A Dog Called Valentine

Author

Chapter One

"Congratulations! You’ve been approved, said the text message. Here’s your match. Please contact us at your earliest convenience for details. Have a great day!"

Lily Garner stared at her cell phone for a moment, and then leaped up from her chair and gave a whoop, sending a sheaf of term project reports cascading to the floor.

The woman in the cubicle next to her shrieked, then sagged back in relief. Lily, you’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days. This better be good.

It is, Lily told her. She came around the side of the narrow divider, holding the small screen out for her friend to see. They found me a match! I knew this was the right thing to do. Just look at him, Harp. He’s perfect. Oh, I can’t wait to meet him.

Harpreet Kaur shifted her glossy black hair over one shoulder, peered at the screen and made a face. You’re giving up, is that it? My cousin has a friend—

Harp, I love you like a sister, but the last dinner date you set me up with, some friend of a cousin’s roommate’s high-school buddy or whatever, talked for forty-five minutes straight without asking me a single question. About accounting. Actually, it was longer than that, but I didn’t start timing him right away. He sent his steak back twice, and then didn’t leave a tip. He was the worst date, ever. And I’ve dated a lot of losers.

Harpreet waved a hand. This one’s different.

Lily perched a hip on her friend and coinstructor’s desk. You always say that. Everyone says that. I’m tired of it. No more eharmony, no more Match.com, no more setups by well-meaning friends and relatives.

Harpreet tipped her head at the wedding photo pinned to her wall. Setups can work.

Lily swallowed, turning her gaze to the happy couple. She’d been the maid of honor during the week of events culminating in Harp and Manny’s multicultural celebration. I know. But your parents introduced you to someone awesome. She shuddered. My mother…

Harpreet put up a hand. This is a safe space. She Who Must Not Be Named is not welcome here.

A face peered over the divider, blue eyes wide with curiosity. Danika Shubert, the third part of their art and design program triumvirate. What am I missing? Are we talking about Lily’s love life? Ooh, catch me up.

Harpreet leaned back in her seat. Lily’s given up on love.

I have not!

I was afraid that would happen. Danika crossed yoga-toned arms above the swell of her baby bump and pursed her lips. It’s time for an intervention.

No intervention!

But it was as if they didn’t even hear her.

Perhaps a party? Wait. I know. Harpreet’s mouth held the o sound, as excitement took hold. We need to celebrate our new venture! We’ll do it at our house, invite everyone we know—

No party. Lily stepped between them, holding her palms up like a traffic cop. No intervention. No need for mass hysteria or running in the streets and eating brains. Definitely not about us starting our own firm. My mother thinks teaching design is bad enough—

No mother talk, Harpreet insisted.

Danika nodded. She makes you crazy and this is a crazy-free zone. Now, back to you giving up on love?

Lily exhaled loudly. I’m taking a break from dating, that’s all. Geez. Just because you two are both paired up like pigeons doesn’t mean I have to quickly dive for the nearest single guy, like he’s a chair and the music’s about to stop. It’ll happen when it happens and probably when I least expect it. Or, it won’t. I’m fine, either way.

She stopped for breath and looked down, suddenly unable to meet her friends’ eyes.

Danika put a hand on her arm. Honey, she said softly, her voice full of kindness, you’re more than fine. You’re beautiful and interesting and accomplished and kind and so talented.

Stop. Lily adjusted her shoulders and made herself smile. It’s not like I have a broken heart. It’s time for a change, that’s all. Something completely different. I was just telling Harp about it. Look.

She pulled up the photo again and held her phone out.

You’re done with dating, Danika said, but that appeals to you?

That’s what I said, crowed Harpreet. Talk about homely.

"Talk about homeless. Danika shook her head. Really, Lily? This seems rather impulsive."

He’s had all his shots and he’s neutered, which would normally be a deal breaker but in this case is exactly right.

Oh, honey, Danika said.

He’s a dog, Harpreet said.

Yes, he is, Lily said, and don’t worry, I’m not keeping him. He’s just staying with me until he finds his forever home. A month or two, tops.

You’ll get fleas, Harpreet said.

Bad idea, Danika said.

I don’t care, Lily said.

Then she hugged each of her friends and turned back to her phone to look again at the photo of her soon-to-be foster dog.

*

Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail.

And some days, thought Shane Bowman, shaking his hand, you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to lay down the tools and watch TV.

