Justine put the cap back on her lipstick with a perfunctory click. “Buy a house in a gated neighborhood with great mountain views and a steam shower?”
“I’m going to officially incorporate the Lucky Dog rescue group as a nonprofit.”
“That’s your financial priority?” Her mother threw up her hands. “What’s the rush? You can do all that after you’ve gotten another few jobs under your belt and closed escrow on a stylish bachelorette pad. In fact, I was talking to one of the boutique owners about a loft that just went up for sale. Great location, right by the river.”
“No, thanks.” Lara stood firm. “I’m not a House Beautiful kind of girl, and I never will be. You were right when you said I’ve overextended myself with the dogs. I have, and so has Kerry. I’m going to file the legal paperwork, find some kennel space, update our Web site, and get a more organized support system in place.”
“‘File the legal paperwork,’ she says.” Justine snorted. “Do you have any idea how much effort is involved in setting up a nonprofit? It’s a full-time job in itself. Tax forms and bureaucracy and fund-raising and publicity . . .”
“I can handle it,” Lara assured her.
“You say that now, but you don’t know what you’re getting into. Trust me, I learned the hard way when I first started my business.”
Instead of getting defensive, Lara smiled sweetly. “Well, it sounds like I’ll need a partner who can stay on top of all the administrative duties. Would you like to apply for the job?”
Justine froze, mid–pore inspection.
“I’m serious,” Lara said. “You know everyone who’s anyone and you said yourself the salon doesn’t need you anymore. So why don’t you apply to be the Lucky Dog president? Or director? Whatever you want to call the position.” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “I’ll technically be your boss, though. And you’ll be taking, like, a ninety-nine percent pay cut. Can you handle that?”
Justine folded her arms. “I’m sorry—did you just say I’ll need to apply?”
“Well, I can’t just up and hire you without an interview. Don’t want to be accused of nepotism. You’ll need excellent references, of course. And Mullet doesn’t count.”
Justine appeared to be torn between maternal pride and indignant outrage. “Tell you what. We’ll start a new game of Scrabble tonight. If I beat you, I get the job.”
“Deal,” Lara agreed.
Her mother paused a moment, her wry smile fading. “And by the way, the film producer wasn’t the only one who called while you were out this morning. Your father called, too, and asked that you call him back as soon as possible.”
Lara was almost afraid to ask. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know. But he said it’s urgent.”
Chapter 28
“Lara, finally! Where have you been?” Her father’s voice was frantic. “We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I was working all morning and I left my phone at home.” Lara wedged herself down on the bed between Rufus and Raggs. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Teddy. He’s sick. He’s throwing up; he’s lying around all lethargic; he’s not eating. . . .”
“Okay, well, if he’s throwing up you need to stop offering food.” Lara pushed up her sleeves and tried to think about the most obvious diagnoses. “What does the vomit look like? Maybe he ate something he shouldn’t have.”
“It’s kind of clear and foamy,” Gil said. “I don’t see food chunks or anything in it.”
“Take him to the vet,” Lara said. “Right now.”
“But it’s Saturday. Our vet’s office is closed till Monday.”
Lara could hear Trina crying on Gil’s end of the connection.
“Get in the car and drive to the emergency clinic.” Lara jumped up and grabbed her keys. “I’ll meet you there. He’s over twelve weeks old now, right? Is he up-to-date on his vaccinations?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled on her coat, switching the phone from ear to ear as she did so. “Well, did the vet see anything unusual at his last visit?”
Her father hesitated. “No.”
Lara heard Trina’s voice again, and then Gil confessed, “We didn’t take him to the vet for his twelve-week visit. We read online that we could buy the shots at a feed store and do it ourselves, so we figured we’d save the sixty-dollar checkup fee—it costs a fortune just to walk in the damn door—”
“You spent fifteen hundred dollars buying a dog on a whim, but you couldn’t spare sixty for a checkup?” Lara forced herself to stop yelling and take deep breaths. “So what happened when you gave him the injections?”
