“You heard the phone message.” It’s not a question.
I’m not in a coffee mood but need something hot and comforting, so I make myself a hot chocolate. I top it with whipped cream then slide into the chair opposite Blake. “Are we losing the house and the business?”
“Not the house.”
I nod, not feeling any better. I think of Mom and how much she loved the boutique—her voice rising with excitement as she ordered supplies, her triumph over colorful advertising flyers, and the celebratory clip of scissor cutting on the opening day of the Bow-Wow Boutique. I was Mom’s first customer, buying a beef-flavored Tasty Pastry for Toffee.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to but…” Pushing away his cup, he puts his head in his hands.
“But what?” I demand.
He lifts his head, his eyes shining with misery. “I just couldn’t. Since that…that day…you don’t talk to me.”
“We talk a lot.”
“About grocery lists or laundry or what we’re having for dinner. Not about things that really matter.” He rubs his forehead, sighing. “It’s my fault, and I understand why you blame me. Hell, I blame myself.”
He’s not talking about losing the business. He’s talking about losing Mom. And he’s right. I have blamed him, for not driving, for letting her go alone, for being alive while she isn’t.
“I failed her and you.” He sighs. “I even went to a therapist, and he advised me to give you space to heal in your own way. And you have. I hear you laughing with Rory, and I’m glad, but sad, too, because you used to laugh with me.”
“Yes, at your terrible dog puns, only you stopped telling jokes and sometimes when you look at me you cringe because I’m not” – my hands clench in my lap – “not your real child.”
“You’re real and wonderful and the only daughter I want.” I’m shocked to see tears in his eyes. “My darling, Ashlee, I never stopped loving you. It’s just that I miss your mother and you look so much like her.”
“I miss her, too.” I blink so I don’t cry. “And I’ve missed you, even your bad puns.”
Pushing aside his coffee cup, he reaches over to clasp my hand. “We need each other.”
I sniffle and nod.
“And I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to save Bow-Wow Boutique.”
“We’ll both do it,” I say firmly.
“I’d like that.” He gives that goofy grin I haven’t seen in a long time. “Did you hear about the dog that gave birth to puppies near the road?”
I groan, but I’m smiling. “What happened?”
“She was ticketed for littering.”
Laughing, I open my arms, and for the first time since Mom died, I hug my stepdad.
That night we talk for hours, and he shows me the financial records. Bow-Wow Boutique is in bad shape. Low sales plus higher overhead equal negative profit. If we can’t pay five thousand dollars in three days, we’ll lose the business.
We need a miracle, I think as I climb into bed with Toffee curled beside me like a fuzzy pillow. I’m worried, yet I’m feeling lighter, no longer angry, and even hopeful. Tomorrow is the competition, and I’ll see Derrick.
I expect to dream of Derrick. Instead, I sink into a nightmare of darkness and smoke, trapped inside Bow-Wow Boutique while the walls crumble and blaze with fire. I’m rushing from room to room, trying to rescue the dogs. Sirens scream, and I wake breathless, sweating, and still hearing sirens.
Not a siren, the downstairs phone. Before I can reach it, my stepdad has the phone to his ear, nodding. At first I think he’s talking to the bank because of his solemn expression, but then he smiles like he’s won the lottery and ends the call with a cheerful, “I’ll get them ready!” He grabs my hands and whirls me around the room, dancing.
“What’s going on?” I pull away from the crazed dancer.
“Someone wants to buy a Q-Bee!” Blake singsongs as he kicks up his heels. Who knew he could tap dance?
“Great, but one customer won’t save the business.”
“It can when the customer wants a puppy for the most respected person in Castle Top – Mayor King!” Blake looks silly laughing and dancing in his green striped pajamas but seeing him so hopeful makes me want to dance, too.
I wonder if Derrick has anything to do with this miracle. Did he discover who I am? Will the phone ring next for me?
The phone stays silent, but Blake keeps dancing. “We’ll need to have the pups ready for the mayor’s assistant, Maud,” he says. “She’s arriving at seven tonight.”
“That’s when Talent-Mania starts, but if you need me here to help out” – I gulp – “I’ll stay home.”
