Man's Best Friend (The Dogmothers Book 6) Read online

  “But that would mean I’d have to put down this sleeping baby.” She stroked his head and smiled at Molly. “I’m so…” Jealous. “Happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, holding up her phone. “I emailed the form to Vestal Valley and…” She used the phone to point to Evie’s chest. “And I’m afraid he got to you.”

  She looked down at her T-shirt, smiling when she saw the two-inch-diameter wet spot from baby drool. “Oh, he got to me all right,” she said, finally giving him up to his mother. “And worth every minute.”

  After a bit, she walked them to the door, and everyone exchanged hugs goodbye. As they started down the walk, Pru turned back.

  “Bye, Aunt Evie!” she called.

  “Goodbye, Pru. Come back soon.”

  “Oh, we will. If we do, can you play that cool piano?”

  “If you want to cringe at how bad I am.”

  “I do!” She giggled and waved, then darted away to slip each of her arms around one of Gramma Finnie’s and one of Yiayia’s to help them down the driveway, the three of them laughing over some secret joke.

  As Evie watched them leave, she put her hand over her heart, pressing against the wet spot Danny had left, letting out a sigh of bone-deep longing.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Declan came in through the back, he found Evie standing at the open front door, staring out, even though he’d seen Molly’s van pull out a few minutes ago.

  He cleared his throat, making her turn quickly, her expression distant. “Oh, hi. I…didn’t hear you.”

  He pointed to the chandelier. “Want to give the cleaning a go?”

  She followed his gaze. “It’s a little tricky.”

  “I can handle tricky.”

  “Okay. You have to climb into the crawl space, which is part of the attic accessible from a bedroom closet. From there, you crank it down, assuming the winch is functioning as it should, then the chandelier will lower to about five feet from the ground. That way, I can clean the crystal and polish the brass, but I can’t get that done in one day.”

  “Why don’t I go up and check it out, and if the device still works, I’ll lower it. If it’s safe to leave it that way, you can take a few days with the cleaning, and we’ll raise it up Friday after my shift. Would that work?”

  “Perfect.” She took a few steps closer, eyeing him carefully. “You’re really sure about all this, Declan?”

  “You know what I’m sure about?” he asked, reaching for her hand. “That I don’t want you to ask me if I’m sure anymore.”

  She laughed. “Deal.”

  “Seriously, E. I wouldn’t be here to help if I held some kind of grudge against the place, okay?”

  “I know that, and it’s remarkable.” She waved him to the stairs. “So come with me to the attic, which is a thousand degrees, so you’ll be…even hotter. If that’s possible.”

  He smiled at the unexpected compliment, noticing she had a certain glow since Molly and the gang had been there. Was that because she held Danny? Or talked to Molly? Or could it be…him?

  Whatever it was, it made her even prettier.

  “Down here, to the other side of the house.” At the top of the stairs, she led him the opposite way of her grandfather’s room.

  “This was your parents’ room,” he remembered.

  “Yep. There’s a crawl-through access that goes above the entryway.” She gestured him toward the closet, but as he walked, he looked out the double doors to an upstairs patio wrapped with fancy wrought iron.

  He stood for a moment, staring at it, realizing exactly where he was. This was the bedroom, that was the veranda, or deck. So, the patio was beneath it…and the sunroom was under where he stood.

  And then he wondered if he’d spoken too soon about being okay. Because this whole wing…

  “Hey.” Evie was suddenly next to him, curling her fingers around his arm. “Wanna skip it? A dirty chandelier is not worth…”

  “Shhh.” He put his finger over her lips, realizing that the more they casually touched, the more he wanted to, well, casually touch. “I want to, Evie. It’s…good to let go.”

  “That is not the face of a man letting go of anything.”

  “This is all new, right?” He gestured toward the room. “New downstairs, upstairs, and that deck, right?”

  She nodded. “Completely rebuilt from scratch.”

  “Then there are no ghosts.” He slid an arm around her, suddenly so grateful for her very presence. “Show me the crawl space.”

  She led him into the walk-in closet, obviously much more modern than any other closet in the house. The shelves were empty except for a few boxes stored in one corner.

  “Pull that, and the ladder comes down,” she said, pointing at a thin white cord hanging from a two-foot-square door built into the ceiling. He’d seen hundreds of these in his life while fighting house fires that frequently started in attics. It was nice to pull one and not get slammed by billows of black smoke.

  He easily dropped a set of folding stairs that led to the rafters and started climbing. “What am I looking for, exactly?”

  “I’ve never been up there, but my dad said it’s like some kind of crank coming out of the floor above the chandelier.”

  He poked his head into the tight space, squinting into the darkness and pulling a flashlight from a clip on his belt to guide his way. The beam immediately showed dancing dust and snowy-white insulation. With his flashlight, he could see into the rafters, including a distinct burn pattern along the wooden beams that held up the roof.

  So, not everything had been rebuilt up here.

  As he crawled into the space barely high enough for him to sit up, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the impact of what he was doing hit him.

  For twenty years, he’d avoided this damn street, and now he was not only in the house, he was in the fire. At least, where the fire had been. It started downstairs, just outside the sunroom on the patio, but when the second floor burned, these rafters caught some flames.

