You Lucky Dog Page 10

  “Out there,” Finn said, pointing to the backyard.

  A tiny little red flag reluctantly presented itself in Carly’s brain. She sidestepped her sister and walked to the windows that overlooked the backyard . . . and stifled a scream, lest she upset Mia even more.

  From that distance, she couldn’t say which of those bad dogs was at the fence, digging to the core of the earth. She couldn’t say which one of them had scattered the marigolds all over the backyard, either. She couldn’t even guess which one had knocked Millie to the ground and then romped off to chew the garden hose left on the patio to bits as the child ate dirt. Or which one it was who had torn the bear apart and scattered stuffing across the lawn like so many snowballs—although she’d put her bets on Hazel for that one.

  Mia suddenly appeared beside her holding Finn. Carly heard her sister’s breath catch, and she said, “Where’s Bo?”

  “Bo?” Carly immediately yanked the door open and walked out, following a trail of cotton stuffing to the edge of the yard, where Bo was trying to fit himself through a narrow and freshly dug hole beneath the fence.

  There was a lot of shouting and scolding, a lot of tears and apologies as Carly rounded up the dogs and the cotton stuffing and the bits of chewed hose. She left the marigolds on the ground and made Millie go in the house. Mia was dragging Bo by one hand, Finn on her hip.

  “This is why I didn’t want a dog,” Mia said. “Does everyone understand now?”

  “I do,” Carly assured her. “I totally do.”

  Mia stepped inside and yanked her kids in after her. “Thank you, Carly. Call me later,” she said, and shut the door.

  Carly looked down at her two mutts. They looked utterly exhausted from all their hard work and both would need baths. “Great. Juuuust great. Which one of us is going to call Mr. Sheffington and let him know this is not a piece of cake after all?” To ensure that he did indeed understand what a cakewalk this was not, Carly sent him a picture of the backyard carnage, complete with one she’d snapped of Millie and the dogs just before Mia had come roaring out of the house. Millie and the dogs were covered head to toe in dirt in the middle of those unrepentant bassets. All three beings were smiling.

  Carly received a single text in response:

  Ugh.

  Ugh? That’s it? That’s all I get for the destroyed garden and two dogs that now need to be bathed?

  Sorry.

  That was the sum of his concern? He’d gone off and left his dog with a stranger, and his dog was wreaking havoc in spite of his assurances to the contrary, and his sole comments were ugh and sorry. She pictured him in a restaurant somewhere with his brother, having a great lunch and maybe even a cocktail since it was the weekend, maybe even a champagne cocktail, because apparently, the whole world got to have one while she dog-sat. He was probably checking out the girls as they went by, and swiping right, and he didn’t have time to engage with Chump Carly in Austin who was taking up space on his phone.

  She took the dogs home and bathed them in the backyard, which delighted them to no end, and managed to soak herself in the process.

  But things calmed down that evening after she cleaned out her car and showered off the drool and dirt and dirty soapy water they’d flung on her when they shook their coats. The dogs were exhausted and curled up, back to back, on one of the dog beds. They snored while she indulged in a medicinal glass of wine and a review of the pictures she’d taken—it would be funny if it wasn’t so horrible—and Carly could look at the two mutts and think, this isn’t really so bad. Maybe the obliteration of Mia’s garden was just a one-off. Maybe the dogs had been overexcited because the kids were running around, and really, didn’t Finn start it by picking the marigolds? That was just an invitation to a pair of dogs.

  Maybe, she thought, after she’d had a second glass of medicinal wine and the evening seemed a little rosier, she needed a couple of bassets in her life. Maybe she’d be happier. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Her friends were fading away into their own schedules and demands on their time. And hadn’t she read somewhere that dogs added years to their owners’ lives? Something like that. She didn’t know how she would work out the dogs in New York, but it wasn’t impossible. Apparently people did it all the time. It would require a mindset adjustment, but she could do it.

  Somehow, Carly snookered herself in those lovely hours of Friday evening to the point that she was actually toying with the idea of getting Baxter a companion once Hazel had gone home. He was undeniably a different dog in Hazel’s company—he hadn’t once pressed his head to a corner since she’d arrived. Carly pictured herself heading over to the ACC to find a rescue, another basset who would adore poor old Baxter the way he adored Hazel. She imagined walking them on the streets of New York, and people would stop her to tell her how cute her dogs were, and her dogs would be perfectly behaved because of course she’d have them professionally trained, as the manual strongly recommended. She would look like the women on the cover of the books she saw in Target—cute and carefree and walking a dog down a tree-lined street. She’d meet guys who loved dogs, rich businessmen also walking down the street in snazzy French suits who would stop and speak to her dogs, then to her.

  She imagined having a dog-friendly office somewhere, and Baxter and his puppy sibling would sit on the window seat and gaze out the window, attracting people to come in. People would come for the adorable dogs and stay for the public relations, or . . . or whatever her job ended up being. She would build some lucky company an entire client base on the backs of two adorable dogs.

  She envisioned all that into a dreamy slumber.

