Pardon My Frenchie

2

Okay, Monday, I’m gonna need you to stop acting like a Monday.”

Ashanti dropped to her knees and peered underneath her bedroom dresser, searching for her purple-and-white polka-dot ponytail holder. She spotted a hoop earring she hadn’t seen in ages, a lone sock, and the plastic chew toy Duchess had rejected like a scorned girlfriend rejects excuses on Valentine’s Day. But no ponytail holder.

She did not have time for this today.

The oven timer chimed with the distinctive tune that she had begun hearing in her sleep. She pushed up from the floor and darted down the short hallway, through the combined living room and dining room area, and into the kitchen. Even a minute longer in the oven would render the dog biscuits unsellable, and with the number of orders she had on her hands this week, there was zero margin for error. Geaux for Fi-Deaux had been extremely good for business.

Ashanti yanked open the oven door and retrieved two cookie sheets from inside, then searched in vain for somewhere to put them. It wasn’t until she’d launched this unintended side hustle that she finally understood why her mother used to complain about the kitchen’s lack of counter space. She was one big order away from this setup being unsustainable.

Who was she kidding? Her current situation had become unsustainable the morning she woke up with a silicone baking mat stuck to her face.

As she carried the cookie sheets to the dining room table, she spotted Kara bounding down the stairs with a sheaf of papers. The tips of her jet-black bob were aqua today to match her aqua Nikes.

“I can’t come up with a label design that screams ‘wow,’” Kara said. “And you need to invest in the next generation Cricut machine if you want me to take you seriously as an entrepreneur.”

“I told you, I cannot afford to spend eight hundred dollars on a printer,” Ashanti said.

“The newest model is a thousand now, and it is an investment.”

“Talk to me after I pay the rent on the daycare.” Ashanti looked to the stairs. “Where’s Kendra?” It felt as if she’d asked that question a thousand times this month. “And what time did she get home last night?”

“Umm… I’m not sure,” Kara hedged.

Ashanti gave her a don’t play with me stare.

“It is not fair of you to demand I rat out my twin,” Kara said. “That goes against every sibling code there is. You’ve been a big sister long enough to know this. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you, Shanti.”

Ashanti rolled her eyes. “Get to school.”

She started up the stairs, nodding at her parents’ wedding picture on the way. The practice had become as automatic as breathing. On most days it was to reassure them that she had things under control, but on days like today, the nod was her way of accepting the encouragement she knew Lincoln and Felicity Wright were sending her from the great beyond. She needed that encouragement more and more lately when it came to dealing with Kendra.

Before she reached the landing of the second floor of their compact two-story house in New Orleans’s solidly gentrified St. Roch neighborhood, Kendra walked out of the bathroom wearing a plain black T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Hey, Ken, everything okay?”

“Fine.”

The single word was as cold as a Mongolian winter.

“School starts in”—Ashanti looked down at her Apple Watch—“less than fifteen minutes.”

“This is my third year there. I think I know by now what time school starts,” Kendra said.

Ashanti sucked in a breath and counted to five. The therapist had told her a long time ago that addressing hostility with hostility would only lead to more hostility.

“It’s been a rough morning, Ken. I don’t need the attitude.”

“You’re the one who came up here to bother me,” her sister said, edging past her.

“I came to check on you. Excuse me for being concerned, especially after finding your room empty at eleven last night,” Ashanti shouted as she followed her down the stairs.

So much for their hostility-free environment.

She stopped at the base of the stairs, where Kendra sat on the bench in their narrow foyer, pulling on a pair of tennis shoes that were as worn and dirty as Kara’s were new and spotless.

“I know you girls are sixteen and deserve some space,” Ashanti said. “But missing curfew on a school night is unacceptable.”

Kara walked up to them with her hands held high. “I just want to point out that I was home before curfew.”

“Oh, just get on your knees and lick her fucking boots,” Kendra said.

“Hey!” Ashanti yelled. “That’s the last time I hear that kind of language in this house, you hear me?”

