If You Only Knew(65)

I glance between them. Mrs. Brewster doesn’t deign to look at me. “Let me double-check some measurements, then,” I say, grabbing my tape measure. “Kimber, if you wouldn’t mind coming back into the dressing room.” When I get her there, I whisper, “Kimber, don’t let her railroad you. This is your wedding.”

“I...I just want her to approve,” she whispers. “Once we’re married, I’m sure she’ll chill out a little. I don’t want to get started off on the wrong foot. It’s just a dress.”

“You’re right. But it’s an important dress. You shouldn’t hate it, either.”

“I...I don’t. I won’t. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful, Jenny.”

Yep. A rock ’n’ roll angel, a cherub with those wide blue eyes and perfect rosebud mouth. I give her a hug. “You and Jared are going to make beautiful babies,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says, blushing. “I can’t wait. I love kids. Your sister’s triplets? O-M-G, I love them!”

She gets dressed in her own clothes again, and Mrs. Brewster once again tells me her next available slot...not the other way around. But again, a referral from her in this town will mean a lot. If she blacklists me, that’ll hurt. “Kimber, I haven’t even asked,” I say. “What do you do for work? Or are you a professional singer?”

Mrs. Brewster snorts.

“I’m a nutritionist? Well, not really. Not yet? But I’m working for my associate’s degree. I work at the middle school, making lunches. Trying to get the kids to like veggies, right?” She beams.

“That’s nice. It must be great to work in a school.”

“It is,” she says. “I always wanted to—”

“Thank you for your time, Jenny,” Mrs. Brewster interrupts. “Kimber, let’s go. We have to talk to the caterer.”

I sigh as they leave, then get busy closing up the shop. Poor Kimber. I wonder if Jared knows how his mother is bossing her around. Maybe I’ll ask Rachel to say something to him. Then again, Rach has her own problems. I’ll ask Kimber out, that’s what I’ll do. Rachel and she and I can have a girls’ night out. I bet Rachel could use one, too.

I get home—no music from down below today—and am just about to pour myself a glass of wine when someone bangs on my door.

“Jenny! Shit, Jenny, are you home?”

I run to the door. “Leo! What— Oh, no.”

Leo is holding Loki in his arms. The dog is shaking. “He’s having a seizure. Can you drive me to the vet?”

“You bet.” I grab my keys and run down the steps, open the back door for Leo, who gets in. “Which way?”

“The emergency clinic. It’s in Poughkeepsie. Can you hurry?”

Of course I can hurry. I’m from New York. Speeding is the pace of my people. “Hang in there,” I say, but he’s crooning to the dog, who’s still jerking, telling him what a good friend he is, asking him not to die, not to leave him.

There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Loki is old. I don’t know how long that breed, whatever Loki is, is expected to live, but I find myself saying a little prayer that Leo doesn’t lose him just yet. He loves that dog so much.

“It’s on Manchester Road,” Leo says tersely, and I glance in the rearview mirror. His face is so tragic, his eyes wide and unspeakably sad, and I can tell he’s trying not to panic. It’s a raw, horrible thing to see.

“I think I know the place,” I say. A long time ago, Rachel hit a cat, and she and I drove the poor beastie to this same place. The cat made it, and Rachel visited him every day until he was adopted.

“Can you go any faster?” he asks, and his voice breaks a little. So does my heart.

I push the gas pedal a little harder.

When we pull into the parking lot, Leo barely waits for the car to stop fully, just gets out and runs inside. I run in after him. “I’m Leo Killian,” he says to one of the women behind the counter. “I called.”

“Come on back,” she says, and Leo goes ahead. I start to follow, but the other woman stops me.

“We need some information,” she says, handing me a clipboard.

“I...I just drove him here. I don’t know too much.”

“Well, maybe you can get it started, anyway,” she says. “Name, address, that kind of thing.”

I want to go back with Leo. “Can it wait?”

“No,” she says. “We need a guarantee of payment and some basic information.”

“Fine.” I grab the clipboard, turn around to sit down. There’s a woman there with a cockatoo, and something about her makes me freeze. At first I don’t recognize her.

Then I do.

It’s Dorothy.

My father’s Dorothy is here.

Twenty-two years older, but I know it. My gut knows it. My face throbs as the blood rushes upward, and all I can think is It’s her, it’s her, it’s her. Blond hair, black roots, still so pretty.

“Hi,” she says, and of course she doesn’t recognize me. I was her boss’s kid. She worked for him for three months. She saw me maybe five times, and I was eleven years old.

“Hi,” I say, sitting down.

Her bird makes a croaking noise. That in itself is so weird—Dorothy, my father’s mistress, has an exotic bird as a pet.