Holiday Risk

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  I woke up next to him this morning—even if there was a big black Frankie sitting between us—I can still say I slept with a former SEAL.

  A hot former SEAL.

  One who delivers babies on planes and rescues dogs in the woods. He’s the stuff movie heroes are made from.

  A moment of worry tightens my chest. Let's hope my life hasn’t somehow become a movie adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

  "Be safe!" I yell right before Spencer closes his truck door. He gives me a quick wave out his front window before putting the truck in reverse and backing out of my driveway.

  I cross my fingers and hope chasing after suspected drug dealers has become a safe endeavor. Ridge’s latest theory is the crime crew located somewhere in New York has found a new way to distribute their drugs across the Canadian border. Ridge, and his team broke up the ring earlier this year, but now there's concern criminals have used the holiday rush as a cover for their new operation.

  I don’t unbuckle Frankie from her leash until the front door is closed and locked—I’m not taking any chances of this dog getting out on her own. My plans for us consist of a nice, quiet, calm day at home—one where I watch happy shows on TV. There’ll be no CSI or Investigative Discovery Channel in this house today.

  My plan works for about three and a half minutes. I have just enough time to sit down on the couch, wrap myself up in a blanket, and turn on the TV. In the same amount of time, Frankie patrolled the entire house, making sure to bark before entering every room. She jumped on the couch, tipped over the trash can, and knocked over my clothes hamper. Her energy level didn't decrease until she was sitting next to my legs, her head on my lap, a soft whining coming from her.

  "Do you want to go outside?" It's a silly question. Does any dog ever want to do anything besides go outside?

  She answers by jumping from the couch to the floor and back again.

  "Okay, okay. Let's go for a walk." With a defeated sigh, I throw the blanket on the back of the couch. It takes me a few minutes to locate my big, thick coat, hat, and a pair of gloves. Frankie continues her excited hopping following me from location to location as I bundle up.

  I lock the door behind me and attempt to lead Frankie in a walk around the block, but she's not having any of it. Instead, she tugs me in the direction of Main Street and the downtown shops. Pelican Bay is beautiful in winter.

  It can be pricey to live in the main section of Pelican Bay. I'm not even close to the ocean, but the purchase price on my home would leave some people in tears.

  It left me in tears.

  I never wanted to leave Pelican Bay, so it was worth the money to stay close to the place I love. I didn’t even go far away for college. Instead I attended the nursing program at our local university. When they offered me the job at Pelican Bay General, there was no way I could turn it down. The chips of my life all seemed to fall into place at the right time.

  This is where I want to be and this is where I plan to stay.

  Frankie and I turn the corner onto Main Street as a light snow falls, the perfect, white flakes an inspiring backdrop to watch my little town transform during the holiday season. Old snow, left behind from the last storm, covers the peaks and gutters of the little shops along Main Street.

  There's the bakery on the corner, the diner, and the school further down. Each building with a matching evergreen wreath tacked to the door, complements of the chamber of commerce. The streetlights are wrapped in evergreens, and little red bows sit atop each light post. Christmas music feeds from the buildings, all the stores tuned to the same radio station. I'm not sure if it's a requirement of owning a shop or if they've just agreed to it, but it makes our walk more picture-perfect.

  The bakery, a new addition to our downtown area, is filled with decorative cheer inside. The warm lights in the building escape out the large front window. A group of elderly ladies sit at a table in the front, sipping tea from little cups by a fake fireplace. Unbelievably, they are not the crowd normally found in this corner shop.

  On any given day, you're more apt to find the bakery full of big tall, muscular men who work for Ridge and his security firm. Today, the place is absent of their presence, and I know why. Ridge has called anyone and everyone to take care of the person who left a dead body in a cabin outside of town.

  Seven blocks later, we pass the beach and head back to my house. Finally, Frankie stops walking, turning back to give me a look I'm choosing to read as "it's time to go home". I smile in appreciation. My nose is frozen, and all attempts to cover it and provide some heat with my knitted glove have failed.

