Sit, Stay, Love

by Debbie Burns

  So, they were bringing in Tommy Sintras after all. Kurt’s shoulders and neck tensed.

  The reporter gave Kelsey a look of what seemed like mistrust. “Critics are calling for immediate humane euthanizing and are filing a lawsuit to that effect. Does your shelter have a formal response?”

  “No, nothing formal.” Her internal reaction to the reporter’s question was obvious to Kurt. Her shoulders dropped, and she stepped half a foot closer. She no longer looked like she was trying to ignore the camera either. “But I’m happy to give you my opinion about that news. These dogs… In most ways they aren’t different from dogs we adopt out every day. We’re a shelter. Most of the dogs we take in have picked up undesirable behaviors. They swipe food off counters, tear up bedding and couches, eat shoes, you name it.

  “Our goal is to redirect those behaviors and to help new owners do the same thing. And most of the time, it’s easier than you’d think. So that’s what we’re hoping to do now, just on a different scale. The dogs we’re bringing in have been trained to fight other dogs, but that’s a learned behavior. They may have a way to go, but in the end, it’s a matter of training and learning to trust.”

  The reporter cocked her head as a half smile escaped. Kurt had the distinct feeling she was playing chess and calling check. “So the opinion of the High Grove Animal Shelter is that teaching one dog not to fight another dog to the death is no different from teaching another one to sit or stay? I can’t help but wonder how many viewers are shaking their heads at that.”

  Even from the screen Kurt could see how Kelsey’s cheeks reddened. “I didn’t mean to imply it was the same thing. It’s a slower, more complicated process. Dogs naturally trust humans, but these dogs have been abused. They’ve been placed in environments where they have to fight to survive. So that’s the first goal: rebuilding trust. Typically, those bonds can be rebuilt easier than you’d think, considering the lives these dogs have had.”

  “Typically.” The way the reporter weighted the word, it sounded profoundly impossible. “What is your response to critics’ claim that if you’re wrong, the price could be very steep indeed?”

  Kelsey fell silent a second or two as her forehead knotted together. Kurt was willing to bet she’d all but forgotten the story was airing live. “My response is that while I’m committed to complete caution, I’m also committed to second chances. Just last week, Channel 3 aired a story about a ten-year-old boy who’d been caught stealing, and it turned out he’d been taught it by his mom. He’d been stealing for her ever since he was in kindergarten. I don’t recall anyone wanting to prosecute him because of his mother’s poor judgment.

  “These dogs…” Kelsey continued, closing her hands tightly at her sides. “They didn’t have any say in their lives either. They were bred or purchased or in some cases stolen off people’s property. Yesterday, I met a sweet Doberman whose microchip traced back to a caring home in Kansas. She was reported missing nearly a year ago, and her owners are overjoyed she’ll be coming home. They’re committed to helping recondition her. Fortunately, they aren’t turning their backs on her.”

  She was angry and starting to ramble, Kurt thought. He wanted to shout oorah when she got back to the reporter’s accusation. “What I’d ask people to remember is that every one of the dogs who has been brought in has something in common with that Doberman. They didn’t ask to fight, but that’s the life they were handed. Just like that boy who didn’t ask to steal. We’re going to do our best to give these guys a second chance. A bit of support to do it is all we’re asking. Because that’s what everybody deserves, isn’t it? A second chance.”

  Checkmate, Kelsey.

  It was the reporter’s turn to fidget. She asked a few more questions before wrapping up, one about the location, which Kelsey wouldn’t disclose, and another about the number of dogs the shelter was taking. Thirty-seven. Kelsey divulged the number as if it were no different from the variety of flavors of ice cream. Like she had no idea what she was getting herself into.

  When the interview was over, Kurt replayed it twice, trying not to fixate on Kelsey’s sculpted face and translucent expressions but doing it anyway. When he was finished, he headed to the counter and the cute barista. The little voice that had gotten him through everything so far screamed at him to ask for her number. To keep on the safer course.

