Pete looked down at his burger, then back up to his younger brother. “It’s a high stress job, Calthorpe. Par for the course. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough on your plate with The Wedding.”
Cal still frowned, but Docia was headed back across the room toward them. He shook his head. “We’ll talk about this more later.”
“There’s nothing more to talk about. I’ve got the meds—problem solved.”
“You’re my brother, Pete. That gives me the right to bug you. But for now, I’ll settle for a promise.”
“And that would be…”
“You’re on vacation this week. No phones. No laptop. No business. Just Texas.”
Pete’s jaw tightened slightly. He’d already checked his e-mail twice that afternoon. Plus the call to Bergstrom that had made him late. Cal was asking him to cut off his lifeline. Going cold turkey would not be fun.
Cal narrowed his eyes. “Promise me. Okay?”
Pete sighed. “Okay. Not that I think this is any of your business, you understand.”
Cal gave him a slightly smug smile, then he shrugged. “Think of it this way, starting tomorrow, we’re both going to have more than enough to keep us occupied anyway.”
Pete paused, holding another fry poised in front of his mouth. “What happens tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Docia glanced back and forth between them as she sat again. “Well, your mother’s plane gets in to San Antonio at two.”
Pete leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes in anguish. “Doomed, Calthorpe. We’re both doomed.”
“That we are.” Cal grinned again.
Chapter Two
Pete woke the next day certain that he was late for work. Judging from the sunlight pouring in his window, he’d somehow missed the alarm. His heart raced for a few moments until he remembered—he didn’t have to go to work because he wasn’t in Des Moines. He was in Texas being Cal’s hired gun.
He flipped open his cell and checked for messages. Nothing yet. For a few moments he considered calling in to the office, just to be sure.
No, dammit, just let it go for a week.
After all, he’d promised Cal. Sort of.
His case load would be handled. The assistants were capable of doing the work, even if none of them had conviction rates in the same ballpark as his when he’d been an assistant himself. He needed some time off—that was the general consensus of everybody in the office, including Bergstrom.
Right
. Tell that to Maureen Amundson, who had lost hearing in one ear and risked losing an eye for a couple of weeks before the doctors had been able to repair the damage to her cornea. Bo Amundson had been nothing if not thorough.
Pete was going to make sure Bo Amundson spent a significant portion of the rest of his life in the slammer. He’d promised Maureen. He stared at the cell phone again. Maybe he should just call the clerk to make sure that the trial date hadn’t been changed.
Enough, already.
Pete sighed in disgust. He was supposed to be relaxing in Texas, letting his stress levels drop out of the stratosphere, being his brother’s best man. He might even take the time today to figure out what a best man was supposed to do. Must be a bestman.com somewhere.
On the other hand, he was sure his mother could tell him what a best man was supposed to do. In detail. And she undoubtedly would as soon as she saw him.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a banana, then climbed out onto the fire escape to eat. Docia’s backyard spread out below him, a solid expanse of grass and live oaks reaching to the stone wall around the edge. Pete leaned back against the window sill, letting one foot dangle over the side of the fire escape. He had to admit, Konigsburg had its points.
The neighbor kids played touch football in their own back yard across the alley. After a few minutes Pete heard the littlest complaining about fairness in a high-pitched, grade-school voice. Another kid, clearly the big brother, grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and Pete’s gut clenched. Then the smaller boy was running across the yard as his big brother stepped back to pass him a bright green football.
Pete relaxed against the window sill again, listening to the sounds of cars moving along Main Street and the kids screeching in victory.
After a few minutes, he saw a woman walk down the sidewalk beside the yards, turning to wave to the children as they ran by. Pete caught a quick glimpse of her face as she turned back again—Janie Dupree.
As if she were suddenly aware of him, she looked up to the fire escape, shading her eyes with her hand. “Good morning,” she called.
Pete nodded. “Hi.” On an impulse, he raised his cup. “Want some coffee?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to open the shop.” She smiled uncertainly, her sunny face puckering slightly.
“I’ll give you a hand.” Pete pushed up from the fire escape and ducked through the window.
