Mai Tai'd Up
Page 17

Dr. Campbell senior was an enormous help. He was able to get us approval from the county faster than we could have on our own, to make sure we’d be open for business as soon as we could get things ready. And with his good standing in the community, anyone who had something negative to say about pit bulls being sheltered in their town was immediately converted after they heard him eloquently speak about these misunderstood animals.
As things began to take shape, I found that I was thinking less and less about the life I left behind in San Diego, and more and more about the life I was creating here in Monterey.
One afternoon I was whitewashing the old milking stalls when I saw a truck with Campbell Veterinary Hospital emblazoned on the side pull up in front of the house. Dr. Campbell had said he might stop by after work to drop off some donations. Wiping my painty hands on my jeans, I headed out into the driveway and saw that it was the son, not the father. I quickly ran my hands through my hair, realizing too late that I’d just striped myself like Pepé Le Pew. Ah, well.
Lucas climbed out of the truck, clad in jeans and a tucked in black button down. (Mercy.)
“Hello! I thought your dad was stopping by,” I said as he walked toward me.
“Disappointed it’s not him?” he joked.
Standing in front of me, he blocked out the sun, making a halo of his hair. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from telling him this very thing.
“Just surprised, is all,” I said, tilting my head back for another halo peek. “How’ve you been?”
“Good, good. You?”
“Busy. Which is good for me.”
“Sounds like things are really coming along up here. When my dad told me he was running some stuff up here, I offered to come so I could see . . . the place.” He grinned.
“Oh, I bet Marge loved that.” I laughed.
“She sure did,” he admitted. “So, give me the tour.”
“The tour?”
“Yeah, I hauled eighteen bags of Dog Chow up here for you. The least you can do is show me around the place.”
“You hauled them in a truck—don’t make it sound like you lugged them up by hand,” I teased.
“I loaded them by hand. Does that count?” he asked, showing me his hands. They were calloused. And looked strong.
“Those callouses from kayaking?”
“Mostly paddleboarding. How’d you know I kayak?”
“Your agent told me.” I rolled my eyes. “She even showed me pictures.”
“Crazy old woman.” He laughed with affection.
I’d stopped by the clinic twice in the last two weeks and never saw Lucas, but Marge made a point to show me more pictures of him.
I hadn’t exactly protested.
“Tour, huh?” I asked.
“As long as you don’t put a paintbrush in my hand,” he teased, reaching out to tug on a piece of my hair that was striped. My skin tingled pleasantly. “So where do we start?” he asked, looking toward the hill. “Up there?”
“Hey, buddy, this is my tour. We’ll start where I say.” I turned and headed up the hill. “We’re gonna start up the hill.”
I could hear him chuckling behind me. I put my hips into it. The chuckle turned into something a little more desperate, and I chuckled right along with him.
Showing him around the property, I pointed out what was completed and what we were still working on. Some of Lou’s volunteers were coming up in a week to help fine-tune everything, setting up the office and things like that. Since we were a satellite operation, we were essentially copying what was working in Long Beach, on a smaller scale. I’d visited Lou several times over the last few years, and always marveled at what a tight ship he ran. I was hoping to copy that as well.
As we walked down the center of the barn, I explained how the dogs would be kept. “They’ll have a lot of time out in the yard every day, but they’ll each have their own pen to come back to, with beds and their own food and water. Shared spaces sometimes, but at the beginning, at least, they’ll each have their own space.”
“Dad’s told me all about it, but seeing it is a very different thing. What you guys have done up here already is impressive.”
“Not just us. You’ll be here too,” I said innocently.
“I will?”
“Sure, your dad volunteered your services evenings and weekends, free of charge. He didn’t tell you?”
“He seems to have neglected to mention that.” He leaned against one of the stalls. “But it sounds good to me.”
“Nights and weekends? Free of charge? Fantastic!” I clapped my hands. He pushed himself off the stall and moved a bit closer.
“Might as well. My nights and weekends aren’t too exciting these days.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that. A good-looking guy like you?”
“Good looking, huh?”
“Well, you kind of set me up for that one, didn’t you?” I laughed, noticing how close he’d gotten. “Besides, all the good-looking guys are going around with white stripes on their black shirts these days—it’s all the rage. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble picking up the ladies.”
“White stripes?” he asked, puzzled.
I stepped to his side and ran my hand across his back, then showed it to him.
“You could’ve warned me!” he exclaimed, spinning around quickly as if to see the back of his own shirt.
“What part of ‘I’m painting the stalls in the barn’ did you not get?” I laughed, and it felt good, easy. “Don’t worry, it’s milk paint. It’ll come right out in the wash.”
“Good. I should get those bags out of my truck and let you get back to your afternoon. Or night, I suppose now. Dusk. Whatever.”
“Yes, let me get back to my dusk, please,” I teased, and we headed back toward the truck. We walked in silence, and within a few seconds I felt the need to fill it. “My nights and weekends are pretty thin on excitement too, you know.”
Overshare. Overshare. Overshare.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, and I could feel my cheeks begin to burn.
Why in the world had I said that? I quickly said, “Yes, I’m actually enjoying the peace and quiet. It’s a good change of pace. So, Marge said you were involved with Vets Without Borders? Tell me about that.”
We’d reached the truck, and he went around to the back and started unloading the big bags of Dog Chow as I directed him toward the shed. As he unloaded, he told me all about this wonderful program. It’s exactly like what it sounds like: they go where the vets aren’t. They identify areas that need quality veterinary care, and doctors donate their time and service to that community. Pets, strays, you name it, they care for it. And as eighteen bags of Dow Chow were unloaded, he painted a picture of a coastal village in Guatemala, and the sweet people he met there. Sleeping in barracks with other volunteers, spending evenings around beach bonfires, working long hours in the hot sun. He was heading out again for another tour in a couple of months, to Belize, and he’d be gone twelve weeks again.