How To Rescue A Family

Chapter Two

“Mr. Carter, I’m glad you stopped by. My teaching assistant is helping the kids pack up for the day, so we can chat for a few minutes until the bell rings.” Patty Matthews, Dillon’s teacher, shut the door of her classroom behind her and smiled up at Ryan as she stepped into the hallway.

Over her shoulder, he could see inside the room through the door’s long, slender window. The space was an explosion of color, from the brightly hued mats covering the floor to the cheery alphabet signs on the wall—A is for aardvark, B is for baboon, C is for camel and so on. The cartoon animals reminded Ryan of all the times he’d promised to take Dillon to the Smithsonian Zoo when they’d lived in Washington, DC.

Promises he’d broken.

He swallowed and forced his gaze back to his son’s teacher. “I got your message. Is something wrong?”

The teacher’s smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t necessarily say anything is wrong. Dillon is a sweet boy—very well behaved—and his mathematics level is advanced for his age, so I’m not at all concerned with his progress in that regard.”

Ryan nodded, sensing the but that was sure to come.

“But...” And there it was. “This afternoon in reading circle, he refused to read aloud when it was his turn. Did Dillon experience trouble reading at his previous school?”

Ryan’s gaze flitted to the classroom window again, where he could see Dillon sitting quietly as his desk, holding his favorite plastic dinosaur toy, while the students around him chatted and wiggled their backpacks onto their shoulders.

“As I explained when I met with the principal and registered Dillon for school, he’s had a difficult time since his mother’s death last year. He’s quiet.” Ryan cleared his throat. “Very quiet.”

“Yes, Principal Martin passed that information along to me. But I’m not sure we realized the extent of Dillon’s shyness. Exactly how quiet are we talking about?” Mrs. Matthews tilted her head and waited for Ryan to explain.

He probably should have made things clearer when Dillon started school at Spring Forest Elementary. Scratch that—he definitely should have done so. But he’d stopped short of telling the whole truth because he hadn’t wanted his boy to start off in a brand-new school with a label hanging over his head.

It had been the wrong call, obviously. Ryan should have seen this awkward conversation coming. He was a journalist, for God’s sake. Anticipating conflicts was part of what made him good at his job.

“Dillon won’t read aloud,” he finally said.

“Mr. Carter.” Mrs. Matthews lifted a brow. “Does Dillon speak at all?”

A heaviness came over Ryan all of a sudden, as if the simple act of standing required more energy than he could muster. “No, he doesn’t.”

The problem wasn’t physical. According to his pediatrician back in DC, it was just a temporary manifestation of grief. It wasn’t permanent.

It couldn’t be permanent.

“I see.” The teacher’s voice grew soft. Soothing. “It’s important for me to know exactly what’s going on so I can figure out how to best help your son.”

“Right. I’m sorry. I’d just hoped...” He’d hoped once Dillon was in a new place, with new people, he’d be ready to open up and start over. He’d hoped leaving behind the only home his son had ever known and bringing him to Spring Forest had been the right call. Most of all, he’d hoped that it wasn’t too late to be the kind of father Dillon needed.

The kind he deserved.

“I guess I thought he’d be happy here.” Even just a little bit.

“We’ll do our best to make sure he is,” she said, sounding far more certain than Ryan felt.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the window one last time, only instead of catching another glimpse of the inside of the classroom, his gaze snagged on his own reflection in the polished glass. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. He looked every bit as tired as he felt.

He also looked like a pompous jerk standing in the school hallway dressed in his overly formal bespoke suit and Hermès tie—a pompous jerk who had no idea how to help his own kid.

“I took him to see a therapist a few times before we moved here, and she said the most important thing we can give Dillon is patience. At home, I’ve removed all pressure for him to speak. As soon as he says a word, even if it’s just a whisper, I’m to offer him gentle encouragement. Other than that, I’m just supposed to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. That’s the only concrete advice she could give me.”

