CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hazel
No matter how often or how hard I cleaned Olive’s empty kennel, I couldn’t wash away the memories of Chris. Everywhere I turned, his scent, his smile, his damn singing haunted me. Nearly two and a half weeks had passed since our fight, and it still felt like I was living someone else’s life. Someone else’s nightmare.
And now even the radio wouldn’t cut me a break. I’d traded the boom box music the dogs preferred for Sirius XM, but it seemed like every other song was some famous pop star covering a Disney classic. Right now Vanessa Williams was serenading me with her rendition of “Colors of the Wind” from Pocahontas.
I switched the station to bluegrass country and dunked a sponge into the bucket at my feet, wringing it out. Still, soapy water sloshed on the concrete floor as I wiped the pen marks off the back wall—each a small, barely noticeable tick with a date, which I’d used to track Olive’s progressive exploration of her kennel beyond the comfort of her safety net. Behind me, Waffles whined and scratched at the wire door of his cage.
“Sorry, bud, Olive’s not here,” I said, though I peeked beneath the stainless steel bed frame anyway. I couldn’t help it. I still hadn’t grown accustomed to the fact that my favorite cavalier had disappeared along with Chris. “Your turn’s right around the corner, Waffles. Any moment you’ll be driving off to your forever home.”
And I meant it. Just a few days ago, Toffee had been adopted by a retired single woman who wanted what she referred to as a “Velcro dog.” Scottish terriers were typically a strong-willed, energetic, independent breed, but Toffee’s abusive history made him the perfect attachment companion. Waffles would get his chance soon.
I continued to scour Olive’s crate until it shined brighter than a newly minted puppy tag, then moved on to the other kennels, scrubbing them with sudsy water and replacing the old beds, food and water bowls, and toys with new supplies from the most recent Petsville USA delivery—apparently Chris’s endorsement had brought in major business for the company, so donations to the shelter kept flowing in. Which was appreciated, since Rescue Granted was once again at full capacity with four new rehabilitation cases arriving next week.
“Hazel, those kennels are as immaculate as they’ll ever be. Give it a rest already.”
I spun at the sound of Penny’s voice, nearly knocking over the soap bucket with my knee. She swept into the room, setting this week’s fresh batch of baklava on the shelf. Snowflakes clung to her curly hair and dusted the shoulders of her leather jacket—an unexpected storm had dumped on the city this morning.
My stomach rumbled. I’d forgotten to eat breakfast and was now famished. As it turned out, heartache was an exceptionally potent appetite suppressant, and as the void expanded inside me, it numbed everything else until even the most primal desires—sleep, thirst, hunger—went without my notice.
“And yet, not immaculate enough,” I said to Penny over my shoulder, tossing the dirty sponge into the trash, then washing my hands in the sink.
I strode over to the baklava, peeling away the foil and inhaling the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon, walnuts, and buttery phyllo. I removed a square and popped it into my mouth. For a moment, the honey-soaked pastry reminded me that I was still capable of feeling full again, of feeling something.
“No amount of bleach and elbow grease will erase Chris, you know,” Penny said, then tugged off her gloves with her teeth.
A fist gripped my chest at the mention of Chris’s name, squeezing the hurt tighter inside of me. It was so unfair. Only a short time ago, thoughts of him promised sunny, happy mornings after fun sex-filled nights. Now all of that was gone.
I stole another piece of baklava, consuming it in one bite. “Maybe not, but cleaning gives me something to do.”
But most important, mopping and sweeping and tidying prevented me from checking my phone every thirty seconds, hoping for a text or a voice mail. Or glancing at the shelter entrance repeatedly, wishing for a singing telegram—anything that told me Chris still cared—even though I’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome. My devastation and anger at his silence only served to dig the knife in deeper, so I cleaned—and tried to forget him. Unsuccessfully.
“Normal people get drunk or have random hookups when they’re moping after a breakup. But you throw yourself into work.” Penny shook her head, fitting the foil over the baking dish again. “It’s like I’ve taught you nothing.”
