Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  “Everything looks normal. We’ll call you with your blood work and Pap results. Any other complaints?” she asked, peeling off her gloves.

  “None that I haven’t mentioned.”

  “You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you!”

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer. Just changed back into my little clothes.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I got home, disaster greeted me.

  Zeus was lying on his side, looking like one of those fluffy keychain thingies.

  His little rib cage didn’t appear to be moving. “Shit!” I said, dropping my bags. “Zeus? Zeus? Honey?”

  Nothing. Not even a twitch.

  Eyes wide, I looked at Admiral, who wasn’t making eye contact. “What did you do?” I demanded. He put his head on his paws.

  Damn it! I should’ve put the rabbit in the bathroom and closed the door. Why hadn’t I thought of that? What was I going to do now?

  I took the rabbit out of the cage, and Admiral’s ears pricked up. “Don’t even!” I said. Could you do CPR to a rabbit? We were about to find out.

  “Marley!” I yelled. “Can you come up here?” No answer. I stomped my foot to let her know it was urgent, but still nothing.

  Then—horribly—I put tiny little Zeus on the coffee table. He was so fluffy and small. And maybe still warm? Or was that just his fur? “Marley! Help me!”

  There was no noise from down below. Marley wasn’t home, then. Shit!

  Well, there was no one else except my dog, who’d swallow Zeus in one bite. I rolled the bunny on his back and leaned down. Oh, God. Weren’t rabbits vermin? I blew at his face, which just made his whiskers quiver. Put my lips a little closer. What kind of diseases could I get from a rabbit? Was there rabbit-borne flu? Or was that just the plague in nicer terms?

  I blew again.

  The thing was dead. Dead on my watch. Mason was going to be heartbroken!

  With my nephew on my mind and in my heart, I put my mouth over the bunny’s nose and mouth and blew as if I were blowing out a match. Did it again. At least he seemed clean. Smelled kind of nice, actually.

  Gah! My mouth was on a rabbit! A rabbit who pooped where he ate!

  Another poof of breath, then, guessing where his heart was, I pressed. Oh, the ribs were so tiny!

  Wait. Google was made for this exact moment. I stood up, started toward my computer, then grabbed Zeus in case Admiral was feeling frisky.

  Typed in Can you give CPR to a rabbit. A lot of hits—great! A video, thank God.

  Nope. It was some dad pretending to resuscitate his daughter’s stuffed animal. Not funny, Google.

  Okay, here was something. Actual instructions. Lay rabbit gently on his back. Done, though maybe I’d been clutching him a tad too hard. Then again, maybe that was good.

  Say his name and see if he responds. “Zeus! Zeus, wake up!” Admiral barked. “Did you hear that, Zeus? Speak to us!” Shit. Now was not the time for giggles.

  Is his chest rising and falling? Maybe? It was hard to tell. I looked more closely. Crap. It wasn’t, not that I could see through all that fluffy fur, anyway. Can you hear or feel his breathing? I put my cheek close to his little tiny nose. Admiral joined me, panting his doggy breath. “Quiet, boy. Go away. Not you, Zeus. You stay here, and don’t go into the light!”

  Check his airway to see if it is obstructed. Okay. The rabbit’s mouth was about the size of the head of a nail. I couldn’t see anything except rather adorable teeth.

  Start CPR immediately. NOTE: Attempting CPR on a conscious rabbit may cause him to become frantic and combative. Be sure your rabbit is up to date on his rabies shots.

  “Great,” I muttered. I had no idea what Zeus’s status with rabies was. Maybe, in fact, he died from rabies. Wouldn’t I have noticed, though? Should I risk it?

  I should, for Mason’s sake. Plus, I could get shots if the bunny was infected.

  The idiotic things you do for love.

  Tilt your rabbit’s head back. Place a tissue over his mouth and nose to prevent disease transmission. “Sure, now you tell me,” I muttered.

