Chapter Eight
CALLIE
The violet light of the setting sun paved my way back to the clinic, and I breathed in the fresh, warm air from my open window. The last couple places I’d lived, the use of AC in my car had been a necessity. In Lenox, it was optional. And I’d option out as long as I could.
Hair whipping against my cheek, I smiled at the beauty all around me. Lush green grass. Towering ponderosa pines. Wildflowers planted near a park bench. Lovers strolling hand in hand. Summertime in small-town America. Could there be anything better?
I veered into the driveway of a pewter-colored, ranch-style house with white trim and a wide-set porch. At the sight of Davis’s home, something buzzed to life in my lower abdomen. The same something that had acted up the instant I’d hugged him in the exam room. I had expected the impromptu embrace to feel like hugging a tall block of concrete . . . yet there was nothing rigid about the warm-blooded male who’d kindly returned my sentiment. And that woodsy aftershave of his—yum.
After parking, I gathered my purchases from Pet Palace—two overstuffed sacks filled to the brim with random doggie paraphernalia. Who knew organic treats and chew toys would cost as much as my Italian-made oil brushes?
I bumped the car door closed with my hip while the shopping bags cut off the circulation in my wrists. One ungraceful step at a time, I headed down the pebbled walkway and noticed several vibrant bleeding heart plants in full bloom on either side—an interesting landscaping choice for sure. A water feature near a perfectly pruned rosebush gurgled at me as if in greeting. Bags beating a tuneless song against my thighs, I rushed up the porch steps hoping to off-load my merchandise quickly.
The house certainly wasn’t modest in size, or in finishes, but the classic design of the exterior complemented the contemporary curb appeal of the landscape—or so I would have said if I were still writing those ridiculous ads for the Buy Me Now real estate magazine. Luckily, that particular gig had only lasted four months before a mural project opened up for me.
I raised my elbow just enough to jab it into the doorbell.
A half minute later, Davis answered.
Unlike earlier at the clinic, no lab coat adorned his classically athletic frame—broad shoulders, built chest, lean legs. Instead, he wore a simple cobalt T-shirt and well-fitted jeans. Somehow the style seemed far too average for him. Misleading, even. As if he were just any good-looking, run-of-the-mill American male and not the professional dog whisperer I’d clung to only a few hours ago.
“Hi again,” I said, shaking away the hair blowing into my face from the mild breeze. “I found a few things for our friend.”
He regarded the bundle of goods in my arms. “Is that all for the dog?”
I nodded. “Yup. And it’s actually pretty heavy, so . . .”
Without further encouragement, he off-loaded the bags and angled his body for me to enter his home. “He’s all set up in the back, if you’d like to come inside.”
That I would. “Thanks.” I entered the modern living room and slipped off my strappy sandals. “I’m guessing he did okay, then? With the stitches and the splint?”
“Yes, he did fine.” Davis led me through the room as if private home tours were a normal part of his job description. And yet, even though I recognized the oddity in all this, I couldn’t help but feel at ease.
“He perked up quite a bit after that second round of electrolytes,” Davis said. “He appears to be house-trained and knows a few commands, too.”
“Oh, wow, that’s great,” I said while scanning Davis’s beautiful home—from the polished hardwoods to the neutral walls to the slightly vaulted ceiling. I’d always believed our chosen habitats told a story about us. And I was currently trying to read his. “How long have you lived here? In Lenox, I mean?”
“Little over six years ago this time around. I grew up here and graduated from Lenox High before leaving for college in California.”
That day in the art studio—while his nostrils flared in time with his temper—he’d mentioned he raised Brandon alone. Yet I still couldn’t help perusing his home for any sign of femininity. Maybe a grouping of delicate knickknacks or a loopy script written on a memo pad or maybe even a bowl of freesia-scented potpourri?
I detected none of the above.
“It’s a sweet town,” I mused. “I was thrilled when Clem called to say they’d settled here a few years ago. I’ve always loved Oregon. My brother-in-law’s job has him traveling a lot, so they were looking for a good place to put down roots for the kids.”
