The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (6 page)

“Only the best for my girls,” he said. “I know I’ve made mistakes, but we’re family. We’re a team. We always stick together.”

And just for a moment, her spirits as fizzy as the root beer in her glass, Lara let herself believe him.

Chapter 7

Lara took Linus with her to the TV studio on the morning of her interview with Claudia Brightling. Given Rufus’s tendency to bolt, Maverick’s contrary streak, and Zsa Zsa’s propensity to whine in unfamiliar environments, the placid red mutt seemed like her best bet. She wouldn’t have to worry about him barking, escaping, or nosing the interviewer in the crotch while on the air.

As soon as they entered the green room, the production assistants started fawning over Linus as though he were a four-pawed rock star, offering him treats and belly rubs. Then Claudia ducked in to say hi, and as she reintroduced herself, Lara had, as Kerry would’ve called it, one of her “Miss Cleo” hunches.

She unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and asked casually, “Do you have a dog right now?”

“No.” Claudia’s bright smile flickered for a moment. “I lost my beagle to cancer a few months ago.”

“I completely understand. My Chihuahua was with me for thirteen years. It’s like losing a family member.” The psychic tingling intensified. “Have you ever had a spaniel? Because my friend Kerry just rescued a gorgeous black cocker named Lola—she might be purebred—and I’d love for you to meet her.”

Claudia shook her head. “Stop.”

Lara backed up, stumbling over Linus’s leash. “Too soon for another dog? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Claudia’s hazel eyes gleamed. “I actually love spaniels. But I want you to save this for when the cameras are rolling.”

“Oh.”

“You can walk me through the matchmaking process on-air and suggest a new dog for me at the end of the segment.” Claudia turned to her producer, who was standing by with a sheaf of papers and a headset. “Great material, right?”

And so, thirty minutes later, Lara found herself perched on a green love seat with Linus curled up at her feet and Claudia seated across from her. Despite the bright lights and the hustle of production, Linus fell asleep as soon as they sat down.

“Our guest this morning is Lara Madigan, cofounder of local dog rescue group Lucky Dog,” Claudia said into the camera. “Lara is more than just a rescuer—she’s a canine matchmaker who will handpick the perfect dog for your family.” She consulted her note cards and turned to Lara. “What are some of the things you look for when considering which dog should go with a new client?”

Lara took a deep breath and tried to speak slowly and clearly. “Oh, lots of things. I consider a family’s schedule, discipline style, and activity level. I would never recommend a low-energy dog like Linus here to a marathoner, or an emotionally sensitive breed like a Doberman to a household where there’s a lot of chaos and yelling.”

Right on cue, Linus started snoring.

“So you have a set list of criteria,” Claudia said.

“Yes, but in the end I usually go with my gut.” Lara tilted her head and tried to explain. “Pairing a dog with an owner is sort of like pairing a wine and an appetizer—sometimes the most unexpected combinations turn out to be the best. When I first started the rescue group with my friend Kerry—hi, Kerry!—I tried to quantify everything with surveys and checklists and interviews. But eventually I realized that people aren’t always good at predicting what they want in a dog. Honestly, it just comes down to chemistry.”

Claudia leaned down to give Linus a little pat. “So are you equally skilled at human matchmaking? Did you help all your girlfriends meet their husbands?”

Lara laughed. “No, my skills are strictly limited to finding canine soul mates.”

“You’re a trainer as well as a rescue worker—correct?”

Linus’s warm, solid body draped across her feet felt very comforting, and Lara started to calm down and enjoy her moment in the spotlight. “I’m not a certified behaviorist, but I do have several years of dog training experience. Most behavior problems aren’t difficult to address. But you have to know what results you want, and you and the dog have to work together. Discipline is always a team effort.”

Claudia addressed the camera directly. “We’re going to do something extra special today. I’ve asked Lara to work her magic and find a dog for me, right here on the show.”

Lara forgot about the lights and the crew and the commercial break coming up in exactly sixty seconds. She squinted slightly and tried to see past Claudia’s stylish silk blouse and dazzling white smile and poised public persona. None of that mattered to a dog. She was waiting to catch a glimpse of the soul underneath.

“So, Claudia.” Lara crossed her ankles and settled back against the cushions. “Tell me about your childhood. Did you have a dog growing up, and if so, what kind?”

