“Or until he finds his new ones,” Fletch adds with a meaningful look.
As he coaxes the dog closer, I think about the financial realities of my situation. “My mother is talking about selling this place. It’s a real fixer-upper, and neither of us can afford the maintenance.” Or a dog or much more than buy-one-get-one-free freezer meals.
Fletch looks around the kitchen, assessing. “It’s got potential. Someone with the right skills could make it beautiful again.”
“Someone not on a writer’s budget with loads of deferred college debt that’s now due,” I murmur.
My mother was willing to fund me getting a “real” degree, but refused to pay for me to study literature.
“Right. This is all a business deal.”
I bristle at first, then deflate, feeling the need to explain. “My last book didn’t sell as well as expected. The advance on the new one helped with my student loans. My agent and editor say this new book holds a lot of promise, but I have to get it written.”
The dog has finally allowed Fletch to pet him, pressing against his leg like he’s found a safe harbor.
Desperate to change the subject away from my current woes, I say, “We should call the vet. They can check for a microchip. If that’s a dead end, we can put up lost dog signs.”
I wag my finger at him. “I bet you were the kind of kid who always begged his parents to keep the stray animals he found.”
“You betcha.”
Despite myself, a glimmer of warmth sneaks in because Fletch isn’t the type of guy to neglect anyone—not even a dog—which is why part of me wants to keep him. (The man … and the dog.) But this is just research. The marriage, the temporarily shared life, even this moment of connection is merely material for my book. Nothing more.
But as we load the Christmas decorations and the dog into Fletch’s truck, I wonder what my father would think of this strange situation. Of Fletch. Of the unexpected path my life has taken.
I write books about women who take brave leaps of faith, but I am frozen solid when it comes to taking my own.
For the briefest moment, I allow myself to imagine the impossible—that some stories might have happy endings after all.
But then my phone rings. It’s my mother. I lock the thought away, where it belongs.
CHAPTER 9
FLETCH
The veterinarian’soffice hosts a tree decorated with paw print and dog bone ornaments, felt garlands, and holiday-themed chew toys.
In the exam room, Dr. Meyers runs her hand gently along the dog’s back, offering calm comfort to the scared animal. “No microchip and no collar, obviously. Given his condition, I’d say he’s been on his own for at least a few weeks.”
The dog—whom I’ve been mentally calling Dasher, though I haven’t shared this with Bree—looks slightly better after being cleaned up. He’s still skinny, but his brown eyes are alert and trusting now, especially when they land on me.
“What happens to him now?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“Well, technically, he should go to the county animal shelter,” Dr. Meyers says, sounding as reluctant as I feel.
“Are there other options?” Bree asks, surprising me.
“It’s the holidays and they’re already overcrowded. He’d be at high risk for euthanasia, especially given his age and condition.”
Bree’s eyes widen. “How old is he?”
“I’d estimate around five or six. Not old for a mixed breed his size, but not a puppy either. I’d like to keep him here for observation for a few hours while you decide what to do, but after that ...”
Bree’s phone buzzes again. She checks the screen and frowns. “It’s my mother again. Apparently, Mrs. Gormely saw us at my parents’ house.”
“Concerned citizen?” I hazard a guess, but am using the manners my mother taught me as code fortown gossip.
The vet suppresses a chuckle.
