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“Geez, Wendy. You walk like a cat.” My new receptionist is a 71-year-old woman who is willing to work for minimum wage. She’s a little forgetful, swears without reserve, is trying to stop smoking, and wears blouses so bright, dogs are grateful they’re colourblind. A former topless dancer at a nightclub in Reno, she also owns 5 per-cent of my business, which emptied her savings. If I didn’t need eight full hours of beauty rest at night, the fact that she’s invested every penny she has into the business would keep me up at nights.
She shuffles by me and slips behind the dusty reception counter. “How’d it go with the bank?”
I don’t scowl, but I’m feeling it down to my toes. “Exactly as I thought it would. Barry Franklin is an asshole.”
The springs of the second-hand office chair protest as she drops into it and swipes at the dust with her arm. “You knew that going in.”
I nod glumly. “I was still hopeful I’d change his mind.”
Her eyes sweep me, settling on my cleavage. She jerks her chin towards it. “Well, if that won’t move him, nothing will.”
There are several chairs in the reception room, but they’re as dusty as the counter, so instead of sitting, I step out of my pumps to give my feet much needed relief. “I know.” I pick up the shoes and if they had been my running shoes, I would have hurled them against the wall, but these are Manolo Blahnik and like me, need pampering.
“I have some good news, though,” she tells me. “Well, two bits.”
I perk up. “Lullaby?”
“Yes. I talked my nephew into putting up the fence in the back. He and three friends say they can have it done over the weekend. They’ll do it for two flats of beer.”
Happiness ripples through me as I think of my dwindling funds. “That is good news. We can bring our darling here.”
“Until the authorities come snooping.”
I try to justify my choices. “The fence will be high. There aren’t any buildings tall enough here for anyone to see and she’s small. We’ll clean up after her everyday and even if it smells, this is a vet clinic so no one will be too suspicious.”
Wendy seems to agree with me because she nods. “Troy will be glad enough to get rid of her.”
Troy is one of Wendy’s ex-boyfriends, still a hanger-on when Wendy wants sex. She’s never been married, and shudders at the thought. At present, we’re using Troy’s backyard, but Lullaby keeps drinking out of his pool. “And peeing in it,” he insists, but I’m doubtful. Lullaby’s a girl.
“We’ll have to sneak her in after dark,” I tell Wendy. “Walk her over, I guess, because she’s too skittish to be ridden by anyone who isn’t an experienced rider.”
Wendy heaves a sigh. “You could’ve taken equestrian lessons instead of elocution. It would’ve been more practical.”
She’s right, but at the time, I didn’t have the foresight to consider that. Perhaps it was because I was fifteen. “We don’t have a saddle for her anyway.”
“Too true.”
“And the other good news?”
Wendy grins as she places her forearms on the counter and clasps her hands. “Well, while you were out trying to achieve the impossible, I had a meeting of my own.”
I can’t decide whether to feel hopeful or apprehensive. Wendy is resourceful, but she’s also a wheedler. “And who would you be meeting with?”
“The owner of Broughton Veterinary Services.”
I groan, forget the dust on the reception room chairs, and sit down in despair. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
She’s still smiling, though her lips are firmer. “I don’t joke. You’ll never get the doors open if you wait until you have the financing in place. You have to face the fact that you can’t set up the surgery and until that happens, we need an alternate solution or we’ll continue to sit on our asses and moulder.”
She’s right, but Dr. Erik Broughton? He’s the enemy and it isn’t only because he’s the competition. He’s also the ex-boyfriend. Worse than that, the relationship ended because of a dead rabbit. I still maintain he was at fault, but he claims it was my neglect. There’s no reconciling such divisive perspectives and never will be. Wendy knows the history.
“What…?” I choke. “Why…?” I’m not prone to sputtering but I can’t force words past the little bit of vomit in my mouth.
“I asked him if he would do our surgeries until we could set one up.”
Bloody hell! “You didn’t tell him we were strapped for money!”
Wendy scowls. “I have a little more intelligence than that.” She reaches for the phantom package of cigarettes she keeps under the counter, then glares at the empty spot. “I asked. He said, Yes.”
