“I’m not playing any games.”
Taking a long sip, Duff rolled her eyes. “The pageant is a high-profile game, no?”
“That’s different.”
“At the risk of sounding cynical, everything’s a game,” Duff said. “People who adapt will always be ahead.”
Bridget pushed her coffee away. “I like the pageant the way it is.”
“Me too. But when there’s new leadership, all the rules change. Think of it like a safari. Survival of the fittest.”
“What are you saying, Duff?”
“Stay alert. Be the lion, not the gazelle.”
Closing her eyes, Bridget sighed. “There are worse things than being the gazelle. Like being the hyena. Or the baboon.”
“Just be the lion, Bridget,” Duff said, grinning. “It’s your time to roar.”
Chapter 8
“It’s boring, Mike.” Bridget looked around at the stark shoreline of Lake Longmuir, and then back at her long-time rep from the City’s Culture and Tourism Department. “Boring.”
“It’s the beach, Bridget.” Mike Delaney looked like he was fighting a grin, but then he usually did. He was a good-natured guy. “How can it be boring?”
“It’s the beach of Lake Longmuir, which is no bigger than a puddle. And it’s practically winter, Mike. Holding the pageant at the beach would be stupid.”
Mike lost the battle with his grin. “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
The boardwalk running along the beach was unusually quiet, even for a Tuesday morning. An overcast sky and brisk wind were to blame. Without all the hustle and bustle of dogs and their owners, it was just a long stretch of dull.
“I feel like you’re setting me up for something, Mike, that’s how I feel. Usually I get to choose the pageant site. What gives?”
He guided her along with his hand on her elbow. That would annoy her with most people, but Mike had become a good pal. Six years earlier, when he was working for a non-profit, he’d competed in the pageant. He lost out on a dog but hooked up with Miguel, who won a bulldog mix, and they all lived happily ever after. When Mike got hired by the City, he’d asked to be assigned to the pageant. His support helped the event grow, and Bridget was grateful. But not grateful enough to take this lying down.
Garbage whirled around them. Fritz, the terrier, raced in circles, trying to catch an empty white plastic bag that flapped like a ghost.
“The beach would be an easy setup,” Mike said. “The team-building activity could be a garbage pickup.”
“Garbage pickup?” Bridget stopped walking to stare up at him. Mike was at least six foot three, and lanky. “You’re thinking pageant participants could show leadership and collaboration skills by collecting trash?”
“Sure, why not? The pageant has always been about showing community spirit.”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
It wouldn’t be the first time Mike had pranked her, but today he shook his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he answered. “The beach is only one option.”
“I submitted a short list two months ago, and the beach sure as hell wasn’t on it.” She kicked some pebbles, and Fritz capered after them. He’d been with her nearly constantly since his escape to Sullivan Shaw’s house. That little jaunt had been a sign that his training needed fine-tuning. Calling him back, she picked up his leash.
“Your site recommendations were a bit off the beaten path,” he said. “City Council preferred something close to the core.”
Bridget continued to stare up at him. “Since when did Council get a vote on the pageant site?”
“Since always. They just didn’t care to exercise it before now.” He glanced toward the street for a moment before adding, “Things are a bit different this year.”
“Different how?”
Mike lifted his arm and waved. A tall man in a long black coat waved back from the sidewalk. Then he came across the sand toward them, walking with purposeful grace.
Bridget barely had time to register that it was Mayor Bradshaw before he had joined them. She was a tall woman, but she felt petite between these two giants. Mike made the introductions and the mayor squeezed her hand in a firm political handshake. His hand seemed huge enough to roll a bronze dog on its back and pin it by the throat. Most people probably submitted instantly; Bridget had to fight the urge herself.
“Pleasure to meet you, Bridget.” His voice was low and melodious, like a radio announcer’s, and his gleaming teeth were the brightest thing on the beach that day. “You’re an institution in Dorset Hills.”
“Thank you, Mayor.” She picked Fritz up and held him out. “This is Fritz, one of the rescue dogs we’ll be giving away at the pageant.”
