Christmas On Nutcracker Court (11 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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Who knew? But the way Josh saw it, Houdini was a better name for the mutt than Hemingway was.
“Do you think he's jumping over the fence?” Mikey asked.
“Maybe, but it's pretty high. I think a kangaroo would have a hard time getting over it.”
Hemingway's tail wagged like crazy, and his back end started swinging back and forth with it.
“Look how happy he is to see us,” Mikey said.
It sure seemed that way.
“I think he's getting out just because he wants to be with us,” Mikey said.
That was possible. And, to be honest, Josh had to admit the goofy dog was kind of growing on him, too.
Mikey, whose glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose while he was stooped over and petting the dog, looked up at Josh. “Think we should take him back home so nothing happens to him?”
“No way.” Josh was in enough trouble as it was. So that meant Hemingway was on his own while he was running loose. “I'm never going to take him home again.”
The dog's owner was a grump, although Josh was a lot more scared of Ross than he was of Mr. Tolliver. “Come on, Mikey. We need to get out of here. We'll just have to forget that arrowhead for now.”
“Okay.” As Mikey turned to go, he looked to the right and cried out, “Hey, look! There it is!” Then he walked to the muddy edge of the swollen stream, where the arrowhead rested on a flat rock that was almost under water, thanks to the last rain. “I'll get it.”
“Don't fall in,” Josh said.
“I won't.”
But just as Mikey leaned forward and reached for the arrowhead, his foot slipped. He probably wasn't going to fall in, and if he did, he knew how to swim, but Josh started after him anyway—just in case. Before he could get one step closer, Hemingway lurched forward and grabbed Mikey by the seat of his pants, just like he was Lassie or some kind of wonder dog. But then Hemingway slipped, too, bumping into Mikey and sending him headfirst into the rushing water.
It's not like the creek was all that deep; Mikey just had to stand up and he'd be okay. So Josh couldn't help but laugh when he thought about his little brother getting goosed by a dog and knocked into the water. Of course, they were in real trouble now, but some things were just plain funny.
Too bad they didn't have a camera with them. They could have sent it to
America's Funniest Home Videos
and made a ton of money—enough to solve all their family's problems.
But as Mikey stood up, sopping wet, he grinned from ear to ear and raised his fist up high in victory, just like he'd scored a winning touchdown in the last second of the game. “I still got it, Josh! I didn't let it go!”
The arrowhead?
That was great news, Josh thought. But now they had an even worse problem.
Mikey wasn't wearing his glasses anymore.
 
 
Carly's last appointment of the day called an hour earlier and canceled, saying she didn't like driving in the rain. So rather than stay at the salon and hope for a walk-in, she decided to call it a day before the upcoming storm hit with a vengeance.
She thought about stopping by the market on her way home, since a pot of homemade chicken vegetable soup sounded really good on a day like this and she'd need to pick up the ingredients. But she'd told Jerry Carlisle, her landlord, that she'd make a partial payment of the rent by the first of next week, so she was stuck making meals with whatever she had on hand.
And that meant they'd be dining on canned chili tonight.
By the time she reached the house, the wind had really kicked up, and the rain was coming down in a steady beat.
She could have called the boys to let them know she was going to be early, but decided to surprise them instead. During the winter months, it wasn't often that she got home before dark.
After parking the car in the garage, she entered the house through the laundry room, where the dryer was on. Whatever was inside was thumping and bumping as though the appliance was going to blow at any minute.
What in the world had the boys put in there?
She placed her purse and appointment book on top of the washer, then opened the dryer door. Inside, she found the clothes they'd been wearing this morning, as well as their shoes—all damp.
Apparently, they'd gotten wet on their way home from school.
She probably ought to be proud of them for trying to clean up after themselves, although she would've preferred that they waited for her.
After restarting the dryer, she grabbed her things. Then, hoping to keep the noise at a minimum, she shut the door to close off the laundry room from the rest of the house.
As she moved through the kitchen, she heard another noise coming from the bathroom. Her blow-dryer? Had the boys gotten so wet walking home from the bus stop that they'd needed to shower and wash their hair, too?
Unable to quell her curiosity, she strode to the hall, then opened the bathroom door, only to find her sons kneeling next to a great big, wooly dog.
And they were blow-drying its fur.
She wasn't sure who was more surprised, her or the boys. Even the mangy mutt looked up at her with guilty eyes.
“What in the world are you
doing
?” she asked.
“We . . .” Mikey bit his bottom lip, then looked at his brother as if wanting help with the explanation.
“It's a long story,” Josh said, shutting off the blow-dryer.
