The Life List (21 page)

“Let’s hope you’re right.” He slaps my knee. “C’mon, dinner’s ready.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
’m just turning out the lights to my office Friday afternoon when Megan calls. Since spying her at Andrew’s loft, I’ve ignored her calls and messages. I’m about to pitch the phone back into my satchel but at the last minute decide,
What the hell
.

“Hey, chica,” she says with her aging-cheerleader voice. It’s hard to imagine I actually found that voice cute at one time. “Shel tells me you’re getting a dog today.”

I slide my key into the lock and twist it until it clicks. “That’s the plan.”

“Perfect. I’ve got this client who’s buying a condo on Lake Shore Drive, but the building doesn’t allow pets. He’s sick about it, but he has to get rid of Champ. And Champ is, like, a fucking show dog. He’s a purebred greyhound. Very classy. Anyway, he said you could have him. Can you believe it? He’s giving you his fucking show dog!”

I throw open a set of double doors. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”

“What? Why? This dog is valuable.”

I dance down the stairs and breeze out the door. Brilliant sunlight brushes my face, along with a snap of December wind. “I don’t want a show dog, Megan. Sure, they look great, but they’re too high-maintenance. All that grooming, and training, and competing. It’s exhausting, keeping up with their needs.” My rant is gaining speed, but I can’t seem to slow it down. “After a while you start to resent them—their finicky diets and their special soaps and their fancy shampoos. It’s too much! And to top it off, they have a complete lack of respect for your needs! It’s all about them! They’re selfish and—”

“Jesus, Brett, calm down. We’re talking about a damn dog here.”

“We’re talking dog all right,” I lean against my car door and expel a deep breath. “How could you, Meg?”

She sucks in a breath, and I picture her inhaling a lipstick-stained cigarette. “What? You mean Andrew? Newsflash: You guys aren’t together anymore. And when you were, I swear to God I never so much as peeked at his package.”

“Oh, wow, what a pal!”

“I cannot believe you took all of his furniture. He was so fucking furious. And then you wouldn’t return his calls. He threatened to have you arrested for home invasion.”

“I heard the messages. I only took what was mine, Megan. He knows it.”

“Lucky for you, I calmed his ass down. I told him he could afford new furniture. He’s a goddamn attorney, for shit’s sake.” She pauses. “He does have money, doesn’t he, Brett? I mean, last night when the waiter left our check, Andrew just sat there, like he expected me to pay.” She giggles. “Of course, he thinks I’m loaded, being a successful Chicago realtor and all.”

Ha! Megan will finally get what’s coming to her. And Andrew, too. They’re shallow and self-centered and materialistic and—

I stop myself. What right do I have to judge? Most of my adult life I’ve been a material girl, too, with my designer clothes and BMW, my expensive purses and jewelry. And wasn’t I just as shallow and selfish when I abandoned Carrie at the time she needed me most? Yet she forgave me. Perhaps it’s time I paid it forward.

“Meggie girl, set your goals higher. You’re a beautiful woman with tons of potential. Find someone who adores you, someone who’ll treat—”

She laughs. “Oh, Brett, stop being so fucking phony. I understand you’re jealous, but get over it. He. Doesn’t. Love. You!”

The wind is knocked from me. Pay it forward? Uh-uh. Not today.

“You’re right. You two really are perfect for each other.” I climb into my car. “And Megan, stop worrying about your short arms. They’re the least of your problems.”

With that, I’m off to find my lovable, loyal mutt.

B
rad is waiting at the curb when I pull up to the Aon Center in my new/used car.

“What’s up? The Beemer in the shop?” He gives me a quick peck on the cheek and buckles his seat belt.

“Nope. I traded it in.”

“You’re kidding. For this?”

“And some much-needed cash. It just seemed wrong, driving a car like that when most of the families I work with don’t even own one.”

He whistles. “You are committed to this job.”

“Yup, though I have to confess I’m pretty excited to have the next two weeks off. I’m officially on Christmas break.”

He groans. “I want your job.”

