Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  “My shelter is not a PR stunt—” Hazel interjected, but before she could elaborate, I cut her off.

  “What can I say? I only support the best. And no person is better at rehabilitating mutts than this woman.” I draped an arm around Hazel’s shoulders. She stiffened beside me, and I felt her eyes glaring at me, intense enough to burn holes into my tuxedo jacket, but I kept my attention on Andrea.

  The same snakelike smile she’d shown on the red carpet spread across Andrea’s face. “Rehabilitating? Is that what we’re calling taking pity on the arrogant and decrepit these days?”

  My blood simmered at her insult, but I forced my posture to remain relaxed, my tone casual. “Eh, Hazel doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she kinda likes my cockiness and the fact that I’m rough around the edges. Ain’t that right?” I pulled Hazel against me and, in a last-second decision, pressed my mouth against hers.

  Hazel’s whole body froze, from the unexpectedness of the kiss or the boldness of it, I wasn’t sure. I rested my palms on her waist, and for a moment, she leaned into me. But then a camera flashed around us, and the sudden brightness seemed to wake her up. Hazel dug her fingers into my chest and shoved me away—hard—storming off before I could fully realize what was happening.

  Andrea clicked off her recorder and smirked. “I guess Kent McDougall’s niece minds a little.”

  I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but I bit my tongue and went in the direction Hazel had disappeared, ignoring the spiteful wave Andrea gave as a parting dig. I found Hazel pacing back and forth in a secluded corner of the mezzanine. She’d removed her gold headband and was toying restlessly with it in her hands, crystal beads scattered on the floor.

  “What in the hell was that about, Chris?” she shouted, rounding on me.

  At the venom in her voice—loud and sharp and foreign—guilt stabbed my stomach, but it wasn’t enough to get rid of the anger still pulsing through me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Are you purposely acting dense to be an asshole?” she asked.

  Yes. “What?” I shrugged and raked fingers through my hair. “I have an image problem, one you can help fix. That’s the whole point of this arrangement, isn’t it?”

  “This arrangement?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Why I’m at Rescue Granted in the first place. So you can record my every wrong move and report it to Kent.”

  Hazel’s expression twisted, clearly taken aback. “You dragged me over to the photographers and embarrassed me in front of Andrea Williams because I told my uncle you were late? Surely you can’t be that childish or insecure, Chris.”

  “I don’t understand the issue. You scratch my back and I scratch yours. My volunteering at the shelter makes me appear like a team player and repairs my reputation, and my presence brings visibility to your cause. It’s a win-win.”

  “My cause? Landing that kiss on me the way you did somehow aids my cause?” she yelled, throwing her hands up as if she couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of my mouth.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints regarding my advances at Casa Bonita the other night.”

  The look in Hazel’s eyes, like I’d stolen something precious and personal between us and ruined it, sent a surge of disgust through me. I’d crossed the line, and I hated myself for it. Frankly, I was surprised she hadn’t slapped me for my comment.

  “Don’t you ever put me in that kind of position again. Ever.” Hazel bent the gold headband in her hands, nearly breaking it in half. “I should have never dropped my guard around you.” She shook her head. “I was an idiot for believing you might actually be enjoying the time you spend at the shelter, and that you’re a different person from the one you present to your adoring fans. Silly me. Turns out you’re exactly the person I feared you were.”

  Then she spun on her heel, leaving me standing alone and feeling hollow inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hazel

  Attacking the mixing bowl with all the elbow grease I possessed, I eyed the molasses and peanut butter on the kitchen counter for the dog treats and allowed myself to fantasize about plying my mother with the stickiest, chewiest, most-impossible-to-talk-with-your-mouth-full cookie I could concoct.

  If I had to hear her remark one more time about how radiant I appeared in the photographs of Chris and me that Andrea Williams had plastered all across the pages of Sunday’s Colorado Post, I might turn fantasy into reality. I wanted to block out memories from the charity gala—not keep reliving them. As it stood already, I couldn’t get Chris’s words, his horrible actions, the way he’d so easily violated my trust, out of my head. How my body had totally betrayed my brain and melted into his kiss, albeit momentarily.

