“Of course,” Mitch said again, because there was really nothing else he could say. “What now?”
“Paul starts treatment a week from today. We should be finished the Henderson job by then, and I won't be coming in after that.”
“And financially?”
“I want to enjoy the years I have left, my friend. I can give you a month to raise the funds to buy me out, but after that, I'm going to want us to consider that offer we got last year.”
“It's still open?”
“I checked last week.”
Elbows resting on knees, Mitch leaned forward in the chair and stared down at his linked hands. A part of him wanted to throw those same hands in the air and walk away from the business right now. Away from the stress, the headaches, the impossible workload and—and what? Go back to the tools full time? As much as he enjoyed getting his hands dirty now and again, did he really want to go back to that amount of sheer physical labor all day, every day, in every imaginable kind of weather?
With three kids to feed, would he have a choice?
Not as long as you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, Abrams.
With a sigh, Mitch braced his hands on the chair arms and pushed to his feet. “I'll start making some calls,” he said. “And I'll be ready to take over full management from you next week.”
Somehow.
“I really am sorry about Paul,” he added. “Let me know if I can do anything.”
Chapter 31
Three hours, a drained bank account, and several stops after leaving the shelter, Abby and the dog arrived home again. No microchip had been found on the animal, so she had filed a “found report” with the humane society, following which the girls had insisted on accompanying her to a vet's for a quick checkup—and crowding into the exam room with her and the dog. The vet had pronounced the animal to be in relatively good shape with no sign of fleas or infections, but based on the dog's worn foot pads, the condition of his coat, and his prominent backbone and ribs, she suspected he had been on the streets for a while. She gave them a list of instructions, a nutritional supplement, and a handful of samples including treats and shampoo, and told Abby to bring him back for his shots in a few weeks if no one had claimed him.
From there, they'd made a trip to a pet store, where Rachel volunteered to remain in the SUV to make sure the dog didn't eat the seats the way he'd devoured last night's blanket. They'd bought food and a rawhide chew bone, along with a leash and a collar, because no matter when—or if—he was claimed, Abby had no intention of going another day without some semblance of control over the critter, especially after the morning's blueprint incident. After that, they'd stopped for hamburgers—Kiana’s wrapped in lettuce with no bun—and french fries before Abby had finally been allowed to deliver everyone to school for the afternoon.
And now it was just her and an overgrown, filthy, hairy beast—identified by the vet as a Bouvier des Flandres—that took one look at the bathtub Abby had filled and immediately retreated into the far corner of the bathroom.
“Come on, boy,” Abby coaxed, holding out a treat. “It's not so bad, I promise. And you'll feel much better when we're done.”
The dog sat down on his haunches and regarded her, his expression clearly skeptical.
It took twenty minutes of pushing, pulling, coaxing, and swearing before Abby managed to get the animal near enough the tub to lift him into the water one end at a time—and then all of her strength and agility to keep him there. With one hand clutching the dog's new collar, she squirted the shampoo the vet had given them over his back and, with grim determination, lathered, scrubbed, rinsed, and repeated. Then, just as the last of the rinse water swirled down the drain and she reached back for the stack of towels she'd placed on the counter, she heard the sound of the front door opening, and Mitch's voice.
“Abby? I need that key I gave you this morning,” he called.
The dog—no longer filthy but now very, very wet—lunged from the tub and over Abby, knocking her onto her butt in the tsunami that followed as he bellowed at the bathroom door. She rolled to her hands and knees on a floor awash in water and towels and grabbed again for the animal's collar, but she might have been an insect, for all the attention he paid to her. She switched tactics, scooping up towels and trying to spread the least wet ones across the broad, black back. If she could just get him a little bit drier before—
“Damn it,” Mitch bellowed back on the other side of the door. “What in hell is that dog still doing here? I told you—"
“Wait!” she cried as the door handle turned, but she was too late. The door swung inward, the dog thrust head and shoulders through the opening, Mitch hollered, and then she was staring after the animal's disappearing hindquarters... and at Mitch's steel-toed winter boots.
Silence fell. And stayed.
“Perhaps,” Mitch said at last, “I didn't make myself clear this morning.”
Abby waved a wet, weary hand at him. “You were very clear,” she said. “And I was ambushed by your daughters. They—”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “You're going to blame this”—he indicated the disaster of a bathroom—“on my children? I'm sorry, did I miss the part where you abdicated your role as an adult?”
Shock dropped her mouth open. She snapped it shut again. “I didn't think—”
“You're right. You didn't. And now I have to go through the whole damned mess with Kiana a second time, because we are not keeping the bloody dog!”
“She doesn't—”
“Save it,” he cut her off again. He looked as if he might say more—a lot more—but then he scowled and scrubbed a hand over his face. “The painters finished early and I need to lock up the house. Where is the key I gave you this morning?”
“My coat pocket,” she said. “Left side.”
“I'll be home for dinner. We'll talk then.”
