We Interrupt This Date (13 page)

Impossible. I really couldn’t afford to keep
her and Cole, even though Veronica was going to be paying me more
than I’d been making at the pawnshop. My savings would melt away in
no time and I’d have to dip into my retirement fund. I couldn’t
count on much money from selling the house, either.

A few years ago T. Chandler had insisted we
move out of the old house, the one we’d lived in throughout our
marriage, and buy this new place. It was more in keeping with his
station in life, he’d said. We had almost no equity. That was
another reason for my plans to sell out and take Veronica up on her
offer to give me a room at her B&B in exchange for helping out
a few days a week.

I was loading the dishwasher when something,
maybe the way the big dish nestled against the medium dish, which
pushed against the smallest one, seemed to suggest a solution. The
dishes nested together all helping each other to stand straight in
the rack. What if I could persuade Mama to sell her condo and come
here to live with DeLorean and Cole? I’d be able to keep the house.
DeLorean and Cole-and Christian--would have a home.

I half turned and looked at my sister and
felt my eyes narrow in appraisal. Mama had hinted ever since T.
Chandler left me that her condo was too small and I had a ton of
room. I’d ignored her, not wanting another built in boss and life
critic, not to mention the Chihuahuas. But with me gone, she'd be
able to stay in the master suite at the opposite end of the house
from the guestroom and maybe she and DeLorean might not argue too
much or they could declare a truce. Mama might even take over
babysitting and let DeLorean use the Cadillac so she could
work.

I’d wait until I returned from taking Brad to
the groomer and then I’d call Mama to come over and meet her
grandson. I’d find a way to tactfully suggest the move. It wouldn’t
matter if DeLorean objected. It wasn’t like she had options. And I
was desperate for a solution, more desperate than either of them
knew. I couldn’t tell them about getting fired, not yet while the
awfulness still made me ache inside.

I took Brad for a walk, which meant that he dragged
me like a pull toy all over the neighborhood. After we returned, he
hauled me up the driveway toward the house, and I managed to divert
him through the side door of the garage and from there to the
utility room. There I left the hairy beast—devouring a plastic
clothes hamper—while I fetched his crate and wrestled it into the
van. Mission half accomplished. All I had to do now was persuade
Brad that it would be a really good thing for him to jump in and go
for a nice ride.

I finally opted for bribery, choosing to give him a
hunk of leftover baked ham. In his enthusiasm he nearly made dinner
out of my hand. I slammed the crate shut and latched it. Then I
took the quickest route to the Pet Wellness Center, bypassing my
usual leisurely path through quiet suburban streets, and sped down
Highway 17. When I got back, I’d call Mama and diplomatically
announce DeLorean’s arrival. Next I’d get through the drama of her
meeting Cole and finding out about DeLorean’s current crisis.
Finally I’d suggest that Mama move into my house.

I saw my turn, whipped the van down a side street,
and bounced into the parking lot. My fingers ached, wrapped around
the steering wheel so tightly they were in danger of leaving
permanent imprints. I forced them loose, one at a time, and shook
some circulation back.

When I opened his cage, Brad shot out in my
direction. I lunged sideways and grabbed his leash. How DeLorean
had managed him and the baby, too, I’d never know. The same way I’d
never know what had led her to get such a high-maintenance pet to
begin with. The workings of my sister’s mind have always been a
mystery to me.

We galloped inside without me getting slammed into
the front of the brick building or falling over the planter filled
with yellow pansies. I looked around the white tiled room that
gleamed like an operating suite. The smell of antiseptic and dogs
blasted me in the face. A rack on one wall held an assortment of
dog toys. The opposite wall was papered with photos of dogs freshly
washed and brushed and looking reasonably pleased with their
makeovers.

An uproar of barks and howls coming from the back of
the building hammered my ears, and I hunched my shoulders. Brad
responded with a few healthy barks of his own. I told him to hush,
not that I expected him to listen.

The receptionist glanced up, ran her finger down the
appointment book, and chirped, “Brad Marsh. Golden doodle. Right on
time.” She waltzed out from behind the counter and gave Brad an
appraising look. “My, aren’t we a mess. Goodness.”

