Portia and I are down at the shop today, checking out the initial progress on the Dulcinea, Cavanaugh Yacht’s newest model, and looking at the custom boats being built. Bernie, our top craftsman, does amazing work with his crew. He’s a great guy—always cheerful, loves antique cars and 80’s classic rock and the boats he makes. When he’s finished a particular boat, he’s always proud and a little sad—like a parent whose kid is leaving for college. His attention to detail and the painstaking care he exhibits has made him one of our most valuable employees. My mother adores him, and shockingly, he seems to genuinely like her, too.
I try not to hold that against him.
Our company builds sixty boats a year, stem to stern. Many of them are custom orders, but the Dulcinea is the creation of Bernie and his team. Portia steps close to it, running her hand along the glossy toe rail. “This is appsolutely gorgeous.”
Bernie’s face splits into a grin. It’s like she told him his daughter was beautiful. “Eight pieces of Burmese teak, ten coats of varnish and a whole lotta sweet-talking.”
“It seems to have worked.” Portia smiles.
Once again, I’m shaking my head at how she turned out to be nothing like I expected. I’ve grown pretty fond of her, with not even a glimmer of feeling attracted.
Delaney, too, turned out to be nothing like I expected. Someone I chose to be my girlfriend in name only...someone who would look the part.
Didn’t have a clue she’d turn out to be the part.
Her role is due to end exactly one month from today. And my focus has shifted from trying to convince my mother that Delaney Brewster is my girlfriend, to trying to convince Delaney Brewster that she’s my girlfriend.
There’s some irony for you.
A phone’s ring tone warbles, jostling me out of my thoughts. Portia looks at her screen, tells Bernie and me she’ll be right back, and then walks away to take the call as the CEO of Cavanaugh Yacht steps into view.
“Hello, Mother.”
She gives me an icy stare which thaws as she lays eyes on Bernie. “She’s stunning, isn’t she?”
He’s nodding, folding his arms as he sweeps his gaze along the Dulcinea. “I’m pretty proud of her, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
My mother’s face registers puzzlement, and then she tosses her head back and laughs. “Oh, Bernie...you’re delightful. I’m not talking about the boat, although she is also beautiful. I meant Ms. Bellamy.”
His bushy eyebrows raise, face breaking into a big grin. “Ha! My mistake. Yes, she certainly is a head-turner.”
“One would expect that my own son would think the same,” she says drily. “His lack of taste is extremely disappointing.”
“And one would think that my own mother would know when to back off.”
There’s tension in the air, thicker than the varnish on a Cavanaugh yacht. Bernie laughs nervously, looking from my mother to me, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this. It’s Portia’s re-entrance that saves us. She’s looking a little stressed, and my mother notices it right away.
“Is everything all right?”
“I hope so. Just got a phone call from my brother. Daddy’s had some tightness in his chest, and he’s been refusing to see a physician.”
Mother’s expression turns from concern to alarm. “Chest tightness? He really should get checked out—that’s nothing to fool around with.”
Portia nods. “I know. That’s exactly what my brother told him. Daddy’s been under a great deal of stress lately, mainly due to the business.”
“Is your brother the only one watching out for him?”
“Yes. Daddy hasn’t been in a relationship with anyone, and I worry about that as well. I do wish he had someone in his life to take care of him.” She gives us a small smile. “Since we all know women can be highly persuasive, maybe a significant other could convince my very stubborn papa to see a doctor.”
“Well, I certainly hope you or your brother will be able to talk him into getting a physical. Please keep me posted on Roger.”
“I will, Gloria. Thank you so much for your concern.”
Concern? Hate to tell you, Portia, but my mother’s probably already making plans to sink her perfectly-manicured nails into Bellamy Marine, should your father meet his demise. Cold and callous, yes, but it’s how she rolls.
Bernie shows us the specs for the next boat he’s going to be working on, we tour the rest of the shop and then drive back to the office. Portia’s a little on the quiet side, and I’m guessing it’s because of her dad. It’s a feeling I can’t relate to, since I’ve never been close to mine.
Or my mother, for that matter. Probably explains why I’m a bit fucked-up.
