(Part 9 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
The pet store manager glanced at the application, shook Rosalyn's hand and said, "Congratulations, you're hired."
Words failed Rosalyn. She tried to beam at the woman as if someone had just given her a million dollars. A row of holding cages with panting dogs inside waiting to be groomed, excited eyes watching her, told Rosalyn otherwise. Not a million dollars. She had just won a lot of smelly, hairy work.
Fortune Cookie
Part 1: Will it ruin Christmas and a chance at love?
Part 2: The crunch of metal on stone
Part 3: Blood covered her hand
Part 4: 'Heads up! Loose horse!'
Part 5: Blood dripped onto the tablecloth
Part 6: The ground loomed up at the woman
Part 7: Something fuzzy and wiggly tickled her neck
Part 8: The duo cast a long shadow on the leaf-strewn ground
The one good thing about the dog grooming job was that Rosalyn had earned money as a teenager doing this. Getting back in the groove took little effort. By 3 p.m., everybody was bathed, be-ribboned in red or green Christmas bows, and spritzed with doggy cologne. There were no more on the list. The manager let her go.
Once home, Rosalyn stepped out of her car, and headed to the barn for comfort. The sun hung low in the western sky at her back. Why did they bother to change time, anyway? Standard Time had killed yet another perfectly good day. Rosalyn distracted herself with neglected chores: Sweeping out the feed room, picking up dropped hay bale strings, hanging blankets on racks. Bodie's crooked grin and challenging gaze haunted her.
She stopped to watch the horses in their turnouts. A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves on the lane, paused, and as the air began to settle, the wind refueled and gusted the leaves into a crackling funnel. The funnel traveled down the lane, blew into Excalibur’s pen, and dropped. Typical for Colorado: What started suddenly, ended suddenly.
Rosalyn’s right hand curled around a treat in her jacket pocket. Perhaps the beast will talk to me now. It was almost dinner time. Hadn’t someone said the best way to get to a horse was through its stomach? Oh wait, that was men. She walked to the fence and held out the treat.
Excalibur edged closer, placing each hoof in the snow as if avoiding land mines. Slowly Rosalyn held out her hand. The horse snorted. Her skin tingled … she held her breath. The gelding reached out with wiggling lips, hesitated, and took off at a dead run.
***
At the house, Bodie walked in the back door without knocking. Buck trotted up, wagging his tail.
“Some guard dog you are.” Bodie scratched the dog behind an ear. “Where’s your human? I need to talk her now.”
He had to have it out with Rosalyn. Why had she pushed him away? What was wrong? His eye caught a paper on the table. He looked closer, and read the header in red letters: FORECLOSURE. A brick wall of disgust and disappointment welled up in Bodie's heart. He crumpled the notice, and threw it on the floor. Bodie turned and slammed his fist against the kitchen wall. Buck whined and slunk under the table. Petals tumbled from the bouquet of roses he had sent Rosalyn. A fortune cookie, left over from earlier Chinese takeout, rolled off the table and on to the floor.
Bodie picked up the cookie, opened it and broke it. It read: "You will enjoy sweet things."
“Damn it, I never met a fortune cookie worth a darn," said Bodie.
He tossed the cookie pieces to Buck, who snapped them out of the air. Bodie slammed the back door, and strode to his truck, perfect again, now that it sported a new fender.
Out in the horse pens, Rosalyn thought she heard the roar of a truck engine, but when she looked, the only thing visible was a thick cloud of dust in the driveway.
“Oh, great. Now boarders think this is a speedway.”
***
The next day at work was a heavy one, with everybody suddenly remembering they needed to get their dogs groomed before Christmas. Rosalyn stood at a waist-high table, fluffing a dog’s hair with a blow-dryer. She found Burl Ives singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” accompanied by dogs whining, sprayers hissing, and blowers drying, more annoying than anything else.
Rosalyn’s comb hit a knot in the brown miniature poodle’s coat. If people bothered to brush their dogs more than once a year it would be nice. Rosalyn tugged harder.
The little dog yelped, and sank its teeth into her hand.
“Ouch!”
Rosalyn yanked back. The poodle held on. But at the last minute, at the peak of the pullback, the dog let go. The dog launched into the air. It hit the far wall with a thud and slid to the floor, screaming.
“Snag-infested little beast.”
Rosalyn picked up her purse and walked out.
(Next: Not a woman to waste her rage)
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