Mrs. Matthews gave him a curt nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do here at school as well. From now on, I won’t call on him to read aloud. During reading circle, I can send him to the library where he can read quietly on his own so he won’t feel pressured in any way. And if I notice him whispering or speaking in class, I’ll be sure and reward him—nothing too over the top, so he won’t be singled out from the other kids. Maybe a sticker or a baseball card? Does this plan work for you?”

Ryan nodded. “It does. Thank you for your help. It means a lot.”

Dillon’s school in DC hadn’t been so accommodating. Ryan had considered homeschooling, but there was no way he could juggle that with his workload at the Post. Their only option had been a completely new start.

New town, new school, new life.

“Of course. If you wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve come to take him home. The bell will be ringing in just a few minutes.” The teacher turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “And Mr. Carter, try not to worry. We all want what’s best for Dillon. He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.”

Ryan nodded his thanks as a dullness spread throughout his chest, blossoming into a familiar regret.

He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.

If only that were true.

* * *

As soon as Amanda turned her red 1967 Chevy pickup onto Little Creek Road, dread tangled into a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. A third of the large oak trees along the old country road were down and the ones left standing had been stripped bare of their leaves. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie had come along and taken a machete to the forest, severing the top right off every white oak in sight.

Something horrific had come to their town, of course. The tornado that ravaged Spring Forest had touched down exactly a week ago.

Amanda had called to check on Bunny and Birdie the morning after the storm, so she really shouldn’t have been surprised by the extent of the damage. But hearing about it and seeing it were two entirely different things.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel as the memories of that awful night came back to her—the deafening roar as the twister spun down Main Street, the horrible way her apartment windows had rattled in their frames, the cool press of the bathtub’s porcelain against her cheek as she curled into a ball and did her best to ride out the storm. It was terrifying, and all in all, Spring Forest’s modest downtown area had fared pretty well. She couldn’t imagine how scared the Whitaker sisters must have been, not to mention the poor helpless animals in the shelter.

Her eyes filled with tears just thinking about it.

Get a grip. You’re fine. Everyone is fine.

Still, she’d feel better as soon as she got a glimpse of Tucker, her favorite dog at Furever Paws, and made sure he wasn’t traumatized. Not that she’d be able to tell, exactly. The little Chihuahua/dachshund mix—or chiweenie, as Birdie and Bunny liked to say—was notoriously standoffish. Amanda’s nickname for him was Grumpy. Which, now that she thought about it, would also be a suitable moniker for Ryan Carter.

Was it weird that she seemed to be attracted to cranky men and equally cranky dogs?

Probably. But at least she was consistent.

Consistently ridiculous. She maneuvered the truck into the shelter’s gravel parking lot, and rolled her eyes. So what if her tastes were a bit...odd? As she’d told Belle again and again, she didn’t have time for either a pet or a boyfriend, so it really didn’t matter how cranky the mysterious Mr. Carter could be. The grumpier, the better. If he looked right through her when she handed him his coffee, he’d be easier to ignore.

Except he hadn’t looked right through her on the street earlier. On the contrary, he’d focused on her with such blinding intensity it had made her head spin a little. For a minute, she’d thought he might be flirting with her. He’d even been charming, in a serious, formal sort of way.

I never lie about coffee.

Was she supposed to laugh at that? She had no idea. She only knew that all the butterflies in North Carolina had seemed to gather in her tummy at once, making her feel all fluttery and wonderful.

And then his hint of a smile had flattened into a straight line and he’d left before she could process what was happening. Perfect. Just perfect.

She climbed out of the truck and slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Why was she even thinking about Ryan Carter when Furever Paws was right in front of her looking seriously worse for wear?

The fence surrounding the property was flat on the ground, and the roof of the main shelter building looked as if the entire right side had been pried off with a can opener. The damage definitely looked worse than Birdie and Bunny had let on. Much, much worse. Even with good insurance, how long would it take before everything was fully restored?

