by Elle Casey
Emerald shakes her head but hunches forward. I can tell by her body language that she does think it’s about me.
“Of course it’s not you,” Carol says, coming into the room. “Nobody in the world who knows you would ever call you that word. It’s the last word anybody would use to describe you. You’re a saint.”
I roll my eyes. She’s not biased at all.
“Maybe they’re just talking about one of your patients. A female dog you have in one of the kennels,” Mooch says, trying to make a joke. Nobody laughs, but I appreciate him trying to make light of such an ugly thing.
“Do you have any enemies?” asks the officer. “Anyone who would like to do harm to your business or to you personally?”
“That sounds pretty serious,” Red says. “It’s just a little spray paint, right? There’re graffiti artists all over the place who apparently have nothing better to do than deface people’s property.”
“But it’s not just the spray paint, is it?” the officer asks, his question going out to the group.
I glare at him and slowly shake my head, hoping he’ll take the hint, but he just keeps on digging my grave. He ticks items off his mental list using his fingers. “First, we had the laptop being stolen, then we had all the crank calls and hang-ups, and now we’ve got the spray-painted profanity. My guess is there’s somebody out there who thinks he’s got a bone to pick with you.” He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, as if waiting for me to confess.
“Crank calls? What crank calls?” Sally asks, coming into the dining area again. She looks around the room. “Did I miss something?”
“I think we all missed something,” Carol says, giving me the mother-guilt-trip stare-down. Barbara and Sally join us, both looking concerned.
Greg sits down in the chair to my left and faces me. “You’ve been getting phone calls?”
I wish I could disappear into thin air. Why is everybody gawking at me like I’m the bad guy?
“You haven’t told them?” the officer asks.
I look around at my family and friends, an apology in my eyes. “I didn’t want you guys to worry.”
Greg’s voice goes very soft. “That’s why you called me, isn’t it? You thought it was me.”
I put my hand on his. “Can we talk about this later?”
He pulls his hand back. “Sure.”
My heart lurches at the cold look on his face. Did I hurt his feelings somehow, or is this him keeping our relationship secret? I’m so confused.
“Honey, you need to come clean,” Barbara says. She walks over to stand at the head of the table. “Tell us everything that’s going on. We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s happening.”
I take a deep breath and let it out, closing my eyes. I really wish I didn’t have to be here, but this is what I must put up with in order to have what I have—a big family and all the love its members bring. Love doesn’t come without cost, and that cost is being open and honest about things I’d rather keep to myself. God, I hate this part.
I open my eyes. “After my laptop was stolen, I started getting phone calls. It was just somebody who was breathing heavy on the other end of the line. I’m pretty sure it was a man, but he never spoke; I never heard his voice or anything. He called, like, five times.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Carol asks.
“I didn’t want you guys to worry about something that was probably just some kid messing around.”
“What made you think it was a kid?” Greg asks. He sounds like a lawyer.
“It was something a kid would do. It’s not a very grown-up thing to call somebody and breathe in the phone all the time, right?”
“On the contrary,” Officer Brownlee says. “I’ve seen full-grown adults do some very immature things.”
Sounds outside the front door announce visitors. First there are footsteps on the porch and laughter; then the door opens and a rush of cold air comes in followed by Amber, Ty, Sadie, Tinkerbell, and Oscar Mayer. They close the door behind them, but Amber and Ty stop in their tracks and stare at everybody in surprise. “What’s going on?” Amber asks.
“Just have a seat and we’ll fill you in, in just a minute,” Red says.
Surprisingly, Amber does exactly what she’s told without complaining. She ushers Sadie into the living room and sits with her on the couch. Ty perches on the arm of the sofa next to her, and they wait for us to continue in louder voices so they can hear from the adjoining room. I appreciate Red taking charge this time. Without his steady, commanding presence, this house would probably erupt in chaos. I’m not going to question right now why I’m thinking this way. I have bigger fish to fry. My reprieve is over, so I go back to my explanation.
“The last crank phone call I got was yesterday, and I yelled at the guy and threatened him; I told him I’d trace the call. I didn’t hear from him after, so maybe he’s done harassing me.”
“I doubt it,” the police officer says. “This stuff often escalates.”
He writes something down on his paper. “It could be that this is the same person who spray-painted your door. Maybe they weren’t happy with how you dealt with the last phone call.”
“Oh, so we’re going to blame the victim, is that it? Great. Perfect.” I glare at the man sitting across from me. “What was I supposed to do? Be nice? Thank him and tell him to have a nice day? Offer him a free spay or neuter for his pet?”
“On the contrary; my advice to you is to not engage,” the police officer says, not reacting at all to my emotional outburst. “If you get another call, just disconnect without saying anything. Eventually, he’ll get bored.”
“I would’ve thought he’d be bored already,” I mumble.
“Can we trace the calls?” Greg asks.
“It depends. We can make a call over to the phone company and see if it’s a possibility, but I don’t have high hopes that that’ll be the case.” He closes up his clipboard book and slides it close to him, helping himself to another few bites of muffin and some of his coffee.
“What do we do next?” Red asks.