“Everything was fine.” Her father sounded huffy. “If there’s a problem, it’s because the manufacturer screwed up, not me.”
Lara turned this information over and over in her mind until something finally clicked. “Did you keep the shots cold?”
More murmuring on his end of the line. “What do you mean?”
“Did you put them in the refrigerator after you bought them?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Trina. Why? What’s wrong with him?”
Lara was already halfway to the garage. “I hope I’m wrong, but it could be parvo.”
* * *
“It’s parvo,” the emergency vet reported, taking off her eyeglasses and tucking them into her jacket pocket as she scanned the results of her lab work. “And it’s progressed pretty far. He’s severely dehydrated and the lining of his intestinal tract is sloughing off.”
Trina, who had spent the short, tense appointment sniffling into the front of Gil’s shirt, completely broke down at this news. She covered her face and burst into wet, heaving sobs.
Gil wrapped his new bride in both arms and continued his conversation with the doctor. “But I don’t understand,” he kept saying. “We gave him his shot.”
The vet stole a quick glance at Lara before replying. “If the syringe isn’t stored at the proper temperature, it loses its effectiveness.”
Lara kept her mouth closed and her expression as neutral as possible.
“How did he get sick?” Gil demanded. “Is this because we got him at the pet store?”
The vet put aside her paperwork and addressed Gil with quiet compassion. “Parvo is rampant in Arizona. The little guy could have picked it up anywhere.”
“You can fix it, right?” Gil bent his head to give Trina a kiss. “Tell me you can fix it.”
Lara and the vet exchanged another sidelong glance. “We can try,” the doctor said. “I’ve started him on antibiotics for the secondary infections, and we’ll push fluids, but parvo itself is a virus and there’s really not a lot we can do. Some dogs get through it, but he’s so young and his immune system is still developing.” She reached out and patted Trina’s back. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
As they trooped out of the exam room and into the waiting area, Lara tried to comfort Trina, whose agonized sobs had lapsed into shuddery gasps for breath.
“He’ll be fine,” her father insisted. “He’s a fighter. You’ll see.”
They sat in the waiting room for the next four hours, watching the cable news channel blaring from the TV in the corner and flipping through the old magazines scattered across the metal chairs. The vet techs came out with an update every half hour, and every time, the news was worse.
But every time, Gil’s response was the same. “He’ll rally. Don’t worry.”
Finally, as the sun started to set, Lara pulled her father aside and tried to make him understand. “It’s time to let him go,” she said. “He’s just too young to get through this.”
Anger flashed in Gil’s blue eyes. “But the vet said—”
“She said they’d try. And they did. But he’s getting worse.” Lara looked away as tears stung her eyes. She’d been on the receiving end of this lecture with sick and injured foster dogs more times than she cared to recall. “I know it’s hard, Dad. But if you wait for him to di
e on his own, he’s going to suffer even more than he already has.”
He jerked his thumb toward Trina. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her the truth,” Lara said. “They’re doing everything they can, but it isn’t enough.”
Her father stalled for a few more minutes, then knelt down next to Trina’s chair and started speaking to her in a low, soothing tone.
“No,” Trina sobbed. “I can’t.”
When he tried to reason with her, she stood up, shoved past him, and ran out to the car. Lara let her go and remained with her father. She saw the receptionist watching them, waiting for them to make a decision.
“This is awful,” Gil said, staring down at his limp, empty hands.
“I know.” Lara pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket.
Her father sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “And it’s my own fault.”
Lara didn’t argue.
“If only I’d . . .” But then he stopped himself. “Well, maybe it’s for the best.” He glanced over at her with a mix of shame and hope. “I didn’t want to say this in front of Trina, but after everything you said about puppy mills . . . If he was going to grow up with lots of painful joint problems and whatnot, maybe it’s better that we let him go now.”
