The Dog Who Came for Christmas Page 2

  He walked back to the dishwasher, feeling a surge of anger toward his ex–son-in-law. When things had gotten tough, Greg had just sauntered off without a thought or care about how his younger son would fare. Kieran might have his problems, but he was a good kid. He didn’t deserve to have a mother who was never home and siblings who thought it was his fault their father had left them.

  He noted the time and suffered a moment of unease—Renee should be arriving at the restaurant. This was the third blind date that Wendell had arranged for her, and he hoped it would go well. After two unsuccessful tries, his daughter’s willingness to accept his matchmaking assistance was beginning to wane. For all their sakes, he hoped the third time would be a charm.

  CHAPTER 2

  Renee Richardson sat in the parking lot outside Bubba Pig, waiting for a single man to show up and go inside the restaurant before she did. She’d read about it in a dating book once: Showing up early made you look desperate. Of course, any woman whose father set her up on blind dates pretty much had to be desperate, but there was no sense advertising the fact.

  A Chevy truck pulled into the parking lot, and a couple in matching shirts and Lee jeans got out, their breath leaving trails in the dark as they ran for the front door. Renee restarted her car’s engine and blasted the heater, trying to keep her feet from freezing.

  When Butch suggested they eat at Bubba Pig, she’d assumed the name was ironic, picturing a hip, local riff on Southern cuisine, but Bubba’s looked like the real deal. Not that she minded; sampling regional specialties was one of the best things about moving to a new area. But if she’d known the place was so casual, she’d never have worn a skirt and strappy high heels. Good lord, it was cold!

  Renee turned the engine off and looked at the time; she’d been sitting there for ten minutes and hadn’t seen even one single man arrive. If she didn’t go in soon, her teeth would be chattering so hard she’d bite her tongue off as soon as she said hello. Might as well go in, she told herself. Even pathetic was better than frozen. Besides, what if Butch had somehow gotten in there without her noticing? She checked her reflection in the mirror, locked the car, and headed inside.

  There was no one in the waiting area, no single man at a nearby table looking her way. Renee bit her lip and wondered what to do. Maybe he was running late, she thought. She took out her phone and checked: no text, no message. Had she gotten the date wrong? No, she was sure it was tonight. Oh, God. What if he’d stood her up? A few of the patrons were giving her curious glances. She felt her face start to flush.

  Cut it out, she told herself. You have as much right to be here as they do.

  Renee lifted her chin, trying to look more confident than she felt, and began to study her surroundings. Inside, Bubba Pig was even more modest than it had appeared from the outside. The dining room was filled with Formica-topped tables and slat-back chairs, and a row of stools crowded the counter where you could watch red-faced cooks in white aprons work their magic. Judging by the tea-colored stains in the ceiling and four overhead fans—blessedly still at the moment—Bubba’s had taken a fair number of beatings from the weather over the years, but a collection of ceramic pigs (pigurines?) on a shelf by the front window lent it a certain playful charm.

  Plus, the place smelled incredible.

  A sign by the cash register said, Seat Yourself, so when two more minutes went by with no date in sight, Renee decided she would. It was better than standing there being gawked at, and if Butch didn’t show up, she could have dinner on her own, and no one there would be the wiser.

  As she stepped into the dining room, Renee caught the eye of a passing waitress. With a booster seat in one hand and a tray piled high in the other, the woman was moving among the tables as deftly as a fish in a stream.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just taking a seat.” Renee pointed to the empty table. “My date should be here soon.”

  If he comes.

  “Are you Renee?”

  “Yes,” she said, surprised. “I am.”

  “Your man’s waitin’ at a table over yonder,” the waitress said, indicating the spot with a nod. “I’ll be over to take your order in a minute.”

