Meant to Be Mine

by Lisa Marie Perry

  She hadn’t even dreamed. Or if she had, she remembered nothing now. Feeling cheated, because dreams had always let her escape when she needed to, she got to her feet slowly and figured her subconscious was in limbo with the rest of her. Which was sad, because sometimes things that didn’t make sense in reality were so vividly clear in dreams.

  “Get up, Tish.” She went to the mirror to inspect the severity of her cried-out, puffy eyes and to pluck animal fur from her hair, but none of that seemed to penetrate as important when in the glass she saw the dog rise and slink toward her.

  Tish stopped beside her, still standing at attention, and gently bumped Sofia with her dewy nose. It wasn’t precisely an act of obedience. Instead it seemed, oddly, a gesture of respect.

  “Oh…” Turning and kneeling, she grabbed the dog into an awkward embrace. “I don’t really care if you’re listening to me only because you think I’m pathetic. I’ll take what I can get.”

  A growl vibrated through Tish’s body and Sofia quickly let go. “Okay—too soon. I get it. Sorry.”

  They made it out of the apartment without event, but only one of them emerged ready to approach the day on a well-fed stomach. Sofia had slept on her aunt’s floor, had showered in her bathroom, and had been kissed in her kitchen, but she couldn’t bring herself to rummage through the cupboards for food.

  Hungry and a bit disoriented from a night of hollow, restless sleep, she let Tish trot a few paces ahead—

  Then she almost lost her arm when a piercing whistle compelled the dog to sharply dash around the side of the building and the leash pulled taut.

  “Wait! Damn it, stop!”

  The leash escaped Sofia’s grip and she stumbled to the ground in a clatter of jingling bracelets and a helpless yelp as Tish took off at a fierce, unapologetic gallop.

  So much for obedience or respect.

  Sofia got up, grabbed her purse, and started running, sacrificing no time to brush dirt and debris from her clothes. Damn that dog for slipping the leash. And just wait until she found the source of that hellish whistle.

  Rounding the side of the store, she confronted a quiet street with no trace of a rambunctious wolf of a dog terrorizing it.

  “Has anyone seen a dog? She’s a husky with a gray coat. Anyone?”

  Foot traffic continued to flow, which aggravated her to no end—hadn’t she left the big-city hustle and bustle in New York?—and she popped into the path of a teenager on Rollerblades skating circles on the sidewalk in front of the market. A streak of electric pink stood out in his ebony hair and the frown already in place deepened when he saw her closing in.

  “If I seen your dog, I would’ve said so,” he said dismissively.

  “Saw.”

  “Huh?”

  “‘If I saw your dog.’ Or ‘if I’d seen your dog.’”

  “Seriously?” The kid shook his head and when he shrugged his shoulders, she noticed the tip of an aerosol can poking out of his hoodie. From the blue smeared across the nozzle, she didn’t have to twist her brain to figure out it was spray paint. There were only so many reasons a kid with an attitude would be loitering in front of a vacant building armed with a can of spray paint, and all of them said vandalism. “If you ever find it, leash it.”

  “It’s collared and leashed. The dog pulled the leash off my wrist when she ran away.”

  “Oh. Then that probably sucks for you.”

  “Yeah. Probably.” Sofia bit back a remark, then had to do it again and once more, as if she were struggling to maintain her grasp on a kite tail on a blustery day. As if she were struggling to maintain her grasp on a leash when a Siberian husky on the other end of it had different ideas. “Give me the spray paint.”

  “What spray paint?”

  She put out her hand. “You don’t seem to give a damn about helping me, but I’m going to help you by taking the paint so I don’t have to report to the cops that I saw you skating around outside this building with a can in your hoodie.”

  Fear and defiance struggled on his face, as though the possibility of being caught both scared and appealed to him. Was that what he wanted? To confront the consequences of vandalism?

  She could leave him to self-destruct, or she could insert her help where it wasn’t wanted. “I’m looking out for you. The can, please?”