I laugh. “I really did get lucky. The kids are incredible. But I’m worried about Sanquita. She’s not looking very healthy these days. She’s four months along and it’s hard to tell she’s pregnant. She sees whoever’s on duty at Cook County Health Department, but these are just regular doctors, with no expertise in kidney disease. I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Chan at University of Chicago Medical Center. She’s supposed to be one of the best nephrologists in the country.”

“And what’s new with psycho dude?”

“Peter?” I let out a sigh. “I saw him this morning. He’s smart as a whip, but I just can’t seem to reach him.”

“Still talking to his shrink?”

I smile. “Yeah. That’s been a huge perk. Garrett’s such a dear man. He’s so wise and so skilled, yet at the same time he’s completely approachable. We talk about Peter, but then we end up discussing our families or our dreams. I even told him about my mother’s wishes.”

“You like this guy.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Brad was jealous. But that’s crazy. “I adore Dr. Taylor. He’s a widower. His wife died of pancreatic cancer three years ago.”

I cover my mouth and yawn.

“Tired?” Brad asks.

“Exhausted. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
Except, perhaps, that I’m pregnant!
I turn to him. “Heard anything from Jenna?”

He stares out the window. “Nada.”

I squeeze his arm. What a foolish woman.

S
mells of wood shavings and animal dander assail us when we step through the doors of the Chicago Animal Rescue Shelter. A silver-haired woman wearing Wrangler jeans and a flannel shirt
saunters over to us, swinging her arms with each stride. “Welcome to CARS,” she says. “I’m Gillian, one of the volunteers. What brings you here today?”

“I’ve been approved for pet adoption,” I tell her over background barking. “I’m here today to find my dog.”

Gillian points a stubby finger at a gated section of the building. “Our registered dogs are in this area. These are the dogs with pedigrees and papers. They usually go very quickly. A gorgeous Portuguese water dog came in just last night. ’Course, he won’t last but a minute. Ever since the Obamas chose Bo, the breed’s been in huge demand.”

“I’m looking for more of a mutt,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t say?” She pivots and makes a swooping gesture with her arm. “Mutts are terrific. The only problem with a mutt is that you don’t know their family history. You’ve no idea of the temperament of the animal or chances for diseases, based on genetic stock.”

Kind of like me. “I’ll risk it.”

It takes less than ten minutes to find him. Through a metal cage, a fluffy canine stares at me with coffee bean eyes that are at once friendly and pleading.

“Hello, boy!” I tug Brad’s coat sleeve. “Meet my new dog.”

Gillian opens the cage. “Hey, Rudy.”

Rudy scampers to the cement floor, his tail flickering like a rattlesnake’s as he sniffs us. He stares up at Brad, then me, as if checking out his prospective parents.

I scoop him up and he squirms in my arms. He licks my cheeks and I laugh with joy.

“He likes you,” Brad says, scratching the dog’s ears. “He’s adorable.”

“Isn’t he?” Gillian agrees. “Rudy’s a year and a half old, full grown. My best guess is that he’s part bichon frise, part cocker, with a smidgen of poodle to complete the recipe.”

Regardless, the final product is delicious. I nuzzle his soft fur. “Why would someone give away a dog like this?”

“You’d be surprised. Usually it’s a move, or a new baby, or a clash in temperaments. If I remember right, Rudy’s owner is about to marry someone who doesn’t want a pet.”

It feels like Rudy and I are a matched set: two homeless mongrels who’ve just lost the ones they loved—or thought they loved.

While I write the check for my new pup and all his accoutrements, Brad studies a flyer about the shelter. “Listen,” he says. “CARS is committed to ending animal suffering and believes in no-kill communities to help the stray, abused, and neglected companion animals in urban areas, like Chicago.”

“Cool,” I say, scribbling the date on the check.

Brad taps a photo in the flyer. “Gillian, you actually adopt out horses?”

I lift my pen, midword, and narrow my eyes at him.

“We sure do,” Gillian says. “Whatcha looking for?”

