desk, and the final one is going in the small conversation space in front of the elevators.”
“Do I get to see the color and patterns you picked out?”
“Sure.” I pulled the samples out from under the cash register where I had temporarily put them down. “Here, what do you think?”
Frances took each pattern and eyed the spaces they were to create. “I like it. You and Emily have good design style.”
“Thanks, it was easy. I’d been looking at Victorian rug patterns for months and Emily had samples very close to what I was looking to buy.”
“Nice,” Frances said and handed me back the samples. “Just one thing. How are you going to keep the dog from chewing up your carpets?”
“She won’t chew them. We’ll watch her like a hawk and crate her if she ever thinks about it. I can’t afford to put thousands of dollars into wool rugs and then let a puppy chew on them.”
“Speaking of the puppy, have you decided on a name yet?” Frances asked as she grabbed a can of wood polish and a lintfree rag and polished the receptionist desk.
The puppy was under my feet, chewing on a toy that was a ball with a tail. The toy had a face and long ears. There were squeakers in the tail and in the ball. I wish I hadn’t gotten a gray toy, I thought. It was better not to think of mice while working in the McMurphy. I made a mental note to buy only neon-colored toys from now on. Some simply were too realistic for my frame of mind.
“Not really,” I said as I rearranged plastic tubs filled with the ingredients necessary to make fudge. A glass candy display separated the candy making from the rest of the lobby. It was important that people could see in, but just as important that they couldn’t crowd the kitchen. Hot sugar was lethal in the wrong hands. Inside the glass counter were glass shelves that held trays of fudge.
A scale sat on the top of the counter ready to weigh the pieces as they were wrapped in wax paper and placed in long boxes. A box of fudge could carry up to five pieces and cost upwards of twenty-five dollars. The key to surviving in the fudge shop business was to put on a good show and have a large selection. The bigger your selection, the more people bought. They got caught up in the idea of tasting every variety.
It was a great business if you were good at what you did. I promised Papa Liam I would be good. All my professors thought I was, if that counted for something. Now all I had to do was convince the people of Mackinac.
“I’ve thought of several but they don’t seem to really fit her.” I walked over and got down on the floor with the puppy. “Hello, what is your name?” I drummed my fingers on the tile floor and the puppy pounced on my hand. “Ow.” I laughed and wiggled my fingers in the air. The puppy tried to hold my hand with her paws and bite my fingers. “Silly little dog,” I said. “Whatever should I call you? Hmmm?”
“How about Killer?” Frances came over and watched us play together. The pup decided it was so exciting she had to piddle. I grabbed her up quick and put her on one of several piddle pads that worked their way out the back door.
“How about Fudgie?”
Frances frowned. “She’s too white for a name like that.”
“Piddle pot?”
The pup tried to eat the pee pad. She grabbed the plastic and paper pad between her teeth and shook her head. I tried to grab the pad and the puppy ran away with it, resulting in a mad dash around the lobby and a battle of wills. I triumphed finally by grabbing the pup, picking her up, and pulling the pad out of her mouth. “No, no!” I said and looked around for a place to confine her. “I need a playpen.”
“You should get a second crate—one for down here,” Frances said.
“No, I don’t want to have to lock her up like that.”
“It’s good for pups to be crate trained. It gives them a space of their own and sets boundaries.” Frances eyed me. “Part of being a grown-up is learning to set
“Do I get to see the color and patterns you picked out?”
“Sure.” I pulled the samples out from under the cash register where I had temporarily put them down. “Here, what do you think?”
Frances took each pattern and eyed the spaces they were to create. “I like it. You and Emily have good design style.”
“Thanks, it was easy. I’d been looking at Victorian rug patterns for months and Emily had samples very close to what I was looking to buy.”
“Nice,” Frances said and handed me back the samples. “Just one thing. How are you going to keep the dog from chewing up your carpets?”
“She won’t chew them. We’ll watch her like a hawk and crate her if she ever thinks about it. I can’t afford to put thousands of dollars into wool rugs and then let a puppy chew on them.”
“Speaking of the puppy, have you decided on a name yet?” Frances asked as she grabbed a can of wood polish and a lintfree rag and polished the receptionist desk.
The puppy was under my feet, chewing on a toy that was a ball with a tail. The toy had a face and long ears. There were squeakers in the tail and in the ball. I wish I hadn’t gotten a gray toy, I thought. It was better not to think of mice while working in the McMurphy. I made a mental note to buy only neon-colored toys from now on. Some simply were too realistic for my frame of mind.
“Not really,” I said as I rearranged plastic tubs filled with the ingredients necessary to make fudge. A glass candy display separated the candy making from the rest of the lobby. It was important that people could see in, but just as important that they couldn’t crowd the kitchen. Hot sugar was lethal in the wrong hands. Inside the glass counter were glass shelves that held trays of fudge.
A scale sat on the top of the counter ready to weigh the pieces as they were wrapped in wax paper and placed in long boxes. A box of fudge could carry up to five pieces and cost upwards of twenty-five dollars. The key to surviving in the fudge shop business was to put on a good show and have a large selection. The bigger your selection, the more people bought. They got caught up in the idea of tasting every variety.
It was a great business if you were good at what you did. I promised Papa Liam I would be good. All my professors thought I was, if that counted for something. Now all I had to do was convince the people of Mackinac.
“I’ve thought of several but they don’t seem to really fit her.” I walked over and got down on the floor with the puppy. “Hello, what is your name?” I drummed my fingers on the tile floor and the puppy pounced on my hand. “Ow.” I laughed and wiggled my fingers in the air. The puppy tried to hold my hand with her paws and bite my fingers. “Silly little dog,” I said. “Whatever should I call you? Hmmm?”
“How about Killer?” Frances came over and watched us play together. The pup decided it was so exciting she had to piddle. I grabbed her up quick and put her on one of several piddle pads that worked their way out the back door.
“How about Fudgie?”
Frances frowned. “She’s too white for a name like that.”
“Piddle pot?”
The pup tried to eat the pee pad. She grabbed the plastic and paper pad between her teeth and shook her head. I tried to grab the pad and the puppy ran away with it, resulting in a mad dash around the lobby and a battle of wills. I triumphed finally by grabbing the pup, picking her up, and pulling the pad out of her mouth. “No, no!” I said and looked around for a place to confine her. “I need a playpen.”
“You should get a second crate—one for down here,” Frances said.
“No, I don’t want to have to lock her up like that.”
“It’s good for pups to be crate trained. It gives them a space of their own and sets boundaries.” Frances eyed me. “Part of being a grown-up is learning to set
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