the clinic, Ruthie was on the phone with her back to the door. The woman on the other end of the call was so loud that Linny could hear her as Ruthie tried to interject. “Vera, I do understand . . . Yes, I told him . . . I’m sorry, he’s had back-to-back clients, but I promise . . .”

  Linny ducked down, retying her already tied sneakers. She felt a flash of guilt for eavesdropping, but not a big one. She wanted to learn more about how Jack Avery’s marriage to Malibu Barbie worked. Ruthie’s voice grew extra sugary and reassuring. “I promise I’ll have him call you the first chance he gets.” Hanging up, she called to a co-worker in an exasperated tone, “Vera divorcing him was the luckiest thing that ever happened to Dr. Jack.”

  Oh my. Linny’s heart raced. So Jack wasn’t a slimeball cheater. Or maybe he was—had the affair with the nymphet caused the divorce? She grimaced. How much of that sort of behavior could a wife be expected to tolerate? If Jack wasn’t a cheater like Buck had been, who was Velvet/Bunny? Could she be a newer wife, or was Jack like the “Successful Executive” she’d seen online last night—the 48-year-old who wanted to date women young enough to be his daughter? She shook her head in disgust.

  Realizing how crazy she’d look if she was caught spending long minutes tying and untying her shoe, she popped up, and tried to sound breezy. “Hey, Ruthie.”

  Ruthie put a hand to her throat. “Linny,
you startled me. I didn’t even see you.”

  “Just tying my shoe.” She pointed toward the laces, a blushing female Forrest Gump. “I’m here to take Roy home for the night.”

  “Sorry, precious boy.” Linny lifted Roy out of the car and cradled him, thrilled to have him back home, even if it was just for the night. He did not like the plastic protective collar he had to wear, and kept bumping her face with it. Roy wanted it off. “Sorry, buddy. Doctor’s orders,” she murmured. Linny sat with him on the porch, carefully adjusted the collar, and put him down gently on the lawn. Listing slightly, he motored off to check out his yard. Though clearly still sick, he looked perkier. If his abdomen wasn’t so tender, she’d have given him a rib-crushing hug.

  She cocked her head, seeing a paper bag on the doormat, but Roy bumped into an Oak. Linny scooped him up, and brought him inside, and settled him into a clean nest of towels in his crate.

  Remembering the sack, she retrieved it, and peered in at a metal cylinder. What in the world? She pulled out the note, and recognized Kate’s perfect cursive.

  Call me tonight. So glad Roy is doing better!!! Kiss him for me.

  One of Jerry’s men goes to salvage yards all the time, and pulled this used Volvo gas gauge for you. Jerry said to call his mechanic, Ronnie. He owns Spivey’s Garage on Elm.

  207-6555. He can install it for under a hundred dollars, and can do it tomorrow. Jerry says get it fixed now because it’s a safety issue. We don’t want you breaking down out in the middle of nowhere.

  XOXO

  Kate

  PS—Ronnie complains to Jerry all the time about his mechanics. Cowboys, he calls them. I wonder if he could he use your services?

  Linny felt warmed by Jerry and Kate’s concern. She smiled as she recalled how frequently Andy had checked the oil and tire pressure in her car. Those small acts of love made her feel protected, and she missed that. Tiptoeing back to her bedroom, she glanced in the crate to check the rise and fall of Roy’s breath and felt a rush of tenderness. Her stomach settled down for the first time all day.

  Back at the kitchen table, she stared at her phone. Despite work on the horizon, money was still a nagging worry. She didn’t even want to think about how expensive Roy’s day visits to the vet’s would be, and now the car. Pinching her lip, she thought about it. Jerry was right. She couldn’t risk being stranded again. She tapped in the number for Spivey’s Garage.

  “Can you hold?” a man said brusquely.

  Yikes. No hello, no do you mind holding? Not a great first impression. Two or three minutes passed, and she mulled over Kate’s suggestion about working with the cowboys. Sounded like they needed it.

  Early the next morning, Linny gave a final pat to the sleepy puppy and handed him to the vet tech at Red Oak. She pushed open the lobby door, glanced out, and instinctively ducked back inside. Good grief, she was turning into a spy. But still, she peered out, watching a private drama unfold in the parking lot.

  A tense-looking Jack Avery stood beside his red truck, arms crossed. Frowning, he glanced at his watch, as a sleek black Mercedes convertible glided in beside him.

  Linny glimpsed Vera’s white blonde head in the driver’s seat. Malibu Barbie stepped from the car and waved, her red smile looking brittle. Linny eyed her rich girl outfit of black capris, a red blouse, and black and white houndstooth-check flats. She felt a burn of jealousy at her petite perfection. For an ex-wife, she sure seemed to spend a lot of time at Jack’s office.

  The passenger door of the Mercedes opened part way, and a skinny boy climbed out, clutching a handheld game. With a finger, he pushed his glasses up his nose, and waved at Jack.

  Jack broke into a wide, open smile.

  This was Neal, and Linny had a front-row seat at the divorced parents’ child swap. She felt a wave of sadness for Jack and Neal—and even for Vera.