  My steps quicken. I’m ready to get out of this cold. I unlock the front door and unleash Frankie as soon as the doors close behind me. She runs off, ready to do another check of every room in the house. Thank goodness, it's only a three-bedroom.

  My thick jacket gets tossed over the dining room chair, the gloves on the table in a heap with the hat. Frankie barrels out of the main hallway, and a chunk of cream- and brown-sugar-scented soap falls out of her mouth, landing on my carpet with a silent thud only my heart hears as it stops beating.

  I freeze and then watch in slow motion as she bends down and picks up the chunk of soap. Her jaw moves up then down twice.

  "Frankie, no," I yell and dash in her direction.

  It does no good. By the time I’m able to pull open her jaws and look inside her mouth, the bar of soap is gone.

  "Oh no. No, no, no." I jog to the bathroom off the master bedroom. "No, no, no."

  I rip the curtain back. A few rings come loose, so it sags in the middle. There, on the edge of the tub, where my rather expensive, homemade, all-organic soap normally sits, is an empty space. It's cute little porcelain dish empty, the dish unbroken but laying sideways on the bathroom mat.

  "Oh, Frankie."

  A few seconds pass while I mourn the loss of my favorite oatmeal soap. The heavenly bar is only available during the summer farmer markets every Thursday in downtown Pelican Bay. Every fall, I buy two bars. It’s enough to get me through the winter months. Thankfully, Frankie caught me at the tail end of my first bar, so she didn’t ingest an entire thing.

  Still, organic soap or not, it can’t be good for dogs.

  Frankie nudges the back of my leg with her nose. She looks the same, but I can't get the unwavering thought I just killed Spencer’s dog out of my mind.

  Dogs can't eat chocolate or onions, and I'm pretty sure soap is also on the list.

  My back pocket vibrates, interrupting my moment of pure panic.

  Until I remember it could be Spencer on the phone. Then I panic more.

  Please don't let it be Spencer. Please don't let it be Spencer.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when Regina's name pops up on the screen. As one of my closest friends from high school, it’s her duty to help me.

  "Regina, I have a huge problem. I need your help." I forget all the niceties of hello.

  "If you're gonna tell me you still haven't shacked up with the hot guy you've been spotted with on three different occasions, you're right, you do have a problem."

  I am momentarily waylaid by her comment. "How do you know about that?" I haven't had a chance to update her.

  "Girl, the whole town knows. I promised Pearl I’d call you and get an update for tonight’s phone call."

  I cannot believe my best friend is about to sell me out for phone tree fodder.

  "The phone tree. Really Regina?" Growing up watching our mothers waste hours on the phone updating their friends on town gossip, we always promised we’d never turn out that way. Funny how life works.

  "Joslin, it's December. In Pelican Bay. What else am I supposed to? Now tell me about your new man."

  "I'm babysitting his dog and she ate a bar of soap. What should I do?"

  "Is dogs eating soap some kind of new euphemism for sex?” she asks.

  "No! Focus, Regina. You take Mr. Pickles to the vet in town. What's his phone number?"

  "Hang on." Ther
e's a rustling of papers on her end of the line. "I had to get a piece of paper and pen."

  "I need the number to Dr. Pike. What do you need paper for?"

  "I need to make notes so I don’t forget to tell Pearl anything.”

  "Regina! This is serious. I need the number to the vet."

  "I'm serious about wanting the sex update."

  "Reggie, the dog could be dying right now. She looks ill." Actually, Frankie has taken up a spot on the couch and appears fine. On second thought, I've never seen her so calm. This could be a problem—a good problem.

  "Fine, I'll give you the number because if you kill the dog, then you'll never get to have sex with him." She rattles off a few numbers, and I hurry to scratch them down on the back of my palm. "When the dog lives, promise to call me back with an update."

  "My God, woman. Get your priorities in order."

  "They are!" she yells right before I hang up.

