“You’re scarred?” I flail my arms. “I’m the one who was humiliated and nearly naked after you shut off my power.”
“I don’t have the energy to deal with your negativity.”
“And I don’t have the time to waste on self-inflated egos!”
“If you’re going to childishly hold a grudge, then there’s no point in my trying to talk to you.”
I glare at her. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, we do.” She glances over at the kennels with a disdainful pucker of her cherry-red lips. “I see things haven’t changed since my last visit.”
“The dogs still have better manners than you do.”
“My bad for coming here without calling,” she admits with a shrug. “But I figured you’d hang up on me.”
“Definitely.” I wish I’d hung up on Maud and saved Blake from crushing disappointment. I think of my stepdad, alone at Bow-Wow Boutique, itemizing collars and dog kibble and leashes for his last inventory
My fingernails dig into my palms, itching for revenge. Beatrice is only a few inches taller than me, but I’m tough and angry. I could take her down. Why’d she come here anyway? Not to gloat about the competition because we’re both losers and she lost more than a crown. She lost her best friend. Beatrice should be over at Hannah’s house right now begging forgiveness. What is she doing here? It has to be because of Derrick. When Beatrice heard me call Toffee by name, I could tell by her glare that she realized I was the “Jane” Derrick tried to find. She must have wondered why I lied to her. Does she suspect I have feelings for Derrick and he might feel something for me, too?
But Beatrice doesn’t ask about Derrick. What she does ask leaves me open-mouthed, sure zombies have taken over the world and one of them has moved into her body.
“You want to buy a Q-Bee?” I study her, suspicious that this is some kind of trick. “Why?”
“I’m a huge dog lover.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you going to show me the dogs or not?” she snaps, and immediately I realize she’s the same bitchy Beatrice.
“We don’t just sell our dogs to anyone. You have to fill out an application.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She scoffs. “I’m doing you the favor. I heard you could use the money, and I can afford your most expensive dog.”
“Sure it’s not Maud that wants to buy one?” I say with accusation sharp enough to slice her smug lips off her lying mouth.
She has the decency to blush but not enough to admit her guilt. “Don’t be stupid. I have no idea who this Maud is you’re talking about, but I do know that everyone is talking about your, um, cute little dogs. Derrick seems very impressed by them, and he has excellent taste. So, I want one.”
“They’re very expensive.”
She pats a wallet-sized bulge in her pocket. “I have more credit cards than the library has books. Well, maybe not that many, but you get the idea.”
Oh, I get it all right, but I’m not selling any of my darlings to her.
“We don’t accept credit cards.”
“No worry. I brought plenty of cash. Don’t offer me a second-rate dog either. I want your very best Bee Sting.”
“Queen Bee.”
“Whatever.” She flips back her black hair, and tiny diamond earrings glint from her ears. “Are you going to sell me a dog?”
I wouldn’t wish her on my worst dog, but it’s not like money is falling from the sky. We need the cash. Even one dog sale could buy us more time and hope for saving the business.
“Fine,” I growl. “Follow me.”
“Right behind you,” she says in a self-satisfied tone.
I lead her to the kennel, glad I spent the extra time cleaning. Every surface shines, and the room has a sweet flower scent of air freshener. As the door bangs shut behind us, she sniffs like she’s expecting bad smells. I tense, waiting for her criticism.
“Quite an improvement.”
I grit my teeth, not dignifying her with the explanation that the last time she arrived in the middle of cleaning, so of course there were ripe odors and messy papers. Now, the kennel is at its best with piped-in music, shining floors, and fresh papers in every spacious cage.
Beatrice points. “Oh, are those puppies?”
“They aren’t ducks.”
“You have the weirdest sense of humor.” She bends closer to the pups. “How do you get their eyes so gold?”
“Contact lenses,” I can’t resist saying.
“Really?”
When I laugh, her eyes narrow and I have to admit it feels good to mess with her.
