Shacking Up(23)

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm really looking forward to checking out their dessert selection." Bancroft slides smoothly into the chair across from me.

Maybe they have sorbet or something that would be easy on my testy stomach.

When the waitress comes back, Amie orders some elaborate chocolate lava dessert, even though Armstrong makes comments about it not being gluten-free. She also orders a latte, but makes it nonfat. Bancroft orders apple pie with ice cream and a boozy cinnamon coffee and I opt for mint tea and watermelon gelato, because it seems like I might actually be able to eat it without irritating my sensitive tummy. Armstrong orders espresso. Black. No sugar. Of course.

"So Bancroft, you fly out this weekend, right?" Amie asks.

Here we go. I can tell by her expression that she's planning her attack. Armstrong hasn't been with her long enough yet to fully appreciate her mischievous and devious side.

"I do. You're still okay to come by and take care of Francesca and Tiny while I'm gone?"

"I just have to feed them, right?"

"And change Francesca's litter a couple of times a week," Bancroft says.

Amie makes a face, like the idea of changing litter is a repulsive task. She grew up with a dog, but I don't thinks she was responsible for taking care of his lawn deposits.

"Oh. Okay. I guess I can do that."

"I have a list of instructions that should help make it easy for you." He adjusts his tie, looking a little nervous. I'm assuming it's directly related to her look of distaste. "I'm sorry I'm asking you to do this but I can't really use a professional pet sitting service. I don't have time to fully vet one and I just need someone I can trust."

It made sense, even though Amie's experience with pets has been fairly limited. Their family poodle, Queenie, was as high strung as her mother. Caring for Queenie consisted of the occasional pet and maybe a walk once in a while. That dog probably got more attention from me than her entire family combined. It's not Amie's fault. Her mother wouldn't let her near the dog because she has allergies, even though Queenie was hypoallergenic as far as dogs go. She didn't even shed.

"And I just need to stop in a few times a week, right?"



       
         
       
        

"Uh . . . well, Francesca needs some attention, so-"

"What kind of attention. I should take allergy pills before I go, shouldn't I?" she turns to me. "Maybe you could come with me? In case I have a reaction and need help."

I shrug. "If you want." Amie half-wasted her potential. She could easily have become an actress with the performance she's currently putting on.

Amie turns a bright smile on Bancroft. "Ruby's great with animals. She probably could've been a vet."

That's untrue. I discovered in high school biology that I'm not good with strong smells and cutting open small, helpless animals. Even if they're dead and embalmed.

Bancroft studies me for a moment as he folds his napkin and places it neatly on the table. Oh, yes, this man is definitely from good breeding. Which is a horrible thing to notice. I hate that it's ingrained in my DNA.

"Have you ever owned pets?"

"Not since I moved to New York. But I grew up with two dogs and a cat, and for a while my mother had a raven."

Bancroft raises an eyebrow. "A raven?"

"It kind of adopted my mother." Until some stupid kid with a BB gun shot it.

Bancroft looks around and drops his voice. "Have you ever taken care of a ferret?"

"You have a ferret? I thought you said it was a bunny or a guinea pig." I say to Amie.

Amie shrugs. "They're both furry and they live in cages, right?"

My opinion of Bancroft shifts slightly. Ferrets are atypical pets. I became a little obsessed with them as a teenager thanks to my time spent working in an animal sanctuary. I'd wanted to adopt one who ended up there, but I wasn't allowed-for a barrage of reasons. First of all, they're stinky until they have the gland business taken care of, a fact I hadn't been aware of. They also have to be caged because they're small and can get into very tight spaces. And my dog probably would have eaten it.

"I also have a tarantula." Bancroft taps on the table, awaiting my response.

I try to keep my voice from going too high. "Oh wow. That's um . . . unusual."

"Are you afraid of spiders?" he asks.

"Not really, no." I don't particularly love spiders, but I'm not the kind of person who will get up on a chair and scream like a banshee if I see one. I'm also more likely to usher them outside rather than stomp on them if they happen to be sharing my space.