  “Penny, don’t you agree that Hazel looked lovely?” my mother asked as she rearranged the decorative pillows on my sofa for the fifteenth time.

  Since the car service had dropped her off at my house unexpectedly this morning, my mother hadn’t stopped fiddling with my belongings. I wasn’t sure if it was a result of her still adjusting to the new medication her doctor had put her on, or if my mother had forgotten to take her prescription in the first place. I was tempted to ask, but I didn’t want to make her feel self-conscious in front of Penny.

  “Lovely is one way to phrase it, Evelyn,” Penny said from her perch on the barstool at the center island, lending me no assistance in baking the dog biscuits as per usual. She shot me a look that indicated what she really wanted to comment was not appropriate for my mother’s 1950s housewife mind-set.

  “It’s all so romantic. It was nice to see you get swept up a little, sweetheart,” my mother said. “Maybe we could go shopping later, buy you something pretty and expensive.” Only my mother would believe that spending money was the solution to a problem, no matter how impractical or unsuited it was to me and my profession.

  “If that’s the plan, skip the clothes and go straight for La Perla,” Penny said, then took a sip of her sangria.

  “If I’d known you were just coming over to drink my booze and agree with my mother, I’d have thought twice before inviting you.” Narrowing my eyes at her, I combined the old-fashioned oats and whole wheat flour with the wet mixture I’d prepared earlier.

  “Please. You don’t actually want my help, Miss Control Freak. You like things your way, and your way only.” Penny fished the maraschino cherry out of her glass and gleefully popped it into her mouth. Okay, fine. She might technically be right, but still. Penny could at least offer.

  “Well, I’m certainly considering nominating you for quality control tasting.” Scooping out small spoonfuls of dough, I formed them into balls and placed the raw biscuits onto a buttered baking sheet, flattening each one with a fork.

  Penny grinned like I’d stepped into a trap of my own design. “Now, Hazel, we both know Chris is more than happy to continue poison testing for you.”

  I was going to kill Penny if she didn’t quit mentioning his name. I should have laced her drink with laxatives.

  “Oh, surely you aren’t feeding the poor man dog treats,” my mother cut in, looking at me like I needed my head examined.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. Chris stole a tin out of the storage area without permission and ate them before realizing what they were.”

  My mother laughed, as if it was the most endearing story she’d ever heard. Even without his presence, Chris had managed to impart his charm. “In that case, maybe you should bake something especially for him.”

  “There’s an idea,” Penny added. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all.”

  “And the way to yours is with a serrated knife between the ribs. Shall I use the one currently stabbed in my back?” I smiled sweetly at her.

  Where was her loyalty? Best friends were supposed to support you, not side with the meddling parent. And besides, I’d told Penny everything that had transpired between Chris and me at the gala. She was fully aware of h
ow betrayed and hurt I felt. So why was she encouraging my mother?

  “Don’t get testy.” My mother crossed her arms over her cream blouse, the heavy gold bangle on her wrist sliding toward her elbow. “You should at least be thankful for all the exposure you’ve gotten.”

  I stuck the treats into the oven and wiped my hands on a dish towel. “Except I don’t want that kind of attention.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Hazel,” my mother quipped.

  Seriously?

  “Okay, we’re done talking about Chris Lalonde,” I said.

  “You’re the boss,” Penny sang as she reached across the counter to steal the sangria pitcher and refill her glass.

  My mother walked over to the wooden display cabinet and started clearing the trinkets, books, and DVDs off the shelves.

  “Mom, can you leave my stuff alone?” I asked. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her, but many of those items carried special meaning for me, and when she got fidgety like this, it was like handling a live grenade—the slightest miscalculation could pull the hair trigger on an attack. If she broke something . . .

