Love and the Silver Lining

by Tammy L. Gray

  “A long shower and a very early bedtime.” When she gives me a horror-filled expression, I add, “I have to be up at six tomorrow morning.”

  She slides onto a barstool and sets her elbows up on the counter. “On a Saturday, why?”

  “I have to pick up Sam for the dog fair, and unfortunately, Charlie’s farm and the park we’re setting up at are in opposite directions. Plus, I want to make sure I have time to groom her again before people start coming.”

  “Makes sense. Those adoption fairs are kind of like a farmers’ market but for dogs, right? People weave between station after station and pick out the best-looking option?” She glances at my untouched plate. “You should eat that before it gets cold.”

  “I don’t know if it’s that impersonal. I mean, most people who come to these things are looking for a lifelong companion.” I scoop up a forkful and put it in my mouth after making my point. The rice is a little dry, and the meat could use more salt, but overall I’d say Zoe definitely has a future as a chef.

  “So, the appearance doesn’t matter at all?”

  I sense I’m being baited yet answer honestly. “No, it matters. That’s why I’ve spent all week painstakingly brushing out Sam’s coat. She’ll definitely stand out tomorrow.”

  “And what about you? Do you have a come-check-out-my-dog outfit picked out?”

  I set down my fork, even though I want to keep eating. “It really doesn’t matter what I wear.”

  Zoe’s perfectly plucked eyebrow soars to the ceiling. “I beg to differ. You aren’t just selling . . . her name is Sam, right?”

  I nod, though I don’t care for her terminology.

  “I thought so.” She pauses as if trying to remember exactly where she left off. “You’re not just selling Sam, the product. You’re selling a feeling. A promise of fun, comfort, companionship. They’re going to judge both of you for that feeling.”

  “Sam isn’t a product. And I’m not ‘selling’ anything.” I return to my plate and finish off the last of the meat medallions.

  “Well, technically, you’re asking the adoptive family to pay for food, vet bills, and grooming for the next ten-plus years. That’s a big financial commitment.”

  I hadn’t ever looked at it that way.

  “So . . .” She claps her hands together, and I have a sinking suspicion I’ve somehow solved her boredom problem. “This is what we’re going to do. Tonight we are going to find you the perfect outfit for tomorrow. Then I’m going to show you how to add a little volume and curl to that hair of yours so you won’t have to pull it up into a ponytail.”

  Maybe Cam was right about the catfights after all. “I appreciate the offer, Zoe, but I can dress myself.”

  Determination sparks in her eyes. “So you’re willing to risk Sam’s future on your pride? Because here’s what half those people are going to see when they come up to you. A beautiful dog being held by a girl who looks frumpy, tired, and depressed. But then next to you is this sharp-looking guy with trendy jeans, a crisp, clean button-up, and an adorable dog who makes him look like a magazine model. Which one would you want to be?”

  I’m too stunned to speak. Too offended to even know how to answer her question. “I don’t look frumpy and depressed.” Okay, I’ll admit I’ve been a little lazy with the hair brushing lately, and half my stuff is buried in storage so my clothing choices have been pretty limited, but I’m not that far from where I used to be.

  “Have you looked in the mirror once since you’ve moved in with me?” When I don’t answer, she continues, “You’re an incredibly striking girl. You always have been. I sort of hated you for it growing up. But lately, your outside”—she motions with her hand up and down—“looks like a walking ad for Prozac.”

  I bite my lip and look down at my plate, suddenly wishing I hadn’t eaten that last bite. It’s rolling in my stomach now, along with a sudden shot of anxiety. It never occurred to me that I was wearing my feelings so blatantly.

  “You’ve been through trauma, Darcy, I get that. Trust me. But at some point, you’re going to have to pick up the pieces and move forward.” Zoe must sense that she’s hit a nerve because her tone softens a little. “A bit of physical updating might just be the spark you need.”

  I think of Sam and how her confidence soared with each tangle we freed. How brush after brush was healing to her brokenness. It’s wild how our life can be reflected through an animal. “You really think it will help Sam’s chances if I—” I can hardly get the words to come out of my mouth—“dress up a little?”