I shrugged, licking honey off my thumb, and said, “At least organizing the rehab area for the new intakes is something productive.”
“You know what else is productive?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Firing nosy, chronically late best friends?” I smiled that sarcastic smile that Penny despised so much.
“Forgiveness, as my grandmother always reminds me.”
“Speaking of Rhea, how are she and Meatball getting along?” I asked, though it was a pointless question.
Last week, Penny’s grandmother had unexpectedly stopped by the shelter to pick up Penny for an impromptu family dinner, and the moment Rhea had laid eyes on Meatball, I’d known they were the perfect fit. Rhea had bent down, grabbed Meaty’s jowly face, and declared that she simply must have a dog with laugh lines to rival her own. I’d only wished I’d thought of the match myself—and long before now.
“Ugh, I can’t believe you let her adopt him,” Penny said, pinching my arm. “All of my favorite socks have disappeared, and when I confronted my grandmother about it, she said, and I quote, ‘Meatball needs new chew toys, and since your penis-blocking cotton isn’t doing you any favors, I killed two birds with one stone. There’s a lovely set of pumps in your closet, no socks required.’ ”
I laughed. “Rhea has a point.”
“Yeah, well, when it comes to Chris and forgiveness, so do I. Something you could benefit from considering,” she said, pinning me with a look before grabbing the baklava and exiting the rehab area.
Sighing, I moved over to Waffles’ kennel and unlocked the door. I sat on the floor with my back against the bed frame. He curled into a ball beside my shoes, staring up at me with his big, expressive eyes until I rubbed his favorite spot above his tail.
A short while later, the hinges on the rehab area door creaked, and I looked up to see my mother stroll in with a black-and-tan Rottweiler puppy in her arms. At the sudden intruders, Waffles bolted upright, barking like a banshee. My breath caught in my throat at the sight, my expression no doubt revealing my utter shock.
Ordinarily, I’d assume the Rottweiler had been found on the side of the road and had been brought to the shelter for care, but this was my mother we were talking about. Which could mean only one thing—she’d gotten herself a pet. Standing, I brushed Waffles’ coarse white hair off my jeans and secured the door to his kennel.
“Hi, Mom. Who’s this?” I asked, walking over and scratching behind the Rottweiler’s ears. The shy little thing couldn’t have been older than eight weeks, if I had to guess.
“This is Rutabaga,” she said, straightening his collar. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Yeah, really cute,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. Rutabaga looked so much like Rhubarb as a puppy—they even had the same facial markings—that I momentarily forgot Rhubarb was gone. “He’s also drooling all over your Chanel coat.”
My mother shrugged, as if she didn’t store all of her vintage designer clothing in vacuum-sealed bags in her closet. “Well, that’s what the dry cleaner is for, sweetheart.”
“Uh-huh. And what are you doing here with Rutabaga?” I asked, conceding that maybe I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe my mother had been out with a friend for lunch and had stumbled upon the dog wandering around the streets and had brought the puppy to me so I could find him an adoptive home.
But then she cleared her throat and said, “Introducing you to him since he’s family now. Rutabaga was very well behaved in the car—you’ll be so impressed when you see how sweet he is in temperament,” and I was reminded again that I should trust my instincts when it came to my mother.
“So, you’re going to keep him?” I asked. My mother already became overwhelmed when she felt out of her depth. How was she going to handle all the tasks involved with raising a Rottweiler?
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hazel. We both know a pet would be disastrous for me,” she said. “Rutabaga is for you.”
For me?
“I’m not understanding . . .”
“Are you acting deliberately obtuse, Hazel?” My mother sighed. “Anyway, after our exciting journey over here, this little munchkin probably needs to use the potty. Come outside with us.”
I started to protest, but she plopped the dog in my arms, swept past me, and headed in the direction of the yard. I ground my teeth and forced myself to count backward from ten.