  * * *

  The next morning, Carly woke up to the smell of something fishy. She lifted her head from the pillow and hissed with the pain that the sudden movement put in her neck. “Damn it,” she said, and rubbed her neck. Well, no wonder—she was on the very edge of the bed again, having been pushed aside by two basset hounds who had taken up almost the entire bed. “I don’t get it,” she said hoarsely to her slumbering companions. “It’s not even possible to get up here on those stumpy legs.”

  Baxter lifted his head and looked at her. Or maybe that was Hazel. Whichever one it was sighed and resumed sleeping. The other one slid off the bed and onto the floor. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Carly sat up, pushed her tangled hair from her face, and grimaced at the sound of her laptop sliding off and clattering on the wood floor. She’d fallen asleep with it.

  She got out of bed. She felt groggy from the lack of sleep and stretched her arms overhead on a big yawn. And then, scratching her side, she took one step toward the bathroom door. Her bare foot landed in something cold and oily and slipped out from under her. She caught herself on the bed before she fell, but a muscle pulled in the back of her leg and she let out a grunt of pain. When she’d righted herself, she looked down to see what she’d stepped in.

  She was still trying to work out which one of them had gotten into the fish oil when she heard the unmistakable sound of a dog retching. It was coming from the direction of her closet. “No,” she whispered as the worst sort of horror struck her. She dove across her bed, half sliding and falling across the foot of it just as the dog retched. By the time she made it to the closet, she very nearly combusted. Baxter had just vomited on her expensive, special-night-out, silk and beaded Jimmy Choos. “No!” she screeched. They were insanely expensive, even in spite of her having purchased them from a consignment store.

  Baxter made a run for it, slipping and sliding out of her room in his haste to put some distance between himself and the remnants of the fish oil he’d eaten. Hazel, still at her slumber, lifted her head and looked curiously at Carly. That’s when Carly noticed an empty fish oil capsule stuck to the bottom of one of her paws.

  And then she noticed the trail of oily paw prints the size of personal pizzas across her floor and on her bedspread. “Oh my God!” she shouted.

 
Hazel slid off the bed and trotted out of the room.

  “That just makes you look guilty!” Carly shouted after her. She grabbed her phone, shoved her hair from her face, and FaceTimed Mr. Tobias Sheffington III.

  After a couple of rings, his face appeared in the square. He was wearing his glasses, and his stubble had disappeared. He looked like he was in a hotel room. He squinted at the screen and said, “Oh,” as if he hadn’t known who it was. “Hi, Carly.” He leaned closer, squinting. “Oh, wow . . . has something happened?”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding hard, “something has happened.” She pointed the phone at the fish oil catastrophe, and then to her ruined shoe, then turned the phone back to her. “Did you see it?”

  “See what?”

  “The fish oil! The dog barf!” she exclaimed, gesturing to the mess on the floor, probably with a hand he could not see.

  “The what?”

  “Those two ate an entire bottle of fish oil supplements! And not the cheap kind, the good kind! And then Baxter barfed on one of my Jimmy Choos!”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, like he thought he was going to have to call security from a thousand miles away. “Are you okay?”

  She blinked. She glanced down at herself, and the old, oversized T-shirt that had belonged to a boyfriend. At the thick tangle of hair draped over one eye. “Are you . . . are you judging the way I look right now?”

  “No,” he said, rather unconvincingly. “But you look . . . different.”

  “Well maybe it’s because those beasts give me like one inch of my very own bed, like I’m supposed to get any sleep like that. And they had fish oil on their paws and my bedspread is . . . What are you looking at?”

  Max was looking over his shoulder. “Umm . . .” He turned back. “Is there something I can do for you from here? Someone you need me to call, or . . .”

  Or what. That’s what he was wondering—or what. Either he’d forgotten that he’d told her to call him, or he never meant it. “Nope. Nothing. Just thought you’d like to see how it’s going with this giant favor I am doing for you that you said would be a piece of cake.”

  “I’m sorry. It definitely looks like you have your hands full.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “I will replace anything you’ve lost, and I hate to do this, but I’ve really got to go.”

  He was in an awfully big hurry. Antsy, really. Wait a minute . . . Did he have a woman in there? Had he given her some sad story about his brother so he could actually go off with a woman? For heaven’s sake, was she that gullible? “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “What, here? Just getting ready to go to the dog show,” he said. “Would you mind if I call you back?”

  She was such an idiot. Of course that was what he was doing. “Fine. Whatever,” she said. “Go and have a grand time.” She clicked off in a huff and looked down at the mess again. She couldn’t believe that jackass, off on some romantic weekend with a woman while she dog-sat. She was so stupid sometimes.

  This was her fault, really—she’d forgotten the fish oil was on the edge of her dresser. She’d been so tired lately, so scattered. It was one thing to be busy, but add money worries to it, and things like where she put the fish oil were the first to fly out of her head.

  She had to throw her shoes out—they were ruined—and clean up the mess. She was washing up the last of the oil when someone pounded on her front door. She sat back on her heels and looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Who was it? No one should pound on anyone’s door at ten on a Saturday unless the plague and locusts were coming through the neighborhood.

  One of the dogs gave a half-assed bark. They were exhausted, too.

