The Dog Town Collection

by Sandy Rideout

  “No second guessing,” she agreed. “Just second chances.”

  “How lucky are we?” he said, offering his hand. “Most people never get those.”

  “Maybe not in New York. But it happens in Dog Town all the time.”

  He laughed. “I guess that’s why I’ve always felt pulled back here. It’s a wonder I held out as long as I did.” He laced his fingers through hers and tugged. “Remi, may I have this dance… again?”

  He led her into the gazebo and they spun together under a canopy of lights twisted through vines. To one side was a round table covered in white linen. Candles sputtered amongst the flowers, fine china and platters of food.

  “This is all so beautiful.” Remi murmured into his shoulder, barely trusting her own voice. “How did you pull it off?”

  “I had a little help from Hannah and the hotel staff,” he said. “Credit to Craven Road for the inspiration.”

  Remi’s smile bloomed—the one that belonged to Tiller alone. It felt rusty and yet somehow comfortable. She tilted her head back and looked up. “Trumpet vine and Virginia creeper,” she said. “Hardy perennials. Almost impossible to kill.”

  She remembered Flynn’s drawing from career day at the school: a vine looped around her neck tying her to Leo… and someone out of frame.

  “You missed one,” Tiller said, pointing. “American bittersweet. If they’d gotten both male and female plants there’d be orange berries by now.”

  “Still perfect.” She gestured to the rising moon peeking through gaps in the vines. “What’s better than perfect?”

  He leaned down and their lips came together in the same old way, but it felt different now. Back then, it had been raw and fast and urgent. Tonight, it was rich and slow and deep. Remi’s head swirled for moment, but Tiller’s hands were steady and warm at the small of her back.

  Finally, he pulled away. A movement had caught his attention and he turned. Then he gasped.

  Leo was standing on one of the chairs, devouring their dinner. Roxy, who was tied up to a post, strained at her leash and whined.

  “Way to wreck a moment, Leo,” Tiller said.

  Remi just laughed. There was no wrecking this moment. It was unwreckable. But she went over and pulled Leo off the chair and looped his leash above Roxy’s. The dogs settled down side by side to strip vines from the gazebo and shred them.

  Tiller caught her hands again. “I have news. I’m staying in Dorset Hills, but not with the foundation. I asked Marcus to let me tell you.”

  “Wonderful.” Her smile was back, easier and more familiar. “What will you do?”

  “I hated New York, and suits and schmoozing. I didn’t realize how much till I got back here. I’ve decided to start a landscaping business.”

  “Great idea. Mom’s garden gets better every year.”

  He spun her around and caught her. “I only need one more thing to make me truly happy.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Something every man wants, Remi.”

  His expression was inscrutable in the moonlight. “Not here, Tiller,” she said. “Not now.”

  “Not that,” he said, grinning. “Well, not now.”

  “What, then?”

  He tipped her chin up with one finger. “A truck, Remi. A big one. When a man has a truck, a dog and a girl, he’s got it made. So today I bought myself a silver pick-up, with a king cab so there’s room for all of us.”

  She laughed. “We can ride into the hills and argue about whose dog is worse.”

  “Consider that a tie.” He danced her backward toward the table. “As long as your dog left us something for dinner.”

  “Can I ask you something?” she asked. “Jane Austen… was that for me?”

  “Of course. Show me a man who chooses to read the entire Austen collection and I’ll show you a man who doesn’t want a pick up truck.”

  “But how did you…?”

  He looked a little sheepish. “I may have called your aunt once or twice. I think Ruby was rooting for me.”

  “Ah, well that explains an interesting conversation over ambrosia salad.”

  “Speaking of salad,” he said, pulling out a chair. Remi stood for a moment longer, taking it all in. The moon was up, the frogs sang, and although summer was undeniably winding down, there was no trace of bitterness left in her heart. Joy had pushed it all away.

  A huge bouquet of red roses sat in the center of the table. “Julia showed me how to scrape the thorns off a rose,” Remi said, as they sat down.