  When he surrendered it, she put herself back in motion, trashing the spray paint, then combing through the threads of people who’d chosen these precise moments to clog Eaves’s answer to small-town America’s Main Street. No Tish. The only animal she could see was a Pomeranian that was barely larger than a hedgehog and was gleefully pissing on the bottom of an artificial glitter-sprinkled tree at the end of the block.

  This can’t be my Saturday. This can’t be my life. I can’t be running around terrified that I lost a dog who ditched me the second somebody whistled.

  Denial never did her any favors, so she kept charging forward, past the peeing Pomeranian—at closer range it looked cute enough to cuddle—then stepped into the street at a careless moment and had to do some fancy footwork to dodge a pair of cars.

  The blaring of horns and shouts of profanity followed her as she made it to the other side and dashed into The Dirty Bastards.

  A pair of men dropped their tasks and leaned on the counter, their gazes licking her up and then down as machines rumbled and laundry detergent perfumed the air. One smiled, then, as if remembering something, twisted the band on his finger and muttered, “I’ve got a wife. Ain’t going down that road again,” before tossing up a broom and stepping away from the counter.

  Sofia doubted she was the picture of temptation. Panic had her glistening with perspiration. Gravel embellished the knees of her leggings. Sweat acted as an adhesive, gluing her white eyelet tank to her skin. She probably looked so filthy that no one would fault her if she marched over to one of those top-of-the-line front-loaders and crawled inside.

  The other guy didn’t have a smile at the ready, or a ring. What he did have was copper-red hair that fell past his shoulders, and a dark auburn beard. He lifted a thick set of brows over steel-blue eyes. “You were in one mighty hell of a hurry to get over here. If that Honda was going a mile faster, I’d be waiting for EMTs to scrape you off the road right now.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m looking for a dog. Big, gray, hungry-looking.”

  “What’s the name?” He grabbed a pen, twirled his hair around it, and locked the bun into place. The flow of movement caused all sorts of muscles to flex.

  Joss, Joss, Joss. You’re going to hate me when I tell you what you missed.

  “Her name’s Tish.”

  “I was asking for your name.” The guy didn’t have to smile; interest rode his lips anyway. “Tish, though. That’s Luz’s—”

  Say “bitch” and I swear I’ll—

  “—husky. A real beauty, that one.”

  “A purebred.”

  “Her beauty’s deeper than the coat, though. She’s got intelligent eyes. Count on Luz to see what’s special about her. She figured she’d get herself a dog and found the cleverest one in Massachusetts.”

  “Tish ran off. She’s not clever. She’s in danger, and I’m really worried about her.”

  He came around the counter and nodded a greeting to a woman who stepped in with a laundry bag. “Why didn’t you put her on a leash?”

  “Does no one even suspect I have the brains to do that? Attention, everyone. Tish was on a leash but someone blew a whistle and she bolted and nearly tugged off my arm in the process.”

  The man with the broom paused and chuckled. “McGuinty, you can either help her out now or deal with her when somebody leaves the dog on your doorstep. My advice—don’t delay the inevitable.” Then he went back to sweeping.

  Bearded McGuinty pushed open the door. “After you.” When she hesitated, he added, “This is as close to a gentleman as I know how to be.”

  “Holding open a door for someone so you can stare at her fanny when she walks out is
your impression of gentlemanly?”

  McGuinty’s response to that was to stride out ahead of her and let the door swing shut.

  “Hey!” She rushed out and caught up with him fast. “If you’re going to bounce from one extreme to another, go back to the laundromat and let me handle this myself. And what’d that guy mean, anyway, about someone leaving Tish on your doorstep?”

  “That guy’s my brother, Abram. He owns the laundromat. And he was referring to the animal shelter. I run that with our grandpa and help Abe out when he needs it.”

  Sofia had begun calling Tish’s name but halted. “The animal shelter? Is your last name Slattery?”

  “Yup.”

  “I remember your grandpa. He and my dad were friends, did you know? A couple of Irish-blooded guys hanging out.” She might’ve smiled if she weren’t so nervous about Tish. “He’d bring me over to the shelter to play with the kittens and pups. For a long time I wanted one, but after so many years of ‘Next time we see the Slatterys, I’ll pick you out a pet’ I gave up on that wish.”

