In Dog We Trust

by Beth Kendrick

  “We’re not taking him to the shelter!”

  He held up his palm. “My family just underwrote an animal rescue center out by Bethany Beach. Brand-new, top-of-the-line facilities, veterinary care on call twenty-four-seven. It’s really more like a luxury pet resort than a shelter. They can scan him to see if he has a microchip. If he does, we’ll contact his owner.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Jocelyn started to panic. “I can’t take him home with me. My mother will—”

  “I’ll take him home with me until we find him a great home.” He took off his spotless suede jacket and wrapped it around the dog. “Smitty here will be spoiled rotten.”

  Jocelyn quirked an eyebrow. “Smitty?”

  The guy patted the little gray dog on the head. “That’s his name.”

  Smitty snuggled into the warmth provided by the jacket.

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at him. That’s a Smitty if ever I’ve seen one.”

  Jocelyn laughed as the dog licked her neck. “I guess it is.”

  “Let’s go.” The walking cologne ad with the poor driving skills opened the door and ushered her into the warm, walnut-paneled interior of his luxury automobile. “I’m Chris, by the way. Chris Cantor.”

  Jocelyn feigned total cluelessness, as if she hadn’t heard all about the Cantors and their blue-blooded ancestors and social clout. “I’m Jocelyn Hillier.”

  “Great to meet you, Jocelyn. I’ve got a lot of making up to do.” Chris helped Smitty settle into the backseat, heedless of the muddy paw prints marring the leather upholstery and the suede jacket.

  Jocelyn dug a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at the stains.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Chris put his hand over hers. He left it there.

  Jocelyn glanced up at him, her initial rush of attraction replaced by suspicion. Why would a guy like him be flirting with a girl like her? Though she would never admit it to her mother, Rachel was right: the residents of Shoreline Drive didn’t cozy up to commoners unless they stood to benefit somehow.

  She gazed into those earnest blue eyes. What do you want from me?

  He squeezed her fingers, then got into the driver’s seat. “How long have you lived in Black Dog Bay?”

  “Since I was born.” She took a breath, then added, “My mom and I run a linen supply service.”

  He didn’t wrinkle his nose or smile condescendingly. He looked genuinely intrigued. “What does that entail?”

  “During the summer and holiday weekends like this one, we deliver clean sheets and towels to the rental homes and some of the bed-and-breakfasts. Then, when the guests leave, we pick them up, wash them, and start all over.”

  “You run the business yourself?”

  Jocelyn felt herself relaxing into the supple warmth of the passenger seat. “I do it all. Contracts, bookkeeping, and laundry. Lots and lots of laundry.”

  He kept looking at her, and his evident interest mixed with something else. Respect.

  She reached out and touched his wrist. “Eyes on the road.”

  He grinned and refocused. “So you’re a small-business owner, a stray dog savior, and a hottie?”

  Jocelyn laughed. “I’m a townie who’s not going to fall for some smooth-talking summer boy.”

  “We’ll see about that.” His gaze darted back over to her. “What are you doing next weekend?”

  “Laundry.”

  “Great. I love laundry. It’s a date.”

  “No.” She shook her head in mock exasperation. “There is no date. I don’t get mixed up with guys like you.”

  “Did you hear that, Smitty?” Chris glanced at the dog in the backseat, who was drooling all over the window. “He’s shocked. He can’t believe you’re so cynical.”

  “He may have been dumped by the side of the road,” she pointed out. “I think he’s a little cynical himself.”

  “You’ll see. Stick with me, and you’ll see.”

  Jocelyn brushed back a stray, sweaty hair from her forehead. “See what, exactly?”

  He accelerated and the car’s engine responded with a low, thick purr. “Friday night. Seven p.m. I’ll bring the fabric softener.”

  chapter 2

  Seven months later

  “Ooh, show me that one again.” Jocelyn leaned in closer against Chris’s shoulder.

