Page 15 of Christmas Charms
“Ashley?” She clasps her hands to her mouth, then lets out a full-on squeal. “You’re home!”
She throws her arms around me and squeezes me tight, and I feel my eyes fill with tears. I clamp them shut in an effort not to cry. There’s nothing like a hug from Martha James.
“What are you doing here?” She releases me from her embrace, but keeps her hands planted on my shoulders, as if trying to anchor me in place. “You’re supposed to be in Paris.”
“Right…that…” An anguished sniffle escapes me, despite every effort to maintain a brave face.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We can talk about that later. The important thing is that you’re home for the holidays.” My mom’s gaze shifts from me to the dog. Her forehead crinkles in apparent confusion. “And you brought a dog with you?”
“What? No? That’s your dog.” I glance down at the sweet pup who’s begun to lean against my leg, all softness and comforting warmth.
“Don’t be silly,” my mom says, waving a dismissive hand. “You know we don’t have a dog.”
“Then what’s he doing here, sitting on your doorstep, all dressed up for Christmas?”
Before my mom can respond, my dad ambles toward the door from the direction of the den. He’s wearing his favorite flannel buffalo plaid shirt—always a staple during the holidays—and the slippers I sent him for Christmas a few years ago. “What’s all the commotion out here?”
He stops in his tracks when he spots me, and his face splits into a wide grin. “Well, what’s this? It must be a Christmas miracle. Ashley’s home!”
“Hi, Dad.” Feeling bashful all of a sudden for turning up out of the blue, I give him a little wave.
He wraps his arms around me in a big bear hug, no questions asked.
Well, technically there’s one question…
“When did you get a dog?” He rests one of his big hands on the golden retriever’s broad head, and the dog responds with a full-body wag.
“He’s not my dog,” I repeat. Something seriously strange is going on. “Are you two playing some kind of joke on me? The dog was sitting right here by the door when the cab dropped me off. His fur isn’t even wet. He couldn’t have been out here long. I thought maybe you’d just let him out to do his business a second ago, and he was ready to come back inside.”
“Speaking of getting inside.” My mom peers out at the icy drizzle and shivers. “It’s freezing out here. Ed, grab Ashley’s bag. Let’s get her out of the cold.”
“But what about the dog?” I say as my dad reaches for my suitcase.
“Honestly, you don’t need to make up a cute story, sweetheart. We don’t mind that you brought your dog. We’re just pleased as punch to see you.” My dad winks at me as he carries my luggage over the threshold. “He can come inside.”
I gape at the back of my father’s head as he walks into the house. The dog glances up at me, eyes dancing, before trotting after my father as if he owns the place.
What. Is. Happening?
Hesitantly, I step over the threshold. My dad can’t possibly think I invented the golden’s mysterious appearance on their porch just to sneak a dog into the house, can he? But if he doesn’t belong to my parents, then where did the furry little guy come from? He’s too calm and well cared for to be a stray, but there’s no sign that he belongs to anyone, either. Animals don’t just appear out of thin air with red satin bows tied around their necks.
The dog pauses halfway to the den and cocks his head as if to ask what’s taking me so long.
“I’m coming,” I say, smiling despite the completely bizarre circumstances. The pup seems really sweet, regardless of where he came from or who he belongs to.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” My mom heads straight for the kitchen while my dad carries my things to my old bedroom. “I’m assuming you took the train, and I’ll bet you haven’t eaten. How does leftover pot roast sound?”
My stomach grumbles. “I’m famished, actually—and pot roast sounds great.”
“Perfect. I’ll heat some up for you.” She reaches into the refrigerator while I scan the area for any signs of pet ownership, coming up empty.
No food or water bowls. No leash hanging on the row of hooks by the back door. No fluffy dog bed tucked by my dad’s recliner in the den. (And that’s definitely where it would be, if it existed).
Once we’re both indoors, the dog won’t leave my side. He’s velcroed himself to my leg and keeps gently tucking his head beneath my hand, politely demanding to be petted. I acquiesce, because why not? He’s the most devoted male I’ve crossed paths with in a long, long time.
“So what’s his name?” my mom asks as my plate of leftovers spins round and round in the microwave.
She’s talking about the dog. I can tell.
