The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service Read online

  Claudia addressed the camera directly. “We’re going to do something extra special today. I’ve asked Lara to work her magic and find a dog for me, right here on the show.”

  Lara forgot about the lights and the crew and the commercial break coming up in exactly sixty seconds. She squinted slightly and tried to see past Claudia’s stylish silk blouse and dazzling white smile and poised public persona. None of that mattered to a dog. She was waiting to catch a glimpse of the soul underneath.

  “So, Claudia.” Lara crossed her ankles and settled back against the cushions. “Tell me about your childhood. Did you have a dog growing up, and if so, what kind?”

  * * *

  “Thank you so much.” Claudia gave Lara a quick little hug when they wrapped the segment. “You did great. And I can’t wait to meet Lola.”

  “You two are going to hit it off,” Lara predicted. “I can feel it.”

  The producer strode over, giving them a thumbs-up. “We’re already starting to get calls from potential adopters for Linus.”

  “Already?” Lara tugged the sleepy pooch to his feet and scratched him behind the ears. “Well, they’ll have to fight for him. He’s a good boy. Who’s my good boy?”

  Linus thumped his tail, his jowls quivering.

  “By the way, how’s it going with Peter?” she asked Claudia.

  “So far, so good.” Claudia held up crossed fingers. “You know, he’s not really my type, but it’s very refreshing. He’s sensitive and stable. And of course Murphy is adorable. Do you think he and Lola will get along?”

  “I know they will. Up until two weeks ago, they were housemates.”

  After exchanging air kisses with Claudia, Lara headed out to the parking lot. As she helped Linus into the back of the station wagon, her phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be on TV? Your eyebrows look like caterpillars and your cuticles look like you’ve been buried alive and were trying to dig yourself out.”

  “Hi, Mom.” Lara opened the driver’s-side door and braced herself for the worst. Justine called her exactly once a week, at precisely eight p.m. every Sunday evening. This never deviated, no matter what her mother was doing, or in which time zone she was doing it. Only a crisis—or, in this case, a code red fashion emergency—would warrant a weekday check-in.

  “And what on earth were you wearing?” Her mother sounded personally offended. “Don’t you have access to an iron?”

  Lara kept her tone upbeat and tried to change the subject as quickly as possible. “How’s everything going with the build-out of the new salon?”

  “Listen to me.” Justine adopted the cajoling tone of a police negotiator trying to talk a jumper off a bridge. “I know you like to think of yourself as a tomboy, but at a certain age you have to put together a maintenance routine or you’ll simply decay.”

  Lara grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment and started swiping at the layer of dog hair on the dashboard. “No one was looking at me, Mom. They were looking at the dog.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. If you’re on TV, people are looking at you.” There was a faint sound of clacking computer keys on Justine’s end of the line. Clearly, her mother was multitasking. “But we’ll get through this. I’ve asked Jessica to come in early tomorrow and I’ve booked you for the works: brow wax, highlights, facial, manicure . . .”

  Lara grimaced. “I have to work tomorrow morning.”

  The keyboard clacking stopped. “You cannot possibly meet with potential clients looking like that.”

  “The dog world isn’t like the salon world. Most of the vet techs and clinic managers I meet with are even more low maintenance than I am.”

  “Your client can look as schlumpy as she wants. That’s her prerogative. You’re the one providing a service. You’re the one trying to sell something. So you’re the one who has to look polished and professional.”

  Lara had reached her limit. “Well, it’s been great catching up, but my other line’s beeping.”

  “Don’t you take another call when you’re on the phone with me,” Justine commanded. “That’s rude. Now. When’s the last time you had your upper lip waxed?”

  Lara lapsed into sullen adolescent monosyllables. “Don’t know.”

  “Your cuticles trimmed?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Your eyebrows shaped?”

  “Two days ago!” Lara lifted her head in triumph. “I tweezed them myself.”

  “Yourself?” Justine sighed. “Where have I gone wrong? I’d better ask Jessica and Diane to come in early.”

  With the way this conversation was going, Lara was going to tear out her hair before Justine’s staff had a chance to style it. “Mom, relax. It was just the local morning news. I’m not going on Good Morning America.”

  “And you never will, with that attitude. How many times do I have to tell you? Appearances matter. Even if you don’t care what you look like, other people do.”

  Lara refused to break the silence that followed. These long, loaded pauses were one of her mother’s most effective power plays, but she was not going to cave. Not this time.

  Finally Justine softened her tone. “Who would you rather contact about adopting a dog: a well-groomed young lady with a flattering haircut and a lovely outfit or a bushy-browed fashion victim with unfortunate pores?”

  Lara rolled her eyes. “I have to go to the salon for the rescue dogs is what you’re saying.”

  “Exactly. It’s a noble sacrifice for the greater good.”

  Her mother always had been a master of strategy. “Well, then . . . I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, I won’t be there—I have to fly to Los Angeles to meet with a team of potential investors. We’re talking about expanding into the Southern California market.”

  “Wait—then why am I doing this?” Lara asked. “I only agreed to make you happy.”