  The dining room, it turned out, was shaped like a capital L, which meant that Renee was halfway to the table before she saw Butch. Standing in the far corner, waving his arms like a shipwreck survivor, he had a napkin tucked into his shirt neck and a spot of barbecue sauce on his chin. As she made her way past tables full of hungry diners, she tried not to let her disappointment show. A divorcée with three kids probably wasn’t his idea of a dream date, either, she told herself. Under that portly, bald exterior, Butch might just be a great guy.

  “You must be Renee,” he said, yanking the napkin out of his shirt.

  “That’s me,” she said, smiling bravely.

  She stuck out her arm, expecting to shake hands, and found herself yanked forward onto Butch’s waiting lips.

  “First kisses are always awkward,” he said, by way of explanation. “I prefer to just get ’em out of the way. Don’t worry, though. I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Renee stood there, stunned, wiping barbeque-flavored grease from her mouth. Was this a deal breaker? she wondered. Good lord, she’d just gotten there.

  Oh, fine. One wrong move and you’re ready to write the guy off? Come on, give him a chance.

  Butch sidled back to his seat and flapped his napkin at the chair across from him.

  “Go on and sit down. Hope you don’t mind I started in on the appetizers. I been waitin’ on you awhile now.”

  Renee nodded and took a seat. Now who looks pathetic?

  The waitress came by and took their orders. Mindful of her tardiness, Renee ordered the first thing she saw with the word “chicken” in it, after which Butch—not satisfied with the basket of fries and “pig wings” he’d just consumed—ordered the Bubba special: a half-rack of ribs, pulled pork, fried corn on the cob, slaw, greens ’n’ beans, and an extra helping of hush puppies. As he set down his plastic-covered menu, Renee found herself mentally reviewing her CPR training.

  “So,” Butch said, folding his hands on the table. “Wendell’s your pa.”

  “Um, yeah,” she said, trying to square such an endearing term with her cantankerous father. “I guess he and your uncle—”

  “Enoch. Old Testament. He’s a pistol.”

  “Right.” She nodded. “Anyway, I guess they thought the two of us might enjoy a night out together. Since we’re both, you know, single.”

  Butch leaned across the table, his eyes narrowing.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  Renee shrugged. “Sure, I guess so.”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  She reached up and gently patted her coif.

  “Why? Is it sticking up somewhere?”

  “No. I mean, why the pink?” He pointed. “There, in the front.”

  “You mean my bangs?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never seen that before. Did you do that on purpose?”

  Renee took a deep breath, feeling her smile tighten around the edges.

  “Why? Does it bother you?”

  “I guess not, but in general, I like my girls’ hair natural.” He leered. “All of it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh,” Renee said, reaching for her water glass. “Thanks for telling me.”

  She took a sip and looked around. Dinner, she thought, could not come fast enough.

  Once the food arrived, however, things improved dramatically. Renee’s chicken was tender with just the right amount of smoke, the collard greens and field peas were a revelation, and the fried corn on the cob was not the batter-dipped monstrosity she’d feared. Even better, with his mouth full, Butch was fairly tolerable company. Their blind date might not have been the best night of her life, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. As they waited for dessert to arrive, Renee thought she might even be willing to see him again.

  “So, three k
ids,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  Renee nodded, trying to stay calm. Here it comes, she thought. Dating as a young woman might have been awkward, but dating as a single mother was downright terrifying. Trying to kindle a romantic fire between two adults was hard enough, but adding kids was like tossing on a wet rag.

  “Yep,” she said. “Dylan, McKenna, and Kieran.”

  He frowned. “How old?”

  Renee sat back. Butch’s attitude had suddenly become businesslike, his questions short and to the point. It was as if their date had suddenly morphed into a job interview.

  “Well,” she said, “Dylan’s seventeen—he’s a senior at Bolingbroke High—and McKenna is very thirteen, if you know what I mean.”

  She chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

  “And Kieran’s my baby. He’s nine.”

  Butch frowned.

  “Is he the one with the problems?”

