The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service (11 page)

Chapter 12

“So, how’s motherhood?” Lara asked as she surveyed the chaos in Kerry’s living room. She’d swung by after work to drop off a take-out dinner and pick up a report from the front lines.

“Well, except for her constant screaming, my constant crying, the sleep deprivation, the hormonal whiplash, the bloating from the saline IV at the hospital, the conflicting advice from every random jackass I meet on the street, and the cracked nipples, it’s awesome. Totally fulfilling.” Kerry dug another Oreo out of the bag on her coffee table. Her sofa had become baby care command central, with wipes, pacifiers, cloth bibs, discarded onesies, and breast pump accessories scattered across the carpet. Despite the lure of processed snack food and chewy cloth goods, the dogs were nowhere to be seen. They’d retreated to the bedroom after Cynthia unleashed the full power of her tiny lungs. “And these cookies are really helping me lose the baby weight. Oh, and Richard has another business trip on Tuesday.”

Lara was appalled. “He’s leaving you all alone?”

“No, no. His mom is coming for a week. And so is my mom. Together. In the same house. Hold me—I’m scared.” Kerry winced as she shifted positions. “Ow. I’m such an idiot—my doctor offered me Percocet but I said no, I’d stick to Advil.
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
brainwashed me.”

“How can I help? Do you want me to take her for a few hours? You could go grab a nap and a shower.” Lara felt a bit panicky as she held out her arms to accept the squalling pink newborn.

“Thank you for offering, but no.” Kerry’s head fell back against the cushions. “I’m completely fried from feeding her and holding her twenty-four-seven, yet I start to hyperventilate at the thought of being separated from her. This will get easier, right? Tell me this will get easier.”

Lara’s eyes widened with every syllable. “It . . . will get easier.”

“Oh my God, I’m never going to sleep again.”

“Yes, you are. Now, seriously, let me know what I can do to help. If you want me to take the dogs for a while—”

“No, no, no. I promised myself I wouldn’t dump the dogs for the baby. I hate people who do that. I made a commitment to them, and I intend to keep it. In fact, I’ll see you at the adoption fair on Sunday.”

Lara shook her head. “You’re not going to that.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“But you . . .”

“I know, I know. But Richard says I need to take a break from the baby and get out in the fresh air. Well, actually, his mother said that, so of course he agreed.” Kerry glowered. “So I’ll be pumping my first bottle and heading back out into the trenches.” She grimaced, looking down at her holey sweatpants and baggy, milk-stained shirt. “Who wouldn’t want to adopt a dog from me, right?”

“You look great.” Lara always defended her friends, even from themselves.

“Yeah, right. Lie to yourself; don’t lie to me. Hey, after the adoption fair, maybe we can hit the back alleys and try to score some Percocet.” Kerry patted the baby’s back until Cynthia burped, then fell asleep. “Now, please, I beg you, let’s talk about something other than sleep schedules and breastfeeding and spit-up. What’s new with you? Have you talked to Evan since you moved out?”

“Not a word.” Lara settled down next to her friend and nibbled an Oreo. “No calls, no texts, no e-mails, nada. The man is done with me.”

Kerry raised an eyebrow. “Have you called or texted him?”

“No. What am I going to say?”

“‘Sorry I flushed your ring down the toilet. Let’s get a gallon of disinfectant and try again’?”

Lara crossed her arms. “He’s the one who started flushing things down the toilet, not me. He’s the one who PowerPointed me into moving in and then decided he doesn’t like dogs and never will.”

“That is pretty bad,” Kerry admitted.

“The man said, and I quote, ‘I’m not a dog person. I’m a people person.’”

Her friend’s jaw dropped. “Wow. You think you know someone. . . .”

Lara shoved another cookie into her mouth and waved her fist. “If I want someone to criticize my life choices, I can just call my mom. I don’t need my boyfriend trying to play Extreme Personality Makeover, too.”

“Speaking of which, how’s life over at Chez Justine?”

“Solitary. I’m not even sure my mom actually lives there. She comes home every night after I go to bed and leaves every morning before I get up.”

“You haven’t seen her at all?”