Lara knew he was waiting for her to absolve him, to hug him and tell him he couldn’t have known any better. It was her turn to let him off the hook the way he’d let her off the hook so many times. But she couldn’t force herself to move or speak.
When he realized she wasn’t going to respond, he crossed the room and gazed out at Trina in the parking lot. He said, almost to himself, “We’ll get another puppy and start fresh. Next time, we’ll know better.”
He nodded, shaking off his guilt. When the vet came out with a somber expression, Lara stepped forward to deliver their decision.
“Would you like to come in and hold Teddy?” the vet asked gently.
Lara looked to Gil, who stared back at her, once again waiting for her to intervene and offer absolution.
This time, she didn’t disappoint him.
“I’ll go,” she said, her heart numb. “It’ll be fine. Go take care of Trina.”
Her father’s whole body relaxed. “Okay. Thanks, La-la. I knew I could count on you to do the right thing.”
Lara felt the burst of cold air ruffle her hair as her father walked out the door. Then she followed the vet into the exam room and gathered Teddy’s limp, warm little body into her arms.
Chapter 29
“He’s never going to change,” Lara said to her mother the next morning as the two of them took Mullet on a walk—or, more accurately, a waddle—around the neighborhood.
Beside her, Justine sighed and slid her sunglasses higher on her nose. “I know that.”
“I mean, I sat there and held his dying puppy while he went out to the parking lot and made plans for his next foray into dog ownership.” Lara balled up her fists inside her jacket pockets.
“I understand you’re frustrated, but are you honestly surprised?”
“Yes! And that pisses me off even more because it just goes to show how stupid I am.”
“You’re not stupid.” Justine ignored the friendly waves from a pair of passing power walkers. “You want to believe the best of your father. That’s understandable.”
“But I mean, people are capable of change, right?” Lara scowled up at the sun. “Otherwise, what is the point of living?”
“Stop trying to make him change and change yourself instead,” Justine advised. “Adjust your expectations. Set limits and stick to them.”
“That’s exactly what Evan used to say.”
Justine tugged on Mullet’s black patent leather leash. “I’ve scheduled a meeting with my business lawyer for Tuesday at four o’clock. He’ll be going over the basics for setting up the nonprofit and registering with the IRS. Then, of course, we’ll have to see my accountant to set up the bookkeeping system and a checking account for the foundation.”
“How much does your business lawyer charge?” Lara asked.
“Three hundred dollars an hour.”
“Ouch.”
“But we’ve had a long, lucrative relationship, so he’s agreed to help out with Lucky Dog pro bono,” Justine continued. “Now, we also need to think about leasing some office space and, as you said, finding or constructing a kennel for the dogs. . . .”
“Yeah, about that. Once I actually sat down and started crunching numbers, I realized that my movie check’s not going to go as far as I thought.”
“No,” Justine agreed. “We’ll need a lot of capital for start-up costs. I’m thinking we should host a big benefit event, although I’m still debating between a formal ball and a more casual luncheon. I’ve already put in some calls to my former clients.” She adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat as they started up the steep hill toward Cherie’s estate.
“We can invite all my clients from the neighborhood, too,” Lara said. “And Claudia Brightling might give us a mention on the morning show. Ooh, maybe we could hit up some of the local pet boutiques and put on a dog fashion show. How about that?”
“Nauseating,” Justine declared. “But a sure crowd-pleaser.”
“We could let owners walk their dogs down the runway,” Lara said. “Cherie and Eskie would be first in line.”
“Make her pay for the privilege,” Justine said.
“Isn’t that kind of tacky?”
“It’s for a good cause, plus it’s tax-deductible. It would be tacky if she didn’t donate.”
Mullet, who had been lagging behind them and making it clear that every step was a chore, suddenly picked up speed and raced to the front of the pack.
