All the humor had gone out of Duff’s eyes, and that was rare. “I’d be a terrible friend if I let you do this. Why are you so set on it?”
Bridget stared around again then back at Beau, whose tail continued to fan steadily. “This place just feels right, Duff. I don’t want Mr. Slick killing it.”
“Ah. So, you’re rescuing the house. Just like you rescue dogs.”
“I just get a feeling sometimes. It’s not as crazy as it sounds.”
Rubbing her forehead, Duff sighed. “Okay, fine. We’ll top him by five thousand, and not a penny more. I don’t care what the bank says. If you have to work more hours waiting tables to carry the mortgage, you’ll have less time with the dogs and be miserable.”
She submitted the new offer, and then grabbed Bridget’s hand. Bridget tried to pull her hand away, preferring to save displays of affection for the dogs. Duffy held onto her fingertips and wouldn’t let go.
Bridget leaned back against the headrest and muttered something akin to a prayer.
It was only a couple of minutes till the phone buzzed again. Duff stabbed at it a few times before she could bring up the response. “Oh, Bridget, I’m sorry. He’s thrown another fifty grand at them.”
She groaned. “Fifty! Oh, man, I hate this guy. Drops that like it’s nothing, when it means everything to me.”
“It’s not personal, Bee. He doesn’t know it’s you. This is just business.”
“Well, that’s just as bad. He’ll take this place and turn it into something grey and soulless, like the rest of Dorset Hills is becoming. Then he’ll flip it and sell to someone else who follows all the City’s rules like a robot. They’ll get a Labrador retriever, just because it’s on the city crest.”
Duff released her friend’s fingers and typed back a quick response. “I promise I’ll find another house that blows you away.”
Bridget shook her head. “This is the one.”
“There’s no ‘one’ house,” Duff argued. “It’s not like romance. And even that is a load of crap.”
“The premise of my matchmaking is that there is only one perfect match. Call me crazy, but I still believe that—about dogs and people.”
“Well, it doesn’t extend to houses, trust me. I’ve seen so many people lose their first and even their fifth house and still find what they call ‘the one.’”
Bridget turned the key in the ignition. “Call a time of death.”
Duff opened the passenger door to climb out just as Mr. Olson came hurrying toward them. Bridget rolled down the window again and he practically stuck his face into the car.
“Bridget, the house is yours,” he said. “As long as you can take possession immediately. We need to pack up and move before the twins are born.”
“But I can’t match the competing offer, Mr. Olson.”
“I know, dear. We want you to have it anyway.” His face crinkled in a smile.
Bridget hesitated. “That is so kind of you, but you should do what’s best for your family.”
“That’s why we want you to have it—because you helped make our family. Look, the money is already more than we hoped. We’re not greedy.”
Tears filled Bridget’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I can have it?”
“We insist.” He jerked his thumb toward the sports car. “That guy wants to knock it down. He’s a developer.”
“Well, I have to be honest, sir. I’ll make some changes, too. I want to turn the barn into a kennel, for starters. But I love the house and I’d never knock it down.”
Mr. Olson’s eyes filled, too. “Thank you. I know it’s just a house but—”
“I’ll take good care of it, I promise.” Bridget jumped out and hugged him.
Duff was making squawking sounds behind her. Bridget couldn’t tell if it was excitement or disapproval. Then she came around the car and hugged both of them. Finally, Mr. Olson pulled away. “My wife will get jealous,” he said, laughing.
Duff grabbed Bridget’s hands and they jumped up and down. Beau circled them, wanting to get in on the action but too polite to do more than poke at Bridget with his nose. Finally, she knelt and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, buddy. All of this is ours. The barn, the trails, even a creek apparently. Our luck has finally changed.”
Beau licked her left ear. Perhaps that was why she didn’t hear the door of the sports car open or the crunch of footfalls on gravel until Sullivan Shaw’s Blundstones were planted in front of her, about a foot apart.
