Yappy Hour (27 page)

“Set up a few aluminum cans … line them all up. Do you remember?” Grunkly asked. “You used to like that, too.”

A nervous energy coursed through me. I'd assumed Rachel had been up to Stag's Leap recently, what with the cigarette smoke that lingered and the overall tidiness of the place. Not that Rachel either smoked or was tidy. But someone had been to the cabin recently, that was for certain.

Yolanda had been so eager to take me, even after we'd become friends, I had to wonder. Had she had an ulterior motive?

“There's something else I need to talk to you about.”

He looked at me expectantly. I'd wanted to talk with him about the possible pending lawsuit, but suddenly I lost my nerve. He looked so fragile with his arm in a sling, and worse was the expression on his face—it was one of complete adoration and trust. He trusted me.

I knew then that I had to live up to his trust.

I had to see us, all of us, out of this mess.

 

Chapter Thirty

The evening was warm, and I happily clicked along the cobblestones in my new strappy sandals. They weren't the three-inch-high chartreuse sandals by Manolo Blahnik that Brenda had tried to thrust upon me. Instead, these had a sensible heel while still being sexy. They were a beautiful mulberry color that matched my dress exactly, and more importantly, I knew I'd be able to run around The Wine and Bark with them on and not have to change into sneakers.

I considered myself lucky to have found the perfect match and tried to ignore the fact that the heel was a bit, well, okay, a full inch higher than I normally wore, but Brenda had assured me that beauty was a petulant mistress and I'd better start making some sacrifices to the goddess of fashion if I wanted Gus or Brooks to be impressed.

Fortunately, the walk was short, and I got to the bar plenty early to set the trap.

The chairs were still on the tables, so I mopped and then placed the stools on the floor. It was strange how much solace I was taking in cleaning these days. Perhaps it was because there was something so cathartic about it. The evening was going to be out of control. I'd called Gus several times to ask him to cater and hadn't been successful in reaching him.

Where was he? Was he still depressed? Was he at the farmers market, strolling by himself, or worse, with another girl?

I scolded myself. I had some nerve being jealous when only last night I'd been flirting with Officer Brooks.

Maybe Gus was at the coves, thinking.

I longed to be there myself, seeking solace in the repetitive waves. No matter what happened, another wave rolled over the last and then another and another.

I put away my mop bucket and glanced around for the next thing on my to-do list. I grabbed my chicken purse and prominently displayed it on the bar. There, that should do the trick. Soon everyone would arrive and my plan would go into action.

Max had promised to meet me early, and true to form, at thirty minutes to opening he showed up and began to load the ice buckets and decorate.

“Any news on your investor?” I asked.

“Unfortunately no. It doesn't look good, Mags.”

He caught sight of my chicken bag and laughed. “What in the world is that?”

“That's Yolanda's designer bag,” I said.

A look of horror crossed his face. “Seriously? I've never seen anything so ridiculous.”

“Or hideous,” I chimed in. “You should see the frog one.”

He snorted.

“Apparently Beepo has a problem with them,” I said. “And so do I.”

“Why are you carrying one around then? Just to be supportive?”

I blushed inwardly.

Should I let Max in on my plan?

I hated the thought of deceiving him, but I couldn't risk it.

He shrugged as if answering his own question. “I know, she's a hard person to say no to. You're a good friend, Maggie.”

I sloughed off his comment and came around the bar to fuss with the box of decorations Yolanda had left. I pawed through it: tablecloths, candles, party hats, and New Orleans–style beads, only everything was in black to support the black dog syndrome Yolanda was working to raise awareness about.

Max whistled when he got the full view of my scoop-neck dress. “You're all dolled up tonight, Mags. New dress, new shoes, new chicken purse.”

I laughed, pulling out the shiny black tablecloths. “Come help me.”

He took some tablecloths from me and we divided the room, covering various tables each with the dark elegant covers. “Who are you trying to impress? The cop?”

I squirmed under Max's interrogation. I'd forgotten just how much of an open book a small town was.