Still kneeling amid the soaked towels and puddles, Abby listened to the thud of heavy boots down the stairs, followed by the dog's deep bark, a not-so-muttered curse, and the slam of the front door—the latter loud enough to make her jump. A few seconds later, a damp black head peered around the door post at her, and she scowled at it.
“You, my friend,” she said, gathering up wet towels, “had better be worth all this trouble.”
The dog delicately tiptoed into the room and bestowed a wet kiss on her cheek, then stood quietly while she rubbed him down with the one remaining dry towel.
Chapter 32
Despite Abby's warning that their plan would likely fail, the girls went into a huddle in Kiana's room after school, working on their strategy for convincing Mitch to foster their guest—and ultimately adopt him. Every so often, one of them would thunder down the stairs with a question about costs and necessities, and Abby would drop what she was doing to help with research.
By the time dinner was ready and their father expected, they had compiled a list of wants and needs, come up with a budget that included paying Abby back from their allowances for the vet checkup and supplies already bought, and written and signed a contract promising to feed, walk, and clean up after the animal. Abby wondered if she should text a warning to Mitch about what he would be facing when he came home, but given the mood he'd been in when he slammed out of the house, she decided against it. There didn't seem much point in getting him all worked up again before he even walked in the door, and maybe the element of surprise would work in the girls' favor instead of against it. Besides, after that dressing-down he'd given her, a part of her rather liked the idea of him being ambushed.
She heard the rumble of the garage door opening, and her heart skipped a beat. She just hoped he'd at least hear his daughters out after the work they'd put in on their proposal. Leaving the salad greens in the spinner, she dried her hands on a tea towel and went to the foot of the stairs. “Girls! Your dad's home!”
“We heard!” came the muffled reply. “We'll be there in a minute!”
Abby hurried back to the
kitchen, wanting to be occupied with something before Mitch came into the house. She needn't have worried, however, because for the first time since he'd begun joining them for dinner, his footsteps turned away from the kitchen and headed in the opposite direction. A second later, she heard him going upstairs to change. The nerves that had already been overwound throughout her body tightened another notch. With a sigh, she dumped the salad mix into a serving bowl, tossed it with the dressing already there, and set it on the table with the rest of the meal.
Dinner was a silent, somewhat tense affair, with a degree of formality between Mitch and Abby that had Britt and Rachel shooting each of them—and each other—sidelong glances. Abby did her best to keep the conversation flowing, but even Kiana, normally a chatterbox oblivious to any undercurrents, had only monosyllabic answers to questions.
At last, Rachel pushed her plate away and announced, “Daddy, we have something to discuss with you.”
Mitch regarded her, then shot a narrow look at Abby.
“It was our idea, not Abby's.”
The rise of an eyebrow expressed Mitch's doubt about the statement, but he turned his attention back to his daughter. “If this is about the—”
“We have a plan.” Rachel interrupted. She nodded at Britt, who half stood and pulled a creased sheaf of papers out from under her. Rachel rolled her eyes but took them and smoothed them as best she could as she cleared her throat. “'We, Rachel, Brittany, and Kiana—'“
“That's me,” Kiana said proudly. “Because I helped.”
“I see.” Mitch's lips twitched. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Go on,” he told Rachel.
“‘We, Rachel, Brittany, and Kiana Abrams, hereby petition the head of household for permission to foster and maybe keep one large black Bouv... Bouv...’” Rachel looked to Abby.
“Bouvier des Flandres,” Abby supplied, avoiding Mitch's narrowed gaze.
“Yeah. That.” Rachel looked back to her father. “That's the kind of dog he is.”
“I see,” said Mitch again.
Rachel went back to reading. “'In return, we promise to use our allowances to repay Abigail Jamieson for expenses already incurred, and to assume financial responsibility for basic upkeep of said Bouv... dog. We also assume responsibility for his care, and we promise to feed, water, brush, walk, train, and play with him.'” She looked over at Mitch again, sliding another sheet of paper across to him. “We're watching videos on how to train and look after a dog so we know what to do, and we figured out how much it would cost. That's a list of weekly and monthly expend... expend...”
“Expenditures?” Mitch asked.
Rachel nodded and slid a second paper his way. “Yes. And this is a list of incidents.”
There was no denying Mitch's struggle not to smile now. “I think you mean incidentals.”
“Money words are hard,” said Brittany with a sigh. “Abby helped us.”
“I'm sure she was a big help.” Mitch's gaze touched Abby's and slipped away again, but not before she saw the light dancing in green depths. “Anything else?”
“We'd like to take him to obedience classes if we keep him, but that costs more money than we have.”
“And you'd like me to pay for that?”
Rachel nodded. “We can pay for most of his dog food, though.”
Mitch studied the papers he'd been given. “And all three of you are willing to give up your allowances for this.”
Three heads nodded.
“What about any damage he causes? Such as the blanket he ate and the lamp he broke.”
“We'll clean up after him.”
“The yard, too? Big dogs leave a lot of business lying around.”
“We'll take turns every day after school.”
“You three have put a lot of thought into this.” Mitch set aside the papers and sat back again. “I'm going to need some time to think about it, too.”
Three enthusiastic nods accompanied by grins.