He heard Janie say something that sounded like “Thanks anyway,” but he ignored it. How hard could opening a bookstore be? And almost by definition, he had nothing better to do. Might as well make himself useful again. It certainly beat sitting around not checking his e-mail.
Janie had unlocked the front door by the time he’d climbed down the inside stairs and walked into the shop through the storeroom. He peered around the shop space. Six-foot-high bookcases stretched toward the pressed tin ceiling overhead. “What do you need done?” he asked.
“You can move that display case.” Janie nodded toward a row of shelves where a large cardboard display loaded with paperbacks nearly blocked the aisle. “Put it over there against the wall.”
He hoisted the surprisingly heavy cardboard display and staggered toward the side. “Look, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot last night.” He pushed the display against the wall, then turned to look back at her, dusting his hands on his knees. “I guess I was out of line.”
Janie regarded him with one raised eyebrow. “You guess?” Her lips were pursed again. She had a perfect cupid’s bow mouth, a sharply angled upper lip over a full, almost pouting lower one.
Nice.
He shrugged. “Okay, I was totally out of line. I’m sorry.”
The corners of her mouth trembled, as if she was fighting a smile. Oh well, maybe he didn’t deserve one. Her short, dark hair was slightly mussed from the breeze outside, falling over her eyebrows, almost like feathers. Her eyes, the same dark color as her hair, tipped up at the ends.
“Dupree.” He narrowed his eyes. “From Louisiana?”
Janie nodded. “My daddy was a Cajun from Baton Rouge. Mama’s from here, though, so I’m only half coonass.”
Pete blinked at her, and she grinned, her full lower lip spreading deliciously.
“It’s okay for me to say ‘coonass’, but nobody else. One of those things, you know? And by the way, my mom would die if she knew I said that to you.” She turned back to the cash register, placing bills in the tray.
He nodded, only half listening. Why hadn’t he noticed those eyes until now, to say nothing of those lips? Usually he was more observant than that. Was that what overwork did to you?
“My dad always called himself a coonass, though.” Her smile dimmed slightly. “He was proud of it.”
Pete nodded and tried to think of something halfway intelligent to say about coonasses. Fortunately for them both, his cell phone chirped before he came up with anything. He flipped it open, expecting to see the office number, only to see Cal’s number instead.
“Hey, Pete!” Cal’s voice sounded absurdly cheerful. Pete was willing to bet he was grinning again. “Come on over to the clinic. I need my hired gun.”
Pete grunted his assent and folded the phone into his pocket. “What’s the best route to Cal’s clinic from here? Drive up Main?”
Janie shook her head. “You can walk it. Go up Spicewood and cut over on Berman. The clinic’s on West Street.”
“Okay.” He wondered if he should say anything else, maybe something about Louisiana or her dad or Cajuns. Except he didn’t have anything coherent to say about any of those things. “Well, see you later,” he mumbled.
Janie had already turned away to greet a customer as he headed out the door.
Oh yeah, that little encounter had gone really well. Clearly, he was a regular chick magnet.
Cal’s veterinary clinic was at the top of a small rise just off a shaded residential street. A large, blacktopped parking lot filled the space behind it, spilling over into the lot next door. Right now the lot was packed with pickup trucks and SUVs—apparently, the veterinary business was booming.
Pete swung through the door. At the front counter a middle-aged brunette in multicolored scrubs was taking information from a woman with a vicious-looking poodle. The dog gave him a threatening glance, growling low in its throat. He gave it a wide berth.
A large crowd, mostly female, sat in the waiting room clutching their pets, a wide variety of dogs in various shapes and sizes, most of them yapping. The women’s eyes seemed to follow Pete as he walked across the room, although he had a feeling he wouldn’t catch anybody looking directly at him if he turned around.
The brunette glanced up and grinned. “You’ve got to be Cal’s brother,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the general din. “Unless there’s a convention of large, hunky men in town.”
Pete nodded at her. “I’ll accept the large part, anyway. Pete Toleffson, best man in training.” He extended a hand.
She gave it a quick shake. “Bethany Kronk. I’m actually a bridesmaid myself, bless Docia’s soft heart. Cal’s waiting for you in the back—through there.”