“You mean Officer Brooks? We've gone on
one
date.”

“What about Gus?”

“What about him?” I asked, suddenly defensive.

Was I that transparent?

I pulled out the candles and retraced my steps to put one on each table.

Max followed me around with the lighter, lighting each candle as I placed it. “I've seen the way you look at him.”

“How's that?”

“Probably the way I look at Brenda.”

“Are you going to ask her out?” I asked, hoping to derail his observations about my complicated love life.

Max fixed his gaze on me and leaned in close with a challenge. “I'll ask Brenda out if you ask Gus.”

Anxiety squirmed around my center. “I can't.”

He laughed. “Oh well, Brenda wouldn't go out with me, anyway.”

“Why do you say that?”

He looked over his shoulder at the empty bar. His expression had changed; it'd gone from playful to something else entirely. In fact, he suddenly looked pale and panic-stricken. “Can I trust you?”

A nervous energy bolted through me. My mouth went dry.

Oh my God, what was he about to confess?…

Max took a deep breath. “Bowser, the beagle that I walk on Fridays … at the Roundup Crew … it's…” He gave a final glance over his shoulder. “He's not my dog,” he whispered.

I clapped a hand over my mouth stifling a giggle. “What? You're an imposter!”

He covered his face with his hands in shame. “I know! I know. I'm a total fraud.”

Laughter spilled out of me.

“It's not funny!” he insisted. “I'm totally not a doggie person, just like you said the first day I met you. But I moved into my parents' beach house last spring. And then every Friday, the Roundup Crew would stroll past my back deck … I'm not excusing it. I know it's wrong to lie. But every Friday they'd walk past with all their little doggies and The Wine and Bark leashes and … I found out about Yappy Hour … and before I knew it, I'd met Brenda and … she asked me about my dog and I totally lied.”

I laughed until my side hurt.

“I've been borrowing Bowser from Mrs. Murphy ever since.” Max paled and looked sick.

I clapped him on the back. “Do you think Brenda wouldn't be interested in you if she knew—”

“She's not interested in me now! How's she going to feel if she knows I've been pretending to have a dog?”

“Which, by the way, you were sloppy about. Do you know how many times I found poor Bowser's bunny?”

Max hung his head in disgrace.

Grabbing his shoulder, I said, “Don't do this to yourself, Max. You're a man among men. You're the only one who stepped up to help me, because you knew I was in over my head here.”

He waved a hand around. “Oh, that was nothing, Mags. I'd help you out anytime.”

“I know. That's why—and please believe me when I say this—Brenda would be lucky to have a man like you in her life.”

He perked up a bit, the color returning to his face. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” I resumed straightening the tablecloth. “Besides, I can't have you moping around. I need the help,” I joked.

He snapped a bar towel at my arm. “Right. We have a lot of work to do. We can't get all sentimental.”

We divided up the party hats and beads and spread the swag across each table. Before my very eyes the trendy little Wine and Bark was being converted into something elegant, even dreamlike.

“Where is Bowser tonight, by the way?” I asked.

“Mrs. Murphy will be bringing him.” He nervously glanced out the window again. “I couldn't talk her out of it.”

“Did anyone know?”

He shrugged. “The little girl, Coral, who paints. She knew.”

I remembered talking to her at the Dreamery Creamery; she'd been very clear that Max walked Bowser, but I hadn't made the distinction between walking him and owning him. Obviously, I was not a very clever detective. “You're going to have to talk to Brenda before Mrs. Murphy shows up,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. The only person in the Roundup Crew who sort of got a whiff of it was Yolanda. You know, contrary to what you might think, she's a pretty good secret keeper.”

Right. She could be hiding a pretty big secret.

I'd find out later, if my setup was successful.

Through the window of the bar, I saw Gus walk up. A nervous energy coursed through me, and it surprised me how excited I was to see him. His step seemed more brisk than it had been in the previous days, and hopefully he was feeling better. He came up to the door of the bar and peeked in.

