The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (12 page)

“It’s not insane at all,” Lara assured her. “If you understand how you two got into this pattern of behavior, it’ll be much easier to figure out how you can get out.”

Kayla laid one hand flat against Roo’s well-padded rib cage. “I get what you’re saying, and I’ll give it a try. But I know how it feels to want one more bite, to be starving for it, and when he looks up at me with that sad, hopeful expression, well, I can’t say no.”

Lara mulled this over for a moment. “Here’s an idea. Both of you can work on this together. Roo needs more discipline in his diet, and it sounds like you need less. What if you both have a treat every day? A tiny little cheat that no one will ever know about.”

“I can’t do that.” Kayla’s eyes widened. “If I have one sip of wine, I’ll chug the whole glass. If I eat one bite of brownie, I have to eat the whole thing.”

Lara was starting to understand the psychological significance of the huge plastic kibble scoop.

“Okay,” she said in her most calming, reasonable tone. “Then once a week, drink a whole glass of wine. Eat a brownie. Just try it for thirty days. And next month I’ll come back and we’ll see where we are.”

Kayla’s bravado gave way to visible fear. “I’ll be as fat as Roo.”

“From one brownie a week? I doubt that. In fact, I’ll bet you that you won’t gain a single pound.”

Kayla nibbled her lower lip, her eyes worried.

Lara deliberately relaxed her posture and waited for her client to do the same. “All I can ask is that you try. I’m not telling you to start mainlining sugar and alter your lifestyle forever. I’m just asking you, both of you, to follow the program. If a month sounds overwhelming, let’s start with a week. How about that? I’ll come back next Monday and see how it’s going.”

“And I’ll take him for a walk every day?”

“A
short
walk,” Lara emphasized. “Just around the block once or twice.”

“I can do that.” Kayla took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll try to get my husband to come with me.”

“Great idea. You’re all in this together.”

Kayla brightened. “He’s not much of a gourmet cook, but he can probably handle pinto beans and potatoes. And then, next weekend, we can all go to McDonald’s and give my baby a Big Mac.”

Lara laughed. “I was thinking more like plain nonfat yogurt.”

“
I
still get a chocolate croissant, though, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Lara felt good about the paycheck she pocketed on her way out the door, but she felt even better about Roo’s prospects. The high of a successful consult was addictive. No one was criticizing her or demanding that she turn her whole personality inside out. She had done her job, she had earned the appreciation, and she was a beacon of hope to flabradors everywhere.

On her way back to Justine’s house, she crossed paths yet again with Ivory. The spunky Maltese gave her a friendly little yip as she trotted past.

“That’s right.” Lara put a little extra spring into her step. “I’m the Dog Doyenne, and don’t you forget it.”

Chapter 14

“Mom?” Late Sunday morning, Lara rapped softly on the massive double doors that closed off the master suite from the rest of the world. “Are you awake?”

She waited, breath held, ears straining for any sound of life from within. But there was nothing except the steady, murmuring drone from the TV.

“Mom?” She knocked again, louder this time, and tried the doorknob. Locked.

This was getting ridiculous, and also kind of creepy. Knowing that Justine was physically present in the house, but never seeing her, was starting to freak Lara out. Even the dogs picked up their pace when they scuttled past Justine’s doorway, as if a scaly, taloned hand might dart out and snatch them.

Plus, Justine had never been the reclusive type. She thrived on energy and chaos. She loved to charge into a crisis and start giving orders and implementing strategies.

So Lara grabbed her cell phone and dialed.

On the fifth ring her mother picked up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. It’s Lara. Remember me? Your daughter? I’m right outside your bedroom door.”

“What do you want?” Justine’s voice sounded thick and throaty, as if she had just woken up and was still getting her bearings.

“Just to chat. May I come in?”

There was a long pause.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

Lara rested her fingers on the knob. “Let me in.”

There was another long pause; then at last the knob twisted and the door swung inward. Her mother stood in the shadows, her arms folded tightly over a pair of wrinkled turquoise silk pajamas. The room was so dark that it took Lara a few moments to determine that Justine’s face was devoid of makeup, and her hair, once so thick she’d had to shape it with thinning shears, now appeared unwashed and sparse, exposing pale flashes of scalp. There were dark circles under her eyes and faint creases around her mouth, eyes, and forehead.

Lara couldn’t hide her pity and dismay, and Justine bristled in response. She stood up taller and fanned out her fingers to cover the uneven patches of pigment on her face. “See? This is why I can’t leave the house. That’s exactly how I
don’t
want people to look at me.”

“It’s not your face,” Lara said, so quickly that she knew she sounded insincere. “It’s just . . . you’re wearing pajamas, and it’s almost noon.”

“So what?” Justine started back toward her king-size bed, which was heaped with fluffy pillows and a blue silk duvet.

At times like this, Lara desperately wished she had a sibling. She didn’t know how worried she should be, and it would be so helpful to have someone to check in with. Someone to say, “Oh, you know how she is. She’ll bounce back” or “I’ve never seen her like this before. You’re absolutely right to be concerned.”