  “Without a doubt.” Zoe’s victory smile is wide and excited. “Trust me, this is what I do for a living. When we’re done, you’re going to be so irresistible that not only is Sam getting adopted within the first hour, but I bet you’ll have at least two date offers, as well.”

  “Random dates with strangers is the last thing I want.” That is reserved solely for my mom, although the Michael guy is still around, which I find a bit unnerving. “But I will concede that my current wardrobe is lacking.”

  “Lacking? Darcy, those jeans you wore the other day were the same ones you wore to youth camp when I was a seventh grader.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you sat on a blue highlighter, and it stained the denim right below your left back pocket. That blue stain is still there, next to the fraying pocket that is only halfway attached to your pants.”

  Oh my word. She’s right. And maybe it’s the end of a long week or just the fact that I’m standing in Zoe’s kitchen, getting a lecture about clothing, but I suddenly find myself laughing.

  The disease catches on and Zoe joins in. Even Piper responds with a melody of barks.

  When we finally ease to a stop, Zoe jumps off the barstool and pulls her wallet from her purse. “Now go shower. We have a lot to do in a very short amount of time.” She slides a gold plastic card from one of the credit card slots and waves it in the air. “And don’t worry. If there’s one thing I’m an expert at, it’s retail therapy.”

  eleven

  James McKnight Park in Mansfield is a beautiful treed area with lots of walking trails and baseball fields. It was a bit chaotic when we first showed up, mostly because I hadn’t ever done one of these before. It took me fifteen minutes to find my point of contact, all while navigating a lawn chair strapped to my back, a rolling cooler in my left hand, and a very curious dog in my right. Keeping Sam close by my side and away from a tidal wave of unruly foster dogs was a feat in itself.

  However, once I was sufficiently schooled on the paperwork and adoption criteria, the lady in charge showed me my reserved area and scurried off to help the next novice. By eight, everyone was settled, and by nine, the radio station along with six bounce houses were set up and ready for action.

  Sam and I are near the half-mile marker and well shaded from the summer sun. It’s not the prime location, since most of the families haven’t left the play area, but it’s not Siberia either. And since I’ve chosen optimism today, I’m going to appreciate the fact that my location will cut out being bombarded by curious onlookers who have no interest in adopting a pet.

  I squat down and run a brush once more through Sam’s silky fur. I added fish oil to her diet this week, and it’s already having a huge impact on her coloring and skin quality. When satisfied she looks as beautiful as possible, I stand and tug at the denim skirt Zoe talked me into buying.

  Overall, the outfit isn’t too impractical, though the skirt is on the edge. Luckily it reaches to my knees, so I can still bend without showing unmentionables. The top is a lightweight button-up that ties at the waist. It’s simple, fur-resistant, and actually really comfortable. The shoes were a bit of an argument, but we settled on slip-on Vans in a dark gray. They aren’t the well-worn, comfy tennis shoes I bought last year, but far better than the two-inch open-toe sandals she suggested.

  Surprisingly, the night was kind of entertaining, even though shopping is at the bottom of my fun list. In some ways, Zoe re
minds me of Bryson, and in others, she’s the polar opposite. They share the same charisma, especially when passionate about a topic, but Zoe has a layer of insecurity I’ve never seen in Bryson. Then again, the guy’s been on his own since he was seventeen, and I seriously doubt he’s ever once used his daddy’s credit card.

  Zoe, on the other hand, is a spending machine. Shoes, a leather purse, a pair of sunglasses that cost more than my entire outfit. When I mentioned the growing tab, she laughed it off, saying, “Daddy likes paying for my things. It makes him feel like we’re bonding.” I didn’t say a word, but I imagine there are mountains of self-help books written specifically on the dangers of that kind of daddy-daughter relationship. Then again, my own relationship with my father is therapist worthy right now, so who am I to judge.

  Sam and I wait as another ten minutes drag by without any guests, and Sam chooses to lie down on the grass and stretch out. I’m close to wanting to do the same when I spot a tall guy dressed in all black walking toward us. I know in a millisecond it’s Bryson. Who else wears combat boots in June?

