In Dog We Trust

by Beth Kendrick

  “The good stuff will be in the dining room, not in here,” Bree predicted. “And I bet the closets are next-level fabulous. Wealthy people are really into their closets. It’s a status thing. Cedar drawers, shoe cabinets, climate control . . . you’ll see.”

  “Climate control?” Jocelyn peered into the dining room where, sure enough, she spied an array of spotless crystal goblets and flutes in a glass-paned breakfront. “In a closet? What does that even mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know that Hattie Huntington has it at her house.” Both women gazed out the window and down the waterline at the massive purple mansion positioned at the far side of the crescent-shaped bay. “Lila Alders told me.”

  “Lila Alders. She’s the one who got me into that mess with trying on engagement rings.” Jocelyn extracted two champagne flutes from the breakfront with the care and precision of a CDC lab tech handling a sample of bubonic plague. “Chris’s sister heard about it and she . . . you know what? Never mind. That’s a story for another time.” She carried the glasses back to the kitchen and nodded at the moisture-beaded bottle of champagne. “Care to do the honors?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Bree popped the cork and poured liberal servings into the flutes. “Cheers to the craftiest get-rich-quick scheme ever: dog walking.”

  They sipped their fine French champagne to the sounds of the dogs lapping up water in the next room.

  “God, they’re loud,” Bree said. “It sounds like an army marching through puddles.”

  Jocelyn savored the sensation of tiny bubbles on her tongue. “All right, let’s go check out the closets. You want to make a bet on the climate controls? Winner buys dinner.”

  Bree gazed around at the luxury surrounding them on all sides. “No dice. I’d say you can afford to pick up the check. Forever.”

  “Or as long as the dogs are around. Or their offspring. Or their offspring’s offspring.” Jocelyn took another swig of her bubbly and led the way up the staircase and down the hall.

  Bree stopped in her tracks when they opened the doors to the master bedroom. “If loving this kind of crass, materialistic consumerism is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

  Jocelyn took in the ocean view from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall. “Wasted on an empty house for ten months out of the year.”

  “I’m . . . I’m home.” Bree trailed her fingertips along the white damask duvet draped across the bed. “Feel this. It’s like a Hallmark card for my soul. Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?”

  “Sure, but you might want to wash the sheets.”

  “I’ll buy new sheets. You’ll buy me new sheets.” Bree drifted into the bathroom while Jocelyn continued to admire the view. A moment later, she heard the water running.

  “What are you doing?” She peered into the bathroom to find water pouring into the bathtub and Bree shucking off her shirt.

  “Taking a bath. Look at this tub—I bet it’s never been used. Sinful.” Bree rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. “I wonder if that old sourpuss had any bubble bath?”

  “I highly doubt it. Can’t you wait to take a bath?”

  “No.”

  “What about the closets?”

  “Eh, we’ll get to them later. The tub requires my immediate attention.” Bree twisted her hair up into a topknot. “And look, there’s a TV in the shower. Do me a solid and turn on the Food Network?”

  “But the rest of the house,” Jocelyn sputtered.

  “It’ll still be there in an hour or three.” Bree tilted her head to indicate the remote placed on the marble countertop. “Worst Cooks in America is on in five minutes.”

  Jocelyn obligingly clicked on the TV and wandered back to the kitchen, where the dogs were busy disemboweling a stuffed hedgehog toy. “Well, guys, it’s just you, me, and the bottle of bubbly.” She toasted the shredded hedgehog, then topped off her glass.

  In the space of four hours, her entire life had changed. Things that she would have sworn were impossible yesterday were suddenly within her reach.

  And best of all, she had somebody wonderful to share it with.

  She extracted her phone from her bag and was about to call Chris when the doorbell chimed. The dogs lost their collective mind, howling and barking and tripping Jocelyn as she tried to herd them back into the mudroom. While she was closing the door to the kitchen, the bell chimed again.

  “Are you going to get that or what?” Bree hollered from upstairs.

  Jocelyn started to yell back that it wasn’t her house, she didn’t live here, but then she remembered. It was her house. She did in fact live here. The front door was now her jurisdiction.

  She walked into the foyer, pausing under the massive chandelier that glinted and gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Through the glass panes on either side of the massive door, she could discern the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered man. Wearing boat shoes.

  He rang the doorbell again.

  “I’m trying to hear Tyler Florence and Chef Anne up here!” Bree cried.

  Jocelyn had no idea what she’d say to this guy, but she also knew that she’d never have any idea what to say to him, so best to get it over with now. She squared her shoulders and opened the door with what she hoped was an air of neutrality. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.” Liam stepped closer to the threshold, bristling with energy and frustration.

  Years of etiquette lectures from her mother overrode her desire to slam the door in his face. “May I help you with something?”

  “Yeah.” He took full advantage of her hesitation and sidestepped around her and into the house. “I’m here for my inheritance.”

  “Ah, yes, the infamous ironwood tree.” Jocelyn backed off a bit to regain her personal space. “I have no idea about any of that. You should probably call the lawyers.”

