Life According to Lucy - Cindi Myers

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of grass when a movement near the fence made her scream and jump back. Visions of giant rats or gophers filled her head as she frantically looked for some weapon. People weren’t kidding when they said everything is bigger in Texas. Houston’s tropical heat and humidity grew nasty pests not seen outside of horror movies.

      A snuffling noise from the shadows called forth a whimper from her paralyzed throat muscles. Oh God, please don’t let it be a rat. Or a possum. Or a mole. Or…

      The almost-naked rose canes vibrated as something pushed past them. She jumped back. Where was a good-sized tree when you needed one? Rats didn’t climb trees, did they? What about possums? “Go away!” she shouted, and made shooing motions in the direction of the flower bed. “Get out!”

      The creature, whatever it was, kept right on coming. She knew any minute now it would burst from the bushes and charge straight at her. She would have run, but her legs refused to listen to her brain. If she ever did get going, she’d probably trip and land face-down on the path. The only thing worse than confronting a rat was confronting one on its own level.

      She glanced toward the trellis windows in the fence, hoping to see one of the neighbors out for a stroll. Preferably carrying a weapon—hey, this was Texas, it could happen—but the alley was empty. She took a deep breath. Obviously, she’d have to look out for herself. So what else was new?

      The only thing available was the clump of weeds in her hand, so she threw that in the direction of the movement.

      In horror she watched as a small shape shuffled out from beneath the rosebushes. It raised its head into the light and looked at her, a pair of beady brown eyes peering out from beneath an overhang of orange-red curls. “Woof” the dog said, and shook mulch from its curly coat.

      3

      Little problems have easy solutions; for big problems, it’s probably too late.

      LUCY’S ADRENALINE SURGE abandoned her, leaving her weak-kneed and feeling a little foolish. A dog? She’d been terrified of a dog?

      Not just a dog, she amended as the canine in question shuffled closer. A poodle. A toy poodle. Evidence of a long-ago trim still lingered in the pom-pom on the end of its tail and its overgrown topknot.

      A flood of sympathy drove out the last vestige of fear. “Oh, baby, how did you get in the backyard?” She glanced toward the alley gate, but it appeared to be latched. She squatted down and held out a hand to the pup. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

      The next thing she knew, the pooch had its front paws on her knees and was licking her in the face. Who needed makeup remover with a dog like this? “Okay, okay!” She held the dog at arm’s length, fending off sloppy kisses. (Reminded her of a few guys she’d dated.) She checked for a tag and collar—no sign of either. While she was at it, she took a peek between its legs. “So you’re a girl. That’s good.” Considering her track record, the last thing she wanted was another stray male in her life, even of the four-legged variety.

      She set the pup on the ground and stood. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

      “Woof! Woof!” The pup raced toward the back door and stood with her nose pressed against it.

      She laughed. “I take that as a yes.” The pup raced ahead of her into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and started shuffling through the contents. “We don’t have any dog food. I don’t suppose you’d like a can of soup, would you? Or Lucky Charms? I think I remember seeing a can of tuna fish….”

      When she turned around, tuna in hand, she saw that her furry visitor had somehow managed to open the refrigerator and was busy demolishing the rest of the sliced ham. The dog made loud smacking noises and wagged her tail at Lucy.

      “If you hang around long, I guess we’ll have to buy a lock for the refrigerator.” She shut the door and dropped the shredded ham wrapper into the garbage, then filled a bowl with water and set it down for the dog. The pup attacked that with enthusiasm too, managing to splash water in a foot-wide radius around the bowl. When it finally raised its head, water dripped from its ears and chin.

      Lucy opened a Diet Sprite and leaned against the counter, studying her visitor. “I guess I should take you to a shelter.”

      The dog sat up straighter and gave her a reproachful look. The kind of look that made her want to plead guilty to some crime she hadn’t committed. “I thought only mothers could look at you that way,” she muttered.

      “Okay, so I guess the shelter idea is out. But I’ll have to call around and make sure nobody is looking for you. You’re kind of a cute dog for somebody to abandon.”

      The dog rewarded this comment with a tail wag. Lucy sat at the kitchen table and the dog climbed into her lap and began the face-washing routine again. She tried to fend her off and checked the clock. How did it get to be after ten? And where was her dad?

      He probably hadn’t been out this late since the Milligan’s New Year’s Eve party two years ago. What if he got tired and fell asleep at the wheel on the way home? What if all this socializing was too much for him and he had a heart attack? What if a drunk driver crashed into him…?

      What if he decided to spend the night with his mysterious date?

      She pushed the dog away, clutching at her own chest. Maybe the pain she felt wasn’t a heart attack, but it was definitely a heart ache. “Don’t go there. Do not even think about it.” After all, parents didn’t really have sex lives, did they?

      “Woof!”

      The pup cocked its head to one side and looked up at her. “What do you know about it?” she asked.

      You know you have sunk to a new low when you spend a Friday night talking to a stray dog. What was worse, she actually imagined the dog looked sympathetic.

      She tried watching TV, but all that did was put the dog to sleep. While the pup snored on one end of the sofa, Lucy went out into the potting shed and retrieved her mom’s garden planner. Maybe something in there would tell her what to do for the ailing roses.

      The book was full of notes about gardening, all written in her mother’s careful hand. But she didn’t see anything that would help her save the roses. She found information on when to prune (missed that one already) and when to spray (missed that one, too.) Nothing about what to do with sick roses.

      Of course not. The roses were never sick when Mom was alive.

      I’ll bet that gardener I met today would know what to do. She shook off the thought. She didn’t even know the guy’s name, and it wasn’t as if she had any intention of going near Kopetsky again to find out.

      She continued flipping through the book. August 15: plant fall tomatoes and asters. Order pyracantha and euonymus for new bed along driveway. Buy vitamins for Lucy.

      She smiled. Mom was always telling her to take her vitamins. To bundle up when it was cold. To think positive. She used to view her advice as meddling. What she wouldn’t give to hear it all again.

      With a sigh, she flipped the book shut, but it fell open again to the phone list at the front. The underlined words leapt out at her: When in doubt, Call Mr. Polhemus.

      Of course. Mr. Polhemus would know what to do about the roses. She reached for the phone and dialed the number. No one would be in this time of night, but she could leave a message. “Polhemus Gardens, Leave a message and I’ll call you back.” Mr. Polhemus’s voice was a familiar growl on the answering machine.

      “Hi. This is Lucy Lake—Barb Lake’s daughter. Her roses aren’t doing very well. I wonder if you could come over and take a look at them? It’s an emergency. Thanks.”

      She felt a little better when she’d hung up the phone. At least she’d done something. The dog woke up and crawled into her lap. Her fur was soft as silk and her tummy was warm against Lucy’s thighs. All in all, she found the animal’s presence strangely comforting.

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