As she stood surveying the destruction, she caught a glimpse of a gray flash out of the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around, but no longer saw anything. Just trees swaying in the breeze and branches scattered in every direction. She squinted, peering into the tree line. The other day, she could have sworn she saw a stray gray dog trotting past the window at the Grille. But when she’d gone outside to try to lure it indoors, it had been nowhere to be found. Sometimes she wondered if she was seeing things.

Amanda turned and held her breath, bracing herself as she pushed through the building’s glass double doors. Thankfully, the inside of the shelter seemed to have fared much better than the outside. Other than a few buckets placed strategically around the lobby to catch rainwater, things looked generally the same as they had when she’d shown up for her volunteer shift last week. Just damper, although the industrial-sized fan whirring in the corner seemed to be doing its best to dry things out.

“Afternoon, Amanda.” Hans Bennett, the shelter volunteer manning the front desk, waved and called out to her above the hum of the fan.

“Hi, Hans.” She waved back, and as she approached the counter, she spotted a kitten nestled in Hans’s lap.

Of course.

In the epic dogs versus cats question, the older gentleman was firmly on the side of the felines. Since he’d retired and doubled down on his volunteer hours at the shelter, he’d become a virtual hero every kitten season when the shelter was always bursting with frail, furry bodies that needed to be bottle-fed round the clock.

“Who’ve you got there?” she asked, nodding toward the little ginger tabby napping on Hans’s khakis.

“This here’s Lucille Ball.” He grinned and rubbed the tip of his pointer finger along the kitten’s tiny cheek.

“Lucille Ball? Cute. Let me guess—Birdie and Bunny let you name her.” Hans was nothing if not nostalgic for times gone by. He was the president of the Spring Forest Historical Society and had a thorough knowledge of the area’s involvement in the Underground Railroad back during the Civil War. Amanda couldn’t help having a soft spot for him.

“They did. As I’m sure you can tell, they’ve got their hands pretty full at the moment.” He cast a knowing glance at the ceiling.

Amanda followed his gaze and shook her head. “This is bad. Has the insurance company sent anyone out to take a look?”

Hans shrugged. “Not yet.”

That seemed strange. Seven days was a long time. Then again, the storm damage spread to Raleigh and beyond. The area insurance adjusters were probably working overtime. “Let’s hope they get someone out here soon. The shelter can’t go on like this indefinitely. Speaking of which, how’s Tucker? Have you seen him?”

“I have, and he’s as cantankerous as ever.” The older man rolled his eyes, then reached for the phone when it started to ring.

Amanda mouthed see you later as he launched into a conversation with someone who sounded like a potential pet parent. She breathed a little easier as she headed down the long hallway leading toward the kennel area. If Tucker was cranky, he was more than likely fine. If he’d become cuddly overnight, she’d really have something to worry about.

A few more carefully arranged buckets caught dripping water in the kennel area even though it wasn’t even raining outside, which didn’t bode well for whatever was going on in the attic. But Amanda couldn’t help but smile as all but one of the dogs darted to the front of their enclosures to greet her with yips and wagging tails.

“Hi, guys.” She greeted each pup by name until she reached the last kennel on the left, where the one holdout was tucked into a ball in the corner with his eyes closed and his head resting on his paws.

“Hello to you too, Grumpy.” She unlatched the door to Tucker’s enclosure, walked inside and crouched down in front of the stubborn little dog. “You’re not fooling me. I know you’re not asleep. Your paws always twitch when you nap for real.”

As if on cue, Tucker opened one disinterested eye.

Amanda reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumbles of goat cheese—leftovers from her experimental puff pastry. She held them out in an open palm and whispered, “I brought you a present, but don’t tell the others.”

Tucker’s tiny nose twitched, then his other eye sprang open and he lifted his head. But in true grumpy form, he picked gently at the cheese instead of gulping it down like a normal stray dog would, as if he was doing her a favor by eating it.