  “Believe me, the knowledge that Jessica is waxing and buffing and dermaplaning you will make me ecstatic, even across state lines.”

  “What’s dermaplaning?”

  “I’ll speak to you on Sunday evening.” And with that, Justine clicked off the line.

  * * *

  “Dermaplaning, as it turns out, is when the aesthetician takes a tiny little razor blade, douses your face with acetone— a.k.a. nail polish remover—and scrapes off the entire first layer of skin, along with every single hair on your face,” Lara informed Kerry over lunch the next day.

  “Is that why your cheeks are so splotchy?” Kerry asked.

  Lara nodded, gingerly patting her face. “Yep.”

  “Does it sting? It looks like it stings.”

  “Yep.”

  Kerry forked up a bite of omelet. “But on the upside, your nails look great.”

  “Thanks. Before I left, the stylist gave me an at-home manicure kit, complete with top coat, emery board, and an orange stick that’s allegedly going to keep my cuticles at bay.” Lara glanced down at her newly shaped and gleaming talons. “I ask you: When did we, as a society, decide that a tiny rim of flesh at the bottom of your nail was the root of all that is evil and slovenly? What’s so horrible about a cuticle? It’s just a few molecules of skin.”

  Kerry grabbed the dessert menu. “I think you need a piece of pie, stat.”

  “And you know what the worst part is?” Lara gnawed her lower lip. “Even though she wasn’t there this morning, and even though I probably won’t see her face-to-face until next month, I still feel guilty because I disappointed my mother. I embarrass her.”

  Kerry stopped waving at the waiter and gave Lara her full attention. “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah, it is. I’ve always embarrassed her.” Lara shredded her paper napkin into long, thin strips.

  Because Justine had made her name in the beauty industry, it was easy for people to dismiss her as superficial. But beneath her flawless complexion and shiny black hair, Justine was shrewd, stubborn, and uncompromising. She
had been a receptionist before Lara was born, booking appointments and greeting clients at a chichi Scottsdale salon. After she had Lara and divorced Gil, she enrolled in business classes at the local community college and worked her way up from receptionist to stylist to salon owner, never complaining, tiring, or backing down from a fight.

  Even when she and Lara lived in a dumpy studio apartment by the freeway and ate dinners of Kraft Singles and Wonder Bread, Justine portrayed an image of success, fueled by sheer force of will. Lara always had the “right” clothes, attended the “right” schools. No one would ever guess that their family teetered on the edge of deprivation.

  Though she could bend everyone else to her will, Justine’s influence didn’t extend to her only child. Even in elementary school, Lara’s French braids would unravel and her outfits would get rumpled and stained.

  “I will never be the kind of woman my mother is,” Lara told Kerry. “Or the kind of woman she wants me to be.”

  “Well, why would you want to?” Kerry countered. “She has all this power and money, but she doesn’t enjoy any of it.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t ask for much. The least I could do is take care of my cuticles for her.” Lara fanned out her fingers, inspecting Jessica’s work. Her hand looked like it belonged to someone else. Someone who spent her days toting around eighteen-hundred-dollar handbags. “And my highlights and my eyebrows and my pores.”

  “But that would cut into our dog grooming time,” Kerry pointed out.

  “True.” Lara blew a strand of hair off her face. “See, this is why my standards are so low. I figure as long as I don’t have ticks or mange or visible open sores, I’m presentable. Compared to Mullet, I’m a supermodel.” Lara brightened as their server approached. “We’d like two slices of pie, please. Lemon meringue for her and French silk for me.”

  “It’s like you read my mind.” Kerry had been on a major lemon kick all through her third trimester. “Speaking of Mullet, I got a new inquiry for her.”

  “Through the Web site?”

  “Yeah. An older lady who wanted a companion, but the meet and greet was a disaster. Mullet wouldn’t even come out and say hi. This poor woman drove all the way over from Sun City, and Mullet just sat under the kitchen table, glared at her, and peed on the floor.”

  Lara shook her head. “Subtle.” Her cell phone chimed, but she didn’t want to answer while she was eating.

  “Pick up,” Kerry urged. “It’s probably Oprah, offering to give you your own talk show now that your cuticles are under control.”

  Lara was laughing when she answered the call. “This is Lara Madigan.”

  “Hel-lo,” trilled a melodic, cultured female voice. “This is Cherie Chadwick. I watched your news interview yesterday, and I’d like to hire you.”

  Lara took a sip of water and tried to sound professional.

  “Hi, Cherie. I’m so glad you’ve decided to adopt a rescue dog, and I’ll do everything I can to find a great match for you. But you don’t really ‘hire’ me. The only fee you’ll have to pay is a donation to the rescue group once you’ve completed the adoption application and home interview.”

  “You misunderstand; I already have a dog. A purebred Bernese mountain dog.”

  Lara shot Kerry a puzzled glance. “Oh.”

  “I’d like to start showing her,” Cherie continued, “and I want you to be my handler.”

  “What you’re describing is conformation competitions, and I don’t have any experience with that sort of thing.” Lara tried to explain the difference between conformation shows, which were the canine equivalent of a beauty pageant, and competitive obedience trials. “I do basic training and behavior modification, not dog shows.”

