Free Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw

carpet on steroids.
    “Tuffy.” Harmony screamed, dashing from the kitchen. “Oh, Pastor, you’re not supposed to see him yet, not until I could tell you about him.” She chased it in circles around my feet, in a futile attempt to capture the wiggling creature. “Stop, Tuffy, stop. He just rushed out when he heard the key in the door.” The faster she ran, the faster the shag carpet dashed. If it had been happening to someone else, I would have squealed with laughter.
    “I promise you he won’t be a bother,” she yelled as it leaped over the sofa and then continued making laps around the living room, yapping as it ran.
    “What is it?” I bent to snag it and bam, just like that the thing bounded and flung itself into my arms.
    “Jane, you must’ve hit your head when you attacked Carl. It’s a dog.” Gramps ruffled the dog’s head, and he nearly kissed it. I think we both picked up the smell in the same second. Make that a wet shag carpet on steroids. Wait, make that a wet rug on steroids who’d been Dumpster diving.
    “Harmony, is it yours?” I was using my righteous “high preachin’ horse” voice again. I’m cringing as I admit that it grated on me. I smashed my lips. Might this be why I was boyfriendless and childless with the big four-oh ever looming? Was I that bossy? That quick to criticize? I might ponder my self-righteously wrong mindset at some future time, but at that second, I had a filthy dog nesting in my embrace. He seemed to love me, even if I wasn’t keen on myself.
    I looked at the girl and gone was Harmony’s armor, replaced by tears, like sprinklers, great lines down her face. “I’ve been taking care of him. Tuffy’s his name. He’s been with me, secretly, since Dad went to jail. The woman at that last foster home went into convulsions when she saw him, sent him to the pound, but I bailed him out. I’ve been hiding him. She said she’d make sure I never found another foster home if I brought in another dog.”
    With lips pushed forcibly into a smile, I managed, ”Well, you’re here now. Along with your little dog, too.” And yes, I did think I sounded like the Wicked Witch. That dog needed fumigation.
    Gramps stuck out his hand to Harmony. “Hello, I’m Henry, Pastor Jane’s grandfather.” I thought for sure he was going to try to hug Harmony. I had a feeling she’d let him, this girl who constantly shied away from me. He took the dog from my arms, wrinkled his nose, and handed it to Harmony. “I bet Jane has some really fine shampoo in her bathroom. She usually does. Let’s give this little dog a bath. Been a while since I’ve bathed a dog.” He reached out and took Harmony’s hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and said, “Some like it, some don’t. We’ll close the door so we can find out what kind his royal dogness is.” He was jubilant, bouncing as the threesome headed down the hall. To wash a dog. Men. Who can understand them?
    God brought us all together for some reason other than to bust the seams of this pint-sized condo. At least that’s what I thought before it sunk in that they were going to use my extravagant twenty-nine-dollar-a-bottle shampoo, which my hairdresser swore would keep my hair color as shiny as gold dust. I dashed down the hall as the door slammed shut. I yelled at the closed door. “His fur better not look nicer than mine when he’s finished.”
    It was three hours past my bedtime when I finally got to sleep. Takes time to blow dry a pooch. I swear, they even tried to use my curling iron on him. Okay, I’ll admit it, the mutt was cute, especially after I trimmed his face and we could see his little brown, almond-shaped eyes. We all worked together with Gramps and Harmony cooing and coddling his chinny-chin-chin.
    Then, everything slowed. Harmony went to one guest bedroom, Gramps tramped to the other. The dog? Sleeping, finally, after making 651 mad dashes around the house. He was glued to my hip and in my bed.