  I followed the rest of the instructions, trying to see if Zeus’s chest rose or fell, trying to get a pulse. Snorts of horrified laughter kept bursting out of me, making Admiral wag his tail.

  This wasn’t working. Zeus, though supposedly immortal, seemed to be quite dead.

  My front door opened, and I leaped up, bunny in one hand, and put my arms behind my back.

  “Hey,” Marley said. “What’s going on?”

  “Thank God it’s you. I thought you were Mason. I just killed his rabbit.” I held out my hands, poor little Zeus looking so tragically adorable.

  “No!” Marley said. “How will he do his magic trick?” Then, the traitor, she started to laugh. “Maybe the dead rabbit will be funnier than a live one?”

  “I just gave him CPR. I breathed into his tiny snout.”

  She bent over, wheezing. “Stop, or I’ll wet myself.”

  “Shut up. It’s true. I may have rabies.” Oh, we were damned. Both of us were laughing so hard we were staggering. I put the poor little corpse down on the coffee table, then snatched it back up when Admiral went for it. I moved the bunny to his cage on the mantel.

  “I need to get another tiny black rabbit right now,” I said. “Mason has cross-country until four thirty, and he doesn’t want Hunter to see the rabbit before the show, so he’s coming over at six thirty and then plans to walk over to the high school.” With a dead rabbit, unless I could find a replacement. “You’re still coming, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Especially now.”

  “Can you cover for me if Mason comes by? Just say the bunny’s sleeping, or you let it out and it’s hiding or . . . uh, God, I don’t know.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Just be back by four thirty when I have to feed the hungry. Don’t worry. I’ll cover.”

  “Do you have any Catholic saints I can pray to?” I asked, grabbing my bag and keys.

  “Sure do. St. Francis for animals, St. Jude for lost causes.” She snorted again.

  I left, muttering prayers that the black rabbit population had been especially fertile last spring.

  CHAPTER 28

  Marley

  Hold hands with a cute guy in public.

  (For crying out loud. It’s not like I’m asking for a Nobel Peace Prize.)

  Georgia was taking her damn time finding a rabbit. Four pet stores had failed her, according to her increasingly frantic texts. And as much as I wanted to stay, I had to get moving. In twenty minutes, my twice-baked potatoes would be finished, and I’d have to go downstairs and get ready for the evening swing.

  I glanced at the mantel. Poor little bunny. Not that I particularly liked rabbits—there was something furtive and creepy about them, those little claws, those wide-set eyes.

  I couldn’t stop snorting with laughter. The image of Georgia—Georgia Sloane, Princeton and Yale graduate!—doing bunny CPR . . . well, here I went again. “Sorry, bunny. No respect for the dead here.”

  Which of course made me think of Frankie. She would probably disapprove of me, laughing over an innocent like that. Then again, maybe she’d be laughing, too. I’d never get to find out what kind of person my twin would’ve been.

  I lay down on the super-comfy microfiber couch and put a throw pillow under my head. Admiral came over and wagged. “Aren’t you a beautiful boy,” I said. He dipped his head in modest agreement. I did love dogs. Maybe I’d get one, too.

  Rabbits, though . . . ick. They were basically rats with cuter ears. I shuddered. I wouldn’t have tried to bring one back from the dead, no sirree.

  Ad put his head on my chest, and I fondled his silky ears.

  It had been a really nice week. Mom and I visited a medium
who didn’t seem like a quack and said the usual nice things about Frankie, but in a more sincere way. I’d called Eva and had more than a thirty-second conversation with her. Dante and Louis invited me and only me over and told me not to bring a thing, which made me feel pampered and special. Georgia and I were finalizing options with Emerson’s estate and adding a few lesser-known charities. Georgia had legal hoops to jump through before we could evict Ruth, the thought of which filled me with pleasure every time it crossed my mind.

  And I’d slept with Will again. After the first time, I Googled the date and the horrible words mass shooting and found an article. It was hard to read—three people killed, two injured, the shooter taking his own life. Small wonder Will was a little withdrawn.

