She greeted Maverick, Zsa Zsa, Rufus, Raggs, and Linus in turn, then looked down the hall for any sign of Evan. The lights were off and the house was silent. Maybe he wasn’t home after all—maybe he’d dropped off his car and gone to soccer with a buddy so he could drink microbrews with wild abandon between scrimmages.
She let out a sigh of relief and led the pack into the kitchen to check on the puppies and take an ibuprofen. Her headache had started on the drive to Cheri’s this morning and had snowballed into a killer migraine. She needed about a gallon of water, a cold compress, and twelve hours of sleep, in that order. But first she had to relocate five dogs and three puppies to Kerry’s house for the night. The apartment hunt would start tomorrow. Although she’d hated to ask Kerry for a place to crash, especially since Richard had come home from his latest trip, she really didn’t have anywhere else to go on such short notice.
She’d spent her afternoon considering her options, and had been dismayed to realize that Kerry was pretty much it. Kerry’s house, or an extended stay at a hotel for her and a kennel for the dogs. Her phone was full of contact names, and she’d lived in Phoenix for almost her entire life, but somehow she didn’t have a lot of close friends left. Not the kind she could call up and ask for lodging at a moment’s notice. The realization had brought her up short—how had so many people in her life drifted away? Had they drifted, or had she been too consumed with the Cult of Dog to hang on to them?
“Hey.”
Lara startled at the sound of Evan’s voice. She whirled around and hid the bottle of Advil behind her back as if caught committing a crime.
He sat at the kitchen table, his face obscured by the long afternoon shadows. A pair of plastic freezer bags rested next to the napkin holder in front of him. One bag held the waterlogged remains of Mr. Squirrel. The other contained the diamond ring.
“God, you scared me.” She searched his eyes for a clue about what he was feeling, but came up empty. “I thought you were going to soccer tonight.”
“Wasn’t in the mood. Came home early.”
She noticed the empty food bowls, unstacked and lined up across the wall. “You fed the puppies.”
He admitted this with a grudging, almost imperceptible incline of his head. “But that’s not why I skipped soccer,” he informed her. “I skipped soccer to meet the plumber.”
She sat down across the table from him. “Well, it looks like he managed to salvage everything. So that’s good, right?”
“Yeah, the squirrel clogged up the pipe so the ring got stuck, too.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the engagement ring. “I doubt the jeweler’s gonna take it back.”
The dogs went quiet and trooped out to the family room as bitterness and regret enveloped the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Lara asked softly.
“Not really,” he replied.
She drew a breath, hoping something poignant and insightful would come out. Something that would let him know how much he meant to her, without begging or offering concessions she wasn’t willing to make.
“What now?” She kept her face blank, her voice steady, as though they were discussing the mundane details of their workday. Linus, perhaps sensing her distress, crept back into the kitchen and rested his head in her lap. “I guess I’ll go stay with Kerry.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he muttered. “You can stay here until you find another place.”
She stared directly at the little diamond time bomb ticking away between them. “It does have to be like that.”
At this, he disengaged completely. He scraped back his chair, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked out to the garage.
Lara heard his car engine start and the garage door opening. The ring was still on the kitchen table.
Her right hand reached out of its own accord, but as her fingers brushed against the plastic bag, she felt pressure on her foot and glanced down to see Maverick sitting next to Linus, staring up at her with soulful brown eyes.
She snatched her hand away, walked up the stairs, and wrestled her suitcases out of the closet.
As soon as she unzipped the first overnight bag, Zsa Zsa hopped in and sat down.
“Don’t worry,” Lara assured her. “You’re all coming with me.”
She piled luggage and disassembled crates on the front stoop, then loaded the dogs into the back of the station wagon with their bones, leashes, food, and toys. The pit bull puppies went in the front seat in a cardboard box. This left exactly five square inches for all of her worldly belongings.
She took the disemboweled squirrel soaked in toilet water and left the diamond ring behind.
* * *
“Oh, honey.” Kerry met her at the front door with a long hug and a glass of red wine. “Make yourself at home.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Lara said. “I’ve got an appointment to look at apartments at seven a.m. tomorrow. This is for one night only, I swear.”
“Don’t worry. My house is your house.” Kerry and her home had both undergone what Lara thought of as “the Richard Transformation”: Kerry had straightened her hair and curled her eyelashes; the dog-friendly bachelorette pad now resembled a Crate and Barrel catalog photo shoot.
A photo shoot that definitely did not include a brokenhearted best friend crashing in the guest room with a bunch of scruffy dogs and cuticles that would make Elizabeth Arden spin in her grave. “Forty-eight hours,” Lara swore. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Oh, and if you could feed the dogs in the morning, I’d really appreciate it.” Kerry produced a pocket mirror from her handbag and dabbed on another coat of lip gloss.
“Sure. But where are you going?”
“Hospital.” Kerry grinned and reached back to clutch her husband’s hand as Richard strode out of the bedroom with an overnight bag. “My water just broke. I think I’m in labor for real.”