After this, she stops faking nice and so do I. This is business, I tell myself, which is how I manage to speak civilly without losing my temper. Beatrice isn’t an easy customer. When the puppies excitedly jump on her, like they do to everyone who visits, she pushes them away, not hard but enough to get my blood boiling.
“They’re just playing.” I step protectively in front of the puppies.
“Can I hold one?”
NO! I want to say. It takes all my willpower to pick up a sturdy little male I think of as Tough-Guy and gently place him in her arms. “Hold him gently.”
“He’s soft like a plush toy.” She grins until Tough-Guy licks her face. “Oooh, yuck! His breath is awful.”
“I like puppy breath.”
“You would.”
“Puppies are high energy,” I say. “Maybe you’d prefer an older dog.”
Although it kills me, I lead her over to Sugar, the sweetest dog ever. Not even Beatrice can find anything wrong with Sugar.
“Her sire is a grand champion,” I explain proudly. “If you’re interested in showing her, she has great potential for winning. I know how much you like to win.” Okay, I didn’t need to add this last part, but it feels good.
Beatrice cringes but recovers, and a sly look glints in her dark eyes. She points to Toffee who has been following close to my heels. “Isn’t that the dog from your act with freaky different-colored eyes?”
I glare at her.
“I’m not dissing your dog. She’s way talented.” Her tone implies I’m not. “But what were you thinking with that bodysuit? Couldn’t you afford a real costume?”
I don’t dignify her snark with a reply; instead, I strike back with a double punch to her ego. “Do you have Hannah’s phone number?”
“Why?” Her dark brows arch warily.
“So I can congratulate her on winning first place. Sorry I missed hearing her play the violin.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Beatrice snaps.
“I heard she was freaking fantastic.”
“Overrated.”
“She wouldn’t have won if she wasn’t amazing. You must be so proud of your best friend.”
Beatrice glances down to flick lint off her vest.
“Who knew Hannah had so much talent?” I add, smiling.
“Yeah, who knew.” Beatrice glowers, looking mad enough to burst into flames. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? I want your tiniest dog so I can fit it in my purse like that model with the pink hair. What about that one over there?”
She gestures to Cretin. I hadn’t even noticed he was following me since he can go from the house to kennel through doggie doors. And he is tiny, less than eight pounds, which is great for breeding.
“Not him,” I say firmly. I don’t care what my stepdad said about selling all the dogs. He loves the stud dogs so they aren’t for sale.
She kneels down to Cretin, and he snarls at her. “He has attitude. I like that. How much is he?”
“Not for sale.”
“Everything has a price.”
“Dogs are not things.”
“Are you refusing to sell to me for personal reasons? You had no chance of winning Talent-Mania, so don’t go all passive aggressive and take out your inadequacies on me. If I can ignore our past issues, then you can, too. I’m doing you a favor by buying one of your little mutts.”
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br /> “Mutts!” I raise my knuckled hand, warningly.
“They’re hardly even dogs. A real dog like Derrick’s Pete could step on one of them and not even notice. Speaking of Derrick, back off.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do.” Her mouth presses in a razor thin line. “He and I may have a misunderstanding at the moment, but no matter how much you throw yourself at him, he will never be yours.”
“Is he yours?” I challenge.
“Always has been; always will be. When I leave here, I’m on my way to his house for some intense making up and making out.” She smirks. “When I explain how my meltdown was Hannah’s fault, not mine, he’ll feel sorry for me and try to make me feel better. He’ll realize how right I am for him and how wrong you’d be. He’s probably still laughing at how ridiculous you looked in that bodysuit. He was never interested in finding you, only your dog.”
He wouldn’t laugh at me. I’m sure of this. Well, almost. Beatrice has known him so much longer than I have, and his family loves her like a daughter. Did Derrick really like me or was I imagining it? He wanted to kiss me, and I know he wasn’t faking. There was something real and sweet and wonderful between us. But he must know who I am by now, so he could easily find out where I live if he wanted to. But why should he try to find someone who lied about her name and ran away from him?
