Chapter Two
Emma
Three hours and two gas station lattes later, the truck wheezes down a long gravel road, kicking up dust, protesting this journey. The road is part and parcel of the same address. The wooden sign welcomes me to the Healing Paws Sanctuary.
I make my first discovery about the mysterious Aiden Sheffield—he is a dog lover.
Smaller signs direct me right for adoptions and left for tours. I forge straight ahead toward the looming white farmhouse, which I assume is his residence. The sun is still high, casting a halo-like light around the house.
I park and do a quick inspection in the rearview mirror. After a few lame attempts at primping, I stop running my fingers through my rebellious reddish brown hair. I check my phone for messages. Natalie sent a couple of weird memes meant to cheer me up. Kenneth has texted to check in. I send him back a detailed response about my detour to visit Aiden Sheffield. Natalie, Kenneth and I have known each other since childhood, but things are different now. I’ve changed. They are carefree, enjoying the dizzying lights of L.A., acting like normal twenty-somethings. I carry tragedy like a disease, and they don’t want to get infected. In some ways, I get it. In other ways, it pisses me off. Soon, though, I’ll be with them, and I’ll hide my pain behind a masked grin. Things will be normal. God, please let them be normal.
Just need to get through this first.
“I’m going to leave you in the car. It would be strange if I took you inside,” I say to Mom. Not that any of this isn’t strange to begin with. I am having a conversation with a dead woman, after all.
I don’t think it’s weird I talk to my mother’s ashes. I’ve been having conversations with the urn for the past six months. It’s my way of coping with the grief. The really creepy part is when the urn answers back.
I square my shoulders as I approach the door, feigning bravery. I groan at the sight of my faded UCLA T-shirt, black yoga pants, and purple Chuck Taylors. Good garments for a long road trip, but hardly an appropriate outfit for this.
Whatever this is.
Forget it. I couldn’t care less what Aiden Sheffield thinks of me. A dog bark signals my arrival before I can even knock. I gasp and take a step back. The sign on the door says: One rule for all who enter—Must Love Dogs.
I guess that applies to me. I knock before I lose my nerve.
The dog’s barks cease as soon as the deep male voice, spiced with a slight Spanish accent, commands calm. The door opens. He’s as attractive as I imagined—tall, with naturally tan skin, brown eyes, and Mediterranean looks. Silver strands thread through his dark hair in that way that makes older men appear dashing.
It’s easy to see why Mom fell for him. But he’s not as handsome or as good of a man as my father. I can guarantee that.
“May I help you, young lady?” His smile is friendly.
“Mr. Sheffield, my name is Emma.”
He pauses, his expression hovering between confusion and amusement. To my surprise, he starts laughing. “I’m flattered to be confused for Aiden, but I’m about twenty years long and a few pounds of muscle short for that mistake. Name’s Mac McDonnell.”
I bite my lip, turning ten shades of embarrassed at my assumption.
“Sorry…Mr. McDonnell, is it?”
He stretches out his hand. I grip it limply. “Call me Mac, please. Otherwise, I might start feeling those twenty years. I run this place. Please come in.”
The inside of the house feels more modern, with bright colors, Spanish tiles, and a large stone fireplace. A whole wall is covered with portraits of every size and breed of dog. Underneath each picture, there are tiny handwritten notes with their names and adoption date. A large dog with shaggy gray fur sits on the ground underneath the photos. His calm dark eyes quietly assess me.
“Hello, gorgeous boy,” I say to the dog.
“Meet Otis,” Mac says. “He’s very friendly.” Mac gestures him over. “You can pet him.”
I’ve never owned dogs, but I am a huge animal lover and can’t resist Otis’s big sweet eyes calling to me. “I would love to.”
I bend, keeping a few feet between us. The dog shifts from his sitting position and ambles toward me. He sniffs me once before ducking his head beneath my hand. My smile is genuine for the first time in forever. The joy falters a bit when I notice Otis is missing a tail. Poor boy.