Chapter 10
“This looks fine.” Lara took in the beige-on-beige two-bedroom apartment with bleary eyes. “Can I move in immediately?” She raised her hand to her mouth to cover her yawn, but the real estate agent looked at her sympathetically.
“Late night?”
“My best friend had a baby.” Just before dawn Kerry had delivered Cynthia Grace, a chubby-cheeked, seven-pound set of lungs.
“I think we’ve got a future opera singer on our hands,” the doctor said as Cynthia wailed with displeasure during her weigh-in.
The nurses had seemed equally impressed. “You’re not going to need a baby monitor, that’s for sure.”
Kerry had insisted that Lara stay by her side through the contractions, the crowning, and the sweaty-browed pushing. But as soon as little Cynthia was swaddled and placed on her mother’s chest, Lara slipped away to give the new family their bonding time.
Then she had returned to Kerry’s house, taken care of the dogs, and cleaned the already immaculate house from top to bottom. The doctors had said Kerry might be discharged as early as tomorrow morning, and she had every intention of moving out by then.
“Oh, how exciting.” The real estate agent beamed. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” Lara skimmed the listing information the agent had given her. The rent and utilities looked doable, and there was a big grassy park right around the corner. “So can they run the credit check today and let me sign the lease before the end of business hours?”
“I assume so.” The agent looked taken aback. “But I have five other properties I planned to show you. Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.” Lara checked the time on her cell phone. Maybe she could squeeze in a catnap before she reported for duty at Cherie Chadwick’s house. “Let’s start with a six-month lease, if possible.” She tried to sound casual. “Oh, and you said the landlord is pet-friendly, right?”
The agent nodded and checked her paperwork again. “Let’s see. . . . Yes, it says right here that dogs and cats are welcome.”
“Fantastic.”
“Up to two animals under thirty pounds each.” The agent looked up with a smile, which faded when she saw Lara’s expression. “Uh-oh. That presents a problem?”
“I have five foster dogs,” Lara said. “And the biggest is over a hundred pounds. I explained this to the receptionist at your office when I called yesterday.”
The agent blinked a few times. “Five?”
“Well, eight, technically, but I’m going to an adoption fair this weekend, and I’m sure at least three of them will find new homes after that.”
“Eight dogs,” the agent repeated.
“Five,” Lara corrected. “The other three are practically nonexistent.”
“That changes things.” The agent put on her glasses and started scanning every listing in her folder. “Are you in any position to buy? Because, given your lifestyle, that’s your best option.”
Lara rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand and summed up her current living situation. “I might be in a position to buy in a few months or a year, but I need somewhere to live right now. Like, today.”
The real estate agent spent the next hour pleading their case with various landlords while Lara started calling about rental listings on craigslist. The responses were always the same:
“You have how many dogs?”
“A Rottweiler? No.”
“Pit bulls? No.”
“But they’re sweet as pie,” Lara argued. “I can give you excellent references. I’ll put down a big security deposit.”
“Lady, you could buy your own apartment building with the security deposit I’d charge. Call back when you have a kitten or a Chihuahua.”
Click.
* * *
When Cherie opened the door at the Daddy Warbucks mansion, she peered over Lara’s shoulder at the suitcase-filled station wagon. “Are you moving, dear?”
“Trying to. So! Where’s Eskie?”
Cherie’s forehead creased with concern. “You’re staying on this side of town, I hope. The closer to Mayfair Estates, the better.”
Lara tried to keep her tone light and dismissive. “I’m not really sure yet. Still checking out apartments. Anyway, I made some calls and did some research on the desired behavior for conformation dogs, and I thought Eskie and I could—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for a place to live?” Cherie was practically rubbing her palms together in glee. “Our guesthouse is vacant. You’re welcome to stay there as long as you’re working with Eskie.”
Lara’s eyes widened. “That’s really generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly.”
“Why not?”
“Well . . .” Other than the fact that Cherie had serious boundary issues and Lara would basically be her indentured servant? What could possibly go wrong?
“It would be ideal. You and Eskie could bond.” Cherie ushered Lara inside. “We just had the whole casita remodeled. You can move in as soon as you like.” Eskie joined them in the foyer and gave Lara’s feet a thorough sniffing.
“I have, um, several dogs,” Lara said. “Would that be a problem?”
“You’re a trainer; I assume they’re well behaved.”
Lara’s mind flashed to the pit bull pups gnawing the chair leg and Maverick tackling Evan. “That would seem like a reasonable assumption.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll give you the key and the code to the gate before you leave.”
Danger, Will Robinson! Abort! Abort! “Well, if you’re sure . . .”
“I insist.”
“It would only be for a few weeks,” Lara said, as much to reassure herself as her new employer.
“Splendid, splendid. I’ll have my lawyers draw up a rental agreement. Now make yourself comfortable and let’s talk dog shows.” Cherie indicated a silk settee in the sumptuous ivory living room.
Lara sat. Eskie followed suit.
Cherie bustled off to the kitchen and returned with mugs of coffee and a tall stack of glossy magazines, which she handed to Lara. “We need to discuss our campaign strategy.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following. Campaign?”
“Take a look at these journals. They’re mailed out to everyone who’s anyone in the dog show world.”
