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I chuckle, sitting back on my heels while the puppy under my truck and I watch each other. “I didn’t go to grad school, Bug.”
“But youarea professional artist.”
“Not according to your mother,” I can’t quite help adding.
The dog shifts, standing up on its too-large paws. It’s just a puppy.
“Dad,” Christine huffs. “Are you going to be there all summer or not? Can I come visit?”
“Mm,” I say noncommittally.
“Yay!” Christine says, knowing she’s already won this discussion. I never was able to resist anything my little girl asked of me. “And we can stay with you?”
I blink, shifting my gaze to the asphalt, then to the padlocked warehouse. “Um,” I say. “I’m still sleeping at the shop.”
“Didn’t you say you were looking at houses to rent? You said you found one that looked interesting.” Concern edges into my daughter’s voice. Damn it.
“I never went to the viewing,” I admit.
“Dad!”
I groan as I stand up, stretching out my back. “I’ve been busy.”
“Are you still sleeping on that cot? You’ll wreck your back.”
That back crackles and pops as if it could hear Christine over the phone and it agrees with her assessment. I scowl. “I’m not that old, Bug. I had you young, remember?”
“You’re an old man, Old Man,” she teases, laughing. “Try to find a decent place to stay. Mark and I will be there the last week of August. We can stay in a hotel, but I want to know you have a good mattress and a safe place to stay. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am,” I reply. We say our goodbyes, and I hang up the phone with a smile.
No excuses now; I have to stay in town until August. It’s late June now, which means I’ve got eight weeks or so to get myself together.
Movement at my feet draws my attention to the scruffy little dog that looks no older than a few weeks old. Sniffing the tips of my boots, the dog slowly emerges from under my truck, sitting down as it blinks at me and gives a great big yawn.
Hands on my hips, I let out a sigh. “Now, what the heck am I going to do with you?”
The vetat the local animal shelter informs me the dog hasn’t been microchipped. She’s a female, part English springer spaniel and part who-knows-what, and the vet estimates she’s about three months old, likely a runt of her litter judging by her size. Her head is mostly chestnut-colored, with a white stripe right down the nose. Her eyes are soulful and brown and sad when they look up at me, and her white paws look too big on her little body.
I lift the brim of my hat and scratch my scalp, sighing. “Well,” I say. “Has anyone come in looking for a dog?”
The vet sucks his teeth, tapping on his computer. “I don’t see anything. We’ll have to call animal control and report the stray, then post photos online to see if anyone claims her. There’s a mandatory holding period of seventy-two hours. After that, if no one claims her, you’re free to take her back home.”
I grunt. “Nah.”
The puppy sneezes, then wiggles her little butt over the steel table toward me, tail whipping over and back. The pup pounces on my fingers, then immediately flops over onto her side, all four paws sticking straight out. She looks at me, panting happily.
I sigh. It’s always the women in my life that cause the most trouble. I lift my gaze to the vet, resigned. “I’ll be back in three days.”
He grins. “See you then.”
Thoughts whirl in my mind,fragmented and sharp. I think of Georgia—specifically, the way her face looked when I offended her—and I feel like an idiot. Worse than an idiot; I feel like an ass. Then my daughter pops into my head. I have to rent a house I can’t afford in a town I’m not sure I should stay in or tell Christine she can’t visit me. Disappointing my daughter is not on my list of priorities. She’s the one person I can count on to actually love me when I mess up. Finally, when I start brooding about that little pile of scruffy fur with big brown eyes, my chest begins to ache something fierce, and I know I need to get a grip on myself. I’m a dang mess.
Nothing to do but to continue with my plan to run some errands, and first on the list is a bit of grooming.
The barbershop in town is owned and run by a short woman with honey-colored hair called Mia. She sits me down on one of the squeaky red chairs and smiles in the mirror at me. “What are we doing today?”
“Haircut and shave,” I answer, then tell her how I like it cut.
