Clint had rolled his eyes, and his face wore that expression she hated most. The one that said, Oh, please, in an exaggerated tone of exasperation. “Really, Allie, you’re such a cliché. You can’t imagine that I could fall out of love with you without having fallen in love with someone else. I’ve already told you. I just don’t feel it anymore.”
And just like that, her marriage—her life—had crumbled.
Inside the house, the phone was ringing, and she hurried inside to answer it. Maybe it was Nikki calling to tell her Friday’s party had been called off. . . .
“Hello?”
“Allie, it’s Uncle Pete. I’m afraid I have some bad news. . . .”
Des
CROSS CREEK, MONTANA
“You’re going to have such a great life. Your new family is going to spoil you like crazy. You are one lucky little doggie, Sasha.”
The small white pit-mix female sat on the front seat of the big SUV as if she owned it, and thumped her tail.
Des Hudson followed the GPS to the lakefront home of Jim and Mary Conner, the couple who’d soon become the proud owners of Des’s latest foster dog via the Cross Creek Animal Shelter.
“Here we are, Sasha.” Des parked at the foot of the driveway. “Let’s get this leash on you. Yes, you are so pretty in pink.”
The little white dog jumped into Des’s lap and planted a dozen sloppy kisses on her face.
“Now, be a good girl, just like I taught you,” she whispered. “You remember your manners and be sweet, okay?”
Des gathered the dog and her bag and got out of the car. She set Sasha on the ground and took a deep breath. This was always both the happiest and the hardest day for her, when all her efforts to prepare a dog for a new home paid off. Like so many dogs before her, Sasha had come to Des after having been abused and abandoned, in need of love and a gentle hand. Sometimes it took longer than others, but by the time Des was ready to turn over her charge to its new owners, she knew for certain that dog would be the best pet they would ever have.
Des loved fostering, loved being the one who helped the animals find their new homes, but still, it nearly killed her every time to hand over a dog she’d come to love, and she’d loved every one she’d taken into her home over the past five years.
Now it was Sasha’s turn to get her happily-ever-after.
“There’s your new mom and dad,” Des told Sasha. “Go get ’em. Turn on the charm. Go on, Sash. Time to fly.”
“Oh, she’s such a sweetie.” Mary Conner knelt down as Sasha ran up the driveway, her pink leash flying behind her. She scooped up the dog and hugged her. “You’re such a pretty girl.”
Jim Conner followed his wife, beaming like a new dad.
“We can’t thank you enough,” he called to Des, who stood at the end of the driveway, a lump in her throat. She knew she shouldn’t get so attached, knew that each dog would only be with her for a short time, but she couldn’t help herself.
“You’re welcome.” Des removed the dog’s crate and a bag of treats from the backseat. “She’s used to this crate, so I thought you might want to have it. Her favorite blanket and her toys are in here along with some of the food she’s accustomed to.”
The Conners walked toward Des, Sasha dancing along between them before taking off after a leaf that blew across the lawn.
“And these are her favorite treats.” Des handed over the supplies.
“Thank you, Des. We’re so grateful to you for bringing her to us.”
“There’s a sheet in the crate with her history, her shots and that sort of thing. Of course, there’s only one vet in town and Doc Early has all of this on record, but you never know.”
“Thanks,” Mary said.
“Well, I guess that’s that.” Des watched the dog prance on the lawn. “Call me if there’s anything. . . . Oh, did I tell you she’s afraid of loud noises?”
“You did, yes, when we met before.” Mary turned and called the dog. “Sasha, come say goodbye to Des.”
“Oh no, that’s . . .” Des started to protest, but Sasha was already running to her, tail wagging, ready to be picked up and put into the car. “Not this time, little girl.” Des knelt down on one knee. “You’re home now.”
She wanted to say more, but the words stuck in her throat, so she bent her head to let the dog lick her chin one more time, then stood and handed the leash to Mary. “Call if you have any questions.”
“We will,” Mary said. Des got into her car.
