The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (13 page)

Lara nodded. “I’ve gotten a lot better since then. I can spell words besides
dog
and
it
.”

“After all those years of outrageously overpriced private schools, I should hope so.”

“Here.” Lara commandeered the computer and found the Web site. “We’ll sign you up for an account and I’ll start a game. We can play on our phones, even. We don’t have to be in the same room.”

“If you insist. I just hope I don’t humiliate you too badly.” Justine took off her glasses and set them on the nightstand. “I look forward to our first game. Right after I take another nap.”

“But you just got up.”

“Good night.”

“But you—”

“Close the curtains on your way out, would you? And please keep the dogs quiet.” Justine burrowed under the covers.

Lara gave up, closed the curtains, and turned off the lights. For now, she would let sleeping mothers lie. She pressed a few buttons on her phone, studied the Scrabble tiles on her virtual board, and started a game with the only word she could come up with:
WELL.

She waited for Justine’s countermove. And waited and waited and waited.

Thirty minutes later, as Lara was en route to the adoption fair, her phone buzzed. When she stopped for a red light, she checked her messages and saw that her mother had built a longer, higher-scoring word off of
WELL: WAVING
.

Game on.

Chapter 15

“We want that one.” A middle-aged couple gazed down at Lara, both of them smiling with anticipation.

Lara managed to maintain a straight face, but Kerry broke into a coughing fit. Weekend adoption fairs were always a lot of work, and today had been especially hectic. They’d arrived at the outdoor plaza at noon with all the dogs in tow. By twelve thirty, it was drizzling, and by the time they put up a makeshift awning over the X-pen holding the dogs, the grass was slick and muddy. Lara was damp, cold, and depressed. Kerry, in the throes of a massive maternal anxiety attack, was checking her text messages and dialing her mother for baby updates every two minutes. No matter how many times Lara urged her friend to pack it in and go home, Kerry refused.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Kerry insisted. “I refuse to give in to the tidal wave of bonding hormones flooding my brain.”

“Cut yourself some slack,” Lara said. “You just had a baby a week ago.”

“Everyone says I need a break from the baby—my mom, Richard, his mom . . .”

“You’re not getting a break; you’re having a nervous breakdown. Two hours away from Cynthia is plenty. Skedaddle.”

“Never.” Kerry got a steely glint in her eye. “I made a commitment to these dogs, and I’m keeping it.” She paused. “Unless I get engorged and have to go pump. Then all bets are off.”

The pit bull puppies had found homes within the first hour, but since then they hadn’t had a single serious potential adopter.

Until now.

“Which one?” Lara prayed that the couple on the other side of the folding table wasn’t talking about the dog she thought they were talking about.

The wife let go of her husband’s hand and pointed. “That cute little white fluff ball right there.”

“Ah.” Lara took a breath. “That would be Mullet.”

The wife turned to her husband and put her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry; we can change his name.”

“
Her
name, actually. She’s a five-year-old Shih Tzu mix, and she’s one of our special-needs dogs.”

“She’s cute as a button.” The wife crouched down and waggled her fingers through the wire X-pen in an attempt to coax Mullet to come over. Mullet, already outraged by the indignity of being jailed with other dogs so clearly inferior to herself, curled up even tighter and ignored this overture from an inconsequential human.

“She’s young and relatively healthy, but she came to our rescue group with a few medical issues,” Lara continued. “She’s almost blind in one eye, she hates having her paws touched, and those bare patches on her skin may never grow in.”

“Blind?” The woman melted. “That’s so sad. She must have been abused.”

“We don’t know her history,” Lara said, exchanging a look with Kerry. “And in cases where we don’t know for sure, we try not to speculate. It’s possible her vision problems were congenital, or due to an unresolved infection. In any case, she gets around just fine, and it’s important not to baby her or let her get away with bad behavior.”

The woman wasn’t even pretending to listen. She was too busy oohing and aahing. “Poor widdle baby. She just needs someone to love her.”

Mullet lifted one corner of her mouth in a silent snarl.

Lara gave up trying to reason with the wife and appealed to the husband. “Tell me a bit about your situation. Why have you decided it’s time to add a new dog to your family?”

