Читать книгу The Puppy Proposal - Katie Meyer - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Jillian’s morning was a blur of fur and files. There had been countless puppy kisses, but she had also been bitten, scratched and peed on. And that was only the first appointment—new puppy exams for a pair of Labradoodles. Since then, she had struggled to balance her time between assisting in the exam rooms, completing vital laboratory work and counseling owners on proper pet care. Officially, the clinic closed at noon on Saturdays, but it was already almost one, and she still had charts to write up before she left.

Grabbing a diet soda from the break room, she sat at the back desk, away from the barking and hissing, with her stack of charts. But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate, her mind kept returning to Murphy and, if she was honest, to the man who had found him. Lots of men came through the clinic, but not many looked like some kind of Roman god.

And as if being gorgeous wasn’t enough, his compassion toward Murphy had bumped him up even higher on the sexy stranger scale of attraction. She had forgotten to ask him what had brought him to town. She knew he wasn’t a regular; Paradise was so small, she’d have heard about him if he had been here long. No, more than likely he was one of the few vacationers that occasionally found their way to Paradise.

The island definitely didn’t qualify as a tourist mecca; there were no giant, high-end resorts, nightclubs or theme parks to draw people in. But the beaches were pristine, and half the island was a dedicated wildlife refuge, so they did get the occasional nature lover. Somehow, though, Jillian couldn’t quite picture the well-dressed man she’d met last night as a bird-watcher.

She sighed. Not thinking about him wasn’t working; maybe she should be proactive instead. Mrs. Rosenberg should be home by now. If she was fast, she could pick Murphy up at the inn, get him back to his owner and still have time to grab a quick bite before the meeting of the Island Preservation Society this afternoon. Once the Murphy situation was handled, she could move on and stop thinking about the mysterious Nic.

Decided, she grabbed the phone and dialed Mrs. Rosenberg’s cell phone number. “Hi, Mrs. Rosenberg. It’s Jillian. I’m just finishing up here at work, and wanted to let you know I’ll be by with Murphy shortly.”

“Oh, dear, I was just about to call you. There’s been a slight change in plans. We girls decided to stop over at the outlet malls on the way back, and then, before we knew it, we were at that all-you-can-eat steakhouse. We’ve given our credit cards a workout, I’m afraid. But as soon as we finish lunch we’ll be on our way. I should be in town before three, and you and Murphy and I can have a nice visit then. I’ll make us some sangria with a wonderful red I picked up on the winery tour.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on that sangria, Mrs. Rosenberg. The Island Preservation Society meeting is this afternoon. I need to head there right after work.” Jillian twisted the phone cord, thrown off by the change of plans. “I can bring Murphy by after the meeting, as long as that isn’t too late for you. I think we should wrap up by dinnertime.”

“That’s fine, dear. I can’t wait to see my naughty boy. I’m so glad he’s okay. I do hate how he keeps getting into scrapes. Won’t you reconsider keeping him? I’d feel so much better if he was with someone young and energetic like you.”

The elderly woman’s request tugged at Jillian’s heartstrings. She loved that dog, but there was no way she could keep him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rosenberg, you know I’d love to, but my landlord won’t allow it. Maybe when my lease is up...” But that was just wishful thinking. Paradise Isle didn’t have many apartment buildings, and none allowed dogs Murphy’s size. Renting or buying a house was out of the question on her current salary.

Somehow, she, the girl who had grown up wanting nothing more than a houseful of kids and pets, had ended up alone in a small apartment, without so much as a goldfish. That was why she had joined the Island Preservation Society. If she couldn’t have the Norman Rockwell life she’d always wanted, she’d have to settle for protecting her picture-perfect community instead. Paradise Isle was her home, and people like Mrs. Rosenberg were her family. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Have a safe drive back.”

“I’ll try, but Avril Clookie is driving this time, and you know what a flighty young thing she is.”

Mrs. Clookie was at least sixty years old, and about as flighty as a St. Bernard, but Jillian let it go. After saying her goodbyes, she found the consent form Nic had signed last night. His full name was Dominic Caruso, which sounded familiar somehow, and he’d left both his room number at the inn and his cell phone number in the contact section. When he didn’t answer at the room number, she dialed the cell.

“Hello?” He sounded out of breath, and she could hear wind blowing in the background.

“Hi, Nic, it’s Jillian.”

“Ready to pick up your patient?”

“Actually, there’s been a change in plans. It seems Mrs. Rosenberg won’t be back for a few more hours. I have a meeting after work, so it would probably be best if you brought him to the clinic. I can leave him here while I’m at the meeting, then take him home after that. I’m sorry to change things up on you.” She hoped he wasn’t too annoyed by the change of plans; his corporate look had screamed “type-A personality” last night.