Through the window, Des could see Sasha straining at the leash as the car pulled away. The tears she’d been holding back began to run down her cheeks.
“Damn.”
She cried all the way home, and again when she went inside her empty house. But she knew that tomorrow another dog that needed her soothing voice and gentle ways would be joining her. A six-year-old beagle running loose in the woods had been found by a hiker and brought into the shelter the week before. He’d been cleared by the local vet, but he was wary and fearful and malnourished, spending much of his time huddled in the back of his crate.
“The poor thing is scared to death. He was brought in wearing a collar without a tag. Looks to me like he’s someone’s pet who got loose somehow and took off to explore and couldn’t find his way home. Might’ve been wandering awhile, which would account for him being so thin. We’ve gotten him cleaned up and will be putting his photo out in all the usual places. Doc says he isn’t chipped, and there’s always the chance that someone abandoned him. He’s a skittish little guy, so of course I thought of you right away,” Fran, the shelter’s long-winded director, had said, barely pausing long enough to take a breath. “No one has a way with a frightened animal like you do. Will you take him, see what you can do to bring him around while we try to find his people? If we can’t send him back home, we’ll need to try to adopt him out.”
“Of course. I’ll pick him up on Wednesday. I’m dropping Sasha off at the Conners’ on Tuesday afternoon.”
“That was a good placement,” Fran said. “The Conners will take good care of her.”
“They’d better, or she comes back to me.”
“Des, we’ve never had to pull one of your dogs and bring them back.”
“I know. Just sayin’.”
Des turned on the TV to break the silence. She stood in the middle of the living room and listened to the weather report for the upcoming week. Clear and cold the next two days and a chance of snow on Thursday. In Montana, winter came early and stayed late. It’d taken Des some time to get used to, especially coming from Southern California, but she’d acclimated. She stocked her pantry and her woodpile, made sure her generator was in good working order, and prayed she had enough books to see her through the worst of the season.
It had been her dream to live in a log cabin from the time she was six. Her mother had had a role in a film that was supposed to have taken place in the Wild West, and Des had played on the log cabin set in between takes. She’d been bitterly disappointed when filming ended and the cabin had been dismantled. Five years ago, she’d visited some friends who’d built a home in Montana, and she’d fallen in love with the town and the state. When a few acres with a log house on the edge of town became available, Des had jumped on it. That first year had been hard, the winter harsh and seemingly never-ending. She’d survived it with the help of her friends, but had promised herself that she’d never be caught unprepared again.
She turned off the TV and went into the kitchen, picked up Sasha’s water bowl and washed it. It was almost six o’clock, which meant she had one hour to shower and dress. Tonight was book club—dinner and conversation with a group of women who met every other Tuesday night. Usually Des looked forward to going. She really enjoyed the company and the discussions, but tonight for some reason she wasn’t her usual enthusiastic self.
She paused on her way into her bedroom to look at the array of family photos on the wall over the fireplace that stood opposite her bed: her mother in several of he
r film roles, back when she was breathtakingly beautiful, before alcohol had taken its toll; her sister, Allie, as a child, and later as a mother, holding her daughter, Nikki, as a newborn; Nikki through her childhood; and Des’s father, Fritz. What a rogues’ gallery. She shook her head. Mom’s gone and Allie, Dad, and I almost never speak.
That thought had been niggling at her for the past week or two, so much so that she made a mental note to call her father and sister in the morning.
She headed for the shower, and forty-five minutes later she was dressed and out the door, her book under her arm and the apple cake she’d made for dessert in hand. Blessing her heated seats and heated steering wheel in the frigid temperatures, she slipped a CD into the player and sang along with Katy Perry all the way to Jenny Sander’s house two miles down the road. By the time she arrived, her mood had lifted and she was ready for a great dinner with good friends and a lively discussion of a book she’d enjoyed.
