The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (14 page)

Chapter 17

BRUNG
finally lured Justine out of hiding. Lara knew, when she spelled out the word with her Scrabble tiles, that she was baiting the bear. But she hit the
PLAY
button anyway, chuckling to herself as she spooned up a bite of cereal at the kitchen table.

Exactly one second later, she heard an outraged howl that put Frederic and Elfrida to shame.

Then a door slammed as Justine burst out of the bedroom, clad in a navy cashmere robe and slippers and carrying her open laptop in both hands.

“Brung?”
She slammed the computer down on the counter and pointed an accusatory finger at Lara. “Sixty-five points for
brung
? That’s bullshit!”

Lara froze, her mouth wide-open and her spoon loaded with soggy shredded wheat.

“Well?” Justine stalked closer, her nostrils flared. “Explain yourself.”

“I had sucky letters?” Lara tried. “And I wanted to build off
knob
and
tier
?”

“
Brung
is not a word!”

“According to the computer, it is,” Lara said. “And with the double-word score and all the overlapping letters—”

“You cheated!”

“I did not.” Lara found this amusing rather than offensive. “You’re just mad because I might actually beat you for once.”

A little vein popped out in Justine’s forehead. “You’re only beating me because you cheated!”

“Breathe, Mom. Breathe. Listen,
brung
may not be proper grammar, but it
is
a word. Don’t hate the player; hate the game.” Then Lara noticed the bulky bits of fabric visible below her mother’s robe. “Are you wearing
sweatpants
?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. I demand you retract
brung
.”

“I didn’t know you even owned sweatpants. Are they, like, Gucci sweatpants? Made with platinum thread and unicorn hair?”

Justine squinted in the full morning light like a disoriented woodland creature stumbling out into sunshine after months of hibernation. “Who did this to you?”

Lara glanced around, bewildered. “What?”

“Your highlights.” Her mother strode across the room, took Lara’s head in both her hands, and tilted her face forward to examine her hairline. “The glaze is so saturated, it’s almost purple near the roots.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to cut me for playing
brung
?”

It was like Justine didn’t even hear her. “This is unacceptable. Unforgivable.”

Lara tried to regain control of her head, but Justine maintained her viselike grip. “Relax. It’s just hair.”

Justine finally released Lara’s skull and narrowed her eyes. “I want a name. Who did your color that day after the TV interview?”

“I don’t remember,” Lara lied. “I swear.”

“You realize I can easily call the salon and get answers.”

“Then call.” Lara jerked her chin toward the phone. “I’m not going to be an accomplice to some poor hairstylist’s murder.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Justine sniffed. “I’m not going to murder anybody.” She smiled, her lips thin. “I’m just going to maim her. Slowly.”

Lara went back to her cereal. “I’m hiding your car keys the next time you take one of your naps.”

Justine pounced. “Aha! So you admit that your stylist was a ‘her.’”

Lara choked on shredded wheat. “I admit nothing. Now will you please sit down and eat something?”

Her mother remained right where she was, but conceded, “I suppose I could make coffee.”

“Mom, no. You need actual nutrition. Name your poison. Eggs? Bagel? Quiche?”

Justine perked up. “We have quiche?”

“No, but I’ll learn how to make it right now if you stop obsessing about my hair.” Lara walked to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice, which she served up along with a multivitamin. “Cheers.”

Justine took a sip and swallowed the pill, but she waved away all offers of food and continued to circle Lara, examining her roots from various angles. “That color is entirely too warm for your skin tone and the ends of the front layers are shattered.”

“Well, I thought it looked good. And they didn’t charge me, so I guess we’ll call it even.”

“Get out here and sit down.” Justine unlocked the door to the patio and stepped into the sunlight.

Lara held her breath, waiting to see if her mother would disintegrate like a vampire.

But no. Justine pulled out one of the padded teak chairs from the outdoor table. “This instant, young lady. I’m going to fix your hair.”

“Right now? But you’ve been handling the business side of things for years. When’s the last time you actually did a color and cut?”

“Sit down,” Justine repeated.

Lara obeyed with a rebellious sigh, fidgeting and flinching as her mother ran her fingers through the layers of hair.