  Right? Sometimes, it seemed that the parts of his brain connected to his father’s death had long ago…shut down. He hadn’t had anything to do with the investigation—hell, he’d been checked out and didn’t even show up for work for a few months after Dad died.

  He sure as hell never opened a single page of the file to find out the details of what had happened. Braden had, but he handled arson dogs. Connor might have—he honestly didn’t know. But Declan couldn’t bear to read one word of the reports.

  He shimmied on his belly another fifteen feet, then spotted the two-handled chandelier crank. It had wires wrapped around it, obviously installed when it was transformed from an antique oil light to the electric kind. He tugged at them, making sure they were to code, then placed the flashlight so the beam lit the winch.

  Managing to sit up, he put both hands on the crank. “I got it, Evie,” he called. “Just turn?”

  “Yes. It’ll stop when it reaches five feet. How is it up there?”

  Freaking awful. He didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t want to lie and say, Gee, it’s fine and dusty and not kicking me in the nuts or anything.

  “Can you turn it?”

  He jerked back at the sound of Evie’s voice not far behind him. “What are you doing up here?” He glanced over his shoulder to see her crawling closer.

  “Backup.”

  “I don’t need…” When her hand touched him, and the warmth of her body got close to his, he squeezed his eyes shut, stunned at how much he did need backup. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, turning his full attention to the winch. “Let me get this thing.”

  Scooting into a sitting position, he twisted the lever, using all his strength to move the rusty old crank. Once he got started, it was easier, turning once, then twice, then finally feeling the weight of that massive lighting fixture begin to move as the chain slid through a channel.

  “Another genius of Victorian design,” he said, his voice tighter than he�
��d expected it to be.

  Then he felt her fingers on his back, the lightest touch, a gentle stroke. “I realized while I was in the closet that the attic wasn’t rebuilt,” she said softly.

  “Nope, this is original,” he said. “It’s okay.” Even though it wasn’t okay. Being in this airless, depressing place where the fire that took his father once raged wasn’t okay at all.

  “I wouldn’t have asked you to come up here if I’d—”

  “It’s fine, Evie.”

  Her hand stilled. “No, Declan, it’s not fine. And the sooner you actually acknowledge that, the sooner we can…”

  The crank stopped turning, so the chandelier must be down. Still, he kept his hand on the metal handles, staring at the electrical cords, sweat stinging his temples and eyes.

  “Declan.” She added some pressure.

  “Come on, E. I’m—”

  “Going back to that place.” Her hand moved to his shoulder, trying to turn him around.

  Oh man. “What place?”

  “Where you disappear behind some massive wall and shut me out and make me want to cry.” Her voice cracked, and he had to turn around, meeting her gaze, which was damp with tears and dark with hurt. “I can take anything, Declan,” she whispered. “I can take anger and guilt and shame and regret and even blame. I can take anything in the world, but you…disappearing into that place again.”

  That place. He knew exactly what she meant. The basement of his soul. His dark, dark, lonely, cut-off-from-the-world place. His personal hell, where he’d been a frequent visitor for the better part of twenty years.

  He wet his lips, took a breath, and closed his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he whispered, the best he could do. Then he returned his attention to the crank, yanking on the lever to be sure it was locked in place. “You want to go downstairs and check the height? Make sure you can reach it?”

  She didn’t move for a long time, her hand still on his back making small circles, like she might on a wounded animal that needed nothing but compassion. “It was the worst hurt of my life.” The words were so soft, not much more than a whisper. But they hit like she’d slammed him over the head with one of those charred attic beams.

  He’d hurt her. Of course he had. He knew that. But he never let himself think about how much. He was too worried about his own hurt.

  “I mean, it was one thing to endure…the tragedy of it,” she continued softly. “The loss. The aftermath for my grandparents. And my parents’ decision to up and leave the country, which really kind of sucked, even though I was in college.”

  He’d never even thought of that. He knew they moved away a few months after the fire, but her mom was always a little unconventional. Anyway, he’d been too wrapped up in his own grief to think about hers. Both her parents were alive—at least that’s how he rationalized his lack of empathy.

  “It must have hurt,” he managed.

  “But you…” She sighed, and her hand stilled. “Losing you was the saddest thing of all.”

  He turned to face her, the tight space, the heat of the attic, and the faint scent of decades-old smoke infusing every breath.

  “I’m sorry.” This time, the word carried a lot more weight than when he’d mumbled it a few seconds earlier.

  As soon as he spoke, something shifted in his heart. No, it moved like a boulder, freeing up space he hadn’t even known was there.

  He could feel her next breath. “Declan, I—”

  He put a finger against her mouth, suddenly, desperately needing her forgiveness. Needing it like air or water or…love.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said, a little louder. “Shutting you out was wrong and selfish and incredibly immature.”

  She didn’t say a word, her eyes locked on him, the flashlight casting shadows on her face.

