Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) (2 page)

I directed Mr. Zemski to lead the dog onto the digital scale against the wall. “I take it the dog had no collar or tag?” I asked.

“Nope. Dominic said he might be microchipped, and you could check that out. But I doubt it. Somebody dumped this poor guy, but I doubt he was well taken care of beforehand.” Even laced with pity, he had a voice as smooth and dark as whiskey.

And while those mellow tones melted my insides, the dog reacted with less cooperation. Mr. Zemski managed to get two front paws on the scale, but there, the animal stopped and whined as he shrank backward. I turned to Miranda, who’d hovered near the rear door leading to the back office and the kennel area.

“Let’s try a cookie,” I suggested.

Nodding, she reached into the apothecary jar on the counter, palmed a treat, and approached the dog slowly from the opposite side of the scale. “Come on, boy.” She looked up at Mr. Zemski, a question mark pleating her forehead. “Boy, right?”

“Far as I can tell,” he said.

With hesitant steps, twitching nose leading the way, the dog stepped all four feet onto the scale long enough for the LED digits to light up fifty-eight pounds. Seriously underweight for a dog of his size. I’d switched my attention to the intake form to jot down the info, when a sharp snap drew my attention. Miranda squealed as the dog lunged forward to place his paws on her chest. Only Mr. Zemski’s powerful pull kept the dog from knocking my unprepared vet tech to the floor.

“Well, he’s definitely hungry,” I said. “Let’s lift him onto the exam table and see what else we can find.”

I dropped the folder on the counter and bent over the dog’s back. At the same time, Mr. Zemski leaned from the other side and
conk
! We bumped heads. Hard.

“Oops. Sorr—” I stopped in mid-apology as my gaze caught his and stalled.

Delft blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he winced and smiled at the same time. “I’ll lift him. He’s not heavy, but he knows how to be dead weight. And he’s scared.”

“Sorry,” I managed to say through a dry throat. “But Miranda and I have to do it. Office orders.”

“Okay.” He stepped back. “But be careful. He might snap at you.”

“All the more reason we should handle him,” I replied.

We finagled the dog onto the steel table. The poor beast whined, but luckily, didn’t snap or bite. He tucked his tail between his back legs, and his bony body shivered.

“Easy, boy,” I crooned.

Miranda stood on the other side of the table, stroking him in a soothing manner while I began my exam. His teeth had a moderate amount of decay and pegged his age at somewhere between six and eight years. A comb check through his matted fur showed a severe flea infestation. On one side of his neck, a series of burrs had embedded into his flesh. Exposure to the elements had done some damage to the pads of his feet, leaving them cracked and bleeding.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Mr. Zemski hovered over us, wincing and reacting to every injury and issue I discovered with obvious empathy.

I wasn’t entirely certain what he planned to do about the dog once I began treatment, which left me in a quandary. Did Mr. Zemski intend to keep him? Or was he dropping the poor thing off with us and washing his hands of the situation?

“He’s malnourished,” I began and then, gently, ran down the litany of other problems I’d identified during my exam.

The man nodded, his expression solemn, his gaze fixed on the dog. “How old do you think he is?”

“No more than eight, I’d say.”

“So he’s still got a chance for a good life?”

“Not without a home.” Every word I spoke gave him more reason to turn tail and run, leaving the dog behind. But I wouldn’t lie to him. “If he doesn’t have someone looking after him, I don’t think he’ll survive another winter.”

“But if he had a home?”

“With someone taking very good care of him, he could live at least another seven or eight years. Maybe more.” Although what I said could be misconstrued as a guilt trip, it was the truth. Dogs were not meant to be wild outdoor creatures. They didn’t have the independent nature and hunting instincts feral cats developed to survive.

I received another nod from Mr. Zemski. “Okay, what are we talking about money-wise?”

“It’s hard to tell right now,” I said, “though I will admit the cost won’t be insignificant. But we can work out a payment and treatment plan. Right now, I’m most concerned about saving his life.”

“Yeah. Good. Let’s do that.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Zemski was actually a very nice man. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to contact an associate who’s a groomer. She’ll help me get some of the matting out of his fur, shave him down so we can see how bad his skin is, deflea him, and check for other injuries not currently visible. Then I can determine a proper course of treatment.”