He scratched his neatly trimmed gray beard and inclined his head toward his better half. “Pam’s a real animal lover. Cats, rabbits, horses, you name it. And we had a dog for a long time, a little fluffy one like, uh, Mullet here.”

“My precious Petty.” The woman’s eyes went misty. “What a doll. That dog could read my mind, I tell you. She went into kidney failure and we had to put her down, and I swore up and down that I was done with dogs forever.”

The husband winked at Lara. “That was two months ago.”

Pam waved his comment away. “Cats just aren’t the same. And this little cutie, there’s something about her that reminds me of Petty.”

When Pam leaned over the top of the pen to pet Mullet’s ear, Mullet pulled away with a haughty headshake. Then the dog leaned forward, tongue out, but instead of licking Pam . . .

“She spat on me!” Pam snatched her hand away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her husband said. “Dogs can’t spit.”

Mullet flounced over to the other side of the pen and settled back down.

“Total brat,” Kerry muttered.

“Tell me about Petty,” Lara urged. “What was special about her?”

Pam hesitated for a moment, her smile turning sad and nostalgic. “Everything. She was so smart and funny. She could do all kinds of tricks. But mostly, you know, she was my snugglebug. She watched TV with me, kept me company while I crocheted, listened to me.”

“So you’re looking for a cuddly dog that enjoys social stimulation.”

The couple nodded in unison.

Lara turned to Kerry for backup, but Kerry was suddenly preoccupied with refilling the portable water bowl. “Here’s the deal. Mullet can be a bit . . . aloof. She’s very slow to warm up, and she’s not much of a cuddler. If you want a true-blue sweetheart, though, you might want to consider Zsa Zsa.” Lara clapped her hands and the poodle immediately trotted over, eyes sparkling and tail wagging.

Pam didn’t even glance at the larger dog. “Oh, I know what I want. I’ve had lots of Shih Tzus over the years. They can be temperamental, but I adore the breed. Poodles just can’t compare.”

Her husband regarded Lara with a steady, open countenance. “We’ll give her a good home. I can give you references, if you want. Our vet, our groomer—they’ll tell you.”

Lara shoved the wet, curling tendrils of hair out of her face and went in search of Kerry.

“This perfectly nice, normal couple is asking to adopt Mullet. What do I do here?”

Kerry shrugged. “Let ’em fill out an application and schedule a home visit.”

“But they’re not the right match for her. You saw the way she was giving them the stinkeye.”

Kerry put down the water dish and stepped back as the dogs swarmed in to drink. “Let me ask you something: Why did you make me drag Mullet out here if you have no intention of letting anyone adopt her?”

Lara floundered. “It’s not that I have no intention of letting anyone adopt her, but she needs a
very
special owner. I honestly don’t think these two are prepared for Mullet and her mind games. They’re too nice. Too normal. She’ll end up right back on our doorstep in two weeks. You know she will.”

“Oh, give them a chance.” Kerry rubbed her eyes. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m overwhelmed and sleep-deprived and Mullet keeps barking right in my ear two minutes after I finally get to sleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mullet gets a family; I get peace and quiet. Win-win, baby.”

“Ooh.” Lara glanced at her cell phone. “It’s my turn to make a word.” She explained about her online game with Justine.

“And that’s your idea of mother-daughter bonding?” Kerry marveled. “Each of you in your separate corners, trying to beat each other at Scrabble?”

Lara nodded. “Fun, free, and educational to boot.”

“Good Lord. No wonder you prefer dogs to people.”

“People have their advantages,” Lara allowed, wincing as she saw her mother’s latest move:
BOXY
, with a double-word score. “Dogs aren’t very good at spelling. You’ll hardly ever see them playing
queenly
for a triple-word score. Well, maybe a Border collie.”

“So what’s the verdict?” Pam called from the other side of the X-pen. “Can we take her?”

“I’m getting the application forms together right now,” Lara replied.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. I know I’m the one she’s been waiting for.” Pam knelt down and called to Mullet.