“I’ll look into a few things and get back to you.” The officer takes another sip of his coffee and more muffin before standing. “I should probably get going. If anything else comes up, let me know.”
“Aren’t you going to check for fingerprints or anything?” Emerald asks.
“We don’t generally get fingerprints off graffiti. The perpetrators rarely touch anything but their paint cans,” the police officer says. He tucks his clipboard under his arm and pulls a business card out of his pocket, putting it on the table. “Give me a call if anything comes up. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be in touch.” He walks away from the table, and everybody stares at him.
Barbara stands. “Would you like a muffin to go?”
He grins like he was just waiting for someone to ask. “Sure.”
“What do you prefer? Blueberry or pecan?”
Emerald stands. “I’ll go get him one of each.” She rolls her eyes as she walks past our mother.
Foiled again, Barbara turns around, frustrated.
I can’t help but smile. Our mothers are goofy, but I love them so much. And because I do, I don’t want them to worry about me. So somebody thinks I’m a bitch? Big deal; I can handle it. I lift my hand in a wave of goodbye as Officer Brownlee leaves. Red walks him to the door and shuts it behind him.
“So . . . are we putting together a posse or what?” Ty asks.
Sam nods. “I’m in.”
Red shakes his head. “I don’t think we need a posse, but I sure as heck don’t feel like Rose should be going down to the clinic by herself anymore.”
“I agree,” Mooch says. “It’s not safe.”
I stand, irritated with these well-meaning fatherly types. “Hey! I’ve been going down to that clinic by myself for years. I’m not going to stop taking care of my animals because some jerk has decided to be rude to me.”
“Nobody’s telling you that you need to stop go
ing down there,” Amber says. “We just want you to be safe.”
“What are you going to do? Hire me a bodyguard?” They’re being ridiculous, treating me like a frail flower. Just because I’m named after one doesn’t mean I am one.
“No, but we can keep you company,” Red says. “Right?” He walks over and stops in front of me. “Would it be so awful to have somebody help you out down there once in a while?”
“Not necessarily.” I look up at this tall man who I know has my safety at heart when he acts all bossy and controlling. I can’t fault him for that. If I did, I’d probably deserve that spray-painted moniker on the clinic’s door. “But I think you guys are pretty busy doing your own thing, aren’t you?” All I need is for my work to get in the way of their next album. I’d have a fan base of millions hating me. Having one guy think I’m a bitch is enough for me. More than enough.
“We’re never too busy to help out family, right?” Red surveys the group, seeking support for his statement, and everyone nods.
“Never too busy,” Cash says, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Especially for somebody as cute as you, Bugaboo.”
I try not to smile. I try really hard, but it’s just not happening. They care about me, and I know I’d be stupid to hold that against them.
“I’m happy to take a shift once a day,” Paul says. His gaze moves to the ceiling as he thinks about his offer. “Yeah . . . it might actually be nice. Quiet. I could get some reading done.”
“I’m in,” Mooch says. “I can sleep there, right? You have a couch?”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Fine. I’ll get you one.” He smiles like he’s just solved all my problems. His cute expression makes me think that maybe it wouldn’t be so awful to have somebody else around.
“You can’t sleep,” Cash says, frowning at his bandmate. “The idea is to be vigilant. You can’t be vigilant if you’re staring at the inside of your own eyelids.”
I chuckle. “Trust me, you don’t need to be vigilant when Banana is around.” My little dog comes running over after hearing his name. I scratch the scruff of his neck. “He’s a great watchdog.”
“It’s settled, then,” Greg says. “For the time being, when you’re down at the clinic, you will have someone to keep you company . . . in addition to Banana.”
I stand, knowing there’s going to be no arguing this point today. At least for now, I’m stuck with having a chaperone at work. “I need to get going, so if somebody wants to come with me, they need to be able to leave now.” I walk over to the door and grab my jacket. Part of me wants Greg to come, but then again maybe not; he’s acting funny. I think I offended him, but I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it’s better if we spend some time apart. Not a lot of time, but enough that I can get my head on straight and not be so emotional when we talk about it.
“I’ll go first,” Red says. He takes his jacket off the hook. It’s black leather with silver zippers on it.
I turn around and face the room, but my words are for Greg. “If anybody needs me, you can call me at the clinic.”
Amber gets up and comes over, taking my hand. “You okay?” she asks softly, so only I will hear her.
I nod. “I’m fine. Totally fine.” Other than the fact that my heart is hurting. Greg is looking at me, but I can’t read his expression, and it’s making me so sad and confused. I wish I could get inside his head and figure out what he’s thinking. Then again . . . maybe I don’t want to do that.
“Call me if you need me.” Amber kisses me on the cheek. I give her a quick hug and turn around to go. Greg still has a chance to stop me, but he doesn’t. I walk out the door with Red at my side. The cold rips right through my jacket and chills me to the bone, and now my skin matches the temperature of my heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Red and I walk to the clinic together with Banana and Oscar Mayer trailing behind, the two of them smelling every scent there is on the ground between the house and our destination. Several times the pups get tangled up in each other’s paths and they pause to wrestle in the dirt. It’s the perfect balm for my aching heart to see them acting so silly.