  Instead, he asked to borrow her phone.

  He was half surprised when he remembered the number after not dialing it for so long. “Rob,” he said when his mentor answered on the third ring, “it’s me. Tommy Sintras… You got somewhere else you can send him?”

  When Rob said yes but asked why, Kurt was nearly as surprised to hear his reply spoken aloud as Rob sounded. “Because I’m coming back up. I’ll take it. I’ll take the job.”

  Chapter 5

  The thing about a desolate 114-year-old mansion was that there was more work and cleaning to do than could possibly be done. Kelsey was the first to admit she wasn’t a neat freak. Her clothes often went from the dryer to slung over a chair until she was ready to fold or hang them. She went on cleaning binges only when it was obvious the effort would show. She was often guilty of using the clean dishes in the dishwasher before unloading them. Still, she was accustomed to a level of, well, newness she wouldn’t get here.

  The plumbing worked—reluctantly—but the water needed to run a full minute before the reddish tint went away. The bases of the sink faucets were corroded with rust, and the handles required two hands to turn. The faucet in the best condition was in the guest bathroom, up a set of beautiful, winding hardwood stairs, of which about a third had boards that were precariously loose and needed to be hammered tight.

  The toilets flushed and didn’t leak, but the bowls were stained from the rust in the water. The thought of using them was about as appealing as using a porta-potty. Then there were the showers and tubs in the upstairs bathrooms. Even after Patrick’s bleach attack, the lingering mold spots had convinced Kelsey to use the outside hose if one of the dogs needed a bath.

  That covered the plumbing. The electricity worked, but the way the lights dimmed when voices were raised or doors were shut unnerved her. The paint—which was most likely lead-based—was peeling off many of the walls and windows. Sheets of wallpaper were coming off the walls too. And thank goodness it was mid-September, because the air-conditioning system that had been installed in the late eighties didn’t seem to be cooling any longer. She and Patrick had managed to pry open more than half of the original windows, and Kelsey was fairly certain at least one or two of them were now stuck open permanently.

  In the kitchen cabinets and pantry and along the basement shelves, they’d found more rodent droppings than she could count. While she was normally a live-and-let-live kind of girl, she and Patrick had stopped at the Home Depot and loaded up on traps. She shuddered at the thought of having to deal with what was caught, but she wouldn’t consider poisons that might hurt the dogs or other animals, and sharing the mansion with rodents while rehabbing the dogs simply wasn’t sanitary.

  So, the other night before leaving, when her muscles were screaming from the exhaustion of the long, demanding day of scouring the house, she and Patrick had carefully placed traps inside cabinets and along shelves where Mr. Longtail couldn’t wander upon them while skulking around the house.

  And skulking he was. You’d think a cat who hadn’t had much human company in the last eight months would be grateful for the commotion. He wasn’t. He followed them around indoors and out—using his cat door—while hissing and twitching his long tail. She kept bracing for him to attack her ankles, but so far he hadn’t.

  And he didn’t seem to care about his lack of hunting ability. With that much pent-up frustration, the house should be mouse-free. As Kelsey checked the traps to see what might’ve been caught overnight, he followed along, twitching his tail.

  Even braced for it, she let out a loud gasp whe
n she encountered the first victim in the pantry at the back of a shelf. It was thankfully very dead. She shot Mr. Longtail a glance after grabbing a bag to dispose of it, trap and all. “I should let you examine this up close. It’s a mouse. If you’ve forgotten, you’re a cat. You’re supposed to be keeping the house free of them. And I hope to have this place mouse-free and looking better when my parents come check it out later this week.”

  Even as exhausted as she’d been last night, Kelsey had forced herself to go to her parents’ house and tell them the news about an hour before an expanded version of the story ran a second time on the evening news. Her parents had seen other stories about the dogfighting ring, but they could hardly seem to wrap their heads around the fact that Kelsey would be involved in the rehab until they watched her stuttering about it in the interview. Afterward, they were both excited for her and a touch worried. Kelsey knew once they saw the dogs firsthand, they’d feel better.