Des picked up Paolo the beagle at two, and spent most of the afternoon sitting with the sad little dog in her backyard, talking softly about anything that came into her head, to get Paolo accustomed to her voice. When the sun began to drop behind the hills, she told him, “That’s it for today, pal. It’s getting colder and this California girl has reached her limit. Time to go inside.”
She held the leash and the dog rose on shaky legs but followed her inside.
“Come on, Paolo. Let’s see if you’re hungry now.” She offered the bowl of food he’d only sniffed at earlier. She turned to hang up her coat, and when she turned back, he was taking a few tentative bites. “Good boy,” she said approvingly.
She pulled off her boots and left them by the back door. “Don’t even think about chewing those. I’ll be in the next room. Feel free to join me when you’re feeling sociable.”
She changed into a pair of stretchy knit pants and a tee and went into the family room, where she popped in a DVD. For the next thirty minutes, along with the perky twenty-year-old on the screen, Des stretched—downward dog, hare, half moon, half cobra—while she tried to clear her mind and relax. Movement from the doorway caught her attention. Paolo had taken a few cautious steps toward the room. Des ignored the DVD and sat on the floor, motioning for the dog to join her. It took a few unsure moments, but eventually, he lay next to her, and before long, his head was on her leg.
“Good boy,” she crooned, scratching behind his ears until his eyes closed and he fell asleep. Des leaned back against the sofa, and had just closed her own eyes when her phone rang. She reached behind her and grabbed it off the table.
“Hello?” she said softly.
“Des?”
“Hi, Kent.” Her current . . . what? Not boyfriend. Hopeful boyfriend? Prospective boyfriend? She hadn’t decided how to categorize him.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I picked up a new foster dog today. He fell asleep with his head on my leg and I don’t want to wake him.”
“Lucky dog.”
“Ha-ha. His recent past hasn’t been so lucky, but I have high hopes for his future.”
“You’re really into the whole rescue thing, aren’t you?” He made it sound as if maybe it wasn’t such a good thing.
“I am. Someone needs to step up. Why not me?”
When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “It’s my thing, Kent. It’s what I do.”
“I get it.” As what seemed to be an afterthought, he added, “I like dogs, too.”
His declaration aside, he obviously didn’t get it.
Des didn’t feel like going into all the reasons why her efforts at the shelter were so important, why it meant so much to her to be able to make a difference in the lives of the animals she fostered as well as in the lives of those who adopted her fosters. The reasons behind her efforts were none of Kent’s business. There were some things Des didn’t share easily.
“Well, can you leave the dog long enough to maybe catch dinner on Friday? Saturday, if that’s a better night for you?”
“I have something on Saturday, but Friday would be fine.” She tried to ignore the slightly sarcastic tone of his voice. She’d enjoyed the few dates she’d had with him and wasn’t ready to cross him off yet. She’d been told by several friends that she’d been too quick to toss other guys in the past, and one of her new resolutions was to be more open-minded and less judgmental.
“The Campfire Inn okay with you?”
“Of course. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Seven?”
“I’ll be ready.”
For the next fifteen minutes she was treated to Kent’s recitation of that afternoon’s golf outing, hole by hole, green by green, putt by putt. She sat back, her head against the sofa, the dog snoring on her leg, and half listened with her eyes closed. It wasn’t that he was boring. It was more that he was . . . well, yes, he was boring, in a self-absorbed sort of way. Truth be told, she couldn’t care less about golf and had probably as much interest in his game as he had in her fostering efforts. Which didn’t say a whole lot about their future prospects. But maybe if she kept an open mind and got to know him a little better, she’d feel differently. Everyone said what a terrific guy he was, and really, she was trying hard to see it. But when she heard the click that indicated she had a call coming in, she was almost grateful to put him on hold.
“If I lose you, I’ll call you back,” she promised. Before Kent could respond, she hit the hold button and said, “Hello?”
“How’s my favorite hearty pioneer girl?”
“Uncle Pete!” She laughed quietly. “I’m hanging tough in my log cabin. How’re things there?”
