“Desmond has always had a crush on Maisie,” Monica said.
“And why not,” I said. “She’s a commanding presence.”
As soon as Maisie lay down, all barking ceased. The dogs, aside from Maisie and Desmond, who were curled into a lover’s knot on the floor, sat in a state of calm expectation. Monica clapped her hands together and addressed them.
“Good. Now that everybody’s here, we can get the party started. Who wants a cookie?” The dogs perked up their ears, almost as if they understood what Monica was saying. “Everybody? Okay, good. Now where is my pastry chef?” Monica looked over her shoulder. “Alex!”
“Just a sec! I’m taking the last batch out of the oven.”
A moment later, the kitchen door swung open and Alex emerged. He was smiling. Broadly. I didn’t gasp at the sight of him, but I could have.
* * *
An hour later, after Alex disappeared through the kitchen door carrying an armful of dirty dishes, I leaned across the table and whispered, “Monica, what have you done with Alex?”
She grinned. “I know, right? He’s polite. He’s helpful. He’s happy. Hard to believe it’s the same kid. I keep looking under his bed for pods.”
“The haircut,” Nan commented. “How did you talk him into it? And dying his hair a normal color? One that could actually grow naturally out of a human head?”
“I didn’t talk him into anything. He asked me to make him the appointment. He wants to impress that girl, Gwen, when he goes back to school.”
“He will,” Nan said confidently. “He looks so handsome.”
“I hope so. Turns out he’s a doll when he makes an effort. And he bakes. What girl could resist? And speaking of baking,” Monica said, glancing across the room at the pile of dogs, dozing contentedly after having devoured homemade pumpkin-peanut, chicken parmesan, and liverwurst dog biscuits, “the pups obviously approved of their menu selections. But what did you two think?”
“The peppercorn fettuccini with lemon gremolata was good, but the eggplant parmesan was truly inspired,” Nan said.
“Agreed,” I said. “And roasted rosemary pork—fabulous. I wasn’t as crazy about the chicken rollatini. Maybe a little bland?”
Anything Monica cooks is ten times better than anything I make, so it felt odd saying anything negative about her dishes, but I knew she wanted honest opinions.
“I thought so too. Maybe I should add a little more oregano?” Monica said.
“Predictable,” I replied. “How about thyme instead? And more garlic?”
Monica nodded and made a note on a pad of paper. “See, Grace? This is why I needed you to be here. Your palate is always spot-on. As much as you love to eat, I’ve never understood why you didn’t really learn to cook.”
“Because if I had, I’d weigh three thousand pounds. And it’s not like I don’t cook at all. I do my basic recipes to keep from starving—chili and soup in the Crock-Pot, turkey meat loaf, tuna salad—then enjoy my occasional treats and the pleasure of being able to button my jeans.”
“Turkey meat loaf.” Monica shuddered. “I’d rather wear stretch pants. Okay, I still need a chicken dish. What did you think of the piccata? If I pounded the breasts thinner? I thought it was a little tough.”
Monica finally settled on four dishes—eggplant parmesan, chicken piccata, roasted rosemary pork, and grilled salmon with fried capers, served on a bed of winter greens. With that decided, we moved on to the important business of catching up.
Monica beamed as she poured wine and told us about Alex’s transformation, some of which she credited to Bob Smith, Alex’s new advisor.
“He actually came by the house to check on him, then stayed for two hours to help Alex with his homework,” she said. “Talk about going above and beyond.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t checking on you?” I asked, teasing her.
“Not my type at all. I mean, seriously. Bob Smith? Could there be a more generic, less Italian name? He’s a terrific teacher, though. I’m so happy he’s advising Alex. The kid needs a positive male role model. So, Nan? What have you been up to?”
Nan admitted to feeling a little frazzled with four dogs in residence. “But it’s been a good week. I think I finally have an idea to raise some money for the rescue.”
“Oh no! I forgot,” Monica said, thumping her forehead. “We were going to talk about a fund-raiser. I’m sorry, Nan.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been busy. Besides, it worked out. I stopped by the pet shop the other day. Sylvia, the owner, mentioned that the company she buys her dog jackets from had just gone out of business. So I said, what about letting me sew dog jackets for her to sell in the shop, with the proceeds going to Rainbow Gate?
“She loved the idea,” Nan said. “If it works, it’d be year-round income for the rescue. And who knows? Maybe we could sell in other shops too.”
“So,” Monica said doubtfully, “in addition to pet therapy, fostering dogs, and raising money for the rescue, plus all your ten zillion other projects and hobbies, you’re going to start a dog jacket empire?”
“Not an empire. A pilot project. Sylvia said she’d take a dozen to start and we’ll see how it goes. But I take your point,” Nan said, propping her chin in her hand. “It’s a big job to take on by myself. If only I had some helpers.” She sighed theatrically.
I looked at Monica.
“You know how I’m always accusing you of roping me into things? I’m
