Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [75]
She would tell Charlie that she’d tried to call him—twice—that she’d let the phone ring and ring. And she would scold him for not having voice mail to take messages. Everybody did these days. Everybody! She hoped he would believe her and if he was mad at her that he would forgive her. Charlie meant something to her in a funny kind of way, and she didn’t want him mad at her.
Her search for Charlie in Timberwoods led up one alley and down another. The photographer and elves said he was on a break. An overextended break, they complained, adding that Santa was facing an unusually long line of kids. She waited a half hour, and when he still hadn’t returned, left a hasty message with the photographer.
“Tell him I’ve been trying to call him, that I need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll tell him,” the photographer said, then waved her away when a customer approached. Something told Angela that her message would never reach Charlie, but what else could she do? She had to leave. Mrs. Summers was waiting for her; she couldn’t hang around forever waiting for him to get back from wherever he was.
An hour later Angela managed to find her Porsche in the crowded parking lot and got in, taking a few minutes to collect her thoughts before she turned the key in the ignition. An old, beat-up Volkswagen stopped within a few feet of her car, its door opened and closed, and then the car drove off. Idly she realized that a man was behind the wheel, but she didn’t pick up any more detail than that.
What was going on? she wondered. Looking over to where the VW had stopped, she saw three small round bundles of fur shivering in the snow. She opened her car door and ran over to them. Quickly she scooped up the shivering puppies, cursing long and loud. “Slimeball!” she screamed. “You’re nothing but a slimy slimeball!” she yelled to the retreating VW.
Back in her warm car, she turned on the overhead light and stared down at the tiny balls of fur. My God, they were so small. And that awful man left them to die. “You poor little babies,” she said to the whimpering pups. She cuddled them to her, crooning soft words of comfort. “He took you from your mama and left you to die. How could he? Poor babies. I won’t let you die. I’ll help you. I’ll see that you’re taken care of. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
Cuddling the puppies beneath her coat, she went back into the mall and headed straight for the pet shop to ask the owner how to feed them. On her way back out she looked to see if Charlie had come back yet. She’d bet he’d be a soft touch for such little puppies. Maybe he would even let her keep them at his house until they were old enough to be given away. Maybe he would want one.
But Charlie still wasn’t there. The photographer was beginning to look anxious.
Disappointed, Angela left the mall for the second time that afternoon. On the floorboard she made her scarf into a nest of sorts for the puppies, slipped the Porsche into gear, drove out of the parking lot, and headed for the Summerses’ home.
Her arms full of squirming puppies, Angela managed to find the doorbell and hit it with her elbow.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Angela, Mrs. Summers.” She heard the chain being removed, and the door opened. “Surprise!” Angela laughed as she held open her coat.
“Where . . . how . . . whose are they?” Amy was delighted.
“Some guy just dumped them out in the Timberwoods Mall parking lot and drove off in a hurry while I happened to be watching. I couldn’t leave them there to die, so I brought them here. I didn’t know where else to take them. I bought them some milk replacement. I don’t think they’re old enough to eat solid food by themselves. Look how tiny they are.”
“I’m looking, I’m looking, and I think you’re right. How could somebody do such a thing? Poor, precious little puppies,” Amy said, cuddling one of the tiny bundles to her cheek. “They sound hungry. We’d better fix them some of that milk you brought.”
“But what if they’re too little to