The fresh throb in his thumb joined the chorus from his shoulder, currently hitting high notes thanks to the hour of pain and torture he’d had that morning.

His physical therapist had no sense of humor.

You okay in there, Shane, honey?

His grandmother, who owned the one-hundred-year-old heritage home he was working on, had stopped in to check on the progress, thoughtfully bringing a vat of soup that would feed him for a week.

Nothing TSN and a cold beer can’t fix, he called back.

Gram laughed. Good try. Supper’s ready. Come eat. It’s starting soon.

It, meaning The Bachelorette. Recorded, so they could share at their leisure, since he had no other plans.

Nothing wrong with Gram’s sense of humor.

I’d rather drop a hatchet on my foot, Gram, he replied.

She poked her head around the corner. Yoga and aerobics at the seniors’ complex where she now lived kept her fit and she proudly owned her gray hair and wrinkles, saying she’d earned every single one of them.

Didn’t you just do that?

That was my thumb. And a hammer.

She snorted. Matter of time. Now, go wash up. Soup and bread. It’s all set up.

Gram never missed an episode, even if it meant watching it on her old set, in her old kitchen, surrounded by tarps, tools, sawhorses and dust.

He stood up, wincing as his arm protested the change of position. He was grateful she trusted him with this restoration, but reality TV was a high price.

He went to the powder room and leaned on the sink, looking into the cracked, pitted mirror. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed broken sleep, but the gaunt cheeks were filled out and the gray sheen of pain was mostly replaced by the flush and sweat of honest work. Gram’s meals, physical labor and mandated exercise were all rebuilding him, but it was slow work.

He splashed water on his face, not worried about the drops that landed on the ancient wallpaper. Removing it was next on his list and wasn’t that going to be a treat? The tiny washroom, nestled beneath the peaked cottage roof, was a collection of angles that would make Picasso proud. Who put wallpaper in a bathroom, let alone one that required so much geometry?

Idiosyncrasies like this were what made this house so special. And would, when he was finally done, attract the right buyer, someone who would love it the way generations of Bowmans had loved it.

He looked out the hexagonal stained-glass window and onto the yard, noticing that the rungs he and Ben had nailed onto the trunk of the old oak were still there. The paths they’d worn into the grassy slope heading down to the river, however, had long since grown over, replaced by the footprints of other children.

They hadn’t appreciated the size of the yard then, of course. It was just Gram and Gramp’s house, a vast playground inside as well as out. Even at Christmas, they’d played hide-and-seek outdoors among the shrubs, glorying in the balmy weather that was so different from that of their snowy Prince George home.

Ben was as happy as he was that Gram’s house wouldn’t be torn down to make way for some monstrous contemporary mansion. There was history in those walls, good history.

If not for him, Gram would have already sold the place, as is. Instead, she took it off the market, gave him somewhere to live and a reason to get up in the mornings. He only hoped her trust wasn’t misplaced.

He cranked the faucet handle, reminding himself to buy new washers to fix the drip. Structural repairs and updates to the antiquated plumbing and wiring had all been completed, but some things, like the gold-toned fixtures and glass doorknobs, simply couldn’t be replaced without altering the character of the home.

Within the next two months, three tops, he would be done.

Shane! she called again. Soup’s getting cold.

Coming.

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at himself again, fighting back the familiar question. When he was done here, what would he do with the rest of his life?

The question had plagued him for seventeen months, two weeks, six days and, he glanced at his watch, forty minutes, give or take.

He thought he’d been the hammer that day, a tool in the long, strong arm of the law, ready to come down on crime, to bring a bad, bad man to justice.

Instead, he’d been the nail, hit hard, stopped dead.

And now he was stuck.

He rubbed his right shoulder, where the bullet had entered, shattering bone, ripping muscle and tendon, leaving him unable to hold a gun steady, unsafe to fire it.

A stupid, stinking, career-ending shoulder injury.

The docs told him he’d been lucky. A few inches lower and toward his heart and he’d have bled out.

Enough, he muttered. He pushed away the memories and walked through the narrow hallway to the kitchen.

There you are, Gram said. She patted the chair beside her. An ancient metal folding TV tray sat in front of it, holding a bowl of thick, meaty soup and a large slab of butter-drenched bread, fresh from the oven.

Gram had her electronic tablet open and was tapping the keyboard, her red-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. What year did you complete your training, dear?

There was only one reason she’d be asking for such details.

Gram. We’ve been over this. He dug into his bowl. Delicious.