“Goodness is not what I said when I met him, but I
get your drift,” I said.

“What will Brad be needing today, Mrs. Marsh?”

I gritted my teeth, more from an objection to her
sing-songy voice than to her calling me Mrs. Marsh. “This is my
sister’s dog. She’s Miss DeLorean Marsh. My mother is Mrs. Regina
Marsh. I’m Susan Caraway and I’m just doing my sister a favor
bringing him over. Brad needs a haircut, and he has to have
something done about his fleas.”

My lower legs suddenly developed a fierce itch, and I
raised my right foot to discreetly rub it against my left calf. I
did not feel a need to explain our family history and tell her that
my mother and my sister used to be Miss and Mrs. Beauchamp, after
Mama’s second husband, DeLorean’s father. But after Philip
Beauchamp bolted, Mama and DeLorean officially went back to Marsh,
her first husband’s name, so we would all have the same last name
“like a real family”, as Mama put it.

“He’s badly matted, you know,” the woman said in
accusing tones.

Yeah, his fur is positively ropy in places. I know
that in an ideal world this kind of tragedy wouldn’t happen, but my
sister has been too busy coping with a new baby and a
breakup with the boyfriend from hell to be able to take care of
him. I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for the dog’s condition, so
you can stop looking at me like I ought to be arrested for failure
to brush and deflea.

That’s what I wanted to say. What I actually did was
to assume my dealing-with-customers voice from work and respond,
“Do what it takes to restore him to mint condition, please.”

“The flea bath is a standard price for large dogs,
but it’s going to cost quite a bit to do his coat. If you want a
comb-out, which I don’t recommend since that will take hours,
you’re looking at quite an expense. I’d have to ask my supervisor
if we even have time. We can clip him down, though. That would be
your cheapest way to go.” She quoted me a couple of prices.

I winced and chose the cheaper clip down. I signed a
paper and watched Brad drag away a girl wearing a pink smock over
black slacks fuzzed with enough dog hair to make yarn for a
bedspread.

The bell at the front door sounded a cheery little
tinkle. I glanced around and locked gazes with the customer who’d
just walked in, a familiar bag slung over her shoulder. I clapped
my hand over my heart and staggered backward until I hit the
reception counter.

“Mama?” I’d have been slightly less taken aback if a
white knight had breezed into the shop clutching a dozen red roses
and begging me to ride off to Spartanburg with him.

Mama’s expression remained serene. “I brought
Sweetpea in for a bath and a massage. He seems a little depressed,
so Lydia suggested a spa visit. She says rescue babies are often
insecure and she should know, because she certainly has helped so
many poor homeless babies. From other kennels, you understand. I
declare, it is beyond me to fathom why some people breed and don’t
rescue.” She reached into her purse and drew out a shivering black
and tan body. The smocked girl returned to whisk Sweetpea Marsh
away.

Mama turned back to me and said, “Well?”

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.” I smiled
brightly.

“What mother wouldn’t? Susan, I glanced in the shop
window and caught a glimpse of that over-haired creature you
brought in. Or that brought you in. I realize you’re lonely, dear,
but it takes time to recover from a breakup. No matter how bleak
your evenings, how lonely and tortured your soul, there’s no need
to
burden
yourself. I declare, you’ll be the death of me. A
few days ago it was ghost hunting and today it’s a giant,
tangle-haired dog that could squish both my babies at once just by
sitting down. Have you considered getting a hobby?” She moved in
closer and leaned toward me. Tiny popped his head out of the purse
and growled. “There’s a lovely woman from my church, Maude Kramer,
who teaches art. I’m sure you’d enjoy sketching and watercolors
down at the harbor. Even if it turned out you didn’t have talent,
which I suspect is the case, art would be a lot easier than dealing
with that animal. Very therapeutic and, who knows, tourists who
don’t know any better might even buy your pictures.”

“It’s not my dog, Mama.”

“Thank God.” She let out her breath in a dramatic
sigh. “For a few moments, I had serious maternal concerns.”

Too bad. She was about to go for a long ride on the
serious maternal concerns wagon.

“It’s DeLorean’s dog,” I said.

