So Good (An Alpha Dogs Novel)

by Nicola Rendell

  I reached down and gave her a pat to make up for the cat food, and she gave me a somewhat muted purr. Then I cracked the window and lifted the screen for her as the swallows took off en masse.

  Downstairs, Cupcake greeted me like I’d been gone for seven hundred years. She got so excited that she mistook the little kitchen rug that Rosie had put in front of the sink after the flood for a chew toy and yanked it around the kitchen like a big, multicolored mop. To distract her, I took a cookie from the bag and tossed it into the living room, and then stashed the rug on the top shelf of the pantry. I got the coffee ready and set up Rosie’s breakfast tray. While the water boiled, I looked out at the big yard. The sun was shining through the morning mist, and the birds were chirping. Julia was gulping down what might have been a whole bird—were those legs sticking out of her mouth?—but I didn’t look too close. Paradise was paradise; it was that simple. The place was really just gorgeous, hardly any spot in the world I liked better. I could almost imagine Cupcake trucking through the high grass, chasing dandelion fluff. But it’d only be safe to do that with a fence.

  Like a fucking mirage, it came to me, hazy and dreamy in the morning mist. It danced up before me, plank by plank…

  A white one, with points on the slats. Pure Americana. The vision of happiness. A picket fence.

  But then my eyes fell on the For Sale sign next to the front walk. It swung in the light breeze, its red, white, and blue letters slightly faded from being used so often elsewhere before. The toast popped up from the toaster, and I wondered about how this was all going to play out. Would she want to stay here, I wondered, if she could? Or would she want someplace new, maybe even a place I built for her? With a detached studio, with a lot of land, right up against the woods? Or maybe on the shore. She loved the ocean, and I could imagine her there, working away, wandering around in the dunes, waving to me as she kept her sun hat from blowing away with her other hand.

  I inhaled hard and blinked off the daydreams, spreading peanut butter on the hot toast.

  The kettle boiled, and I poured it over the coffee grounds. Picket fences and seaside studios? I was getting ahead of myself, and I knew it. The fact was that before any of that, before I sank a single post and before I looked up plans about how to make kids’ jungle gyms, there was something I had to do first. A question I needed to ask. A huge fucking step that made cliff jumping off Katahdin look like a joke.

  I was ready. But I couldn’t do it empty-handed.

  The bank manager was flipping the sign on the door to OPEN when I walked up. Her name was Jeanie, and she’d been working at Truelove Bank and Trust for as long as I could remember. “Mr. Doyle!” she chirped and held the door open for me. She had a dusting of what looked like powdered sugar on the front of her black shirt. Her hair was a puff of frizzy red curls.

  “Morning, Jeanie.”

  “What can I do for you?” She led me into the bank and picked up a donut off a paper napkin on her desk. Another small blizzard of sugar fell softly over what was already there. “Donut?” She gestured to a small box of donuts from the grocery, stacked up in two tidy horizontal rows.

  Normally, the answer would be a hell yes. I was a red-blooded Maine carpenter; I never said no to donuts. But today I was on a mission. “I’m good, thanks.” I pulled my keys from my pocket and chose the smallest one, which I held between thumb and forefinger. “I need to get into my safety deposit box.”

  Jeanie’s eyes twinkled. She’d been the one who opened the box for me in the first place. She knew what it contained, and she paused with the donut halfway to her mouth. She knew what was in there because I’d shown her, and because she’d seen it on my mom, too. “Oh, Mr. Doyle…does that mean?”

  My keys swung like a pendulum from the ring. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jeanie tucked the rest of the donut into her mouth and clapped, sending the powdered sugar twinkling into the morning sun.

  38

  Rosie

  The proof was in the pudding: I was actually disappointed to see the breakfast tray, because it was where Max should have been. Compared to waking up next to him, breakfast in bed by myself was a down-and-out bummer.

  I was in this thing, and I was in it deep. And I loved it.

