Page 21 of The Way Back Home

“Oh, my God,” I moan in a hushed whisper. “It’s so good.”

The man beside me chuckles, and I open my eyes to find Jude du Pont grinning at me. I should be ashamed of my behavior, and there’s a part of me that definitely longs to sink down in the church pew and just melt into the floor, but I really don’t want to, because you can’t eat a sandwich if you’re a puddle of goo.

“You know,” he whispers conspiratorially, “this ain’t the first time someone’s said that about Stevie Rae’s beef.”

I turn my wide-eyed gaze on him. He’s grinning like a fool. “You’re sick.”

Jude’s smile grows even wider. “Maybe just a little.”

A quiet laugh escapes me and more glares are thrown my way, only now they’re directed at Jude too. For some reason, this turns the two of us into simpering fools. I do not know what has gotten into me—maybe it’s the stifling heat, or the fact that I haven’t had a whole lot to laugh about these past few days, but whatever it is, there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and Jude is just as bad. I feel more than see August’s eyes boring into me. I have this insane urge to just turn to him and ask what the hell his problem is, but I don’t. I keep my eyes directed firmly forward and make out as if I’m focused on the mayor. Which I really should be, but considering Jude is sitting close enough to feel the heat from off his thigh and he has me giggling like we’re back in grade school, I’m having a really hard time concentrating.

“Now I’d like to welcome Miss Anders to say a few words to y’all,” Mayor Winkler says.

Wait, what? Oh no, no, no, no.

I lean closer to Jude and whisper, “Did he?” I pause, because heads begin turning in my direction. “Did he just say Miss Anders?”

“Yep.”

“Is there another Miss Anders in town?”

“Nope. Just you.”

Oh, crap.

Mayor Winkler urges me forward with a wave of his palm in a come-hither motion. I cringe, setting down my sandwich. The second I stand, I realize proposing marriage to an eighty-year-old hoagie maker is no longer in my future because the fabric of my skirt rips all the way up to my barely-there panty line.

My eyes go wide, and I stare at the shocked faces around me. “Oh shit.”

A few startled gasps follow my profanity. A few murmurs follow it too, and I’m completely mortified. “Er, I ... probably need to lay off the hoagies for a while.” I give an awkward laugh and attempt to cover my exposed leg with the fabric that’s flapping loose from my skirt. Jude stands and removes his jacket, handing it to me, and I accept it gratefully, wrapping it around my waist to hide my thigh from view. He gives me an apologetic smile and nods to indicate that I should go on.That man could charm birds out of trees.

“Hi, I’m Olivia. Olivia Anders,” I say stupidly with a wave of my free hand. “But I guess you all already knew that. Anyway, I run a successful program to aid ex-infantry men and women in getting their lives back on track.”

My eyes stray to August’s at the other end of the pew. I don’t mean to seek him out, and I can tell by the way his jaw is set that his teeth are grinding. “Um ... to help them deal with integrating back into society. Paws for Cause has successfully paired over five thousand men and women with service dogs that do everything from provide comfort from anxiety, to fetching medication, helping distance their handler from members of the public if they feel threatened, or in some cases, saving them from committing ...” I glance around the room at the stern, unenthused faces and choose a better turn of phrase. “From ending their lives.”

August clears his throat, and my gaze automatically locks on his. He stares at me as if he wishes I’d burn in hell. Staring at the befuddled and angry faces around me, I kinda wish for that too. But hey, maybe we’ll both get lucky. My face is scorching, so I’m ninety-nine percent positive I’m going to burst into flames any second now.

“Where are these dogs comin’ from?” the man in the coveralls bellows, drawing my attention away from August and back to the room.

I smile uneasily at him. “I’ll be sourcing them from other shelters, nearby and across the country. A huge part of what we do is rescuing dogs from death row, and soldiers from the same.”

With that, August shoots one long angry look at me and stands. He doesn’t lock gazes with a single soul as he makes his way out of the back of the church, but every pair of eyes tracks the movement and I can’t help but feel responsible, and also a little bit disappointed. If I can’t convince the one man in town who needs my program more than anyone else, how the hell am I going to convince this community to embrace Paws for Cause? “So, we’ll be opening in around a month, give or take, and—”

“What do you mean you rescue dogs from death row?” Coveralls says. “Haven’t we got enough to worry about without fearing for our safety with mangy mutts runnin’ around?”

“Oh, they’re not mangy. Quite the opposite. The dogs go through several rigorous health and psychological tests—”

“But still,” Kathy Abernathy stands and addresses the room. “You did mention they were dogs from death row, didn’t you? Maybe they were being put to sleep for a reason. How do we know they won’t just snap and attack someone?”

“They’re not dangerous. I don’t choose dogs that aren’t right for the program. As I said a moment ago, they go through a rigorous vetting before we decide a dog is suitable to become an Emotional Support Animal.”

Kathy smiles, and I have never wanted to flinch more, but she’s like a dog with a bone, and I won’t give her that satisfaction. “Then why not just train dogs bought from a reputable breeder?”

“Because breeders don’t save lives,” I snap. “In fact, they make the problem worse. Do you know how many dogs are euthanized every day in America?”

“No, but—”

“One-point-two-million dogs. Every day.” I let that information settle in for a moment. I know a misplaced temper tantrum here is not going to help my cause any, but I can’t help it. You don’t have to be an animal lover to see the unjustness of what people do to these dogs who only want to give them so much unconditional love.

---