“Why you’re my favorite is a mystery I’ll never understand,” Amanda muttered.

Then, much to her irritation, Ryan Carter’s perfectly irritable, perfectly handsome face popped into her consciousness. She sighed. Damn him, and damn his chiseled bone structure.

“You know what they say about women who are attracted to dark and brooding characters, don’t you?” a familiar voice behind her asked.

Amanda scooped Tucker into her arms and turned around to find Birdie Whitaker smiling blithely at her from the other side of the chain-link gate. “Hi, Birdie. And no, I don’t know that they say. But I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Of course she was. Birdie never hesitated to speak her mind. “Scientists say it indicates a primal desire to find a strong, virile man who can give you lots of healthy babies.”

Amanda could feel tiny beads of sweat forming on her brow.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Beyond crazy. She didn’t have time for even one baby, much less a lot of them. “Besides, Tucker is a dog. Not a man.”

Ryan was a man, though. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was definitely attracted to him. But Birdie didn’t need to know that. No one did.

The older woman shrugged. “True, but you’re the only one who seems to appreciate his less-than-sparkling personality. Are you saying you wouldn’t like him if he were a human being?”

She held Tucker a little closer to her heart. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. But he’s not. He’s a dog, and I’m not ready for any children. Or a husband. So something about your scientific study must be flawed.”

“You’re probably right. What do they know? They’re just scientists.” Birdie bit back a smile. “Like Einstein and his ilk.”

Amanda rolled her eyes.

What had gotten into everyone? There hadn’t been this much interest in her nonexistent love life in...well...ever. “People are acting strange. I’m beginning to wonder if the storm blew in more than just the tornado.”

“The tornado was plenty. I think the storm might have rattled everyone.” Birdie looked around and sighed. “It sure rattled this old building.”

It had to be heartbreaking for Birdie to see the shelter in such bad shape. Neither she nor her sister had ever married. Bunny had been engaged once, years ago, but Birdie never talked about her past relationships. Every time the subject came up, she said her heart belonged to the animals at Furever Paws.

Amanda carried Tucker out of the kennel, shut the gate behind her and gave Birdie a hug with her free arm. “It’s going to be okay. As soon as the insurance money comes in, you can get someone out here to do repairs and everything will be as good as new.”

Ever stoic, Birdie nodded. “You’re right. This shelter has been here almost twenty years, and we’ve saved hundreds of animals, from dogs and cats to llamas and goats. It’s going to take more than a tornado to stop us.”

“Exactly.” Amanda nodded. “You and Bunny know I’ll help in any way I can, right?”

“Of course we do, dear.” Birdie’s gaze shifted to the dog in Amanda’s arms. “Are you going to walk that prickly little beast, or do you want to hear more about that scientific study I mentioned?”

“Nice try.” Amanda laughed. “But there’s a patch of grass with Tucker’s name on it outside.”

“See you later, sugar,” Birdie said in her Carolina drawl that Amanda knew so well, but when she smiled it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Amanda carried Tucker out back and didn’t set him down on the ground until they’d crossed the gravel lot and reached the sprawling emerald lawn that led to the old Victorian farmhouse where the Whitaker sisters had lived all their lives. Tucker didn’t like walking on gravel. Or dirt. Or pretty much anything other than soft grass. Amanda didn’t feel like playing tug-of-war with him on his leash today, so she indulged the dog once she’d put him down and let him drag her around the yard with his nose to the ground while she took in more damage from the storm.

There were a few more downed trees closer to Birdie and Bunny’s house, and the portable storage sheds behind the shelter had taken a beating. One of them was lying on its side, which probably meant that the dog food it housed had been ruined.

What a mess.

“It’ll be fine, though,” she said to Tucker. “No one got hurt. That’s the most important thing, right?”

It was like talking to a brick wall. The little dog completely ignored her, because of course he did.