“No, you will not!” He wags a finger at me. “You’re going to kick talent butt tonight. I’ll handle the sale, although I hate to miss your performance.”
“You won’t miss anything.” After breakfast I lead my stepdad out to the garage and sit him in the audience chair.
A strange expression, blending surprise with sadness, crosses his face when he sees my costume.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be wearing more than a bodysuit,” I quickly explain, not wanting him to feel guilty about not affording a costume for me.
But it’s not the suit he’s staring at. It’s my white crystal-beaded shoes.
“Your mother wore those at our wedding,” he says softly. “You wear her shoes beautifully.”
Blinking back tears, I stare down at my shoes, and in the reflection I see my mother’s face, smiling, and suddenly I’m desperate to make her proud. I didn’t enter the talent contest expecting to win, but now I want that win more than ever for Mom, my stepdad, and myself. So, I power up the hoop remote control and ignite the dazzling illusion of my costume. Showtime!
Dancing Queen rocks the garage, and Blake gives me a standing ovation. Toffee sweeps a front paw down for a graceful bow. I bow, too, so caught up in my illusion I’m surprised to touch air when I reach for my glittery gown. When Blake praises my dog-training skills it’s a reward better than any trophy.
Afterward, we groom the pups. Working together, it takes about a half hour to groom each Q-Bee, and there are eleven puppies.
I gather supplies – nail clippers, brushes, towels, scissors, and cleaning products – then begin with Daisy’s tiniest pup that I’ve nicknamed Buttercup.
Starting with her neck, I brush her snowy-gold coat and work down to her paws, careful to untangle any mats. Q-Bees’ golden eyes are uber sensitive, so I check for eye boogers (none) then trim longish hairs obscuring her vision. Moving on to the ears, I swab cleaning product on cotton to gently dab the ears. Next, I slip on a surgical glove with bristles to finger-clean Buttercup’s teeth. After I clip her tiny toenails, it’s bath time. Shampooing, scrubbing, and rinsing a wiggling puppy is not easy, especially when she lunges away and escapes through the door I’ve forgotten to close, giving me a marathon-worthy workout chasing her. I finally bring her back to the washing tub and have to start the process all over again. When I’m done, Buttercup is adorable with tiny pink bows in her ears, a shiny coat, and polished pink toenails. But me? I’m a soggy mess. I glance over at Blake and giggle at the soapsuds in his hair.
The next few pups give me no problems, and time blurs by until Blake says we need to break for lunch. I nuke burritos in the microwave, gulp down a tall cold glass of iced tea, and then it’s back to work. When we finish the last Q-Bee, it’s almost three o’clock.
“I can’t believe we pulled it off,” Blake says with a weary grin. “Eleven pups all fluffed, clipped, and ready to show. Thanks, Ashlee. I can always count on you.”
I smile, thinking that I can count on him, too, in the ways that matter.
After showering, I slip on a bathrobe and blow-dry my hair. Opening my closet, I frown at the bodysuit waiting for me on a hanger, wires dangling like steel snakes. At least I won’t need to put on the rubber cap until right before I go on stage. I hear the house phone
ring but don’t think anything of it until Blake appears at my door, scowling.
“That was Mrs. Evanston,” he says in his “bad news” voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sweetie-Pie didn’t take.”
Which in dog verbiage means Brutus had a stud-fail, and according to our standard contract, the customer is allowed a do-over visit. Usually the female dog comes to stay with us for several days, but Mrs. Evanston won’t leave her house.
“Sorry you have to make that long drive again,” I say. “I can go along with you tomorrow if that will help.”
“If only I could wait until tomorrow.” Blake groans. “She’s offering a huge bonus fee if Brutus stays with her for a week and I bring him immediately.”
“But that’s seventy miles away and the mayor’s assistant will be here in three hours.”
“I can make it work.”
“Reschedule the appointment with Maud?” I ask hopefully.