“Nope. She comes and goes like a phantom. Even the dogs don’t hear her.”

“Is she avoiding you?”

“I called her yesterday and asked her that, and she got all huffy and told me to get over myself. She’s all, ‘Everything isn’t about you.’”

“Your mom scares me.” Kerry gazed down at her wrinkled little infant. “I can’t imagine treating my own kid like that.”

“My mom scares
me
,” Lara said. “But I can’t blame her too much—I drove her to this. She spent her whole life trying to help me become a confident, sophisticated businesswoman who could take over her empire, and instead she got stuck with the Dog Doyenne. Oh yes, that’s what they’re calling me in Mayfair Estates.”

“Rich people are
so
weird,” Kerry said. “And I don’t care what she wanted you to be. You’re a great daughter and she should love you unconditionally.”

“She loves me. She just doesn’t
like
me very much. But that’s how she is—she doesn’t like anyone. Something’s up, but since she obviously doesn’t want to tell me, it gives me extra motivation to find my own place ASAP. Want to come house hunting with me next week?”

“Sure. You won’t mind if I have to stop every forty minutes to nurse a screaming newborn, right?” Kerry reached for another Oreo.

Lara got up, poured a glass of milk, and handed it to her friend. “You need the protein. The vitamin D. Whatever.”

Kerry rolled her eyes but took a sip. “So, got any big plans tonight? Hot date with a hunky vet?”

Lara picked up a rose-printed onesie and examined it. “I’m stopping by Evan’s, actually.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, I left the dogs’ Frontline in the cabinet there, and they’re due for their dosage.”

Kerry threw back her head and yawned. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s been a month since their last treatment. It’s not like I’m making up some excuse to see him. I mean, I’m hoping he won’t even be home.”

“Lara. Take a good look at me. Do I look like I give a single, solitary rat’s ass about your ulterior motives to go to your ex-boyfriend’s house?”

Lara took in the bleary eyes, the unhooked nursing bra, the Oreo crumbs on Kerry’s chin. “No, you do not.”

“All right, then. Let’s move along.”

“But just so we’re clear, I don’t have ulterior motives.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.” Kerry walked Lara out to the driveway, then waited until Lara was closing the car door before yelling, “Happy stalking!”

And Lara couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed because it was the first time all afternoon she’d seen Kerry genuinely laugh.

* * *

Evan’s house hadn’t changed in the week since Lara had vacated the premises.

The cute little white Jetta in the driveway, though? With the sparkly pink heart sticker in the rear window? That was new.

For a moment Lara just sat and stared, too astonished to feel anything.

I should have known. He never wanted my old, rusty, fur-coated station wagon. The second I gave up my spot in the garage, he filled the void with some sleek little sedan. Mr. People Person.

But wait. There was no reason to jump to conclusions. She could think of a million innocent explanations. Like . . . the VW probably belonged to Evan’s . . . um . . . cleaning lady. Whom he had hired right after she moved out. And who came by to clean at seven o’clock on Friday evening. Or his sister. Who worked as an independent film producer in New York, and who would sooner shave her head than adorn any of her worldly belongings with a sparkly pink decal.

Lara pulled away from the curb as quickly as possible.

Her heart was still hammering as she rounded the corner, so she startled a bit when her cell phone rang. When she glanced at caller ID and saw the name of a local hospital, her pulse kicked up again.

“Is this Lara Madigan?” asked a very calm female voice.

“Yes, it is.”

“You’re Justine Madigan’s daughter?”

Lara confirmed this and asked, “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

“This is Jeannette Viteri. I’m on staff here at McDowell Medical Center. Your mother checked into the emergency room complaining of chest pains. She’s undergoing a few tests right now, but I thought I should call and—”

“I’ll be right there.”

Chapter 13

“I’m
fine
.” Justine barely glanced up from her BlackBerry when Lara appeared in her curtained-off portion of the bustling ER. “Go back to work.”

Lara took one look at her mother’s face and gasped, then clapped her hands over her mouth in a belated attempt to hide her shock. Justine always looked flawless. Her olive complexion was smooth and clear, her thick black hair was artfully layered, and her body was lithe and toned. Lara hadn’t glimpsed her without lipstick in at least a decade.