  “Why would you want to do that?” he asked. “Thorns are what make a rose a rose.”

  “Like Dog Town, I guess. Sweet with a little sting.”

  He linked his fingers through hers again and squeezed. “It’s good to be home.”

  The End

  … Or is it?

  What did Leo eat next? And did his dietary indiscretion ruin the most romantic moment of Remi’s entire life?

  Find out now in an exclusive Bonus Chapter.

  Grab it here.

  Dedication

  For Peter…

  Lighter of fires.

  Chapter 1

  Dorset Hills was a very pretty town that had never made the mistake of taking its good looks for granted. Even in autumn, when the famous hills were aflame with glorious color, residents worked hard to keep up appearances. It had been a stroke of great luck that a national magazine named Dorset Hills the best place in North America for dogs and dog-lovers. The town had grown into a small city on the strength of that title. But no one rested on their laurels in Dorset Hills, more affectionately known as “Dog Town.” There were always other pretty towns waiting to nip at their heels. It was important to keep on hustling.

  Holidays offered the perfect opportunity to showcase both the city’s natural gifts and its quirky charm. A political subcommittee met regularly to plan seasonal decorations, activities and marketing. Although no occasion was too small to celebrate, city staff pulled out all the stops in the weeks before Hallowe’en and built toward a spectacular finale at Christmas. It took stamina to deliver on all the festivities, but it was a pleasure as well as a duty.

  Dorset Hills smiled upon anyone who made the city look good. Bridget Linsmore was one of those people. For nearly 10 years she’d hosted the Thanksgiving Rescue Dog Pageant, which had become a popular event on the Dorset Hills social calendar. The fundraiser brought tourists from all over Hills country and filled the coffers for Bridget’s rescue program.

  Despite her contributions to Dorset Hills, however, Bridget always raised a few eyebrows when she drove through town in her old lime-green van bursting with lovable mutts. Even in a city that built its reputation on dogs, some said that a woman could simply have too many. Bridget’s jacket was usually covered in dog hair and slobber, and her boots caked in mud. As for her hair… well, the less said the better. Not that a few stares bothered Bridget. Unlike many in Dog Town, Bridget cared little about appearances. She had enough on her mind, particularly as the countdown to the pageant began.

  Just after two o’clock on Friday, November first, Bridget pulled into a parking spot on Main Street behind a white truck bearing the City’s crest. Staff in regulation coveralls were on ladders replacing Hallowe’en decorations with Thanksgiving garlands on the old-fashioned iron lampposts. There were no miniature gourds in the wreaths this year. City Council had quietly banned them after youths raided the town’s displays and pelted Main Street’s quaint storefronts. A tasteful presentation was central to the Dorset Hills brand, and exploded squash sent the wrong message.

  Opening the rear door of the van, Bridget released seven dogs of various sizes, breeds and colors. As she strode along Main Street, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine, the dogs fanned out like a flock of geese behind Beau, Bridget’s lead dog and constant companion. Pedestrians moved aside to avoid tripping over the big dogs or kicking the little ones.

  When she got to the Lucky Dog Barkery, she raised her right hand, palm up
. Seven furry backsides went down. Seven pairs of eager eyes rose to meet hers.

  “Looks like a good crop this year,” an old man said, smiling.

  “All dogs are good,” Bridget said. “People not so much.”

  The man laughed. Few took offence at her brusque manner. Her intentions were kind, and no one doubted that for a second.

  Bridget was Dorset Hills’ matchmaker to the dogs. She had an unerring instinct for placing the right rescue dog with the right owner—and sometimes pairing happy humans, too. She wasn’t overly sentimental about it. Bringing dogs and dog-lovers together had always come naturally to her. Now it was business, and she worked hard to stay detached.

  After picking up kibble and other supplies, she headed back to the van. Just as she slid behind the wheel, her phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah? That’s how you greet your best friend?”

  Bridget grinned. “Hey, Duff.”

  The nickname didn’t particularly suit Andrea MacDuff, but it had stuck. “Why so surly?” she asked.

