Free Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright

Cassina produced a fifth of Glengoyne, arguably Scotland’s finest single malt whiskey. The Late Great Leo preferred bourbon, but my first husband Jeb Halloran loved Glengoyne; he called it “the cool burn.” Without smiling—without, in fact, showing any emotion—Cassina handed me the bottle.

    “Based on your name, I assume you love the stuff.”

    “Actually, I got my nickname because of my husky voice. And my first husband’s sick sense of humor.”

    Cassina murmured, “Ex-husbands, ex-lovers--they should all rot in hell.”

    She stroked her veil of hair and added, “Chester seems happy here, though it’s bizarre how you let him push your dog around.”

    I started to explain about Dogs-Train-You-dot-com but decided there was no point.

    “You can do what you want,” she said. “It’s your dog.”

    “Actually, it’s my husband’s dog. He’s dead, but not in hell.”

    “Are you going to open that?” she said, pointing to the Glengoyne.

    “Thanks, but I rarely drink whiskey.”

    “I meant for me,” she said. “I need a fucking drink.”

 

Chapter Nine

    I can’t say that the Great Cassina and I bonded over that bottle. She did, however, drink her fair share. By the time she would let her people take her home, they had to carry her. Fortunately, it was just across the lawn and into a first-floor bedroom. I, on the other hand, had but a wee sip of Glengoyne to honor my Scotch-drinking ex.

    What Cassina wanted: It wasn’t to thank me for taking care of Chester. I must have been doing a decent job, though, since she tried to hire me to “keep him” during her upcoming World Tour. I was going to pay Chester to be Abra’s keeper, and his mom wanted to pay me to be his.

    When I explained that I was a realtor, not a child-care provider, Cassina disagreed. Then I insisted that I was just plain unfit. She snorted and said, “You think you’re unfit?” When I confided that I couldn’t even stop my own dog from breaking the law, she cried, “We all break the law!”

    In the end, I offered to help her find another sitter; she said that wouldn’t be necessary since I was her choice. Out of curiosity, I asked how long her World Tour would last. She replied, “Either six months or forever.”

    Then she began blaspheming someone named Rupert—who might have been her agent, her manager, her lover, Chester’s father, or all four—and passed out. She briefly revived as her people slipped her through the back door like a pizza delivery in reverse. Cassina tried to sit up, cursed Rupert again, and fainted. The pale young man who had arranged our “meeting” pressed an envelope in my palm. Before I could speak, someone caught Cassina’s mile-long hair in the closing door, and she roared like a leopard with an arrow in its flank. Abra raced into the kitchen, made three rapid circles around me and then started bouncing like a pogo stick. Chester appeared. When he threw back his head and howled, she froze in mid-jump and sank to the floor, her tail thumping.

    Chester peered at me through smeary lenses.

    “She still has a love-hate relationship with performing,” he explained.

    “Well, she’s a novice.” I patted Abra’s blonde head.

    “I meant Cassina. That’s why she gets weird sometimes.”

    “Oh, sure. That makes sense.” It didn’t, though, and we both knew it.

    “Will I live with you while she’s on her World Tour?” Chester wrapped an arm around Abra, who nestled against him. They both looked at me hopefully.

    I swallowed. “I probably can’t afford you. How much is this training costing me, anyhow?”

    “Don’t worry about it. Open the envelope,” he said.

    As I stared at the contents, Chester said, “Let me guess. . . . Three days’ care and accommodations, plus the guilt of forgetting me and failing to return your calls. I’m going to say Cassina paid you . . . twelve hundred dollars.”

    I gaped at him. “Chester, I can’t take this.”

    “Everybody