“I don’t want anything drastic,” Lara cautioned. “And nothing fancy. I don’t blow-dry, I don’t use product, and I don’t own a straightening iron.”

“I know, I know. You refuse to do anything to help yourself reach your full potential.”

“I need a low-maintenance, wash-and-go style.”

“Stop telling me how to do my job and be grateful. Do you have any idea how much I would charge for my services?” Justine finished her hands-on hair assessment, then commanded, “Go shower, comb out your hair, and get back out here, stat.”

When Lara returned, Justine gathered high-end styling supplies and set to work, lifting up sections of hair and letting the strands fall back against her scalp. Lara closed her eyes, stretched out her legs so she could feel the cool breeze on the tips of her toes, and thought about all the haircuts her mother had given her over the years. Justine would have died before letting her daughter out of the house with a bowl cut or uneven bangs. Every morning before elementary school, Lara used to sit on the toilet lid and yelp while her mother brushed out the tangles and tortured her limp brown locks into some semblance of style with a curling iron and shiny satin ribbons.

By the time Lara started middle school, she declared herself too cool to allow her mother to dictate her hairstyle. Thus began the dark and troubled era of hair spray and “tsunami bangs,” which eventually gave way to the spiral perm (procured during a weekend at Gil’s), the self-chopped bob (the only time she had ever seen Justine close to tears), and, finally, the sloppy ponytail she still favored today.

“Remember how you used to comb out my hair?” Lara asked, her eyes still closed.

Justine clicked her tongue. “How could I forget? You cried and carried on so much, I thought the neighbors would call CPS.”

“What can I say? I never had your flair for fashion.”

Justine poured some cold goo along Lara’s scalp. “All your dogs, I notice, are perfectly groomed.”

“So?”

“So why do you take better care of your pets than you do yourself?”

Lara was still trying to figure out how to respond when Justine put her squeeze bottle down and sank into the chair next to Lara’s.

“I just got the salons’ profit-and-loss statements for last week.”

Lara opened her eyes just enough to peek at her mother though her eyelashes. “And?”

Her mother raised her hands to her face and patted her splotchy cheeks and naked eyebrows, as if to check that they were still there. “And everything looks great. We’re actually up from this month last year. The management team I put in place is working out beautifully.”

“Well, that’s great.”

But Justine didn’t sound happy. “I could retire permanently tomorrow, if I wanted to. I could sell the salons to the LA investment firm. They made me an outstanding offer.” Justine went silent for a few moments. “And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I’m not needed at my salons, then who am I? What will I do?”

“Well, you . . .” Lara shifted in her seat. “You’d have a boatload of cash, right?”

“Right.”

“So I guess I’m not really seeing what the problem is.”

“The problem is, two weeks ago I was the founder and president of Coterie Salons. I was a force to be reckoned with. And now I’ll be just another Botoxed old lady wearing too much makeup and a wig.” Justine’s dark eyes were dull. “This house, the clothes in my closet . . . Who cares? Is this all I have to look forward to for the rest of my life? A shiny German car and a bunch of mail-order packages from Neiman Marcus?
That’s
supposed to somehow validate my existence?”

“Mom.”

“Not that running a chain of high-end salons was exactly on par with rescuing orphans or feeding the hungry.” Justine raised her palm. “But at least I had a purpose. If I have to give that up, I’m . . .”

“Free,” Lara suggested.

“Useless,” Justine finished.

Mother and daughter sat side by side on the patio, soaking up the sun and watching the sprinklers water the green grass on the golf course beyond the pool.

Lara broke the silence first. “Know what you need?”

Justine shot her a warning look. “If you say ‘a man,’ you’re out on the street.”

“A dog. Let’s go to the pound this afternoon and see if there’s anyone you might click with.” Lara tried to imagine what kind of dog would suit her mother. “But honestly, I bet you’re going to end up with a pedigreed purebred. Something exotic and high-status, like a Cesky terrier.”

“Let’s make a deal: I’ll get a dog when you get extensions and dye your hair ash blond.”

“Or we could just have a few bowls of cereal and keep bickering about
brung
.”