  The question surprised her.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Uncle Enoch says the kid makes funny faces and has ‘issues’ at school,” he said, his fat fingers making air quotes. “Is he just not right in the head?”

  The waitress came by and Renee waved her off.

  “I don’t really think that’s any of your business.”

  “Well, it is if you expect to see me again.”

  Butch picked up a toothpick and pointed it at her.

  “Most single mothers just spoil their kids rotten. Not you gals’ fault, of course. Kids need a man around the house to keep them in line.”

  Renee blinked. In spite of the pounding in her chest, she felt strangely calm.

  “If you ask me,” he continued, “a few good swats on your boy’s backside would put a stop to that nonsense. You keep coddling him and calling him your baby, you’ll just make the problem worse.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do.”

  He grinned and stuck the toothpick between his teeth.

  “Well,” she said. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  She stood up and put on her coat.

  Butch scowled.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Sit down.”

  The diners on either side of them were craning their necks. Renee licked her lips and fought to keep her voice steady.

  “No. I think it’s better if I go.”

  She grabbed her purse and turned toward the door.

  “No wonder your husband left you,” Butch sneered. “You don’t want a man. You’re just looking for a meal ticket!”

  Renee cringed as every head in the room turned toward them. Determined to hold on to as much dignity as she could, she took a deep breath and started across the room.

  “Go on then,” Butch shouted after her. “What do I care? I only went out with you as a favor to your pa.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday was the slowest day of the week at Winona’s House of Beauty, which meant that every hairdresser with a following avoided it. Walk-ins and infrequent customers weren’t the sort of clients you could build a career on, and most of them were bad tippers, to boot. Nevertheless, a new hire couldn’t afford to be picky, and Renee had faith that, given a chance, she could convince at least a few of them to come back and ask for her again. Starting out in a new town was never easy, but she was determined to succeed.

  When Renee and her family had moved from Camden to Bolingbroke, South Carolina, the culture shock was almost overwhelming. Social groups could be hard to break into, and differences that seemed minor to her could determine whether and how you were admitted. Renee’s mode of dress—bright colors and short skirts—was considered unorthodox for a woman of thirty-eight, as well, and Butch wasn’t the only one who’d found her pink bangs peculiar. Nevertheless, Winona had been happy to have her, and Renee’s books were filling up quickly—due in large part to recommendations from the salon’s most influential customer, Savannah Hays.

  Savannah was in the salon that morning, her feet propped up on the coffee table while she waited for her pedicure to dry. A popular interior decorator who trafficked in some of the juiciest gossip at Winona’s, Savannah was a green-eyed brunette with a generously endowed figure and the sultry look of an actress from Hollywood’s Golden Era. She’d been one of Renee’s first clients at the salon and her effusive praise of the “new girl” had been a godsend. As much as Renee appreciated the woman’s patronage, though, she was careful not to incur her wrath. In Savannah’s mouth, even the sweetest-sounding criticism could draw blood.

  That day, the object of Savannah’s scorn was a woman who’d hired her to decorate her new home in Indian Land, an upscale community in Lancaster County. According to Savannah, the woman had more money than taste and was determined to spend every last penny making the place as drab and uninteresting as a mental hospital. Renee—who had a new client, Debbie, in her chair—kept her eyes on her work but, like every other woman in the salon, couldn’t stop herself from listening in.

  “I don’t mean to be ugly here,” Savannah announced to no one in particular, “but a carton of yogurt has more culture than she does. I walked that woman through our showroom—you know, to get a feel for what she wanted—and I promise you, there wasn’t one interesting thing in there that she didn’t turn up her pert little six-thousand-dollar nose at, bless her heart.”

  Knowing looks and murmurs of disapproval ricocheted around the room as Savannah delivered the coup de grâce.

  “Where did she think we were, IKEA?”