Birdie was crazy if she thought that’s the kind of man Amanda wanted to end up with someday. It was one thing to willingly hang out with a standoffish dog, but marrying an actual person who acted in such a way would be insane. Take Ryan Carter, for instance. Just when he’d finally acknowledged her existence and complimented her coffee, he upped and switched back into his indifferent self and bolted. He’d practically sprinted away from her, right there on Main Street. It would have been mortifying, if she cared about how he treated her.

Which she absolutely did not.

Tucker cocked his head at her, and she must have been imagining things because she could have sworn he had a mocking little gleam in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what—or whom—she was thinking about.

She glared at him. “Don’t start.”

She needed to get him back to his kennel anyway, or else she wouldn’t have time to walk any of the other dogs before she had to return to the Grille for the dinner rush. So she scooped him into her arms and made her way back to the kennel area.

She didn’t mean to overhear Birdie and Bunny’s conversation. She really didn’t. They were speaking in such hushed tones that at first Amanda thought she was alone in the concrete room. But as she rounded the corner toward the row of enclosures where Tucker’s kennel was located, their soft, Southern drawls grew louder. More urgent.

“I don’t understand,” Bunny said. “Twenty thousand dollars? Out of our own pockets? We don’t have that kind of money.”

“We’ll just have get it somehow.” Birdie’s tone was flat. Determined.

She’d always been the more practical sister—a no-nonsense go-getter, while Bunny was more of a dreamer. Sweet as could be, but somewhat naive.

Bunny sighed. “But what about the insurance?”

Amanda cleared her throat. She needed to make her presence known before she heard something she shouldn’t. But the sisters didn’t seem to hear her, too caught up in their intense conversation.

“Oh Bunny, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Birdie’s voice cracked, and it was then that Amanda realized it was too late. Too late to interrupt. Too late to pretend she hadn’t just realized the shelter was in serious trouble. “We don’t have any insurance.”

Chapter Three

“We’re out of the pulled pork and hush puppies special,” Amanda poked her head into the dining room and announced.

“That was quick.” Belle glanced at her watch and sighed.

The Grille wasn’t scheduled to close for another two hours, and now they were down to one special—the pot roast. Slow-simmered in beef broth and smothered in onion gravy, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t nearly as good as the wine-based recipe Amanda had been experimenting with.

Last week she’d brought her newest creation along to Sunday dinner at her parents’ house and placed it on the table as if it were a foil-wrapped work of art, steeped in pinot noir and slender, woodsy porcini mushrooms. Her sister and brother-in-law had loved it, as had her brother, Josh. Even her nieces and nephews had given it glowing reviews. But she hadn’t been able to convince her parents that it should replace the pot roast recipe the Grille had been using for the past sixty-eight years. They’d gone on and on about tradition and down-home Southern cooking, as if she’d told them she wanted to start feeding the good people of Spring Forest foie gras. It was maddening.

Amanda was trying her best to be patient. Her mom, in particular, had been especially sensitive about changing anything at the Grille since Amanda’s grandmother passed away last year. The restaurant had become a sort of monument.

But it couldn’t stay the same forever, could it? If this was going to be Amanda’s life from here on out, she needed to be able to put her own stamp on it.

But tonight, for once, she hadn’t spent the better part of the dinner rush rewriting the Grille’s menu in her head. While she’d been busy taking tickets from Belle, calling out orders to the kitchen staff and plating one serving of pulled pork after another, her mind had been back at Furever Paws.

How was it possible that Birdie and Bunny didn’t have insurance? It didn’t make sense. Amanda was pretty sure their younger brother, Gator, took care of all the shelter’s business dealings. And Gator was a big shot investment banker or something like that. He lived in a fancy Antebellum-style mansion outside Durham, with huge white columns and a yard full of trees dripping with Spanish moss. The house was so grand it had been pictured in Southern Living a few years ago. With all of his business success, and the many investments he’d made over the years, surely he knew the importance of having property insurance.