Marion Lennox - Misty and the Single Dad

It had to be good for someone, Misty thought. Another dog…

Another love?

Who needed freedom, after all?

Nick and Bailey had the house sorted in remarkably short time, probably because they owned little more than the contents of their car. The house was only just suitable, Nick thought as they worked. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to rent via the Internet. The photographs he’d seen appeared to have been doctored. The doors and windows didn’t quite seal. The advertised view to the sea was a view towards the sea-there’d been a failure to mention a fishermen’s co-op in between. There were no curtains, bare light bulbs, sparse floor coverings.

But at least it was a base to start with. They could make it better, and if the town worked out they’d buy something of their own. ‘It’s like camping,’ he told Bailey. ‘We’ll pretend we’re explorers, living rough. All we need is a campfire in the backyard.’

Bailey gave him a polite smile. Right. But the school experience had made them both more optimistic about the future. They set up two camp beds in the front room, organised the rudiments of a kitchen so they could make breakfast, then meandered down to the harbour to buy fish and chips for tea.

They walked for a little afterwards, past the boats, through the main street, then somehow they ended up walking past the vet’s.

Misty had just pulled up. She was about to go in.

He should stay clear, he thought. Paying for the dog was one thing, but he had no intention of getting personally involved.

But Bailey had already seen her. ‘Miss Lawrence,’ he called, and Misty waved. She smiled.

She smiled at Bailey, Nick told himself sharply, because a man had to do something to defend himself in the face of a smile like that.

He didn’t have any intention of smiling back. Distance, he told himself harshly. He’d made that resolution. Stay clear of any complication at all. The only thing-the only one-who mattered was his son.

He’d messed things up so badly already. How many chances did a man have to make things right?

But Misty was still smiling. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you here to see how Ketchup is?’

‘Ketchup?’ Bailey was beaming, and Nick thought back to the scared little boy of this morning and thought, What a difference a day makes . ‘Is that what his name is?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a hopalong. He’ll spend his life ketching up.’

Bailey frowned, his serious little brow furrowing as he considered this from all angles. Then his face changed, lit from within as he got it. ‘Ketchup,’ he said and he giggled.

Nick had no intention of smiling, but somehow… This felt good, he thought. More. It felt great that Bailey giggled. Maybe he could afford to unbend a little.

‘Great name,’ he told her.

‘He’ll be a great dog,’ Misty said.

‘How is he?’

‘He was still under anaesthesia last time I rang. Did you know his leg was broken in three places?’

‘That’s bad,’ Bailey said, his giggle disappearing. ‘When I got shot my arm was only broken in one place.’

Misty stilled. ‘You were shot?’

‘I’m better now,’ Bailey said and tugged up his sleeve, revealing a long angry scar running from his wrist to his shoulder. ‘I had plaster and bandages on for ages and it hurt a lot. Dad and I stayed at the hospital for ages and ages while the doctors made my fingers wiggle again but now I’m better. So we came here. Can we see Ketchup?’

‘Of course,’ she said, but her voice had changed. He could well imagine why. She’d have visions of drug deals, underworld stuff, gangsters… For a small boy to calmly say he’d been shot…

So maybe that was okay, he thought. Maybe it’d make her step back and it suddenly seemed important that she did step back.

Why did he think this woman might want to get close?

What was he thinking? He wanted her to think he was a gangster? What sort of future was he building for his son? Maybe he needed to loosen up.

‘Now?’ Bailey was asking.

Misty glanced at Nick. Okay, he didn’t want to be a gangster, and he had to allow Bailey to form a relationship with his teacher. He nodded. Reluctantly.

And, even if she was thinking he might be carrying a sawn-off shotgun under his jacket, despite his curt, not particularly friendly nod, Misty smiled down at his son and her face showed nothing but pleasure.

‘Wow, wait until we tell Ketchup you’ve had a broken arm,’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to compare wounds.’ She took Bailey’s hand and tugged open the screen door. ‘Let’s see how he’s doing.’

And she didn’t even care if he was a gangster, Nick thought, feeling ashamed. All she cared about was his son.

Ketchup had looked bad this morning but he looked a lot worse now. He lay on towels in an open cage. His hind quarters were shaved, splinted and bandaged. He had a soft collar around his neck, presumably to stop him chewing his bandages, but he wasn’t about to chew any time soon. He looked deeply asleep. The tubes attached to his foreleg looked scary.

‘I have him heavily sedated,’ Dr Cray said. ‘Pain relief as well as something to calm him down. He’s been deeply traumatised.’

‘Do we know anything about him?’ Misty looked down at the wretched little dog and she felt the same heart twist she’d felt this morning. Yes, it was stupid, taking him on, but there was no way she could help herself. This dog had come through so much… He had to have a second chance.

‘He was at the Shelter for two weeks,’ Fred Cray said, glancing at his card. ‘No one’s enquired about him. Rolf Enwhistle found him and another dog prowling round his poultry pen but they weren’t exactly a threat to the hens. This one rolled over and whimpered when Rolf went near. They were both starving-no collars. They looked like they’d been dumped in the bush and been doing it tough for weeks.’

‘Oh, Ketchup,’ Misty breathed. She looked back to Nick then, and she smiled at him. Doubts about the wisdom of keeping this dog had flown. How could she consider anything else? ‘And you’ve saved him for me.’

‘It’s okay,’ Nicholas said, sounding uncomfortable.

‘Will he be your dog now?’ Bailey asked.

‘He certainly will,’ she said, still smiling, though her eyes were misting. ‘I have the world’s biggest couch. Ketchup and I can watch television together every night. I wonder if he likes popcorn.’

‘He’s a lucky dog to have found you lot,’ Fred said-but Bailey was suddenly distracted.

‘We don’t have a couch,’ he said urgently to his father. ‘We need one.’

‘We’ll buy a couch,’ Nicholas said. ‘On Monday.’

‘Can we buy a couch big enough for dogs?’

‘We’ll buy a couch big enough for you and me.’

‘Can Miss Lawrence and Ketchup come over and sit on our couch?’

‘There won’t be room.’

‘Then we need to buy a bigger couch,’ Bailey said firmly. ‘For visitors.’

‘I suspect Ketchup might want to stick around home for a while,’ Misty said, seeing conflicting emotions on Nicholas’s face and deciding he’d paid for Ketchup’s vet’s fees-the least she could do was take the pressure off. ‘Ketchup needs to get used to having a home.’

‘That’s what Dad says we need to do,’ Bailey said.

‘I hear you’re moving into Don Samuelson’s old place,’ Fred said neutrally. ‘That’s a bit of a barn. You could fit a fair few couches in there.’

‘We don’t have anything except two camp beds and a kitchen table,’ Bailey said, suddenly desolate, using the same voice he used when he said he really, really needed a hamburger. ‘Our new house is empty. It’s horrid. We don’t have pictures or anything.’