Page 47 of Book and Ladder
The woman holding the puppy’s leash escorts me to thespot at the front of the engine. The makeup artist brings me the bottle of oil and I avoid eye contact with all the spectators—especially one in particular—while I spread it on my chest and over my abs as instructed.
I’m handed a red-and-white checked half-apron. Thankfully it’s not frilly. I tie that on and take the pot and oven mitts I’m handed.
“Okay, Patrick, can you put your foot up on the step thing there?” the photographer asks me. “And look into the camera like you’re inviting someone to come eat the chili you’re cooking … and that someone is not your mother.”
My eyes flick to Daisy. Why? She wouldn’t eat my chili unless she brought a bottle of arsenic to slip into my bowl. Still, she’s the one who comes to mind, so I roll with it, looking at the camera as if I’ve just made a killer batch of chili and I’m inviting her to come share it.
“Gorgeous!” the photographer shouts. “More of that. You’re a natural.”
I shut out all thoughts of the crowd watching and focus on getting the job done. This shoot is for a good cause. I’m doing my duty.
The photographer tells her assistant to take the pot, apron and oven mitts and to give me the dog, whose name is Spot. A dalmatian named Spot. I can’t even.
I sit on the step of the engine with Spot sitting in my lap. More clicks of the camera.
“Okay, stand and hold him in the crook of your arm.”
The pup wiggles, so I bend my head toward his until our noses are touching, and have a little heart-to-heart.
“Hey, Spot. It’s okay, buddy.”
I lift him overhead like I always did with my nieces when they were fussy. And then I bring him back to the crook of my arm. He settles in this time.
When I look toward the camera, the photographer is beaming. “That was gold. One more with you flexing your right arm and holding him in your left. Put him up near your chin a bit.”
“Flexing?” I ask as if I don’t know what that means.
“Yeah.” She flexes her bicep.
This is going to look cheesy. But I comply. And when I look away from the camera, Daisy’s eyes are on my upper arm. She may hate the man, but she likes the muscles. I don’t know why that makes me feel like a scorekeeper just chalked a hashmark in my column, but it totally does.
We wrap up the shoot with Cody as Mr. December. He’s wearing a Santa hat and holding the dalmatian who’s now wearing a pair of felt antlers.
After I shower, I check my phone. There’s a string of texts from my mom.
Mom: How was your evening with Blaire?
Mom: Text me when you’re finished with that calendar thing.
And then an hour later.
Mom: I was expecting to hear from you already. We’re having the Rutherfords for dinner. Would love to have you join us.
I stuff my phone in my pocket. I’ll answer her later. By “the Rutherfords,” I’m sure she means Blaire along with her parents. Gotta give it to Mom. She’s relentless in her own stealth way.
“Who was that, Patrick?” Dustin asks.
“No one,” I answer.
Cody teases, “Maybe Patrick does have a mystery woman after all.”
“Yeah, didn’t you have a date last weekend?” Dustin asks.
“I had a commitment,” I hedge.
Technically true—I was fulfilling the promise I made to my mom to take Blaire out.
“At Fork and Fiddle?” Dustin shoots back.