So to see her mother like this—scowling and clad in an oversize, wrinkled blue hospital gown—was jarring. But even more alarming was her mother’s face. Justine’s cheeks and forehead were splotched with large, uneven patches of dark and light pigment. And this wasn’t subtle discoloration; it was impossible to ignore.

“Oh my God,” Lara finally forced out. “Mom, what happened?”

Justine heaved a weary sigh and put aside her phone. She looked Lara straight in the eye, defying her to glance away. “I’ll tell you what happened. These so-called medical professionals have wasted an inordinate amount of time and resources and panicked you for no good reason. That’s what happened.”

“The good news is your mother’s heart is fine.” A nurse strode in and addressed them both with determined good cheer.

“I have costochondritis,” Justine told Lara. “A simple inflammation of the cartilage over the rib cage. I had a few chest pains, but it wasn’t a cardiac issue.”

“We did an EKG and a chest X-ray just to make sure,” the nurse added.

Justine picked up her phone and resumed clicking like a ten-year-old with a Game Boy. “May I go now, please?”

The nurse kept right on smiling. “Just as soon as we get the results of your blood work.”

“So you’re sure your heart’s okay?” Lara sank onto the sheet next to Justine’s feet.

“Couldn’t be better. I have the blood pressure of a teenager,” Justine boasted.

“That is not what the doctor said,” the nurse corrected. “He said you’re under way too much stress and you need to take a break, or you will have a true cardiac event. This is your body’s way of warning you.”

This was the part where a normal mother and daughter would hug, maybe even cry a little with relief. But Lara couldn’t even get Justine’s attention right now, let alone a tearful embrace. So she stayed at her post at the foot of the bed.

“What happened to your face?” As she asked this, she noticed that Justine’s hair looked different, too, shinier and coarser than normal. “What’s going on?”

Justine turned her head to one side, hunching her shoulder to shield her face from Lara’s gaze. “I told you: I’m fine.”

Lara couldn’t stop staring at the discoloration on her mother’s cheek. “But what causes costochon—whatever?”

“Nothing,” Justine said firmly. “It’s just a fluke.”

“It’s often stress-related,” the nurse said.

“Mom.” Lara hesitated, then reached across the starched white sheets and squeezed Justine’s hand. Her mother’s fingers felt cool and limp. “You have to cut back. You’re literally working yourself to death.”

Her mother snatched her hand away. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not—”

“Her doctors have already told her what to do,” the nurse said to Lara. “She’s taking a leave of absence from her job, effective immediately.”

“An extremely short leave of absence.” Justine smoothed her hair, and the part line in the center shifted slightly. Was she wearing a
wig
? “Against my will. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Guilt flooded through Lara. If she had just followed Justine’s master plan, her mother wouldn’t be lying here, suffering stress-related chest pains and worrying about how the salons would survive without her. Lara was supposed to be helping by now. Lara was supposed to be taking over.

Justine closed her eyes in a bid for patience. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Your face,” Lara whispered. “Tell me the truth. What’s wrong?”

Justine’s icy veneer shattered, and for a moment she looked lost and vulnerable. Then she turned away again, covering her cheeks with her hands. “Stop looking at me.”

But Lara couldn’t. She didn’t recognize this woman at all.

All around them, Lara heard beeping and the squeak of rubber shoe soles against linoleum tile and the murmurings of other families getting on with their lives. Their little pocket of space was totally silent.

“Vitiligo,” Justine said at last. “That’s the official diagnosis. I’ve been to three dermatologists and an autoimmune disease specialist, and they all said the same thing.”

Due to Justine’s work schedule and their strained relationship, Lara didn’t spend much face time with her mother. But it had been only three months since their last family dinner. “Was this going on the last time I saw you?”

“It was starting, yes. I was still able to cover it with makeup at that point.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having health problems?”

“It’s a skin condition that means I have to spend the rest of my life getting stared at,” Justine said sharply. “It doesn’t affect my health in any other way. Allegedly.”