Most of the conversation between Red and me centers on the weather and the season that’s coming. He’s never spent the colder part of the year with us, so he doesn’t know how much work is involved. I wonder, as I explain some of it to him, if he’ll decide he prefers Manhattan winters to Maine ones. He doesn’t say either way. I’m not sure how I feel about it now. Two weeks ago, I was sure, but now . . . not so much. Life is so confusing sometimes.
As we arrive at the clinic, the conversation stops and my heart sinks. The letters B-I-T-C-H are scrawled across the front door in bright-red paint. It makes me want to cry. Or vomit. Or cry and vomit. Who could possibly hate me this much? All I ever do is try to be nice to people and help their animals.
“Don’t pay any attention to that garbage,” Red says. “It’s gonna be gone by the end of the day.” He pulls out his cell phone and sends off a text.
I lift my chin, trying to put on a brave face and force the hurt feelings to go away. The asshole who did this doesn’t deserve my emotions. “It doesn’t bother me. People can say whatever they want. I know who I am.”
I try to fit the key into the lock, but I’m shaking too much to make it work. Red silently takes it from me and gets the job done, opening the door for me and then closing it behind us once we and the dogs are inside. The warmth is very inviting and so are the sounds of restless animals coming from the back room. This is where I belong, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be, B-I-T-C-H or not.
“I need to check my patients. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll wait for you out here.”
I make short work of checking everyone’s bandages, pain meds, and IV fluids, and then I’m back in the lobby with Red. I take a seat at the desk and ease myself out of my jacket, draping it over the back of my chair behind me.
“I’m glad I’m getting the opportunity to spend some time here with you,” Red says, looking around the lobby. “The circumstances aren’t the best, but I’ve been wanting to get some alone time with you for quite a while now.”
I place my hands on the desk, a little uncomfortable with his revelation. I feel trapped. “Really? How come?”
He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, his legs spread out in front of him. He looks like the quintessential rocker with his leather jacket, black motorcycle boots, and beat-up jeans. There’s a black T-shirt on underneath his jacket that has writing I can’t read because it’s so faded, but I do recognize the image on it; it’s one of his album covers.
I never used to think much of him when I’d see his face on the dust jackets of my moms’ vinyl records, but looking at him now, I can almost imagine what drew my mothers to him; his personality is powerful—enigmatic while also being charismatic. And he’s taking time out of his day to watch over me while I work, to make sure I’m safe and protected from whoever is out there with something against me. How could I not be impressed with that? It engenders a patience in me that allows me to hear him out.
“I’ve had ample time to chat with Amber, and a little bit with Emerald, too, but you’re always so busy.” He looks over at me. “You’re a hard worker. I really admire that about you.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles, his charm coming through easily.
As I stare at him, I wonder what it is specifically that my mother saw in him besides that smile and his rock ’n’ roll exterior. Was it his take-charge attitude? His natural charisma? His musical talent? The fact that he’s adored by millions of women all over the world? It’s hard to say. But underneath that hard rock ’n’ roll exterior, there does seem to be a very interesting person. I guess I can’t blame her for being drawn to him, for even falling in love. Heck, I’m halfway there with a man I hardly know. I guess the girls in my family do fall fast and hard.
“You put this whole thing together
yourself,” he says, gesturing out at the clinic. “Your mother told me.”
“I did.” There’s no point in denying the truth.
“It must be really hard to see somebody trying to hurt it, like that asshole who painted on your door.”
A dull ache settles into my chest. “It is hard.” I pick up a pencil, doodling on a pad of paper that’s on my desk, trying to force the images of that painted message out of my head.
“Ever thought about doing any upgrading around here?” Red is looking at the ceiling, at a water stain above his head.
“Many times.” My smile is sad.
“What stopped you?”
“Money, mostly.” I squirm as the contradiction overtakes me. He’s offering me a fortune—exactly what I say I need—and I’m walking away from it.
He frowns. “You’re a nonprofit, right?”
“Yep.”
“Do you actively solicit donations?”
I sigh, knowing a lot of my problems are self-created. “Not really. Everybody knows that I’m a charity. I put up notices around town, and it’s on my business card. But I guess I’m not really good at the money-raising part of this job.”
“That’s normal. The person who does the actual doing is often not the best at the promotion. That’s why charities often hire someone to do that part of it.” He shrugs. “That’s how it works in my business, and we’re not even a nonprofit. Right now your sister is out there every day making the business end of things happen for us, and before her, there were others. If it were up to me or any of the guys in the band to make things happen, we would have been done a long time ago. We wouldn’t know how to promote ourselves if our lives depended on it. Everything we do is scripted by someone else. Everything but the music, of course.”
I have to smile sadly at that. Twenty-six years ago, someone wrote our mothers out of his script, and now here we are.
“Our money managers are there too, making sure nothing gets wasted and everything’s accounted for. We learned pretty late in the game that you can’t blindly trust someone with your money, or one day you’ll wake up and someone will have robbed you blind and used your own money to destroy your life.”