“Not good, Des.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some really bad news, honey.”
She frowned. She’d never heard that dark note in his voice before.
“It’s about your dad. . . .”
CHAPTER ONE
Peter J. Wheeler sat at the shiny Honduran mahogany desk in his high-rise paneled law office in Center City Philadelphia rehearsing what he would say to the beneficiaries of his best friend’s will once they arrived. There’d be no easy or pleasant way to get through the next few hours, and if he hadn’t loved the deceased like a brother, he would’ve killed Fritz Hudson with his own two hands for putting him in this position. Over the years, Pete had been called upon to clean up a good number of messes on Fritz’s behalf, but this . . . this was . . .
Cowardly. There was no way around it. Fritz was an out-and-out coward. He’d gone ahead and died and left his old buddy Pete to do his dirty work. Not that Pete didn’t owe Fritz—he’d be the last person to deny that—but still. Weren’t there limits to repaying a debt?
“Mr. Wheeler, Ms. Monroe and Miss Hudson have arrived,” Marjorie, the firm’s receptionist, announced through the intercom.
Send them away. Far, far away . . .
“Send them in.”
Pete stood and adjusted his cuffs for something to do with his hands, mentally preparing for the reading of the will—and the breaking of the news.
The door opened and Fritz’s daughters, Allie and Des, walked in, smiling and offering hugs and kisses on the cheek. It wasn’t a secret that their father’s estate was quite substantial, and Pete had no doubt the two women were already mentally spending their shares.
“Allie, Des. Great to see you girls,” he said, before reminding himself of the somber reason for their presence. He cleared his throat and assumed a solemn expression. “Again, my condolences to you both.”
“And to you as well.” Des gave his hand a squeeze. “Since you were closer to Dad than either of us, I suppose you’ll miss him more than anyone else.”
“I’d give anything to have him here with us today.” So I could wring his neck the way I should have when he was alive. Or at the very least, if he were here today, he could do his own dirty work.
“I’m sure.” Allie looked around the office. “New décor? I like it.”
“Thanks. All that leather and those prints
of English hunting dogs were starting to get to me.” He smiled to himself.
Six months ago, Fritz had stood in the middle of Pete’s office with his hands on his hips. “Don’t you think it’s time for all that tired old ‘tally ho!’ stuff to go, Pete? I’m pretty sure that style went out in the nineties.”
I should’ve tied him to a chair right then and there, dialed the phone, handed it to him, and not let him up until he’d come clean with his kids. All his kids.
“Allie, how’s Nikki doing? The new school working out for her?” Pete offered a chair to the tall, slender blonde, who seemed a bit on edge.
“She’s doing just fine, thank you.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m great.” The sarcasm in Allie’s voice was unmistakable. “Except that the TV show I was working on was canceled and I’m going to have to sell my house because I can’t afford the upkeep and my half of Nikki’s private school tuition. Other than that, I’m just swell.”
“I’m sorry things aren’t better for you right now. But you have a lot of directing credits, right?”
“Assistant directing,” she corrected.
“Still, you have a recognizable name. I’m sure someone will call.” He tried to be encouraging, but could see by her expression that she wasn’t buying it.
“Well, once Dad’s estate is settled, you’ll be able to turn things around.” Des, who was three years younger and four inches shorter than her sister, hadn’t waited for a chair to be offered before she sat. “That’s what this is all about, right, Uncle Pete?”
“Ahhh . . . well . . . yes, but . . .” he stammered. No rehearsal would have been adequate to prepare him for what was ahead this morning.
It was then that Allie pointed to the third chair in front of the desk.
She frowned. “Is someone joining us?”
Before Pete could respond, Marjorie tapped on the door, then opened it. “Mr. Wheeler . . .”
“Ah . . . yes.” He walked around the desk as a petite woman with curly light auburn hair entered the office. “Cara. Come in, please.” He embraced her as he had the others. “Have a seat.”
The Last Chance Matinee Page 3
