Love, Luck, and Little Green Men: A Contemporary Romance Read online

  The white-haired receptionist glanced up from her desk, eyeing me over the top of her reading glasses. “Good afternoon, Ms. Flaherty. Cold enough for ya’?”

  “And then some.” I tugged off my red mittens.

  She pulled Blarney’s file from a stack on her desk and punched the intercom button on the phone to ring the vet. “Blarney Flaherty’s here, doctor.”

  I stuffed my mittens into the pockets of my gray sweatpants. “That’s a cute gnome outside. He looks so real.”

  “Gnome?” Her brows drew together. “What gnome?”

  Before I could respond, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

  “Just a sec.” She punched another button and picked up the receiver. “Eastside Veterinary. How may I help you?”

  I took a seat next to the owner of the Schnauzer, a thin, balding man working the newspaper Sudoku puzzle. Judging from the smudges, he was having a hard time of it. He muttered and erased the numbers he’d written in the top row.

  “Looks like fun,” I said, trying to make casual conversation, though I had no idea why people would voluntarily do math. Pure masochism if you asked me.

  The man replied with a grunt and turned back to his puzzle. Mister Personality.

  The door leading to the examination rooms opened and Dr. Delgado stuck her head in. The veterinarian was fiftyish and pleasantly pudgy. Her dark hair hung in a short bob that curled under at the ends, framing a round, friendly face. “Hi, Erin. Bring Blarney on back.”

  Still on the phone, the receptionist held out Blarney’s file with her free hand. I took the file from her, and the dog and I followed the doctor down the hall to an exam room. She closed the door softly behind us. I unclipped the leash from Blarney’s collar and he plopped down at my feet, softly panting.

  I hoped Dr. Delgado would tell me that the CAT scan had found nothing, that dogs, like people, simply have a bad day now and then, lose their temper, snap. “How did the test turn out, doctor?” My grip involuntarily tightened on the leash as I awaited her response.

  The veterinarian bit her lip, two dozen years in practice apparently making it no easier to deliver bad news. “I wish it were different, Erin.” She reached out and took my hand in hers, her natural smooth tan in sharp contrast to my pale, freckled skin. She gave my hand a compassionate squeeze. “But something showed up on the scan.”

  My heart seized up. I didn’t want to face this alone. I should have taken Brendan up on his offer to come to this appointment with me. But I hadn’t wanted to burden him with my problems. Turning him down had been a mistake. I could use a shoulder to lean on about now, and Brendan had comforting shoulders. Strong ones, too. I should know. I’d leaned on them many times over the years. Sometimes I wondered why the guy put up with me.

  Dr. Delgado’s deep brown eyes seemed to darken further as she noticed the worried tears pooling in mine. She waved me over to a computer monitor situated on the countertop. On the screen was an image of Blarney’s head, his doggie brain appearing as a pale gray mass inside the white outline of his skull. If it were possible to read the thoughts running through Blarney’s brain, they’d go something like:

  Pine tree in house? Must pee on tree and eat wrapped gifts underneath.

  Squirrel outside window! Let me at ‘im! Woof-woofwoof-woof!

  I love you! Do you love me, too? Huh? Do ya’? Huh? Please?

  Blarney was the most annoying, most destructive, craziest, sweetest, most loving dog alive. The operative word being alive.

  The doctor pointed at a dark spot on the image. “See that mass on the left side of his brain?”

  I nodded. I was afraid to ask, but I had to know exactly what we were dealing with. If Blarney had a terminal illness, if Blarney died . . . my throat closed at the mere thought and I could barely breathe. “What is it?” I forced out in a whisper.

  “It’s a meningioma.”

  Meningioma? I didn’t know what that was, but since it was a polysyllabic, hard-to-pronounce word chances were it was life threatening. The curable stuff was always short and easy to pronounce—warts and mumps, for instance. “Is that—” Fighting sobs, I gulped the words out. “A type of cancer?”

  Dr. Delgado shook her head. “No. It’s not cancer. But meningioma tumors can be just as deadly.”