  Renee felt her cheeks redden as she put the final touches on Debbie’s hairdo. What was wrong with IKEA? she wondered. The majority of her own furniture had come from the Swedish big-box store. Vowing never to let Savannah through her front door, she grabbed a can of hairspray off the shelf and set her client’s hair in a cloud of lacquer.

  “There,” she said. “All done!”

  Renee handed Debbie a mirror and turned the chair so she could examine her hair from the back.

  “What do you think?”

  Debbie’s eyes lit up and her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  “It’s beautiful! Savannah was right; you can work magic with difficult hair.”

  Renee smiled modestly and removed the drape. Debbie Crowder had walked in that day looking as apprehensive as a field mouse, her fine, ash brown hair in a style that hid, rather than accentuated, her heart-shaped face and lovely grey-blue eyes. Convincing her to make a change had been tough, but it was the kind of challenge Renee loved. Now, seeing those eyes sparkle made it all worthwhile.

  “Your hair isn’t difficult,” she said. “You just needed the right cut”—she hesitated—“and maybe some better products.”

  It was the part of her job that Renee liked the least: the pressure to sell hair products to her clients. Every salon did it, of course. High-end brands were a lucrative revenue stream for both the shop and the hairdressers, who made a commission on each one they sold. Nevertheless, the financial incentive was troubling. Since her divorce, Renee’s finances were precarious, and when bills piled up or her child support checks were late, it was hard not to wonder if her recommendations were based on her clients’ needs or her own.

  Debbie was still admiring herself in the mirror.

  “Well, it’s just perfect, Renee. How much do I owe you?”

  Renee felt a twinge of dismay as she quoted the standard fee for a cut and blow-dry at Winona’s. The amount was low for the area and only about a third of what she’d been making in Camden. The cost of living in Bolingbroke was less than it had been up north, but once Winona took her cut, it meant that Renee was pretty dependent upon tips to make ends meet.

  “Well, it was worth it,” Debbie said, reaching for her pocketbook.

  She handed Renee the exact amount for the haircut, then took out two more dollars.

  “And here’s a little something extra for you.”

  But as she offered Renee the money, Savannah’s hand shot out of nowhere and slapped Debbie’s hand.


  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Debbie recoiled, her fingers still clutching the two singles.

  “I told you,” Savannah said. “As one of my personal referrals, that sort of thing is unnecessary. Why, with all the business I’ve sent her way, I’m sure Renee would be ashamed to take more of your hard-earned cash.” She flashed Renee a dangerous smile. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Renee swallowed, caught between the desire to set things straight and the fear of losing Savannah’s favor. The truth was, the woman had sent her a lot of clients, most of whom tipped generously when Savannah wasn’t around, and she and Debbie could always clear this up later, if need be. At any rate, it wasn’t worth quibbling over two bucks.

  “Of course,” she said. “Savannah’s been very good to me.”

  “That’s right,” Savannah purred. “And if you still feel like throwing those two dollars away, Deborah Jean Crowder, you can buy me one of those giant candy canes they’re selling down at the Piggly Wiggly. It’s for charity.”

  Debbie’s shoulders slumped as she tucked the money back into her wallet, her grey-blue eyes downcast. Renee felt her lips tighten. The loss of her tip wasn’t half as upsetting as seeing the effect of Savannah’s high-handedness on her client’s confidence. Whatever lift Debbie’s new hairdo might have given her had wilted under the heat of Savannah’s rebuke. As the two of them walked out, Renee took a deep breath and tried to slow her pounding heart. One day, she thought, Savannah was going to go too far, and Renee would no longer be able to hold her tongue. For now, all she could do was hope that she’d be in a better place, financially, when that day came.

  It was time for lunch, and Renee’s station had to be cleaned before she went on break. She picked up a clump of Debbie’s fine, mouse brown hair, stuffed it into a small plastic bag, then swept the rest of the cut hairs into a dustpan and threw them away before slipping the bag back into her pocket. She had twenty minutes to bolt down her lunch and get ready for her next client.