“Lenox is good for that. Roots, I mean,” he clarified.
A part of me coveted the community life my sister had here, but I could no sooner claim roots in Lenox, Oregon, than I could in Colorado or New Mexico or Texas or Montana. I’d always valued my freedom to come and go more than a permanent address.
“Well, your home is beautiful. The neutral palette you’ve chosen works well with the lighting, too. Any darker on these walls, and you would have closed it in.” I swept my gaze around the room. “You obviously have quite the eye for design.”
He gave me a sidelong glance that glinted with amusement. “Actually, I know next to nothing about design . . . or neutral palettes. My role was simply to check a few boxes for likes and dislikes on the builder’s design questionnaire, and well, that was that.”
That was that? I couldn’t imagine giving up my artistic liberties to anybody. For any reason.
“But what about all the lovely landscaping outside? I’m sure you had some say in that. The water feature near your porch is definitely an original piece.”
His mouth cracked into a smile. “Afraid I can’t take credit for that either. My mother started a small gardening business several years back, after we lost my father. I suppose it’s a form of therapy for her.”
“Oh . . .” Well, that was one way to put a damper on our conversation. Maybe I should just come right out and ask him about the terms of his divorce papers, too. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
He dropped his chin slightly. “Thank you.”
We trailed through the minimally furnished living area—a single leather sofa paired with a matching recliner—and then into a kitchen gleaming with stainless-steel appliances and sleek modern cabinetry. He swung a left, and I gave in to the urge to glance behind me and capture the space from a broader viewpoint. My first assessment had been spot-on.
Masculine. The whole place.
Definitely no sign of a woman’s touch. No sign of anybody’s touch, really. The house was showroom quality yet completely void of personality.
Questions far too personal to be polite pelted my psyche, but this time, I had the sense to shut them down. No matter the sparks I’d likely imagined during our earlier embrace, Davis was only my veterinarian. The idea of anything more than that was downright comical. He and I couldn’t be more opposite in our approach to, well, everything, probably.
We reached an opening at the end of the hall. And there, in the middle of the mudroom, a large metal crate housed a familiar-looking mutt. Although, thankfully, a far less smelly one.
“Hey there, big fella. You clean up well.” I knelt in front of his kennel, eyeing Davis’s handiwork on the dog’s front leg. “I hear splints are all the rage for this summer’s fashion season, so wear that proudly, okay?” I pinched the metal joint on the crate’s door, and he shuffled toward me, wagging his tail and panting. That IV pack must have been filled with something mystical indeed. The dog’s energy level had skipped from languid to lively in only a couple of hours. I rubbed his head between his ears. “Look at you, all Peppy McPepperson. That must have been some cocktail Dr. Carter mixed up for you.” He dabbed his coal-colored nose to my cheek. “Yes, yes. I thought you’d miss me. Which is why I bought you a few things to take to your future foster family.”
At the mention of the store-bought goods, Davis set the bags down on the countertop between the washer and dryer. “What all did you purchase?”
“Well”—I crisscrossed my legs and grinned up at him—“seeing as a certain vet bill had been magically altered to show a zero balance by the time I checked out at the front desk, I figured the least I could do was start this guy off on the right foot.” I laughed at my unintended joke. “Wait—I guess you did that part, too.”
Davis breezed right over my witty pun.
“Let’s see.” He reached into one of the store sacks, his eyebrows expressive as he pulled each item out one by one. “Food and water dishes, organic shampoo and conditioner,” he said with an added inflection that made me laugh. “And”—he examined a transparent package, turning it this way and that—“what exactly are these?”
“Those are a uniquely formulated treat for Collies.”
One side of his mouth quirked north. “I hope you didn’t pay more than half this sticker price.”