Lara frowned. “Allegedly?”

“Vitiligo explains why my face looks like hell. It does not explain, however, why my hair started falling out.”

“What did the doctors say about that?”

“They said it could be stress. Or it could be hormones. Or environmental factors. In other words, they have no idea, but they’re exiling me from my own salons.”

Lara took a moment to digest this. She couldn’t imagine her mother outside the confines of Coterie. Justine’s whole life was defined by her career. “So what happens now? Are you going to travel?”

Justine seemed disgusted by the mere suggestion. “No.” She tugged up the shoulder of her hospital gown. “I’m going to go home and be ugly.”

“Mom.”

“Stop looking at me
.
”

Lara did as she was told.

“Don’t look at me, don’t judge me, and don’t pretend you have the vaguest idea what I’m going through. Now, I have important calls to make. Good-bye, Lara.” Justine dismissed her with a tilt of her head.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are. I’ll see you at home.”

* * *

But Lara didn’t see her mother at home. She heard Justine’s car pull into the garage at midnight, but by the time she made her way down the long, echoing hallways, Justine had already barricaded herself in the master suite. So she rose with the sun on Saturday morning, hoping to coax her mother out with pancakes and fresh-squeezed mimosas, but Justine ignored all the knocks on the door.

Lara ate by herself, standing over the kitchen counter and tossing scraps to the dogs. Maverick, who had been fanatical about keeping Mr. Squirrel clamped in his jaws at all times since the big breakup, let go of the stuffed animal long enough to scarf down a few crumbs.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Lara assured him. “No one’s ever gonna flush him again. Not on my watch.” She had put Mr. Squirrel through several cycles in the washing machine and dryer, which had done nothing to improve his bedraggled appearance.

Since the morning was sunny and cool, she put on her sneakers, jeans, and a fleece hoodie and walked the mile or so up to Cherie Chadwick’s house. After her training session with Eskie, she headed back down the hill a few blocks to meet with Kayla, the referral from the Real Housewife who had christened Lara the Dog Doyenne.

As she rounded the corner to Kensington Court, Lara spotted Ivory the Maltese tagging along next to an elderly woman walking her Scottie. Still no sign of the tiny white dog’s owner, but Lara didn’t have time to investigate; she was running a few minutes late as it was.

She double-checked the address as she arrived at her new client’s home: another Spanish-style mansion, another lushly landscaped front lawn.

And another stunningly beautiful homeowner. A tall, lithe brunette opened the door when Lara rang the bell. Her shiny hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and her makeup, manicure, and eyebrows were impeccable, even at this hour on a Saturday morning. Her tight pink tank top and gray yoga pants showcased a lean, muscular physique that was probably the product of years of dance or Pilates.

This is the kind of woman my mother wishes I could be
,
Lara thought.

“Are you Lara?” Her expression was simultaneously relieved and guilty. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m desperate.”

Lara smiled. “I get that a lot.”

“I’m Kayla Ramirez. And this”—she glanced back toward a snoring yellow lump on the stair landing—“is Roo.” Kayla clapped her hands. “Roo! Wake up, Roo. Come here, buddy!”

Roo opened one eye, which Kayla rewarded with a display of enthusiasm worthy of a varsity cheerleader.

The house looked professionally decorated and white-glove clean. Every surface was gleaming, every vase and plant and framed wedding portrait expertly placed. Even the smells were inviting—a subtle blend of vanilla and cinnamon that made Lara think of sweet rolls fresh out of the oven.

At Kayla’s urging, Roo finally got to his feet and lumbered down the stairs. He gave Lara’s hand a desultory sniff, then collapsed back on the floor with a snort.

“I know he’s overweight. I know.” Kayla stared down at the tile floor. “We call him our yellow flabrador. But he’s such a good dog, and he always seems so hungry.”

“That’s Labs for you.” Lara crouched down to get a better look at the dog. “How old is he now?”

“Almost six.”

“And how long has he been obese?”