  Liam veered off to the left.

  “Hello? Excuse me?” Jocelyn trailed behind him as he charged into the study. “I don’t know which tree Mr. Allardyce intended to bequeath to you, but I’m pretty sure it’s outside the house.”

  Liam stopped in the middle of the room, slowly turning to take in the tasteful seascape oil paintings, the heavy antique desk, the masculine plaid drapes and sleek computer.

  “So this is where he worked,” he muttered.

  “Just as a refresher, trees don’t grow in home offices. I mean, you’re welcome to pick out something else, too, if you want. A little memento.” Jocelyn made the offer without thinking it through, but once she’d said it, she felt she’d done the right thing. “Here.” She noticed a pair of gold cuff links resting on a shallow silver dish on the desktop. “Would you like to take these?”

  The corner of his mouth twisted up in a derisive sneer as he accepted her offering. “That’s very generous of you. Are you going to offer me the duck decoys, too?”

  “I was just . . .”

  “Trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible. I know. That’s what happens whenever I show up at this house.”

  “Well, the good news is, you won’t have to show up here anymore,” Jocelyn said pointedly.

  Liam stopped staring at the walls and turned his focus to her. “Pretty possessive of your new house, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not mine; it’s the dogs’.”

  “But you’ll live here. Sleep in his bedroom, enjoy his views, and spend all his money.” Liam’s frustration had cooled into calculated cynicism.

  “I actually haven’t decided where I’ll sleep.”

  “You and my father must have been very close.” He narrowed his eyes and gave her a thorough once-over.

  “Your father.” Jocelyn let this sink in for a minute. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” He kept looking her over.

  Even though she was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt, Jocelyn felt an urge to shiel
d herself from his gaze. She had so many questions but knew it wasn’t her place to ask.

  Liam kept staring at her. “What were you, anyway?”

  “I . . . what?”

  “What were you to my father?”

  “The dog walker. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “What else?” he pressed.

  And just like that, she felt cheap and manipulative, as though she had an obligation to explain herself. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I think you do.” He put his hands into his pockets and strolled back through the foyer. “My father was not a generous man. He wasn’t into charity, or giving back, or helping his fellow man. He was a mean, stubborn, selfish SOB. If he left you a house and a bunch of money, he thought you deserved them. That you earned them.” Liam glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Was it worth it?”

  Jocelyn strode to the front door and flung it open. “Get out. Now.”

  He nodded as though she’d confirmed all his suspicions. “I get it. You’re willing to take the cash and the house, but you don’t want anyone to know what you did to get them.”

  She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “What is the ruckus down here?” Bree padded into the fray wearing a voluminous white plush bathrobe monogrammed in green thread with Mr. Allardyce’s initials. Her hair was damp, her feet were bare, but she had the demeanor of a headmistress about to hand out demerits left and right. She positioned herself between Jocelyn and Liam. “Who are you and why is she having to call the cops on you?”

  Jocelyn stopped dialing. “That’s Boat Shoes.”

  “Ah, yes.” Bree nodded. “From the funeral.”

  Liam looked bewildered. “Boat Shoes?”

  “Shh,” Bree ordered. “It’s not your turn to talk.”

  “I’m calling the cops because he accused me of pulling an Anna Nicole Smith and he won’t get off my property.”

  Bree clapped her hand to her mouth. “Ew.”

  “I know!”

  “You?! And Mr. Allardyce?! Eww.”

  Jocelyn leveled her index finger at Liam. “You’re sick.”

  He seemed intrigued. “Why does this bother you so much?”

  “Uh, maybe because you’re implying I’m a gold-digging whore with no morals and no money?”

  “She runs a successful family business,” Bree informed Liam. “She doesn’t need to gold-dig.”

  “This can’t be the first time you’ve heard this.” Liam shook his head. “You have to know that this is what everyone’s saying.”

  “No, it’s not.” Jocelyn gave a scornful laugh.

  He stared at her.

  “It is not. Is it?” Jocelyn appealed to Bree.

  Bree was watching Liam intently. “Who are you, again?”

  “I’m the son.” Liam sounded defiant.

  Bree turned to Jocelyn. “Mr. Allardyce had a son?”

  “So he says.” Jocelyn shot him a skeptical gaze. “There’s no DNA evidence.”

  Bree nodded and turned back to Liam. “Why have we never heard of you before?”

  “My father and I weren’t close.”

  “Then why do you think you have the right to show up and act like all this stuff is your due?”

  Liam waited a few beats before answering. “My family history is complicated.”

  “Why are you always wearing boat shoes?” Jocelyn demanded.

  Liam seemed startled by the question. “One of my business associates has a house in this area. He bought a new sailboat and wanted to take me out in it. I didn’t want to ruin the deck.”

  “I see.” She nodded brusquely. “And what exactly can we do for you?”

  “I came to see for myself what was going on.”

  “What’s going on is none of your business. Be gone.”

  “Hmm.” Bree put her hands on her hips and looked Liam up and down.