“No problem. I just finished a run on the beach, figured I’d get some exercise while I was waiting to hear from you. If you want, I can—”

“Wait, you took Murphy running on the beach? His paws haven’t healed! He shouldn’t—”

“Whoa, slow down! Murphy’s upstairs sleeping, more than likely in my bed. I’ve only taken him out long enough to do his business, and I even rinsed his paws off afterward.” Nic’s voice was harsh, and Jillian felt herself flush. She shouldn’t have assumed. “I’m not an idiot—I do know how to take care of a dog.”

“You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m just annoyed that I couldn’t take care of Murphy myself. I’m grateful you offered to take him in—really, I am. I’m afraid I let myself get flustered by the whole switch in plans. I hope all this hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience.”

“It’s fine. But listen, I still don’t like leaving him in a cage. Why don’t you just give me his owner’s address, and I’ll take him there myself? That way she gets her dog back and you can go to your...what was it?”

“A meeting over at the library. But really, I could figure something out. You’ve done more than enough already.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it. I’d like to see him safely home, if that’s okay. We’ve bonded.”

“Bonded, huh?” She felt herself smiling; he seemed to have that effect on her.

“Sleeping together does that,” Nic deadpanned. “He’s a cover hog—don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

The image of Nic in bed, dog or no dog, was one Jillian did not need in her head. “Fine, I’ll give Mrs. Rosenberg your number. If it’s okay with her, she’ll call you and give you her address, arrange a time.” Jillian paused, “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for Murphy.”

“Well, if that’s the case, there is a way you could pay me back.”

“How?” Maybe he wasn’t so altruistic, after all. If he was looking for a reward, he was out of luck; neither she nor Mrs. Rosenberg had the extra cash.

“Have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” Her jaw dropped.

“Yeah, you know, the meal after lunch? I’m assuming your meeting will be over by then. I thought you could take me somewhere interesting, somewhere the locals go.”

“Well...the locals mainly eat at Pete’s. It’s not fancy, but they have great burgers, and the seafood is fresh.” Jillian tried to picture Nic in his business suit in the more-than-rustic atmosphere of Pete’s. “Or we could go to the mainland. There are plenty of restaurants over there, nicer places—”

“Pete’s sounds great, exactly what I’m in the mood for. Where can I pick you up?”

“I’ll pick you up, at the Sandpiper,” she countered. Even small-town girls knew not to get in a stranger’s car. “Is six thirty okay? The deck fills up fast on a Saturday night.”

“Perfect, it’s a date. I’ll see you then.” A telltale click signaled the end of the call.

She hung up the phone slowly. A date? Since when did she go on dates with random strangers, no matter how sexy they were?

* * *

At three o’clock that afternoon, Nic was parked outside a small pink stucco house with a very eager border collie. Murphy strained at the leash on the way up the front walk, apparently as eager to go home as he had been to escape. Nic rang the bell and tried to quiet the dog. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a diminutive woman in a teal tracksuit and rhinestone glasses. Her close-cropped hair was a shade of red that was not, and never had been, anyone’s natural color. Nearly blinded by the combination, he was caught off guard when she dove in for a hug, her short stature leaving her head resting just above his navel.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Each thank-you was punctuated by a surprisingly strong squeeze. “You saved my precious baby. My sweet boy. Such a sweet, naughty, naughty boy!” With that, she crouched down to hug the canine in question. Murphy, for his part, took the praise as no more than his due.

Finished with her exuberant greeting, she straightened to her full height, which he guessed to be no more than four and a half feet, and tugged on his hand. “Come in, come in. I’m about to open some fabulous wine that I found on my trip. You must have a glass and tell me everything that happened.”

Nic followed, intrigued by the tiny dynamo. He knew Florida was known for its active senior lifestyle, but he had a feeling Mrs. Rosenberg surpassed even that stereotype. Besides, he wanted to find out how Murphy was pulling his little escape act.

The house was immaculate, and filled with overstuffed furniture in shades of mauve and teal. Paintings of tropical flowers were on the walls, and a large brass manatee served as a centerpiece atop the glass coffee table. Through the doorway to the right he could see a small galley kitchen; shopping bags currently covered every inch of counter space.

His hostess dug through the bags, removing multiple bottles of wine before finding what she was looking for. Her wrinkled but capable hands deftly wielded the corkscrew, then poured them each a generous portion. He accepted the proffered glass and took a seat on the overlarge love seat, sinking into the soft surface. His hostess’s much smaller body perched on the chair across from him as she raised her glass to toast. “To Murphy!”