Pete headed for the door, feeling several pairs of eyes boring into his back as he did. He didn’t normally get this kind of reaction. Probably just curiosity about Toleffsons, or more likely about Cal and Docia.
The back of the clinic was a hall lined with doors. From behind one, he could hear more muffled barking. Cal leaned against one of the doorjambs, watching him approach and grinning.
This whole happiness thing was really getting out of hand. Pete might have to punch him.
“Hey, bro, you got here fast!”
Pete shrugged. “What’s up?”
“Got a mission for you.” Cal started down the hall toward the door with the barking.
“Doing what?”
The barking grew louder as Cal opened the door. Inside, Pete saw a row of cages filled with dogs, a few barking enthusiastically as they saw people. The room was bright with sunlight, the concrete floors immaculate, everything white and gray and sterile.
Pete raised his voice to be heard over the barks. “Patients?”
Cal nodded. “Most of them. A few are being boarded. Then we’ve got some adoptees.” He stopped in front of one cage as Pete stepped up beside him.
A dog stared back at them, silently, eyes wide. Its ears were flat against its head, tail tucked between slender legs.
“Greyhound?”
“Right.”
The greyhound was an odd combination of brown and white, almost in stripes. “What’s wrong with its color?”
“Nothing.” Cal raised an eyebrow. “It’s called brindle—they’re supposed to look like that.”
The dog turned wary eyes on Pete, as if he’d been judged and found wanting.
He sighed. “So what do you want me to do? Clean its cage?”
Cal shook his head, opening the cage door. The greyhound moved toward him tentatively. “She’s an ex-racer. I’m adopting her. Only I can’t take her home until after the honeymoon.” He reached forward and rubbed the dog’s ears.
“Can’t she wait? You’re only going to be gone a couple of weeks.”
The greyhound moved into Cal’s hand, letting herself be stroked. He leaned forward to murmur into the dog’s ear, then turned back to Pete. “Greyhounds are sensitive. They need a lot of reassurance. Particularly ex-racers. They’re not used to being outside a box.”
Pete had a sudden sneaky feeling he knew what was coming. “You want me to take her back to the apartment.”
Cal nodded. “You can keep each other company until the wedding—I’ll find somebody else to take over until we get back from the honeymoon. If you take her home with you now, I can still be around to help out if you need it.”
Pete gave the greyhound a long look. The dog stared straight ahead as Cal rubbed her ears, almost frozen in place. The Toleffsons had grown up with a succession of noisy strays who couldn’t have stood that still if their lives depended on it. The greyhound looked like she’d bathed in Novocain.
Pete scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Cal, I’m not much of a dog man.”
“Since when?” Cal narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who used to smuggle Granger into bed with him every night. Hell, you had the flea bites to prove it.”
Which, of course, was how his mother had figured out who was hiding the mostly coon hound under the covers.
“Well, Granger was Granger. This one… What’s her name anyway?”
Cal looked down at the greyhound’s head. “Pookie’s Pleasure.”
There was a moment of total silence.
“You made that up,” Pete snapped.
Cal shook his head. “So help me. It was the dog’s racing name. Pookie was the owner’s girlfriend, or anyway that’s what they told me at the rescue center.”
“You can’t honestly expect me to call a dog ‘Pookie’, Calthorpe.” Pete folded his arms across his chest. “It would be an offense to the memory of every dog we ever owned.”
Cal shrugged. “Hey, I own a dog who was originally named Señor Pepe. Sometimes you get stuck with other people’s idiocy. If you don’t like the name, you can always try calling her something else. See if she answers.”
The greyhound shifted her feet, then glanced up at Pete. Her eyes looked like obsidian, dark and shiny. After a moment, she reverted to frozen again.
“Why is she standing so still?”
“Greyhound stress behavior.” Cal rubbed along the dog’s shoulders again. “She’s frightened, but she doesn’t want to show it. She’s been chasing a mechanical rabbit since she was a pup, with a lot of yelling. This is probably the first time she’s ever been in a relatively quiet place. Plus it’s the first time she’s been off a regimented schedule.”
The greyhound’s shoulders shuddered lightly underneath Cal’s fingers. She raised her wary black eyes to Pete again, questioning.
He sighed. “Okay, I’ll do it. Does she have a leash?”