“I've got plenty of time.” Carly crossed her arms, thinking this had better be good—until her gaze traveled to the edge of the bathtub, where her favorite—and most
expensive
—shampoo bottle sat. Her jaw dropped, and she finally lost her cool. “Don't tell me you bathed that dog with my good stuff.”
But the boys didn't need to say a word. The familiar floral scent, which she hadn't noticed until now, filled the room, even though it couldn't mask the smell of wet dog fur.
“I figured you wouldn't mind us cleaning him up when you found out why,” Josh said.
Well, he'd figured
wrong
.
But before she could open her mouth, he added, “Hemingway saved Mikey's life. And we didn't think you'd want him to catch pneumonia and die because of it.”
Mikey had been in danger? The annoyance in Carly's voice faded into the small confines of the bathroom, and her knees threatened to give out. “What happened?”
Her question had been pointed at Josh, but it was Mikey who responded first. “I lost Josh's arrowhead in the canyon the other day, and he needed it for his school project. So I went to find it for him, but I fell in the creek, and Hemingway grabbed me. So that's how we all got wet and muddy.”
“Hemingway?” she asked.
“Mr. Tolliver's dog.” Josh smiled at the critter and stroked its head. “At first we thought he was mean, but he's really cool. And he's even kind of cute, when you get used to looking at him.”
Carly had no intention of getting used to him. In fact, she was eager to get him out of the house as soon as possible, even if he was a hero.
“Actually,” Mikey said, “it was kind of his fault that I fell in the water in the first place. He bumped into me.”
Carly glanced at Josh, just in time to see him give his younger brother a frown. Had they embellished the dog's heroism?
“But he saved me,” Mikey added. “I just wish he would have saved my glasses, too.”
At that, Carly looked at her youngest son, just now realizing that his glasses were missing.
Under normal circumstances, she would have chalked it up as another inconvenient cost that parents dealt with on a regular basis, but she couldn't afford to buy another pair of glasses, especially this week.
And Mikey needed them for school.
What was she going to do?
“We tried to find them,” Josh said. “That's how we got all wet. But when they fell in the water with Mikey, they must have floated all the way to the ocean.”
Carly raked her hand through her hair as she sorted through the story they'd told her, but they seemed to have left out one important detail. “Why didn't you come straight home like you were supposed to?”
“It was my fault,” Mikey said. “I was the one who lost the arrowhead. And Josh followed after me 'cause he's supposed to babysit me, remember?”
It was days like this that reminded her how badly she needed to hire a competent adult to look after the boys while she worked. But how was she supposed to pay that additional expense when she was going to be hard-pressed to pay even a part of the rent this month?
Oh, dear God. Is there ever going to be an end to all of this?
Carly placed a hand over her forehead.
What am I going to do? How do I dig out of this hole?
Yet she didn't expect an answer. She'd been praying for all that she was worth lately, asking that God would send an angel to watch over the boys while she was at work and to make sure they stayed out of trouble. She'd also asked that her money troubles would ease up, and that she would be able to create a happy home for her sons. But so far, her prayers seemed to have gotten trapped in the ozone.
Right now, she'd appreciate having another adult to turn to, someone to wrap his arms around her and assure her that they would both sit back and laugh about all of this one day.
But how many eligible bachelors wanted to become stepfathers and take on a ready-made family?
Not many, she suspected.
Lynette might think she'd found the perfect guy for Carly, but she was wrong. What man in his right mind would choose Carly when he could just as easily have someone as pretty—and as unencumbered—as Lynette?
Carly closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and slowly let it go. “Okay, boys. I want you both to take a shower. Then put on your pajamas.”
“But it's not even night yet,” Josh said.
“I don't care what time it is,” she snapped. “Get ready for bed, then clean up this mess.”
“But what about Hemingway?” Mikey asked. “Where should we put him?”
“Outside.”
“But it's raining. And we already gave him a bath. You can't send him out where he'll get dirty and wet.”
She was speechless for a couple of beats, then an idea struck. As she turned toward the door, where her bathrobe hung, she reached for the sash and pulled it through the loops. Then she slipped it through the dog's collar, using it as a makeshift leash.
“What are you doing?” Josh asked.
“Don't worry about that. You do as I say. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She tugged on the sash, drawing the dog through the doorway. “I'm going to drive him home.”
“That's really cool of you, Mom.”
Carly glanced at her oldest son, saw him smiling. But she didn't respond to his praise.
He might think she was being a good mother and an animal lover, but Mikey needed new glasses, and Max Tolliver's dog was responsible.
Chapter 7
As the rain pelted the window and a fire blazed warm in the hearth, Max paced the length of the living room floor, from the computer desk to the front door and back again.