Lara spotted a familiar little white pooch a few houses down. But for once, Ivory wasn’t making the rounds by herself. Today, she was being walked by a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with ruddy cheeks and a shock of white hair. With his khaki pants and navy plaid wool jacket, he looked like a catalog photo for Brooks Brothers casual wear.
Suddenly the sullen little Shih Tzu was bouncing and snuffling and towing Justine across the street to meet her new friend.
Lara watched in amazement, then hurried to catch up. Ivory trotted over to greet her, and Lara gave the Maltese a few pats before she introduced herself to the older man in khakis.
“You’re Ivory’s owner?” she asked.
“I am now.” He offered up a hearty handshake. “Jay Bexner.” He looked perplexed as Ivory scampered around Lara’s feet, begging for treats and affection. “Do you two know each other?”
“Ivory’s a neighborhood celebrity,” Lara said. “I see her greeting her loyal subjects every morning when I walk my dogs, and she’s been tagging along on our evening jogs.”
“She’s an escape artist, all right. I couldn’t figure out how she was managing it for ages. Then I finally found the tunnel she’d dug under the fence. Little devil dug the hole right by the rosebush so she wouldn’t get caught.”
“Mew-lay, come back here immediately!” Justine seemed a bit alarmed that her dog would deign to socialize with anyone else, canine or human. “Muumuu!”
But Mullet ignored her. The Shih Tzu was too busy frolicking with the Maltese, both of them chasing after birds and tangling their leashes together.
Justine tried to regain control of the situation, but Mullet refused to be contained.
“That’s quite a collar.” Justine pointed out Ivory’s pink rhinestone–studded little band of ribbon. “Did you pick it out yourself?”
Jay looked amused, but not abashed. “Nah, my daughter has a thing for pink. A few months ago, she left for graduate school at the London School of Economics. Now that she’s gone and my son took a job out east, I needed someone to fill up the house.”
Lara noticed he hadn’t mentioned a wife.
Jay shrugged. “I know her name’s a little froufrou, too, but it fits her. I didn’t have the heart to make her answer to Buddy or Butch.”
“Ivory’s perfect for her,” Lara said, but Jay had shifted all his attention to her mother.
“You’re Justine Madigan,” he said.
“I am.” Justine admitted this grudgingly. “Have we met?”
“Not officially, but I’ve seen you around. Is that your dog?” Mullet was lying on her back, pedaling all four feet in the air while Ivory pranced around snapping at flies.
“Yes. She’s not usually so undignified.”
“They sure seem to get on together. Maybe we could take them to the park and let them play sometime.”
Lara flashed Justine a thumbs-up. Justine ignored her.
“I don’t think so. I’m starting a new business, and as you can imagine, my schedule is jam-packed.”
He nodded, undeterred. “Still have to walk your dog, though.” He checked his watch. “You usually come out with her around this time?”
“Yes,” Lara interjected, before Justine had time to make up any more excuses. “She and Mullet will be out tomorrow at eight.”
“See you then.” He kept looking at Justine. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lara replied. She waited until Jay and Ivory turned the corner, then rounded on her mother. “What is wrong with you? He was so sweet.”
“Ugh.” Justine wrinkled her nose. “Sweet just complicates things. I told you once and I meant it: I don’t want a man. And you!” She shook her head at Mullet. “What a traitor.”
“I told you so.”
* * *
Lara clipped Murphy’s leash on, walked the little dog out to her car, and opened the back gate of the station wagon so he could clamber into one of the padded crates.
He turned around three times, then collapsed on top of his Nylabone and immediately closed his eyes. Lara wasn’t surprised he was tired. The scruffy little dynamo had spent the whole day running across a soundstage, hitting his “mark”—the built-in bench on a picnic table—and snatching a hamburger from an actress before running back to Lara, who was standing on the sidelines, giving hand signals and doling out treats. She’d spent the past week training him to perform the behaviors on cue, then devoted this morning to rehearsing on-set.
The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service Page 22