  Closing my eyes tight against the sunshine, I thought back to last night. All those I love yous had swirled around in my dreams. I hadn’t heard the words but seen them, like they’d been written in the sky. All night I dreamed of nothing but happy, delightful memories. Of him, me, and the lifetime of things we had already shared. But also, the many things I was still discovering—the way he made love, the secret sides, all the things below the surface. They lured me under like a penny shining at the bottom of the pool.

  The smell of the freshly brewed coffee, though, was enough to pull me out of the pool that was Max. I rubbed my eyes and sat up against the headboard, sipping some still-warm coffee, pre-sugared and the color of khakis. Just like I liked it.

  Julia Caesar looked up at me from the floor, and I patted the mattress. She snapped her head away and considered an outlet by the bookshelf. For some reason—maybe because I’d spent such a magical night and was waking up to yet another magical, sparkling morning—her response made a switch flip inside me. I’d just about had it with her cranky, unpredictable nonsense. I’d just about had it with this I-wasn’t-looking-at-you routine. So I leveled with her. “Listen, you old broad. Knock that off. Let me be your friend.”

  Her big, gold eyes darted up at me, and she held my stare for one second, then two. A world record for us. It was like she’d understood me. Finally.

  Because I talked dirty to her? Gave her some attitude? Got a little bitchy? No, it couldn’t be.

  So I tried again. It didn’t seem right to be rude to her—she was too distinguished, too old, too crabby. I couldn’t be nasty to Henry Kissinger’s feline doppelganger, I just couldn’t. So again, I went for the friendly approach. “Who’s a good girl?”

  She stared at the heating vent.

  “Don’t be so cranky, you old battle-ax.”

  She looked up at me with utter, wide-eyed adoration.

  Holy smokes.

  So I patted the mattress again. “Come on, you salty little hussy,” I whispered. Her tail came up in a curlicue, and she jumped up beside me. Her purrs made vibrations against my leg, like the buzzing of a phone. “Good girl,” I cooed, and the purring stopped.

  Holy mother. Was this the answer? Had I cracked her code? Did Julia Caesar like…dirty talk? “Naughty little brat,” I whispered. She rolled onto her back in utter pleasure.

  As I scratched her soft, slightly squishy belly, I thought back to my gram. I never, ever remembered her calling Julia anything particularly endearing. In fact, there’d been quite a bit of just ignore the old broad.

  From my bedside table, I took my phone and snapped a photo of Julia licking her paws. I sent it to Max with the caption:

  She likes dirty talk, Max. I called her a hussy, and she rolled over!

  But he didn’t answer right away, or even after a few sips of coffee. I didn’t even get his yummy typing dots, and I wondered where he might be.

  Please tell me you went to get donuts. I’d kill for a Boston cream.

  That got an answer, after a moment. Which was:

  Better than donuts. Promise.

  Battery dying, fuck. Be there before you know it.

  Just stay put.

  I let out a purr that made Julia’s ears prick up. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.” I let my phone plop down into the covers and lay back against the pillows. I took a slice of peanut butter toast and tore off a piece of crust for Julia. “He’s bringing me something better than donuts, you crotchety old queen,” I told her. “Can you believe it?”

  Which she answered with a purr so deep and so happy, it vibrated the springs in the mattress.

  Snuggled up in the sheets, I kept my coffee in my lap, clutched in both hands. I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Max’s tr
uck. Julia fell asleep in record time, filling the air with a faint and totally adorable snore. I was so comfy, and her snores were so mesmerizing, that I must have fallen asleep…because the next thing I knew, I’d spilled my coffee into my lap.

  “Oh God,” I gasped and jumped up, sending Julia scampering for the windowsill and knocking over the bud vase with its freshly cut rose, too.

  “Why, why, why,” I muttered, standing horrified as coffee dripped off my nightie onto the floor. I tried to soak up as much of it as possible with the napkin Max had left on the tray, but it didn’t make a dent. Holding the wet fabric in my hand, with creamy coffee dripping from between my fingers and spilling down my legs, I stepped out into the hallway to grab a spare towel from the linen closet.

