by Kay Bratt
ALSO BY KAY BRATT
True to Me
Wish Me Home
Dancing with the Sun
Silent Tears: A Journey of Hope in a Chinese Orphanage
Chasing China: A Daughter’s Quest for Truth
Mei Li and the Wise Laoshi
Eyes Like Mine
The Bridge
A Thread Unbroken
Train to Nowhere
The Palest Ink
The Scavenger’s Daughters
Tangled Vines
Bitter Winds
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Kay Bratt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542021012
ISBN-10: 1542021014
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
To Maui
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
From the Author
READERS DISCUSSION GUIDE
About the Author
Chapter One
“Is that a search-and-rescue dog?” the old man asked, his eyes on Woodrow. He’d been staring at them for a good ten minutes before he finally spit out what he wanted to say.
Maggie wondered if the man realized that the clothes he’d picked that morning matched the black, brown, and white coat of the basset hound at his feet. If dogs tended to look like their owners, this was a prime example.
“No, he’s not,” Maggie answered. “Why, do I look lost? This is the veterinarian’s office, isn’t it?”
The old man seemed not to notice her sarcasm.
“Yes, it sure is. I only ask because, well, he’s wearing one of them vests. Did you buy it off Amazon like my niece did? She’s got a little Chihuahua she can’t go nowheres without. Carries it all over town. Even takes the little shit-eater into the grocery store.”
Maggie didn’t take the bait. But he wasn’t done with his investigation.
“What about yours? You take him into stores and to eat with ya?”
Woodrow looked up. His soulful brown eyes locked on Maggie’s, instantly calming her. He had that way about him. She could feel one tiny trigger of irritation or nervousness and a look from him could dissolve it. Unless it was warranted—then he was as alert as could be. Ready to protect.
“Mine is a real service dog, trained by a real trainer to employ techniques that can aid with a real disability,” she said politely but firmly, in a voice that didn’t invite further questions. Inside, she prayed he wouldn’t ask what Woodrow was trained for, not that she’d tell him if he did. It was nobody’s business that because of her experience with a relentless stalker, who was thankfully now behind bars, her fear had developed into sometimes-crippling anxiety attacks.
Woodrow was unique. Not only was he there to keep her composed, but he was protective and would never allow harm to come to her on his watch. If he sensed her anxiety rising, he’d nudge her, then move on to barking if she still didn’t employ her learned coping mechanisms to calm herself down. If all else failed and she went into a full-blown panic attack, he knew how to lead her out of a building if possible and could even keep people away from her until she felt safe again. He’d only had to do it once, when a crowd at a craft festival she thought she could handle overwhelmed her and she couldn’t get away fast enough. That day, she’d sat down and covered her eyes, crying and shaking. Each time someone approached to help, which would’ve made things worse, Woodrow used his body to shield Maggie and keep strangers at bay.
When she was calm enough, he led her away from the people to a quiet area. She’d bought him a steak that night, and he ate it while she praised him and thanked the universe that her son, Charlie, hadn’t been with her.
Thankfully this man wasn’t going to continue his fact-finding quest, though he did keep his gaze on her in an intense way that verged on being uncomfortable.
“They sayin’ that tropical storm might be headin’ this way and turn into a hurricane,” he said, finally finding something else to talk about.
“Oh, I hope not.” She didn’t mention that from what she’d seen on the news, the storm was in the Atlantic, not the Pacific.
She fidgeted in her seat, turning her body the other way, hoping he took the hint. She could feel the sweat pooling in her armpits and wished she’d worn a different-color shirt. At her feet, Woodrow shifted and leaned against her leg. He gave her a nudge of comfort, his usual reaction to the anxiety that oozed off her in waves of anticipation.
Maggie’s best friend, Quinn, couldn’t believe how nervous Maggie was to talk to Dr. Starr. It wasn’t as though she were interviewing to be a rocket scientist. She’d been a vet tech for seven years before changing over to public relations, so she had the required certification and the experience. Still, her desperation to land the job was sending her back ten years into a fresh-out-of-college scatterbrain with no self-confidence.
The outside door swung open and a woman rushed in, obviously in a hurry. She approached the desk and slid a framed photo toward the clerk.
“I was halfway to the airport and I remembered this. I have to hurry or I’m not going to catch my flight,” she exclaimed, looking at the time on the cell phone she held.
“And . . . it’s for who?” the clerk asked.
“Eleanor. She’s my Maltese being boarded because I can’t get my no-good brother to take our father to surgery and stay with him for a few days. Now I have to fly to Ohio and do it myself,” she said, pointing to the frame. “See that button? I recorded a message to Eleanor so that she will know Mommy hasn’t forgotten her. Please play it at least five times a day.”