  “Surly is my default state. You know me, right?”

  “I know there’s a heart of gold under that crusty old jacket,” Duff said.

  Glancing down, Bridget brushed away dog hairs before rapping her knuckles against her chest. “Wrong. Hollow.”

  “Really? Well, maybe we’ll find your heart down in Wychwood Grove. There’s a house I want you to see.”

  Bridget stopped scraping at a mystery stain. “A house?”

  “I’ll send you the address and you can meet me there.”

  “Now? But I—”

  “Property doesn’t last long around here, Bee. Even a place that needs a lot of work.”

  Beau pushed his head under Bridget’s hand and she stroked his ears. “So, you’re saying it’s a dump?”

  Duff laughed. “A diamond in the rough. Still, it’ll go fast. I had to use my considerable charms to get an early viewing. The listing goes live tomorrow.”

  She wasn’t exaggerating about her charms. Duff had all the polish Bridget lacked, and it served her well as one of Dorset Hills’ up-and-coming real estate agents.

  Bridget shook her head. “I’m not ready to buy, Duff.”

  “No one’s ever ready for her first house or her first baby.”

  “And you’d know that how?”

  Despite her career success, Duff chose to rent an apartment over a shop that sold doll houses. She liked the irony, and besides, she saw too many great properties to settle on just one. Her dream house was always just around the corner, just like the perfect man.

  “I’ve midwifed tons of first home purchases, that’s how. Buckle up, my friend.”

  Bridget reluctantly snapped on her seatbelt. She hated feeling constrained but she couldn’t afford any more tickets. “The timing’s terrible. I’ve got too much to do without buying a house on top of it.”

  “No one should buy the first house they see, anyway. But you’ve got to start somewhere to have a baseline.”

  “Can’t we do that after the pageant?”

  A passerby rapped on the van’s window to say hello and regretted it when the dogs started barking. Duff waited for the noise to die down before continuing. “Hardly anyone lists in winter, Bee. We’d better dive in today.”

  Bridget flipped the wipers to clear the windshield. Dust had drifted down from the wheat woven into the wreaths installed overhead. The City was always trying something new and different, but it seemed unlikely that wheat would go the distance.

  “But what if I actually like this dump?” she asked.

  “You won’t. You’ll be appalled. Then everything else will look good.”

  “Again, do you know me?” Bridget laughed. “Fixer-uppers are my type.”

  “In dogs, not houses. Anyway, this will take an hour, tops. So, drop off the dogs and come meet me.”

  Bridget glanced at Beau in the passenger seat. He was a tall, black dog with the grace of a poodle and the silky feathers of an Irish setter. Even as a puppy he’d been chill, and he’d matured into the most self-possessed dog Bridget had ever known—and she’d known a lot of them. “What do you think, fella?”

  Beau gently placed his paw over Bridget’s hand on the stick shift.

  “What’s the verdict?” Duff’s voice sounded distant, as if she had her head stuck out her car window.

  “You’re so sure I’ll say yes that you’re halfway there already. And you’re having a smoke to calm your nerves.”

  Duff gave a self-conscious cough. “I don’t smoke.”

  “If you lie to me about that, how can I believe what you tell me about this dump of a house?”

  “Okay, I rarely smoke, and only when I’m nervous.”

  Bridget turned the key in the ignition but stayed where she was. “Why are you nervous about this junker I shouldn’t buy?”

  There was a long pause as Duff took a last, loving drag. “Because I want you to have a house, Bee. You’ve busted your butt rehabbing dogs for ten years. You’ve made tons of people happy and sent them off with the right dog and even the right partner. It’s your turn to be happy. You need a house to expand.”

  “I’m not unhappy.” Bridget scratched Beau’s ears thoughtfully. “But I do hate having to turn away rescue dogs because I don’t have space. It keeps me up at night sometimes.”

  “See? It’s time. Just check this place out.”

  Finally, Bridget pulled into the traffic on Main Street. “Let me think. I’ll call you in ten minutes, okay?”

