Puppy Love by the Sea

by Traci Hall

  Sarah, feeling awkward and ungainly in her work uniform with the bandage on her chin, searched the shelves for what she wanted, though she was having a hard time concentrating. She felt Franco’s animosity from fifty paces.

  “Are you making cookies?” Bella asked, hooking one arm around her dad’s leg, the bag of chocolate chips in her opposite hand.

  Franco maintained a polite smile that suggested Sarah run off a short dock into an empty lake.

  “Sort of.” She kept her attention on Bella. “For my dogs.”

  “Cookies for dogs?” Bella laughed with delight.

  “And I thought you were spoiled, Bella,” Franco drawled.

  “It’s not that,” Sarah clarified. “It’s just that most of the ingredients in the dog treats aren’t really good for them, so,” she let her sentence trail off. Now was not the time to preach from her soap box.

  Franco smiled with less vehemence. “They sell healthy treats.”

  “But they cost a fortune,” she said. “And the shelter is on a tight budget.” Uncomfortably tight.

  “Do you cook?” Franco asked. “For your family?”

  Being the target of his intense focus unnerved her and she tightened her grip on the handheld basket. “No family. As far as cooking, I know the basics.”

  His clipped nod seemed to say he wasn’t the least bit surprised that she was single and a disaster in the kitchen.

  “Yet you expect to make tasty treats?”

  The bandage on her chin itched. Nothing she did around this man was graceful or elegant. She felt like the bull in the de Silva china shop. “Yes. I’m going to try, anyway.” Determination had gotten her through college, and given her the opportunity to start her own business. So what if she tripped over her own feet around this man? He was nothing to her, in the scheme of things, but a thorn in her side. He probably had enough money to buy her warehouse ten times over.

  “Can Paisley have one? She likes treats. But she can only have a little bit, because she is a little dog. Dr. Wilton said so.”

  “Sure. I’ll give some to Paisley. After Pippa and Benny try them out and make sure they taste good.”

  “Pippa and Benny?” Bella shifted from hanging on to her dad’s left leg to his right.

  “Those are my dogs. I also have a one-eyed cat. And the animals for adoption, of course. That number fluctuates.” She scanned the shelves for rye, and got some whole wheat flour too.

  “What does that mean?” Bella asked.

  “Goes up and down.” Sarah regretted the phrase immediately and refused to look anywhere near Franco. She felt the heat inch up her throat.

  “Oh.” Silence thrummed along the aisle, then, “Can I come and see your dogs?”

  Franco coughed into his fist. “Come on Bella, let’s go home and finish our cookies. People cookies.”

  “We ran out of oats,” Bella told Sarah. “And we needed chocolate chips.”

  “I’ve never had oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips.” Sarah looked over and saw that Bella’s purple toenails perfectly matched her shorts. When was the last time I painted my nails?

  “You should come and have some. With a big glass of milk. Does your chin hurt? Daddy was worried about it.”

  Sarah risked a glance at Franco, who wore his customary scowl. “You were? How sweet.” She fought a chuckle.

  “He was going to call you. My daddy thinks you’re nice.”

  Laughing now, Sarah said, “Really?” She could only imagine the conversation the two of them must have had. “Bella, you are adorable. How about we trade treats for cookies once I figure out the recipe?”

  “Yeah! Can we, Daddy?”

  Franco was railroaded by his beautiful daughter. Sarah actually felt sorry for the poor guy—a teensy bit. Uh, Mr. de Silva.

  “Of course.” He took Bella by the hand and headed toward the cash register to check out. “It sounds like we will be seeing each other again,” he said, his face expressionless.

  He didn’t sound happy about it, and for some reason, that made Sarah smile. “Bye!”

  *****

  Franco and Bella walked the two blocks home. He preferred an active lifestyle, an important part of staying fit while eating the foods he enjoyed. He’d skied in Vale, dived the Australian reef, sailed the Caribbean. Snow-shoed, parasailed, he loved it all. He’d even gone on safari in Africa. Nothing scared him.

  Until raising Bella.