Lara glanced at the periodicals: Dogs in Review, the Canine Chronicle, Dog News. The covers consisted of glamour shots of a Pharaoh hound, a Tibetan mastiff, and a Norwich terrier. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that each dog’s owner, breeder, and handler were listed along with the dog’s name and kennel.
“Look at this photography.” Lara thumbed through the journals. The styles ranged from minimalist black-and-white portraits to vibrant action shots. Every dog was shot to play up the best attributes of its breed: hunting dogs working the field, toy poodles dolled up in rhinestones and beribboned topknots, Portuguese water dogs splashing in a lake. “It’s like Glamour for Great Danes.”
“Bazaar for Berners,” Cherie threw in with a smile. “Can’t you just picture my Eskie on the front? She’s definitely cover girl material.”
“So you have to campaign to get a cover?” Lara asked.
“No, no—you place an order and write a check. To secure a cover, even a back cover, you have to spend at least three thousand dollars.”
Lara’s eyebrows flew up.
Cherie smiled. “If you want to win, you have to play the game. A good media campaign translates into blue ribbons: Best of Breed, Best in Show.”
Lara pored over the ads and announcements crammed in between articles. She kept glancing up at Cherie to make sure that this was real, that it was not an elaborate practical joke. “Holy cow. These dogs have their own Facebook pages?”
“Promotion can make or break a dog.”
Lara set aside the magazines and shook her head. “So you’re telling me that as long as you have the right PR, your dog can be a champion? Beauty doesn’t matter at the beauty contest?”
“Well, of course it’s important to have a fine example of the breed. But a little extra hype never hurts. You’ll notice that every one of the Best in Show announcements thanks the judges by name.”
Lara started to realize she was in way over her head. “I have to tell you, there’s none of this campaign stuff at rally or agility events. We just run the dog and hope he doesn’t get disqualified for goofing off during a sit-stay. If you’re serious about pursuing the conformation titles”—Lara glanced at the towering pile of journals—“and it seems like you are, you might be better off hiring a handler with a lot more experience. Or any experience.”
“You’ll do fine.” Cherie scratched Eskie’s ears and smiled indulgently as the dog drooled on her pristine white sofa. “You have the right look for a dog handler—attractive, but not distractingly so. No matter how spectacular my Eskie is, the fact is that from a distance, it’s hard to tell one Berner from another. Judges are much more likely to remember a handler than a specific dog. You’re tall, which is always helpful, and your bone structure is lovely.” Cherie tilted her head, assessing Lara as if she were a terrier in the show ring. “I’d like to arrange a photo shoot for you and Eskie as soon as possible. Does Monday work for you?”
Lara pulled out her phone and scrolled through her work schedule. “I’m available between ten and eleven thirty.”
Cherie made a note of this. “You’ll have to dress appropriately for photos and competitions, of course.”
Lara flushed. Her work clothes might not be Armani, but they weren’t that shabby. “No problem. I have a basic black suit.”
“I don’t think black’s the right way to go.” Cherie flipped through the magazine pages, pointing out the handlers’ outfits. “You don’t want to take the focus off the dog, but you need to be distinctive in your own right. Maybe a plum velvet blazer or a smart brown tweed. I’ll make an appointment for you with my shopper at Neiman Marcus this weekend. What’s your skirt and jacket size?”
“European or American sizing?” Lara replied autom
atically. Years of shopping with Justine had trained her well.
Cherie seemed pleased by this response. “Give me both and we’ll let the shopper take it from there. And, of course, in addition to your training fees, you’ll keep any prize money Eskie wins at competition. That’s standard.”
Lara called for a time-out. “Hang on. So you’re saying that there’s essentially no money to be made in dog shows?”
“Well, not unless you’re winning Westminster or the Eukanuba National Championship.” Cherie cupped Eskie’s face in both hands and bestowed a loud kiss on the dog’s nose.
“But all of this advertising and training and grooming is going to cost a fortune! Even if you breed Eskie and charge an arm and a leg for her puppies, you’re never going to recoup what you’ve spent.”
Cherie rested her cheek on the top of Eskie’s broad, furry head. “This isn’t about money. It’s about my darling girl, who would still love me if all of this were gone.”
Lara took another look around the palatial, professionally decorated house and realized that were it not for the sound of Eskie’s steady panting, it would be absolutely silent.
“I’m sure we have great things ahead,” Lara said. “Plus lots and lots of work. So let’s get started. I’d like to take Eskie for a walk now. The two of us need to start bonding and working as a team.” She followed Cherie back to the front entryway. “We’ll be back in twenty minutes or so.”
As Lara and Eskie started down the driveway, Cherie waved to them as if seeing her child off on the first day of kindergarten. “Have fun, you two. Oh, and say hello to Ivory for me.”
“Who’s Ivory?” Lara called back.
“She’s our neighborhood greeter.” Cherie laughed at Lara’s confusion. “You’ll know her when you see her.”
* * *
That afternoon, Lara got another phone call from her mother, the second in a week before the appointed hour of eight p.m. on Sunday. Either the apocalypse was nigh or she had really screwed up.
The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service Page 8