Beatrice flips her black hair over her shoulders, her expression smug. “I’ve changed my mind about wanting a dog.”
“Shocker.” I roll my eyes.
“It’s ridiculous how everyone is raving over these overpriced furballs. I wouldn’t take one if you paid me.”
“I wouldn’t sell you one if you paid a hundred times their worth.”
“Which would be zero, because they’re worthless. Keep your stupid dogs.” She looks down at Cretin. “This one isn’t even friendly.”
“Dogs know who like them,” I slam back at her.
Cretin looks over to me then up at Beatrice.
He lifts his leg and pees on her shoe.
And no one took pity on her and she would go and weep at her mother’s grave where she had planted a hazel tree, under which she sat. (Jacobs)
I blew the sale. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. I reward Cretin with a canine cookie.
It’s not long before worries slam into me, though. How am I going to tell Blake I refused to sell a dog? Beatrice would have easily paid thousands, and that much money could have bought us time to figure out a way to save the business.
Sighing, I know I can’t keep this from my stepdad. Might as well call him now and get it over with.
I head for my bedroom for my cell phone. Swirling my desk chair around to face the window, I sink into the cushioned seat and pick up my phone. I’m looking out at white cloud puffs and blue sky, yet thinking wistfully of mauve. Was there ever any real magic? Did I really believe Farley was helping me like a store-clerk version of a fairy godfather? In the light of day and logic it seems ridiculous. Yet how else can I explain all the weirdness? Receiving Derrick’s messages to Beatrice, the phone flashing with photos I never took and cryptic images from a strange guy who works at a store that doesn’t exist. I can’t think of any explanation, and maybe it doesn’t matter.
Not anymore.
What matters is Derrick and how much I miss him. It’s like a movie reels in my head with thoughts and feelings and images of him: Derrick drenched in a fountain, his gap-toothed smile, his passionate ideals, and how the light touch of his hand on my skin made me hot and dizzy in amazing ways. I want to be with him so badly, but Beatrice says she’s the “right” girl for him, and maybe she is; they come from wealthy lifestyles, have a deep childhood friendship, and his family already loves her. They don’t even know me, but Derrick does.
What Derrick feels is important, I think with a lift of my heart. I’m sure – well almost – that he has feelings for me.
While I look at my phone, a thought shoves into my head and refuses to budge.
Call him.
I know his number. Like I could ever forget. I’d rather be pro-active than non-active. If I have a chance with him, I won’t slink into the background while Beatrice worms her way back into his heart. Kind, funny, genuine guys are rarer than comets and blue moons. Derrick is worth fighting for. If I hear his voice I’ll know if he’s into me. And if he’s not…well, it’ll hurt for a few days or months or maybe always. But I’ll move on with my life with no regrets because at least I tried.
All I have to do is press seven digits.
So why is my hand shaking?
Just do it already!
Tensing, I power up the phone. I stare at the screen. My heart pounds so loudly I can’t hear my own thoughts.
You can do this, I tell myself. Calling is the bravest thing to do; only cowards do nothing, and I’m through hiding from emotions, hiding from life.
I take a deep breath then tap one number and another, until all seven line up on the screen like obedient soldiers.
All that’s left is to hit the “call” button.
Why am I hesitating?
What’s the worst that can happen? Derrick will hear my voice and shout “I hate you! Never call me again!” and slam the phone down. Ouch. Just thinking this hurts, even though I know he’d never be so cruel. I want to hear his voice so badly, to know that even if there’s no romantic future for us, he’s still my friend.
I hit “call.”
One ring…two…
My hand on the phone sweats. Blood pulses to my head in a rush of dizziness. I’m shaky on my feet and reach out for a bed post to steady myself.
Three rings…four….
The fifth ring sends my call to an voicemail.