  “Guess the wish didn’t give up on you. Once we find Tish, you’ll be good to go.”

  She would’ve been more likely to choose a cuddly Pomeranian or a cat that enjoyed belly rubs, but she said nothing as she continued to search the sidewalk.

  “I remember you and your dad, by the way,” McGuinty said. “When you said your missing dog’s name is Tish, I placed you, Sofia. I was a grade ahead, ran with Burke Wolf and his crowd.”

  What had peers and teachers and gossips around town called them? Riffraff, druggies, badasses.

  “Oh,” she said, ready to bring his full attention to their search of Society Street and away from an unwanted trip down memory lane. “Tish? Tish! Here, girl!”

  “And you, Sofia, were the do-gooder.”

  “Do-gooder?” She swallowed. If her heart condition hadn’t made her isolated enough, spying on her classmates and reporting their every infraction to the principal’s office sure had.

  “It was the nicest way to put it. You thought telling on us was right, and it didn’t seem to matter how many enemies you collected or who said you weren’t cool. Back then, the crowd had a special set of pet names for you.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “What’d be the point of hurting you now?”

  “I want to know.”

  McGuinty looked straight at her. “Tattler.”

  “That’s harmless.”

  “Brat.”

  “Still doesn’t hurt.”

  “Ass-kisser. Prude. Bitch.”

  Well. Whereas sweat beaded on her skin and began to trickle, those words sank in—deep. “Do-gooder’s the most musical of the bunch,” she said, concealing pain with sarcasm. “Something tells me it was the least used.”

  He had the decency to appear ashamed. “Kids can be assholes, especially when that’s exactly what they aspire to be. We were on a fast track to hell, all of us, and we thought we were having the time of our lives. You kept getting in the way.”

  “Then you must’ve been relieved when I moved out of your way.” She doubted a group of badass teenagers had been the only ones pleased to see the Mercers go.

  McGuinty clasped her shoulder. “Let’s cross.”

  On the other side of the street, they stood in front of the Au Naturel photography studio.

  “I looked up and down this side before,” she told him as panic started to rise. If she wasn’t careful, she’d succumb to another attack. Panic attacks had been sporadic in New York, and here in Eaves she was close to experiencing two within twenty-four hours.

  “You didn’t look closely enough.” McGuinty pointed at the window, and she’d be damned: Tish stood on the other side of the glass.

  “Tish!” The word was part question, part sob. She tapped her eyes, warding off tears that resisted her control. Yesterday she hadn’t managed to squeeze out any emotion during Luz’s funeral, but she was about to bawl with joy at the sight of her inherited dog inside a boudoir photographer’s studio. “But…How…”

  “Folks who like Tish sometimes bend the rules for her.”

  McGuinty lifted a hand to casually wave as the studio’s door opened and Caro Jayne joined them. “Sofia, do tell. The hottest guy to climb off a ship walked you home last night. Now Paul Bunyan himself is escorting you ’round the block at the top of the morning. Whatever je ne sais quoi you’ve got, I want it.”

  “You don’t need je ne sais quoi to get this,” McGuinty said to Caro, his voice low and frank. “You know that.”

  “So you say, but another woman’s on your arm.”

  “Just helping a girl from school find her dog. Why don’t you bring Evan to the ’mat today? Abram’s got the vending machines loaded up. Star Wars stickers, bottle caps, gum balls.”

  “I don’t have enough change for all of that.”

  “I’ll cover it.” McGuinty fished a roll of quarters from a pocket and handed it to her.

  “Ah, so that’s what that was.”

  “Not quite. There’s a real easy way for you to find out for yourself.”

  The heat behind his words was directed at Caro, but Sofia was standing so close that she was brushed with it, too. Both women’s gazes slid south to the front of his jeans. Was he a king-size condom carrier, too?

  “Stickers are messy,” Caro said, tossing him the quarter roll. “A bottle cap is literally the most useless toy in the entire history of useless toys.”

  “I don’t hear any objections to the gum balls.”

  “Gum balls aren’t healthy.”