Kendra stood and pulled the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “Whatever,” she mumbled.

“Hey,” Ashanti said again. She grabbed her by the arm. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I am trying to be as patient as possible, but don’t speak to me that way.”

“Sorry,” Kendra mumbled. In a louder voice, she said, “I’m going to be late for school.”

Ashanti reluctantly let go of her arm. She looked to Kara, who hunched her shoulders as she followed her twin sister out the door.

Ashanti sucked in a breath and whispered the first line of the Serenity Prayer.

She couldn’t spend her morning agonizing over whatever was eating at Kendra, not with her mile-long to-do list. But she and her sister would be having a heart-to-heart soon. This couldn’t go on.

She went to her bedroom—formerly her parents’ room—and changed out of the worn LSU Veterinary Medicine T-shirt she’d slept in last night and into a lilac Barkingham Palace polo shirt. After slipping on a pair of jeans and stuffing her feet into her favorite pair of Skechers, she gathered her microbraids at the nape of her neck and secured them with her black hair tie.

She checked to make sure the oven was off, then gave the kitchen one last look. She had to get another space. If she had known three years ago when she’d found the building that currently housed Barkingham Palace that she would get into the dog treat–making business, she would have opted for a place with enough room to build an industrial kitchen. Duchess Delights had taken over their entire home.

She had her eye on two possible buildings for her new venture. The one she really wanted was in the city’s Lower Garden District and so far beyond her price range that the James Webb telescope wouldn’t be able to see it. She had settled on the two-story double-gallery house five blocks away from the daycare’s current location. The place needed some work, so she was waiting for the asking price to go down before she made an offer.

Now that she was sure she wanted to take Duchess Delights to the next level, she would have to make a move soon.

“You are sure, right?” Ashanti whispered.

What was she talking about? Of course she was sure. The best way to capitalize on this newfound success and maximize profitability would be to invest back into her business.

As she made her way to the car, her phone buzzed. Ashanti pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Kara.

Duchess and Puddin’ are snuggled up again on the doggy cam. Those two need to get a room.

Ashanti grinned as she texted back. Tell me about it. I couldn’t get my own dog to come home last night. She didn’t want to be away from her boyfriend.

She slipped in behind the wheel. Put your phone away and pay attention in class.

Kara responded with a thumbs-up emoji.

Ashanti took the longer way to work, traveling through the half-dozen blocks of the Faubourg Marigny and into the Bywater neighborhood, all so she could check in on the house that had gone up for sale six weeks ago. It was so big that it would allow her to double the size of the daycare and create a storefront for Duchess Delights.

She stopped at the corner of Clouet and Royal Streets and stared longingly at the yellow creole cottage with gray gingerbread trim. To her disappointment, a sign proclaiming NEW LOWER PRICE had not been added to the FOR SALE sign overnight.

“That’s okay, my beauty,” Ashanti said. “I’ll have you soon enough. You will look stunning in purple.”

Less than five minutes later, she pulled into the narrow driveway between Barkingham Palace and the house belonging to the daycare’s neighbor, Mrs. Short. The retiree, who owned more cats than Ashanti could keep count of, sat on the top step leading to her house, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.

“Morning, Mrs. Short,” Ashanti called with a wave. Unlike others in the neighborhood, Mrs. Short had never given her permission to address her by her first name.

“One of those dogs took a shit in front of my house,” the woman called back.

Ashanti said the second line of the Serenity Prayer.

“I doubt it was one of the dogs at Barkingham Palace. Our dogs are only allowed to roam around the backyard, not on the street. And the staff cleans up after each dog. Always.”

Mrs. Short huffed and went back to her cigarette.

Maybe Ashanti shouldn’t wait for the price to drop on her new place in the Bywater after all. Her future neighbors had to be more amiable.

As she approached the daycare’s front door, she was reminded to get in touch with the artist she’d commissioned to replicate the mural of the iconic wrought-iron gates that surrounded London’s Buckingham Palace. She would need the same feature at her new place. Lately, it had become a sought-after background for the Instagram selfies of tourists.