“Oh my.” The mayor stared at the small dog who was dripping from a dip in the water and covered with slimy green goo. Fritz offered a sandy paw and the mayor took a step backwards and almost tripped off the boardwalk. He recovered with ease, and dusted sand from the nice black wool coat that wasn’t designed to be around dogs.
“Sorry, Mayor. He loves people.” Bridget set Fritz on the ground, noticing that Beau’s tail was at half-mast. Had the mayor wanted to compete in the pageant, he’d be out of luck.
“What an interesting little dog,” the mayor said.
He didn’t sound interested at all, and when Bridget looked up, he was actually appraising her from head to toe with sharp green eyes. She followed his gaze and saw herself through a stranger’s eyes. Her boots were covered in sand, slime and dried mud. Her jeans had splotches of red from painting her front door the night before. The paint looked brown on the denim, but on the backs of her hands and under her nails, it looked like dried blood. Then there was the usual old jacket covered in dog hair and slobber. She could barely see through the medusa-like hair whipping into her eyes. At least her mascara wasn’t running; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d remembered to put some on.
The mayor looked away, as if he’d seen too much. Flames of embarrassment rose from Bridget’s chest, crawled up her neck, and started to gnaw at her cheeks. He thought she was one of the crazy dog people, she guessed—the people who didn’t care about how they looked anymore. That may be well and good after a certain age, but probably not at 33.
“I must run,” Mayor Bradshaw said, checking his watch. “Nice meeting you, Birdie.”
He crossed the beach again, picking his way around the empty soda cans and plastic takeout containers.
Bridget waited till there was no chance the wind would carry her words to the mayor’s ears. “Mike? What just happened?”
“What do you mean?” His cheeks were flushed, too, under the freckles. His hair was brighter than Duff’s—a true ginger.
“Unless I’m much mistaken, I was just erased from existence.”
“Oh, Bridget.”
“You mean, Birdie.”
Mike gave a strangled cough. “I was trying to tell you: things have changed at City Hall.”
“Does this guy know about how much money I’ve brought into this city over the past ten years? The pageant’s never had a negative review.”
“He was thoroughly briefed, Bridget.”
“My track record is impeccable.” The wind worked hard to sweep her voice away, so she nearly shouted. “What’s with Bill Bradshaw? He may be new to office, but he’s not new to Dog Town. I’m sure he’s attended previous pageants.”
“All I can say is that this mayor marches to his own drummer. Since he’s our elected official, we need to march to his drummer, too.”
Bridget marched back to the parking lot, and Mike trailed after her.
“You’re saying the beach is the mayor’s choice?” she asked.
“His second choice.”
“Let’s see his first choice.”
Beau and Fritz ran ahead of them up the most popular path in the Dorset Hills Trails system and vanished into the bushes. Trail runs were the only time Beau considered himself off duty and
allowed himself to have fun.
The view was spectacular. Since the trees had turned late, the red, orange and yellow leaves still made a gorgeous patchwork quilt that spread out to the neighboring towns and cities squatting among the rolling hills. In another few weeks, every last leaf would be gone, and the scene would be drab until the first snowfall made it pretty again. Bridget had watched many seasons change on these trails.
“Mike, no. A hundred times no.”
“But Dorset Hills is all about the trails and the scenery,” he said. “It’s a way to profile our best assets for the media. We can do the pageant on Clifford’s Crest, where there’s a natural plateau.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “In two weeks, the Crest will be a mudslide. We’ll lose the media over the edge, not to mention any seniors who make it this far. Is that your goal? To thin out the city’s population? Is it survival of the fittest, now?”
“Very funny. The pageant is one of the most covered—”
“The most covered.”
“—events of the year. We need to showcase all we have to offer. The mayor was thinking your team activity could be clearing and marking new trails and erecting more plaques.”
“I assumed you briefed the mayor about what the trails are like at Thanksgiving? He clearly hasn’t muddied his shoes up here.”