Mullet sauntered across the pen until she was directly in front of Pam. Then she pivoted, showed Pam her backside, and used her hind legs to rake the ground, splattering mud and grass in Pam’s face.

Pam gasped and reeled back.

“I’m so sorry.” Kerry was right there with a roll of paper towels.

“Don’t take it personally.” Lara scooped Mullet up in one arm and gave the little hellion a warning look. “As I told you, she’s slow to warm up.”

Zsa Zsa, sensing Pam’s distress, nosed her hand and gazed up at her with compassionate
talk to me
eyes.

“Zsa Zsa is our nurturer,” Lara said. “And she’s a perfect lady. She would never kick mud at you.”

“Never,” Kerry agreed. “In fact, I’ve caught her cleaning the other dogs’ paws.”

Pam wiped the dirt off her face while her husband gave Zsa Zsa a little pat. Zsa Zsa pressed her head into his palm and closed her eyes.

“I like her,” he declared.

“Well. She’s bigger than my other dogs, but she does seem sweet.” Pam turned her attention to the poodle while Mullet snorted with discontent in Lara’s grasp.

“Don’t let the long legs fool you. Zsa Zsa’s a lapdog in disguise,” Lara assured them. “She’ll follow you anywhere. You can even let her off leash, and she won’t wander.”

Pam hesitated, still shaken from Mullet’s callous dismissal.

Zsa Zsa dropped into a sit-stay, nose up and ears forward. She lifted one paw in an offer to shake.

Pam knelt in the wet grass, opened the gate to the pen, and threw her arms around the dog. Zsa Zsa rested her snout on Pam’s shoulder.

“Hey, what about me?” demanded the husband. “She’s my dog, too!”

Lara felt the unmistakable zing of a match well made. She could practically hear the click of puzzle pieces snapping into place.

She stepped back, dusted off her hands, and let the newfound soul mates have a little alone time. “My work here is done.”

* * *

As she drove back to Mayfair Estates, still basking in the glow of success, her phone rang. Her warm fuzzies turned ice-cold when she saw the name on caller ID: Evan.

She’d been assuring herself for the past two weeks that she didn’t care if she never heard from him again, but her nervous system told a different story—suddenly she was sweaty, short of breath, and surging with adrenaline.

She made herself wait a few rings before answering with a cool “Hello?”

“Lara? This is Evan.”

She paused a few beats. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He didn’t have to sound
so
chipper and energetic.

“Glad to hear it.”

“So listen. I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I packed up the rest of your stuff, and I wanted to know when you could stop by to get it.”

The nonchalance with which he delivered this blow stunned her. “You packed everything up?”

“Yeah. I went through the closets and the drawers and boxed up everything of yours I could find. All the dog toys, too.”

She struggled to recover her composure. “So you opted not to flush them?” She managed to sound as casual as he did. “I’m impressed at your self-control.”

“It wasn’t self-control,” he shot back. “I’m just too cheap to call the plumber again.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

“So do you want your stuff or not?” he asked, pressing her.

“Yes, I do. Why don’t I just swing by Monday morning and let myself in after you’ve gone to work? I think that would best for all involved.”

“No,” he said, a bit defensively. “That’s no good. I changed the locks.”

“You did? Would you mind telling me why?” Her face burned at the memory of her little drive-by last week. Maybe he really did think she was stalking him.

He ignored her question and said, “What time are you working on Monday? I can leave the boxes on the front porch and you can pick them up on your way home.”

“I’ll be there at six thirty.”

“Great.”

“Great. See you . . .” Lara trailed off. “Well, I guess I won’t see you.”

“Okay.” Evan sounded distracted. “Bye.”

And with that, she was dismissed. She pressed the phone to her ear, furious at him for being able to detach so quickly and furious at herself for not being able to do the same. As she tried to pull herself together, she realized that Evan hadn’t hung up the phone. She could hear rustling and what sounded like splashing in a pool on the other end of the line.

For a moment she thought he might be having second thoughts, too. Second thoughts and regrets and reluctance to let go. She parted her lips to confess, “I miss you.”

Then she heard Evan’s voice, distant but perfectly clear: “All right, honey, that’s taken care of. Let’s go get some dinner.”