She lifted her head and peered through the lenses, her eyes huge with magnification and innocence. I’m just asking. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Her voice was full of indignation.

He dipped a chunk of bread into the rich broth. No getting your friends to do your dirty work, either.

Her cronies were just as bad as she was, when it came to his single status.

Silence. He’d found her loophole.

What was worse than your grandmother and seven of her gal pals ogling half-naked young men on a beach?

Having them nominate you for a spot on the show.

But he watched the program with her while he ate and even found himself laughing at the antics of some of the contestants.

You know, Gram said during a commercial break, if you fixed yourself up, instead of spending every waking minute on this house, we could sell you, too. In a flash. She snapped her fingers.

Some people call that prostitution.

She ignored him. It’s not right, a handsome young man, alone and lonely. You need someone to enjoy your life with. Someone who can make you smile again.

She got up and stirred the big pot on the stove, which stood in the middle of the room, back-to-back with the refrigerator. The huge apron-front farmhouse sink remained functional, also, in its position beneath the window overlooking the backyard. But the rest of the room was gutted.

Kind of like him.

I smile. He gave her a toothy grin.

That’s not a smile. It’s a cry for help. Finish your borscht and let me at least send in your photo.

Forget it, Gram. You and Gramps found each other the old-fashioned way. You had sixty years together, raised five kids, and never had a harsh word between you.

So naive. She patted his cheek and sighed. Your grandfather and I had plenty of harsh words. I locked him out of the house once. Threw all his clothes onto the lawn.

What? Why? Shane couldn’t even imagine it.

She laughed. I don’t remember. But we always made up. Your father would tell you. Talking it over got us through some hard times. She picked up her empty bowl. You should at least get another dog.

Shane froze. Gram.

I know, I know. There will never be another Titan. But you could get a different kind of dog, one that doesn’t remind you of him so much, maybe.

Gram. He ground his teeth together, then exhaled slowly. I don’t want to talk about it.

Okay, fine. She huffed. I hear Tanya is engaged.

Oh, God. She was on a roll tonight, if she was invoking the name of his former fiancée.

Good for her. I hope she’s very happy. His enthusiasm sounded hollow, but he meant it. Tanya deserved a man who loved her with his whole heart.

The show resumed then, and for once, Shane was grateful.

It took a lot to make people hate a man who’d nearly died while protecting and serving, but breaking Tanya’s heart had done it. If Gram thought this news might encourage him to go home when the renovation was finished, she was wrong.

Titan was dead.

Shane was no longer a cop.

He wasn’t getting married.

Prince George wasn’t home anymore.

Chapter Two

Lily looked at the pink-and-black collar and matching leash she’d picked out at the pet store. She knew the shelter would provide what she needed for the dog she’d be looking after, but she couldn’t resist. It coordinated so well with her favorite jogging outfit, a waterproof hooded jacket and matching pants in black and pink. If she was going to be outside walking a dog during the darkest, wettest time of the year, she might as well look good doing it.

She volunteered at the shelter regularly, but this was her first time taking her work home with her, so to speak, and she was both excited and nervous. Though she loved animals, she hadn’t had one herself before. But her students were completing their projects now and the new cohort didn’t begin until March, so she had a lovely break to catch her breath and recalibrate her life.

She looked again at the photo of the dog. It wasn’t very clear. Ariel, the shelter manager, had told her he’d be ready to go home with her at the end of her volunteer shift this morning.

When her cell phone rang, she grabbed it, then winced, seeing the caller ID.

Good morning, Mother.

Oh, Lily.

Three small syllables. The soundtrack of her life.

She steeled herself not to react. I’m heading to the shelter soon. Was there something you needed?

As chief purse-string-holder of one of Vancouver’s largest private charitable foundations, Marisa Kovac Garner Rollins spent her days deciding where to donate her money and encouraging others to follow suit. Her nod could deem a cause worthy, turn a hopeful up-and-comer into a star, create a trend, or smother a fad. Her social capital had launched many a career.

Not Lily’s, of course. Interior design was too close to construction work, in Marisa’s opinion. Not to mention, a reminder of husband number one.

Yes! Marisa’s voice shook. Sissy Hartwick just told me that her son told her that you told him you wouldn’t be having dinner with him again.

Marisa’s deepest desire was for Lily to take her rightful place in society—with the right man at her side.

Unfortunately, Lily and her mother didn’t agree on what constituted an ideal man any more