  My heart felt like it had been skewered by a sharp arrow. Appropriate since it was Valentine’s Day, I guess. But weren’t Cupid’s arrows supposed to bring joy, not pain?

  I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and looked down at Blarney, his reddish hair precisely matching the shade of mine and my son’s, almost as if we shared DNA. The dog had stopped panting and was looking up at me and Dr. Delgado expectantly as if he understood we were talking about him, discussing his future . . . or what might be left of it. I knelt down, gave him a kiss on the muzzle, and scratched him behind the ears. “You’re a good dog. Yes, you are.” Please don’t die on us.

  He responded by licking my hand, a doggie kiss.

  The vet knelt down on the other side of Blarney, rubbing a hand down his back. “Meningiomas are a very aggressive type of brain tumor. They’re most often seen in older or middle-aged dogs, like Blarney here.”

  Blarney rolled onto his back and issued a demanding Arf!

  The doctor chuckled and scratched his chest with all ten fingers. “How’s that big fella?”

  Blarney closed his eyes in canine bliss.

  The vet looked back up at me and gave me a weak smile. “There’s no guarantee, of course, but the good news is that most meningiomas can be removed with surgery.”

  So Blarney had a chance. “Thank God!”

  Her smile faded. “The bad news is that the surgery is very expensive. It’s a difficult procedure and he’ll require round-the-clock post-operative care for several days afterward.”

  My stomach clenched into a hard ball. Despite being a different species, Blarney was a member of our family. Unfortunately, he was a member of our hard-working-yet-barely-making-ends-meet family. My shoe repair business did okay for a shoe repair business, but nobody got rich fixing heels and patching torn leather. My part-time evening gig as a dance instructor at the neighborhood recreation center added a little more to the pot but it was still a tiny pot.

  “How much would it be?”

  Her voice was soft, a subconscious attempt to lessen the blow. “The surgery runs five thousand, Erin.”

  Five grand? Holy crap! I’d already depleted our meager emergency fund to pay for the CT scan. I had no idea how I’d come up with the money for the surgery. But I’d do it. Somehow. “I’ll need a little time to raise the funds. How long do we have?”

  She glanced down at Blarney, took his face in her hands and looked into his big brown eyes as if searching for answers. “A month, maybe two. Steroids have proven to slow the growth rate, sometimes even shrinking the tumors a bit temporarily. We can put him on Prednisone tablets in the meantime.”

  She proceeded to give Blarney his first dose, expertly shoving the pill down his throat before he could protest. I’d surely have more trouble later, have to hide the darn pill in a piece of cheese.

  I made a mental note to pick up a block of Velveeta.

  ***

  In the reception area, I wrote out a check for today’s services and the bottle of pills, leaving a whopping eighty-two dollars and thirty-four cents remaining in the account. As hard as it would be coming up with the money to pay for the surgery, it would be even harder telling Riley his beloved Blarney might die. With any luck, the steroid would stop the symptoms, at least until I could come up with the funds . . . if I could come up with the funds.

  I tried to push that nasty if from my mind as I pushed open the glass door of the clinic.

  The wind slapped us in the face as we stepped outside. I stopped for a moment and zipped my oversized red hoodie. Of course everything was oversized to a four-foot ten-inch woman. It was either wear clothes that were two sizes too big or shop in the girls department and wear clothes cover
ed in bows and ribbon and polka dots. Some choice. Not that it mattered really. I hadn’t had a date in years, and I could wear whatever I wanted to work, one of the benefits to being your own boss. The downside to being your own boss is that you can’t ask for an advance when you need a quick five grand.

  Blarney pulled me on another tour of the bushes, sniffing the ground intently as if tracking something. I glanced around, but saw nothing, not even the funny little gnome that had been out here earlier. That was odd. Then again, it was near closing time. Maybe the staff feared vandalism and had brought him inside for the night.

  When he lost the trail of whatever he’d been tracking, Blarney gave up and headed down the sidewalk, tail wagging. Lucky dog. He had no idea what was going on, that his days could be numbered. Ignorance is bliss.