This time Justine’s smile was genuine. “Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter 18

Lara had never seen a Great Dane in a public restroom before. But then, she reflected as she washed her hands in the ladies’ room at the agricultural exhibition area of the Arizona State Fairgrounds, she was going to experience a lot of firsts today. In thirty minutes she and Eskie would make their AKC conformation debut, vying for the Best in Breed ribbon against six other Bernese mountain dogs.

She’d arrived early today, long before Cherie, and after she checked in with the show administrators and put on her official armband, she’d spent some time scoping out the scene. Cherie had described this as a small show, so Lara had been surprised and somewhat intimidated by the number of participants and spectators. The parking lot was crammed with huge white utility vans and luxury RVs, each emblazoned with the name of a kennel. Vendors had set up booths selling pet food, toys, and specialty collars, and small children milled around, eating ice cream and popcorn.

All of the dogs here were so well behaved. That had been her first thought when she entered the arena, which smelled of wet fur and floral-scented shampoo. Hundreds of purebreds intermingled, everything from Jack Russell terriers to Scottish deerhounds, but the atmosphere was amazingly calm and quiet. No barking, no snarling or scrapping.

The huge harlequin Dane sat patiently outside one of the stall doors, ears perked up and body motionless. The dog gave Lara a quick glance when she walked in, then went right back to staring at the door latch.

Two toilets flushed and a pair of women emerged from the stalls, resuming a conversation. One was a redhead, the other a brunette, but both were sprinkled with black dog fur.

“Yeah, Westminster sucks,” the brunette said. “We skipped it this year.”

“Bench shows are hard,” agreed the redhead. “Bismarck gets so stressed after all that time in his crate, he won’t eat, and when a min pin skips a meal, you can tell.”

Lara loitered by the paper-towel dispenser, eavesdropping. They glanced over at her, noted her handler armband and panicked expression, and smiled kindly.

“Did you go to Westminster this year?”

Lara swallowed audibly. “No. This is my first time handling, actually.”

“You’ll do great,” the redhead assured her. “Which breed are you working with?”

“Bernese mountain dog.”

The brunette glanced at Lara’s tweedy tan skirt. “The dog must have a great topline.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, with dark breeds like Berners, sometimes the handler will wear a black skirt to help disguise a sloping spine. But if you want to show it off, you wear a light color.”

“Who’s judging your group?” asked the redhead.

Lara furrowed her brow and tried to recall the name. “Herb Faxon.”

The other women laughed. “Pepe Le Pew.”

“He douses himself in cologne,” the brunette explained. “It spooks some of the dogs. Once, while he was examining my friend’s Newfoundland puppy, the dog practically strangled himself with his slip collar trying to get away from the stench.”

“When your aftershave can gag a Newfie, you know it’s time to tone it down.” They laughed again.

“Just be confident. Try to have fun and the dog will, too,” the redhead advised. “And don’t worry if something goes wrong. My very first show—I’ll never forget—as soon as we got into the ring, my dog squatted right next to the judge and pooped. I thought I was going to die of humiliation.”

“What happened?” Lara asked.

She shrugged. “I got a plastic bag and some baby wipes and cleaned it up. The judge was nice about it. She could’ve disqualified us, but she didn’t.”

The brunette shook her head. “How’d you score in that round?”

“I believe we finished dead last.” They both cracked up and the Great Dane padded along behind them as they pulled the door open. “Good times, good times.”

“Good times,” Lara echoed weakly. Then she turned on the sink faucet full blast and splashed cold water on her face.

* * *

“Has Eskie pooped today?” Lara demanded when Cherie arrived at the fairgrounds in her spotless silver Mercedes SUV.

Cherie seemed taken aback by the question. “I believe so. She went out to her usual spot in the yard after breakfast.”

“Are you sure? Are you
positive
?”

Cherie leaned out the window and pulled an errant strand of hair off Lara’s fitted, velvet-trimmed tweed jacket. “You seem stressed, dear. What’s the matter?”

Lara recounted the tales from the ladies’ room. “There are people here who have been to Westminster and have snarky little pet names for the judges! I’m way out of my league. You should have hired a certified handler who knows what she’s doing.”

“Don’t start panicking on me now.” Cherie remained irritatingly serene. “Today’s just for practice. We’ve been over this. Nobody expects you to take Best in Show your first time out.” She slid out of the driver’s seat and strutted on stiletto black boots to the rear of the SUV. “Now stop worrying and prepare to be dazzled. Eskie spent all morning getting beautiful.”