* * *

“Thank you so much.” Claudia gave Lara a quick little hug when they wrapped the segment. “You did great. And I can’t wait to meet Lola.”

“You two are going to hit it off,” Lara predicted. “I can feel it.”

The producer strode over, giving them a thumbs-up. “We’re already starting to get calls from potential adopters for Linus.”

“Already?” Lara tugged the sleepy pooch to his feet and scratched him behind the ears. “Well, they’ll have to fight for him. He’s a good boy. Who’s my good boy?”

Linus thumped his tail, his jowls quivering.

“By the way, how’s it going with Peter?” she asked Claudia.

“So far, so good.” Claudia held up crossed fingers. “You know, he’s not really my type, but it’s very refreshing. He’s sensitive and stable. And of course Murphy is adorable. Do you think he and Lola will get along?”

“I know they will. Up until two weeks ago, they were housemates.”

After exchanging air kisses with Claudia, Lara headed out to the parking lot. As she helped Linus into the back of the station wagon, her phone rang. “Hello?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be on TV? Your eyebrows look like caterpillars and your cuticles look like you’ve been buried alive and were trying to dig yourself out.”

“Hi, Mom.” Lara opened the driver’s-side door and braced herself for the worst. Justine called her exactly once a week, at precisely eight p.m. every Sunday evening. This never deviated, no matter what her mother was doing, or in which time zone she was doing it. Only a crisis—or, in this case, a code red fashion emergency—would warrant a weekday check-in.

“And what on earth were you
wearing
?” Her mother sounded personally offended. “Don’t you have access to an iron?”

Lara kept her tone upbeat and tried to change the subject as quickly as possible. “How’s everything going with the build-out of the new salon?”

“Listen to me.” Justine adopted the cajoling tone of a police negotiator trying to talk a jumper off a bridge. “I know you like to think of yourself as a tomboy, but at a certain age you have to put together a maintenance routine or you’ll simply
decay
.”

Lara grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment and started swiping at the layer of dog hair on the dashboard. “No one was looking at me, Mom. They were looking at the dog.”

“Don’t kid yourself. If you’re on TV, people are looking at you.” There was a faint sound of clacking computer keys on Justine’s end of the line. Clearly, her mother was multitasking. “But we’ll get through this. I’ve asked Jessica to come in early tomorrow and I’ve booked you for the works: brow wax, highlights, facial, manicure . . .”

Lara grimaced. “I have to work tomorrow morning.”

The keyboard clacking stopped. “You cannot possibly meet with potential clients looking like that.”

“The dog world isn’t like the salon world. Most of the vet techs and clinic managers I meet with are even more low maintenance than I am.”

“Your client can look as schlumpy as she wants. That’s her prerogative.
You’re
the one providing a service.
You’re
the one trying to sell something. So
you’re
the one who has to look polished and professional.”

Lara had reached her limit. “Well, it’s been great catching up, but my other line’s beeping.”

“Don’t you take another call when you’re on the phone with me,” Justine commanded. “That’s rude. Now. When’s the last time you had your upper lip waxed?”

Lara lapsed into sullen adolescent monosyllables. “Don’t know.”

“Your cuticles trimmed?”

“Beats me.”

“Your eyebrows shaped?”

“Two days ago!” Lara lifted her head in triumph. “I tweezed them myself.”

“Yourself?” Justine sighed. “Where have I gone wrong? I’d better ask Jessica
and
Diane to come in early.”

With the way this conversation was going, Lara was going to tear out her hair before Justine’s staff had a chance to style it. “Mom, relax. It was just the local morning news. I’m not going on
Good Morning America
.”

“And you never will, with that attitude. How many times do I have to tell you?
Appearances matter
. Even if you don’t care what you look like, other people do.”

Lara refused to break the silence that followed. These long, loaded pauses were one of her mother’s most effective power plays, but she was not going to cave. Not this time.

Finally Justine softened her tone. “Who would you rather contact about adopting a dog: a well-groomed young lady with a flattering haircut and a lovely outfit or a bushy-browed fashion victim with unfortunate pores?”

Lara rolled her eyes. “I have to go to the salon for the rescue dogs is what you’re saying.”

“Exactly. It’s a noble sacrifice for the greater good.”