“Hey, Maggie, good to see you.”

I rushed over to him, aware of Max watching us curiously. “I'm so happy to see you, Gus. I've been trying to reach you all day.”

He frowned. “You have? What about?”

“The woman who was supposed to cater the event, the lady from Piece of Cake, went into labor.”

Gus's fingers suddenly found my hand, and then laced through mine, sending a pleasant warm jolt throughout my body. “A baby. That's so nice. It's good to have news of a new life instead of … instead of all the bad news we've gotten lately.”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed.

His dark eyes filled with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, I mean, I think so. It's just that we've been left without a caterer for the event and … I'm under strict orders to not serve the frozen hot dogs in buns, the awful arf d'oeuvres.”

Gus laughed. “Thank God for small mercies.”

Max, who was hanging up a string of multicolored lantern lights, said, “Well, not to be a complete food noob, but I happen to like those arf d'oeuvres.”

Gus and I shared a smile. He said, “I came over today because I knew it was your big party, and I thought you might need a little help.”

Before I could say anything, Max dropped the lantern lights and rushed to grab Gus's arm. “Yes, we need your help! Of course we need your help!” Max let go of Gus and headed for the kitchen, saying over his shoulder, “You can work in here. Simple pub grub stuff.”

Gus's face lit up. “I'll get to work! You have an oven here, right?”

“Yeah, but the kitchen is bare minimum, really. Just the fridge, an oven. We don't have any supplies, like garlic … or…”

He stepped closer to me, watching my lips as I spoke. The air between us seemed charged. He lifted his hand, stroking my cheek. “I'll take care of it. Don't worry, okay?” He was so close to me I could smell his musky aftershave, his scent warming me from the inside out. All I wanted to do was bury my face in his neck.

Max returned and cleared his throat; Gus and I separated. Gus flashed me a lopsided smile, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Down the cobblestone path, I could see Evie, Bishop, and Smasher approaching. They seemed to be in a fight, Evie walking quickly ahead of the men, who were lingering behind. She flung open the door and stormed inside. “Those two are no help,” she said, exasperated.

The others followed her in and began to push around the tables Max and I had just decorated in order to create space for the makeshift bandstand. For the next few minutes they stormed around between the main bar and the storage space they rented, setting up an amplifier, drum kit, and microphone.

Gus appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. “How about cheese platters with the cheese cut in the shape of dog paws and the crackers in the shape of bones?”

“Yes!” Max shouted before I could reply.

Gus nodded. “And pizzettas in the shape of dog bowls? I can make a variety. Some with a pesto and cream base, some tomato and sausage?”

My mouth watered. “I can't argue. Sounds infinitely better than bar peanuts and pretzels.”

“I think the best thing will be for me to use my own kitchen,” Gus said. “I have all the necessary ingredients and it's close enough that I can still deliver and serve everything while it's hot.”

“Agreed!” I said. As Gus moved toward the door, I followed him. “Gus.” He stopped suddenly and looked at me. “Thank you,” I said.

He cupped a hand around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss, taking my breath away. “You don't have to thank me, Maggie. Haven't you figured out by now that I'd do anything for you?”

My heart hammered inside my chest as I watched him walk out the bar door, cross the patio, and disappear into DelVecchio's. I turned to Max. “He's amazing, right?”

Max poured himself a cocktail. “I'm glad the caterer Yolanda hired couldn't make it. She's an incredible baker, but I think Yolanda talked her into a stupid vegetarian menu. Grass-fed grass.”

I snorted.

“With DelVecchio cooking we'll actually be able to eat. He's the best chef in town.”

“I know.”

Max gave me a strange sidelong glance. “Has he cooked for you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It was divine.”
Not to mention he's a good kisser, too.

Max thumped a palm onto the bar. “Oh my God, forget the cop.” He waved his hands around dramatically in chopping motions as if suggesting I give Brooks the ax. “He's nothing! He can't cook. You have to dump him immediately and stay with Gus.”