Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (2 page)

Mom arrived at the Grand Rapids airport last night. Jeb would have picked her up, but he had a gig singing at a fundraiser in Kalamazoo. Given my advanced pregnancy, he absolutely insisted that I not drive alone, so Chester and Abra rode along. I didn’t mind the latter as long as I also had the former. Chester has a calming effect on Abra. Plus, Mom thinks he’s downright adorable.

En route home from the airport, Abra rested her head on Chester’s lap in the backseat. Riding shotgun, Mom kept up a lively exchange, interviewing my neighbor about everything from his pricey private school to his celebrity mother. Their happy chatter fading into the background, I let my mind veer toward real estate.

I’m a landlord, an agent and a broker, and I own my own real estate agency thanks to Leo Mattimoe, the man I married after my divorce from Jeb. Leo taught me everything he knew about real estate. Then he died much too young, leaving me wrecked by grief and unable to imagine a future. Until Jeb returned.

With a lot of help from friends and coworkers, I managed to keep Mattimoe Realty afloat through an economic depression as severe as my own. It turns out I’m better at buying, selling and managing properties than I am at anything else. Just that morning I had listed a half-million-dollar property in a highly desirable neighborhood. I was mentally reviewing my coup when Mom interrupted me.

“Did you know that, Whitney?” she demanded.

“Did I know what?”

“That Chester turned nine almost six months ago?”

“Huh?” I had lost track of Chester’s age. As far as I knew, he was either eight or nine, which seemed almost the same to me. I guess I assumed he’d stay whatever age he was until somebody notified me otherwise. In my own defense, Chester’s age was irrelevant because he acted decades older than he looked.

“This little boy turned nine, and nobody even noticed,” Mom fumed.

I started to say, “I’m sure somebody noticed,” but then I remembered who Chester’s parents were and canceled the remark. Chester’s mother was Cassina, a singer-harpist pop star who was rarely home and usually stoned. Her accompanist-manager was the sperm donor of record. Chester lived in the Castle, a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion just up the coast from me. His domestic life was managed by assorted personal assistants and dogs, none of whom cared about birthdays.

“That’s it,” Mom declared, finality in her voice. “We’re giving Chester a belated birthday party tomorrow.”

She peered over the seat at him.

“What kind of cake do you want, dear, and who do you want us to invite?”

“Surprise me with the cake,” he replied eagerly, “but please invite Abra, Sandra, Velcro and Prince Harry.”

I wasn’t surprised that Chester’s guest list began and ended with dogs. Even after visiting him at his private school, I couldn’t say that Chester had a single pal among his contemporaries. He was way too good for those kids.

Which brings us to the occasion at hand—or paw: four dogs and a stolen birthday cake. Well, only one dog had stolen the cake, but all four dogs were sharing the bounty. Sitting back, fat, in my chair while the other humans gathered in the kitchen to sort things out, I reflected that Chester was having exactly the birthday he wanted. His friends were here, and he was able to practice his canine, an impressive combination of dog language and dog body language.

Barking and whining like a natural, Chester skillfully inserted himself in the midst of the three snarling pooches on my kitchen floor. Sandra, Velcro and Prince Harry stopped in mid-yap. They sniffed Chester’s butt, wagged their tails and returned to their places under the dining room table.

“Amazing,” Mom said, and we all nodded.

Chester directed his next woofs at Abra, who was licking the last cake crumbs from my counter. She had knocked a few cups and saucers to the floor while getting comfortable. Even if Chester pointed that out to her, Abra wouldn’t care about collateral damage. It was the stuff of her daily life.

From his doggie position, Chester glanced back at me.

“I’m trying to talk her down, Whiskey, but she insists on finishing the cake first.”

I nodded, but now Mom had an issue—with me.

“Whitney, I’ll never understand why you failed to take control of that dog. You are the master of her pack.”

I said, “Abra doesn’t have a pack. She has an ego and an entourage.”

In case you’re confused about my name—and why wouldn’t you be?—allow me to explain. I was christened Whitney. While she was pregnant, my mother read the name in a romance novel and hoped it would fit her daughter. It never did, especially since our family name was Houston. Most folks have called me Whiskey ever since middle school. The nickname has nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with Jeb Halloran’s humor. Way back in seventh grade he announced to our classmates that I had the husky voice of someone who drank a lot. In truth, I don’t like hard liquor although I do dream about quaffing a bottle of Pinot Noir as soon as this baby exits my belly. I’m not going to breastfeed, so don’t judge me.

