I wait until Blake and I are inside his limo and the door is shut before I unleash my wrath. "You have no right to crash my date. None!” I yell at him.
He grimaces. “I know.”
“How did you even find us?”
“I know people who work at Norfolk’s. They told me that Marshall was here with you. Also, we sort of move in the same circles, and apparently he’s been talking about the date all week.”
“Well, that makes me feel terrible. I’m as big a jerk as you,” I say wretchedly. “And I’m not going to be able to get the doll. You understand that? Tamara’s birthday is Sunday and there is literally no way that I'm going to be able to get that toy. You made me break a promise to a six year old.”
"I’m sorry,” he groans. “You’re right. I have absolutely no excuse and I’m a complete freaking moron.”
It’s hard for me to stay angry at him, even though I have every reason to. He just looks so miserable. "Well, can you promise that this will never happen again?”
He shakes his head. "Nope. Definitely not."
"What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks?" I stare at him in amazement. “Are you for real?”
"I'm incredibly jealous of you. Irrationally jealous. I'm just being honest here.” His gaze is laden with anguish. “If I knew that you were having another date, I would do the same thing. I would cancel my plans, no matter what they were, and I would do whatever it took to ruin your date. Ass-beatings aren’t out of the question. I mean, if I see a guy kiss you, Winona, I’m sorry, but I’m probably going to have to drag him outside and throw down.”
“Blake! That’s ridiculous!”
“Hey, who drenched some random woman in alcohol because she thought I was on a date with her?” he says defensively. “I could have been much worse tonight. At least I didn’t throw any drinks, or punch Marshall in his stupid, smug, deformed face.”
“He is not deformed! He is perfectly acceptable!”
“‘Perfectly acceptable’,” Blake mocks me. “I can only dream that someday, I’ll find a woman who agrees to go on a blackmail-date with me and calls me ‘perfectly acceptable’.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “At least I didn’t call you an orangutan!”
He grabs my wrist. “I didn’t call you an orangutan! I said you were raised by them. There’s a difference.”
“You’re still an irrational jerk.”
“Yes, I am.” He sighs. “What can I do to make it up to you? I'll do anything."
“Anything?” I perk up.
“Uh-oh. What have I done? I don’t like the look on your face right now,” he says uneasily.
"Good.” I flash an evil grin. “My landlord forced us to get rid of Xena, so Isabella and I are currently paying for her to be boarded, and it’s costing us a fortune.”
“That’s why you’re still broke!”
“That, and I increased the peach jam order from my parents. Not that it’s your business. But back to Xena. You’ve got a huge house, and you’ve got that servants’ house or carriage house or whatever you call it, and you have a fenced-in yard. In Manhattan. Which is insane. You also have employees, which means you can get one of them to take care of her. Affectionately. With lots of quality time.” I pin him with a fierce glare. “I need you to find your most dog-loving employee and have them be the one to watch over her.”
“What about your parents? They have a farm. I’d pay to have Xena shipped there.”
“My parents love dogs, but my mother’s always had mild allergies to them. She used to just take Benadryl and suffer through it, but after her cancer treatments, she turned violently allergic. Sorry. It’s all you.”
My heart twinges in sympathy for my mother. She’s been through so much, with the cancer, and the chemo, and the constant money worries. Not being able to have dogs must have been a terrible blow piled on top of everything else.
"Oh hell." He buries his face in his hands "I have got to stop saying the phrase ‘I’ll do anything you want’ to women."
"What women?” I squall.
He looks up at me, smiling wryly. “First of all, jealous much? And secondly, my sister, and you. You are the only two women who can short-circuit my brain so much that I should legally be required to wear a muzzle when I’m around you.”
“Too late. No takie-backsies,” I say. “The boarding facility is open twenty-four hours a day. Let’s go pick up your new dog.”
Chapter Thirty
Blake
“We’re home!” Tamara squeals, her excitement driving her voice to eardrum-shattering heights as the limo pulls to a stop. Before we can stop her, she explodes out of the front steps and shoots up the stairs. I climb out as her parents barrel after her, yelling at her to slow down, she’s going to hurt herself.
Tamara’s right; the house feels like home, but only when they’re visiting. The rest of the time, it feels like an echoing mausoleum. That knowledge always hummed in the edges of my subconscious, but loving Winona, and losing her, has made me painfully aware of what I lack.
And they’re only coming home for the day. They’re flying back out tonight, and it will be back to living in a house that feels less like home than my office at Hudson’s.
I glance down the block. No sign of Henry yet. Well, I made a last-ditch effort to fix things this morning, but I knew this was a significant possibility.
Hurrying up the front steps, I catch up to Tamara, Alice and Steve as they enter the foyer.
I put my hand on my sister’s arm and draw her aside. Tamara shoots down the hall past us, heading for the parlor. I’ve arranged a small pile of colorfully wrapped boxes on the coffee table.
Steve jogs after her. “No opening the presents until everyone’s in the room, sweetie!” he calls out.
Alice and her husband firmly limited me to five presents, because they know me too well. The Christmas fiasco of 2015still haunts them. Hey, Tamara was two years old – what good uncle wouldn’t build a giant wall of gifts? And is it my fault the construction of the gift box wall was shakier than expected? I’ve never built one that high before.
Anyway, Tamara escaped with only minor scrapes and bruises, and I’m sure she’s recovered from the trauma of being briefly buried alive under gift boxes, and will lead a normal and productive life.
Probably.
I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath. “So, I have to tell you something.”
“If it’s about the doll, forget it.” Alice shakes her head. “I’ve told her repeatedly that she might not get it, and that she needs to be grateful for anything she does get. She has a very comfortable life; every once in a while, she’s going to have to experience disappointment.”
“It’s just that I–”
“She’s probably more disappointed that you didn’t make it home this year for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Easter,” she continues.
“I was a little busy.” I’m stung.
“For the first seven years of her life?” she mutters.