“Okay.” He toyed with the frayed leash in his hands. “Should I stick around?”

“That’s not necessary. It’ll take a while before I can get Cara here to groom him. And then once she’s done, I’ll want to do another exam. Is that all right?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess. Should I just come back at closing to pick him up?”

I shook my head. “I’ll have to keep him overnight. I promise I’ll consult with you on his condition every step of the way and call you before I do anything expensive. But I need to know everything I’m dealing with, and that’s going to take some time. Okay?”

“Sounds fair to me.”

At my nod, Miranda lifted the dog from the exam table, prepared to carry him into the backroom where we kept our overnight guests. “Umm…” She looked at both of us. “What name should I put on his crate?”

“Lucky,” Mr. Zemski said.

As I looked over the man’s determined face, those beautiful blue eyes, the sculpted cheekbones, I was reminded of an Italian painting I’d seen in a museum in Venice: a soldier as guardian angel with wings folded, bent over a fallen comrade. “Yes,” I said, “I believe you’re right.”
 

Terri

Tomorrow. How on earth could I possibly be ready by tomorrow? I had nothing prepared, no employees, no business plan, no menus. I didn’t even know if the kitchen was stocked.

My hands shook, and a cold sweat broke out on my nape.

“Relax,” Francesca said from behind me. “We’re all going to help. That’s why we’re here. You tell us what you need, and we’ll do it. No questions asked.”

“Menus,” was the first word to form on my lips.

“Gotcha covered,” Paige said and held up a miniature chalkboard and a piece of pink chalk. “There’s one of these at each table and a big one for the sidewalk outside. This way you can amend the menu every day. At least until you decide what you want to serve on a regular basis.”

I had to admit, I liked the blackboard idea. It allowed me a fluidity based on my mood and what ingredients were fresh and readily available. Maybe this could work after all. Next item. “Wait staff.”

Sam, Josh, and Uncle Larry all raised their hands. “That’s us,” Sam said. “Temporarily.”

“And Aidan will be here in an hour or so,” Nia added. “That makes four.”

“Temporarily,” Sam repeated.

“Okay,” I said, “I get it. How temporary are you guys?” An hour? Two?

“I’m yours ‘til Monday,” Josh said, casting a heated glance at Francesca that made
me
melt. Yowza, these two had nuclear chemistry. “Boss’s orders.”

“You can have Aidan ‘til Tuesday,” Nia said. “The vineyard business is slow right now.”

Uncle Larry shrugged. “I’m here as long as you need me.”

“That leaves you,” I said to Sam.

“And I can only stay until an emergency pops up,” he replied.

Siobhan chimed in. “Weekends are out for Pan and me, but we can do most weekdays.”

“Fair enough.”

And it was. As the town’s photographer and florist, Siobhan and Pan worked every social event from sweet sixteens to weddings, and even celebrity fundraisers. Naturally, most of those parties took place on weekends. “Kitchen help?”

Aunt Andrea and Nia raised their hands. Okay. Once again, I realized this project could be workable, and my nerves skittered with possibilites. After years of living with her, I knew my aunt was a great cook and could pitch in wherever I needed her. Nia, on the other hand, was a wild card. I’d only ever tasted her homemade pizza. Don’t get me wrong. It was the best pizza in the state. But what if that was her only culinary skill? Oh, well. At least she could take care of the lunch crowd—if there was one—and wash dishes.

“I’m front end,” Paige announced with a grin, “because of my stellar people skills.”

Pandora added, “Siobhan and I are on ‘extras’ detail. Wherever you need us: wait staff, kitchen, general clean-up, flower dusting…”

“Oh!” Aunt Andrea interjected. “And don’t forget Gary.”

A shiver of apprehension tickled the base of my skull. “Gary?”

“Sure. Gary Sullivan.”

“As in Gary the Scary Bartender?” A nickname we four had given him a few years ago because of his gruffness and imposing physical stature. I hadn’t seen him since the night before I left for rehab. I’d apologized for my recent drunken episode where I’d nearly fractured my face after starting an altercation in the bar at The Lookout, the local upscale restaurant for moneyed tourists. That night on the beach at the Chamber of Commerce’s Clambake, I’d bared my soul to him and expected derision in return. Instead, he’d hugged me tight, told me he was proud of me, and promised to be around when I got back.