A couple came around the bend with two dogs cavorting around them. Bridget recognized Remi Malone, a pretty woman she’d turned down for the pageant a few years earlier. Unlike most people, Remi had seemed relieved. She’d been painfully shy then—too shy to survive the competition, although Beau had “passed” her. Today Remi’s head was high and her smile wide. That probably had more to do with the beagle parked at her feet than the handsome man holding her hand, Bridget figured. In the end, Remi had found her perfect canine match, as true dog people always did.
Remi stopped and introduced her dog, Leo, even before her boyfriend, Tiller Iverson. Bridget liked a woman who had her priorities in order. She would have chatted longer had Mike not been edging away.
When Remi and Tiller were out of earshot, Mike started the discussion again. “Bridget, this new era will be an adjustment for all of us.”
“An adjustment that could ruin the pageant,” Bridget said. “I guarantee we’ll lose half our audience and a quarter of our participants if the event is held up here. Especially if we get rain and washouts. This makes no sense at all, Mike.”
Raking a hand through his ginger hair, he sighed again. “I think Council is going to have to experience that for themselves.”
Bridget could tell that his professionalism prevented him from saying more. He was her friend, but he was a city official first. “Mike, there’s a lot riding on the success of the pageant this year. More than usual.”
He nodded. “Your new house. Your plans to expand your rescue. I know, Bridget. I think we’ll just need to work hard and work smart, and we can still pull it off. If we look like team players, I’m sure I can get more funds from the City for setup.” Looking around, he added, “And safety rails.”
She strode ahead of him to Clifford’s Crest, and then spun around, with her arms outstretched. “The Hills are alive… with the sound of my career crashing in ruins.”
“You’re being a little dramatic. It’s one minor setback.”
“What’s wrong with this mayor? Is he an idiot, or an ass?”
Perching on the edge of a plaque that celebrated Dorset Hills’ history, Mike crossed his arms. “May I speak as your friend for a moment?”
“Shoot.” Her arms were still outstretched. “Shoot me now.”
“Bridget, with this mayor, you’ll catch more flies with honey.”
“I don’t need to suck up because I do good work.”
“In the political realm, sometimes you need to do good work and offer honey. It hasn’t been a big issue in Dog Town before. Now, we just need to adapt. I’ve been asked to find a way to glitz up the pageant a bit.”
“Glitz! This is bull—”
Mike raised a hand to silence her. Another couple had come up the trail and reached the plateau. This time Mike opened the conversation. “Hey, Sullivan,” he called.
Bridget’s new neighbor was standing next to a slender woman in yoga gear. Sullivan looked significantly less slick than usual, in hiking boots, a green rain jacket and a baseball cap. She was pleased that he was just run-of-the-mill handsome, instead of stunningly so. His good looks annoyed her.
Sullivan smirked at Bridget’s outstretched arms. “Sound of Music, right? Is it a free show?”
She set her hands on her hips. “Only for friends.”
“Well, we’re neighbors. Next best thing.” He turned to his companion. “Bridget, this is Grace.”
Grace held out a delicate hand and offered Bridget a smile.
“Grace, of course.” Her hand felt like a limp dead bird in Bridget’s. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you out of context.” Turning to Mike, she explained, “I know Grace from Boners.”
“Boners?” Sullivan asked.
“Bone Appetit Bistro,” Grace said. “Bridget’s a waitress there.”
“And Grace is one of my regulars,” Bridget said. “How’s Chico doing?”
Bridget had turned Grace down for a rescue dog the previous Thanksgiving, partly because the little townhouse she rented looked like a museum. A collection of antique dolls sat on shelves in every room. It had creeped Bridget out a little, but more practically, it didn’t seem like the right place for dogs that loved nothing more than dirty trail runs. She’d suggested that Grace would do better with a gentle Havanese. Instead, Grace had subsequently gotten a Chihuahua, a huge dog in small packaging. She’d seen Chico lunging at a wolfhound once; small though he was, he’d nearly pulled Grace over. It was a self-made match gone wrong.
Grace’s face flushed. She was quite pretty, but so slight that you didn’t notice it immediately. “Chico lives with my aunt, now.”