  “And since you’re so interested in what everyone’s saying,” Jocelyn added, “you should know that everyone’s saying that you were with your father when he died.”

  Liam didn’t respond. His body, face, and eyes remained totally unchanged.

  “I heard that you guys were having a heated discussion, and he keeled over right there in the restaurant.” Jocelyn knew she should shut up, but she was incensed by the implication that she had been sleeping with Mr. Allardyce.

  Liam finally nodded. “He went into cardiac arrhythmia. That’s what the doctors said.”

  “Say whatever you want about me, but at least I was here for your father. I didn’t traipse into town every five years or whatever just because I needed something.”

  “You have no idea what my relationship with my father was like.”

  “Except I kind of do, because he left you nothing in his will. Contrary to what you say, your father was quite generous when he wanted to be. He spared no expense on the things he cared about—like the dogs. But he wouldn’t let you set foot in this house, he wouldn’t give you anything of value from his estate, he literally died while fighting with you.”

  “I want what’s mine,” Liam said, his voice even.

  “None of this is yours. Except a tree.” Jocelyn gave him a jaunty farewell wave. “Feel free to pick the one you like best from the yard. Then scram.”

  Liam stepped back outside, then turned around and gave her a warning glance. “We’re not done.”

  “We sure are! Au revoir!”

  Bree stepped forward and offered a handshake. “Pleasure meeting you.”

  Jocelyn frowned. Forced, fake civility was not Bree’s usual style.

  Seemingly from sheer force of habit, Liam extended his hand. Bree grabbed it, turned it over, and leaned over to study his palm. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . oh. Oh.”

  Liam reclaimed his hand, Bree ducked back into the foyer, and Jocelyn slammed the door.

  “What was that about?” Jocelyn demanded.

  “Nothing. I wanted a quick peek at his palm.”

  “But you’re not a palm reader,” Jocelyn mocked.

  “Definitely not. This was purely for fun and recreation.” Bree cleared her throat and backed toward the stairs. “Anyway. I have to go throw up from the mental image of you and Mr. Allardyce canoodling on a beach towel while the sun rises over the Atlantic.”

  “Why would you say that? Now I have mental images, too!” Jocelyn pressed her fingers to her temple. “This is horrifying.”

  “Nightmares for weeks.”

  “Wait,” Jocelyn commanded before her friend could escape. “What did you see? On his palm?”

  “Um . . .” Bree turned her gaze upward, pretending to be stumped. “Nothing much.”

  “Really? Because you seemed interested.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Bree said. “If there was anything you needed to know, I’d tell you.”

  “So you admit you’re holding out on me.”

  “I admit nothing.” Bree scampered up the stairs.

  As she turned back toward the kitchen, Jocelyn noticed a glint of gold from the marble-topped table in the foyer. Liam had left the cuff links behind. She didn’t want him to have any excuse to come back, so she grabbed the cuff links and hightailed it out to the driveway with Carmen on her heels.

  “Don’t you dare make one of your escape attempts,” she warned the dog as they ran out the door. “I might need backup.”

  chapter 11

  “Wait!” Jocelyn yelled as Liam opened the driver’s-side door to his SUV. “You forgot these.”

  When he turned to face her, he looked different. The flat coldness in his eyes had been replaced with fire and anguish. He was jangling his keys. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of a confused, confounded son trying to connect with his father, and she felt a twinge of compassi
on.

  Wordlessly, awkwardly, she offered the cuff links to him. He didn’t even glance at them. Instead, he kept gazing at the house.

  “I’m not sure what I came for.” He finally opened his palm to accept the cuff links. “After all this time, you’d think I’d have figured it out.”

  She let the silence stretch out between them for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said about you and your father.”

  “It’s fine.” His expression shifted back into neutral mode.

  “No, it’s not. I have no idea what went on between you two, and I know firsthand how complicated parent-child relationships can get. I was mad, but I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He nodded, then turned his attention to Carmen. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Carmen. She’s our resident social butterfly and escape artist. If she could drive, she’d be stealing your car and joyriding right now.”

  Carmen sidled up to Liam’s side, and he scratched her ears.

  “She was your father’s favorite, I think,” Jocelyn confided. “He’d deny having a favorite, but they had a special bond. I think he liked her rebelliousness.”

  Liam finally cracked a smile. “It’s hard to imagine him having a special bond with anyone.”

  “It’s different with dogs.”

  “That’s for sure.” He glanced down at the cuff links, then opened the passenger door of the SUV and tossed them into a cup holder. “What happened with your father?”

  Jocelyn snapped to attention. “What? Nothing. Why?”

  “You said you know firsthand about difficult parent-child relationships.”

  “Well, our relationship wasn’t really ‘difficult.’ More like ‘nonexistent.’” Jocelyn hesitated. This was not something she talked about. She’d told everyone who asked—including Chris—that she’d never met her father. And most of the time, she wished that were the truth. But she recognized the anguish in Liam’s eyes. Even though they’d just met, the two of them had a connection. The crappy-father connection. “I met him once. In D.C., where he works. I was twelve. I showed up near his office and followed him inside.”