  “That’s immaterial to me.” Cherie sounded relentlessly upbeat. “I want someone who understands dogs and has stage presence. That’s you. I live in Mayfair Estates. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

  Mayfair Estates was a posh gated community in North Scottsdale, tucked away in the hills and bordered by a vast nature preserve. Home values started at two million dollars and shot up exponentially from there; country club membership fees alone were more than Lara’s take-home salary. Lots of pro athletes lived there, along with CEOs, trust fund babies . . . and Justine.

  “Oh yes,” Lara said. “My mother lives there.”

  “Your mother?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Are you Justine Madigan’s daughter?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Really.” Cherie’s cheeriness gave way to incredulity. “I never would have guessed.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Fascinating.” Cherie shook off her surprise and barreled straight on to her point. “Well, I’d love to have you over for coffee tomorrow and introduce you to Eskie.”

  Lara slipped in a tiny, fortifying bite of pie, then tried to regain control of the conversation. “I’d help you if I could, but really, I wouldn’t even know where to start with conformation work. If you’d like, I can ask around and get you the names of some experienced show handlers.”

  It was as though she’d never even spoken. Cherie countered with, “I have an unlimited budget, and I’m willing to pay you accordingly.”

  Lara thought about the mountain of vet bills that Lucky Dog rescue had incurred over the last few months and replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Is nine too early?”

  “Nine o’clock is perfect.”

  “Great. And, um, Ms. Chadwick?”

  “Call me Cherie.”

  “Did the TV station give out my cell phone number?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how . . . ?”

  There was that soft musical laugh again. “Oh, I always get what I want. You’ll see.”

  Chapter 8

  “We have problems,” Evan informed Lara as soon as she walked in the door. “Dog problems.”

  “Is this about paying for Linus’s surgery? Because all his blood work came back negative and Jason said—”

  Evan shook his head. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook with people asking about ‘the dog matchmaker.’ When I got home from work, we had six voice mails.”

  “What the hell?” Lara really started to get annoyed. “The TV station gave out the Web site for the rescue group. How is everyone tracking down my personal contact information?”

  “There’s no such thing as privacy in the digital age.”

  Lara kicked off her flip-flops and tried to look on the bright side. “Well, it’s pretty pushy to call me at home, but I’m glad people are interested in adopting the dogs.”

  Evan’s laugh was hollow. “No, no, they don’t want to adopt—they want to dump the dogs they already have. I got home half an hour ago, and I’ve already fielded requests from random strangers wanting to unload a neurotic Anatolian shepherd, a dog-aggressive Pembroke Welsh corgi, and a litter of pit bull puppies. They want you to use your matchmaking magic to re-home everyone.”

  “Did you tell them we can’t take any more in right now?”

  “Yeah, and then they started with the guilt trips: ‘Well, if you can’t take them, then I’ll have no choice but to take them to the shelter.’”

  “So what did you say to that?”

  Evan shrugged. “I said that there was a good chance their dogs would get euthanized at the pound, but they have to do what they have to do.”

  “Evan!”

  “What?” He crossed his arms. “They called me. I’m under no obligation to make them feel good about their crappy choices. Someone has to be the hard-ass.”

  Lara sighed. “Better you than me.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you’re not allowed to answer the phone for the next few days.”

  “Probably for the best.” She put down her work bag and opened the refrigerator to forage for dinner ideas.

  The phone rang.

  Evan and Lara exchanged a look of mock horror, clutching each other’s forearms as the dogs ran in figure eig
hts around their knees.

  “It’s them,” Evan whispered. “We’re under siege.”

  Lara laughed, but as the phone rang a second time, and a third, her resolve wavered.

  He sensed her uncertainty and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t do it.” He reached over and switched off the ringer.

  She knew he was right—there was no way they could take in every owner surrender in Phoenix, and in a few days the publicity would blow over—but she still felt bad about it. The dogs didn’t have the luxury of turning off a phone and ignoring everything. The dogs would end up . . . where?

  “Don’t think about it,” Evan commanded. “We’re going to go get pizza at the place you love on Greenway. And when we get home, we’ll take everyone for a nice long walk by the lake.”

  “You’ll come, too?” Lara pressed. Evan usually preferred to stay home and sack out on the sofa while she exercised the dogs.

  “I’ll come, too,” he promised. “And tomorrow morning I’ll call the phone company and change our number.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Lara awoke to the sound of Raggs and Zsa Zsa whining as they ran laps between the bedroom door and the window next to the bed. They usually did this when the garbage truck rumbled down the alley, but today wasn’t trash day.

  She raised her head, squinted at the clock, and gave Raggs a reassuring pat on the head. “What’s up, buddy?”

  The little spotted spaniel whined louder, placed his front paws up on the windowsill, and rattled the white wooden blinds with his nose.

  “This better be good.” Lara rolled out of bed, opened the blinds, and peered out into the backyard. A little squeak of dismay escaped her lips. “Oh no.”

  Evan sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a litter of pit bull puppies in our backyard.”