Chester whined piteously, no doubt begging the Alpha Princess to rejoin us sooner rather than later. She proceeded to lick her paws. This looked as if it might take a while. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and Chester’s work was done. Abra sailed over his head and bounded toward the foyer, followed by the three dogs from under the table. Every canine barked as loudly as possible because that’s what dogs do when the doorbell rings.

Out of habit, I tried to get up in order to answer the door. When I pushed and grunted instead of actually rising, my husband said, “Stay put, babe. I got it.”

You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I used to be athletic. I could jump and run with the fittest of females, and some men, not limited to Jeb, found me attractive. For the last five weeks, that phase of my life had seemed more like a dream than a memory. I found myself groaning each time I tried to stand, sit, bend, or do much of anything. Never mind that I’m almost six-foot-one, and everyone predicted I would carry my baby “well.” What the hell does that mean, anyhow? By my thirty-third week, pregnancy had turned me into a blimp on stilts. Now, in my thirty-ninth week, I was almost immobile, always miserable, and frequently inclined to pee.

The dining room did not afford a view of the front door. To Mom, who was slicing what remained of the cake, I said, “Did you invite someone else?”

Mom shook her head, then I heard the one and only human voice guaranteed to ruin my day.

“Look who’s here!” screeched my ex-stepdaughter, Avery Mattimoe.

When Chester shouted
in pure joy, I knew that Avery couldn’t be alone at the door. Chester liked almost everybody, but he saw Avery every day, so she wouldn’t generate that kind of enthusiasm. Avery worked for Cassina at the Castle, managing the singer’s online presence, whatever that meant.

“MacArthur!” Chester exclaimed. “I always knew you’d return!”

He wasn’t referring to the late great American general. A more mysterious individual had come back to Magnet Springs. MacArthur, alias the Cleaner, used to work for Chester’s nominal parents as bodyguard, driver, and fixer of messy moral errors. He also sold real estate, part-time, for me until he vanished seven months ago.

Nobody knew why although I had a theory. MacArthur, first name irrelevant, had just tattooed Avery’s scowling face on his meaty arm. They were sharing a bed at the Castle when the Cleaner took a powder. I figured Avery scared him away. She had that effect on men. Hell, she had that effect on me. I would cross the street or turn the corner to avoid making eye contact, much less conversation.

Jeb welcomed MacArthur while Chester squealed in delight. I was glad the Cleaner was back in time for peak real estate sales season, but I couldn’t feign enthusiasm for Avery. If only my ex-step had inherited even one trait of her late father’s. Leo had been a likable, can-do kind of man who made people feel better. Avery, to put it bluntly, was a snake. She even snapped her tongue like a snake.

From the foyer Jeb called, “We got two more for the party!”

Ever nimble with kitchen utensils, Mom re-divided the slices she had already placed on plates.

“Excuse me if I don’t get up,” I told MacArthur as the studly Scot hove into view. Tall, muscular, black-haired and blue-eyed, he was still a hunk even though I now had a husband.

“Gawd, are you fat!” Avery flicked her tongue at me.

“This is what nine months pregnant looks like,” I said through my teeth. “As you surely remember.”

Almost two years ago, Avery had arrived at my front door poised to deliver twins. A husky gal, she could pass for five months pregnant even now. How I longed to point that out, but my mother was watching, and she had raised me to be nice.

“What brings you back to Magnet Springs?” I asked MacArthur.

“Duh—me!” Avery replied. Then we had to wait a full minute while they French-kissed.

Because Chester was familiar with a wide range of inappropriate behaviors, I didn’t bother to distract him. Peg Goh and Mom exchanged glances while the rest of my guests pretended to be happy for the kissing couple. Maybe Noonan Starr was happy for them. She often spouted nonsense about souls finding “permanent spouses,” so she probably thought these two were cosmically bonded. I thought they were gross.