Earlier, he'd been hard at work, his mind locked on his manuscript, while Hemingway roamed the yard. But then a streak of lightning lit the room, and a roar of thunder shook the walls, jerking Max back to reality.
The dog hated thunderstorms, so Max had gone to let him in. The silence—no howling, crying, or scratching claws upon the door—had been his first clue that something was amiss.
As he opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, the only sound that met him was the storm—the wind raking through the trees, the raindrops pounding the rooftop and pouring on the ground.
“Hemingway!” he'd shouted several times. He'd whistled, too, but the dog hadn't come running.
The gate had been closed, so he had no idea how he'd gotten out. But at that point, it hadn't really mattered.
So he'd taken the car and searched the neighborhood, going as far as to circle Mulberry Park and to check out Canyon Drive, but the dog was nowhere to be found.
Hemingway didn't have much street sense. In fact, there were times when Max didn't think he had any sense at all.
He tried to tell himself that he would come home eventually. And that animals were accustomed to being outdoors, even in bad weather. But that didn't make him feel any better about knowing that Hemingway was on the loose.
As pesky as that dog could sometimes be, and as often as Max had threatened to take him to the pound, you'd think that he could shake off the uneasiness. But he couldn't seem to do that.
It was well after five o'clock now, so he didn't expect anyone at the animal shelter to answer the phone. Still, they had to have some kind of emergency crew, didn't they? Someone available to pick up strays and protect them from the storm?
He started for the telephone, but when the doorbell rang, he came to a stop. He didn't get much company, especially since he'd been keeping to himself lately. But Hemingway had a license and an identity tag with his name and address. Maybe someone had found him.
He crossed the living room floor and opened the door, where he found the dog waiting, tail wagging, butt swinging back and forth. But it wasn't Hemingway's presence that surprised him the most, it was the woman who'd brought him home.
Carly Westbrook stood on his stoop, her brown hair damp, her mascara smudged—yet just as attractive as the first time he'd seen her. Maybe more so, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips.
In her hand, she held a ribbon of blue linen, which was tied to Hemingway's red collar.
Before he could thank her for coming out in the rain to bring his dog home, Hemingway lunged inside, nearly dragging the poor woman along with him.
Max's gaze flicked from the crazy mutt to the pretty brunette and back again.
“Thanks for bringing him home,” he finally said. “Where did you find him?”
“In my bathroom.”
Max cocked his head. “How did he get in there?”
“My boys gave him a bath.”
Her answer only provoked more questions, like how the dog got to her house in the first place. But rather than quiz her further, Max opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please, come in out of the rain and cold.”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then complied. But she didn't do more than cross the threshold.
“Can I get you something to drink? Something warm, like coffee maybe?”
“No, I can't stay. I've got to get back to the boys.” Yet she stood there, in the foyer. Waiting for something, it seemed.
A reward, maybe?
Her clothing—brown slacks, white blouse, and black jacket—were rain-splattered. And her cheeks were flushed, although he wasn't sure if that was from embarrassment due to the awkward situation or from the cold.
“So how did my dog end up at your house?” he finally asked.
“He and my boys were in the canyon. And when Mikey—Michael—was reaching into the water for something, your dog knocked him in.”
Max tensed. “Is your son okay?”
“Yes. Apparently, your dog also pulled him back to shore.”
Hemingway? A clumsy hero?
Max couldn't help but smile as he glanced down at the lovable mutt who was sitting on his haunches, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
His fur had a glossy sheen this evening, and he looked better than he did after the time Max had taken him to the groomers.
“Your kids gave him a bath?” he asked.
“With my best shampoo.”
Max caught the hint of spring flowers and smiled again. “He smells great. You've got good taste in bath products.”
He'd only been trying to make light of it all—Hemingway getting out, the kids giving him a bath, their pretty mother bringing the dog home in the rain.
But as she clutched her purse tightly to her side and frowned, it was apparent that she didn't find it funny. “My son lost his glasses in the creek.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“They were expensive, and I can't afford to replace them right now.”
Uh-oh. Was she expecting him to pay for them? Was that what this awkward moment was all about?
Max took a defensive stance. “How did the dog get out of my yard?”
“I have no idea, but he keeps ending up with my boys.”
He couldn't argue that point, but neither could he help but suspect that her kids had a part in his dog's escape. But rather than accuse them without any solid evidence, he softened the blow. “Maybe they're trying to adopt him.”
She crossed her arms. “I've told the boys to stay away from your property and your dog. And they insist that they have.”
Maybe so, but Max knew something about human nature, and confessions didn't come easy for most people. “Have you considered that they might be lying to you?”
