How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [19]
Have dog. You are in so much trouble.
I text back:
What does that mean?
He’s adorable and completely untrained.
You’ll help me, right? You’re good with dogs.
I’ll do my best. Be there in 20.
I run upstairs and knock on Katie’s door. She’s not there, and I find her in the kitchen, on the computer. When I arrive, she whirls. Guiltily. “What?”
Must remember to put the safeguards on the computer. Her innocence is probably fairly tattered given her history, but I can do my best. “Merlin is on his way. I want to shut Milo in upstairs, so let’s get things ready for him.”
When we get downstairs, the man who has been working on my broken pipe is about to knock on the door. “Hello, Ms. Gallagher. We’re finished. You want to come take a look?”
“Wonderful.” I follow Henry out. The yard is back to itself, with fresh sod covering the new gashes in the landscaping. “We couldn’t do anything about the flowers,” he says, “but I figured you’d want to take care of that yourself.”
“Thank you. It looks great.” Too great. I don’t even want to know how much this costs. “Do you want to come in? I have to get my credit card.”
“No, no. Cat took care of it. No big deal.”
I blink. Two days and a crew of three is a big deal. “I can’t let you do that. Please.” I can’t believe Cat paid. “Come inside. I need to pay for this myself.”
“You have to take that up with Mr. Spinuzzi.” He holds up both hands and backs away. “It was my pleasure, Miss. You take care now.”
Damn it! I borrowed money from him eight months ago when the banks turned me down, and since then he’s swooped in like this twice more. He’s got to stop.
I need to stop talking to him about anything concerning the bakery, but it’s hard. He’s been my mentor and guide from the start.
At any rate, it isn’t the fault of the plumber. I put my hands in prayer position and bow my head. “Thank you, Henry.”
When he drives away, I turn to find Katie standing on the porch, fingering the lilacs in their vases. Such a somber child! “What are these?”
“Lilacs. My grandmother’s favorite flower.” I gesture with wide arms. “This used to be her house, when I was your age. She left it to me when she died.”
“Why you?”
The answer is full of layers, and I say only, “That’s a complicated story. Mostly because I was divorced and moved in with her when she got dementia.” I smile and tell her a secret. “But it’s probably because I was her favorite.”
She bends her head into the blossoms. “My grandma was mean to me. She didn’t like my mom at all, either.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“And it wasn’t because of drugs. She just didn’t like her from the beginning.”
“Unfortunately, it happens all the time.” Joining her on the porch, I ask, “Do you want to sweep all this mud off while I make a new sign?”
She nods. I give her the broom and go inside to fetch the markers we use to announce specials on a big black board. Using neon pink and green, I carefully write Open Saturday morning, 6 a.m.! and, below that, Thanks for your patience. Straightening, I narrow my eyes. “Something should be on special,” I say aloud. “To make up for the trouble.”
Katie looks at me but offers nothing.
“What’s your favorite bakery item?”
A shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Raisin bread, I think. I make a fantastic raisin bread, with orange-soaked raisins.” I clap the lid on the marker. “That’ll do it.” Suddenly it seems there is a lot to do by tomorrow morning—all the upheavals have knocked me out of my routines.
My brother’s blue truck pulls into the narrow driveway, and I can see the dog through the passenger window, sitting in the seat like a human. Katie yelps, “Merlin!” She drops the broom and runs off the porch to greet him, yanking open the door before the vehicle is barely stopped.
He leaps out, making a howling, talky sound of greeting, and Katie falls on her knees. When he licks her face, she flings her arms around his Creamsicle neck.
And sobs.
Merlin tolerates it for about twenty seconds—licking her ear, wiggling forward—and then my brother comes around the truck