“I wasn’t aware Aiden had an appointment today,” Mac says.
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“You’re not here to adopt?”
“Afraid not.” The dog licks my face. I wish Mac’s assumption was true.
“Too bad. It’s easy to see you’d be a great best friend.”
“I’m here on a personal matter.”
“How do you know Aiden?” Suspicion colors his gaze. I’m not sure how to respond. What I have to say doesn’t make any sense to begin with, and I’m not about to say it twice.
I stand. As soon as I do, the dog sits next to me. “He’s an old family friend.”
Mac arches a brow, his expression turning suspicious. “Can’t be that old. You’re very young.”
“You know what they say, Mac. Age is just a number.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t press on. He chuckles instead. “That is true. Aiden’s on a run, but you’re welcome to wait for him here, or I can give you a tour if you’d like.”
I consider my choices. “I don’t want to take up your time.”
“You can’t take something I’m willing to give. C’mon, I’ll show you around the old place. People love our tours.” He starts walking toward the back door before I can think of a reason to protest. He turns to me before opening it. “Any allergies?”
“No.”
“Good. Try to keep calm. Dogs can sense emotion, and it affects their behavior.”
I nod, although I have no idea how to keep calm right now.
The area behind the home is huge, partitioned by large cages and various fences. There are kennels and bins of dog toys, but it’s all very well-kept. It feels like a tiny city with small homes dotted across the landscape.
“We have many volunteers, but our permanent staff stays on site,” Mac explains.
We walk for a long time with Otis between us.
I ask a few questions along the way, as we pass different groups of dogs and trainers. Mac opens the door of one of the kennels. All my nervous energy fades as I’m attacked by a pack of rambunctious puppies. After they sniff me, Mac tells me I can pet them. They almost knock me over with their demanding kisses and energetic affection. Mac introduces me to so many that I forget their names, but they are all tender and sweet. Someone should bottle this feeling. Playing with puppies has to be the best cure for sorrow. As we move on, Mac explains that there are some dogs I can’t meet because they are still considered aggressive. I realize even with the tour, we’ve barely covered the expanse of the property.
I’ve been here for over an hour by the time we reach a large grassy area. It’s enclosed with a long, chain-link fence that stretches for miles. A tall hill slopes against the high afternoon sun.
“This is our dog run. Ah, there’s Aiden,” he says, pointing toward the hill.
A man appears in the distance, running like a feral animal, followed by eight of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, a few inches past six feet, at least, with inky black hair. Even from this distance, I can see his skin is sun-kissed. He wears black running shorts, which show off his well-defined legs. The dark blue, ribbed crew-neck shirt doesn’t conceal the tightly coiled muscles underneath, either. He turns to face the dogs, running backward. Even though he is far away, the deep baritone of his rich, slightly raspy voice echoes over to me:
Your left,
Your left,
Your left right left.
I don’t know but I’ve been told
Man’s best friend can save the soul.
Sound off: one, two.
Sound off: three, four.
Ain’t no sense in stopping now.
Jody’s at home taking a bow.
Jody can take my girl, my bed.
I’d rather have you mutts instead.
My head bounces to the rhythm of his silly military cadence.
He stops close by but still hasn’t seen me. He focuses all his energy on the dogs. His muscles aren’t obnoxiously huge, but they define his sleek body as if an artist chiseled them in perfect proportions. Taking a hose, he fills a trough with water. As the dogs drink, he reaches into a small blue cooler and brings out his own water bottle. He sips it greedily before dousing his head. My throat runs dry, then pangs of guilt hit me. What am I doing? I have a boyfriend. Shaking my head, I open my mouth. But still, no words come.
The largest dog in the mix, a beautiful pit bull with shiny black fur, strolls over to him. The dog begs the man for attention, standing on its back legs. The man slaps his chest three times and the dog rises, placing its front paws there. He gently strokes the animal’s head and says a few quiet words I can’t hear. I swear the dog nods back. It almost looks as if they are conversing.
This is perhaps the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
And the dog is gorgeous, too.