Rutabaga licked my chin, and before I could stop myself, I buried my nose in his furry neck and inhaled the scent of pure puppy deliciousness. Instantly, I was a little girl again, scared and vulnerable and desperate for a friend. Tears stung my eyes even as I breathed in memories of Rhubarb and the uncomplicated adoration that only a puppy could provide. Rutabaga dropped his chin on my shoulder and heaved a huge, exhausted sigh.
I was so, so screwed.
My mother was sitting on a bench in the covered picnic area when I’d finally composed myself enough to join her. Cottony snowflakes swirled against the whitewashed sky—not even the Rocky Mountains in the distance were visible. But the chill in the air was more of a subdued cold, one that stole away body heat slowly.
I let Rutabaga loose in the grass to roam and do his business. The snow crunched under his paws, a thin layer of ice crumpling to the softness underneath, as he trotted over to the obstacle course set up on the far side of the yard.
“What did you mean Rutabaga is for me?” I asked, wrapping my jacket tighter around my body and settling beside her on the bench.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” she said.
“Mom, you know I won’t accept a dog from a pet shop—”
My mother scoffed and cut me off. “Rutabaga is hardly from some puppy mill operation, Hazel.”
I sighed. “Okay, fine, but breeders are still included in my earlier statement. My entire purpose here at Rescue Granted is based on the idea of adopt, don’t shop.”
“I know that, sweetheart, though I think in this case you’ll make an exception. But patience—we’ll get into all that in a moment,” she said, patting my leg.
Ugh. I hated when my mother drew things out. We both knew disaster loomed. Why not just face it?
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“I’m staging an intervention,” she said in her come-on-Hazel-do-keep-up tone.
I bumped her shoulder. “That’s usually my job.”
She nodded and offered a small smile in return. “Which is only one of the reasons it’s so important that I do this, sweetheart. It’s time. And since you refuse to listen to Penny . . .”
I shook my head. “I don’t need an intervention.” She was treating me like I was some kind of hermit living in squalor with hundreds of plants as friends.
“Yes, well, your argument with Chris proves otherwise.” My mother adjusted her scarf, her hair swishing with the movement.
I cut my gaze away, over to where Rutabaga was attempting to climb up the slide. He made it halfway, but the curve of the slope sent him tumbling back down to the ground. And yet, even though he’d failed, he shook himself off and tried again.
When I looked back at my mother, her expression had softened, the bright Christmas lights strung on the underside of the picnic area roof casting red, blue, and green across her face. My mother shifted her body closer to mine and placed a palm over my hand. My chest clenched at the tenderness of the gesture.
For a long beat we sat in silence. Finally, my mother cleared her throat and said, “Hazel, you think I don’t realize what a burden I am to you. How difficult I can be to handle. But I do see it. Every day.” Her voice was gentle but serious, and the unguarded honesty in her words caused my vision to blur and my throat to tighten.
“Mom . . .”
“No, sweetheart, it’s okay. This needs to be said.” She squeezed my fingers. “You’re not wrong, Hazel. I am a challenge. It’s not like I want the past or my issues with your father to rule my life, despite what you may believe, but I don’t know how to act any different. In a way my anxiety and dependence are almost comforting for me. But that’s not the life I want for you.”
“I have a great life, Mom. I’ve got friends and the shelter and you.”
A sad smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, mirroring the sorrow in her eyes. “If I truly believed that you had everything you wanted—that no part of your life was built on fear or caution—then I wouldn’t mention anything at all. But I’m living proof of what those things bring, Hazel. And I won’t see you deny yourself a full and exciting future. I can’t. If I only do one thing right as your mother, then by God, it’s going to be this.”
“So how does getting me a puppy change that?”
“Hazel, you know better than anyone that a puppy can change everything,” she said. “So I’m certain you’ll find the time for Rutabaga, and when you’re ready, you’ll also find your way to happiness.”
