routine, which mainly consists of housekeeping duties, until he says, “And on Fridays we clean Lucy’s teeth. She keeps her toothbrush under the kitchen sink.”
At first I think he’s kidding, and I laugh. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even crack a smile.
“Saturday we check Lucy for ticks. Sundays are for rest. Now listen, if you come up with any questions later, call me.” He taps the piece of paper where I notice he’s scribbled several phone numbers. “But I don’t always have good reception where I’m headed, so try any of these local numbers if you’re in a bind.
“There’s a doggie door cut outta the back of this place. Lucy will let herself in and out. There’s a bag of dog food under the sink and more in the shed out back. Give her one cup in the morning and one in the late afternoon. No more or she won’t fit through the door anymore. Keep her water dish full, or she’ll drink out of the toilet, and keep her away from dead fish as best you can or she’ll get diarrhea.”
I’m pretty sure my skin is turning a pale shade of green. “Aren’t you going to teach me about running the lighthouse?”
He looks at me like I’m extremely slow. “I told you it was decommissioned.”
“Yes.”
“So there’s nothing you need to do—at least when it comes to keeping boats from crashing on the rocks. You’re here for Lucy.”
The dog whines.
“It’s all right, Lu. This girl’ll take good care of you. I’ll be back in twelve weeks. The Vega’s yours to use,” he offers, pointing in the direction of where his car is parked in the driveway. “It’s gassed up. Ah! I hear Murphy’s truck coming. He’s my fishing partner. We gotta get out of here if we’re going to make Winnipeg by morning. We’ve got an eight a.m. flight out of there to Vancouver.”
“Wait. You mean, just like that?” I ask, perhaps a little too desperate sounding than is reasonable. “You’re leaving?”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” He bends over and kisses the dog on the head, and with that, picks up his wool shirt, grabs two duffles, zips up his bag of fishing poles, and walks out.
The dog and I listen to the muffled voices of Calloway and his friend in the driveway, then the thump, thump of Calloway’s duffle bags landing in the back of the truck.
There’s the crunch of tires over gravel and a small backfire, then the dog wheels around on me—a low growl rumbling through its chest.
I curse low under my breath. It’s going to kill me before I even unpack. “Nice doggie.”
It barks twice—loud and sharp. I shriek and fly through the kitchen, flinging myself into the bedroom, slamming the door and dropping the latch. I grab my backpack and dig around until I find my phone. Out of habit, I dial Macie’s number, but I’m met with the sound of a dropped call. Still no service.
I hold my phone high in the air and wander around the room then over to the window, while the dog continues to bark on the other side of the door. With the phone still held above my head, I try Macie again.
“Hello?” comes the broken voice above me.
“Macie!” I yell toward the ceiling. “Macie, can you hear me?”
“Katherine? Are you okay?”
Before I answer, the line goes dead. I throw my cell toward the foot of the bed and lunge for the heavy black phone on the nightstand. The handset feels like a lead brick. I’ve never actually used a dial phone before. I’m not even sure it’ll work.
“Katherine? Is that you?”
“Hey! Wow! It works,” I say.
“Are you okay?” Macie asks.
I flop down on my stomach on the bed. “I am so mad at you.”
“You made it up there in one piece then,” she quips.
“There’s a dog, Macie. A big dog! I’m a freaking dog sitter!”
“Ooo,” she says. “Awkward.”
“Awkward? Awkward? It wants to kill me.”
I can hear Macie’s eye roll over the line. “Don’t overdramatize,” she says.
Easy for her to say. There’s not some hairy four-legged creature scratching on the other side of her bedroom door.
She says, “Give it something better to eat than you.”
“Would you be serious?”
“I thought I was,” she responds.
I groan, rolling over onto my back.
“So what’s it like up there?” she asks.
“Old and small.” So small I can hear the clock tick-tock in the kitchen.
I look around the tiny bedroom for the first time. Much like the mismatched kitchen, Calloway’s room is a jumble of antiques