32
On Friday morning, Jesse entered the kitchen and paused when he caught sight of Clara on the floor, the rhinestones on her cream-colored sweatsuit twinkling in the morning sun. She was partially wrapped in a little throw blanket, her head on a couch pillow that had been placed over the open threshold of the dog crate near the back door. Greer, as she had named the border collie, lay within, with her snout resting snugly in the crook of Clara’s neck.
Greer was still on heavy meds and his presence hadn’t disturbed either of them, but he knew it was going to, because he was going to turn the coffeemaker on and run some water to fill up the reservoir. Clara needed to get up, anyway.
While he was making coffee, she rose and stretched, spoke softly to the dog, and then stepped into a pair of her father’s boots and led Greer outside into the frosty morning to do her business. The border collie shuffled awkwardly, dragging her bandaged leg a little, but with a determination that was—well, dogged. All things considered, it was remarkable that she could walk at all. But Jesse had the impression that Greer would follow Clara just about anywhere.
“Greer,” he’d repeated doubtfully when she announced the name.
“You know, Greer Garson. Clara Bow. We go together. I read Greer Garson’s biography—they called her the Duchess because she was so elegant and gracious.”
“At least you outrank her,” he’d said. “Who’s Clara Bow?”
“The original It Girl. You need to brush up on your old-timey actresses. Those women were true fashion icons—they’ll never go out of style.”
“You read biographies of old-timey actresses?”
“I went through a phase. Lauren Bacall, Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth. I can lend you one to read on the plane.”
The airplane. He’d forgotten about that. He was leaving.
Dr. Wilder had remained at work all morning to help him catch up, as good as demonstrating that she was ready to return. Time for him to go home.
Clara came in the back door with her new shadow, and helped Greer settle back into her crate, slipping an Elizabethan collar over the dog’s head and latching the door securely before she turned to talk to him.
“Hey,” she said sleepily.
“Hey.”
“Do not pour me a cup of coffee,” she cautioned, “unless you want me to propose or something.”
“You can propose all you want. I’ll just say no,” he said, filling a second mug. “Are you coming in today?”
“Yeah.” She yawned. “Looks like I better hurry. I don’t know how I slept so late.”
“Probably woke up a lot in the night. Better check your scalp—you know what they say about lying with dogs.”
“You’ll get a stiff neck?” she guessed, tilting her head from side to side.
“No, you rise with fleas.”
She made a face. “Greer doesn’t have fleas.”
“Of course not. What was I thinking?”
“Her new collar is arriving today. It looks like a bow tied around her neck, but it’s a collar. And I ordered her a little tag with her name and my phone number on it. She’s going to be so pretty.”
“You’re going full dog mom.”
She turned back to him. “It’s just a foster placement. You know, ’til she ages out and has no reason to come back.”
He recognized his own words used against him. “Well, don’t expect her to grasp the nuance of the situation. She’s a dumb animal.”
She grinned at him. “How true.”
They both turned as the back door opened and the Colonel came in, dressed for the barn. He saw his daughter and asked, “You want to go for a ride this weekend?”
“After STEM club tomorrow? You really want to look at the fence?”
“Yeah.” He looked at Jesse and said, “Get your flight out?”
“No. I need to call the airline.”
“I’ll book you one today from work,” Clara offered.
“Your mother said she’s not getting up today.”
They both stared at the Colonel in stunned silence.
“What?” Clara said finally. “Mom never stays in bed!”
“Said she overdid it yesterday. Doesn’t want to walk today.”
Jesse had to try hard not to roll his eyes, but he managed it somehow. The suspicion that he was being manipulated threw him instantly into a dangerous mood. “She’s awake?”
“Yeah. Go in if you want.”
Oh, he was going in. “Get ready for work,” he said to Clara, not thinking about how sharp his voice sounded. He rapped on the Doc’s bedroom door and waited. He might be in the mood to storm around, but if he walked in on her changing or something he’d never recover.
“Come in,” she said, and he did. She was semi-reclined in bed with a book in her lap, which she closed. She crossed her arms defiantly. “I know you think I’m faking, but I’m not.”
Her knee was resting on a stack of pillows and she had ice on it. Without asking permission—where the heck was his bedside manner?—he tossed the ice pack out of the way and put his hand on her very cold skin.
He knew right away that she wasn’t faking. The incision scar itself was healing well, but the whole area was visibly swollen and the muscles were tight, stiff bands.
He glared at her, and she smiled.