  “The one with the Eiffel Tower?” Chris scrolled back through the series of photos on his phone.

  “No, the one of the vineyards.”

  Chris nodded and kept scrolling. “Okay, but that wasn’t actually Paris, that was Loire.”

  Jocelyn squinted through the bright noon sunlight to study the photo of a pair of wineglasses set against a blurred background of lush green vines. “It looks so beautiful.”

  “It is.” Chris put down his phone and took Jocelyn’s hand. “You’ll see. You’ll love the wine.”

  “And the chocolate.” Jocelyn closed her eyes and smiled. “I’ve read all about the best chocolatiers in Paris. Maison du Chocolat, Patrick Roger, Hugo et Victor . . .”

  “You’ve already got the chocolate places memorized?”

  “I’ve had them memorized since high school,” Jocelyn confided. “I used to spend hours on the Internet, reading about Paris. I knew just where I wanted to shop, eat, and sleep when I finally went.”

  “Give me a list. Your wish is my command.” Chris pulled out his wallet and signaled a passing waitress for the check.

  Jocelyn sighed. “I can’t believe I’m finally going. I’m so excited to see the Louvre.” She knew she’d butchered the pronunciation, but Chris didn’t correct her. Instead, he looked into her eyes, warm and indulgent.

  “I’m a little nervous about jet lag,” she confessed.

  “Don’t be. They have booze on the plane, and the seats lie flat.”

  “They do?”

  “In business and first class.”

  Which was, of course, the only part of the plane you flew in when you had an Ivy League building bearing your family name. Jocelyn murmured her thanks as Chris paid for lunch, then forced herself to bring up the topic they’d never touched upon in the weeks since he’d first mentioned going to France.

  “So.” She nibbled her lower lip. “About paying for the flights and hotel and everything . . .”

  “Don’t mention it. My treat.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “My treat,” he repeated, his tone firm. He took her hand in his, then frowned down at her fingertips.

  “What?” Jocelyn followed his gaze down to her nails, which still bore traces of dried blood from the morning’s exertions. “Oh, I helped Bree dig up a septic tank this morning.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Yeah, we’ve done it before. This one wasn’t that bad, relatively speaking.”

  “You should have called me,” Chris admonished.

  Jocelyn almost laughed. “Honey. I’m not calling you to dig up a septic tank.”

  He looked affronted. “Why not? You’re saying I’m too milquetoast to get my hands dirty?”

  His use of the word “milquetoast” pushed her over the edge and she did laugh. “No, but septic tanks aren’t really your scene.” She tilted her head to indicate his pristine white polo shirt and elegant gold watch.

  “Septic tanks aren’t anyone’s scene,” he replied. “Which is why you should have called me. You shouldn’t be out there doing all the dirty work by yourself.”

  “Fair enough; next time I’ll text you and you can come out and grab a shovel.”

  Chris shook his head. “What I’ll be grabbing is the number for a plumber. He can dig up the septic tank, and you and I can get brunch.”

  “What about Bree?” Jocelyn asked.

  “She can have brunch with us.”

 
“You make it sound so simple.”

  “That’s because it is.” Chris lifted her hand to his lips. “My girl doesn’t have to dig up sewage.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little sewage,” Jocelyn assured him.

  “And that is why I love you.” He stood up, pulled out her chair, and helped her to her feet. “Now I have to go take a conference call, but when can I see you again?”

  “Saturday?” she suggested.

  “How about tonight?” He brushed her hair back from her cheek. “We could have dinner at the new seafood place in Rehoboth.”

  He continued to surprise her with his attentiveness, his persistence. For the first few months of their courtship, she’d expected him to disappear. To simply stop calling and texting one day. But he kept showing up, weekend after weekend, and somewhere along the way, she’d let her guard down and let him into her heart.

  “Okay, but maybe a late dinner?” she said. “I have to handle a late check-in at seven thirty.”

  “Pick you up at eight.” And there it was—the cologne ad smile in all its glory. Never got old.