  She was walking out the back kitchen door to drop the mouse in the Dumpster at the side of the house that had been delivered for the rehab when she heard a horn from up front. She dropped the bag in unceremoniously and headed around to the front.

  As she’d hoped, the first to arrive was Megan. She was stepping out of her new prepped-for-baby Enclave, which she’d agreed to after reluctantly parting with her trusted but seen-better-days RAV4.

  Watching her longtime friend and supervisor navigate the merging of her life with Craig, her older and much-better-off-financially fiancé, was an experience for Kelsey. Not only had Craig made an enormous impact on the shelter with a critically timed big donation, but he was a really good guy and great with Megan.

  “I missed you yesterday,” Kelsey declared as she and Megan met and hugged. Megan’s doctor’s appointment had run long, and then she’d gotten stuck at the shelter—probably dealing with the aftermath of Kelsey’s fiasco of an interview—and hadn’t been able to join her and Patrick here.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t help clean. I saw Patrick as I was leaving the shelter this morning. He said yesterday was productive, but more productivity awaited.”

  Kelsey laughed. “That’s a good way of putting it. I’m holding my breath that Mr. Tommy Sintras doesn’t take a look around and hightail it out of here. Especially considering he’s actually going to be living here the next few months.”

  “You know, with a bit of money and elbow grease, this place could look really nice again.” Megan eyed the old mansion appreciatively. “However many years it is from now when Mr. Longtail passes away and we sell the place, I really hope it’s to someone who’ll restore it, not knock it down and put up something new.”

  “Me too, but whoever attempts it is half-crazy. It’s such a giant mess.”

  The estate was on a double lot at the end of a quiet street. Kelsey’s attention was drawn to the street by a set of commercial vans approaching. Her stomach rolled like she’d swallowed a goldfish. This was really happening.

  Megan glanced at her watch. “Looks like they’re early.” She gave Kelsey a hopeful smile. “You ready for this?”

  Kelsey took a practiced, slow breath and joked, “I thought I was, but now I’m worried I may fail, and after yesterday’s fiasco of an interview, the world will know.”

  Megan draped an arm across Kelsey’s back. “You’re going to rock this, Kels. You know how you’re always saying I should trust my instincts? Well, something tells me this is going to be really good for you.”

  Kelsey’s mouth went dry as the first van pulled into the circular drive and parked behind the Enclave. She’d worked at the shelter for seven years and would bet she was immune to most levels of barking. The noise erupting from the first van was different. Even through the enclosed vehicle, it was a sound she’d associate with a Category EF5 tornado, not a dog. And from the sound of it, it was coming from a single dog. Few dogs she’d met were capable of producing the level of sound that was blasting into the afternoon. Kelsey Sutton, what on earth did you get yourself into?

  Swallowing a titanic wave of fear, she headed over to greet Rob and his passengers. Then she spotted a sports car pulling in behind the second van and did a double take. A classic red Mustang was pulling into the circular drive of the Sabrina Raven estate. The red Mustang. “What’s he doing here?” The words came out in a whisper, but somehow Megan heard over the din of barking. She must have been reading Kelsey’s lips.

  “Who?”

  Kelsey worked to shrug it off, to draw in enough air to clear her head. “No one.” Her heart was thumping wildly. He was supposed to have driven back to Fort Leonard Wood the other day.

  Engines shut off, and the barking quieted a decibel or two. Kelsey dug her thumbnail into her palm as everyone piled out.

  Rob, lanky but confident Rob, made introductions. Kelsey managed to hold on to none of the helpers’ names but hoped Megan did. In addition to Rob and Kurt, three people had gotten out of the vans. Two were guys and neither looked like the guy she’d Googled who was supposed to be helping her, the one whose name suddenly escaped her. Maybe he was coming later.