“I’m sorry but I can’t answer your call right now,” automated Derrick says. “Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you soon.”
I swallow a tsunami sized lump and try to think of what to say. Should I leave a message or hang up? What if he purposely isn’t answering because he knows it’s me? Is he angry because of last night? Has Beatrice convinced him to get back with her? Or is he just not into me?
I listen to the beep.
It’s so tempting to hang up.
But I find air to breathe and words spill out. “Um, Derrick.” I gulp. “It’s Ashlee. Call me.” I leave my number and hang up.
I watch the phone like a mother bird looking for cracks in a hatching egg. No movement. I count seconds as they flash across the screen. Waiting.
Derrick will call back, I try to convince myself. Even if he’s angry, he’s not the kind of guy who avoids conflict. If he’s not into me, he’ll tell me.
Seven minutes pass.
Nine…. twelve… twenty-three…
A half hour and still no reply, not even a text.
Beatrice must be at his place by now. Did she talk trash about me? “That girl was so wicked,” I imagine her saying with a convincing sniffle like she’s close to tears. She’ll tell Derrick I ordered her off my property and commanded my dog to pee on her shoe. He’ll feel sorry for her. If she starts to fake cry, he’ll want to comfort her, which could lead to kissing.
I fling myself on my bed, closing my eyes tight to shut out the image of the guy I like kissing the girl I hate.
Turning over on my back, I stare up at the ceiling and count paint swirls until I decide I’ve waited long enough. I check the phone again. Nothing. The world could have ended while I’m lying here staring at paint; at least that’s how it feels to wait for a call that may never come. Traitorous phone! I want to throw it against the wall, but at the same time I want to cradle it close to my heart. He’ll call, I tell myself. He will.
The “waiting” countdown has passed the hour mark when there’s a ring. I lunge off the bed, banging my knee on a bedpost. Rubbing my knee, I realize the ring didn’t come from my cell, but from the house phone. Our number is listed and easy to look up, so it could be Derrick.
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I’m out of my room, door slamming behind me, and sliding into the kitchen like a baseball player going for a homerun, grabbing the phone as it rings again.
“Hello?” I say breathlessly.
“Ashlee?”
“Oh.” I sink into a stiff wooden chair at the table, clutching the traitorous phone to my ear. “Blake.”
“Why didn’t you answer the phone earlier?” He sounds so exhausted. “I’ve left a hundred messages.”
I glance over at the answering machine where a red flashing light reveals a total of thirteen missed messages. Oops. I was rushing so much I didn’t even think to check for messages on the house phone.
“You should have tried my cell,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He sighs. “It’s been so hectic I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Hectic? From doing inventory?”
“I’m running out of inventory.” His voice rises with excitement. “Crazy morning here! Before I even opened up, a crowd of customers was waiting at the door. Your dog show was a hit last night, and I’m swamped with people wanting to buy Q-Bees. Nine applications already!”
When I do the math (average price of a Q-Bee minus expenses then multiplied by nine), I’m too stunned to say more than “wow!”
My stepdad explains that he’s rehired his assistant, Claire, who’s already running background checks on prospective buyers, leaving Blake free to focus on the customers.
“Good thing you groomed the dogs yesterday. I’ll be sending out customers to look at them soon,” he adds in a voice so rich with happiness that I almost don’t recognize him. It’s been so long since Blake sounded happy.
“Great,” I tell him. “I’ll have everything ready here.”
“Just show them to the kennels and answer questions. They’ve seen photos and videos so it shouldn’t take long for each customer to select a dog. Most want puppies.”
“They always do,” I say, glad we’ll have Daisy’s new litter of pups soon. She’s due in eight days and has been acting fidgety and making a nest of blankets. I assure Blake I will be ready when the first wave of customers arrives.
Rory wasn’t kidding when she told me Q-Bees were suddenly popular. Once I check the phone messages, I find not only the missed calls from Blake, but seven calls from prospective dog buyers.
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