  There were so many ways he could screw things up. One wrong step off of the curb, and she could break a leg. One look away in the supermarket, and she could be kidnapped. If he wasn’t vigilant, something terrible might happen.

  He had no control.

  It was humbling for a man of his position to be brought so low.

  “It says to cross, Daddy,” Bella said, tugging on his hand. “Cookies, cookies. I can be the Cookie Monster and eat all of the cookies. You wouldn’t get any.”

  “You would not share with your papai?” He shook his head as she skipped the last few steps to the opposite side of the street, swinging his hand. “That is not very kind.”

  “All right,” Bella said. “I will give you one. And Bob one, and Sarah one. Can Paisley have one?”

  “Chocolate is not okay for dogs, princess. It could hurt them very bad. Never give Paisley chocolate, all right?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide. Bella was such a mix between he and Bianca and every once in a while she gave him a look reminiscent of her mother. Bella was sweeter, innocent. Bianca had been conniving, though he’d been infatuated with her despite it. He’d never planned on children. He’d enjoyed his lifestyle. He could handle a bitch of a wife—she entertained him, and gave him his freedom.

  Now he knew why. She had other things to do when he wasn’t looking.

  After the funeral, friends came forward with stories of her wild parties and crazy antics. Did they think this would comfort him? Or his daughter?

  “I won’t ever give Paisley chocolate. I promise.” She held up her pinky. “Pinky swear.”

  “What?” What was she talking about?

  “Hold out your pinky, Daddy. We have to swear on it. Kennedy, she’s my friend at school, she showed me how to do it. It means you promise the bestest, most serious promise you can.”

  Baffled, he curled his pinky around his daughter’s and gave it a shake. Americans.

  They went into the condo, the cool air a rush of relief from the sun. “Hello, Bob,” Franco said.

  Bella released his hand and raced for the elevators. “Hi Bob!” She pushed the button on the gleaming gold panel. “We are making cookies. Want one?”

  “I would never turn down a homemade cookie, young lady,” Bob said, sharing a grin with Franco. “All that energy, even after the walk. If I could bottle that up and sell it? I’d have my own penthouse.”

  Franco chuckled. “She keeps me running, that’s for sure.”

  He got into the elevator. Bella pushed the button to the top floor. Franco owned this condo prior to marrying Bianca. He’d invested in several properties during the recession and still owned a few along the Gold Coast. The lovely Bianca had decided she’d wanted him, for whatever reason, and pursued him. At almost thirty, marriage was the only thing he hadn’t tried, so he didn’t fight too hard.

  As a personal chef to the stars, he knew many of the same people as Bianca. After three years, the marriage was stagnating. Franco told himself he would have stayed, but he’d never know if that was true or not since Bianca got pregnant.

  “We’re home,” Bella sing-songed, skipping out of the elevator.

  “We sure are, princess.”

  He’d sold everything in Brazil, ended all ties with their life there. They would never go hungry, but that wasn’t enough. Bianca once had complained of feeling empty, worthless. A beautiful shell.

  He never wanted Bella to feel that way. It was why he needed to create a community for her here. His parents, killed in a sea plane accident on the Amazon, had been a constant in his li
fe. They’d grounded him in what mattered.

  Being in service in some way to others. Donating back for the good of all.

  He’d never minded working, for pay, at the homes of Bianca’s peers—it was his career. His passion. She’d said a few times that she found it demeaning. When she’d been drunk, stoned. Lost.

  “Daddy, you are not listening to me,” Bella said in a serious tone. She’d crossed her arms and waited for him to look at her.

  He laughed, refusing to go down the rabbit hole that had been his deceased wife’s life. “You are right. My apologies. What were you saying?”

  She dropped her arms and ran over to bury her face against his knees. “You looked sad. I don’t want you to be sad. I mean it,” she added sternly.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Sometimes…”

  “Were you thinking of Mama?” The question came in a whisper. They rarely talked about Bianca.

  He didn’t want to lie. No dwelling in despair, but the therapists had encouraged him to be honest about his feelings. “Yes.”