After work, I’m heading to Delaney’s to pick up Tucker. She likes to have him at her place while I’m at work, and that’s totally fine with me, because even though the big guy sleeps a lot during the day, I like to know she can check on him and let him out to do his business. Since she closes the café earlier than I get out of work, she’ll sometimes take him for a walk downtown. Then I come over to get him, and typically I’ll have dinner there, or we’ll go out or back to my place and I’ll grill.
We usually end up in bed.
So I’m totally fine with Delaney watching T-Man.
I’m about five minutes away from her place when she calls.
“Hey, Sprite. I’m almost—”
“Damon!”
Jesus, I don’t like the sound of her voice. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Tucker.” Her words are choked and tearful. “Oh God, Damon...I just got to the vet’s with him.”
My heart is now banging in my chest. I keep my voice calm so I won’t upset her more than she already is. I put on my blinker and make a sharp U-turn at a service station. The vet clinic is about fifteen minutes west of here. “I’ll be right there. What happened? Is he okay?”
“I—I don’t know. I hope he will be. He got into some chocolate at my house. I shouldn’t have had it out. I didn’t even think—he must have gotten up on the counter when I went into my bedroom, because when I came back in the kitchen, he was licking the wrapper. Oh, Damon—I’m so sorry!”
I know dogs aren’t supposed to have chocolate, but I’ve heard that it depends on how much they get and the size of the dog. With Tucker being basically the size of a pony, I think he’d have to eat a lot of it for him to be in any danger.
“I’m sure he’ll be okay...was he acting sick?”
“No.” She sniffs. “Not yet. But it was baking chocolate, and that’s one of the worst kinds. I was so scared, so I just brought him right in to get checked out. The vet should see him any minute.”
“Good thinking. Thanks for doing that. Is he acting okay?”
“He seems kind of agitated—panting a little bit.”
“I’m almost to the clinic. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this.”
She makes a little cry of protest. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry, putting your dog in danger.”
“Please don’t worry, Delaney. He’ll be okay.”
He has to be. This is T-Man we’re talking about.
The second I walk into the exam room, Delaney looks so small, so scared sitting on the bench, I have to swallow so my throat won’t tighten up. Her face is pale, her blue eyes glistening with tears. Tucker isn’t in here, and there’s a little jolt in my gut. “Where is—”
“They just took him to get some blood work,” she says quickly. “I feel so awful, Damon. I should have been more careful.”
I sit down beside her, pulling her into my arms and holding her tight, pressing my lips against her hair. “Stop. It’s not your fault. That dog is a treat hound. He’ll be okay.”
“God, I hope so. I love him.” She raises her eyes to meet mine, and once again I’m struck by how beautiful, how delicate she is.
“Me too.”
The back door to the exam room opens, and in steps the smiling, dark-haired vet. Key word: smiling. I reach over for Delaney’s hand.
“Your boy is going to be fine,” she says. “He’s not very happy right now since we’re trying to induce vomiting, but he’ll be feeling much better in just a bit. His blood work looks good, so as soon as he empties his stomach, we’ll observe him for a little while and then you can take him home.”
Delaney’s shoulders slump and she leans against me. “Oh, thank God. I’m so glad!”
“You did the right thing by getting him checked out,” the vet tells her. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry. Fortunately, he didn’t eat that much, and he’s a big boy. I’ll have the tech bring him back when he’s ready to go home.”
After she leaves, Delaney sighs with relief, the tension draining out of her face. I grin at her. “I’ve never been so happy to say ‘told you so.’”
“I know. I never would have forgiven myself. You’ll probably never trust me again to watch him.”
“Of course I will. I trust you. Absolutely, one hundred percent. But you did say something wrong.”
“What’s that?”
“You said ‘I should be sorry for putting your dog in danger.’ He’s not just my dog. He’s ours. Okay?”
For the first time since I’ve seen her tonight, her lips make the smallest of smiles. “Okay.”
“What I’m trying to say is, you put our dog in danger.”
She lunges at me, sputtering and exasperated but giggling wildly as she takes fake swings at me. Laughing, I grab her wrists, put her arms behind her back and hold them there. It gets serious really fast when my mouth finds hers, and we’re kissing like horny teenagers in a back seat. I don’t care if the vet tech walks in—all I care about is that T-Man is okay.
And that my girlfriend is, too.