  Rob seemed to be saying something important, but Kelsey’s ears were buzzing, and the intense barking of that single dog was distracting. She tried not to gawk at Kurt as he studied the old mansion after giving her a long look. She’d almost swear he was assessing it the same way he’d assessed her at the warehouse. She got the sense that the way he read people, the way he related to them, was entirely different from that of anyone she knew.

  Megan brushed Kelsey’s elbow, trying to get her attention. Kelsey struggled to play back her friend’s last few words. If she was correct, Megan wanted them to head inside for a quick tour before unloading the crates. Kelsey nodded in agreement. “Yeah, of course.”

  “No one, huh?” Megan whispered as Rob motioned for two of his helpers to open the back van doors before they headed inside. “The way you two were looking at each other, I’d say that’s anyone but no one.”

  * * *

  Maybe it was the light breeze sweeping across the tall, ancient oaks that spanned the yard, causing the leaves to chime in the wind. Maybe it was a trick of the mind on seeing the historic home. Kurt could swear he heard his nana’s voice brushing over his ears.

  It made sense she’d come to mind now. She’d left an older mansion than this for the chance to be with his grandfather. It wasn’t the money she’d missed but the history. Whenever they’d come across old places like this, she’d reach for Kurt, knowing her touch helped draw his ever-roaming attention.

  “Can’t you feel it, Kurt?” she’d ask. “This home’s history is clinging to its walls, to the branches of the old trees shading it, to its windows and doors. Think of the family who lived here when the house was new. And when it was only as old as I am now. What secrets would those windows tell if they could speak?”

  He’d never had much of an imagination, but her questions always got his mind churning. He’d picture things like top hats and bustles and gramophones, though as a kid he’d had no clue about the names that went with those images.

  Kurt studied the house as Rob finished introductions, and felt the rightness of his decision swirling over his ribs. He’d come here to help the girl. To keep her out of trouble. And while here, he’d keep the dogs at a distance. He needed to. The girl too, for that matter. But he knew even before stepping inside that he’d embrace his stay in this house fully. Nana would want him to, and he owed her more than that.

  He’d stayed so many places while on duty the last eight years, seen so many homes with such dramatically different histories. He’d learned how to read the energy of a house. This mansion had a lingering pulse that brought to mind the laughter of small children, the fervent whispers of young lovers, and the quiet wisdom of the elderly.

  Kurt was the last in the group to head up the weed-covered stone path to the front porch. He’d picked up on the curious look the pregn
ant supervisor gave him during Rob’s introductions. She whispered something to Kelsey, who turned red and seemed to have trouble following the conversation, making him wonder if Rob had failed to give her a heads-up that Kurt was coming instead of Tommy. Even though he’d been focusing on the house, Kelsey hadn’t looked his way since. He’d have felt it if she had.

  He stepped through the double doors into the foyer and took in the expansive entry, curving staircase, and muted light pouring through the tall windows. He planted his boots on the dusty but rich hardwood floor spanning the first level and felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck and the goose bumps rise on his arms. In a good way. The scent filling his nostrils reminded him of bleach mixed with an old bookstore he’d once walked into before remembering that getting through an entire novel was next to impossible with his level of ADHD.

  He wasn’t sure how long the house had sat empty. It had the air of a place that was once a bustling, lively home and had been snoozing, waiting for the dogs and volunteers that would soon be filling it.

  As inspiring as the old mansion was, it was also a great space for the dogs. Rather than large, open rooms, there were several smaller rooms so the staff could separate the crates. The still half-furnished rooms had once served as parlors, a music room, a library, a drawing room, and a dining room. Now they’d be temporary holding spaces for a bunch of canines with their fair share of emotional and physical wounds.

  Kurt counted four fireplaces on the main floor, two small and two that were imposing. The ceilings were impressively high—twelve feet, he guessed—and there were transoms over the tall windows.