  He looks my direction, squints, then glances back down at the paper in his hand. Then he spins around and seems to count the spaces leading up to mine again. This time I wave, and even though he has to see me, I swear the man hesitates before coming closer.

  Sam jumps to her feet, tail wagging.

  “Sorry, girl. This one isn’t in the market for a new puppy.” In fact, Bryson isn’t in the market for much more than a hit record, so I have no idea why he’s here.

  “Wow,” he says the minute we’re within earshot of each other. “You two look like you belong on the cover of American Canine.” His gaze trails from the top of my head down to my no-show socks. “How is there not a line in front of you?”

  I shrug off his compliment but can’t help the way his words cause my stomach to dip. “You know what they say about location. And the magazine-cover thing is Zoe’s doing.” I pick up a wavy lock of hair. “Down to the blisters I now have from her curling wand.”

  “Tell me you didn’t fall for the ‘you need to sell the product’ line.”

  I open my mouth and close it again. “How did you . . . ?”

  “She gave me the same pitch last week.”

  I cross my arms. “Did she call you a walking advertisement for Prozac?”

  A smile plays behind his eyes. “Not that I remember, but then again, I block out half of what Zoe says.” He squats down in front of Sam and scratches the thick fur on her neck. “Her hair feels like silk. Charlie was right. You’ve worked a miracle with her.”

  Warmth fills my arms at his praise. “Charlie said that?”

  He glances up at me. “He did. He also gave me the address and told me to get out here and help you.”

  Now I know he’s lying. “Nice try. What did he really say?”

  “Something I probably shouldn’t repeat since it wasn’t PG. Turns out you were right. Giving up the dogs in theory sounded good, but he’s hurting especially bad today.” Bryson stands back up. “I figured if I could tell him a little about the family that adopted her, it might ease the sting a little.”

  “That’s if I can get a family over here to meet her.”

  “You will. Just let the excitement of the bounce houses wear off a little.” He scoots next to me in the shade, and I can hear his relief as the air cools at least ten degrees. His shirt is tight and likely Dri-Fit, but it’s still black, and in the Texas sun, that’s enough to roast a person.

  “So, what did Zoe want to change about your style?”

  He turns his head to look at me. “She thinks the all-black thing has run its course and that we should update our image now that Cameron’s in the band and we actually have a real shot at making it.”

  It’s funny how Zoe’s honesty feels a lot less biting when not directed at me. “She has a point.”

  He sighs like he knows I’m right. “It’s a tough thing to reshape your identity, no matter how important the reason. I guess I haven’t felt ready to do it.”

  “I understand. My entire adult life I’ve been known as the missionary girl. I’m still struggling with what I am now that it’s gone.”

  “Well, to the five dogs on Charlie’s property, you’re a savior. Not bad for an identity, at least for a little while.”

  Our gazes meet and my cheeks flush from the sincerity in them. “Thanks.”

  He clears his throat as if embarrassed and glances back to the crowd. “Hey, don’t look now, but I spot a single dad with two kids coming your way.”

  “Really?” I follow his gaze, and sure enough, the trio is approaching, the older of the boys pulling on his frazzled dad’s arm, fighting to get him to hurry. The younger one clings to the dad like a draping monkey, disheveling both his polo shirt and pressed khaki shorts. “Okay, Sam, this is it.” I tug her collar and she sits, her back straight, her hair billowing out around her. I turn back to Bryson, but he’s backed away almost to the edge of my assigned square. I wave at him to come forward, but he shakes his head. I guess I understand. He’s pretty intimidating in his current attire.

  The eager boy releases his dad’s hand when they get within a few feet of us and comes rushing over, only to halt a few inches from Sam’s nose. His hair is a tight buzz cut, and his matching Reebok shirt and shorts combo looks just slightly too small. I wonder if that’s why Bryson assumed the guy was single or if it was the sheer exhaustion and panic written all over the poor man’s face.

  “Can I pet him?” the boy says in an excited squeal.