  She dropped the phone before Duff could answer and ignored the instant buzzing of texts. Driving through downtown traffic took her full attention anyway. There was always a jam outside City Hall, worse on nice days when the sun bounced off the gold limestone and made it gleam like a fairy-tale castle.

  To escape the crush, Bridget turned north at the Barton Gallery of Art, with its twin bronze wolfhound statues flanking the front entrance. The route was no better, because drivers had slowed down to take in the breathtaking view of the hills. Taking a left, she headed west at a snail’s pace. If she wanted to get to Wychwood Grove before Duff combusted, she’d have to get creative.

  Turning south, she headed toward the water, where traffic tended to be lighter. Lake Longmuir was little more than a wide, shallow pond but the streams running down from the hills kept it fresh and clear most of the year. The boardwalk along the lakefront was crowded with pedestrians and dogs, however, and Bridget realized her mistake. Nothing caused more rubbernecking in Dorset Hills than dogs on parade.

  “Oh, Beau, people are idiots.” She turned right and then left again at Dorset Hills General Hospital. Outside sat a hulking bronze St. Bernard dog, complete with rescue cask attached to its collar. A local artist was making a killing casting these eight-foot-tall statues for the main institutions in the city. The City funded some of them; others were donated by wealthy patrons. The bronze dogs had caught on like wildfire with visitors. They took the bus tour, posed with the statues, and shared the photos on social media to win prizes.

  Bridget liked the bronze collection although she thought the money could have been better spent on animal services. Plus, it irked her to no end that the statues were all purebreds. She spent her life surrounded by adorable mutts of indeterminate origins. Highlighting purebreds sent the wrong message. An elitist message.

  Another turn at the Dalmatian outside the fire hall took her into Riverdale. The neighborhood that had once featured small cottages was gradually being not only gentrified but also homogenized. Dorset Hills favored graceful grey two-story houses with black accents. Bridget’s rusty van didn’t fit in with the fancy cars sitting in driveways now.

  Pulling up to a drab bungalow, she hopped out and released the dogs. Following them into the back yard, she yanked poop bags out of her pocket and stooped to scoop. She worked hard to keep the place tidy. If the dogs had their way, the lawn would be a lunar landscape. Fritz, a shaggy gray-and-white terrier mix, barked to let people know he was b
ack and Bridget silenced him promptly. She was careful to avoid giving the neighbors cause to complain.

  Six other dogs waited inside, tails lashing and tongues lolling. There were 13, including Beau, but they were a civilized crew. With only weeks left till the pageant, their training was nearly complete. Soon, all but Beau would move on, and new dogs would gradually join them as the cycle repeated.

  Opening the front door, Bridget reached into the mailbox. There was a small envelope with her name on it in her landlady’s elaborate script. She tore it open and pulled out a pretty card with kittens in a basket on the front.

  “Dear Bridget: My niece is moving back to Dorset Hills and I’d love to offer this house to her. I’m wondering if you might have plans to move. Not till after the pageant, of course. But before Christmas would be wonderful. I know this year’s pageant is going to be a smash hit! Let me know your plans, dear. All the best, Mrs. Lenderwurst.”

  Bridget’s hand shook as she set the card on the kitchen table. Beau stuck close to her side as she began to pace. His tail hung straight down, feathers nearly brushing the floor.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” she said. “She’s not evicting us. She can’t. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  The other dogs had piled onto the shabby couch or collapsed onto the dog beds scattered around the living room. The floor was bare and the curtains looped up out of reach. Bridget had never bothered to decorate, partly because of the dogs but mostly because living here was never meant to be permanent. It had been the perfect place to land when she’d finished college and come back to Dorset Hills with a useless degree in anthropology. At first there had been roommates; as they’d left, she’d replaced them with more and more dogs.

  The sun cast weak rays over the stark room, and Bridget suddenly realized this place had never felt like home. There was no reason to cling to it, especially if she wasn’t welcome.

  Picking up her phone, she texted Duff: “Let’s see if your ugly duckling is my swan.”