  But just last night, he’d texted me and asked if I would bump his usual five fifteen delivery to the last on my list and stay to eat with him. So I did, and we ate seared trout with a light cream and dill sauce over a hash made of potatoes, Brussels sprouts and carrots. Which we ate after sex, thank you very much, because Will had looked at me a second, his expression its usual blank self, then taken my face in his hands and kissed me.

  Kissed me very well.

  So . . . two nights of sex, two meals at his house. I was thinking it was time for a date. And what could be nicer than a high school talent show? Quite a lot, I realized, but still.

  I picked up my phone and called him. “Hey,” I said when he answered. “Would you like to go out tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Great! There’s a high school thing—wait. What?”

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “Are you busy?” I asked. I mean, he never was that I knew of. Five nights a week, he got his dinners from yours truly. And yes, I’d driven past his house once or twice back when I was trying to decide if he was a serial killer. He always seemed to be home. I wasn’t even sure he had a car.

  “No, I’m not busy. I’ll be home. You can come over if you want.”

  Wasn’t that the limpest invitation ever? “I have plans,” I said, trying to sound haughty and frosty and terribly important.

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  “I—yeah. Fine. Bye.”

  He was right. I’d be delivering his food within the hour.

  Admiral sighed, putting his head on my stomach so I could resume stroking his ears. Pretty soon, I was going to have to go downstairs and flash sauté the veggies, put stuff into containers, the usual. I also had a menu to write for a potential catering job—a private party for a posh couple Jenny and Leo knew, who wanted all organic, fresh, locally sourced produce and a lamb that had skipped to its death wearing a crown of dandelions.

  I didn’t love those gigs, but if I earned enough in the next year, I was pretty sure I could afford to open a storefront downtown, expand my business with drop-ins and hire a delivery person. Eventually, I wanted my home to be just a home, not a business.

  Preferably a home with a family in it.

  And although I’d only slept with him twice, of course I’d already been wondering if Will was husband material. Come on. I was an Italian Catholic in my thirties. I’d already named our first three kids.

  Will had hugged me so . . . so perfectly when I cried the other night. There had to be more there than the guy who seemed so empty. Then again, we women loved doing that, didn’t we? Filling in the blanks with unicorns and rainbows, getting crushed when unicorns turned out to be imaginary (which they totally weren’t, of course).

  Okay. Back to the present. Where was Georgia? She hadn’t answered my last text requesting an ETA.

  I had to go. Looked like I’d have to take the dead rabbit with me and stash him in my place, because what if Mason’s practice let out early? He had a key to Georgia’s, and he couldn’t just walk in and see his beloved fluffball dead. I lugged the cage down into my apartment and put it in the living room as far from the kitchen as possible, scrubbed up in the bathroom just in case any creepy vermin germs had gotten on me, braided my disobedient hair and started putting the final touches on my deliveries.

  Food was so beautiful. The bright green of the pesto, the smell of basil and garlic, the sensual gleam of juicy meat . . . yeah, yeah, make fun of me. I loved feeding people, and I loved eating.

  Just then, my e-mail chimed. It was from someone named Jonathan Kent.

  Dear Ms. DeFelice:

  Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the publisher of Hudson Lifestyle magazine. We’ve heard many good things about Salt & Pepper, enjoyed the information and pictures on your website, and wondered if you would be interested in doing an interview and photo shoot with us in the near future. I am envisioning this as a cover story.

  For more information, please feel free to contact me during business hours. Thank you for your time.

  Jonathan Kent

  Publisher, Hudson Lifestyle

  “Oh, my God! Holy crap!” Little squeaks of joy were coming from my mouth. A cover story! About Salt & Pepper! And me! A photo shoot! A frickin’ cover story in a glossy magazine! My business would boom!