  “Joshua,” his dad scolds, walking as fast as he can while lugging a smaller boy on his hip. “What did I say about running up to dogs like that? You can scare them.”

  I squat down so I’m eye level with the little boy. “Your dad’s right. You have to be really cautious with new animals.” I scratch Sam’s head. “Luckily, Sam here loves to be petted, although you should know she’s a girl, not a boy.”

  The kid carefully touches her fur. “Isn’t Sam a boy’s name?”

  “It’s short for Samantha, I think.”

  “Hi, Sam, I’m Joshua, but my friends call me Josh, so my name is shorter, too. I think you and I are going to be great friends.”

  Sam must agree. Her tail wags to a spastic degree and she inches as close to him as I’ll allow before starting a lick fest on the boy’s throat.

  Joshua laughs and laughs, going from hesitant touches to full-on hugging. “Can I have her, Dad? Pleaaasseee. She’s the best dog ever.”

  Yeah, that poor guy is going home with this dog for sure.

  Dad sets down the boy on his hip, who seems old enough to walk by himself, and presses two fingers to each temple. “Let’s look around some more first. You may find one you like better.”

  I’m thinking not. Sam and Josh are now rolling in the grass together.

  “I’m Darcy,” I offer with an outstretched hand.

  Dad shakes it, his eyes darting between me and Bryson in the corner.

  “Sam really is a great dog. I’ve been working on leash obedience, and she’s picked up on my cues really quickly. I’ll be happy to show you some techniques if you’re interested.”

  “Looks like I am whether I want to be or not,” he grumbles. Joshua is now getting thoroughly soaked by Sam’s tongue and loving every second of dousing. “How intense is the upkeep and shedding?”

  Smart dad.

  “I won’t lie, you will need to brush her daily and add fish oil to her diet. But a little each day will prevent a great deal of long-term problems. You may want to get her professionally groomed each quarter just to thin out the hair and help with shedding, but we’ve found that kids who take responsibility for a pet at that age are more likely to apply that work ethic in other areas of their lives.” I finish my speech with a tug on Sam’s leash, and she hesitantly returns to my side.

  Dad checks on his younger boy again and sees he’s inched closer and closer to Bryson. The kid’s nearly identical to his brother minus t
he four-inch height differential. Same buzz cut, matching outfit, similar inquisitive nature. “Jacob, come back here,” the man calls out.

  “That’s my friend Bryson. He’s only scary on the outside.” I smile reassuringly and head-motion for Bryson to come join us. “We can keep an eye on Jacob if you want to see how Sam does on a leash with Joshua.”

  Behind us is an open field that would be a perfectly safe place for the two of them to practice.

  Joshua pulls on his father’s shorts. “Please, Dad. Come on. You promised.”

  Dad looks at his kid, then at Sam, who is rocking some seriously potent puppy eyes, and caves. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  He turns to Jacob, who’s eye level with a squatting Bryson.

  It takes me aback for a second, seeing him in such a parental position. Especially since he’s now pulling out a small metal thing from his pocket and bringing it to his mouth. A beat later, harmonica music fills the void, and the little one laughs and claps and begs to try to play it for himself.

  Dad returns his attention to me. “Okay, we’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “No problem.” I hand Sam’s leash over to Dad. “Two tugs mean she needs to stay next to you on your left. One tug means to sit. If you give her slack, she knows she’s free to explore, so only give her what you’re comfortable with.”

  Joshua unsuccessfully attempts to pull the leash from his dad’s grip. “Stop,” his dad says firmly. “I’ll let you try when there are less distractions around us.”

  I watch them leave, proud of how carefully Sam is behaving. People don’t give dogs enough credit. I have no doubt that she feels the weight of this moment nearly as much as I do. I return my gaze to Bryson—who’s wiping down the harmonica with one of my antibacterial wipes—and move closer to the duo.

  “Okay, little guy, blow out and suck in.”

  Jacob carefully holds the instrument to his mouth and attempts to make sound come out of it. Nothing happens. Bryson adjusts the boy’s hands and where the metal is placed against his lips. Two more attempts later, an ear-piercing shriek comes from the other end.