  Blarney trotted a few feet in front of me as we headed to my Toyota Tercel hatchback.

  My da had bought the car for me used, just after I’d graduated from high school. My parents hadn’t been able to afford a car for any of my older siblings. There were some advantages to being the last child left on the parental payroll. Of course it didn’t hurt that I’d always been a Daddy’s girl. Da was the one who’d driven me to my dance lessons night after night, year after year. Da was the one who’d worked overtime to pay for my tutus, tights, and tap shoes. A girl couldn’t ask for a more devoted dad. I may be unlucky in a lot of ways, but I was lucky to have him.

  The car’s once bright green paint had oxidized in the relentless sun of many Texas summers, and the car was now the color of a lima bean. The Notre Dame University sticker still graced the back window alongside my campus parking permit, long since expired, curling up around the edges. A decade and a half had passed since I’d attended classes at the university. I’d been a business major. I’d hoped the degree would give me the management skills to run a successful business plus the credentials to obtain a bank loan for my own dance studio.

  Things hadn’t gone as planned. I’d had to drop out of college after my freshman year due to unexpected circumstances. The unexpected circumstance was that I was expecting. That’s what happens when a virgin has too many cups of trash can punch at a party and forgets everything she’d ever been taught in Catholic school. Thou shalt keep thy knees firmly closed until marriage. Perhaps I’d been confused by the incongruity of the abstinence doctrine we were taught and the short plaid miniskirts we were forced to wear.

  I’d never returned to college after giving birth to Riley. He was a mistake to be sure, but he was the best mistake I’d ever made. If having Riley meant giving up my lifelong dream of owning a dance studio, so be it. Not many banks would take a chance on a college dropout, and even if I could have convinced one to finance my startup costs, my family couldn’t have survived the year or two it would take until the business got off the ground and began operating at a profit. I’ve accepted this. After all, we don’t live in a fairy world where all of our dreams come true, do we?

  The door’s rusty hinges creaked as I opened it and leaned the front seat forward so Blarney could hop onto the fringed blanket laid across the back. “In ya’ go, boy.”

  Once the dog had settled in, I climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, which surprised me by firing up on the first try. Maybe that was a lucky sign.

  Ignoring the incessant rattle of the heater, I closed my eyes and prayed. Dear, God. It’s me again. Erin. But I guess you knew that, huh? Forget all that stuff about me owning a dance studio and marrying the perfect man. I’ve got a much more urgent request now. My son’s dog is sick, he’ll die if he doesn’t have surgery, and I need to raise five thousand dollars in the next month to pay for the procedure. I could really use your help. Quick.

  When five grand didn’t immediately fall from the sky—didn’t God hear me say quick?—I drove to my bank. I cracked the window slightly so Blarney would have some fresh air, locked the doors, and went inside. A young loan officer in khaki pants, a stiff white shirt, and a striped tie led me to his desk, directed me to a chair, and handed me an application. While he played solitaire on his computer, I spent a few minutes filling out the form, listing my car as collateral. I signed the form and slid it back across the desk to him.

  He fished a ballpoint pen from the metal cup on his desk. He chewed on the tip of his pen as he looked the paper over. “Got anything for collateral other than the car?”

  I shook my head.

  He frowned.

  My stomach tried to eat itself. Blarney’s future—his life—was in the hands of this young man.

  He punched some information into his computer, waited a moment, then frowned again. “I’m sorry, but I can’t issue this loan. Your car’s too old and your credit score is too low.”

  “But I always pay my bills on time!”

  “Delinquencies aren’t the problem. Your outstanding debts are your problem. You owe too much relative to your income.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. I tried to think of something to say in return, something to convince him I wasn’t a risk. But what could I say? Numbers don’t lie. And my numbers—my income, my assets—weren’t big enough. I stood. “Well . . . thanks for your time.” Thanks for nothing.

  I left the bank, pausing out front, the door swooshing shut behind me. What now? Across the lot, Blarney stood in the back seat of my car, looking out the window fogged up with his warm breath. He wagged his tail when he saw me returning to the car. I climbed back inside and looked at the poor beast. “If only you’d been a goldfish.”

