We Interrupt This Date by L.C. Evans Page B

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window. One of the baggage handlers wandered out and led me into a
building that looked like an oversized metal garage. He pointed out
a crate about three feet high and two feet wide.
    “There’s got to be a mistake.” I just managed
to keep a civil tone. I was hot, tired after loading DeLorean’s
things, and in no mood for incompetence. “I’m picking up a puppy,
not a pony.”
    I turned in a complete circle and pointed to
a row of crates that could have held cocker spaniels. “He’s
probably in one of those.”
    “DeLorean Marsh, right?”
    “My sister.”
    “There’s your dog, lady.” He pointed to the
big crate again. Then he motioned to a co-worker, who brought over
a cart that looked sturdy enough to move an elephant.
    My heart rate totally out of control, I
approached the crate and squatted to peer inside. A mass of long,
curly, gold-colored fur undulated back and forth and a pink tongue
tried to lick my hand through the bars. I sucked in a deep
centering breath and read the tag on the crate. No wonder DeLorean
hadn’t mentioned Brad during our brief phone conversation this
morning. She’d known I would have put my foot down. Probably.
    Toy poodle-sized puppy, okay. Massive
designer dog--a golden doodle according to the tag on the
crate--not okay. Hairy, too big to be a housedog. And knowing
DeLorean, probably not trained and not housebroken.
    “You could have told me,” I said in barely
civil tones when I was back in the minivan and the crate was
loaded. We’d had to take out and rearrange the suitcases to squeeze
the crate in. “You could have said you were bringing a dog that
could swallow me whole and not show a tummy bulge.”
    “Don’t be so bitchy. Brad is Cole’s golden
doodle. You wouldn’t want to deprive your baby nephew of his pet,
would you?” She shoved a wayward curl out of her face and when it
sprang back, she pushed it behind her ear and crossed her arms over
her chest. “I’m exhausted and I haven’t eaten all day. As if I
don’t have enough to worry about, you’re giving me grief about my
baby’s pet.”
    “I though a golden doodle was a cross between
a poodle and a golden retriever. Brad’s huge. He looks more like a
great dane-kanoodle on steroids if you ask me.”
    “There isn’t any such thing.” Her pout
assumed record-breaking proportions, threatening to dislocate her
jaw.
    “Gee, why not? Surely there are babies all
over the country crying in their cribs to get one.”
    I eased out of the parking lot and into a
break in traffic. I took deep centering breaths until I felt
lightheaded. I was not going to argue with my sister, who was
clearly suffering after her breakup. I was not going to let
DeLorean ruin my day. What was left of my day.
    Even when we got home and I freed Brad from
the crate and discovered that A. my backyard fence had a hole in it
that a horse could fit through and B. Brad’s coat was matted and he
had fleas, I maintained control. I pasted on my best “I am coping”
smile and held tight to the leash to keep DeLorean’s designer dog
from dragging me out of the neighborhood.
    When I rubbed his fur backward and pointed
out a couple of scurrying fleas, DeLorean looked at me
helplessly.
    “I’ve been too busy with Cole to have time to
comb Brad or worry over parasites. You’re a mother, you know how it
is with a baby and their constant needs. And Baldwin insisted I be
the only caregiver instead of hiring a babysitter so I could go
back to work. I thought it was because he finally learned to love
Cole, but it turned out that was only another way to control me.”
Her voice trembled, and I noticed faint blue circles showing
through her under-eye concealer.
    Yeah, I could have told her all about control
tactics. After T. Chandler and I married, he took charge and I
didn’t have to think anymore, never had to wonder what to say or
do. Never realized I was exactly the kind of possession he’d been
looking for; not until we’d been