  “Do you miss her?” Bella tightened her grip around his legs.

  God, no. “I love you, Bella.” He dropped down to his knees so that he was nose to nose with his daughter. “Do you miss her?”

  She shrugged, her mouth unsmiling. “She could be mean.” As if not to speak ill of the dead, Bella quickly added, “But she smelled like flowers, the white ones that bloomed in the backyard. She was beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was. But maybe not so much on the inside.” His eyes welled as he realized how much damage Bianca had done. “You are beautiful on the inside and the outside, and that is much more important.” He tugged on her waist-length curls, but then covered her heart with his hand.

  “People can’t see what’s on the inside,” Bella said with a frown.

  “It is important to take the time to look beyond noses and mouths and hair.” Franco bowed his head, ashamed of the plastic world he’d left behind. “What matters is someone’s heart.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Anjinho, my little angel, you are only seven, but you are smart and caring.” Franco got to his feet before he lost complete control. There was sharing, and falling apart. Two different animals and he wasn’t going there in front of his child. “And you deserve oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies. I can’t wait to try them.”

  “You really think it’s a good idea?” Bella scampered to the barstool and the high-top counter.

  “Creative minds always think outside of the box. Sometimes it tastes good, sometimes,” he shrugged. “You have to try again. The point being, Bella, is that you have to try.”

  He bowed his head. There were so many ways he could mess this parenthood thing up, but his daughter would know he loved her. As to the rest? I’m doing the best I can.

  Chapter Five

  The kitchen timer dinged and Sarah, oven mitts she’d bought at the dollar store on each hand, took another tray of bone-shaped treats from the oven. She set them on the stove top and winced. Burned.

  Martin scooted his chair back from the small round kitchen table and peered toward the pan. “A little too done this time, perhaps?”

  She cursed under breath. The last two batches had been gooey so she’d adjusted the time. Pippa and Benny waited expectantly by the table, ears perked. “They love my cooking,” she said, eyeing the mess.

  “They eat from the garbage.”

  “Whatever.” Tears threatened, but Sarah held them at bay. “The recipe said to spray the pan, and I did that. They shouldn’t stick.” She’d followed the directions exactly.

  “Honey, you’re cooking with rye. That’s nasty, no matter what you add to it. It made those poor girls in Salem act like witches.”

  “That’s simplifying a bit, don’t you think?” Sarah tried to lift the treats free of the pan, but they broke. Benny stood up on his hind legs, still willing to give it a taste. Pippa sat back, waiting to see what would happen to Benny first. Smart girl.

  Martin stirred another sugar packet into his herbal tea. “Speaking of witches, don’t forget I have to visit my grandmother this Sunday.”

  Sarah leaned her head back. They had a booth at the Farmer’s Market that Martin usually manned. “I forgot.”

  “Call your mama, she loves to help you.” Martin sipped, made a face, then ripped open another sugar packet. Sarah looked at the three discarded wrappers on the table, realizing that he had four more to go before he had it just right. But he never wanted to admit to liking seven sugars from the get-go. Claimed he didn’t have a sweet tooth.

  “I will.” Sarah took off one oven mitt. “It’s just that last time she came to help, she didn’t want to leave.”

  “So give her a little chore to do. Make her happy. With your dad gone…” he shrugged. “She is probably lonely.”

  “My mother isn’t lonely. Dad left a long time ago. She has a job she loves, and friends she meets for lunches on the weekend. Yoga. You name it, she’s doing it. Why do you think I hired you, and fired her?”

  “It was not the best financial decision,” he observed, on packet number six. “She worked for free.”

  “I didn’t want her to take on my job. She was starting to worry over the roof, and the bills and the cost of dog food.”

  “Si, I worry about this too.”

  “But I don’t have holiday dinners with you. You don’t feel I owe you just for breathing.”

  “Neither does your mama,” Martin chided. “Jennifer loves you.”

  Sarah’s shoulders heaved with daughter-guilt. “I know. But seriously? She was getting hives from worry. She told me she was allergic to the bunny, but she got a rash right after looking up the cost of rabbit pellets.”