Mama let out an unladylike squeal. “Your sister,
DeLorean?”

“How many DeLoreans do we know? She flew in from LA
yesterday afternoon.” I cringed waiting for the inevitable
response.

“And you didn’t tell me? I can’t think of a single
reason why you would want to keep news like that a secret. I am cut
to the core.” She placed her left hand over her heart.

“DeLorean had a rough trip. She wanted to regroup so
she’d look her best when she showed you her baby for the first
time.” Not exactly the truth, but close enough. While I talked, I’d
moved through the doorway, and Mama followed.

“As if I care how rough she looks after flying for
hours in some cramped jet with an infant on her lap. My word, what
you girls come up with sometimes would drive a lesser lady into
therapy.” She opened the door of her Cadillac and tossed her purse
onto the passenger seat. I heard a stifled yelp coming from inside
the purse. “My heart is thumping away with joy at the thought of
seeing my new grandson and holding him in my arms for the first
time.”

She was still talking when she roared out of the
parking lot, made a u-turn in front of a fast approaching station
wagon, and accelerated toward the highway.

I stared after her for a full minute. I considered
calling DeLorean. But warning or no warning, Mama was going to show
up and DeLorean was going to have to cope. I let the impulse
pass.

Unlike Mama, I took my time getting back on the road.
I waited patiently through a couple of red lights, stayed five
miles under the speed limit, and finally pulled into my driveway to
park behind the Cadillac. I was contemplating the wisdom of taking
the crate out of the van in case it was full of fleas, when a flash
of sunlight bouncing off a car zapped my eyes. I blinked, turned
away, and then took a second look as a familiar red Ford Mustang
rolled to a stop at the curb.

Christian? He hadn’t let me know he was coming home.
My breath caught and I put my hand to my mouth. Emergency?
Expulsion? But when he jumped out of the car smiling and waving, I
relaxed and appraised my son to see if he might have changed
drastically in the past few weeks.

Christian gets his height from me—he’s about six feet
tall. T. Chandler is shorter than I am, but he’d bequeathed his
bulky muscles to our son. And Christian has my hair color, the
grocery bag brown--that Mama insists on calling honey mixed with
caramel--and my brown eyes. My appraisal showed that he looked the
same, with the possible exception that he might have gained a few
pounds.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

Too much, I thought. But my joy at seeing my son was
instantly converted to an emotion I couldn’t name when I caught
sight of the combat boot and camouflage-fatigue wearing girl who’d
emerged from the passenger side of his car.

Short. Boyish figure. Hair about a half-inch long—and
colored royal-robe purple. Purple eyes--contact lenses, I hoped.
Ears festooned with earrings of various shapes and sizes, none of
which appeared to match. Nose stud. And probably, though I was too
polite to ask, at least one nipple ring.

I sent up a silent prayer asking that this person be
simply a friend and not a romantic interest. Okay, I knew it was
none of my business, but what mother wouldn’t cringe if her son
went off to college and returned with a poster girl for grunge?

“Mom, this is Trinity Vaughan.” Christian walked
around the car and grabbed the female by the arm. He led her to me,
her boot-clad feet clomping on the pavement like Clydesdale hooves.
“Trinity, my mom--Susan Caraway.”

“Hey, Susan.” Trinity stuck out a tiny hand.

“Nice to meet you, Trinity.” I shook the dry, bony
claw. I try not to be old-fashioned, so I didn’t object to her
using my first name and I told myself to get a grip about the
piercings and the hair. But I determined to pull Christian aside
before he went in the house and have him at least ask her to
refrain from calling his grandmother by her first name. But then,
why bother? Trinity was not going to be a hit with Regina Marsh,
not even if she groveled at her feet like a concubine trying to
please the King’s number one wife.

I turned to my son, who was still wearing a loopy
grin that reminded me of a time he’d won a trophy at soccer camp,
and the trophy turned out to be too heavy for him to lift.

“What brings you home?”

“Laundry, of course. Just kidding, Mom. Had nothing
better to do and decided to visit.” He wrapped me in a bear hug.
“Got anything to eat? We stopped for breakfast a couple of hours
ago, but now I’m starved.”