Once again, memories of Rhubarb flashed through my mind. The way she’d stick her muzzle between the shower curtain and clear liner just so I wouldn’t be alone. Or how, even as a ninety-pound adult, she’d crawl into my lap during a thunderstorm. Or when she’d bring me a half-eaten vegetable from my uncle’s garden after playing outside, her face one big doggie grin.
“And I have faith that Rutabaga is especially well suited for you,” my mother continued.
I furrowed my brow. “Why?”
“You don’t notice the resemblance?” My mother gestured toward Rutabaga, who was now digging an impressive hole in the yard. If he was anything like Rhubarb, he’d promptly take a nap in it.
Wait . . . surely not?
“Is he?” I swallowed hard, unable to voice the thought.
“Yes,” my mother confirmed. “Rutabaga is from the same bloodline as Rhubarb. So while I understand your displeasure over my purchasing a puppy rather than adopting, I figured this special case appropriate.”
As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn’t. Because she was right. A long time ago, a dog had rescued me, and looking at Rutabaga now, knowing where he’d come from and all that he represented, I decided to allow this one small exception.
“I didn’t think Uncle Kent remembered where he’d gotten Rhubarb,” I said. “How’d you find the breeder?”
“That’s quite a story, actually. Your uncle was able to track down the receipt of purchase—that man keeps records of everything—but the breeder had since retired. So then it was a matter of tracing American Kennel Club bloodlines through the registry.”
My mother couldn’t follow her own GPS presets home, let alone run complicated database searches. How had she managed all of this?
She must have recognized the confusion clouding my expression, because she laughed and said, “Don’t give me too much credit. Obviously I had assistance.”
“I . . . I need to call Uncle Kent.” I started to stand, but my mother captured my wrist.
“Hazel, wait,” she said, pulling me back down. “I can understand why your uncle would be your first inclination. But, unfortunately, he was as clueless as me when it came to this matter. Chris is the reason Rutabaga is here.”
“Chris?” I said in disbelief.
“He was so patient with me, both when he picked me up from the antique fair and then again recently, when I was adamant about discovering Rhubarb’s lineage but didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”
“So you reached out to ask him for help and he did?” I asked, my heart tripping over its own beat.
“Why is that so hard to fathom, Hazel?” she asked. “I think you’ve terribly misjudged him.”
Even after everything that had happened between us, after all the horrible words I’d thrown at him, without hesitation, Chris had stepped in to aid my mother. Just like that. Again. Because that’s the sort of person he was, genuine and caring and willing—a realization that was sinking in too late.
My throat closed up and my eyes stung, but I blinked back the tears. “What if you’re wrong? What if Chris is the same as I’ve always worried he’d be?”
“The better question is, what if I’m right? You have to invite everything in—the good, the bad, the ugly—or at the end of the day, you have nothing at all. You spend so much effort ensuring you never regret anything that you fail to truly live—or love.”
“I don’t want to make a mistake.” Boundaries were safe, predictable, and I was so terrified to misstep. Especially in regard to someone like Chris, who pushed me out of my element and forced me to question decisions that had once come so naturally. But perhaps that was the whole point. Hadn’t I already experienced the thrill of spontaneity, of passion, of love with him?
“I know you don’t want to make a mistake or risk getting hurt, sweetheart. But sometimes mistakes are life’s greatest blessings. Was it a mistake to stay with your father for so long and put us both in continual danger? Absolutely yes. But do I regret marrying him?” She shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear the way she used to when I was a little girl. “Not in the least. He gave me you, after all, and I wouldn’t trade that for all the heartache in the world.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said as Rutabaga bounded over and dropped a pinecone at my feet like he’d captured the grand prize. I chuckled. Yeah, he was definitely related to Rhubarb.
My mother stood and dusted flecks of dirt and ice off her coat. “What’s that sports cliché your uncle is always spouting? ‘No risk, no reward ’?” She nodded to herself. “Yes, that’s right. Seems appropriate here. The way I see it, Chris isn’t a mistake. He’s a risk worth taking. When are you going to wake up to that fact?”