Page 34 of Always Almost You

At checkout, Mike noticed the engraving kiosk. “I’ll take a tag.” He chose a brushed-silver bone-shaped tag. At the machine, he typed:

BUDDY, Mike Miller, then added his cell number.

The tag clinked into the tray. His phone buzzed. Buddy was ready.

Mike sprinted across the parking lot, loaded the bags into the SUV, installed the backseat hammock, and laid the harness out next to it. The sun was bright, but the air stung. He pulled the red flannel dog pajamas from his backpack. “He’s going to look ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. “But he’ll be warm.”

His phone buzzed again, and he hurried inside. The receptionist beamed. “Wait until you see your boy.”

Buddy emerged wearing a festive bandana in a red and green holiday plaid. His coat gleamed, and his feathering was brushed and tidy. They had cleaned his ears and trimmed his nails. He looked transformed. But his eyes were searching. The moment he spotted Mike, he emitted a high, joyful bark and lunged forward.

Mike dropped to his knees and caught him. Buddy nearly knocked him over with the force of his affection. Mike buried his face in the dog’s neck. “Don’t you smell fancy?” he said with a laugh.

Buddy’s tail wagged so hard it thumped against Mike’s ribs.

Mike fastened the dancing-bear collar around Buddy’s neck and clipped on the new tag. He pulled the flannel pajamas over Buddy’s head. “I know,” he said when Buddy gave a small protest. “But we’re heading straight to Charleston. No one else needs to see you in these.”

The groomer watched the reunion, smiling. “You two look meant to be,” he said.

Mike shook his hand firmly. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”

“My pleasure. He’s one of the easiest dogs I’ve ever worked with.”

They stepped out into the frigid afternoon. Mike checked the time. It was three o’clock. If traffic cooperated, they’d make it in time for dinner at seven. Buddy trotted beside him, bandana bright against the vibrant pajamas, bear-collar jingling softly.

Mike commanded the pup to relieve himself against a curb in the parking lot. Buddy obeyed. Mike opened the SUV door and gestured to the back seat. “Home for Christmas, Buddy.”

Buddy hesitated, then leapt into the hammock setup like a seasoned traveler.

Mike secured the harness, then closed the door gently and stood for a moment in the sunlight. Less than twenty-four hours ago, they’d each been alone. Now they weren’t.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and glanced in the rearview mirror. Buddy was watching him. Mike smiled. “Let’s go meet Grandma.”

CHAPTER 25

Lauren turned on her phone as they taxied toward the gate. Her app showed she had one message. She braced herself as she opened the message, then released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It wasn’t from Mike. The message was from the car service she had hired to take her from Providence to Newport. They were tracking her flight and knew it had been delayed. Her driver would be waiting outside of the baggage claim area.

The overhead speaker crackled. “Good evening, everyone. This is your captain speaking. We apologize for the delay. I’m afraid we’ll be waiting a few more moments before we can deplane. We’re the last arrival tonight, and the ground crew has already gone home. I know some of you can see the gate from your window, but there’s no one to park us. The crew member has been contacted and is on his way back. Sit tight for about thirty more minutes, and we’ll have you on your way. Again, we apologize.”

A collective groan rolled through the cabin.

Lauren leaned forward and peered through the mesh of Pumpkin’s carrier. Her pooch stared back at her with solemn eyes, then slowly rolled onto her side and rested her head on the cushioned mat as if to say, Wake me when it’s over.

Within minutes, the ground crew arrived, and the plane finally pulled up to the gate. Lauren grabbed her carry-on, and she and Pumpkin deplaned. They made quick stops at their respective restrooms before heading toward baggage claim down the nearly deserted concourse.

Jazzy Christmas carols drifted upward from the level below as Lauren stepped onto the escalator, Pumpkin safely tucked back in her carrier. At the bottom, she turned toward the music.

An elderly man with a full shock of white hair sat at a grand piano outside a closed cocktail lounge, playing with expertise and joyful energy. At this late hour, only two people sat in chairs near the piano.

Lauren slowed her pace.

He finished a rousing rendition of “Deck the Halls” with a flourish.

She stopped walking and clapped with gusto, her applause echoing in the sparsely populated space.

The pianist looked up, smiled warmly, and nodded in thanks before sliding into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” For a fleeting moment, Lauren felt suspended inside a holiday film.

She passed baggage claim without stopping; the airline had already emailed that her suitcase would be delivered to her hotel the next day.