Chapter 26
Iperch on the arm of the sofa and tap my paint brush against my chin. There’s something here, a real pattern unfolding. I’m just not sure what yet.
“This feels right,” I murmur to myself, tilting my head to the side and studying the scene on canvas.
Right, and heading down a path I’ve yet to understand.
But maybe I don’t need to understand. Maybe I just need to keep creating.
After another cup of coffee, though.
I set the brush on the edge of my paint palette and head downstairs. It’s quiet being here alone, and the stairs creak under each of my steps.
As I reach the bottom, the silence doesn’t last long—this time filled by the phone’s ring drifting out from the kitchen. I quicken my pace to reach it in time, lifting the headset from the receiver and answering the call.
“Hello?”
“Lucy, honey, so sorry to disturb you but your father and I are in a bit of a pickle.”
My mom’s voice carries through the speaker with the faint sounds of the shelter behind her. It’s as if I’m there with the clanging of metal dog pens and soft whimpers echoing off cement floors.
“You’re not disturbing anything, what’s up?”
“We are the only two here today—Sam called off sick and we can hold down the fort just fine, but a call came in.”
I tense, knowing all too well what these calls mean. An animal is in trouble. Twisting the cord of the phone around my index finger I ask, “What’s the call?”
“Puppies, abandoned in a box on the side of the road.”
My eyes cut to the kitchen window, and I watch leaves scatter across the yard on a sharp autumn breeze. They must be so cold and scared; a lump forms in my throat. “I’m on it,” I say softly. “What’s the address?”
“Is there anyone that can go with you? Is Claire home?”
I cradle the headset between my ear and shoulder and cross over to the junk drawer.
There’s a rattle of miscellaneous items as I pull it open, quickly locating the notepad and a pen.
“No, Claire is at work,” I say, flipping to the top sheet to take down the puppies’ location.
But there’s already something written on that top page.
In my handwriting from just a few weeks ago.
Jake’s phone number. “Actually, Mom, I know someone I can bring with me.”
“I just don’t understand how someone could leave puppies on the side of the road like this,” Jake grumbles, his voice a pitch lower than I’m accustomed.
“It’s awful,” I agree. “And sadly, this isn’t my first roadside recovery.”
I tip forward and peer up through the windshield of his truck. The clouds are heavy with the threat of rain and darkening by the minute. “I just hope this weather holds off. They’re already so vulnerable but if their box floods or they get swept away…”
My throat clogs with concern before I can finish the thought, and I pull my wool coat tighter around me.
“We’ll get to them,” he assures me softly, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
“Thanks for coming with me.”
His hand tightens around mine again. “Thanks for calling.”
It was the first time I initiated anything, and it felt more right than I imagined. When I saw the phone number jotted down in that moment, I couldn’t imagine calling anyone else.
I steal a glance his way and shove down the worry of what that could mean.
The road winds through the foothills, taking us farther out of town and closer towards the bruising indigo sky. And all the way, he never withdraws his hand.
Hope sits tentatively in my chest, a balloon prepared to either take off or deflate, as we inch closer. We’re only a few minutes from the bridge described in the call, a few minutes from where the box had been left.
Then the downpour begins.
Violent drops make a harsh patter against the truck’s roof and windshield. They’re splattering so thick that even with the wipers at full speed, the distinct red and orange fall foliage is instead a blur of harvest colors.
The image of tiny puppies huddled together and shivering in this horrible storm flashes through my mind. But we’re nearly there. And as Jake maneuvers the truck around a bend in the road, they come into sight.
“There!” I lean forward, jabbing a finger out at the brown cardboard box sitting precariously tilted—down toward the river—on the sloped side of the road.
Parking on the shoulder, the truck is barely stopped before I jump out and hurry down to reach them. Wind blows the rain sideways, drenching me thoroughly as I kneel and peel back the water-logged flaps.
Inside are six little balls of fluff. They vary in coat color, something I’d expect from an accidental litter, but they all have the same adorably droopy ears and rounded bellies. I just hope the round bellies are puppy fat rather than a parasite.
“How are they?” Jake asks, crouching low by my side.
Rain drips off the bill of his cap, splashing into the box below, and he quickly turns it backwards to lean in for a closer look. They seem to answer him, letting out little whines and yips.
“They’re moving, and vocal. About the size I would expect if they’re eight weeks old. But I don’t see any clear signs of injury. So that is all good.”
“Good,” he says solemnly. “Well let’s get them safe and sound in the truck.” When I shiver, he rubs his hand up and down my arm and adds, “And you too.”
We stand together as he lifts the box. We just don’t think to account for how fast these conditions can impact cardboard.
It happens in slow motion, the way the bottom falls out—taking all six puppies right along with it.
They scamper in different directions, and we follow after them.
Jake manages to scoop up the one headed toward the river before it can make it more than a single little leap, to my relief.
But there are still five on the loose and the rain has managed to intensify during the chaos.
“I’ve got a gym bag in the backseat of the truck,” he says, cradling the puppy to his chest and using his foot to block another one trying to run for it. “It might be tucked under the seat, but it’s there. I’ll catch them while you grab it?”
“On it. And I’ll take this one with me,” I call over my shoulder, bending down to snatch the bundle of fur trying to bound up the slope toward the road.
I locate the bag immediately, emptying out the change of clothes and sneakers and depositing the first puppy into it. Then I spin on the heels of my rubber boots and slip and slide my way back down to where Jake juggles three wiggly, wet puppies.
If I wasn’t so worried about the remaining two, I’d stop and admire the adorable sight. He talked about me being his demise, but he is temptation wrapped in flannel. Rugged features softened by the gentle way he holds the fragile animals in his capable hands.
“Okay, you’ve got them?” he asks, placing them in the bag with their waiting sibling.
“Got them. Where did the other two go?” I turn side to side, squinting through the rain and seeing no movement in any direction.
“They made it into the woods.”
My eyes widen in horror, and Jake quickly reaches out to cup my cheek.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find them. Go stay warm in the truck and watch these little ones.” His voice is warm and reassuring. His confidence is unwavering.
As his hand lingers, his thumb swiping droplets of rain off my cheek, I realize that I have unwavering confidence in him too. “Okay,” I murmur, nodding into his touch.
His eyes spark as I reach up and place my hand on his. And for a second, I think maybe he’ll kiss me. I think I want him to kiss me. But there are poor, defenseless puppies fending for themselves in this wilderness, and they need Jake more.
He turns his hand, catching mine and lowering it. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he drops them in my waiting palm. “I’ll be right back,” he assures me before turning and disappearing into the forest.