Weird.

Even weirder, I spent way too many dark days in rehab remembering his kindness that night. Sometimes, the idea of him cheering me on was the only impetus that kept me struggling onward.

“Actually,” my aunt broke into my musings, “Gary the Scary Ex-Bartender is really Gary the Scary-Talented Pastry Chef in disguise. And he’s all yours.”

“All…” I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat—I think it was my heart. “…mine?”

“Yup. I hired him. Did you know he studied pastry-making in France? Apparently, he won all kinds of awards over there.” She shrugged. “I guess you never really know a person.”

“No, I had no idea.” Gary? A
pâtissier
? If it were true, it’d be a real coup for my tea shop.

Wait. What was I thinking? Gary and I were like gasoline and a lit road flare. We got too close to each other and
boom
! Major fireworks—not the good kind.

The front door flew open and, suddenly, there he was. Gary Sullivan. Tall, broad as a house, dark, and foreboding. The dim autumn sun framed him in a silver aura, giving him the look of some comic book superhero. Pastry Man: able to make a dozen three-tier tortes in a single morning. “Where’s our girl?” he boomed as he stepped inside, filling the empty space with the enormity of his presence, the door slapping shut behind him.

Our
girl? Since when was I anyone’s girl? While I pondered the ridiculousness of that statement, he strode into my tea shop in his usual black jeans, black cowboy boots, and denim shirt. On anyone else in this beach town, the western attire would look ludicrous, but Gary…let’s just say Gary
owned
it. He got close enough to swoop me into a Texas-sized hug, and the scent of leather and, of all things, sugar surrounded me like a sweet masculine cloud.

“Welcome home,
cherie
.”

Cherie
? I pushed against his broad chest, breaking his hold on me. “Thanks,” I bit out, terse and all-business. I bet he never called his boss at The Lookout “
cherie
.” If he was going to work for me, I would set the ground rules right from the start. “I hear you’re my first official employee.”

“Not quite. First things first though. I thought you might wanna taste the goods before you decide to keep me.”

Taste the goods? My spine stiffened at the innuendo, and I automatically ducked under that familiar umbrella of blame. Had I brought his behavior on myself? I tried to recall all the times I’d been drunk in Gary’s presence. Had I done something stupid I couldn’t remember? Flirted with him?
Slept
with him?

“That’s what won me over,” Aunt Andrea chirped. “Gary’s stuff is the absolute best I’ve ever had.”

Okay, now, I was totally confused.

“What’d you bring today?” Uncle Larry asked.

Only then did I notice the young boy behind him, holding a white box twice his size. Oh, duh. Taste the goods—his pastries.

“
Profiteroles
and
Tarte Tatin
,” Gary said. “I grabbed the last of the apples from Huberts’ Orchard the other day.” He lifted the lid off the box and the sweet smell wafted into the air. I swear, everyone in the room inhaled deeply and smiled. “And for Terri, one
canelè
.” Leaning closer, he whispered so near my ear his warm, minty breath tickled my nape. “No rum.”

“
Canelè
?” My mouth watered.

“You know what it is, don’t you?”

I nodded. “It’s my favorite.” Though I’d never had one without the rum flavoring.

“I wonder how I guessed that.” Grinning, he reached into the box and pulled out the golden, crown-shaped, miniature cake. “Take a bite,” he coaxed.

He didn’t have to say it twice. I sank my teeth into the sweet treat, delighting in the creamy vanilla custard inside the flaky pastry. My tastebuds burst to life and happy danced on my tongue. “Oh, my God! This is sooooo good.”

“I guess that means I’m officially hired,” Gary said. “Come on, kid. Let’s set up in the kitchen.” He strode past her, the boy with the box right behind him.

“Wait!” I called after them, the half-eaten
canelè
still in my hand, a metaphor for all my uncertainty.

Gary stopped, one hand on the swinging door that led to my brand new kitchen. “Problem?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…” I looked around at the cluster of people watching me with open curiosity and some concern. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

He pushed open the door and leaned against it, allowing me to enter first. When the boy tagged along behind me, Gary clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Wait for me out here, Christian.” He pointed to the dining area where the other adults stood.

