Georgie, All Along (26)

I don’t have any reason to stand in here and watch him, so I resign myself to the fact that I’m about to share a meal with someone I barely know. I guess one habit she’s got is taking suggestions, because she’s already tucked into her food, and that makes me more comfortable with taking the seat across from her. I put the paper towel she’s set next to my bowl on my lap and take a closer look.

It’s vegetables, which pretty much means it’s all things I eat, but yeah, it’s chaotic in here, too; I don’t suppose I or anyone else would put green beans in a pasta dish. Well, it’s fine. It’s food, and the sooner I put it in my face the less likely it is I’ll have to keep any conversation going.

“The thing is,” she says, as soon as I’ve taken a bite, “it’d be a lot easier for me to be able to stay here. My friend has only recently moved into her house, and she’s pregnant, so . . .”

I nod curtly, swallowing before I speak. “It’s all right. We’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

I can feel her looking at me. It’s hot like the outside in here; I don’t see what the Mulcahys have against a few well-placed fans.

“But . . . how? I mean, you said you can’t stay at your house. Is that still right?”

I push the pasta around my plate. The green beans make it weird; I can’t deny it. I nod again. “Yeah, it’s—” I gust out a breath, thinking of the mess I know is over there. “There’s clay pipes beneath part of the house that need replacing. It’s a big job.”

“And it’s probably not easy to find a dog-friendly hotel, right?”

I shrug. “Gotta go further afield. Certainly nowhere in the county.”

That’s not true, and I wonder if she knows it. My family’s place has a wing that allows dogs, but it might as well be on a different continent for all it’s accessible to me. I haven’t set foot on that property in years. I’m not even sure what’d happen if I tried.

“I think you have to stay here,” she says, matter-of-fact. She picks up her fork and starts eating again, as though it’s settled. She’s still chewing when she hovers a hand over her mouth and says, “It’s only for a couple weeks.”

“I don’t want to put you out.” Or think about you in the shower.

“You’re not. We can make a plan for, you know, our schedules, or whatever. So we’re not in each other’s way.”

I spear a green bean, skeptical. About the bean and also this plan. “I work a lot. Early mornings, long days.”

“See? It’ll be easy then. Plus, I’ll be busy, too. I’m doing this—” She cuts herself off, waves her fork. “It’ll be easy.”

I nod, trying to believe it. I’m running through the jobs I have scheduled for the next two weeks, thinking through what I can tell her about where I’ll be for how long and on which days. I’ve got it all in my phone, but it seems rude to take it out at the table. We eat in silence, except for the sounds of Hank’s slow progress in the other room. It’s so familiar that I almost forget about what happened today.

“Shit,” I mutter, once I remember.

“What?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll figure it out.”

Georgie Mulcahy may not be one for making up recipes, but she sure is perceptive about people, because she says, “I can watch him. If that’s the issue.”

“That’s a lot of trouble. Not sure if he’ll be aggravating those staples.” I got one of those cones for him at the vet, but when the vet tech and I tried putting it on him he stood paralyzed, couldn’t figure out how to take a single step with it on.

“It’s no trouble. He’s a nice dog. Besides, once I had a job where I had to put sweaters on a French bulldog every morning. He had epilepsy, and also when he got overexcited he’d breathe so hard that he’d faint dead away. I’m used to complicated stuff.”

I’m staring again. “I thought you were a . . . uh. I thought you worked for actors or something. Hollywood people.”

“I do,” she says, then clears her throat. “I did, I mean. But my duties were”—she widens her arms, fork in hand, and a tomato hits the ground—“expansive. Hollywood people have dogs sometimes.”

I’m going to have to get that tomato when she stands up; I don’t think she noticed it. I’m also sort of wondering what the dog sweaters are all about, because I thought it was hot in southern California all the time. But that is definitely not the point of this conversation.

“What about your stuff?” I say. “Your . . . you said you had stuff to do, right?”

She shrugs. “It’s flexible. Anyway, does he travel well? I could take him some places with me, probably.”

Maybe she thinks that’d be easy, but Hank’s no French bulldog in a sweater. Some people are afraid of him, which is why I rarely take him on job sites with me. That and one of my regular guys, Laz, is allergic, so if we’re working on the same job, it’s a no go. Mostly I try to leave Hank at home during the day, stopping by to let him out when I take a break. He’s comfortable there, has his routine.

“I don’t want to trouble you,” I say, but even as it comes out, I realize I’m not even thinking about my response. It’s automatic, to say no to her help, as if I can’t trust her with Hank. That’s not really fair, since she’s letting me stay in this house, and I haven’t even seen that wasp spray today. I can’t afford to be dismissive, not with the bind I’m in. I hate being stuck this way, but I don’t have many options.