The Puppy Proposal

Nic followed, intrigued by the tiny dynamo. He knew Florida was known for its active senior lifestyle, but he had a feeling Mrs. Rosenberg surpassed even that stereotype. Besides, he wanted to find out how Murphy was pulling his little escape act.

The house was immaculate, and filled with overstuffed furniture in shades of mauve and teal. Paintings of tropical flowers were on the walls, and a large brass manatee served as a centerpiece atop the glass coffee table. Through the doorway to the right he could see a small galley kitchen; shopping bags currently covered every inch of counter space.

His hostess dug through the bags, removing multiple bottles of wine before finding what she was looking for. Her wrinkled but capable hands deftly wielded the corkscrew, then poured them each a generous portion. He accepted the proffered glass and took a seat on the overlarge love seat, sinking into the soft surface. His hostess’s much smaller body perched on the chair across from him as she raised her glass to toast. “To Murphy!”

“To Murphy.” He sipped cautiously. It was surprisingly sweet, but certainly drinkable.

“Good, isn’t it? Grown right here in Florida. It’s made with native grapes. Lots of antioxidants.” She winked, then drank.

He nodded, not sure what to say to the winking, booze-pushing senior in front of him.

“So you found my boy. Jillian says he was all the way across the bridge this time! I am in your debt, son—if you hadn’t stopped, there’s no telling what could have happened to him. A car could have gotten him, or an alligator! We have those here, you know.”

Nic did know, but hadn’t thought about it at the time. Which was probably a good thing. Changing the subject, he asked, “Mrs. Rosenberg, do you know how Murphy escaped? Jillian said this wasn’t his first attempt. I’d hate to see him get out again.”

She shook her head, neon hair flying wildly. “It’s a mystery to me. I left him locked in the house, with his food and water. The neighbor was going to let him out for me at bedtime, but she says he was already gone. If he’d been outside, I might think he dug out, since he’s done that before, but from inside the house? That doesn’t seem likely.” She frowned in thought, her bedazzled spectacles sliding down her nose.

“Do you mind if I look around, see if I can find his escape route?”

“Look wherever you like, son. I’ll just sit here and finish my wine.” She took another healthy swig. “You let me know if you find anything.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Nic decided to start at the front of the house. Murphy, who’d been lying happily at his feet, jumped up, eager to follow wherever he led. The front door offered no clues, and the windows appeared secure. No loose locks or broken panes. The bedroom windows were the same. Murphy, thinking there was some game afoot, pranced and barked as he searched.

When they got to the kitchen, the dog ran ahead and jumped up onto the kitchen door. Wondering, Nic stopped, and watched. Sure enough, Murphy jumped again, this time his paws hitting the lever door handle. If the dead bolt hadn’t been in place, the door would have popped right open. “Mrs. Rosenberg, was the kitchen door dead bolted when you were away?”

“The kitchen door? No, the key for that lock got lost a long time ago. But I did push the button in, on the doorknob. That locks it from the inside, and it opens with the same key as the front door.” She paused, eyes wide, “You don’t think someone broke in, do you?”

“No, not a break-in,” he assured her. “Just a break-out. See these scratches on the door? I think Murphy was jumping at the door to follow you, and his paws landed on the handle. That lock opens automatically from the inside as soon as you turn the handle. He just let himself right out. Then I imagine the storm blew it shut again. If you’re going to keep him in, you’re going have replace that lever-style handle with a good old-fashioned doorknob.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a smart boy! Opening doors!” Mrs. Rosenberg beamed at her black-and-white escape artist. “But I see what you mean. We can’t have him gallivanting around town. I’ll have to ask around about a handyman—I’m afraid tools and such just aren’t my area of expertise.”

“I could do it,” Nic said before he could stop himself.

“Would you? Oh, that would be such a load off my mind. I worry so about poor Murphy. I know this isn’t the best home for him, but I’d be sick if anything happened to him.” Before Nic could think of a way to extricate himself, she pressed a wad of cash into his hands. “Palm Hardware is just around the corner. You must have passed it on the way here. Just pick out whatever you think is best.”

Thirty minutes later, Nic was tightening the last screw with, of all things, a pink screwdriver. Murphy had been banished to the bedroom after getting in the way a few too many times, and Mrs. Rosenberg was thrilled. Straightening, he couldn’t help but grin as he packed up the pastel tool kit. Project Dog-Proof was a success, and despite his initial reluctance to get involved, it felt good to know he’d been able to help. Getting his own hands dirty was a lot more satisfying than just signing a work order.

“I have to say, I’m so glad Jillian had that meeting today, and you came instead. Not that I don’t love Jillian,” she clarified hastily. “Murphy adores her and I do, too. But I wouldn’t have felt right asking her to change a doorknob. I’m a bit too old-fashioned for that.”

He grinned. Of all the ways he might describe Mrs. Rosenberg, “old-fashioned” wasn’t one of them. “What sort of meeting she was going to?” He told himself he was only interested as part of his research on the island. He certainly wasn’t prying into the pretty vet tech’s life. Not very much, anyway.