  But just as I did, I heard a snarl, a bark, a thump, and what sounded like a burglar downstairs.

  I spun around and saw what I’d done.

  I’d left the bedroom door wide open.

  Uh-oh.

  39

  Max

  Utter chaos was what I saw as I came down the driveway. Rosie was outside, in her nightie, but there was a big, brown mark on the front like something terrible had happened. Running around in circles at her feet, making a figure eight around the big old oak tree, was Cupcake. Her ears were straight up, and she was barking like crazy. My first thought was raccoon, but then my second thought was, in the daytime? I threw my truck into park and followed Rosie’s gaze. High in the oak, I saw Julia Caesar, clinging to a branch that was bowing dangerously under her weight. I honestly didn’t know what would happen if she fell. She wasn’t exactly a model of feline grace and beauty. Maybe it was just a question of physics—could a sphere right itself in midair?

  “What happened!” I called out to Rosie as I slammed my truck door. “Did you get sick?”

  Rosie cocked her head. “What!”

  I pointed at her nightie, at the big, brown splotch that was over her lap.

  “No! That’s coffee! There’s been a bit of drama!” she hollered over Cupcake’s yaps and barks and a weird monkey-like squeal that I’d only ever heard on Planet Earth.

  “Clearly!” I hollered back.

  Rosie made a move to grab Cupcake, but she was too quick, and Rosie was slow in her bare feet. Cupcake sprinted around the trunk and then put her two tiny front paws on the massive old oak—it was like an illustration Rosie did once of an ant looking up a chair leg. But Cupcake didn’t care how far away Julia was. There was a cat. In the tree. Which was a huge problem that everybody needed to know about.

  I put two fingers in my mouth and let out a whistle, the whistle guys on the docks used, or like people would use to call a horse. For one brief instant, Cupcake’s yaps went quiet, and she stared at me, still with her feet on the tree. Her tail wagged slowly in the sunshine.

  “Oh my God, you’re amazing,” Rosie gasped. “She hasn’t stopped barking since Julia got out of our room.”

  Our room! Fuck me. But focus, Max. Focus. I crouched down and opened my arms wide. “Hey, little lady! Come to Daddy!”

  As I said the word, Rosie squeaked and pressed her hand to her heart, like she was going to faint. But it had worked, and Cupcake charged for me, ears back, tail wagging, and scrunching herself up with full-body wiggles. I lifted Cupcake up in my arms, while she slathered my face with kisses. Before she remembered that the cat was still in the tree, I headed back into the house. Rosie trotted along beside me, her steps unsure on gravel, like she was walking over hot coals.

  “Max! We can’t leave her in the tree!” She plucked along on her tiptoes and looked back at the big oak. “She’ll die out there! She’ll be eaten by bears or, or…” Rosie gasped, “…lured away by a stranger with the promise of a ham sandwich!”

  “Don’t worry, beautiful,” I told her as I got both her and Cupcake safely inside the house and closed the door. I pulled out my phone, but it was stone dead. “Let me use your computer a second, okay?” I handed Cupcake over to her. Rosie bounced the dog in her arms like she was trying to burp her. In that moment, I totally understood why people say, Dogs are great practice for kids. Copy that, 100%. And sign me the fuck up.

  “Computer is on my desk. Password is…” She trailed off and stared at me, mouth slightly open, blush lighting up her cheeks. I could tell she was embarrassed, by her quick blinks, but she didn’t look away. “All lowercase, one word.”

  I lifted my eyebrow. “Which is?”

  She answered, “maxmax.”

  Fuck. Fuck.

  While Rosie distracted Cupcake with her miniature stuffed hedgehog, ice cubes, slices of apple, and this adorable thing where she made a walking puppet with her index and middle finger, I opened up Rosie’s laptop and typed in maxmax.

  On the home screen was a digitized version of the snails floating to the moon, with bits of popcorn falling from the basket, so fucking adorable that it damn near made me groan out loud. But somehow, I managed to keep that particular moment of total unmanliness at bay and opened up her browser. I typed, How do you get a cat out of a tree? into the search bar.