  He responded by licking my cheek. A goldfish wouldn’t have been so affectionate.

  On our way to my shop, I considered other options for raising a fast five grand. Charging the fee was out of the question. My credit card was maxed out, had been since I’d been forced to replace the timing belt and tires on my car a few weeks ago. With my parents’ small, fixed income, they wouldn’t be able to help. My siblings worked blue-collar jobs earning modest incomes. They had their own families to take care of, their own financial struggles. No help there.

  Maybe I could sell something. But what? The only jewelry I owned were cheap costume pieces that turned my ears and wrists green. We had no electronics to pawn, Riley being one of the few teenage boys without a fetish for video games and big screen televisions, instead preferring to play Frisbee with Blarney or shoot hoops in the driveway when I wasn’t dragging him along to a dance lesson. The only thing I owned of any value was this old car, and the decrepit thing had logged over two hundred thousand miles. It wouldn’t bring in more than a few hundred dollars, if that. I’d heard of places that pay women top dollar for their eggs, but at thirty-four my eggs were probably too old to qualify. Besides, donating my eggs went against my principles, though I sympathized with any woman unable to have a child of her own to love.

  A-ha! Maybe I could sell a kidney. “Do they allow that here?” I asked Blarney, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. A cocked head and pricked ears were his only reply. I made a mental note to look into it. Also, the cost of a plane ticket to Russia. The Ruskies allegedly had an active market in human organs. Besides, if I gave a Russian a kidney, I’d be doing my part to curb America’s trade deficit. See? I had learned a few things about business and the economy before dropping out of college.

  I thought some more, racking my brain, coming up empty. “Damn it!” I banged my fist on my steering wheel, inadvertently honking my horn at the car in front of me and earning myself an indecent gesture from the driver. I needed money. I needed help. Hell, I needed a miracle. I glanced up at the sky again. If only that brilliant rainbow would reappear I’d search until I found the pot of gold at the end of it. Then I’d load the gold in my bag and ride home on my pet unicorn to my fairy princess castle where we’d all live happily ever after.

  As if.

  It was then I remembered my secret collection of birthday coins. Every year on my birthday I’d wake to find a tiny gold coin on my pillow. The coins were unusual, imprinted with a four-leaf
clover on each side. The first time I’d found one, I’d asked my mother about it.

  She’d shushed me and taken me aside, telling me they were a special gift from my father and that I should never mention them to anyone, especially my dad, because my father wanted them to be a special secret. She’d bent her head close to mine and whispered. “You know what the four leaves stand for, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. Irish folklore held the three leaves of the shamrock represented the Trinity—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. But I had no idea what a four-leaf clover symbolized.

  Ma pointed at each of the four leaves in turn. “The first leaf stands for hope, the second is for faith, the third is for love, and the fourth is for luck.” She instructed me to hide the coins somewhere they’d never be found, so I’d stashed them in a pencil box in my bottom drawer, under an ever-growing pile of mismatched socks.

  Hope. Faith. Love. Luck.

  I held out hope that, with surgery, Blarney would get well. And, despite the setbacks I’d suffered in my life, I still had faith in God. As for love, I had Riley, and Blarney, and my family. But I had no romantic love. And luck had definitely not been on my side lately.

  Did the coins have any value? I wasn’t sure. They were probably nothing more than Irish pennies. It’s not like my dad had a lot of money to spare, and even if he did he wouldn’t have entrusted a young child to keep up with valuable coins. Still, it couldn’t hurt to look into it.

  It also couldn’t hurt to call Matthew. He had plenty of bills of his own, but he faithfully paid his child support, had even volunteered to split the bill from the orthodontist for Riley’s braces. Matthew loved Riley. Matthew also knew how much Riley loved Blarney, saw how much Riley missed the dog during his month with his dad in Iowa each summer. He’d spare what he could for his son.

  I dialed Matthew’s cell number and, when he answered, explained my predicament.