  “I am so…” He put his hands on her shoulders to hold on, because it felt like a dam was breaking, and it might sweep him, or her, away. “Holy hell, I do not know what took me so long to say this. I was so wrong to do that to you, Evie. I shut you out and cut you off and…”

  His eyes stung, and not from sweat. But he powered on, unafraid of the lump in his throat, because nothing, not one lousy tear, was going to stop this long-overdue apology. “I cannot believe I did that.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because…”

  “Please don’t say because you were an idiot. Please tell me the truth. I deserve the truth.”

  “Yes, you do.” Sweat trickled down his temple, and a tear threatened at the corner of his eye. “But I’m not sure I can explain it without…a shrink.”

  “Try.” There was so much plea and ache in the word, his heart twisted.

  “Evie, I was in the blackest, ugliest place. For years, I barely made it through a day. I faked it half the time. It hurt so damn much to lose that man.” He looked down, riding a wave of grief so familiar, he didn’t notice when the waves came and went anymore. “I put all my focus on work and the family. I felt so responsible for…everything. My siblings, my mother, the whole thing became my job.”

  “Were you angry with me?”

  “Angry?” He drew back. “With you? Why would I be?”

  “Because I was the one who wanted you to change your shift with your dad so we could go camping on our birthday.”

  “I agreed to ask him. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “You don’t, way down deep inside, blame me?”

  He searched her face, sweat rolling down his temples now. “No,” he said.

  “And you don’t blame my mother?”

  “No more than I’d blame the person who leaves the Christmas lights on and there’s a short circuit. Accidents happen.”

  “But if she hadn’t put those rags in a bucket when it was so hot outside, maybe…”

  “They probably smelled and she didn’t want them in the studio. She didn’t realize that the sun would move and bear down on them. I don’t blame her, Evie.”

  She swallowed hard. “I feel like that and the fact that I made you go that night always stuck in your head and you blamed me.”

  Had he? Was that possible? He closed his eyes and marched down to that subterranean hellhole, trying to flip on the metaphorical lights so he could see the truth. Did he blame her? Did he shut her out because he felt like Dad would be alive if she hadn’t been…

  Maybe. Maybe he did. And that was another wretched thing he had to apologize for.

  “Evie, if I did, I’m sorry for that, too. I’m really sorry. Because I know you can’t backtrack and second-guess everything that leads to an accident. If you did, you’d never leave the house or get in your car. I asked Dad to take my shift, we went camping that night, your mom stored rags, and it was hot. That big porch collapsed, and a firefighter was in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one person is to blame.”

  She processed all that for a moment, her shoulders sinking under his hands. “Then…why? Why not call me? Why not talk to me, Dec? For twenty years.”

  He closed his eyes because the questions were fair…and the answers were unforgivable. But he ached for her forgiveness.

  “Once so much time passed, it seemed futile. And in the beginning, for at least five or six years, I was so mad at…everything. I couldn’t go back to where we were…that night. Going back to you would be like getting some kind of prize I didn’t deserve.”

  She stared at him, confusion darkening her eyes.

  “I loved you, Evie.” His voice cracked with the admission, and he pulled her closer, feeling that she was as damp and shaky as he was. “I knew it that morning. I loved you. I was going to wait for you, marry you, have a family with you, and live like the happiest man on earth, and then…wham. Half an hour later, it was like God said, ‘Uh, not so fast, son.’”

  “Oh, Dec.” She gave a sad, sad sigh. “So, you thought if you had reached out and…and loved me, then something bad would happen again?”

  “I don’t know if it was that cut-and-dried. Maybe. I
did see you, and every time, I freaking froze up. Like, you don’t bump into someone outside the hardware store and launch into ‘Oh, by the way, about this last ten years?’” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I’m not good with words.”

  She stroked his arm. “You’re doing okay right now.”

  The tenderness in her voice and gentle touch folded him in half. It was like she instinctively knew how to soothe and put a balm on the worst hurt and ease the pain. Just made it…go away.

  “Look, we can analyze what went on in my head for twenty years, but I’d rather not.” He put both hands on her cheeks, holding her delicate face, forcing their gazes to lock. “Only three words matter now. I am sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She exhaled softly as if the apology hit somewhere deep inside, but then took his hands and brought them to her lips. She kissed his knuckles and closed her eyes, and Declan felt washed with her forgiveness and a single tear that rolled down her cheek and onto his hand.

  “You can’t take all the blame,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “I could have tried harder to get to you. I could have picked up the phone a dozen or more times in twenty years. I could have shown up at the fire station and demanded your attention. I could have done something more than stammer when I saw you outside the hardware store or stare at you after Rusty’s surgery.”

  “I left the waiting room like an asshole.” Why had he been so scared of talking to her?

  “We were both afraid.” Of course she knew it was fear. She knew him so well. “So, yes, you froze me out. But I didn’t apply any heat to thaw you.”

  He let that sink in, feeling things slip and slide into place for the first time in years. “Why didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Because, deep down inside, I felt like I deserved your anger.”

  “No, you—”

  “Declan.” She quieted him with a squeeze of her hands. “My house and my family were saved, but your father was lost. And I was the one who insisted we go camping on our actual birthday, not you, which could have changed everything. And that fire started because my mother is just this side of flaky.” Her throat thickened. “So I figured you hated me.”