Chapter 16

Lara took the dogs on an extra-long walk, and, after a fitful night of tossing and turning and seething, took Eskie on another challenging climb the next morning.

“I will kill him,” she snapped into her cell phone.
“Kill him
.
”

“Don’t kill him.” Kerry tried to make her see reason. “I’m in no condition to be a star witness in your homicide trial. Tell you what—you can kill him after I lose the baby weight and Cynthia starts sleeping through the night. Deal?”

“Dumping all my stuff on the front porch instead of dealing with me face-to-face? And making a big point of telling me he changed the locks? Like I’m stalking him? Ha! He
wishes
I were stalking him.” As she headed back toward Cherie’s house, Lara stomped right past Ivory without even saying hello. Ivory tossed her head and yipped indignantly. “Forget the engagement ring—I should have flushed his precious Swiss watch. Hit him where it hurts. I should have flushed his
Wrath of Khan
poster signed by William Shatner.”

Kerry gasped. “His what?”

“Oh yes. He was a major Trekkie in high school. Used to go to the conventions and everything. And you know what? I loved him anyway! I accepted him for who he is!” Lara stopped to stretch her calf muscles and pour Eskie a drink from her water bottle. “Honestly, I’m gone for two weeks and he’s calling somebody else ‘honey’?”

“It’s just a rebound,” Kerry said.

“Whatever. I don’t care. In fact, I hope the two of them are very happy together. I hope they get married. I hope he re-gifts the toilet ring to her and she wears it for the next fifty years.”

“I’m so glad you’re not bitter.”

“I’m too busy to be bitter.” Lara tipped her head back, inhaled the fresh mountain air, and went over her schedule. “I’m squeezing in a quick training session with Eskie right now, and then I have to drop by to check on Roo—”

“Roo?”

“The flabrador.”

“Oh, right. Your personal training client.”

“Down half a pound from last week, thank you very much.”

“I think you’re on to something with this dog diet plan,” Kerry said. “You seriously could make millions on a late-night infomercial for canine fitness.”

“Then I have to meet a new potential client, and then I have lunch with a vet clinic manager from my real job. But I’ll drop by your place with dinner, if you want. Shall we say seven?”

“No, no. I’m good. Richard’s back in town today and all the mothers are departing.”

“Thank God. So you guys finally get to settle into a normal family routine?”

“Yeah, for about forty-eight hours. Richard’s leaving for Atlanta on Wednesday.” Lara could hear the strain in Kerry’s voice.

“Well, don’t worry. Auntie Lara will come by to babysit so you can get a shower and a dog walk.”

“You’re terrified of this baby,” Kerry pointed out.

“So are you.”

“Good point,” Kerry agreed. “See you Wednesday.”

* * *

For the rest of the morning, in between working with Eskie, congratulating Kayla on Roo’s progress, and driving the five blocks to the home of her potential client, Lara exchanged a flurry of Scrabble moves with her mother.

CARMINES

FEZ

ZING

QI

The speed of Justine’s responses confirmed Lara’s suspicions that her mother was still holed up in her bedroom, probably with the shades drawn. After thirty years of racing ahead at top speed, Justine had finally hit the wall. Lara knew that this behavior was unhealthy, that it was the tipping point for a long, dark slide into deeper depression. But she also knew that Justine wouldn’t come out until she was good and ready, and no amount of coaxing, guilt, or “tough love” could change that. No matter how tough Lara might be, Justine would always be tougher.

Depressed or not, Justine was currently dominating the Scrabble game. Lara trailed by almost seventy-five points.

She rearranged her letter tiles on the little screen of her smartphone and tried to rally with the highest-scoring word she could muster:
GRIFTER
.

* * *

At first glance, the house on Collingsworth Circle seemed to blend in with all the other spacious Spanish-style mansions. The front lawn was well maintained, the stucco and paving stones spotless. But Lara sensed something unusual—she couldn’t put her finger on it until she noticed the ornate brass door knocker in the shape of a Sphinx head.

When she rang the bell, a chorus of unearthly howls emanated from within. It sounded like a pack of werewolves were having an ultimate fighting competition in there.

