Page 1 of Just a Plot Twist
Chapter 1
Benson
What do you do when the thing you want least in the whole world shows up on your doorstep?
You panic.
And then you hide.
“Benson?” Mrs. Lambert’s throaty voice is full of concern as she calls through the door. She’s my landlady. Is that the politically correct term these days? Or is it landperson?
Probably in her mid-seventies, a soft cloud of blueish grey hair cherubically framing her face, she smells of baby powder and muscle rub. She’s a sweet and salty woman—nutty, like one of those granola bars.
And she is going to absolutely ruin my day.
I inhale, counting down as I make a decision.
If I give in to Mrs. Lambert’s request—and I know exactly what it’s going to be—Dax and Indie would be excited. And I would be miserable.
I’m a single dad. I only have my kids on the weekends, not nearly enough. So yeah, of course I want to do things that bring a smile to their faces.
I pace, hidden in the kitchen like a coward. Ugh. Can I sneak out the back? Because I do not want to answer this door.
Eventually, the desire to excite the kids beats out my own discomfort, and I cave. I open my front door cautiously. I can’t let this get out of hand. If she’s looking for someone to take the dog permanently—it’s a big fat no.
Mrs. Lambert smiles sweetly, a wave of relief crossing her features. A sharp bark rings out and I finally look down at the source: an English bulldog, white with tan smudges of spots along her back, her face sprinkled with dots of rust-colored hair. Her too-small, floppy ears sit awkwardly on top of her large, round head like curly pig’s tails. Her mouth pulls down into a permanent frown, her overbite adding to the scowl.
“Youarehome!” Mrs. Lambert says. Then her face falls, crumpling with lines of worry. Which is standard for her. She’s got eight tenants in these townhomes of hers in Platte Park, a vibrant neighborhood in southeast Denver, and she watches over us like a mother hawk—all-knowing and often with a mini loaf of banana bread in hand.
Except right now, unfortunately, there aren’t any signs of banana bread. Just a large canvas bag on one shoulder and a face full of apology.
“Would you like to come in?” I ask, widening the door and eyeing the dog again. She was Reggie Stack’s dog before Reggie moved into a care center last week. He lived in the townhome two doors down from mine, and he was always nice, in a sort of vague, great-uncle sort of way.
Without relatives available to take her, care for the dog has fallen on Mrs. Lambert. She has been giving me those eyes all week—the ones that say,You. You’re the one I deem worthy to take me out of my misery with this dog.
And up until now, I’ve managed to avoid this conversation.
Mrs. Lambert brightens into a smile and steps over the threshold. The dog follows with an air of triumph. Mrs. Lambert’s glance over my shoulder takes in the whole of my living room and kitchen.
“Huh. I didn’t know you were this clean.”
“Thanks?”
“I mean, you’re a single dad—” She glances at me and I straighten my t-shirt on reflex. “And it smells like soup is on.”
I nod. “And how’s Reggie doing?” I ask as the dog sniffs her smooshed-in nose high in the air, salivating at the scent of the hamburger soup I’m cooking over the stove. Except, don’t English bulldogs drool for no reason? I’m pretty sure it’s a defining trait.
“He’s adjusting to the new place.” She points to the dog. “This one here is actually the reason I’ve come,” Mrs. Lambert supplies.
I refrain from responding with “Shocker!” and instead try to smile.
“Reggie’s failing health has required him to move to the care center. It’s especially sad because the center doesn’t allow dogs.”
Reggie already told me as much while his grandkids and I were helping him move. He was as positive as one could have been in that situation. He told me he was looking forward to the good meals and the social life. He talked about the care center’s intense Canasta tournaments and his proximity to “the ladies.”
“I’ve been taking care of Cinnamon since Reggie left.” Mrs. Lambert gives the dog a sad smile.
Cinnamon sniffs along the perimeter of the kitchen, her hefty butt waddling with every labored step. Her corkscrew tail looks like one of my daughter Indie’s spiral curls when she was a toddler.