  “Sugar-free. My brother’s not too keen on contributing to the rotting of anyone’s teeth. So, what do you say?”

  “We’re here only because my sitter is sick, my assistant’s out of town, and clients are stopping by to pick up albums. Some other time, maybe, McGuinty.”

  “One of these days, you’ll run out of excuses and either let me take you out or tell me to move along.” It sounded like a promise but carried the weight of a warning, as though he and Caro had been indulging in a game for a while and he was growing weary enough to quit.

  Sofia knifed through the tension. “Thanks, McGuinty, for finding Tish.”

  “Glad she’s all right.” He started for his side of the street. “Just so we’re clear, there’s not a fucking thing wrong with being a do-gooder.”

  “Then we’re okay?” she checked.

  “We’re okay. If you decide Tish isn’t enough of a handful, stop by the animal shelter. Just know that Grandpa will probably talk you into a card game. It’s been a while since he played with a Mercer.”

  Sofia laughed, appreciating the gesture. “I might do that someday.”

  “What’s a bloody mountain man doing on Cape Cod, anyway?” Caro murmured as they watched him return to The Dirty Bastards. “He should be in a forest someplace, splitting logs with an ax.”

  “The most unlikely people end up in the most unlikely places. What’s a New York marketing executive doing here?”

  “Or a black British ballerina?” Caro slid her hands into her jeans pockets. “Past life. Little-girl ambition was what it was. I thought I’d be a dancer.”

  “Now you’re a boudoir photographer and a bartender.”

  “To be quite fair,” the woman said with a sly smirk, “I wasn’t aware of boudoir photography and bars when I was a little girl. If I knew then what I know now, I would’ve chosen the right path from the beginning and spared myself plenty of heartache and uncertainty. Anyway, let’s reunite you with Tish.”

  She led the way inside to the lobby, where the dog now lay peacefully on a polished walnut floor. The place was decorated in a neutral palette, but rustic accents and pops of color gave it personality. Simple landscapes graced the walls, and above the wide reception desk was a photograph of Caro Jayne herself in a soft on-the-beach-at-sunset image that implied sensuality and suggested nudity but avoided explicit impropriety through careful posing and a few cleve
r props—one being an old-fashioned camera held strategically in front of her.

  “Hi, Tish. I don’t suppose you came here to be photographed with your collar off, so it’d be great if someone explained how this happened.” She faced Caro. “Her leash is gone. I had it in hand, then someone blew a whistle and she made a run for it.”

  “A whistle? Hell.” Caro rubbed a finger between her brows. “The lead’s on the desk. Now this whole thing makes sense. Apparently I’ve been lied to.” She held up that finger and Sofia’s attention was lured to a tattoo across the woman’s wrist. Inked into her skin in bold midnight typewriter print was the word breathe. “Evan, come here.”

  From the recesses of the studio came a boy Sofia guessed to be four or five years old. His mop of curly hickory hair was long enough to fall over his brow and it shined under the lobby lights as he cradled a partially finished model watercraft. Hanging from a lanyard around his neck was a red whistle.

  “Evan, this is Sofia. Say hi.”

  “No,” he decided, and Sofia might’ve been offended by his instant aversion to her if his glower hadn’t been so irresistibly adorable. “Mommy, I’m building a fighter boat for Luz.”

  “Fighter boat?” Sofia echoed.

  “It’s a naval watercraft,” Caro clarified. She took it from the boy and set it on a table. “Very sweet of you, honey. It’s coming along nicely.”

  Sofia’s knowledge of model transportation—naval watercraft in particular—was limited, but she was more than a little startled that a child as young as Evan appeared to be so invested in constructing a “fighter boat.”

  And he intended it to be a gift for a woman who’d passed on. “That’s for Luz?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m gonna give it to her when she comes back for Tish.”

  Confused, Sofia looked to Caro. Why was she hiding Luz’s death from her kid?

  “The whistle’s for his safety. He should use it if he feels he’s in danger, but he treats it as a toy. I guess whenever Tish hears it, she knows he’s nearby.” Caro turned to her son. “Evan, you told me you saw Tish outside the door and let her in.”