“Okay.” The kid set the pastry box on the counter and proceeded to make himself comfortable in one of the nearby wingchairs.

With a satisfied nod, Gary stepped into the kitchen, and the door swung shut, allowing us a modicum of privacy. “So? What’s up?”

I planted my fists on my too-curvy hips and faced him full-on. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. How much is she paying you?”

His brow puckered. “Huh?”

“My aunt,” I clarified, though I was pretty certain he knew exactly what I was talking about. “How much is she paying you to babysit me?”

“Nothing. I mean, she’s not paying me. And I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to work.”

“Well, if she hired you, she obviously offered you a salary. How much?”

“No salary. I bought into the business. I’m a partner.”

Oh, God, no. Not only did I have to worry about bankrupting my aunt and uncle, now I was responsible for Gary Sullivan’s financial situation, too? My throat dried to dust, and I rasped, “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I believe in you.”

Yeah, right, sure. ‘Cuz I had such a perfect track record. “How much?”

“How much do I believe in you?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I guess. In a way. How much money did you invest in your belief in me?”

He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

He might not have added the patronizing, “little lady” to his statement, but the words sat between us in the stilted air just the same. “Why shouldn’t I worry? Because I’m just a girl with no head for serious stuff like numbers? Or because I’m a drunk you feel sorry for?”

“Neither.”

For God’s sake, his evasive answers tempted me to grab him by his chambray collar and shake the details out of him. “Then why did you do it?”

“Because I need a fresh start just like you.”

I folded my arms over my chest, a study in disbelief. “Oh, really? ‘Cuz you’re a drunken loser, too?”

His expression darkened, and the air between us charged with static electricity. “You’re not a drunken loser. Stop saying crap like that.”

“Why? It’s true.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “You know, everybody’s got problems. We all have faults. You’re no more a loser than anybody else. Including me.” He turned to check the door, and when he faced me again, he wore the expression of gruff, scary man I was used to. “The kid out there?” I nodded. “He’s my son.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know he had a son. Quite frankly, I didn’t know a heckuva lot about Gary except he mixed a great drink, and I once sucked down a tequila worm in front of him and a few other guys to win a five-dollar bet. Not exactly my best moment. But enough about drunken me. We were talking about him—and his son. “I had no idea you were married, much less that you had a kid.”

“His mother died before I moved here.”

Crap. Way to step in it. Hip-deep. “I’m sorry.”

He shook off my sympathy. “It was more than eight years ago. Before I came to Snug Harbor. But that leaves me as his only parent and the one he looks up to for everything. I don’t want him growing up with a bartender for a dad.”

“Oh, come on. You work at
The Lookout
,” I replied, disbelief and awe tinging the name of the place. “That’s like
the
class joint in Snug Harbor. I mean, it’s not like you had a job at some dive near the docks.”

“Doesn’t matter. One bartending job is the same as another, if you ask me. I didn’t attend Le Cordon Bleu to mix margaritas and daiquiris for a bunch of tourists. But, see, I took the job tending bar at The Lookout because the owner promised me as soon as an opening came up for a pastry chef in the kitchen, I’d slide right in. Then he romanced Neil LaManna out of Chicago and,
poof
! I’m left stuck behind the bar. I’ll be mixing drinks until I’m sixty unless I stop relying on everyone else to make my future happen.”

Well, I guess I could understand his eternal bad mood then. To have his plum job stolen out from under him would make anybody cranky.

“When your aunt approached me about this tea shop—”

“Wait.” I held up a hand. “How did my aunt know about your pastry background?” I thought for a moment and had the answer before he could open his mouth. “Never mind. Dumb question.”

Every small town had its Yente, the old gossip woman. Snug Harbor had a dozen such women, and my aunt was their Supreme Ruler.

“When your aunt mentioned her plans for the tea shop,” he repeated, “I offered to buy in. My money paid for this kitchen. I told Josh exactly what we’d need, and he designed it to my specifications. So whether you like it or not, you and me, we’re in this together.”

Strangely, that fact didn’t ease the butterflies flitting in my stomach. “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re in this situation with your son. But I’m not sure I’m the right answer. You are totally betting on the wrong horse here. You do know there’s a good chance I could sink into a bottle and fall flat on my face with this project, right?”