  Jocelyn beamed, no longer conscious of the slivers of septic tank still lodged under her nails. “Before you go, show it to me one more time.”

  Chris fired up his phone. “Which one? The Loire?”

  “The Eiffel Tower.” She pressed her cheek against his as she gazed at the photo and thought, That would be the perfect place for a proposal. The thought so stunned her that she stiffened and pulled back.

  “What?” Chris squeezed her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

  “Of course.” She lowered her eyes and cleared her throat. “But I should go. I’m late for work.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You’re late.” Mr. Allardyce’s voice boomed through the foyer as Jocelyn let herself in the front door of the oceanside French/Tuscan-style mansion. “You should have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jocelyn slipped the key ring back into her pocket with a jingle.

  “You should be.” Lois, who always had a stinging comment and a snide look for Jocelyn, put on her sunglasses and prepared to make her exit. “They’ve all had a very demanding training session and they’re in desperate need of downtime.”

  Jocelyn smiled her sweetest smile at the acid-tongued trainer. “Lovely to see you, as always. Good luck at the dog show in Dover next week.”

  Lois slammed the door in response.

  “She’s definitely warming up to me,” Jocelyn remarked as she strolled into the kitchen. “We’re going to be braiding each other’s hair and binge-watching The Crown soon.”

  “Everybody’s been waiting for you.” Mr. Allardyce limped across the smooth travertine tiles, his hand shaking as he leaned on his cane. “Carmen was so upset, she started gnawing on the ottoman.”

  “Poor Carmen.” Jocelyn glanced into the living room to assess the damage. “And poor ottoman.”

  “Stop flapping your gums and get going,” Mr. Allardyce ordered. “I’m not paying you to talk.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jocelyn dropped her handbag on one of the ornately carved oak chairs by the breakfast bar, then hurried to the back of the house to grab the leashes. She could hear the dogs before she even opened the door to the mudroom. The pathetic canine whining intensified as she approached.

  Jocelyn flung the door open and braced herself. “Hi, babies!” A whirling dervish of black and brown fur emerged. “Hi, Hester! Hi, Carmen! Hi, Curtis!” She blinked her eyes against the flurry of dog hair drifting through the air and gave each pup a kiss on the head and an ear scratch.

  “You guys ready for your run?”

  The whining escalated to yipping and woofing as the dogs swarmed around Jocelyn in a mishmash of boxy heads and wagging tails.

  As Mr. Allardyce never tired of telling her, he had worked hard to earn his fortune, and he only accepted the very best from himself . . . and from everybody else in his life. He prided himself on surrounding himself with the finest and rarest. Luxury automobiles. Oceanfront property. Purebred dogs of the most prestigious pedigree.

  The trio of dogs tumbling over one another in the mudroom were technically Labrador retrievers, but they were so well groomed and athletically conditioned that they barely resembled other Labs Jocelyn saw at the park and the beach. Tall, lean, and long-legged, they were bred to work as field dogs.

  Their impressive lineage hadn’t bestowed any sense of dignity. Each of the Labs currently slobbering on her had an AKC registered name, a cabinet full of trophies and ribbons, and a case of shampoos, toiletries, and grooming equipment that put a beauty parlor to shame. They had documents proving their parentage and professional photos that were reprinted in glossy magazines. They were high-maintenance, high-priced, high-status members of dog royalty. But right now, all they wanted to do was run.

  “I know, you’ve waited long enough.” Jocelyn clipped their leashes on, though this was just a formality. As soon as she took them across the deck and out to the sand, she would let them loose to race across the dunes of the private beach that Mr. Allardyce had fenced off for his prized pooches.

  “Don’t let them come back until they’re worn out,” Mr. Allardyce commanded as the dogs towed Jocelyn toward the back door.

  “Has that ever happened? Ever?”

  “One of these days,” the old man said.

