“Do you want to use space at the farm?” Ripley offers, always ready to solve a problem for you. “We’ve got plenty. I mean, it’s outdoors, so there’s that.”
That’s actually not a bad idea. Lots of dog owners like outdoor training. But if I want to win over clients like Veronica’s friends, I’ll probably need indoor space for sit, stay, come…and definitely shake. Everyone loves a dog who can shake.
“I love you so much it hurts,” I say to her, but then slump over my coffee sadly. “But I think I need something indoors.”
“I figured,” Ripley says. “But the offer stands.”
“Maybe Josiah’s Hardware?” Bridget suggests. “That place feels dog-friendly, and there’s a bit of open space down the end of the aisles.”
“True, but he has a cat, and some dogs don’t do well with that,” I say, noodling on other options as I glance out the window at the tables set up on the sidewalk. I catch sight of a small crowd, including our very young, very polished new mayor, Linus Wong. He’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and he wears a fedora, which he’s been doing since before he was elected. He’s in a crisp shirt and tie, deep in conversation with a woman with sleek hair, a shiny blouse that looks like it costs a month’s rent, and a snakeskin purse that’s set on the table, like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. She doesn’t look like she’s from here. But these days? Who knows.
“Seriously, though,” I say, turning back to my friends. “Should I even be looking for space? It’s not like I could get one as part of that artist’s co-op. Pretty sure dog training is not an art form up there with pottery or photography.”
“It should be though,” Bridget says. “Just this morning, a guest’s dog bounded up to the front desk and barked right at my face. Getting him to stop seemed as magical to me as painting a sunset.”
“Just takes patience and training—you reward them when they’re quiet,” I say.
She seems to give that some thought, then nods. “That does make sense.”
“What if I find a space somewhere and rent it, but the clients don’t come through?”
“That is a dilemma,” Ripley says thoughtfully. “Maybe look, but don’t commit until it’s real?”
Bridget straightens, then lifts a hand like she’s in class, which is a habit she’s hardly broken. The brainiac. “What about the dog daycare?” she asks, gesturing down the street where the windows have been covered with brown paper for more than a month. “Have they reopened yet?”
“No,” I say, my shoulders slumping. I used to pick up shifts there pretty regularly, bathing and grooming the four-legged friends, but it closed late in the spring.
“Okay, so maybe just start looking around town,” Bridget suggests. “And if you do find something…then push for the clients.”
Maybe there’s a small, shared space on Main Street. A little sliver of a storefront I could somehow afford to rent from someone who doesn’t mind having paws underfoot all day.
With what money?
Shut up, inner voice.
I’m a woman on a mission.
* **
The next day, I canvas the heart of Darling Springs, starting with Blue Roses, the tattoo shop.
“Hey, Delilah,” I say to the owner, a pink-haired woman with colorful floral sleeves cascading down her pale arms. She’s sketching on her tablet behind the counter. “Any chance you’ve got a booth for a dog trainer?”
She arches a brow. “Dog training and tattoos? I know combo shops are all the rage, but that’s a crossover I’ve never heard before.”
“It’s niche,” I say, deadpan. “But it’ll catch on.”
She laughs, but it’s a doubtful sound. “I’m not so sure a barking dog will help me concentrate on making perfect permanent body art.”
“Fair point,” I say.
“But maybe try the gym? They might have room.”
“Ooh! That’s a good idea,” I say. A gym space would have that sturdy vibe that a dog trainer needs. But when I stop by the local gym, the owner says he leased their only extra room to a juice maker.
Next up: The Slippery Dipper, the lotions-and-potions shop that smells like citrus, cedar, and something vaguely horny. Smells familiar—is that what Sawyer smelled like?
Maybe, but I shove those ideas out of my head.
