Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (8 page)

Honeybelle had liked me well enough, but I had no idea she thought so highly of me.

A
million dollars?

“Your mama was very generous,” I said to Miss Ruffles. “But also nuts. Who leaves so much to a dog? And not her family? I can't help it. I think there's something more going on.”

Miss Ruffles smiled up at me and yipped with glee.

I hauled her back to the porch to wash the mud off her. The two Hensley boys were on the porch swing by then, clearly having been dismissed from the family meeting. The sullen teenager, Trey, kept his cowboy hat on and his nose pointed at his cell phone, thumbs moving as fast as any teen could manage. The younger boy looked terrified when Miss Ruffles trotted into view.

“Don't let that mean dog get us,” Travis Joe said as he stood on the swing's seat and clung to the chain. He looked ready to shimmy up to the ceiling. “She bit my brother once.”

“Shut up, wuss,” grumbled Trey. “It was just a nip. And I guarantee she won't do it again. You have to show a dog who's boss.”

Miss Ruffles put her forepaws up on the swing to get a closer look at Travis Joe's shoelaces, her next favorite treat after boots. He screamed and climbed onto the back of the swing. His brother swatted him.

I dragged Miss Ruffles away and resigned myself to babysitting while Ten broke the news to Hut Junior and his wife. Trey, as unpleasant as he was, would be no problem as long as his phone battery held out. Travis Joe was another story. He was already running back and forth across the seat of the swing, fear forgotten, causing the swing to jangle dangerously on its chains.

I held the dog's collar and turned on the hose to rinse her off. Miss Ruffles snapped at the gush, delighted to be making another mess as the muddy water sluiced onto the grass. By the time my dress was half soaked, she was clean again. I shut off the hose. Miss Ruffles shook herself all over, spraying more water on me, then dashed out into the grass and rolled around with glee.

Travis Joe laughed as I tried to brush off the water. He climbed down from the swing but hung on to the chain just in case he had to make a quick escape. With his bow tie and expensive haircut, the kid looked like he was on his way to Princeton. I wondered if anyone ever tossed a ball with him in the back yard. Was his father the too-busy executive? Was his mother the overprotective kind who didn't want her baby getting messy?

I said, “Want a Popsicle? Either of you?”

Trey snorted, but Travis Joe perked up. “Orange?”

“Sure. You think your mom would be okay with that?”

He said, “I ate a good lunch. Even my carrot sticks.”

His brother made a rude noise with his lips.

“Okay,” I said to Travis Joe. “There's a box in the little freezer over there.”

“I know where they are.” He clambered down and scampered into Honeybelle's fancy outdoor kitchen. He bent down to the fridge; then his head popped up again. He had a crafty look on his face. “Can I have two?”

“No, just one.”

No whining. He ducked out of sight again and found himself a treat. When he had carefully discarded the wrapper in a hidden trash can, he came back with the Popsicle in his mouth. He watched me wind up the hose.

He pulled out the Popsicle. His tongue was orange already. “How come Miss Ruffles is such a bad dog?”

“Miss Ruffles is nice. You just have to get to know her. Give it a try.”

Miss Ruffles scrambled to her feet and bounded over to give the boy a panting grin with all her teeth showing. She wanted his Popsicle.

“No, Miss Ruffles,” I said firmly. “Why don't you play nicely with Travis Joe?”

“No, ma'am.” Travis Joe shook his head vehemently. “I don't want to play with her, and you can't make me.”

“I'll hold her collar, and you can pet her.”

“No! I mean, no, ma'am. No way!”

“She likes to have her ears scratched.” I demonstrated, and Miss Ruffles quit struggling against me and closed her eyes in bliss.

Travis Joe sucked on his Popsicle, unconvinced. “My mama says she poops all over the yard.”

“She's a dog. She has to poop somewhere. Besides, I clean up after her.”

Travis Joe smiled. “You said poop.”

“So did you.”

His smile grew more confident, and he went back to sucking on his treat. “Mama says Miss Ruffles has to go so Aunt Poppy can have her wedding here.”

It wasn't my place to tell him the wedding plans might still be in limbo. Or would Posie's wishes outweigh Honeybelle's now? I said, “Aunt Poppy's getting married, huh?”