The howling stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the door swung inward to reveal a middle-aged matron with unruly brown curls and kind hazel eyes.

Lara offered up a handshake as she introduced herself.

“The Dog Doyenne. We’ve heard so much about you.” The woman beckoned her inside. “Welcome. I’m Helen Years.”

As she stepped into the foyer, Lara nodded at the door knocker. “That’s lovely. Is it an antique?”

“Indeed it is. Dates back to Regency-era London.” Helen looked delighted to share this information. “A bit of a splurge, I admit, but I just adore it. I’ve never understood the feminine obsession with shoes or handbags, but I can’t resist Regency artifacts. Everybody has her vice, I suppose.”

Though Mrs. Years was dressed stylishly in a cranberry blouse and black pants, her interior decorating tastes seemed to run more toward petticoats and pelisses. Looking around the living room, Lara felt as though she’d been transported back in time. Oil paintings hung next to brocade draperies, and small urns and statues crowded every available shelf. A large harp rested in one corner, and a small wooden instrument with ivory keys held a place of honor by the front window.

“Is that a piano?” Lara asked.

“Pianoforte,” Helen replied.

“Wow, it’s beautiful. Is that also an antique?”

“Technically, yes, but of course it’s been restored. Some of the woodwork is very recent. My husband and I are Jane Austen enthusiasts. Jane-ites, if you will.” Helen looked a tad defensive. “I know that seems odd to many people.”

Lara shrugged. “Hey, I spent my entire paycheck last month on eye surgery for a dog named Mullet who hates my guts. I’m in no position to judge anybody else’s hobbies.”

“Well, not everyone shares your tolerance. My husband and I don’t run in the same social circles as most of our neighbors—the country club circuit just isn’t our cup of tea—and we’ve gotten a few cutting remarks over the years. This home was custom-built to our precise specifications. The exterior, of course, had to comply with the homeowner association standards. But the interior was mine to do with as I pleased, and I may have gotten a bit carried away. I wanted to capture the essence of a stately manor, like Pemberley or Delaford.”

Lara nodded, trying to keep up.

“Those are the country estates of Mr. Darcy of
Pride and Prejudice
and Colonel Brandon of
Sense and Sensibility
,” explained the tall, lanky man walking up behind Helen. He offered a slight bow, then a hearty handshake. “Frank Years.”

Lara returned his smile. Everyone jumped as another series of loud howls erupted down the halls.

“And that would be the dogs,” Helen said with a sigh. “Frank, release the hounds.”

Frank headed back down the hall, and a moment later Lara heard the
snick
of a door latch and the scrabble of claws against marble as two perfectly matched dogs hurtled toward her.

She braced for impact as the pair leapt and slobbered with pure, unadulterated joy.

“Off!” Helen cried, her tone high and pleading. “Off, off, off!”

The dogs ignored her and continued to accost Lara, nudging her hand for pats and banging their tails against her legs.

“Frederic, Elfrida,” Frank said, his voice low and firm. Both dogs backed off slightly, still beaming up at Lara with wagging tails and glistening tongues. “We named them after two of the characters in Jane Austen’s juvenilia,” he explained. “
Elizabeth
and
Darcy
seemed too obvious.”

“They’re gorgeous,” Lara said, admiring their playful brown eyes, well-muscled haunches, and glossy black, white, and tan coats. “And very sweet.”

“They’re”—Helen cleared her throat—“exuberant. Their energy simply knows no bounds.”

“How old are they?”

“Thirteen months.”

Lara nodded. “Well, they’ll mellow with age.”

“When?” Helen pressed.

“Um, in about six or seven years.” Lara had to laugh at Helen’s horrified expression. “I assume they’re purebreds?”

“Oh yes,” Frank assured her. “Fine English hounds, just like Sir John Middleton’s pack of hunting dogs.”

“
Sense and Sensibility
again,” Helen whispered.

“Sherry and sport, that’s what makes a man.” Frank planted his hands on his hips, as though about to don a scarlet coat and saddle his steed for a hunting party.