  Jack hugged the boy, helped him unload a duffel bag from the backseat, and put it in the truck. When Neal kissed Vera good-bye, she caught the boy in an extravagant hug, and let him go. Her shoulders’ slumped as she slipped behind the wheel of the car and pulled off. With Jack’s hand resting on the back of the boy’s neck, father and son walked slowly toward the clinic door. Neal chatted animatedly, and Jack nodded, listening.

  Embarrassed at having witnessed the personal moment, Linny stepped backward, crashing into a potted plant. Catching her balance, she grasped the stems of the tottering plant and tried to steady it as Jack and Neal stepped in the lobby.

  “Hey, Linny.” Jack sounded pleasant and seemed unsurprised to see her wedged in a palm tree.

  “Oh, hey Jack.” She could feel her face was crimson.

  “This is my son, Neal. Neal, this is Linny.”

  “Hey, Neal.” Linny stuck out her hand—and felt her face heat up as she realized that a simple hello would have been more appropriate.

  But looking grave, Neal shook her hand. “Hi, Linny.”

  Jack said, “Linny’s puppy, Roy, is getting over pancreatitis—that’s where the—”

  “. . . the stomach enzymes cause problems,” Neal finished.

  Her embarrassment forgotten, she shook her head admiringly. “What a smart young man.”

  The boy blushed, and looked down at his sneakers.

  Jack squeezed Neal’s shoulder, looking every inch the proud papa. “He’s been reading my old textbooks. He thinks he wants to be a vet.”

  As Ruthie yoo-hooed a greeting to Jack and Neal, Linny waved and made her exit. “Good bye. Nice to meet you, Neal,” she called over her shoulder. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she blushed again, thinking about colliding with the plant. Why couldn’t she act normally around the vet? She shook her head, but found herself wondering how Jack’s young girlfriend did with a boy so close to her own age. Linny knew her own view of parenting was idealized, and saw a mental picture of her younger self and a handsome husband cooing over the bassinet of a fresh-smelling infant. She slipped on her glasses and shuddered, remembering Mary Catherine’s tales about Dare’s teen years. She sniffed, and smiled meanly. If Jack allowed Velvet/Bunny to be part of his family unit over the next few years, the girl probably had her work cut out for her.

  Cowboy was far too kind a description for the employee who greeted her when Linny arrived at Spivey’s Garage for her ten o’clock appointment. The young man behind the counter with the too-cool attitude and greasy hair kept his eyes glued to the computer screen for several minutes before he deigned to look up and greet her. Now, thirty minutes later, she saw her car still in the parking lot.

  He talked quietly on his cell, but she could hear every word. “Yeah, they rocked in the first set. We got trashed, but hey . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, betting his boss, Ronnie, had a policy about employees not using the business line for personal calls. Using his cell was probably the young man’s way of getting around the rule. Rising, she walked to the counter, stood in front of him and gave him a finger wave to get his attention.

  He lowered the phone and flashed her a look of annoyance.

  “Excuse me, but how much longer do you think it will be?” she asked pleasantly.

  He frowned. “I don’t know, lady. One of the boys called in sick . . .”

  A booming voice behind her commanded, “Denny, put the phone down and show the lady some manners.”

  Linny turned and saw a round, red-faced man bustle in and chug toward the counter.

  The young man scrambled his feet, hurriedly ended the call and mumbled, “Sorry, Ronnie.”

  The man looked at her apologetically. “Ma’am, I’m Ronnie Spivey, and I’m the owner. I am very sorry for any delay we’ve caused you, and I’m particularly sorry for the manners of this young man.” He shot the boy a look, and shooed him from behind the counter. “Fortunately, his mechanical skills are much better than his meet-and-greet skills.”

  Denny had the grace to look sheepish as he ducked toward the door to the bays.

  Ronnie called after him. “Please ge
t her car back there now. I’ve got the desk.” He turned to her. “You’re Linny, right? Jerry called and told me about you. He said you taught classes on treating customers right?”

  Linny smiled. “I did . . . do . . . customer service training.”

  “We could use it around here.” He blew out a sigh. “These boys drive me crazy. They’re smart and work hard for the most part, but they don’t know how to deal with people. They were all raised in barns.” Ronnie shook his head in disgust. “And we’ve got professional-type customers that come in here, so we need to be on our toes.” He hooked a thumb toward the framed dollar bill on the wall behind him. “I started this business twenty-five years ago. For a long time, it was just me—a one-man show. But I’ve grown and now I’ve got contracts with the state to maintain their car fleets, and thirteen awful-mannered employees I’ve got to manage. Can you help me, doc?” He gave her a cheeky grin.

  She smiled, instinctively liking the man. “I’d like to help, but I need at least fifteen participants to run a class, and between my fee and the time lost when your guys are in class, it usually costs too much for a small business.” Linny tilted her head. “I can email you a few articles, but let me think about it . . .” Somewhere in her brain, an idea began to take hold.

  Linny pulled out of the service station and glanced with satisfaction at the gas gauge, now registering a half tank. The back of her shirt clung to the seat, even with all the windows rolled down, but she could handle not having air conditioning for a while. At least she wouldn’t have another breakdown. The gates came down at a railroad crossing, and as she idled the car waiting for the train to pass, she heard the ping of an arriving text and saw it was from one of her favorite ex-co-workers. She pulled it up.