Page 44 of Meddling Under the Mistletoe
“Really, Captain Obvious?” I say, my voice flat. “What on earth gave you that impression?”
June Bug was here about twenty minutes before I realized she was clearly my punishment for meddling. The dog has already managed to pee on my cream-colored rug, leave teeth marks on the leg of my coffee table, and play tug-of-war with my cashmere scarf. But I can’t even be mad because Lindsey’s going out with Oliver tonight, and that’s what matters.
I saw the way she glowed when she talked to him last night. She hasn’t smiled like that in far too long, and that’s how I know that even if sheisa little annoyed with me, I did the right thing.
I know my daughter better than she thinks I do. She expected me to call her the second the puppy peed on my rug, while making unusually strong eye contact with me. I’m sure she and Lucy are at the clinic right now, placing bets on how quickly I’ll crack so they can tell me that this is what I get for not minding my own business.
They can bet all day long. This cookie isn’t going to crumble. Sometimes mother really does know best, and what Iknowis that my daughter’s happiness is worth the retribution.
“Listen here, girlfriend.” I pick up the puppy. She twists and contorts herself in my hands, reminding me of that scene inThe Exorcistwhen Linda Blair’s head spins while she’s possessed by an ancient demon. I turn her to face me, holding her so we’re nose to nose. “I don’t care what you pee on or how many things you chew to bits. I’m not calling Lindsey. So, we may as well make the most of this situation and find a way to coexist until your papa gets back. Think we can do that?”
She wags her tail and nibbles my chin.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I say, sticking June Bug in her crate so I can feel safe enough to turn my back for more than three seconds while I get some water and the little rugrat’s food.
“I take it this isn’t making you want to adopt one of your own anytime soon,” Rose says as I enter the kitchen.
“Definitely not.”
“So, this is payback for the stunt you pulled,” Rose says with a knowing smile.
“We,” I clarify. “The stuntwepulled. Speaking of, I’ll need you to keep an eye on the pup while I go pick the kids up from school.”
She nods, chewing quietly for a moment before speaking again. “He really is a sweet guy. Handsome too.”
I take a sip of my drink. “He is.”
“I think Henry would approve.”
A fist tightens around my heart. “Me too,” I say, scooping up some kibble from the container Lucy brought with the little she-devil this morning and carry it to the living room where I stop midstep.
The crate door is wide open, and there isn’t a June Bug in sight. “Shit.”
“What?” Rose calls.
“The little Houdini got out of her crate.” I set her bowl down and scan the room. “June Bug! Where are you, you little stinker?” I mutter, looking beneath any piece of furniture she could have hid herself under, which to be fair, is most of what I have.
After having no luck in the den, I check the spare bathroom, the kitchen, and the dining room, but she isn’t there either, and it's quiet. Too quiet. I call her name, to no avail, and a pit forms in my stomach. What if she got wedged under something or put her paw in a damn light socket?
Holding my breath, I move to the playroom and immediately let out a sigh of relief. There’s June Bug, curled up on a teddy bear, fast asleep. I tiptoe over to where she’s snoring softly and scoop her up. She barely stirs as I settle into the rocking chair in the corner of the room. The same chair I rocked my babies to sleep in. It’s also where I eventually readCharlotte’s Webto my grandbabies.
She nestles her sweet face in the crook of my arm, and for a moment, we call a truce.
“Grandma, can I have a snack?”Noah asks as we make our way to the front door.
“Me too,” Emily says, bouncing beside her brother.
“Of course,” I say, letting the kids inside. “How about you grab some string cheese to tide you over until I order the pizza?”
The children screech as they bound into the kitchen.
“Oh my word,” my sister shouts from the living room over a collection of other voices. “Can you believe that?”
“Rose?” I drop my keys into a bowl on the entryway table and head toward the sound of her voice, the bag of gingerbread house fixins’ I got at the store clutched in my arm. “Who are you talking?—”
I choke on a laugh. Rose is sitting entirely too close to the television in her office chair with the puppy stuffed in her sweater, her little paws hanging over the front. They pry their eyes from an oldDatelineepisode playing at an earth-shattering volume when they hear me snort.
Rose clicks the remote, silencing the TV. “Sorry, we didn’t hear you come in.”
