James’ only response is a sigh and, “I lost her in Vegas.”
Oliver’s angry questions come out rapid-fire. “You lost Imogen? How could you do that? Is she okay?”
“Not Imogen. I lost Nan.” James’ voice is like an idling motorcycle that’s ready to gun it. “We stopped for dinner. Nan said she needed to use the bathroom and didn’t come back. She took off. She didn’t answer her phone. It took us a while to track her down.”
“And by ‘us’ you mean you and a five-year-old child were walking the streets of Las Vegas trying to track down Nanny Nan?” Oliver has a way of phrasing things that can blanket an entire room in shame. And he just can’t stop with the Nanny Nan thing. “Where is she now?”
“Sleeping in the car. She wouldn’t wake up.”
Speak of the devil. The woman herself appears, mincing toward us in a pair of high heels and skin-tight pink dress that are both decidedly un-nanny-like. She paws at James’ shoulder with a manicured hand. "You could've left her in the car with me, Sugar.”
I feel some petty satisfaction when he shrugs her hand away. “Imogen shouldn’t be left unsupervised in public, even if she’s asleep. It’s not safe.” His rumbling motorcycle voice revs. He’s right, and I’m glad he’s saying it so I don’t have to. I’m angry enough that I’d lose it.
But apparently, Nan doesn’t know when to stop. She spins on her heel and drapes a hand on my shoulder, droning on in her southern drawl which lands halfway between sexy and grating. “It wasn’t that big a deal, Andy.” Gross. Not loving that nickname. “She woulda kept sleeping.”
Oliver corrects her. “James parked, unloaded her from the car, and walked into the building before you realized she was gone—”
“Get her, Vader!” a female voice whisper-shouts behind us.
Oliver’s head swings toward the voice, wearing a very Darth Vader-esque death glare. It's the perfect nickname. I’ll be borrowing that one.
Mercer dodges Sunny’s swinging elbow and hisses, “What? Geez, quit with the elbow!”
Alabama Fran Drescher scowls at Mercer. “Shouldn’t you be getting our bags?”
Sunny arches one perfect eyebrow at Nan and quietly asks Mercer to take care of the bags.
“Y’all are both going to need to get out there. There’s a lot. Get along, now.” Her twang is syrupy, but it’s false sweetness that has me holding back a gag.
The pair of women stand like they’re really going to fetch Nan’s luggage. I can’t let that happen after the way she just spoke to them.
“I’ve got it. Where’re the carts?” I offer, looking for a place to lay Imogen. I mean, of course I’m hoping they have some secret hired muscle to do this job because I’ve seen how Nan packs, but better me than them. And Nanny Nan certainly isn’t jumping in to help.
“Not a chance, big guy. You’re not leaving us with her. You handle that” — Mercer motions to Nan — “and we’ll get the bags.”
When I turn my attention back to my group Oliver is finishing a lecture. “Bottom line, when we have an issue with the care you give Imogen, we need compliance instead of argument and complaints. You work for us.”
“Okay. I promise I won’t leave her alone, even if she’s asleep. Happy?” She holds her clawed hands out, like I’m supposed to hand Immy over.
“No.” Oliver’s answer is like the bang of a gavel. “What’s this about you disappearing in Vegas?”
Nan turns on James, “You told them?” she whines. Poor, put upon Nanny Nan. “I was just playing a few hands while Imogen ate her nuggies. She was with James. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“You were gambling?” I’m going to let Oliver handle this mess, but I can’t stop the question. I’m an easy going guy. I let a lot of stuff slide, because people usually have to be pretty patient with me. Plus, sometimes it’s better to let someone else be the go-between in theseinteractions. But Nan left Immy with James so she could gamble? Nope. I am way too grumpy for this bull crap.
“It was fine. I told you, James had her—”
Then Immy whines, “Hairy!” half asleep, reaching around me like her dog is going to bound around the corner and into her arms. Immy loves that dopey dog and it’s always a nightmare when they’re separated. Unfortunately, she’s staying at a kennel for the next two months because traveling with a 120-pound Great Dane labrador mix mutt is a major pain in the behind.
“Hairy is at home, Immy,” I smooth her wild curls and rest a hand on her head, holding her against my shoulder. “We’ll see her when we get home.” Please don’t ask when we’re going home. “I want to go home!” is Immy’s favorite thing to say exactly when we can’t go home.
She arches her back, doing a perfect impersonation of a flopping fish to escape my arms. “I want Hairy!” her tiny holler echoes through the corridor.
And suddenly, something big knocks into the back of my knees and they buckle. I land hard on my butt and my body breaks Imogen’s fall. And there’s Hairy, right in my face—snout to human nose—her warm dog breath puffing directly into my gaping mouth. Her big, brown eyes are guilt tripping me for even suggesting we would leave her in a kennel for two months. The tennis ball that is a permanent fixture in her slobbery mouth drops in my lap and she pants, waiting for me to throw it.
“I’m so sorry!” Sunny bursts in behind Hairy, gasping and out of breath. “He was running around the parking lot and came through the door before I could stop him! I’ll get him out” — she drags in a lungful of air — “and call animal control.”
“Hairy is a girl,” Imogen tells Sunny, in that tiny, solemn voice of hers. “See her pink collar? She’s my dog. I named her Hairy Styles because she’s my best friend and I love her.” She flings her twiggy arms around her dog’s furry, gray neck and I swear I see Hairy rollher eyes because none of this makes sense. How did she end up in this situation, and with such a name? Hairy is a good, long-suffering girl.
