“It’s too small for you and Violet and a whelping box full of puppies, though,” I said. Margery’s guest room was barely larger than the twin-sized bed and dresser that resided in it.
Phoebe took a deep breath, reaching up to fidget with one of her curls. “I guess I’ve been a little afraid to go in her bedroom. I mean, she died in there.” Her voice was soft, and she dropped her gaze to her hands.
I had an unexpected urge to hug her. “Would it help if I went in with you?”
She gave me a tight smile. “I have to go in sooner or later, right? Let’s just do it.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
She stood and led the way down the hall, pausing in front of the guest room. “You’re sure it’s too small?”
I peered over her shoulder, unprepared for the rush of nostalgia I felt when my gaze fell on the blue-striped quilt. How many hours had Phoebe and I spent in this room? As girls, we’d played with our dolls or raced my Hot Wheels around on the floor. Later on, we’d laid on the bed together, sharing teen drama while Phoebe talked about which boys she liked.
I’d been sitting on that bed when I told Phoebe I wasn’t sure I liked boys.
And when we shared our first kiss.
My heart thumped against my ribs at the memory of Phoebe’s lips, sticky and sweet like the strawberry lip gloss she’d been so fond of that summer. I remembered the wonder in her eyes after that kiss, as if the world had shifted beneath her. I liked to think that it had.
Present-day Phoebe turned to face me, and we were standing way too close. Her gaze darted to my lips as if she’d been thinking about the same thing, and I took a quick step backward. I wasn’t going there with her, not again. She’d panicked and run the first time, and she’d do it again, if for no other reason than the fact that she was only here for a few weeks.
“Itissmall in here,” she said, her gaze darting to the bed and back to me. Every spare inch was currently occupied by the elephant in the room, and that elephant was getting bigger by the moment.
“Let’s look at your grandmother’s room,” I suggested.
She brushed past me and opened the door at the end of the hall, then turned to the side as if she couldn’t quite bear to look inside. I stepped up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder as I looked around the room. I’d never been in Margery’s bedroom before. I’d only glimpsed it on my way to the bathroom in the hall. It was large, with a full-sized bed in the center and a variety of heavy wooden furniture against the walls, which were covered in rose-printed wallpaper.
The bed was neatly made, and the room—though slightly stuffy from having been closed up for so long—gave no indication that anyone had died here.
“You okay?” I asked her.
Phoebe nodded, walking farther into the room. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it feels the same as always, like she’s just gone out to run an errand or something.”
“That corner would be perfect for a whelping box,” I said, pointing. “I’d ordinarily hesitate to suggest whelping puppies in your grandma’s bedroom, but I know Margery wouldn’t mind. In fact, she’d probably have done it herself if she were still here.”
When Phoebe turned to face me, her eyes were suspiciously glossy. “Yeah, I guess she would have. So, I’ll put the box in here, but what is it, exactly?”
“Well, what I have for you isn’t actually a box. We’re on a budget here, so I’ve got a child’s playpen that we’re going to put some comfortable blankets in for her to make a nice nest for herself. When it gets closer, we’ll put absorbent pads in there for her to give birth on.”
Phoebe pressed her lips together as she stared at the corner in question. “Let’s do it, then.”
We went out to my car to get the supplies and spent the next fifteen minutes putting together the plastic playpen and filling it with bedding. I left the baby gate open so Violet could come and go as she wished for the time being. She’d watched the whole process with interest, and now she poked her head into the enclosure.
“You like that, Violet?” Phoebe asked, patting the blanket. “It’s for you.”
Violet walked inside the pen and sniffed at the bedding, then whined.
“Oh no,” Phoebe said. “She doesn’t like it.”
“She’ll be fine,” I said, hoping it was true. I didn’t have much puppy experience myself, and dogs sometimes had their own opinions on where they wanted to give birth. “I’ll have Holly and Peyton—my volunteers with puppy whelping experience—stop by this week to offer their expertise.”
Violet pawed at the bedding, shuffling it around inside the pen, then nipped at it.
“She’s chewing it up.” Phoebe sat back on her heels, frowning as she brushed a curl out of her eyes.
“Or she’s trying to get it how she wants it,” I said. “And if she doesn’t like this blanket, we’ll give her a different one to try.”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into bringing home a pregnant dog.”