  They suggested putting a ladder up or a plank. I glanced outside. Fuck, that’d be some ladder, never mind a plank. Same problem for the second option—try to shoo it away with a broom or a towel? I watched Julia bob precariously on her too-thin branch. She had to be thirty feet up. Towels and brooms weren’t gonna cut it either.

  But then, option three. Google had done me a solid. There it was. I skimmed my eyes over the words to make sure I had the gist. It would be tricky, but it was worth a shot. “Hey, did your grandma use a cat carrier for Julia?” I asked Rosie.

  She nodded as she walked her finger puppet up Cupcake’s tiny front leg, and Cupcake nibbled playfully on her knuckles. “In the closet. She actually really likes it. I find her in there after I’ve used the blender,” Rosie said. She stood up from her crouch. Under the very edge of her nightie, I saw a row of bruises on her thigh, from where I’d held on to her as I had my way with her.

  Jesus.

  I turned to look out at the tree again. The branch was still bobbing, curved almost in a semicircle. But there were parallel branches, almost even with her. It wouldn’t be easy, but it just might work. If there wasn’t enough rope in the barn, I could always run down to the docks. One way or another, we’d get her out of there. Even if I had to use a ham sandwich to do it.

  Game on. Operation Rescue Julia was in full force. But just as I was closing up Rosie’s laptop, a new email message popped up in the corner as an alert. My eyes landed on it, just out of pure reflex, not because I wanted to snoop. I saw the words Ms. Madden and congratulations and your submission to our publishing house.

  For a second, I stared in disbelief at the gray box. In my gut, I knew I shouldn’t click on it. I absolutely, under no circumstances, should be reading her emails. I was not that guy. But those words on the alert—a classic case of the moth to the flame. My finger moved on the mouse, and the arrow hovered over the message. I read the preview and reread it. Even from half a sentence, I knew this was big news. My heart was absolutely exploding with happiness for her, and I couldn’t help myself. With a single click, the message was on the screen.

  Dear Ms. Madden,

  Thank you for taking the time to submit your portfolio to us. Our editorial board has reviewed your work, and we would like to offer you a position as an in-house illustrator for Magnusson Publishing, as an associate illustrator for our children’s imprint, Gray Moose Books. Find the starting salary and benefits described on the following page. We look forward to meeting you next week.

  Sincerely,

  Samantha Poindexter

  Acquiring Editor, Gray Moose Books

  I wanted so badly to flip the computer around and tell her the news, to prove to her that what I’d always told her was true. That she was crazy fucking talented, and that one day, the world would see it, too. Now the world had seen it, and it was just sitting in her inbox for her to see, too. But I didn’t want to steal her
thunder. I wanted her to have the same heart-bursting joy that I was having. I never wanted to take anything from her, especially not this. So with a few clicks, I marked the message as unread and closed up the windows to cover my tracks. She came back into the living room as I was putting her closed laptop on the coffee table. It took all my strength to keep the shit-eating grin off my face.

  “Thanks, gorgeous,” I told her as I took the cat carrier from her, as well as a can of SPAM from the pantry, and headed outside.

  40

  Rosie

  I was just biting into a ripe pear when my phone dinged to say I had a new email. I poked the home key with my slightly juicy fingertip, but it couldn’t read my print, so I wiped it off on my nightie and tried again. As my email opened, I saw all the words in a jumble and I froze mid-bite. I felt like I was trying to read backward or that what I was seeing wasn’t really English. It was word salad yet again. Over and over, I tried to make sense of what I was seeing as pear juice dribbled down my chin. A droplet landed on my toe, and Cupcake licked it off.

  “Oh my God,” I said into the pear, still reading and rereading in disbelief. My first instinct was that the email had to be a mistake. It had to be an error. Or maybe there was some other Ms. Madden who’d gotten the job. It couldn’t possibly be me.

  I looked at my email address and my name at the top of the note. No mistake. It was meant for me.