“I hate to break up the party,” he said. “But may I have a word?”
Still on her knees holding Beau, Bridget looked up. “Sure.”
His eyes, a murkier blue than Duff’s, widened, and his smile, which had looked fake anyway, vanished completely. “Oh. It’s you.”
Chapter 4
Bridget pushed herself up off the gravel and then dusted her knees with both hands. “Yeah. It’s me.”
Sullivan stuck out his hand cautiously, as if he weren’t quite sure what she’d do to it. “Hello again.”
“Hey.” She gave his hand a quick pump and let go. “Sorry about the house.”
“No, you’re not.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket. It looked buttery soft. Expensive. Vulnerable to dog incursions.
“Okay, I’m not sorry I got the house,” she admitted. “It’s a dream come true for me, actually. I don’t have the options you have.”
He tipped his head quizzically. “You don’t know anything about my options. Getting this house was important to me, too. I made a generous offer that was inexplicably declined.”
Bridget looked down and scratched Beau’s ears. His tail was at half-mast. Guarded. He sensed the guy’s anger but didn’t realize it was justified. “Look, I got lucky today. I helped the owner’s daughter once and he was grateful.”
“Bridget.” Duff’s voice was clipped. “There’s no need to explain. The owner made the choice he wanted to make.”
“The owner made a choice from his heart instead of his head,” Mr. Slick said. “You just cost him and his future grandkids nearly fifty grand. Does that make sense?”
Bridget crossed her arms over her chest. “Not everything has to make sense. I told you that when I—”
He held up his hand. “Turned me down for one of your rescue mutts. I remember.”
“That might have hurt your feelings, but it was for the best. It doesn’t mean you won’t make a good owner to some other dog one day.”
His eyes narrowed to blue slits. “Why thank you, Bridget. Your opinion means so much to me.”
Duff cleared her throat. “There’s no need to—”
Sullivan turned on her. “People like you give real estate agents a bad name.”
“Pardon me? How dare you!”
Bridget spoke over her. “Duff, just leave it.”
Beau moved into position in front of Bridget and his hackles rose. Sullivan took a step back. “Watch your dog, lady.”
“Watch your tone, mister. You sound threatening.”
“I’m not threatening anyone. I’m asking you to do the right thing. You’re bilking an elderly couple of money they may need later. What if one of their grandkids gets sick?”
Snapping her fingers, Bridget motioned Beau to get behind her. “Look. I was trying to be nice earlier, but here’s the truth: the Olsons didn’t want the house they loved and raised their kids in bulldozed by a heartless developer.”
A flush started at the collar of Sullivan’s white T-shirt and raced up his cheeks. “That’s—”
“The truth. They were willing to take a loss to leave the house with someone who cares about it. I plan to live here and treat it like gold.”
He started backing away. “Like another pet, you mean.”
Bridget shrugged. “I mean I’ll love it like you can’t, and that mattered to the Olsons more than your offer.”
Shaking his head, he stopped. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Bridget. That
inspection they commissioned missed a few things. Unless rescuing dogs brings in bigger bucks than I think it does, you’re going to struggle here.”
“Sour grapes,” Duff said. “The inspection was done by the biggest firm in Dorset Hills.”
“Commissioned by the seller, not the buyer,” Sullivan said. “It’s an important distinction.”
“I’m aware of that,” Duff snapped back. “This is going to work out fine, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scare my client.”
“I’m trying to spare your client. This house could turn into an epic money pit. Bridget, there are other properties that are better value in your price range.”
“Then why are you wasting your time here? Go buy them.”
He sighed. “You don’t deserve this, but I’m going to make you an offer you shouldn’t refuse: I’ll pay you fifty thousand if you’ll step back from this deal and let the owners take the offer I made. They’re ahead, you’re ahead.”
“And you’re where? Behind?”
“In the short term, yes, I certainly am. But down the road, we’ll all be further ahead.”
“No thank you,” Bridget said. “I want this house.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Thinking with my heart? Guilty as charged.”