  Martin sipped his tea and sighed with pleasure. “Delicious. And so healthy. You should have some, Sarah. You’re working too hard.”

  “Don’t start.” She held up the oven mitt like a stop sign.

  “Ai! All right, I’ll mind my own business.”

  “My mother would never say that. She’d get her feelings hurt.”

  “I think we can both agree that I am not your mother.” He looked over his nose and fluttered his eyelashes.

  Sarah burst out laughing, imagining her mother masquerading as Diana Ross. “Thank you for that.” She blew on the treats, cooling the edges enough to give each of the dogs a taste.

  Benny sniffed, eyed her in question, but then gingerly took it in his mouth. He sat down, licked it a few times, then swallowed. Pippa sniffed, backed up a step, and looked at Benny. Benny made to take hers, so she barked once then downed the pumpkin and rye blob.

  Sarah put the tray on the table and attacked the hard treats with a spatula. “Want one?”

  “Are you joking?” Martin asked.

  “What?” She took a piece and nibbled. “They aren’t bad. This is pumpkin. Full of fiber.”

  Martin arched his brow, then accepted a broken section. He sniffed, dunked it in his tea, and swallowed. “Mmm.” His mouth twisted.

  “I did some research. Dogs have taste buds. They can prefer sweet over savory.” Sarah looked down at Benny, who sat within tossing reach. “Benny likes fruit, which gave me the idea for the Berrylicious Biscuit.”

  “Oh, my, you’re naming them already?”

  “Why not? Pippa likes savory. I’m planning on a BacoBurger.”

  Martin nodded, getting into the spirit. “If these are good, we can add them to the website. People might buy them if we put them in a cute box.”

  “I don’t know...” Sarah stared at the tray of funky treats. Would customers pay for them, once she perfected the recipe? She hadn’t thought beyond wanting something decent and affordable for her own animals.

  “It would be a way to add money to our empty coffers,” Martin said.

  She thought about Mrs. Drummel. She had money, and she’d wanted to spend it on Miss Priss/Jasmine. Hope fluttered in her belly. “If customers want the best for their pet, why shouldn’t we offer it?”

&n
bsp; “I agree—in theory.” Martin picked up another square and nibbled. “But honey, this isn’t the best. As not-your-mother, I can be honest with you. But there’s potential.”

  “I’m working on it.” Sarah propped her elbows on the table. “I’ll get it right if it takes me a dozen batches.”

  “Also, not to be a rain cloud on your parade, but I think there might be rules before we start selling them.” Martin settled back in his chair. “Licensing. I can look it up for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sarah quickly decided. “I can’t afford any more business ideas unless they pay. Now listen, since we’re talking hard facts here, we need to discuss the roof.”

  He took a fortifying sip of his tea. “Go.”

  “I have one quarter of what I need for the roof. And that’s with my cousins giving me a contracting deal. They’ve offered to do the labor for next to nothing if I can just buy the supplies.”

  “Are they single, these cousins of yours?” Martin asked with interest.

  “Single and straight. Pay attention!” She tapped the space between them. “What if we have a fundraiser?”

  “To get money for the roof? In a month?”

  “Why not? We work in a very lucrative place. I’m sure that if people knew we were under the gun, they’d help.”

  “Rich people want more for their money, Sarah,” Martin said. “They’re rich ‘cause they don’t spend it.”

  She crossed her legs at the ankles. Nashville swiped at her bootlace. “I’ve been realizing that. Though Mrs. Drummel paid extra today.”

  “She owed it to you for being such a diva. What about Franco de Silva? Want me to ask him for a donation? Or we could do a car wash!”

  “No car wash.” She shuddered, images of high school fundraisers making her slightly sick. Maybe it was the dog treats. “I’ve got a call into my friend Courtney to see if she has any ideas for a higher-end dinner or something. And leave Franco alone. I have enough on my plate without adding an egomaniac.” A very wealthy, very good-looking egomaniac.

  “You’re blushing,” Martin teased. “You think he is gorgeous too.”