He could hope all he wanted. “The lady—no, the canine expert—said these treats have several superfood ingredients for their coats or, hmm . . . maybe it was their teeth . . . no”—I snapped my fingers—“I’m pretty sure it was their eyesight. Something very important, anyway. And let’s face it, this guy can use a leg up in all those areas.” I winked, and I could have sworn I heard Davis snicker before he turned his face away and plucked another few items from the bag. A rope toy. A burlap pig. A tennis-ball slinger. And my personal favorite, the squeaky hot dog.
“That one was a must.” I shrugged as the dog nuzzled his nose into my shoulder.
“Says the one who didn’t catch hot-dog vomit in a pan today.” Davis’s eyes charged with something close to humor when a familiar dark-headed boy behind him caught my attention. I lifted a tad from my spot on the floor, maneuvering to peer around Davis’s solid form.
“Brandon?” I called.
Davis’s son came closer and sagged against the doorjamb. “Callie? What are you doing here?”
“Hey! It’s good to see you,” I said. “Did you meet your new housemate yet?”
“No,” Brandon said with a slight glance at his father. “How long is he staying?”
“Two days,” Davis answered. “Just long enough to secure him a foster family.”
Brandon nodded, studying the dog with an interest I’d seen once before in my studio.
“Don’t just stand there. Get in here.” I waved Brandon over and scooted back so he could squeeze in the small space near the kennel. “This dog can use all the love and affection he can get.”
Uncertainty flickered across Brandon’s face, and I sensed he was about to decline my offer.
I regrouped before he could open his mouth. “Actually, why don’t you grab one of those awesomely made treats in your dad’s hand? This dog won’t be able to resist you if you feed him one of those.” I roughed the fur at his neck. “Right, boy? You’re gonna loooove those crazy-expensive Collie cookies.”
Davis peeled off the seal to the bag and handed a single heart-shaped treat to his son. Still reluctant, Brandon approached, yet I doubted his hesitation had much to do with the dog and everything to do with the eager watchfulness of his father. Whatever tension I’d felt between them in my warehouse had since multiplied by a factor of ten.
Just as Brandon crouched beside me, a male voice bellowed from somewhere inside the house. “Davis? Brandon? Hey . . . where are you guys? You should be in here salivating over this meal delivery.”
Davis shot an indecipherable look in my direction, then pushed off the counter and headed out of the room.
“Who is that?” I whispered to Brandon.
“Shep,” Brandon said, canine cookie laid flat onto his open palm. “He’s sort of like . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know, my uncle or something. He’s known my dad since they were young.”
Strange to think of Davis as a child. It seemed some people were born into the world as adults. Insta-maturity. “You like him?”
“Who—Shep? Yeah.” The dog sniffed the contents in Brandon’s hand. “Everybody likes him. He’s funny.”
Brandon chuckled as our friend turned up his nose at the organic treat and went for the stuffed—nonedible—pig instead. “What was that? Are you serious right now, mister?” I asked my furry friend in a stern voice. “This is super yummy. Eat it.”
But again, the dog rejected our efforts.
“Can’t blame him.” Brandon gave an empathetic sigh. “That’s how I feel about my grandma’s tuna casserole, too.”
I snatched the treat away from Brandon’s hand and furrowed my eyebrows at the dog. In vain, I tried one last time, refusing to give up on the ungrateful canine. “Hey, dude. Listen up, this is not Brandon’s grandmother’s tuna casserole here. This is the caviar of all dog treats. The crème de la crème!”
Bringing the crumbling heart to my own nose, I took a generous sniff . . . and recoiled involuntarily, barely holding off a gag.
At this, Brandon choked out a laugh, and something in my chest free-fell at the sound. I kept the antics going, kept cracking jokes about the snootiness of the animal before us. And the almost-teen beside me, much to my utter astonishment, continued to find the scenario hilarious. Finally, I gave in to the chortling session, too. The dog, on the other hand, looked at us both as if we’d completely lost our marbles.
Maybe we had.
But at least the marbles that remained were happy ones—an emotion that seemed as out of practice with Brandon as it did with his father.