“I suppose they could be, but I believe them. So I'd have to say it's probably the other way around. Your dog is trying to adopt my kids.”
“Do they need adopting?”
She bristled, clearly taking offense at his remark. And to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure why he'd said it, why he'd implied that she might not be watching them closely enough. It was possible, he supposed, but he had no way of knowing that was the case.
“I love my kids,” she said. “And I try to keep close tabs on them, but I'm also pedaling as fast as I can, trying to stay on top of the creditors and my landlord. Christmas is coming, and I'm not even going to be able to afford a tree.”
He was sorry to hear that, but what did she expect him to do or to say? He wasn't the one who'd left her in a lurch.
“I'm a hairdresser,” she added. “And I've been working six days a week. Sometimes I stay late at the salon, hoping to pick up the walk-in clientele. As a result, the boys are left to fend for themselves, which is a huge worry for me. But I can't see any way around it right now, especially this month.”
It was more than Max wanted to know, more than he needed to know. And he wondered if, after she went home and thought about it, she'd feel sorry about dumping all of that on him.
He was usually good at reading people, although he wasn't at all sure about her. He had a hunch that she was even less sure about him, and that's usually the way he liked it. But something about this whole thing made him uneasy and left him a little unbalanced.
“I'm sorry for venting,” she said. “And it kills me to have to come here and ask you to pay for my son's glasses.”
Max bristled. So that's why she went to the trouble of bringing Hemingway home. To ask him for money. Well, he was financially strapped, too. And he didn't like being backed into a corner.
“Didn't my dog pull your son out of the creek?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then, if that's the case, the cost of the glasses should be on you.”
“But your dog caused Michael to fall into the water in the first place. And my son needs those glasses.” Her eyes—a pretty shade of green in the lamplight—welled with tears.
Aw, man. Don't do that, lady
.
Max knew that crying was often a ploy, and that she could be playing him for a fool, but that didn't stop sympathy from chipping away at his resolve until he turned and strode for his desk to get his checkbook, which he kept in the top drawer.
Annoyed by his weakness and grumbling under his breath, he grabbed a pen. On the
PAY TO THE ORDER OF
line, he wrote “Carly Westbrook,” then made it out for one hundred dollars and signed the darn thing.
Yet he held his ground as he tore out the check and handed it to her. “I won't pay to replace his glasses. But here's a reward for finding my dog.”
As she took it from him, her hand trembled slightly. She bit her bottom lip, and when she gazed at him, one of the tears welling in her eyes overflowed and slid down her cheek. “Thank you.”
As she turned to go back out into the rain, he found himself stopping her. “I've got an umbrella you can use.”
“That's okay,” she said. “I don't mind getting wet.”
That might be true, but he figured the real reason she turned down his offer was because she didn't want to feel beholden to him, and he couldn't blame her for that.
Somehow, thanks to his dog and a couple of disobedient kids, they'd ended up in some kind of neighborly cold war, which was a shame.
As feisty as he could be at times, as quick as he was with a snappy retort, he didn't feel like fighting with a beautiful single mother who was prone to tears.
Especially since he found her far more attractive than he ought to.
He opened the door for her, then watched as she ducked out into the rain. When she'd gotten safely into her car and started the engine, he turned to the dog. “What am I going to do with you?”
Hemingway cocked his furry head to the side, clearly clueless.
But the dumb dog wasn't any more perplexed than Max.
On Thursday morning, just before noon, Lynette was the first to arrive at Helen's house. After parking at the curb and shutting off the ignition, she scanned the neighborhood, hoping to see one of the bachelors out and about.
She wasn't too hopeful until she spotted Grant Barrows leaving his house. He was wearing a dark sports jacket and tie today, which was unusual for a laid-back guy like him.
Since she would need an excuse to approach him, she decided that making a comment about his appearance would work as well as anything. So she slid out of the driver's seat, grabbed her purse, then locked the car and strolled toward Grant.
“Don't you look nice,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Going to a wedding?” She cast him a playful grin, doubting that was the case.
He lobbed a boyish smile right back at her. “Actually, I've got a job interview.”
Lynette could have sworn that Helen said he worked at home, but she could be wrong. Either way, she wasn't mistaken about him being wealthy. She didn't forget details like that. So, determined to set him up with Carly, she dropped her keys into her purse and approached him, hoping he had time to chat for a minute or two.
“Nice tie,” she said, checking out the stylish but conservative blue and gray print.
“You like it?” He glanced down the front of him, then smoothed his hand over the length of the silk.
“I certainly do.” She'd always found Grant attractive, even in shorts and flip-flops. But she'd had no idea how sharp he would look when he dressed up.

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