Turning to Duff, he said, “Can’t you talk some sense into her? I can tell you know I’m right.”
Duff caught Bridget’s sleeve. “Maybe we should take a minute to discuss this.”
“I don’t need a minute.” Bridget had always been slow to work up to a change, but once a decision was made, there was no going back. “The house is mine. Let the chips fall where they may.”
Sullivan threw up his hands and turned to walk away. “That’s not all that’s going to fall, lady. Shingles will be raining down on you in no time.” Slowing, he turned back. “But I guess you’re hard-headed.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
She raised a warning hand. “Wait!”
He dismissed her with a wave and turned just a second too late to see the large, deep puddle in his path. The water sloshed over his Blundstones and he just stood there for a moment. Then he proceeded on to his car. Kicking off the boots, he tossed them on the floor in the back seat, before folding himself behind the wheel again.
Bridget and Duff tried to hold it together until he drove off but failed spectacularly. They were laughing so hard that Beau got worried and started prancing erratically between them.
“It’s okay, Beau, it’s okay. We’re going to be so happy here.” She raised crossed fingers at Duff. “As long as the bank doesn’t foreclose on us.”
Chapter 5
Bone Appetit Bistro was little more than a diner with big ambitions. It was situated directly across a small square from St. Elgin Manor, Dorset Hills’ only museum. Business had always been decent, but it picked up even more after the museum’s recent installation of a pair of bronze cane corsi, or Italian mastiffs, on either side of the manor’s double front doors. The fearsome-looking dogs rather dwarfed the estate, which had long ago belonged to one of the town’s founding families, but they were among the most popular in the city’s new bronze collection. The bus tour stopped at the museum for at least an hour and most people never bothered to go inside. After posing with the corsi, they came over to Boners, as the diner was commonly called.
Like many of Dorset Hills’ restaurants, shops and services, Bone Appetit fully exploited the canine angle. The walls were covered in kitschy dog portraits on black velvet. The paper place mats featured thirty different breeds that could be colored with the rainbow of pencil crayons sitting in a milkshake glass on every table. Even the menu was sprinkled with dog-themed illustrations highlighting such crowd pleasers as the Doggone Best Burger, and the Kibbles and Bits Brownie Sundae. The serving staff wore aprons adorned with a knockoff of Snoopy dancing. It was the type of thing that usually made Bridget cringe, but as she tied the straps behind her on the morning after buying her house, she was inclined to do the Snoopy dance, too.
Grabbing the coffee pot, she started circulating. Boners’ bottomless cup was a huge draw, especially with the regulars.
“How’s it going, Trent?” she asked, topping up his mug.
“It’s a good day,” he said. “I’m on the right side of the grass.”
Bridget smiled, as if it were the first time she’d heard the joke. Trent Fenton was the most regular of the regulars. A retired cop, he needed somewhere to go every morning, and he always sat in Bridget’s section.
She buzzed around her tables, dropping greetings and nectar into coffee cups. There was a mail carrier on break, a crossing guard before the school rush, and a couple of firefighters coming off their shift. Some of the guys flirted with Bridget, and she patted their shoulders absentmindedly, like so many dogs.
When she reached the lone woman in the restaurant, she stopped. “More hot water, Grace?”
Grace Greenwood could work a teabag like it was nobody’s business. After several refills, the water in her cup was barely tan. She was more quirky than cheap. For starters, she always used powdered sweetener she brought in a pill bottle rather than the packets on the table. She also carried her own dried fruit and nuts, which she added to the breakfast yogurt parfait, or later, to the Bone Appetit house salad. Bridget did her best to indulge her customers’ idiosyncrasies, in the hopes that tips would follow. Grace was surprisingly generous for someone who wouldn’t spring for a fresh teabag.
