When she left home after her degree from William & Mary, she wasn’t sure anyone even noticed. Her father spent most of his time amassing a fortune, and her mother, obsessed with her societies and clubs, found little time for child rearing. What was the point of thinking about it now? They were both gone, her father at the tender age of 55 and her mother ten years later of lung cancer. Carla had been a young woman when they passed away, but she’d felt like an orphan long before their deaths. She fingered her sore wrist.
So what is this, she asked the wary-eyed bird soundlessly, a private pity party? She laughed out loud at her thoughts. At the sound, the owl ruffled its feathers and opened its deadly little beak in alarm. What was it the poet Walt Whitman had threatened? To turn and live with animals? Yes, she recalled the lines from her brief sojourn in English literature. It was the same year she’d fallen in love with Ed. He might have joined her quest if he hadn’t been sidetracked by a face far prettier than hers and taken off for South America on a wildlife expedition. Likely, Edward Mellinger didn’t even remember her anymore.
“This big enough?” Vanessa returned with the bandage. The old chocolate lab with hip dysplasia loped awkwardly behind her. He’d been left at the far end of her property a few weeks before and seldom let her out of his sight. Poor old boy; he’d never be adopted, and he wouldn’t be around long. The dog nuzzled Carla with his wet nose.
She took the bandage from Vanessa’s tanned fingers. “It’ll do,” she said, searching for the thank you she knew she ought to say but not finding it. “Did you fill Boomer’s water bowl while you were back there?” she quipped.
“Yup.” Vanessa nuzzled her face in the dog’s velvety fur. She gave his ear an affectionate tug and looked up at Carla. “Gotta go.” She glanced at Carla’s arm. “You sure you shouldn’t see someone about that?”
“It’s just a scratch,” she said roughly. “Gomer there may have a ton of germs from all those squirrels and mice he’s eaten, but he doesn’t have rabies.” Why did she insist on naming the animals? Simply to inflict more pain when they were gone, to savor it like a hair shirt penance? “Don’t forget to close the gate,” she added sharply. She turned her back to Vanessa and went into the little kitchen behind her office.
She’d barely finished a ham-and-cheese sandwich when she heard a car pull up. If someone else had come to get rid of a pet she would send them away in no uncertain terms. Dropping her dishes in the sink, she went back into the office.
Two women climbed out of an old burgundy Malibu. The driver looked to be in her forties. She had medium-length blond hair, a quick step and a trim figure—the kind of build that made Carla draw in her expanding waistline.
“You’ve got to stop eating all those sweets; you’ll blow up like a balloon!” Her petite mother’s frequent cant when she was a child had only made her crave desserts more. Why did the memory still rankle after so many years? She’d been an oyster in a family of cultured pearls. Well, maybe she liked it that way! She strode to the door and prepared to quickly dispatch whoever was calling.
At least the arms encased in a pale blue sweatshirt held no animal. The woman wore slim jeans. A paisley fabric bag was slung over one shapely shoulder.
“Hi, I hope we haven’t come at a bad time. My name is Annie Dawson, and this is my friend, Tara.” She extended a hand with a smile and hopeful green eyes. When Carla didn’t take the outstretched hand or move from the doorway, she continued somewhat more hesitantly, “I’m a member of the club that’s hosting a benefit for your shelter … the Hook and Needle Club run by Mary Beth Brock.”
Carla mumbled something in return, but she had been distracted by the face of the younger woman at her side. Rail skinny with enormous brown eyes, she had dark hair as curly as corkscrews … a lot like … Drat! What is wrong with you, Carla Calloway? Get a grip!
“Tara is interested in the ad for temporary employment you posted in The Point,” Mrs. Dawson was saying. “She’s good with animals, and she really needs the work right now. I wonder if you might have time to talk with her.” Tentatively she stepped away. “I’ll just—I’ll wait in the car.”
Carla recovered. “Sure,” she said, aware that her voice sounded more like the croak of a tree frog. Green Eyes had returned to her Malibu, and the young woman was stepping gingerly inside. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the chair opposite the desk. Her legs felt weak, and her mind seemed to be in some kind of time warp. She pulled an application from her desk drawer and concentrated on its bare whiteness. “Name?”