  The phone rings three times before the automated messaging systems picks up. While the calm, soothing voice of a woman tells me the hours and location of the vet’s office, I flip back and forth between worry about the dog and panic over what Spencer will say.

  Should I put her in the tub? Maybe I can wash her mouth out. The odds of me being able to hold Frankie under the faucet are slim to none, so the thought doesn't last long.

  "Dr. Pike's office. Can I help you?" A real human finally answers the phone after I frantically press the zero key three times.

  "I need to talk to the doctor. I have a dog emergency." I grab on to Frankie's collar and try to tug her off the couch and into the bathroom, but she doesn’t move.

  "What kind of emergency?"

  This can't be happening to me. "A big one. Can I just talk to Dr. Pike please?"

  This woman has no idea who she's dealing with. If the dog dies, I’ll miss out on a chance to have sex with Spencer and then my best friend in the whole world will sell me out on the phone tree.

  They’ll call me the dog killer.

  I’ll have to move out of town.

  Find a new job.

  His secretary finally loses some of her sweetness. "Just a moment please," she says, ending her sentence with an overdramatic sigh.

  The line is silent, and I worry she's disconnected me when no background music plays, but I refuse to hang up.

  "Dr. Pike speaking. What seems to be your emergency, sweetie?" He sounds like this is any other phone call.

  "Dr. Pike! You remember me. I was there was Spencer and Frankie, she had to get a shot a few days ago."

  "Oh yes. How is she?"

  "Not good.” I get right to the point. “She ate a bar of soap. I don’t know what to do.”

  Chewing sounds come over the line. I hope to God it’s not more dog treats. I may not be talking to the best source of help. Maybe I should have called someone out of town.

  “What kind of soap?” he asks.

  "The kind? You know, the organic oatmeal bars. Molly makes them.”

  "Oh." His demeanor lightens. "Did you buy it from the farmers market? I prefer her lavender bar myself."

  "Yes, but Dr. Pike, the dog?" Does no one understand the significance of my problem? The whole town has gone mad.

  He's quiet for a moment. "How much of the bar did she eat?"

  I stop and think about what was left the last time I showered. "At least a quarter of the bar."

  "Hmmm, did she chew it up or eat it whole?"

  Shouldn’t we be calling the dog ambulance right now? Is there a dog ambulance? What do dogs do in a time of emergency? "I'm not positive, but I think pretty much whole."

  "Ah, you’re fine, young lady. Frankie will throw it up in a few minutes. Keep an eye on her and get her to drink lots of water when she's done passing the soap."

  "Really? Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. She'll be right as rain in about thirty minutes or so. You should even be able to continue using the soap."

  “Um… Okay.” That’s never going to happen.

  I lighten the death grip on Frankie's collar and sit on the couch beside her. After garnering a few more reassurances from the doctor, I hang up the call and take my place watching Frankie. The two brown tuffs of fur above her eyes definitely remind me of horns in this moment.

  She doesn't move.

  I stare into her eyes, but she doesn't look sick or gag.

  Leaning forward, her mouth is inches from mine, but there’s no evidence of bubbles forming.

  Deciding I have a few minutes, I make a quick trip into the kitchen and grab a brown sack and a bowl of water. When I get back to the couch, Frankie hasn’t moved—a concerning sign.

  "Do you want some water?" I ask, leaving the water dish under her nose. She doesn't take the bait.

  Seven and a half minutes pass this way—me gently coaxing Frankie to drink some water and her turning her nose up in return. I consider calling the vet again, the phone poised in my hand ready to go, when Frankie makes her first move. She sits up on the couch, the front of her body lurching forward as she gags.

  And gags.

  I snap open the brown paper bag and hold it close, hopeful I can get it under her in time. Frankie nudges it away with her nose and gags again. I match the sound. She jumps off the couch and dry heaves on my floor. At least she got off the couch, I suppose.

  With the bag under her nose, I get down on my knees to coax her. “Come on, Frankie. Look at the bag.” She twists her head away. “No, Frankie, the bag. Do it in the bag.”