Her mother always had been a master of strategy. “Well, then . . . I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I won’t be there—I have to fly to Los Angeles to meet with a team of potential investors. We’re talking about expanding into the Southern California market.”

“Wait—then why am I doing this?” Lara asked. “I only agreed to make you happy.”

“Believe me, the knowledge that Jessica is waxing and buffing and dermaplaning you will make me ecstatic, even across state lines.”

“What’s dermaplaning?”

“I’ll speak to you on Sunday evening.” And with that, Justine clicked off the line.

* * *

“Dermaplaning, as it turns out, is when the aesthetician takes a tiny little razor blade, douses your face with acetone— a.k.a.
nail polish remover
—and scrapes off the entire first layer of skin, along with every single hair on your face,” Lara informed Kerry over lunch the next day.

“Is that why your cheeks are so splotchy?” Kerry asked.

Lara nodded, gingerly patting her face. “Yep.”

“Does it sting? It looks like it stings.”

“Yep.”

Kerry forked up a bite of omelet. “But on the upside, your nails look great.”

“Thanks. Before I left, the stylist gave me an at-home manicure kit, complete with top coat, emery board, and an orange stick that’s allegedly going to keep my cuticles at bay.” Lara glanced down at her newly shaped and gleaming talons. “I ask you: When did we, as a society, decide that a tiny rim of flesh at the bottom of your nail was the root of all that is evil and slovenly? What’s so horrible about a cuticle? It’s just a few molecules of skin.”

Kerry grabbed the dessert menu. “I think you need a piece of pie, stat.”

“And you know what the worst part is?” Lara gnawed her lower lip. “Even though she wasn’t there this morning, and even though I probably won’t see her face-to-face until next month, I still feel guilty because I disappointed my mother. I embarrass her.”

Kerry stopped waving at the waiter and gave Lara her full attention. “That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ve always embarrassed her.” Lara shredded her paper napkin into long, thin strips.

Because Justine had made her name in the beauty industry, it was easy for people to dismiss her as superficial. But beneath her flawless complexion and shiny black hair, Justine was shrewd, stubborn, and uncompromising. She had been a receptionist before Lara was born, booking appointments and greeting clients at a chichi Scottsdale salon. After she had Lara and divorced Gil, she enrolled in business classes at the local community college and worked her way up from receptionist to stylist to salon owner, never complaining, tiring, or backing down from a fight.

Even when she and Lara lived in a dumpy studio apartment by the freeway and ate dinners of Kraft Singles and Wonder Bread, Justine portrayed an image of success, fueled by sheer force of will. Lara always had the “right” clothes, attended the “right” schools. No one would ever guess that their family teetered on the edge of deprivation.

Though she could bend everyone else to her will, Justine’s influence didn’t extend to her only child. Even in elementary school, Lara’s French braids would unravel and her outfits would get rumpled and stained.

“I will never be the kind of woman my mother is,” Lara told Kerry. “Or the kind of woman she wants me to be.”

“Well, why would you want to?” Kerry countered. “She has all this power and money, but she doesn’t enjoy any of it.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t ask for much. The least I could do is take care of my cuticles for her.” Lara fanned out her fingers, inspecting Jessica’s work. Her hand looked like it belonged to someone else. Someone who spent her days toting around eighteen-hundred-dollar handbags. “And my highlights and my eyebrows and my pores.”

“But that would cut into our dog grooming time,” Kerry pointed out.

“True.” Lara blew a strand of hair off her face. “See, this is why my standards are so low. I figure as long as I don’t have ticks or mange or visible open sores, I’m presentable. Compared to Mullet, I’m a supermodel.” Lara brightened as their server approached. “We’d like two slices of pie, please. Lemon meringue for her and French silk for me.”

“It’s like you read my mind.” Kerry had been on a major lemon kick all through her third trimester. “Speaking of Mullet, I got a new inquiry for her.”

“Through the Web site?”

“Yeah. An older lady who wanted a companion, but the meet and greet was a disaster. Mullet wouldn’t even come out and say hi. This poor woman drove all the way over from Sun City, and Mullet just sat under the kitchen table, glared at her, and peed on the floor.”

Lara shook her head. “Subtle.” Her cell phone chimed, but she didn’t want to answer while she was eating.