Bridget changed the subject. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Sullivan said. “But it beats mud season. I hear we’re getting a foot of rain this weekend. That’ll bring the leaves down.”
Bridget gave Mike a pointed look. “Yes. Yes, it will.”
Suddenly, Beau and Fritz came tearing back down the trail. Seeing Sullivan and Grace, Beau slammed on his brakes. He came to stop beside Bridget, whereas Fritz careened on and launched himself at Sullivan’s chest. Grace screamed as the dog sent Sullivan reeling back a few paces. Still, he managed to catch the terrier.
“I’m so sorry,” Bridget said, running over. “Fritz, what’s gotten into you?”
Fritz was licking Sullivan’s face. Bridget expected him to drop the dog, but he didn’t. Instead, he wiped his cheek with one sleeve, grinning. “I showered already today, buddy, but thanks.”
Bridget tried to grab Fritz, but Sullivan was holding the dog out to Grace. “Isn’t this one cute?”
Grace backed away with her palms up. “Adorable.”
Bridget sheepishly collected the terrier. Fritz had left muddy paw prints all over Sullivan’s jacket, and his face glistened with dog slobber.
“All the dogs have fallen back a bit since we moved,” she said, glancing at Mike. “Change is upsetting for them. But we’re doubling down on training before the pageant.”
“I’m sure they’ll be perfect as usual,” Mike said. “What breed is Fritz?”
“Cairn terrier mostly. With a titch of Brittany and a smidge of schnauzer.”
“A titch?” Sullivan said, smirking again.
“About five per cent, according to his DNA test,” she said.
“You DNA tested the dog? That’s gotta be a scam.”
“I use every means possible to understand my dogs better. The bouncy bit comes from the Brittany.”
“The smidge, you mean.”
“The titch, actually.” She gave him a chilly smile. “Mock me all you like. The science of dog rescue is too complicated for most
people.”
“She’s joking, Sullivan,” Mike said.
“No, she isn’t. But that’s okay. She takes her work very seriously.”
“I most certainly do,” Bridget said.
Mike turned to Sullivan and Grace. “What do you think about this as a site for the pageant?”
“Perfect,” Grace said, without a moment’s hesitation.
Sullivan took a good look around before answering. “I don’t know. You need a stage, right? How are you going to get everything up here and stable?”
Bridget began, “That’s—”
“A valid point I’ll take back to Council,” Mike said.
Bridget released Fritz and he hurled himself once again into Sullivan’s arms. The dog clearly had a crush. It wasn’t going over well with Grace, if her look of mild disgust was any indication. Otherwise, they seemed like a good match, Bridget thought. Sullivan looked like a Ken doll and Grace was Ballerina Barbie.
Sullivan set Fritz on the ground again, and said, “You know what site would work well for the pageant? The beach. Easy access, right near the core.”
Mike now gave Bridget a pointed look, and she felt her hackles rising.
“You and the mayor think alike, Sullivan,” Mike said.
“Good to know,” Sullivan said, smiling. “Because Bill and I are having lunch later this week. I’ll cast my vote for the boardwalk.”
Bridget turned without another word and started down the trail. Beau was glued to her side, as always, but Fritz had to be called away from Sullivan several times. Each repetition sounded less musical and more manic. Sullivan annoyed her more than a smidge or a titch, and Grace was welcome to him.
Chapter 9
The single best moment of Bridget’s day was coming home to a warm greeting from a happy pack of dogs. When she felt like she’d been dissed by the City, and undervalued at the bistro, 13 wagging tails did much to soothe her soul. Now that those tails wagged in her very own home, it felt like Thanksgiving every night.
On top of that, one of her friends was usually at hand either to work on the house, or work on the dogs. This evening, Nika had come over after her shift at the vet clinic to tend to a small sore on the hind end of Percy the Portuguese waterdog cross. After that, she examined 12 sets of teeth, 24 eyes, and 24 ears. As their official debut date neared, they couldn’t afford any issues, especially visible ones. Appearances had always counted where the dogs were concerned. Now that appeared to extend to their handler, as well.
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