“To Murphy.” He sipped cautiously. It was surprisingly sweet, but certainly drinkable.

“Good, isn’t it? Grown right here in Florida. It’s made with native grapes. Lots of antioxidants.” She winked, then drank.

He nodded, not sure what to say to the winking, booze-pushing senior in front of him.

“So you found my boy. Jillian says he was all the way across the bridge this time! I am in your debt, son—if you hadn’t stopped, there’s no telling what could have happened to him. A car could have gotten him, or an alligator! We have those here, you know.”

Nic did know, but hadn’t thought about it at the time. Which was probably a good thing. Changing the subject, he asked, “Mrs. Rosenberg, do you know how Murphy escaped? Jillian said this wasn’t his first attempt. I’d hate to see him get out again.”

She shook her head, neon hair flying wildly. “It’s a mystery to me. I left him locked in the house, with his food and water. The neighbor was going to let him out for me at bedtime, but she says he was already gone. If he’d been outside, I might think he dug out, since he’s done that before, but from inside the house? That doesn’t seem likely.” She frowned in thought, her bedazzled spectacles sliding down her nose.

“Do you mind if I look around, see if I can find his escape route?”

“Look wherever you like, son. I’ll just sit here and finish my wine.” She took another healthy swig. “You let me know if you find anything.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Nic decided to start at the front of the house. Murphy, who’d been lying happily at his feet, jumped up, eager to follow wherever he led. The front door offered no clues, and the windows appeared secure. No loose locks or broken panes. The bedroom windows were the same. Murphy, thinking there was some game afoot, pranced and barked as he searched.

When they got to the kitchen, the dog ran ahead and jumped up onto the kitchen door. Wondering, Nic stopped, and watched. Sure enough, Murphy jumped again, this time his paws hitting the lever door handle. If the dead bolt hadn’t been in place, the door would have popped right open. “Mrs. Rosenberg, was the kitchen door dead bolted when you were away?”

“The kitchen door? No, the key for that lock got lost a long time ago. But I did push the button in, on the doorknob. That locks it from the inside, and it opens with the same key as the front door.” She paused, eyes wide, “You don’t think someone broke in, do you?”

“No, not a break-in,” he assured her. “Just a break-out. See these scratches on the door? I think Murphy was jumping at the door to follow you, and his paws landed on the handle. That lock opens automatically from the inside as soon as you turn the handle. He just let himself right out. Then I imagine the storm blew it shut again. If you’re going to keep him in, you’re going have replace that lever-style handle with a good old-fashioned doorknob.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a smart boy! Opening doors!” Mrs. Rosenberg beamed at her black-and-white escape artist. “But I see what you mean. We can’t have him gallivanting around town. I’ll have to ask around about a handyman—I’m afraid tools and such just aren’t my area of expertise.”

“I could do it,” Nic said before he could stop himself.

“Would you? Oh, that would be such a load off my mind. I worry so about poor Murphy. I know this isn’t the best home for him, but I’d be sick if anything happened to him.” Before Nic could think of a way to extricate himself, she pressed a wad of cash into his hands. “Palm Hardware is just around the corner. You must have passed it on the way here. Just pick out whatever you think is best.”

Thirty minutes later, Nic was tightening the last screw with, of all things, a pink screwdriver. Murphy had been banished to the bedroom after getting in the way a few too many times, and Mrs. Rosenberg was thrilled. Straightening, he couldn’t help but grin as he packed up the pastel tool kit. Project Dog-Proof was a success, and despite his initial reluctance to get involved, it felt good to know he’d been able to help. Getting his own hands dirty was a lot more satisfying than just signing a work order.

“I have to say, I’m so glad Jillian had that meeting today, and you came instead. Not that I don’t love Jillian,” she clarified hastily. “Murphy adores her and I do, too. But I wouldn’t have felt right asking her to change a doorknob. I’m a bit too old-fashioned for that.”

He grinned. Of all the ways he might describe Mrs. Rosenberg, “old-fashioned” wasn’t one of them. “What sort of meeting she was going to?” He told himself he was only interested as part of his research on the island. He certainly wasn’t prying into the pretty vet tech’s life. Not very much, anyway.

“The Island Preservation Society. Jillian is one of the founding members,” Mrs. Rosenberg said proudly. “I don’t attend the meetings—meetings give me heartburn—but I donate when they have their annual rummage sale, and attend the dinner dance they do in the spring.”

His shoulders tensed. “What exactly does this society do?”