“I would but the number she gave me didn’t work, so I must have written it down wrong. Don’t look so worried. I’ve got this under control and can make both appointments. If I drive slightly over the legal limit” – he pauses with a grin that promises a heavy foot to the pedal – “I’ll drop Brutus off in just over an hour, settle him in quickly, and be back here by seven.”
I mentally calculate the driving time and shake my head. “Didn’t you tell me that Mrs. Evanston loves to talk and you never get out of there in less than an hour?” I swallow a sharp lump in my throat. “I’ll skip the competition.”
“No, you will not.”
“Don’t be stubborn. You need me.”
“I can handle this.”
“But what if you don’t make it home in time?”
“I will, and you’re going to be amazing tonight.” His face softens as he looks at me. “Now go have a ball at your competition.”
When he’s gone, I squeeze into my latex costume, which looks ridiculous without the illusion. I can’t arrive at such a fancy event in a Frankenstein bodysuit, so I cover up in sweat pants and a hoodie. It’s warm and comfy, and the pockets hold my cell phone and the hoop’s remote control. I probably look strange carrying a dog and a plastic hoop. Only my glittering shoes hint at my true destination – the mayor’s mansion!
Since Blake took the car, I text Rory, asking for a ride. She’s going with her boyfriend so I’m not sure she’ll want a third wheel hanging around, but she replies quickly with a big smiley face symbol and See you soon.
As I tuck my cell phone in my pocket, there’s a shrill ringing from the house phone. If it’s the bank again, I don’t want to hear it. I’m tempted to let the machine pick up. But what if it’s important? When I answer, a woman with a gravely, aged voice asks for Blake.
“He’s not here,” I say. “Can I take a message?”
“Please do, my dear. Tell him Maud, Executive Assistant to Mayor King, will arrive precisely at seven and I expect the dogs to be well-groomed.”
“The pups are already groomed and adorable.”
“Pups? Oh dear, that won’t do.”
My stomach lurches. “What do you mean?”
“I specifically requested adult dogs.”
“But my dad said you wanted puppies.”
“Clearly he misunderstood. Puppies are too messy and energetic for a busy mayor. I’ll need to see every adult dog at their very best.”
“But that would mean grooming” – I pause to count – “fourteen dogs!”
“Your problem, not mine,” she says in a brisk tone. “I’ll be there precisely at seven.”
The phone clicks off, but I’m still staring at it, sick to my gut. Toffee nuzzles my ankle, staring up at me with trusting mismatched gold and brown eyes. She’s worked so hard to learn new tricks and deserves to show off tonight. But Blake needs me.
Gripping my phone, I text Rory. Don’t pick me up. Can’t go.
My cell blasts music, and I’m sure it’s Rory calling to find out what’s wrong. She’ll argue and offer to help, but unless she has a wand that can magically groom fourteen dogs, it’s hopeless.
The music on my cell keeps trilling, and I owe Rory an explanation, so I click to answer. But as I glance down at the screen, instead of Rory’s number, bold black letters wave across a misty gray background.
Swirling three words.
Answer the door.
She went to the front door, and there was a carriage with six black horses all decorated with feathers, and servants dressed in blue and silver. They helped her into the carriage, and away they galloped to the king’s castle. (Grimm)
When I find Mrs. Dunwilly on my doorstep, I get this out-of-context vibe. I’m used to seeing her at Shakespeare’s Theater or cheering on her kids at frog races. But never at my house. And she’s brought friends, over a dozen kids plus some adults, including Mr. Carter, Mrs. Baker, and Granny Dermott.
“Don’t gape, Ashlee. It’s not attractive,” Mrs. Dunwilly says in that bossy tone usually reserved for her children. “No time to waste. You have to get ready for your competition.”
“Yes, I know but” – I shake my head, bewildered – “how did you know?”
“Your friend sent me a text.”
“What friend?” I ask as a wild suspicion forms.
“I didn’t recognize his name, but he sounded young.”
“Farley?”
“That’s it!” She nods enthusiastically then gently touches my cheek. “Never be ashamed to ask for help. Neighbors look out for each other. I’m an experienced dog groomer – owned my own shop years ago – and I’ll instruct my helpers. We’ll have your dogs groomed by seven so you can make the contest.”