  She’s having none of it and scoots away, forcing me to follow by walking on my knees.

  “Frankie.”

  I follow her around, all my attempts to keep the brown paper bag under her mouth thwarted when she continues to move away. It’s like she doesn’t care about my carpet at all.

  When it's all said and done, there is a soapy pattern drizzled from the living room couch to the kitchen. I'd never seen a dog walk and throw up at the same time, and I hope to never see it again. If I hadn't paid someone for the house, I’d seriously consider setting it on fire and starting over. Insurance policies should have a clause for dog puke.

  It took a good five minutes for Frankie to work the soap out of her stomach and then another three for me to practice my breathing so I didn’t upchuck, as well. After she's had a drink of water and taken her place back on the couch, I decide it's safe to start to clean up.

  Half the trail of dog puke is cleaned up when my phone rings, stopping my progress. If Regina has called me for another update, I'm going to start shopping for a new best friend.

  I answer without looking at the screen. "Regina, now is not the time. You'll be the first to know if I sleep with the hot guy."

  A deep laugh stops me from immediately hanging up. Regina definitely doesn't have the Adam's apple to go with that laugh. "I hope I'm the guy you're planning to kiss and tell about."

  Oh shit.

  "I wasn't really going to tell her." I lie. I wouldn't plan to at least, but she is my best friend—she'd work it out of me.

  Spencer is silent for a minute. With the phone still glued to my ear, I worry he’s hung up. I’d be more upset, but there isn’t time. After the dead body yesterday and the trail of dog puke today, this is just another blip on the radar of events that go bat shit crazy in my life.

  "This is something we’ll definitely need to talk about. I'm on my way back to your place now. I should be there in about twenty minutes,” he says, still laughing.

  Twenty minutes? Crap. I’ve only cleaned halfway to the kitchen, and that took over an hour. Soapy dog puke isn’t the easiest thing to get out of carpets. I’m gonna need to clean double-time to get it done before he gets here.

  “That’s great. I’ll see you then. Gotta go. Bye.” I disconnect the call and throw it to the side. My arms burn while working to scrub the floor to the kitchen.

  There isn't even time for a sigh of relief after I drop the washcloth in the kitchen sink. Almost as if the event was timed perfectly, the dis
hcloth makes contact with the base at the same time my doorbell rings.

  Frankie runs to the front door, jumping and barking, happy to have her owner home. It’s like she’s forgotten all about the horrifying incident that will haunt me for years to come.

  Without wasting time, I open the front door while mentally organizing my notes for explaining Regina’s nosy questions.

  Only it isn't Spencer on the other side.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Spencer here?" The older gentleman wraps his thick, dark brown trench coat around his body and leans closer, trying to see inside the house.

  I instinctively lean back to keep my distance, and so the smell of stale cigars doesn't suffocate me. Frankie growls, then circles once around my feet and stops, sitting directly in front of me, working as a blocker. The old man peers nervously down at her, both his hands clutching the trench coat.

  "No."

  His eyes slither up and down my body. I cross my arms to cover up my chest, failing to ease the dirty feeling his gaze creates. "You the girl with him when he found the body?"

  This damn town and its gossip. "Yeah."

  "Tell Spencer to stay out of our business, or you'll both and up like Kevin." He turns, slinking to the side, his boots crunching on the light covering of snow over my walkway.

  I step out the door after him, stopping at the end of my front porch. The snow seeps through my socks and freezes my toes. "Who is Kevin? What happened to him?"

  He turns back before opening the passenger door of an old-style town car, its windows blacked out with dark tint. "You met Kevin…in his kitchen.”

  He doesn't mean Kevin was the dead body, does he? Snow falls off the tree when his door slams, and the black town car peels away.

  He did mean the dead body.

  My bare arms prickle from cold, the fabric of my thin T-shirt not doing anything to keep the freezing air away from my skin. Although, I don't think it's just the temperature that gives me goose bumps. I’m calling Spencer before the door closes. It rings as I twist the deadbolt.