Page 2 of Saving Her Heart
"Mrs. Parsons, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. This building doesn't allow pets, and especially not?—"
The goat chooses that moment to hop onto the cream-colored sofa, leaving tiny hoof prints on the pristine fabric.
"Gertie, no!" Mrs. Parsons scolds gently. "We only jump on the furniture after five o'clock."
I pull out my phone to call animal control, but before I can dial, the goat—Gertie—makes a decisive leap from the sofa to the floor and darts between my legs toward the open door.
"Oh no. No, no, no?—"
The goat is already in the hallway, its hooves clicking against the hardwood like castanets. I lunge after it, my pencil skirt restricting my movement to an awkward shuffle-run.
"Gertie! Gertie, come back!" Mrs. Parsons calls from her doorway. "She's very spirited in the morning."
Spirited is one word for it. I watch in horror as Gertie gallops toward the elevator, which is opening to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from unit 324. The elderly couple's eyes widen as a goat charges past them into the elevator.
"Hold that door!" I call, abandoning all pretense of professional dignity as I sprint-shuffle down the hall.
Mr. Wilson jabs at the buttons while Mrs. Wilson presses herself against the elevator wall. Gertie stands in the center of the elevator, tail wagging like a dog's, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"Is that a goat?" Mr. Wilson asks, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.
"It's a therapy animal," I say breathlessly, squeezing into the elevator. "Allegedly. Please, nobody make any sudden movements."
The elevator doors close with us all inside—two bewildered residents, one harried property manager, and one escape artistgoat. Gertie immediately begins investigating Mrs. Wilson's grocery bag.
"She's eating my Bok Choy!" Mrs. Wilson exclaims.
"Gertie, no. Drop it." I reach for the vegetables, but Gertie has already scarfed down half a bundle and is eyeing the green onions with interest.
The elevator dings on the second floor. The doors open to reveal Valerie Thornfield, HOA president, and my personal nightmare, standing with her clipboard and disapproving expression already in place.
"Ms. Greene, I—" Valerie's voice cuts off as she registers the scene in the elevator. Her mouth opens and closes twice before she manages, "Is that livestock?"
"It's a therapy animal," Mr. Wilson offers helpfully. "Very spirited."
Valerie's face turns an alarming shade of purple. "This is a violation of sections 3, 7, and 14 of the HOA bylaws. Ms. Greene, I demand an explanation."
Gertie, apparently offended by Valerie's tone—as am I—lowers her head and charges out of the elevator, bowling the HOA president over like a bowling pin in designer clothing. Valerie's clipboard goes flying, papers scattering across the hallway like oversized confetti.
"My hip!" Valerie screeches from the floor. "That animal assaulted me! I'm calling the police!"
"Please don't—" I begin, but Valerie is already pulling out her phone with the determination of someone about to ruin everyone's day.
Gertie, meanwhile, has discovered the stairwell. The sound of tiny hooves echoes up from below, followed by surprised shouts from residents on the first floor.
I look at the scene—Valerie on the floor making her phone call, the Wilsons still in the elevator clutching their decimatedgroceries, Mrs. Parsons, who somehow beat us down to this floor in the stairwell, wandering down the hall in her slippers, papers everywhere, calling for Gertie. My perfectly controlled morning has descended into complete chaos in less than ten minutes.
Rule one is already out the window—I'm definitely feeling emotions, primarily panic and disbelief. Rule two is hanging by a thread because how can anyone control a rogue goat? And rule three... well, at least that one is still intact. No trust issues with barnyard animals... yet.
"Ms. Greene!" Valerie barks from the floor. "Don't just stand there! That creature is destroying property values as we speak!"
More shouts echo from the stairwell, followed by what sounds like a potted plant crashing. I kick off my heels—I'll need mobility for this—and head for the stairs. Behind me, I hear Valerie saying something about "multiple ordinance violations" and "immediate police response."
The morning sun is no longer painting pretty pictures on the pool. It's highlighting the disaster zone my perfectly ordered world has just become, complete with a goat-shaped cherry on top.
I find Gertie in the lobby, standing on the concierge desk eating the welcome flowers while the night security guard watches in stunned silence. Several residents have gathered, some in robes and slippers, all pointing phones at the spectacle.
"Don't just film it!" I snap. "Someone help me catch her!"
