Page 28 of Always Almost You

The mother marched to the counter. “Excuse me,” she said to the clerk. “My children found this in the hallway. It belongs to someone on our floor.” She gave their room number.

The clerk glanced at the envelope. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll place it in the Lost and Found.” He tossed it onto an open area of the credenza behind him.

“The shuttle’s here!” her husband called.

She thanked the clerk and hurried back to her family.

Mike entered the lobby as the family struggled toward the door—four children and a mountain of luggage, including one suitcase with a broken wheel. The older boy tried to balance the damaged suitcase on top of another rolling bag.

“Need some help?” Mike asked.

The boy nodded.

Mike tucked the broken suitcase under his arm, placed the remaining two rolling bags back-to-back, and grasped their handles. “Lead the way.”

They moved toward the curved driveway where the shuttle idled. The mother held a toddler’s hand in each of hers while the father collapsed the stroller and handed it to the driver. The boys rejoined their parents as Mike deposited the luggage beside them.

The father looked up. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Mike replied. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“You have no idea,” the man said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you.” Mike glanced inside the shuttle, hoping to see Lauren. She and Pumpkin weren’t there.

He returned to the lobby and positioned himself against a wall with a clear view of both the reception desk and the entrance. He checked his watch. The reservation for his rental car at the airport was for pickup at ten. He and the dog would take the 9:30 shuttle to give him enough time to collect the car, locate a veterinarian to scan for a microchip, and still make the drive to Charleston in time for dinner, as promised.

He kept a vigilant eye on the lobby traffic. If anyone had been watching him, they might have wondered whether he was Secret Service. For all his diligence, he did not see Lauren.

Mike’s thoughts returned again and again to the crumpled gift bag outside his door. There had been no note. Wouldn’t she have written one?

He had labored over one to her. In the early hours of the morning, he’d composed it carefully.

Lauren & Pumpkin,

Thank you for your kindness to my canine buddy and me. We agree that you saved his life.

If you’d like to know whether he’s reunited with his family or becomes part of mine, give me a call or send me a text. I’d love to fill you in.

Mike Miller

He’d printed his phone number in precise, draftsman-like numbers. And added a postscript.

P.S. If this guy comes home with me, I’ve decided to call him Buddy.

He patted the back pocket of his jeans where he’d tucked both the bowl and the folded paper. Mike checked his watch again. It was time. He pushed away from the wall and headed toward the corridor. As he passed the gift shop, the clerk looked up and smiled. Mike stopped and stepped inside. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Did a good-looking brunette come in this morning to buy a dog pajama in that pattern?” He pointed to the display.

The clerk grinned. “She did.”

“She gave it to me,” Mike said, his pulse quickening. “I’d like to thank her, but I don’t have her name. Would it be on the credit card receipt?”

The clerk’s smile faded. “We weren’t open yet. I didn’t ring her up. She took it to the front desk.”

Mike nodded.