I shake my head. “I can’t just leave while you all do my work.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Now get on girl, so I can get my crew started.” She shoos me away with a flick of her hand then bustles down the front steps to join the others.
Abso-freaking-lutely impossible. Yet all these people are on my doorstep—families who sat beside me at Shakespeare’s theater, young athletes I applauded while they raced frogs and turtles, and children who laughed in delight at my dog show. I recognize Tabitha, Tony, Jemmily, and so many more wonderful faces. I can’t think of what to say, so I stand there with my mouth hanging open.
Mrs. Dunwilly, on the other hand, has no loss of words and is already assigning duties to her army of “helpers.” She’s even brought her own grooming supplies: cleaners, brushes, combs, scissors, and shears. I begin to believe fourteen dogs really can be groomed in two hours.
But that still leaves me with a huge problem.
How will Toffee and I get to the mayor’s house?
By car it’s a short drive, but by foot it’s a long uphill walk, especially in glitzy high-heeled shoes. I glance around, hoping for another miracle like a horse-drawn carriage or chauffeured limousine. But there aren’t any cars in the driveway. Apparently the neighborhood crew walked over.
“No dilly-dallying, young miss,” crackles a feeble voice.
Turning, I see wrinkled Granny Dermott hobbling toward me on her cane. She gestures with her cane toward the street. “Your coach awaits.”
Coach? I see four scruffy goats tethered to a rickety wheeled cart.
Granny can’t possibly expect me to ride…OMG!
I can not arrive at Mayor King’s mansion in a goat cart!
“Climb in, missy.” Granny prods me with her cane like I’m one of her goats.
“But I can’t.”
There’s barking behind me and a whoosh as Toffee springs into the cart.
Granny Dermott pats Toffee’s fuzzy white head. “Your dog has the right idea. Are you going to join her?”
A bigger force than me is at work here, and who am I to argue? Wonder and gratitude fill me. All these people, my neighborhood family, are here to help me. It’s my turn to help myself.
Smiling despite the smell of goats and risk of splinters I say, “Thank y
ou, Granny.”
As I climb into the cart I glance down at my silver shoes, and they sparkle like they’re winking with secrets.
One bruised butt and a ripe odor of eau de goat later, I’m standing before the mansion I’ve admired since I was a little girl. Instead of stairs leading to the front door, there’s a bridge arching over a rippling stream like a medieval moat. I can’t resist leaning over the rail and peering down into the blue-green water, expecting to see alligators but seeing a dazzling sparkle of coins, as if coins have been dropped for wishing.
“I’m really here!” I whisper as the clop-clop of Granny’s goat cart fades around the curve of the elegant driveway and out of sight.
Cradling Toffee against my hoodie, I take in the grandeur. I can hardly believe I’m entering the wrought-iron gates of the mansion I’ve fantasized about forever. Blooming gardens of roses, statuesque animal-shaped topiaries, diamond-glitter off a pond beyond graceful willows, and grand pillars arching over the entrance. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.
Careful not to trip in my crystal heels on the wooden boards of the bridge, I walk to the carved oak front door and press a crown-shaped doorbell.
No answer. Am I too late? But a glance at my cell phone shows I’m early. As I reach to press the “crown” bell again, the door is yanked open. I stare up, up, up at a straw-blond scarecrow of a man.
“Please, come in,” he says in a deep monotone voice.
Entering the gleaming white-tiled foyer, I gaze up at a sparkling crystal chandelier. Toffee wiggles from my arms and scampers over to sniff a massive marble lion statue, growling with little dog bravery, ready to take down the lion.
When I glance up at the butler, there’s nothing in his expression. He’s so emotionless I study his skin to check for circuitry, finding none but still unconvinced he’s human. The marble lion has more personality.
“Will you and your companion require seating in the audience or contestant lounge?” he asks like a well-mannered robot.
You’d think it would be obvious considering the hoop in my hand. But he’s waiting for a reply. “Um, contestant,” I say.
“The Red Room is serving as a lounge for contestants. Please follow me.” He pivots on his polished black heels, and I scoop up Toffee.
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