  I typed back an enthusiastic note to Jonathan Kent, who sounded like a very elderly, very proper Englishman, deleted a few exclamation points, left a few in, hit send and within seconds got a satisfying reply.

  Wonderful. My administrative assistant will be in touch on Monday. Best wishes for a pleasant weekend.

  I danced around a little more, wiped the happy tears from my eyes and took a moment to look out the window at the chrysanthemums, dahlias and zinnias, still in brilliant bloom. I would be in a photo shoot, a real one this time, and Mr. Jonathan Kent or his minions had already seen my photo. And they’d liked what they saw. So doing my own photo shoot was leading to this real one.

  “Thanks, Emerson,” I said. “I wish you were here.”

  Then, practically floating with joy, I got ready for my deliveries, which went smoothly. It was only when I pulled up in front of Will’s house that I remembered I was irritated with him. I went into his house as usual, walked past him without a word (noting that he smelled like Ivory soap, which was a favorite of mine), put his dinner on the counter and folded my arms. Glared. I wanted a quick apology so I could tell him my happy news, get a kiss and be on my way.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Let me get your check.”

  Back to his serial killer android self.

  “Will. Why are you blowing me off tonight? Come to the talent show with me.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t make it.”

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  He cut me a cynical look.

  I tried again. “Okay, how’s this? Maybe it won’t be fun, but my best friend’s nephew, who as you might recall, is like my own nephew in my heart, is performing magic in front of his classmates, and he’s going to need people in the audience who’ll clap.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  I threw up my hands. “Do you have a reason for this, or are you just being a dick?”

  “The former.”

  “A dick, then.”

  “No. I have a reason, and I don’t want to go into it right now. Here’s your check. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  “Fine. You’re not getting laid tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either.”

  “Crowds make me . . . uncomfortable.” He looked at me, then past me, out to his miraculous, beautiful garden, then back at me. “But I hope your friend does well.”

  It was clear he’d just told me something that hadn’t come easily. “How uncomfortable?” I asked.

  “Very.”

  “Did you always feel like that?”

  “No.”

  Ah.

  “Will, did you ever see a therapist after you lost your friends?” I asked, my tone a lot more gentle.

  He sighed. Nodded once. Folded his arms in
front of him, classic body language for Can we please not talk?

  And I did have to get going.

  I kissed him on the cheek. “Okay. You get a pass this time. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thank you.” He paused. “If you wanted to come over later tonight or tomorrow, that would be . . . nice. You could bring your nephew. Your friend’s nephew, I mean. You said he likes computers. I know a lot about them.”

  I smiled. “Thank you for the offer. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I left in a significantly better mood. Will had let me see something about him. Not very much—uncomfortable in crowds—but something. That was a step in the right direction.

  I finished my rounds, which were unfortunately heavy, it being Friday. When I got home, I took a shower, breathing in the smell of my latest shower gel, on sale at Marshalls for only $4.99, and got dressed. Too bad Will wasn’t coming, because by the time I was dressed and ready to go, I looked kind of gorgeous, thank you very much.

  All of a sudden, I jumped. Someone was pounding on my door. Will? Had he had a change of heart?

  “Marley! Open up!” It was Georgia. She was wild-eyed, and I yanked open the door. She was holding a live rabbit in both hands. “What did you do? I just got a text from Mason.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “What did I do?”

  “He has the rabbit!” Georgia screeched.

  I looked at her hands. “What rabbit?”

  “The dead rabbit! He thinks it’s asleep!”

  “Oh, shit.” I glanced over to the cage at the far end of the living room—yep, it was empty. Grabbing my phone, I saw that I’d missed two texts. Damn that habit I had of accidentally silencing my phone.

  The first one was from Georgia.

  Found another rabbit, thank God! Be home asap.

  The second one, just two minutes later, was from Mason. I read it aloud. “‘Marley, thanks for keeping Zeus. You sure tired him out. He’s zonked. See you later I hope!’”

  I had left my door unlocked. I usually did. My trusting nature and all that.