The girl at the desk blinked several times at the harried woman, then nodded. “Will do.”
“Thank you. And please, please make sure she has her gummy vitamin every morning. It makes her hair shine.” With a whirl the woman turned and was out the door, leaving the clerk looking shell-shocked.
Maui had some interesting people, to say the least. From hippies to surfer types, classy to laid-back, millionaires to street people, all carving out a life between the hordes of oblivious tourists who came to share a piece of their island one week at a time.
Only days ago, she and Quinn had bre
akfast at a small café in Paia, and lo and behold, the actor Owen Wilson and his brother Luke were there, having coffee and omelets, dressed for the beach and all but unrecognizable from the characters they’d played in movies.
Then later she took her son, Charlie, to the beach and watched the surfers trying to outdo one another. Small families were camped out all along the sand, the sun-kissed children playing in the surf, not a care in the world.
Yes, she could see how living there could be addictive. And it was weird, but she felt a rare sense of safety knowing they were surrounded on all sides by water.
Quinn had finally talked her into moving to the island so they could be close again, and Maggie didn’t regret it, but wow—Maui was more expensive than she’d anticipated. She’d thought rentals were crazy expensive in her hometown of Savannah, Georgia, but Maui prices made those seem cheap. She’d found a little apartment smack-dab in the middle of a strip of four other tenants, then she bought a used car that had seen better days. Between rent and groceries, her savings were depleting at a rate she could only glimpse as it swirled down the drain of reality.
Luckily, now that she had a permanent address again, Charlie’s dad was sending the monthly child support they’d agreed on, but even that barely made a dent in what it cost to live in paradise. She was also thankful for the legendary Hana food trucks that could whip up a simple dinner of tacos, fish, or several other options at a price she could afford occasionally. The roadside fresh fruit stands were another good place for her to pick up snacks for Charlie and add some color to their lives and plates.
Quinn had offered to hire her part-time at the hotel, but Maggie always heard the best way to ruin a friendship was to either live together or work for each other. Still, she might have to take Quinn up on her offer if this job didn’t pan out.
Moving to Maui was taking a huge financial leap of faith, but starting somewhere fresh with a built-in support network like she had in Quinn was worth the worry. Anyway, Maggie liked a challenge. She was determined to prove she could come out on top, and do it with minimal help from anyone.
So far, the morning had her digging out from the bottom. Her overly enthusiastic uterus had decided today of all days to unleash the floodgates, her air-conditioning unit stopped working when the temperature was predicted to hit a hundred degrees, and her little prince showed his disapproval of breakfast options by throwing his microwaved French toast sticks on the floor . . . after breaking them into microscopic pieces that he pretended were fish food for his imaginary piranha.
He also did the said event while belting out an unintelligible tune—one surely meant to assure Maggie that her headache from sleep deprivation could only be worse, because she was blessed with nurturing a tiny being and was justly rewarded with messy hugs and a promise that she could sleep when she was dead.
Charlie is a blessing, Charlie is a blessing, she kept reminding herself as she sped around the house tending to a million little things.
Despite never having a minute to herself and feeling like there was an endless to-do list that hovered over her head, he was her everything.
Thankfully, he always considered staying with Auntie Quinn a fun adventure, which allowed Maggie to slip out without more drama to heap on her overflowing plate. Very generous of Quinn, considering that bookings were filling up after her successful opening of the inn.
Quinn never said no. She’d pushed Maggie out the door, telling her not to worry about Charlie, that they’d be fine. Even with Quinn’s help, though, Maggie was behind schedule by the time she and Woodrow left the inn and got on the road.
In her haste that morning, she should have paced herself by remembering that veterinarian waiting rooms were all about . . . waiting, even if she was slated for a job interview. She’d arrived at the clinic with only three minutes to spare, yet another ten minutes had already passed after her scheduled interview time. That left lots of opportunity for contemplation. She couldn’t have picked a worse day for a job interview. But this was the day, and Quinn’s boyfriend, Liam, had pulled some strings for her to get in. And honestly, how many jobs was she going to find that would allow her to keep Woodrow with her? This kind of opportunity didn’t come around often, so she had to put on her big-girl panties, suck it up, and get it done.
Mommy needed cash. Stat.
The lobby was already jumping though the hour was early. She remembered that Fridays and Mondays were usually busy for vets. It never ceased to amaze her how people brought their animals in for any tiny thing, including a sniffle or a discolored pile of poo.
