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“Lacey, I’m not going to chastise him, but if he breaks something, I’m not pretending he didn’t do it.” Dad points to the wooden fence. “He broke the fence and kept pushing until part gave way.”
Mom rubs the dog’s face and chest and scratches behind his ears, making cute noises as though she knows how to speak dog.
“And that’s why I haven’t fixed it…” Dad continues, “… because your mother loves it when he visits us.”
I raise a finger to the dog. “Goldie-Riddick better behave and not eat the pie when I bring it out.” I head inside, gather everything I need, return with the pie, and place it on the wrought iron table. The dog surprises me and sits away from us under the shade of a tree while we eat.
“See? I told you he’d be fine,” Mom says in a cocky tone.
“Why don’t you get a dog?” I ask.
“Because our boy would get jealous,” she says between mouthfuls.
“He’s not your dog, Mom.”
“He’s here enough to be, and besides, he’s not our worry when our neighbors return at night, so it’s a win. We keep each other company.” She calls the dog over and feeds him some of her pie. It surprises me how he takes it so gently from her fingers.
“At least he’s calm now.”
After we finish eating, we go inside to play Scrabble, Mom’s favorite game. Goldie walks inside with us. What? He lies near the table and sleeps for the next hour while we play the board game.
There’s a knock at the door, and the dog’s head lifts. Heruffsa little bark.
“That’ll scare ’em away.” Dad grins. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Mom shakes her head.
Pushing up from my chair, I tell Dad, “I’ll get it. You take your turn.”
Just before I open the door, Dad says, “Sit, Goldie.”
I blink, unbelieving.
“I hoped I had the right house.” Franklin’s deep voice hypnotizes me. “I was in the area and thought you might need a ride back to LA. I have a few things to do so…” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “… I can come back.”
“You were in the area?” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I’m distracted by him wearing faded denim jeans and a tan shirt. I’ve never seen him in anything but trousers. With a looped finger, he holds his designer coat over his shoulder. “I, um… am driving back with Zara. How did you know where I lived?”
“Gold-ie,” Dad shouts.
I’m knocked sideways into the door as the dog bounds past me and onto Franklin’s chest. Goldie must be ninety pounds, and she’s airborne with momentum. Franklin groans with the impact. His coat goes flying as he flaps his arms for balance.
“Nooo,” I yell, reaching for him as he stumbles back, trips on the stairs, and attempts to grab the railing, only he topples over it and—
“Jesus! Mother of God,” he screams in pain. He rolls off the bougainvillea and into the bed of daisies.
Goldie is all over him, licking his face, and Franklin splutters as her tongue licks his mouth.
“What the fuck is happening?” He shoos away the dog and checks his hands.
“Goldie, come here,” Dad says from behind us.
I crouch beside Franklin. His head has a long cut running down the side of his face, and both his palms are cut. His shirt has numerous rips, and I’m sure he is bleeding on his back. It was a heavy landing.
“Oh, shit.” I lay a gentle hand on his shoulder as he studies his hands. “What hurts the most?”
He peers up at me and tentatively touches his face. “My ego.”
“Let me help you up.”