The same artist who had painted the outside mural had painted the reception area to look like one of Buckingham Palace’s staterooms, with faux columns on the walls and filigree in place of crown molding. A portrait of her favorite California-based royals hung on the wall above the chew toy display.

“Morning,” Ashanti muttered as she approached the reception desk.

“Morning to you too,” Deja said. She tipped her head out from behind the monitor. “You don’t seem your usual chipper self. What’s going on?”

“Monday is showing its ass.”

“Yeah, well, brace yourself because you’re about to see a bit more of Monday’s ass.”

“Not yet.” Ashanti covered her ears with her palms. “Let me at least love on the dogs before giving me any bad news.”

Deja wiggled her fingers toward the door that led to the rest of the daycare. “You get ten minutes. Then you can address this letter from the councilman’s office. It looks as if our neighbor reported us.”

“For what?” Ashanti snatched the letter Deja gestured to from the reception desk.

“She says the incessant barking has given her cats anxiety and she wants you to pay for their medication.”

“She can kiss my—” Ashanti stopped herself before she could curse again. “What is it with this woman? I know a lot of the people here were against allowing businesses to open in residential areas—the same has happened on my street in St. Roch—but we go out of our way to be courteous neighbors.”

“I think it’s more the type of business you opened that Mrs. Short is against,” Deja pointed out. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a fan of cats.”

“Whatever,” Ashanti said. “I think she just likes being petty and vindictive.” She tossed the letter back onto the desk. “Maybe I should report her for all the cigarette butts that mysteriously find their way onto our side of the fence. I picked up three in the exercise pen yesterday.”

“Go for it,” Deja encouraged.

Or, maybe this was a sign that she should finally go for that property in the Bywater. If anything qualified as the last straw, being reported to the city council because there was barking coming from a daycare center for dogs should be it.

“I need to hug my Duchess,” Ashanti said.

She made her way to her favorite area of the daycare. The smaller of the two playrooms’ aesthetic was a nod to her Frenchie’s white-and-black piebald coat, with splashes of purple to add a royal flare. Portraits of Duchess hung on the walls in gilded frames. Was it a bit over the top? Absolutely. But when it came to her baby there was no top.

Seconds after she entered the room, Ashanti was bombarded by a cadre of feisty canines with Napoleon complexes. This is what she missed the most. Having to devote so much time to baking, she didn’t get to play with the dogs nearly as much as she wanted to.

“Hey, Lulu and Sparkle,” she greeted the Pomeranians, giving each dog one of the dime-sized treats from her pocket. “And how is my favorite Chihuahua,” she called to Bingo, who had been coming to the daycare since the first week it opened. She followed the treats with quick head rubs for each dog, then went in search of Duchess.

“Where’s my dog?” Ashanti asked Leslie, who was running the Parkers’ Cavalier King Charles through the agility maze. Leslie gestured to cushioned mats in the corner.

Ashanti walked over and found Duchess hugged up next to Puddin’. The two lay in a yin-yang pattern, with Duchess’s head nestled against Puddin’s chest, and her squat legs arcing around the puffy topknot atop the poodle’s head.

“Kara was right. You two really do need a room.”

At the sound of her voice, Duchess’s stubby tail started wagging like a windshield wiper gone haywire, but she still didn’t move away from Puddin’.

“If you don’t get over here,” Ashanti said. She reached down and lifted Duchess into her arms. “Don’t forget who keeps you in tiaras and rawhide,” she said, nuzzling the dog’s flat nose with her own.

Static crackled through the intercom system a second before Deja’s uneasy voice came through the line. “Umm, Ashanti, can you come up to reception?”

Ashanti shut her eyes. If it was Mrs. Short lobbing another complaint about dog shit she was going to lose it.

“Lord, grant me the wisdom to know the difference,” she said, setting Duchess on the mat. She quickly made her way through the maze of rooms and back up to reception. Her steps faltered when she slid open the pocket doors.

That was not Mrs. Short.