Travis Joe nodded. “I'm supposed to carry a ring on a pillow. My brother's too old.”

From the porch, Trey said, “I'm not too old. I'm just not nerd enough to carry a stupid pillow.”

Travis Joe said, “Mama says they're going to have the wedding in Miss Honeybelle's rose garden, then put up a tent behind the swimming pool for a party with barbecue and dancing, but no swimming.” He looked longingly at the pool. “I went swimming in that pool on the Fourth of July.”

“I remember,” I said. Mostly, I remembered how Travis Joe had been ordered to stay in the shallow water, where he repeatedly edged closer to the deep end. His mother shouted at him often to stay where his feet could touch bottom. At the time, I'd thought she was overreacting. Behind Posie's back, Honeybelle had urged Travis Joe to push the limits his mother put down.

Travis Joe said, “I want to go swimming now.”

Trey said, “Mom will pitch a fit if you get wet.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Bite me.”

Travis Joe turned to me, eyes steely. “I want to go swimming.”

“Did you bring a suit?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then you'll have to swim naked.”

His eyes popped wide. “I can't do that! You're a girl!”

“So?”

Without further argument, Travis Joe gave up on the swimming idea. He sucked on his Popsicle for a minute before saying, “Nobody's going to swim at the wedding. Mama wants to have floating candles in the water.”

“That sounds pretty.”

“Mama says a magazine won't come take pictures of everybody if the wedding's at the country club. The country club's boring. Not pretty enough for a magazine. So she wants the wedding here so they can take pictures of the roses and stuff.”

I thought about that and decided Honeybelle had been very proud of her home and her decorating and certainly her rose garden. Had she objected to the magazine coverage? If so, why? I couldn't very well pump Honeybelle's grandson on the subject, though—especially now that Miss Ruffles was back to being intrigued by his shoelaces. If she got her teeth onto those, it would be only seconds before she was chewing on his toes.

Travis Joe finished off his Popsicle and said to me, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“My mama says you're too old to be a dogsitter.”

I was surprised to be a topic of conversation at Posie's home. I said, “I like taking care of Miss Ruffles. We play together. Want to throw her ball for her to chase?”

Travis Joe shook his head.

“C'mon,” I said. “Give it a shot.”

I picked up her tennis ball and bounced it once off the terrace before catching it in my hand. Miss Ruffles was instantly on alert, forefeet splayed, stub high. Her excitement almost made Travis Joe chicken out. But I gave him the ball, and after just a moment of hesitation he threw it clumsily. Miss Ruffles took off like a rocket and grabbed the ball on the first ricochet. She brought it back and obediently dropped it at my feet. I handed the ball over to Travis Joe, and he threw it before the dog could jump up on him. It went a little farther this time, and Miss Ruffles had to make a dash around a pool chair to seize it. When she came trotting back, she dropped it in front of Travis Joe and yipped at him to hurry up.

He backed against my leg. “I don't want her to bite me.”

“She won't bite.” Just in case, though, I positioned myself so I could intervene if Miss Ruffles made a premature lunge for the ball. “She only nips at your feet when she wants you to move. It's her natural instinct. She's a herding dog. So we have to help her to like chasing a ball even more. Don't make it too easy on her. Really give her something to go after.”

With a gleam in his eye, Travis Joe threw the ball into the bushes, and Miss Ruffles happily dashed after it.

“Don't throw it into the pool,” I said, guessing what his next plan was. “Throw the ball into the grass, as far as you can.”

He did, and Miss Ruffles raced off to grab it. Every time she brought the ball back to Travis Joe, she circled him a few times, gradually herding him farther out into the yard. He threw the ball over and over, not realizing he was being outsmarted by the dog.

Honeybelle had asked me to try teaching Miss Ruffles a trick she could perform on the football field. A previous Texas cattle cur had learned to race out onto the field after every kickoff and bring back the kicker's tee. I had tried that, but Miss Ruffles had immediately picked up the tee, chewed it beyond recognition, and buried the remaining parts in a flower bed. I had been thinking I needed a second person to help discourage Miss Ruffles from destroying the important component of the trick. Maybe Travis Joe was my best choice.