  Carly hopped up, pulled on some shorts under the T-shirt she’d slept in, and hurried down the hall to the door, pausing only to cast a withering look at Baxter and Hazel, who’d made themselves at home on the couch, their crimes apparently forgotten, and clearly not inclined this morning to ward off intruders.

  She carried on to the door and peered out the peephole.

  Victor was standing on her porch, his head down, one hand braced against the jamb. He lifted his hand, apparently to bang again. Carly opened the door before he could. He took a step back. His gaze flicked the full length of her. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t know you had this side to you. Did you go out last night? Tie one on?”

  “Ha ha, Victor. It’s Saturday morning. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “Seriously? You always look like this?”

  She sighed with impatience. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I kind of dig it,” he said, gesturing to her T-shirt and shorts. “Like you’ve been on a deserted island with nothing but a volleyball.”

  Okay. Carly was willing to walk the talk, but she should be able to wear the loungewear of her choosing in the privacy of her own home without being critiqued. “Again—what do you want?”

  Victor’s face suddenly lit. “Hey! Did you clone Baxter?” The dogs had apparently decided to investigate and had ambled into the entry. Victor squatted down as they crowded in beside her, Hazel actually going between her legs, snorting and sniffing at Victor, their tails wagging.

  “There was a mix-up with the dog walker, remember?”

  “So, what, you found two dogs and kept them both or something? Man, it’s cool that you walk around and pick up stray dogs.”

  “What? No. No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t do that.” Did anyone ever listen to her? “Anyway . . . you were just about to tell me why you have stopped by this lovely sunny morning, right?”

  “Oof,” Victor said, wrinkling his nose. He stepped around her and crowded in through the door with the dogs, then walked into her house. “Smells like fish in here.”

  Apparently, Victor had come to take her patience out for a spin. Carly took a steadying breath and slowly shut the door, then followed Victor into her house. He’d already made himself at home on the couch, and one of the dogs had crawled up on his lap. She realized it was Baxter, who was clearly on a mission to prove her theory that Max had ruined everything.

  “So you know the red pieces in my collection, right?” Victor asked.

  “Sure.” They were the signature pieces of his show. They were the dresses that Phil had shot for them, pictures she’d Fed-Exed to Ramona McNeil yesterday. She was so grateful that Victor hadn’t made her wear one yet—whereas the white pieces featured oversized shoulders and long sleeves, the red pieces featured oversized hips.

  “Yeah, I’m not feeling it. I’m pulling them out.”

  Carly waited for the punch line. When she realized none was coming, she panicked a little. “Victor, you can’t do that. Not the red pieces. They’re your finale. The showstopper!”

  “Not feeling it,” he said again. He dumped Baxter onto the floor and stood up and walked into her kitchen.

  Carly’s heart began to pound at a clip that was far too fast. She’d talked Phil into shooting those pieces for free. She’d begged her way into Ramona McNeil’s email. She’d arranged a podcast for Victor that would focus on those red pieces. “Victor . . . that’s crazy. You know that’s crazy, right? We’ve been teasing those dresses. People are coming to your show just to see the red pieces.”

  He winced, as if considering that, then shook his head. “Nah. I don’t want them.” He opened the fridge.

  “But . . .” She darted to the end of the bar, hopping over the two dogs who were curious to see what was going on in the kitchen. “But they want to send a photographer from Couture to shoot them. And the only reason is because the creative director wants to see if those pieces are as editorial as she thinks they are. The design is so innovative.”

  Victor turned around to her. “Look, Carly, I mean, I get it. But that’s why I dropped by. I was talking to Mom this morning and she . . . she said I should let you kn
ow so you can cancel that interview.” He turned back to the fridge and pulled out a pan of leftover lasagna.

  Carly felt herself either on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown or murder. How interesting that those two distinct impulses could feel so similar. “Okay,” she said, trying to change tack. “If you don’t have the red pieces, how will you end your show?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll make something else. I’ve got a few weeks.” He started opening drawers, and finally found one with the utensils. He pulled out a fork and took a giant bite of lasagna from the pan. “Man, I need a colonic. I’m feeling all kinds of backed up. You know that feeling?”

  Carly stared at him.

  “Can you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  He glanced up from the lasagna, confused. “Like . . . get me a colonic. Mom used to schedule them, but she’s kind of pissed at me right now.”

  “You’re going to have to find someone else to schedule your colonic, Victor.” This was a teachable moment where she should explain to him that scheduling colonics was not part of a publicist’s duties, nor should he pay her going rate for that task. But she was too worried about the red pieces and Victor had proven so far to be pretty unteachable. She sank onto a stool at the bar. “You’ve just thrown a wrench into all my plans. I’m going to have to redo everything, and your colonic is the last thing I’m going to deal with.”

  “You know what? You should really get one,” he suggested, pointing a fork at her. “You seem a little uptight and, trust me, a colonic will clear you out in more ways than one.”

  “Eew,” Carly said, wrinkling her nose. “I really don’t want to have this—”

  “Hel-looh!”

  Carly froze, midsentence. Please, no.

  Hazel and Baxter began to bark and raced to the front door to confront this intruder. For the life of her, Carly didn’t understand their logic.