  “Sweetheart, I just think if you got rid of a few unnecessary things, you might discover you’ve got room for one or two more important ones.” She sighed and shook her head, her perfectly coiffed hair swishing with the movement. “Rescue Granted is a huge part of your life. But maybe it doesn’t have to take up so much space. You could scale back, try new things, live a little more.”

  “She’s referring to you finding a man,” Penny interjected, kicking off her ballet flats and crossing her legs on the barstool. “Like Chris Lalonde, for example.”

  Flashing her a glare that could freeze the alcohol in her cup, I gathered the dirty mixing bowls and utensils and put them in the sink.

  “Would you dating be so awful? I mean really, how long have you had some of these knickknacks? Like this hideous jar,” my mother said, her fingers pulling at the rim of Rhubarb’s treat canister—the one I’d created at a paint-your-own-pottery class shortly after my uncle had brought her home from the breeder. The glaze was cracked, but the colored bones and my poor attempt at drawing a Rottweiler still brought a wobbly smile to my face.

  “Mom, please don’t touch that.” But even as the request left my mouth, I watched in horror as the container teetered over the shelf’s edge and crashed to the ground.

  Just like that, the switch flipped.

  In an instant, my mother dropped to her knees and began collecting the jagged shards of porcelain into her palm. “I’m sorry, Hazel. I should’ve been more careful,” she said in a rush, the words jumbling together. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Leave everything where it is,” I said, kneeling beside her on the floor and putting my hand on her wrist. “Mom, stop. It’s not worth it. You’re going to cut yourself.”

  “I can fix it. The pieces are big enough I’m sure I can glue them back together. See?” Her voice quivered as she attempted to arrange the mangled chunks of the base into the correct configuration and failing. “The canister will look good as new.”

  “Really, it’s fine,” I said, careful my tone didn’t betray the hurt and annoyance thrumming through me. None of this was fine. Yeah, the porcelain could be glued back together, but the cracks would still be there, permanently spoiling the memories of Rhubarb the jar contained. But of course I couldn’t tell her that—my mother already felt guilty enough as it was.

  Shaking her head, she quickened her efforts. “No, I—”

  “Just leave the canister alone, Mom! You’ve already done enough damage,” I snapped, my heart beating hard and fast. At the sharpness of my voice, the pieces clattered to the ground again, and my mother cast her gaze away, her shoulders hunching forward as if she wished she could curl into herself and disappear.

  “Hazel, inhale a deep breath before you say something else you’ll regret,” Penny said, hopping off the stool and rounding the island. Opening a drawer, she retrieved a gallon Ziploc and passed it to me.

  “I know, I know,” I said, scooping the shards into the plastic bag, my cheeks hot and tears burning my eyes.

  My mother had only been trying to help—and had acted reflexively, a by-product of the years she’d spent living with my father and his temper—and yet I couldn’t bring myself to apologize for losing my patience. To assure her it wasn’t her fault, that accidents happened all the time and she didn’t need to berate herself over a mistake. Because while she hadn’t ruined Rhubarb’s treat canister on purpose, the fact remained that it was still ruined and would never be the same again.

  “I swear it wasn’t intentional,” my mother whispered brokenly as the timer on the oven dinged. “It’s only that I want so much more for you than—”

  “Than what I currently possess,” I finished for her. I stood and tucked the plastic bag with the remnants of Rhubarb’s treat jar under my arm. “I’m aware.”

  My mother insisted that I meet someone, settle down, but how could I? Settling down indicated stability, but for the last nearly twenty years, the only stability I’d known was the instability that was my mother and her episodes. So I didn’t need the five-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink I used to see on a weekly basis to tell me how easily I could end up like her—I simply needed the stamina to avoid it.

  * * *

  Agility training always put me in a good mood. Every new challenge brought out each canine’s unique personality, and the way the pups charged fearlessly through the course, tails wagging furiously whenever they conquered an intimidating obstacle, never failed to make me smile. And I needed cheering up after the scene with my mother this morning, so I’d offered to help Donna—my most experienced volunteer—with today’s late-afternoon class even though it was my day off.