Cherie popped the door hatch to release Eskie, who looked more dignified than Lara had ever seen her. Her fur gleamed in the sunlight and every trace of spittle had vanished from her muzzle.

“We just need one last finishing touch.” Cherie produced a small plastic jar from the pocket of her coat and smeared the dog’s nose with a thin layer of dark, sweet-scented ointment.

“What are you doing?” Lara asked.

“This is black Vaseline. You’ve never heard of it? It’s actually for horses, but it helps keep her nose moist and shiny.”

Lara noticed a bright red aerosol can labeled
BIG SEXY HAIR
rolling around the backseat. “Is that mousse?”

“Volumizing spray. To keep her coat nice and fluffy.”

Lara paused for a moment before pointing out, “But the rule book says Berners are supposed to be shown with a ‘natural coat.’”

Cherie laughed at this naïveté. “And everybody ignores that rule. I made some calls to groomers and got the inside scoop. Black Vaseline and volumizing spray is nothing. At least we’re not dyeing her chest fur or chalking out the freckles on her muzzle.”

“Oh, and someone pointed out that I shouldn’t be wearing a light-colored skirt if her topline is faulty in any way.”

“Lucky for us, her topline is exemplary.” Cherie beamed with pride. She pressed Eskie’s leash into Lara’s hand. “Don’t worry about any of the cosmetic issues. It’s my job to make her look good, and it’s your job to make her shine like the little star she is.”

And Lara tried. She let Eskie sniff around the parking lot and played a rousing five-minute game of fetch to burn off some of the excess exuberance. She made sure Eskie knew she had a generous stash of beef jerky in her blazer pocket, and they practiced standing, stacking, and dashing across a practice ring.

They arrived at their competition area just in time to see an imposing giant schnauzer win the veteran division for seven- to nine-year-olds. After a smattering of applause, the Bernese mountain dog trials began, starting with the puppy class for six- to twelve-month-olds.

“We’re next,” Cherie trilled, squeezing Lara’s hand. Sure enough, the announcer called for dogs twelve to eighteen months, and there was no more time to be nervous.

After Lara took her place in the ring with Eskie, the judge nodded at the handlers and said, “Please stack your dogs.” Everything after that was a blur of running, posing, and trying to keep the high-spirited ninety-pound “star” under control.

A few of the dogs seemed skittish and spooked by the pressure, but Eskie was in her element. She pranced alongside Lara, tossing her head and batting her big brown eyes at the audience.

By the end of the three-minute competition, Lara had stopped worrying about slipping on the slick cement floor and started to enjoy herself—just a little. She did notice, however, when the judge leaned in to examine Eskie’s teeth, the overpowering smell of Old Spice.

While the judge stepped back to deliberate, Eskie lunged her front half into a play bow and tried to romp with the dog next to her. Lara was so busy trying to redirect Eskie that she didn’t realize the final scores had been announced until the other contestants filed out of the ring and the judge handed her a third-place ribbon.

Third place out of six. Lara was mortified. All that work, all the training sessions, all those campaign photos and checks written . . .

But Cherie couldn’t have been prouder if they had won Best in Show at the much-maligned Westminster.

“Here’s a treat for my darling girl!” She gave Eskie a big kiss and a chunk of freeze-dried liver. Then she slipped a small package into Lara’s pocket and winked. “And a treat for you, too.”

* * *

“I can’t help feeling a little bit like a prostitute,” Lara said as she described the diamond-encrusted dog bone pendant to Kerry. “The working girl of the working group.”

Kerry laughed on the other end of the phone. “Is it silver?”

“White gold. Possibly platinum. I can’t tell.”

“And you only got third place? Imagine what you’ll get if you win.”

Lara could hear Kerry soothing her fussy baby, but she thought she heard a chorus of other mewling infants in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the waiting room of the gastroenterologist. My pediatrician thinks Cynthia might have severe acid reflux, so she sent us to get a second opinion and some tests.”

“Oh my God. Is everything okay?”