Justine was intensely private about her personal life—or lack thereof—and Lara knew that any attempt to nudge her mother toward therapy or group support would be met with scorn.

The only person who might have a frame of reference for this kind of situation was Gil, but she could never tell her father about this. Justine would consider that the ultimate betrayal. As far as Gil was concerned, Justine was bulletproof. He still spoke about his ex-wife with a combination of awe and intimidation.

“How may I help you?” Justine tucked her feet under the covers and reclined against the pillows.

“I wanted to ask how I may help you, actually.” Lara swept out her arms to indicate the cold, dark, stale-smelling suite. “This is not healthy.”

“You’re here for a pep talk? Spare me. I’m taking a nap.”

“You’ve been napping since Friday. I know you’re, um, making some big adjustments right now, but you shouldn’t be holed up here in the dark.”

“The doctors said UV exposure’s not good for my face.”

“That means you put on sunscreen and a hat. No one advised to you to spend all day, every day, wasting away watching . . .” Lara squinted at the TV screen. “What are you watching?”

“
Sopranos
marathon. I never got to see this series when it originally aired, you know.”

“No wonder you’re depressed.”

Justine lifted her chin. “I’m not depressed. I don’t get depressed.”

Lara shot her a sidelong glance. “I just Googled
clinical depression
and you’ve got every symptom: constant sleepiness, social withdrawal, loss of appetite, irritability. . . .”

“Irritability is my natural state.” Justine paused the TV, then dropped the remote control as if the effort of holding it exhausted her. “Did you barge in here just to play armchair psychologist?”

“I’m trying to help. I’m worried about you.”

“Worry about yourself. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I always will be.” Justine’s voice rose at the end of this statement, as if to imply that Lara’s future wasn’t nearly so secure.

Lara ignored this barb and regarded her mother with compassion. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Justine narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you talk to me that way. Don’t patronize me. This is my house, I’m a grown woman, and if I feel like sleeping all damn weekend, I will. Mind your own business.”

Lara flinched at the hostility in her mother’s voice, but she didn’t back down. “Well, I’m making lunch, so you can either tell me what you’d like, or you can have a peanut butter sandwich.”

“I detest peanut butter, and you know it.”

Lara did know it. Justine’s taste ran more toward sashimi and scallops.

“Well, my cooking skills are pretty much limited to PB and J, cereal out of the box, pancakes, and pasta. Take your pick.”

“Get out and stay out.” Justine pointed imperiously at the door. “I’m not one of your charity cases. Save your Mother Teresa complex for your dogs.”

“It’s not a Mother Teresa complex. It’s lunch. So pancakes, pasta, or peanut butter—what’ll it be?”

“I haven’t touched pasta in ages, but it does sound tempting,” Justine admitted. “That’s one thing about
The Sopranos
—all the characters are constantly gorging on carbohydrates.”

“Perfect. I have an hour before I have to leave for the adoption fair. Let’s go make spaghetti.”

“Cooking? On the stove?” Justine seemed baffled by this idea. “Call Nick’s and order takeout.”

“No, Mom. We can cook. You have a fully stocked kitchen with restaurant-grade appliances.”

“Purely for aesthetics and resale value. I don’t even know how to turn on the stove.”

“Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“I’m comfortable right here.”

Lara put her hands on her hips. “You can’t stay in bed all day. You need to get out of those pajamas and put on real clothes. And while I’m out in the kitchen, I want you to take a shower.” She opened up the plantation shutters to let in some sunlight. “Oh, and change the channel. All these mob whackings can’t be good for your mental state.”

Justine hit
PLAY
on the remote and jacked up the volume. “You know, last time I looked, you didn’t sign my paychecks. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“It’s for your own good.” Lara walked into the huge mirrored bathroom and turned on the shower. “Get cracking.”

When she returned twenty minutes later, carrying two servings of salad and marinara-sauced linguine, she found Justine combing out her wet hair. She had swapped her pajamas for a dark green cowl-neck sweater and black drawstring cotton pants that looked suspiciously like sleepwear.

Lara leveled her gaze. “I thought we agreed the pajamas had to go.”

“These aren’t pajamas,” Justine said. “It’s loungewear.”

“You are so stubborn.”

“You mean I’m a good negotiator.”

Lara set the tray on the nightstand next to the bed, then handed her mother a white cloth napkin, a fork, and a crystal goblet of ice water.

Her mother wrinkled her nose at the water. “I’d prefer a lovely glass of Cabernet, please.”

“Before noon? I don’t think so.”

Justine took a tiny bite of pasta, then made a face. “Is this
jarred
tomato sauce?”

Lara nodded. “I couldn’t find any of Shelly’s homemade sauce in the freezer.”

“Did you grate the Parmesan yourself, at least?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Justine set aside her lunch and flopped back against the pillows. “I know what you’re thinking. I know that to you I seem vain and superficial.”

Lara didn’t reply. She sat motionless, hoping that her silence would encourage her mother to keep going.

