Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda by Nina Wright Page B

That’s your dog, and the other one is your mother.”
    Moments later, I parked my car in the lot behind my office, next to a bright blue Chevy Volt with a Florida plate. Checking the rearview mirror, I held my breath. Abra still hadn’t twitched so much as an eyelid, which set up the question I’d never been able to solve. How to wake her without exciting her? Sure, I wanted her to be frenzied inside my office, but I needed to get her there first without a leash.
    I imagined carrying the sleeping bitch inside, but that didn’t seem a promising start to the wild scenario I needed. Also, at six months pregnant, I probably shouldn’t lift an Affie. At least not in front of my mother, who would surely see it as an opening for strident advice.
    Tap-tap-tap.
    The sudden sound on my windshield made me jump, and Abra, too.
    “Yoo-hoo! Odette said you were on your way so I came out to greet you.”
    A deeply tanned version of my seventy-year-old mother stood smiling and waving. What had become of her tightly permed gray hair? For the first time in her long life, Irene Houston was a strawberry blonde. I would never have recognized her wardrobe, either. Mom wore skintight black Capri pants and a stylish peasant blouse that revealed cleavage. Before today, I would have sworn that cleavage was something my mother did not have.
    “Get out of the car, Whitney. I want to give you and my future grandbaby a great big hug.”
    I glanced into the backseat where Abra now stood growling, hackles raised.
    “Um, I can’t predict what that dog will do if I open the door,” I said with total honesty.
    “Oh, she’ll settle right down,” Mom said. “Come on out.”
    Abra’s growl intensified, and she leaned back into her haunches like a coil preparing to spring.
    “She’s getting crazy, Mom.”
    “Tell her to relax. Who’s the pack leader, you or her?”
    Apparently, Mom had forgotten every story she’d ever heard about Abra.
    “Sorry, but I don’t think I dare open the door ’til we—”
    Mom opened the door for me.
    “Down, girl!” she barked.
    The command worked. Instantly. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it, but my Afghan hound stopped growling and lay down, her tail thumping.
    “How did you do that?” I said.
    “Same way I handled you when you threw a tantrum. You gotta learn to be firm, Whitney.”
    We hugged but only for second. The Houston clan are neither clingers nor coddlers. We don’t frighten easily, either. Therein lay the fatal flaw of my Bring Your Dog to Work plan. Mom would get a leash and a crate, and—unlike me—she would use them efficiently.
    “Good news,” Mom announced. “I’m here to help you with your business. And I’ve already figured out what you need.”
    “A vacation?”
    “An experienced office manager and receptionist who works for free. In other words, me.”
    “You can’t work for free.”
    “I’ve already started. Ask Odette.”
    “Odette called me, Mom. She’s not happy—”
    “I’m not happy letting Irene work without compensation.”
    Someone with a richly syncopated voice was speaking. Someone who sounded remarkably like Odette.
    “Whitney, you have to pay your mother, and you have to pay her a fair wage.”
    “Well, I don’t need much,” Mom said. “I get social security.”
    I wasn’t listening. I was gaping at Odette.
    “Something remarkable happened in there,” my best agent whispered.
    “Your body was inhabited by aliens?”
    “Your mother balanced our books. Then she took a phone call from a prospective tourist and convinced him to rent a cabin for two weeks.”
    We both regarded my mom, who cocked her head distractedly.
    “Phone’s ringing,” she said and trotted back inside to answer it.
    “You wanted her out of here,” I reminded Odette.
    “That was before I realized she was competent.”
    “She’s my mother. She’ll make us crazy.”
    “She’ll make you crazy. Other people’s mothers have no effect on me.”
    Odette