“I hope so. The sad part is, at this point I’m actually hoping for reflux, because at least that would explain the constant screaming. Otherwise, I’m just a crappy mom and my kid hates me.” Kerry sounded so heartbroken that Lara teared up in sympathy.

“You’re a great mom and Cynthia loves you,” she said firmly.

Cynthia wailed, as if in rebuttal.

“Hang on,” Kerry said. Lara heard rustling and murmuring and then Kerry came back on the line. “Okay. So tell me more about your life as a kept woman.”

Lara turned the little pendant over in her hand. “Cherie said it can be my lucky charm. And, I mean, I appreciate her generosity, but it makes me feel kind of weird. ‘Here’s a treat’? It’s like I’m her bitch. Literally.”

“Well, if it’s too degrading for you, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

“I couldn’t give it to you even if I wanted to. She’s going to expect me to wear it to every event I have with Eskie.” Lara shook her head. “How did this happen? One minute I’m scrounging under the couch cushions for vet money; the next, I’m Mayfair Estates’ answer to Cesar Millan.”

“The Dog Doyenne,” Kerry said. “Now with extra diamonds. So the regulars on the dog show circuit must have a ton of money, huh?”

“Oh yeah. You can spend a hundred grand a year just on campaigning,” Lara replied. “Plus there’s travel and hotel expenses, grooming, entry fees. . . . It’s like raising racehorses, only without any of the payouts.”

Kerry jumped right to the important question. “Any hot guys?”

“That would be a big negative. All the men I met at the show were either married, gay, or eligible for AARP membership.” Lara sighed. “Besides, I’m not ready to meet anyone yet. I miss Evan. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Kerry went into maternal lecture mode. “Nobody’s saying you have to jump into a serious relationship, but you do have to move on. Just dip your toe back into the dating pool. Have a little fun.”

“But where do I find somebody who shares my idea of fun? Face it—most guys don’t want to spend their Saturday at a dog show, and they definitely don’t want to share their bed with a slobbery Rottweiler. Or their couch with Mr. Squirrel. Exhibit A: Evan Walker.”

“True,” Kerry agreed. “You need to find yourself a guy like Richard—someone who will abandon you for weeks on end while he gets to have room service and eight-hour stretches of sleep in nice hotels.” Every word dripped resentment.

“Uh-oh.” Lara frowned. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You lie.”

“I lie. But I can’t talk about it right now.”

“I’ll come over tonight,” Lara offered. “We’ll have dinner.”

“No can do.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll tell you later. Oops, the receptionist just called our name. I have to go. Congrats again on your big win.”

“It was third place. Third out of six.”

“Think positive: You’re in the top fiftieth percentile. Plus, you scored jewelry. Victory!”

* * *

“How was your day?” Justine asked when Lara sat down across the dinner table that night. Since Shelly was still on vacation and no one had been grocery shopping, they had scrounged up a nutritionally questionable meal of yogurt, fruit salad, and French bread for dinner. Lara had suggested going out to a restaurant, but Justine had refused. “And what is that look for?”

Lara blinked. “What look?”

“That ridiculous grin.” As usual, her mother went on the defensive and assumed that she was the source of amusement. “Are you looking at my hair? My face?”

“Mom, no. I was just trying to remember when we last sat down to dinner together other than Thanksgiving or Christmas or some formal shindig at a four-star restaurant.”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea. What’s your point?”

“Nothing. It’s just nice to have a regular family meal, that’s all.”

Justine peeled the foil lid off her fat-free Yoplait and placed the plastic carton on her bone china plate. “When have we ever been a regular family?”

“We could be. We could start now.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I may be housebound and living in the suburbs, but if you’re expecting me to start cooking meat loaf and vacuuming in high heels and pearls, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

Lara sat back and crossed her arms. “Why do you always have to be like that?”

“Like what? Don’t be so sensitive. All I said was—”

“Never mind.” Lara changed the subject. “Speaking of pearls, I got a new necklace today.” She pulled her shirt collar open to show the diamond-studded dog bone. “Cherie Chadwick gave it to me after the conformation show.”

She waited for Justine to go off on a rant about boundaries, etiquette, and the importance of appearances, but Justine barely glanced at the necklace. “Hmm. A little kitschy, but you can pull it off.”