“My entire life, people have depended on me. For their salary, of course, but also for direction. I have the answers. I make the hard decisions. And I’m comfortable with that; it’s part of being a business owner. But now . . . My face is who I am. It’s my identity. And now it’s ruined.”

“It is not who you are,” Lara argued. “What about all those old sayings: ‘Beauty is only skin deep’? ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’?”

“All said by people not making their living in the beauty industry. It doesn’t bother me if people hate me. I couldn’t care less how my employees feel about me as long as they respect me. But the pity, the stares, and the whispers, and the way I was being ‘handled’ . . .” She shook her head. “I’d almost rather stay locked up in this empty house. My cardiologist gave me an excuse to be weak, and I took it.”

“The last word I would ever use to describe you is
weak
. You’re so strong, it’s scary. And your house isn’t empty,” Lara pointed out. “You’ve got your unmarried, underemployed adult daughter crashing with you.”

“Yes. That
is
a comfort.”

Lara saw her opening and made her move. “And since I’m here—very temporarily, I might add—we should do something together.”

Justine nodded at the linguine and the television. “We are doing something together.”

“No, I mean really
do
something. Ooh, I know. We could go to a movie.”

Justine shuddered. “No. I can’t abide movie theaters. The sticky floors, the constant ringing of cell phones . . .”

“Okay, we could go play tennis. We’ll wait until the afternoon sun goes down.”

Justine glanced down at her legs as if doubting their ability to support her. “I don’t have the energy for tennis today.”

“Once you get out there, you might surprise yourself.”

Justine sipped her water. “I’ve already asked you once not to patronize me. If I have to ask again, this lunch is over.”

Lara had no choice but to play her trump card. “I’ll go shopping with you.”

This caught Justine’s attention. “Well, well, well. You
are
desperate to bond.”

“Yep. This is it—your big chance to make me over. I can’t promise I’ll buy anything, but I’ll try on whatever you pick out.”

Justine considered this offer for a fraction of a second, then shook her head. “I cannot go shopping right now. People will recognize me at all the stores that matter: Neiman Marcus, Barneys, Saks.”

Lara held up both hands. “Easy, there. I was thinking more along the lines of Old Navy and Target.”

Justine stared at her as though she had suddenly started speaking Swahili.

“Fine, I give up. You win. We won’t bond.” Lara shoved a bite of salad into her mouth and crunched furiously. “But I’ll have you know that they have some really cute stuff at Target.”

Justine pointed to the drawer of her nightstand. “Open that for me, please.”

Lara opened the drawer with some trepidation to find, where other women traditionally stashed celebrity tabloids or naughty bedroom toys, a sleek navy blue laptop computer.

She handed this to Justine, who powered it up and slid on a pair of stylish eyeglasses. “All right,” Justine murmured, clicking open the Web browser. “Neiman Marcus it is. Let’s start with denim.”

“No, no, no.” Lara shook her head. “I said I’d go shopping with you—as in leave the house. I never agreed to online shopping.”

“You didn’t specify method or venue.” This semantic victory seemed to energize Justine. “It’s time to bring your style into the twenty-first century.”

“What are you looking at? Mom, no. I need jeans that I can train dogs in,” Lara protested. “I don’t want my ass crack hanging out every time I’m leaning over teaching Eskie to stack.”

“How about these?” Justine pointed out a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans.

Lara glanced at the price tag. “
A hundred and eighty-five dollars?
If you’re going to spend that kind of money, I’d rather you just write the rescue group a check.”

“This is exactly why I don’t send you money for Christmas or your birthday. You never buy anything for yourself. You’d rather run around in those tragic boot-cut rags like a ranch hand and spend your last penny so some flea-bitten husky off the street can get his teeth cleaned. At some point, all this selflessness stops being noble and crosses the line into stupidity. Most daughters would love it if their mothers offered to buy them a whole new wardrobe. What’s wrong with you? Who turns down free designer jeans?”

“I’m sorry.” Lara hung her head. She knew that this disconnect between them wasn’t just her mother’s fault. Both of them had become so defensive that they couldn’t share anything. Bonding would somehow be an admission of weakness.

Justine was still staring at her. “If I can’t go out and you refuse to shop online, then what do you suggest we do?”

Lara glanced at the laptop and said, “We could play a game. You could download Solitaire or Minesweeper, or even Scrabble.”

“Scrabble.” Justine’s deep freeze thawed a degree or two. “Remember when we played up in Paul’s cabin in Sedona?”

During the long, brutally hot Phoenix summers of Lara’s childhood, Justine had exploited every social connection she had to escape the heat. She and Lara would spend a week in San Diego at a client’s condo, or three days in Tucson at a hair coloring seminar. One of Justine’s early mentors at the salon, Paul, had invited them to his summer house in Sedona. The cabin had spotty phone service and no TV at all, just a drawer full of battered old board games. Lara and Justine spent their days hiking and swimming, and in the evenings they played marathon games of Scrabble. Justine had never let Lara win—“The real world won’t mollycoddle you, and your mother shouldn’t, either.” She beat her soundly every time, but Lara always demanded one more rematch.