“I do have one major concern. As much as you might want him to be a family dog, what happens if he wants to be with one of you more than the others? Have you thought about that?”
“Of course,” said Brittany. “We already know he'd be Kiana's dog.”
“That's why we're doing this,” Rachel added, tugging a puff ponytail on her little sister's head beside her. “For her. Once he settles down and learns some things, he can even be her support animal when she gets upset.”
Abby didn't dare so much as look in Mitch's direction after that announcement.
Chapter 33
“Better?” Mitch asked as he handed Abby's tea to her later that evening. “You left the dinner table in a bit of a hurry.”
“You weren't faring very well, either,” Abby retorted, remembering the gruffness with which Mitch had ended the dog discussion and put the girls to work clearing the table.
“That last part caught me off guard, I'll admit.” He lowered himself into the armchair and regarded her narrowly. “I take it you didn't know about it?”
Abby shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“They're right, you know. We saw how he reacted to Kiana's meltdown this morning. He has potential.”
Had that only been this morning? It felt like a week ago, with all that had happened in the interim. “We did,” she agreed. “But without formal training, he won't be allowed to accompany her to school or anything.”
“Formal, expensive training, I'm guessing?”
“I don't know, but even if he doesn't get the training, he can still go a lot of places with her. And I can make some calls tomorrow, if you'd like.”
Mitch grimaced. “If I say yes to that, it feels like I'm saying yes to the whole damned dog idea.”
Abby pressed her lips together to stop a smile. “Where is he sleeping tonight?” she asked, already knowing the answer because she'd heard the click of toenails climbing the stairs behind Kiana, but she hadn't heard their return.
The question earned her a glower followed by a heavy sigh. “Touché,” Mitch said. “But in my defense, I figured he'd cause less havoc if he was in with her rather than cooped up in the laundry room with nothing to do but chew on a blanket.”
“Sure.”
Mitch sighed again. “I'm in trouble with this, aren't I?”
“I suspect you are.”
“Damn it,” he muttered. “I really don't need another mouth to feed or take care of. Not right now.”
Guilt slithered through Abby's belly. Was it just her belated conscience kicking in, or did he seem more haggard than usual tonight?
“Is everything okay?” she asked tentatively. It wasn't her place to pry—or any of her business—but Mitch looked much like she thought a drowning man might when he realized help wasn't coming, and guilt twinged again.
“Honestly?” Mitch closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to regard her in despair. He was definitely a man on the verge of drowning. “No. I found out this morning that my business partner's husband is sick, and he's pulling out of the company to spend more time with him. As of next week, I'll be running everything on my own. And I have a month to come up with a way to buy him out before he sells his share in the company to someone else. And I'm not sure how much longer I can keep pretending I can do and have it all, and I suspect I'm going to have to make some serious changes, and frankly, it sucks, and—” He stopped and shook his head. “Wow. I can't believe I'm dumping on you like this, Abby. I'm so sorry.”
Abby had no idea how to even begin responding—to his news, his dilemma, or his apology. How this man had managed to keep afloat for as long as he had was beyond her. And not just afloat, but functioning well enough to keep those girls cared for and loved and—
Abruptly, she stood, reached across, and plucked the mug from his hand, saying, “I'll be back in a minute.”
She returned with a glass and the bottle of Scotch Mitch kept in the cupboard over the fridge, but instead of taking them from her, Mitch raised an eyebr
ow.
“Where's yours?”
She flushed. “I didn't want to be presumptuous...”
Mitch gave her an eye roll worthy of his eldest daughter. He pointed at the loveseat, ordered, “Sit,” and disappeared back toward the kitchen. He was faster than she'd been—probably because he hadn't had to drag a chair over to access the Scotch cabinet—and soon they both held glasses with a healthy three fingers of Scotch in each. Abby vowed to limit herself to just one of the fingers, because that looked like a lot of alcohol for someone who hadn't had a drink for more than six months. Especially someone who'd been too tense to do more with her dinner than push it around her plate.
“Here,” he said, raising his, “is to having survived this day.”
Abby could surely drink to that. She tipped her glass to touch his, and then sipped the liquid fire within. It burned its way down her throat and into her belly and, much as she'd hoped it wouldn't, left her coughing and spluttering, eyes watering.
Mitch, not very helpfully, chuckled. “You weren't kidding about being a lightweight, were you?”
“Not even a little,” she wheezed. She waited for the burn to pass, then cleared her throat. “So. Your business. What can I do to help?”
Giving a snort, Mitch sat back in his chair again. “Unless you have a magic carpet bag of some kind, not much.”
Abby smiled at the Mary Poppins reference. “Sorry, no. And no chimney sweeps, either. But I know how to keep a set of books and run an office. I helped my—a friend with his company for a while.” She was pretty sure William had given her the job just to shut her up about needing more in her life, but she didn't think Mitch needed that part of the story.
Brief interest gleamed in Mitch's eyes, but he shook his head. “I can't ask you to do more than you're already doing around here. But thank you.”
Abigail Always Page 16