Yes, your dog ate rabbit droppings. Or maybe he gobbled too many Cheetos. Are you sure you aren’t feeding him grapes? So many stories still in her head from previous pet patients and their well-intentioned but sometimes irresponsible parents. And it was standard for someone’s cat or dog to be near death on a Saturday or Sunday, when the office was closed.
But some of these early risers were definitely warranted.
Already she’d witnessed a young couple with their Lab puppy, frantic because the dog was barely eating. They described his vomiting episodes in detail as the receptionist jotted notes. They were strapped for money, obviously, and had tried to wait it out, hoping the dog would recover, but when he stopped drinking water, they’d brought him in and he was taken directly to the back.
Listening to the communication going on around her, Maggie could feel her clinical instincts coming back, and that gave her a small burst of confidence. In this case, she would bet anything the puppy had swallowed an object that was blocking either the esophagus or intestines. Many moons ago, before she was a fancy executive public relations manager and still worked a humble, wholly fulfilling job in a veterinary hospital, Maggie had helped treat dogs with those same symptoms, and most recovered if the item was found before it perforated anything vital.
Some dogs would eat anything.
Thankfully Woodrow wasn’t like most dogs. Maggie had seen the strangest things recovered from exploratory surgeries—the weirdest being a whole baked potato. The owner had expressed surprise at that, but Maggie couldn’t figure out how the woman hadn’t missed a whole baked potato from the dinner table. Did people just make so many extra they didn’t notice when one disappeared? She wished she could be so extravagant, but then she remembered how much it pained her that Charlie had wasted his breakfast that morning, and she was struck with a new bout of anxiety over how much she needed this job.
On the other side of her, a woman and her young daughter waited with a carrier full of newborn kittens. The little girl had been sliding around on the floor, hands all over the tile, making Maggie cringe at the germs she was most likely picking up that would inevitably land in her mouth.
But she said nothing. It wasn’t as if she herself would win any Mother of the Year awards. After the blatant refusal of the French toast sticks, she’d given Charlie sliced strawberries, and since they weren’t organic—because who could afford organic in Hawaii?—some might say they were fruit-shaped poison bombs.
She also hadn’t studied the fine print on the back of the accompanied juice box to see if it contained real sugar. Not to mention the fact that she’d be accused of frying his brain cells since she let him stare mindlessly at cartoons while she’d fluttered around cleaning the kitchen, putting a load of clothes into the washer, and searching through her wardrobe for an interview-appropriate outfit.
She needed this job, damn it. Charlie needed shoes. And other boy stuff. Maybe even the confidence that she could keep a roof over his head and running water. Yeah, that might be a requirement of this parenting thing she spent her days fumbling at.
One thing was for certain: being a single mom was not for the fainthearted. She struggled to make good choices for him and guilted herself constantly. Then sometimes she remembered that she and her brothers were raised on bologna sandwiches and tap water—snatching tube time whenever they could—and they’d lived through it, so she wasn’t that concerned if some days sh
e failed as a modern parent.
If she could just overcome the anxiety that creeped in sometimes, reminding her that she alone had the responsibility of raising a productive, decent human being. That she’d be graded on it when he was eighteen, and not on a curve either.
The clock on the wall showed twenty minutes past her interview time. Her nails tapped against the side of her chair, almost at their own accord as though not controlled by her brain.
The tapping alerted the receptionist, who looked up from the computer. Maggie was surprised that the young woman’s short blue hair and nose ring were allowed by the veterinarian. Her name tag read “Juniper.” I guess a few things have changed since I’ve been at it, she thought. She had to remind herself that this was a new start in a new place, and things were a little different—a little more laid-back.
The girl gave Maggie a sympathetic smile. “He should be out any minute.”
“Okay, no rush,” Maggie said, stopping the tapping.
The phone rang again and Hip Receptionist picked it up.
“Dr. Starr’s office, how can we help?”
She watched Juniper nod, then smile, her ear to the phone.
“I don’t think you’ll need an appointment, but I’ll run it by Dr. Starr. If it makes you feel any better, my toxicology teacher said Cannabis sativa doesn’t cause serious implications if digested by dogs.”
Maggie was impressed by the girl’s response. And her unique style.
“Furthermore,” Juniper continued, her voice taking on an official tone, “it’d be best to just leave him alone—maybe in a dark, quiet place. Or turn on some Bob Marley tunes for him, set him out a plate of treats, and wait it out. No worries, he’ll be back to normal in no time.”
Before Maggie could even get a giggle in at that, the swinging door behind the reception desk flung open, and a man—obviously the doctor—stood there. He was tall, wearing dark-blue scrubs, but she couldn’t see much more than his rumpled hair and dark eyes. He wore a face mask and plastic gloves all the way up to his elbows, and he held a small wiggling cat in his hands.