He lifts his shoulders. “I’m completely clueless. Give me an idea of what’s out there.”

“Are we talking for you, or your children?” Gillian asks, flipping pages in a three-ring binder.

“Never mind, Gillian,” I say. “We’re not getting a horse.”

“Just us,” Brad tells her. “For now, anyway.”

For a sweet, fleeting instant, I imagine a child—my child—horseback riding. But that’s years down the road. “We need to talk about this one,” I say to him. “There’s absolutely no way I can care for a horse.”

“Here she is.” Gillian positions the binder in front of us and taps a chipped nail on a picture. “Meet Lady Lulu. A thoroughbred gelding, fifteen years old. She was a racehorse early on, but now she’s got some issues with arthritis and whatnot, so the owner won’t keep her.” She keeps her eyes on Brad, obviously sensing he’s the only one with any interest. “Lulu would be perfect
for pleasure or light trail riding. And she’s a total sweetheart, just a baby. Come see her.”

I tear the check from my checkbook and hand it to her. “Thanks, Gillian. We’ll think about it.”

“She’s stabled in Marengo, at Paddock Farms. You really should take a look at her. She’s a special one.”

W
e head north on State Street, Rudy in the backseat secured in his crate. He peers out the window like a nosy tot, mesmerized by the honking traffic, the crowds darting in and out of stores, the Christmas lights twinkling from tree branches. I glance back at him and reach a hand to his cage.

“You doing okay, sweetie?” I ask. “Mommy’s right here.”

Brad swings around. “Hang in there, Rudy boy. We’ll be home soon.”

We sound like proud parents, bringing our newborn home from the hospital. Within the dark confines of the car, I smile.

“About the horse,” Brad says, planting me firmly back in real time.

“Yes, about the horse. I think that’s the goal I should be exempt from.”

“What?” he asks. “You don’t want a horse?”

“I’m a city girl, Midar. I love Chicago. And what kills me is that my mom knew this. Why would she keep such an absurd goal on my list?”

“Real nice. You’re going to let Lady Lulu retire to the glue factory?”

“Stop. I’m serious. I actually called around about boarding a horse. It would cost a fortune, all the feedings, and supplements, and grooming. Really, it adds up to a monthly fee more than most people’s mortgage. Do you realize what Joshua House could do with that money?”

“You’ve got a point. It is a tad wasteful. But it’s not going to break the bank, B.B. You just sold your car. You’ve got the money now.”

“No I don’t! That money is for Pohlonski. My savings account is disappearing before my eyes.”

“But that’s temporary. Once you get your inheritance—”

“
If
I get my inheritance! Who knows when that will be? I can’t possibly meet all these goals within the year.”

“Okay. Let’s just focus on one. It
is
possible that you could get the horse, right?”

“But I don’t have the time. The closest place I found to board is an hour away.”

Brad stares out the front window. “I think we’ve got to trust your mom on this one. So far she hasn’t let us down.”

“This goal isn’t just about me. It’s about an animal—an animal I don’t have time to care for. I won’t do that. A dog is one thing, but a horse is, well, a completely different animal.”

He nods. “Okay then. Let’s just put this goal out to pasture for the moment. Give you time to
rein
in your fears. I don’t want to be a
neigh
-sayer.”

I roll my eyes at him but it’s good to hear him laughing again.

“Stop horsing around,” I tell him, unable to resist his silly game.

“Good one!” He holds up his hand for a high five. “You’ve got good horse sense.”

“You’re a horse’s ass,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

“Oh, get off your high horse,” he says, busting himself up.

I shake my head. “You are such a loser.”

B
rad carries Rudy across my mother’s threshold like his new bride. With his free hand, he drags a sack of dog supplies into the foyer while I click on lamps and plug in my Christmas tree. Smelling
of pine, the room glows with the ethereal brilliance of the colored lights.

“This place is gorgeous,” he says, lowering Rudy. Wasting no time, Rudy romps to the tree, sniffing at the red foil packages beneath it.