  “Very optimistic of you,” Jocelyn replied. Even Hester, who was pregnant, had an apparently boundless supply of energy.

  Jocelyn let the dogs run for a good forty-five minutes before clipping their leashes back on and returning to the house. “They had a blast, as always,” she reported to Mr. Allardyce.

  “But are they worn out?” He eyed all the perky ears and wagging tails with suspicion.

  “‘Worn out’ is aspirational,” she told him.

  He was pouring himself an iced tea but didn’t offer her any. “Be on time tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” She brightened. “Oh, and I should tell you that I’m probably going to be gone for about a week and a half next month. Let me know if you need me to help find someone else for dog duty when I’m gone.”

  His bushy gray eyebrows snapped together. “What? Where are you going?”

  She couldn’t suppress her grin. “Paris.”

  “With that spoiled millennial who almost murdered my precious Carmen?”

  Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “That’s the one.”

  “Why the hell would you want to go to Paris?”

  “Uh, let me see.” She ticked off her reasons on her fingers. “Pastry, museums, chocolate, romance, the Eiffel Tower . . .”

  “Paris is so crowded.” He wrinkled his nose. “And everyone speaks French.”

  “Yes, well, that happens when you go to France.”

  He slapped his hand down on the tabletop. “I forbid you to go.”

  Jocelyn blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Hester is going to have puppies any day now, and I’ll need someone to be with her around the clock. Someone who knows her and understands her.”

  “We have plenty of time to find someone else.”

  “I don’t want someone else.” This might sound flattering from someone else, but coming from Mr. Allardyce, it was like a threat from a mafia boss. “I want you.”

  “What about Lois?” Jocelyn suggested. “She’s much better qualified than I am to take care of puppies.”

  “You made the whelping box.” He pointed to the towel-lined wooden box in the mudroom.

  “By the grace of Pinterest.” Jocelyn shook her head. “And Home Depot. I don’t think it’s up to AKC standards.”

  “The dogs love you best,” Mr. Allardyce insisted.

  “That’s very kind of you to say, but let’s face facts: They love anyone with a pocketful of beef jerky.”

 
The old man set his jaw. “Hester needs you.”

  This conversation was going nowhere productive, so Jocelyn pointedly glanced at her watch. “Well, I better get going. I’ve still got some work to do before tonight.”

  But her curmudgeonly employer wasn’t finished. “If I had a daughter like you, I wouldn’t let her waste her time with a trust-fund brat in a red convertible he bought with his daddy’s money.”

  Jocelyn grinned. “Aw. So now I’m the daughter you never had?”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady.” Mr. Allardyce reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here. Curtis finally destroyed that stuffed squirrel you got him last month. Buy him another one.”

  “Please” and “thank you” would be nice. Jocelyn glanced back at the contented dogs and told herself that canine gratitude would have to suffice. “I’ll stop by the pet supply store on my way home.”

  Mr. Allardyce narrowed his gaze. “You going to charge me extra?”

  “Nope.”

  He regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief. “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “It’s on my way and it’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “You shouldn’t give away your time,” he said. “Especially to people you don’t like.”

  “I like the dogs,” she said.

  Mr. Allardyce was gazing at her in consternation again. “You really do love them, don’t you?”

  “I must.” Jocelyn glanced down at the twenty in her hand. “I’m certainly not in this for the money.”

  chapter 3

  Jocelyn scored the very last stuffed squirrel from the pet supply store at the edge of town, then turned back onto Main Street, driving with extra caution amid the throngs of pedestrians returning from the beach and the boardwalk. She meant to go right home and start on her other job. She meant to be diligent and responsible.

  And yet . . . as she spotted the sign for the Naked Finger, Black Dog Bay’s estate jewelry store, Jocelyn stopped the car, snagged a parking spot that miraculously opened up (clearly an act of divine intervention), and dashed across the street. A bell chimed as she entered the shop, and a dainty-featured brunette greeted Jocelyn from behind the glass display case.