  “Remember, trust is key here. Dogs take their cues from their handlers. So if you hesitate, they hesitate,” I said to the small crowd of owners and their adopted pets huddled around me in the grass. “If they’re afraid of an obstacle, it’s on you as their master to show them there’s nothing to worry about.” I tossed Sausage and Beans a treat for successfully demonstrating to the group how to properly run through the nylon tunnel setup in the training area at the other end of the yard.

  “So, what, you want me to crawl through that pipe thing on all fours?” asked the middle-aged man I’d paired with a border collie named Butterscotch four months ago. Their bond hadn’t completely settled, but since Butterscotch was an overweight and understimulated working dog and he was a man who’d survived a heart attack that his doctors had called the widow-maker, they were a match. They only needed some encouragement to fully realize it.

  “If you aren’t willing to do the obstacle, why should you expect your dog to?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun that felt too warm and intense for November.

  “You plan on adhering to your own advice?” came Penny’s voice from behind me.

  A shadow fell over me, momentarily blocking the glare, and I turned to find her leaning against the fence, watching with a wry grin as Butterscotch wrangled her owner in circles. Ignoring Penny’s comment, I faced the group and said, “All right, everyone, ready to practice what we’ve talked about?”

  The man grumbled but followed the other people leading their pets over to where Donna was standing at the start of the course. I motioned to her that I needed to go. She nodded, then shouted to the class, “Who wants to go first?”

  Whistling to Sausage and Beans, I strode over to Penny. She’d traded her leggings and sweater from earlier for a pair of painted-on jeans and a shirt that didn’t even aspire to reach her navel, which could only mean one thing: Penny intended on dragging me to a bar.

  “I’m not going to the Grizzly Rose with you,” I said, shuddering at the idea of being coerced into country line dancing—or worse, forced to ride the mechanical bull at her favorite club.

  Penny pushed out her lip in a pout but quickly recovered. “Okay, fine. I’ll save the Griz for when you’re really
bent out of shape. Harvey’s has three-dollar pomtinis for happy hour anyway,” she said, referring to the hole-in-the-wall joint across the street from the shelter.

  “Why would I waste calories on that trash when there’s perfectly good Italian ice cream waiting for me at home?” I asked, heading back inside to the kennels with Sausage and Beans yipping and sniffing at my heels.

  “Because you’re going to need a cocktail,” she said, propping open the door to the rehab area to allow Sausage and Beans to pass through.

  I groaned. “Why?”

  “Well, I’m about to agree with Evelyn, so you should probably get liquored up . . .”

  A pang of guilt shot through me at the mention of my mother. In all my life, I’d never spoken so sharply to her, treated her as if her feelings hadn’t mattered or like her past hadn’t damaged her. I knew the emotional abuse my father had doled out in his constant quest for perfection in his home. And it had been my mother who had been tasked with maintaining that absolute perfection—and my mother he’d blamed when the slightest thing had gone awry.

  I unlocked Sausage and Beans’ crate, then guided them over to the small bed they insisted on sharing and refilled their water bowl, refusing to meet Penny’s gaze. When I didn’t respond, she bumped my shoulder. “Your feelings matter, too, in case you were doubting that,” Penny said, as if voicing a truth I hadn’t allowed myself to consider. “Now come on, I’m thirsty for cheap vodka.”

  I offered her a half smile and trailed after her, listening to her ramble on about her own family drama as we crossed the parking lot toward Harvey’s. “And get this, I go home after I left your place to change clothes and my grandma calls me into the dining room, and do you know what I find?”

  “Baklava,” I said as we stepped into the packed entryway, hot, recycled air replacing the chill from outside. The atmosphere inside Harvey’s felt thick and smelled of sweat and stale beer. The place was so loud that the Bruce Springsteen song pumping through the overhead speakers could barely be heard.