“Well.” Lara’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not sure that I would consider foxhunting a
sport
, but it certainly required great stamina on the part of the dogs.”

Helen reached over and patted Lara’s arm reassuringly. “He doesn’t actually hunt, dear. Though I’m sure if the homeowner association allowed it, he’d build stables in the backyard and bring in a team of Royal Hanoverian horses.”

“Don’t you start with me, Helen.” Frank’s voice held a note of warning.

Lara broke in. “Here’s the deal: foxhounds are very persistent and high-energy dogs, and while that’s a big asset in the field, it can be a bit of a problem if they’re indoors all day.”

“I told him.” Helen threw up her hands. “I tried to make him see reason. ‘We live in the suburbs,’ I said. ‘Get a pug,’ I said.”

“A pug!” Frank recoiled in disgust. “Like Lady Bertram in
Mansfield Park
! What kind of sissified fop do you take me for?”

“Pugs were very popular in Jane’s day.” Helen referred to the author as though she were a frequent dinner guest. “Pugs, Dalmatians, bulldogs. But no. He had to spend thousands of dollars on not one but two ungovernable English foxhound puppies, all in the name of masculine puffery.”

“A few thousand dollars is a drop in the bucket compared to what you’ve spent on historically accurate dresses and jewelry,” her husband retorted. “How many wide-brimmed bonnets have you specially commissioned? How many butterfly brooches and amber crosses and even diamond and emerald earbobs, when we both know that they were considered vulgar among the gentry?”

“My diamond and emerald earbobs have never gotten a complaint letter from the Mayfair Estates HOA,” Helen shot back.

Lara was trying to figure out how to politely excuse herself when Frederic and Elfrida began to bay. The howls echoed off the high ceilings and the polished floor. Lara could have sworn she felt her bones actually vibrating.

The bickering ceased as Helen clapped her hands over her ears. Lara reached over, grabbed the dogs’ collars, and gave each a swift sideways tug. The dogs stopped baying and resumed panting and wagging their tails.

“Why must they do that?” Helen’s face remained twisted into a wince.

“What seems to set them off?” Lara asked. “Tension? Arguments?”

“Everything.” Frank shook his head in despair. “The doorbell ringing. The clatter of their food bowls. The recycling truck passing by. The phone ringing.”

“The TV,” Helen added. “The alarm clock. The sound of the bathroom fan.”

“So it’s probably just stress relief,” Lara concluded. “It’s self-rewarding for them to howl.”

“And it’s going to get them banished from the neighborhood.” Frank’s face slackened into a weary frown. “I know it was folly to buy them. I wasn’t thinking of their happiness; I was thinking of my own. Jane certainly would not approve.”

“But they’re still young,” Helen said. “I’m sure they’ll be very happy roaming a ranch somewhere.” She turned to Lara, hopeful. “Perhaps you know someone with a lot of acreage?”

Lara considered her response very carefully. She looked at Helen, then looked at Frank, and said, “Let me ask you something. Do you
like
your dogs?”

Frank didn’t hesitate. “Very much. I know they have their faults, but they’re loyal and they wouldn’t harm a fly.”

She turned to Helen, who grumbled, “I’d like them a great deal more if they’d stop driving me deaf and insane. I’m trying to launch my own Jane Austen newsletter, and I need uninterrupted time to work.”

Lara gave up on Helen and focused on Frank. “We can absolutely work with Frederic and Elfrida, but they need a job. You and I need to find a way to fulfill their instinct to work the field.”

Frank’s face lit up. “You’re suggesting I go ahead with the stables and the horses?”

“No! I’m suggesting that the Regency era is about to collide with the real world. One of the vets I know was just telling me about a new urban sport: scent work. The dogs learn to identify certain smells and track them through buildings or cars. But one of you”—she shot Frank a pointed look—“will have to sign on as handler and complete the training with them.”

“Urban scent work.” Frank looked excited. “Does that involve explosives, narcotics, and cadavers?”

Lara laughed. “More like birch and sage oils.” She smiled down at the hounds, who were busy sniffing her purse. They had obviously scented the crumbs of dog biscuits buried in the interior pockets. “I think your problem children are about to become prodigies.”