“They mostly work to preserve the historic buildings, protect the coastal habitat, anything that has to do with maintaining the way of life Paradise is known for.” Her eyes shined with pride. “Our little town isn’t as fancy or popular as Daytona or Miami or those other beach places, and that’s just fine with us. We like things the way they are, if you know what I mean.”

Nic was afraid he did know. From what she was saying, he was going to have a fight on his hands, and Jillian was playing for the other side.

* * *

Jillian walked quickly across the hot asphalt parking lot, sticky with sweat and humidity. Ahead, the air-conditioned coolness of the Palmetto County Library beckoned like a mirage, a refuge from the last gasp of summer. Stepping inside, she took a deep breath, embracing the smell of old books that permeated the air. Fortified, she climbed the single staircase to the crowded conference room where Cassie and Mollie were waiting for her.

“We saved you a seat.” Mollie waved, her pixie-like face lighting up at the sight of her friend. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and you know I only come to these things because of you.” Formal meetings of any sort were definitely not Mollie’s thing. Grateful, Jillian hugged the petite woman in appreciation.

“I appreciate you making the sacrifice. These meetings really are important, especially now. Rumor is that the Sandpiper’s new owner wants to sell.”

“Sell the Sandpiper Inn? That place is an institution! I can remember Dad taking me there as a kid for the annual fish fry and the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. And just a few years ago, he and mom had their twenty-fifth anniversary party there.” Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s bad enough that they don’t do the community events anymore, but sell it? To who?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They haven’t even officially put it on the market yet. I think that happens Monday. I only know about it because another one of the Island Preservation Society members, Edward Post, told me about it when I saw him at the grocery store yesterday. He was always close with the Landry family, and had hoped when their daughter inherited the Sandpiper she would bring it back to its glory days. But she’s got her own retail shop over in Orlando, and isn’t interested in being an innkeeper. He thinks she’ll take the first good offer she gets.”

Jillian’s heart hurt just thinking of the stately inn being taken over by outsiders, or worse, torn down. A beacon on the Paradise Isle shoreline, the Sandpiper had stood for more than a century. Its spacious grounds had always served as an unofficial community center, the gregarious owners often hosting holiday events, weddings, even a prom or two. She’d fallen in love with the grand building the first time she saw it and had always imagined she’d bring her own family to events there, one day. Now it might be destroyed before she ever had that chance. It just didn’t seem fair, or right, to let it slip away without a fight.

As the meeting got under way, she found it hard to concentrate on the details of the historic post office renovation, or a proposal for a bike lane on Island Avenue. Normally she was the first volunteer for a Society project, but right now she was too on edge about the fate of the Sandpiper Inn.

And if she was honest with herself, the issue with the Sandpiper wasn’t the only thing making her palms sweat. A good number of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were about her upcoming date. It wasn’t as if she’d never been on a date before; at twenty-seven, she’d had her share of relationships. But always with local, familiar, safe men. Nothing serious. After a few dates, they’d ended up just friends, leaving her wondering if she was even capable of more intense feelings.

But Nic, with his towering good looks and confident manner, was another kind of man altogether. One that had her squirming in her seat, unsure if she was eager for the meeting to be over or afraid of what came after it.

Finally, the last item on the agenda was addressed. Edward Post stood at the front of the room, faced the folding chairs and cleared his throat. “I know that a few of you have heard rumors about the Sandpiper Inn. I’m afraid those rumors have been confirmed. Ms. Roberta Landry, the current owner, has decided to sell the inn and return to her job in Orlando.” Shifting his weight nervously, he continued, “The board of the Island Preservation Society has spoken with Ms. Landry, and she has agreed to at least entertain the idea of the city purchasing the inn for community use.”

“Can the city afford to buy it?” someone from the crowd asked.

Edward pushed his glasses up his nose, to see who had spoken. “No, not without help. We’re preparing an application to the State Register of Historic Places. If we can get the Sandpiper listed, we may be able to get a grant toward its preservation, which would help offset the purchase price. Our chances are good, but the process can take several months. If there is another offer before that happens, Ms. Landry is within her rights to sell without waiting for the outcome of our application.”

At that point the meeting broke down, voices rising as friends and families discussed the odds of success. Everyone already knew, without being told, that with land prices finally going up, a new owner was likely to raze the inn and parcel the land up.

Heartsick, Jillian avoided the speculating citizens and quietly made her goodbyes. Descending the stairs, she vowed to contact Edward and volunteer to write the grant application herself. Tonight she’d start researching the process, figure out their best way forward. She was going to do whatever she could to increase their chances of getting that grant. This was her home, and she wasn’t giving up without a fight.