When they came up for air, Mom offered them cake. Jeb found two more chairs, and we all crowded around the table—Chester, Noonan, Peg, Mom, Deely, Dr. David, MacArthur, Avery, Jeb and me. Six of us had recently become couples, but only two of us lacked self-restraint. Avery slid onto MacArthur’s lap, nearly flipping the table. That would have pleased the dogs, who were standing by to gobble whatever crumbs remained. I gave Avery the fisheye.

“It’s Chester’s party,” I reminded her, “so let’s keep the focus on him.”

“I see Chester every day,” she said, “but I haven’t seen my baby-man since September.” At which point she re-inserted her tongue in MacArthur’s mouth.

Baby-man? My as-yet undigested meal roiled.

“Anyway,” Avery said, smacking her lips when she rejoined us, “why is Chester having a birthday party now? I tweeted his birthday back in October.”

“Tweeting isn’t celebrating,” I said. “He’s a kid, and kids need birthday parties.”

“What we really need,” Chester said, “is attention, which I now have. So I’d like to seize this opportunity to make an important announcement.”

He cleared his throat officiously.

“As everyone here knows—except maybe the dogs, and I’ll translate for them later—Magnet Springs is rebranding itself as the Pet Mecca of the tourist trade. Inspired by our mayor, we’re in the process of turning this town into a pet-friendly destination where most fine retail establishments welcome four-leggers.”

“Dogs and cats,” Mayor Peg Goh clarified.

Chester nodded happily.

“Although buhds and equine kweechers are awso under considewation,” Dr. David said.

That’s how his R- and L- impairment sounded, but we all knew what he meant. We also knew he meant well and loved animals but was fundamentally nuts. I couldn’t imagine traveling with dogs or cats, let alone birds or horses. My definition of “vacation” was strictly limited to consenting two-legged adults.

Peg nodded cautiously at Dr. David. “At some future point, perhaps we will consider such legislation, but for now we welcome only dogs and cats, and only in the company of responsible adults prepared to pay additional pet-related fees by cash or credit card.”

Our mayor had good reason to be cautious with both Dr. David and his wife Deely. They headed an animal rights advocacy called Four Legs Good, “Fleggers” for short, that promoted equal rights for non-human creatures. As far as I could see, many non-humans already had more rights than I did. Take Abra, for example. Every time she broke the law, I had to hire a lawyer and cover her court costs and fines.

Chester cleared his throat again, reclaiming center stage.

“In conjunction with Magnet Springs’ new brand as a pet-friendly destination, I’m planning to use a chunk of my trust fund to start a 503(b) corporation. I’m going to purchase real estate in order to build and operate an animal rescue center.”

Dr. David and Deely leapt to their feet, cheering. Noonan, always quick to join a liberal cause, also rose and applauded. Peg Goh stood, too. In addition to being a savvy politician, she liked cats and probably figured that Chester deserved credit for trying to save some. Jeb, a touring musician, loved the rush of a standing ovation, so he joined the throng. Mom, who wanted the party to be a success, jumped up and waved her cake knife like a pennant.

That left me, Avery and MacArthur in our seats. Those two were kissing again. I was just slow to get my ass in gear. With a boost from Jeb, I was standing, too, whooping it up for the kid next door. However, I had my doubts. While I approved Chester’s desire to buy real estate, we had plenty of critters in Magnet Springs already, and now the door was open to any who could afford our room rates. Why invite strays?

I dared to voice the question. Chester blinked up at me, wondering eyes magnified by his thick lenses.

“Why? Because I can, Whiskey, and because it’s the right thing to do.”

Everyone in the room nodded, including Jeb. I shot him my “you’re-supposed-to-be-on-my-side” look, but he ignored it. We would talk later.

“It also reinforces our new brand,” Peg said. “If we succeed in attracting vacationers with pets and maximizing the activities they can enjoy together, some of our visitors will want to go home with more pets.”

“Really?” I couldn’t imagine that.

“Especially pets that will remind them of the fun they had in Magnet Springs,” Chester added.

Deely Smarr nodded enthusiastically. “If we run the rescue operation right, we’ll convince folks to adopt multiple dogs and cats, and come back for more.”

I stared at Deely. During the many hours I had spent with her, she had left me with the clear impression that she was eminently wise and practical about everything except how normal people feel about animals. Like her new hubster, whom she had helped to found Fleggers, Deely put furry creatures above virtually everything else.