“The Island Preservation Society. Jillian is one of the founding members,” Mrs. Rosenberg said proudly. “I don’t attend the meetings—meetings give me heartburn—but I donate when they have their annual rummage sale, and attend the dinner dance they do in the spring.”

His shoulders tensed. “What exactly does this society do?”

“They mostly work to preserve the historic buildings, protect the coastal habitat, anything that has to do with maintaining the way of life Paradise is known for.” Her eyes shined with pride. “Our little town isn’t as fancy or popular as Daytona or Miami or those other beach places, and that’s just fine with us. We like things the way they are, if you know what I mean.”

Nic was afraid he did know. From what she was saying, he was going to have a fight on his hands, and Jillian was playing for the other side.

Jillian walked quickly across the hot asphalt parking lot, sticky with sweat and humidity. Ahead, the air-conditioned coolness of the Palmetto County Library beckoned like a mirage, a refuge from the last gasp of summer. Stepping inside, she took a deep breath, embracing the smell of old books that permeated the air. Fortified, she climbed the single staircase to the crowded conference room where Cassie and Mollie were waiting for her.

“We saved you a seat.” Mollie waved, her pixie-like face lighting up at the sight of her friend. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and you know I only come to these things because of you.” Formal meetings of any sort were definitely not Mollie’s thing. Grateful, Jillian hugged the petite woman in appreciation.

“I appreciate you making the sacrifice. These meetings really are important, especially now. Rumor is that the Sandpiper’s new owner wants to sell.”

“Sell the Sandpiper Inn? That place is an institution! I can remember Dad taking me there as a kid for the annual fish fry and the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. And just a few years ago, he and mom had their twenty-fifth anniversary party there.” Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s bad enough that they don’t do the community events anymore, but sell it? To who?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They haven’t even officially put it on the market yet. I think that happens Monday. I only know about it because another one of the Island Preservation Society members, Edward Post, told me about it when I saw him at the grocery store yesterday. He was always close with the Landry family, and had hoped when their daughter inherited the Sandpiper she would bring it back to its glory days. But she’s got her own retail shop over in Orlando, and isn’t interested in being an innkeeper. He thinks she’ll take the first good offer she gets.”

Jillian’s heart hurt just thinking of the stately inn being taken over by outsiders, or worse, torn down. A beacon on the Paradise Isle shoreline, the Sandpiper had stood for more than a century. Its spacious grounds had always served as an unofficial community center, the gregarious owners often hosting holiday events, weddings, even a prom or two. She’d fallen in love with the grand building the first time she saw it and had always imagined she’d bring her own family to events there, one day. Now it might be destroyed before she ever had that chance. It just didn’t seem fair, or right, to let it slip away without a fight.

As the meeting got under way, she found it hard to concentrate on the details of the historic post office renovation, or a proposal for a bike lane on Island Avenue. Normally she was the first volunteer for a Society project, but right now she was too on edge about the fate of the Sandpiper Inn.

And if she was honest with herself, the issue with the Sandpiper wasn’t the only thing making her palms sweat. A good number of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were about her upcoming date. It wasn’t as if she’d never been on a date before; at twenty-seven, she’d had her share of relationships. But always with local, familiar, safe men. Nothing serious. After a few dates, they’d ended up just friends, leaving her wondering if she was even capable of more intense feelings.

But Nic, with his towering good looks and confident manner, was another kind of man altogether. One that had her squirming in her seat, unsure if she was eager for the meeting to be over or afraid of what came after it.

Finally, the last item on the agenda was addressed. Edward Post stood at the front of the room, faced the folding chairs and cleared his throat. “I know that a few of you have heard rumors about the Sandpiper Inn. I’m afraid those rumors have been confirmed. Ms. Roberta Landry, the current owner, has decided to sell the inn and return to her job in Orlando.” Shifting his weight nervously, he continued, “The board of the Island Preservation Society has spoken with Ms. Landry, and she has agreed to at least entertain the idea of the city purchasing the inn for community use.”

“Can the city afford to buy it?” someone from the crowd asked.

Edward pushed his glasses up his nose, to see who had spoken. “No, not without help. We’re preparing an application to the State Register of Historic Places. If we can get the Sandpiper listed, we may be able to get a grant toward its preservation, which would help offset the purchase price. Our chances are good, but the process can take several months. If there is another offer before that happens, Ms. Landry is within her rights to sell without waiting for the outcome of our application.”

At that point the meeting broke down, voices rising as friends and families discussed the odds of success. Everyone already knew, without being told, that with land prices finally going up, a new owner was likely to raze the inn and parcel the land up.

Heartsick, Jillian avoided the speculating citizens and quietly made her goodbyes. Descending the stairs, she vowed to contact Edward and volunteer to write the grant application herself. Tonight she’d start researching the process, figure out their best way forward. She was going to do whatever she could to increase their chances of getting that grant. This was her home, and she wasn’t giving up without a fight.

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