Kayla flinched at the word, but there was no denying it. “About two years now, I guess. He was roly-poly even as a puppy, but really energetic. We used to send him to doggie day care to tire him out. As he got older and mellower, he wanted to lounge around on his bed all day, and we let him. It was such a relief after all the chewing and digging and barking and jumping. And now . . .” Kayla trailed off. “Please don’t yell at me.”

Lara looked up in surprise. “I’m not here to yell at you. I’m here to help you and Roo make some changes.”

“I know it’s unhealthy.” Kayla hung her head in disgrace. “And I know it’s my fault. But he just . . . I just . . .”

“Don’t waste time and energy playing the blame game,” Lara said firmly. “We’re going to make a fresh start. You and I are going to come up with a plan of action together, but in the end, you’re the one who will need to follow through.”

“Absolutely.” Kayla nodded, but Lara sensed a lack of resolve. She was starting to notice this pattern with wealthy clients: They wanted to call Lara in, write a check, and declare the problem solved. But Roo was going to have to lose weight the same way he’d gained it—slowly and steadily, with constant support from his owner.

“When’s the last time he had a checkup?” Lara asked.

“Last week.” Kayla straightened the hem of her tank top. “The vet gave me a stern talking-to. That’s why I called you.”

“Did your vet run any blood work?”

“I think they said they were doing a junior blood panel. Why do you ask?”

“The first thing I need to do is rule out thyroid problems or metabolic disorders.” Lara stood up and got down to business. “Is he on any medication? Steroids like Prednisone?”

Kayla shook her head. “No, he’s fit as a fiddle.” She reached down to rub Roo’s exposed belly. “My fat little fiddle.”

“Okay, good.” Lara dug a pen and notepad out of her bag. “Then let’s get to work. How much are you feeding him right now?”

“Two cups of kibble. One cup in the morning and one cup at dinnertime.” Kayla crossed her heart and hoped to die. “We used to sneak him a lot of treats and table food, but we’ve really cut back on that. At least, I have.”

Lara glanced at Roo’s monogrammed food bowl, which looked as though it would hold at least five cups. “May I see the food scoop, please?”

“Sure.” Kayla opened the door to the pantry and pulled out a huge plastic cup. Big Gulp size.

“Well, here’s your first problem. Your cup is way bigger than a cup.” Lara asked Kayla to find a calibrated measuring cup, and they compared it with the oversize food scoop. “Also, he’s got to start walking, but take it easy; nothing too strenuous. Keep it slow and short. For the first few weeks, every little bit of exercise will help. But weight loss is seventy percent about diet and only thirty percent about exercise.”

“I’m aware.” Kayla smiled wryly and spread her hands across her taut stomach. “I could probably teach a nutrition seminar at this point.”

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” Lara jotted everything down on the notepad. “I want you to give him a half a cup of kibble at every meal, mixed with pinto beans and brown rice.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep. You’re going to feed him that for a month, supplemented with a daily multivitamin. After thirty days, we’ll start adding cooked chicken, green beans, carrots, and peas.”

Kayla looked hesitant. “So I shouldn’t switch him over to low-cal dog food?”

“I’m not a big fan of low-cal kibble,” Lara said. “I’d much rather you feed him whole foods. The key, though, is going to be feeding him the proper amount for his size and activity level.”

“Portion control,” Kayla murmured.

“Exactly. Labs only need two cups of food per day. Two and a half, max.”

Kayla glanced at the measuring cup and wrung her hands. “I feel like you want me to starve him.”

“That’s why we’re going to take this in baby steps,” Lara said soothingly. “We aren’t depriving him; we’re trying to help him.”

Kayla took a few steps back, crossing her arms.

“You look upset,” Lara said.

“I’m sorry. I just . . .” Kayla knelt down next to Roo, and he rolled over. “When my husband and I started dating, I was a model. He likes me to look a certain way, and so do I. I know what I have to do to stay in shape—the stretching, the cardio, the free weights—and I do it. I go to the gym six days a week. I count calories. I eat clean. I’ve always been very disciplined, but I just can’t bring myself to force all that on my poor boy.” She and Roo shared a look of soulful compassion. “I can’t ever indulge, and so I indulge the dog. And yes, I know how insane that sounds.”