Without waiting for Grace’s nod, Bridget picked up the small stainless steel teapot and headed back to the counter. On the way, she collected Gerry Brecht’s half-eaten omelet. One of the town’s two computer whizzes, he was in the habit of sending back most of his meals midway through, declaring them inedible. The second order always went down smoothly. It was an annoying ploy that wasted perfectly good food, but Frank Mason, the owner, couldn’t be bothered making a fuss about it. Bridget didn’t either, even though Gerry had only once left a tip, and then probably by accident.
“You’re smiling,” Frank said, coming out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
Frank’s deadpan delivery had improved over the many years Bridget had known him. Now closing in on 70, his well-lined face, bushy eyebrows and shiny bald head were the perfect canvas for comedy.
Rachel, the other full-time waitress, reacted as usual by smacking him with whatever was at hand—in this case a spoon. It was only seven thirty a.m., but she had a full face of makeup under backcombed silvery hair. “Oh, Frank, you’re terrible.”
“What? I’m serious,” he persisted. “I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen Bridget smile. Usually it’s when she’s pranked me, or I’ve sat on ketchup or something.”
Bridget laughed. “Come on, Frank. I’m not that bad.”
“Now she’s laughing.” Frank looked up at the ceiling. “Is there a pail of water rigged up to drown me?”
“Just stop, Frank,” Rachel said. “You’ll make her self-conscious and she’ll never laugh again. I, for one, like the sound of it.”
“I dunno. Something’s up.” Frank buttoned his striped uniform shirt up to his neck and shivered. “Scary.”
Rachel set a mug on the counter, filled it with coffee from a fresh pot and slid it across the counter toward Bridget. “Just ignore Frank. But you did arrive early, hon, and that sets off some warning bells, even for me.”
Bridget drained half of her coffee at a gulp and fanned her mouth. Then she delivered Grace’s hot water, along with Gerry’s second, somewhat smaller, omelet. Frank had cut it down by one egg in a quiet protest. If Gerry noticed the shrinkage, he said nothing. As usual, he was coloring the dogs on his place mat. Every visit, he filled in the same six terriers with the pencil crayons on hand. The results were often quite pretty, if unrealistic.
“Two protein shakes for the firefighters,” she told Frank. “Three raw eggs apiece.”
He shoo
k his head. “No raw eggs in my restaurant. I’m not getting closed down for salmonella.”
Bridget addressed the impasse by delivering the drinks in tall glasses and setting a carton of eggs, a bowl and a whisk on the firefighters’ table. “At your own risk, gentlemen.”
When her section had settled, Bridget perched in front of the counter on a chrome stool covered in red vinyl. “I have news,” she said, kicking off and spinning around. “I bought a house.”
Squealing, Rachel ran around the counter, slowed Bridget’s spin and hugged her. “That’s wonderful, hon. Where?”
“Pemsville?” Frank asked, sounding hopeful.
Bridget scowled at him. “No such luck, Frank. I’m not quitting and moving to another town.”
“I didn’t mean that.” He fought a smirk, as he started to roll cutlery in paper serviettes.
“Yeah, you did. But I’m not taking it personally.”
The smirk bloomed fully. “Take it personally. It is personal.”
“Aw, Frank, don’t kill my buzz. Not when I’m going to ask you for a raise.”
Frank stopped wrapping cutlery and stood perfectly still.
Rachel laughed. “You can freeze but we still see you, Frank.”
He licked his lips, as if the bistro had gone suddenly dry. “Tell me she’s joking.”
“She’s joking,” Rachel said. “We’re just not used to it.”
“Not joking, actually,” Bridget said. “I need a raise, Frank. The house was more than I bargained for, and moving costs are coming up sooner than I could have imagined.”
“Your problem is now my problem?” he said.
“We’re practically family, right? You treat me like a kid most of the time.”
Frank’s hand twitched toward the pile of cutlery but didn’t connect. “There’s a reason I didn’t reproduce. Kids drain you dry.”
“Your ‘work wife’ could use a raise, too. Right, Rachel?”
“I’d faint first and then cry.” Rachel’s laugh filled the restaurant.
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