Page 2 of Just a Plot Twist
“I’m just…well, we need a more permanent solution.” Mrs. Lambert’s voice warbles a little. “It might be nice for your kids to get to experience taking care of a dog for a little while. It’s good for kids to do that.” She takes a couple of steps into the kitchen and lifts a large canvas bag overflowing with dog paraphernalia off her shoulder, hefting it down on my kitchen floor. Like this is settled.
It’s not.
I offer a kind smile. “Mrs. Lambert, Cinnamon’s great, but I can’t take her. I often work ten-hour days. I’m not home enough to provide what she needs. I’m sorry. It’s not possible for me at this time.”
There. That should settle it.
Mrs. Lambert chews on her bottom lip and adjusts the glasses that have begun to slide down her nose. “My arthritis is worse than Cinnamon’s and I can barely hold her leash with my hands the way they are.” She winces as she expands and contracts her hand.
“I called the shelter. They’ll take her but she’s sensitive to loud noises and that place is teeming with noise.” Mrs. Lambert clicks her tongue. “Cinnamon is depressed enough with Reggie gone. She doesn’t need the trauma of a shelter, too.”
Now Cinnamon is sauntering all over my living room, snuffling along the perimeter as if it’s her own. She returns to the kitchen and plants herself near the stove, wiggling her butt as she sinks down, immersed in the scent of the hamburger soup. She’s content—matter of fact—with an air of annoyance,like this is where she needs to be andcan the humans come to a consensus already and give me some soup?
Mrs. Lambert must notice my hesitation.
“Can you at least take her until I get back in town?” Mrs. Lambert asks, her painted-on brows going high. “I’d hate to have to take her to the shelter. But even that’s better than letting her loose on the streets.”
Why did she have to mention the shelter and the streets? What a low blow.
“Is there anyone else you can ask?”
Mrs. Lambert blinks and cocks her head to one side. After a beat, she responds. “I’ve asked everybody. Reggie’s kids and grandkids are a no-go. None of them have the means or housing conducive to a dog. You were my first choice, naturally, since you’re young and spry and have kids. Reggie says Cinnamon loves kids.” Mrs. Lambert reaches down to run a hand along one of Cinnamon’s ears. They look like they’ve been run through the dryer a few too much times and shrunk. “But I came over a couple of times and you weren’t home.”
“I do work a lot.” See? I’d like to say,I told you this was a bad idea. I work for my father at the finance company he founded, and he’s counting on me to transition it into a digital powerhouse. And I have a feeling things are going to get even more busy and stressful since I found some information that he’s absolutely not going to like. I dread breaking the news to him.
“And I’m not so young…or spry,” I add.
Mrs. Lambert tips her head back and laughs. “Nonsense. You jog on Saturdays.” Her smile is sly. “If you can jog, you can take care of Cinnamon. Easy.”
“I work such long hours. What about Paul and Lisa?” That’s the couple whose townhome borders Reggie’s. They’ve got to be the next youngest in the complex.
“They’re in theirforties, Mr. Kilpack! And they travel a lot on the weekends.”
“I’m in my forties, too.”
She looks at me like I’m lying.
“I am. I’m forty-one!”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a day over thirty-five.”
Now I know she’s the one who’s lying. My hair is already starting to grey a little. When I look at my father, it’s like looking in a mirror twenty years in the future. Years that I hope I get to have with him, since I didn’t get the first forty of my life with him.
I met my biological father after my biological mother and my adoptive parents—my real parents in every way that counts—all passed away in a span of two years.
Add being blindsided with divorce papers on top of that, it makes sense that, back in Seattle over a year ago, a friend of mine from work pulled me aside.
Hey, send in that DNA test you’ve had sitting on your desk for forever, he’d said.You’ve wanted to know for a long time. Just do it. Get some answers. You deserve closure.
He knew I was drowning. Alone.
And it’s been wild getting to know the family I never knew I had.
Thomas Tate and I? We’re making up for lost time, in our own, detached way. We’re not all buddy buddy. We don’t do lunches or play golf together. And the first few months of getting to know each other wererough.
But when he’s in the office on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and often in between—he’s trying to retire but can’t cut himself off completely—I’m there, working down the hall from him as the company’s Chief Technology Officer.
We’re making it work.