But before we got around to it, Posie came out onto the porch.

After the reading of Honeybelle's will, Posie was surprisingly, coldly, in control of herself. She was pale with anger, though. She wore her dark sunglasses.

“Travis Joe, what do you think you're doing?”

“I'm playing ball with Miss Ruffles.”

“Get away from that animal before she bites you.” She took Travis Joe by his shoulder to turn him away from me as if I were suddenly capable of infecting her children with a virulent species of head lice. “Trey, put that phone in your pocket. We're going home.”

“Did I get any money?” Trey asked. “Can I buy myself a truck right away?”

She ignored the question. “Did you hear me? Put the phone away.”

“You mean the old lady didn't leave me anything?” Trey's voice rose petulantly. “You're gonna buy me the truck, then, right? I told all the guys I was getting the biggest truck they ever saw.”

“Well, you spoke too soon,” his mother said tartly. “No son of mine is going to drive a monster truck all over town, showing off and acting above himself. Let's go.”

He thought about throwing a tantrum, I could see, but instead he sighed and went back to playing with his phone. “I'm almost done.”

“This minute, young man!”

His face turned dark, but he got to his feet and muttered, “Yes, ma'am.” He slid the phone into his pocket. Then, from the nearest flowerpot, he picked up a pebble and hefted it in one hand. Before I could guess what he planned to do, he suddenly hurled it at Miss Ruffles. Not for her to catch, but to hit her.

“Hey!” I said.

Miss Ruffles dodged the stone. She glared at Trey and growled.

“Stupid dog,” Trey muttered. “Somebody ought to shoot her.”

“Mama.” Travis Joe tugged his mother's hand. “I think Miss Ruffles might like me!”

Posie's voice was like an ice pick. “Travis Joe, you keep your distance from that animal, hear?”

“But, Mama—”

Hut Junior came slamming out the back door and stood on the porch with steam practically roaring out of his ears. “I don't believe it! Even now, she doesn't trust me to run her dern company!”

“Hut,” Posie warned.

“I have a mind to pack y'all up and move to Dallas. I could get a job running any dern oil company in the state, but that fool woman never thought I was good enough to—”

“Hut,”
Posie snapped. She snatched off her sunglasses to give her husband a glare. “Not in front of the help.”

He blinked and finally noticed me standing there. His jaw slammed shut.

Posie yanked Travis Joe by the hand. “Let's go,” she said to her family. “We're obviously not welcome here, even now.”

Travis Joe hung back. “Mama, I need to say good-bye to Miss Ruffles.”

“You'll do no such thing.” Over her shoulder, Posie shot me another dagger of a look. “Your brother's right, Travis Joe. Soon enough, somebody's going to take a shot at that dog, and I don't want you within range when it happens.”

To me, she said, “Keep that animal away from the roses.”

With that, she swept them out of Honeybelle's house, and I didn't see her for a week.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Where flowers bloom, so does hope.

—LADY BIRD JOHNSON

After the garden club election debacle, Honeybelle had asked me to help her take cuttings of some of her roses and rake the mulch to check for fungus. It would be good therapy for her, she said, and I could keep her company. It was an unusual request from her. Normally, except for when I was outside supervising Miss Ruffles, my duties were accomplished indoors.

“Do you know anything about gardening, Sunny?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “Not at your level, that's for sure.”

“Well, then, come along. Everyone should learn to appreciate fine roses.”

My antenna went up, of course. In my experience, employers never took their assistants out of the office to discuss things that were good. I'd had one professor announce she was suing the university and wanted my help gathering intel on a colleague. Another declared he was thinking of leaving his wife. For me. But I agreed to lend a hand in Honeybelle's garden.

Miss Ruffles wasn't usually allowed in the front yard, due to Honeybelle's obsession with her heirloom roses and the many chemicals used to keep the lawn green and free of weeds, so today was a special occasion. The dog raced ahead of us to scout the territory, then circled back, tongue lolling with pleasure. I pushed the wheelbarrow. Honeybelle carried a bound notebook with a matching pen.