Dachshund Through the Snow - Roxanne St. Claire
Chapter One
“Agnes Santorini, my dear lass.” Finnie clapped her hands in front of her face with a gleam in her blue eyes not even her thick bifocals could hide. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”
“I don’t want bad news on Christmas Eve, Finnie.” Agnes gave the Christopsomo dough a solid knead with her knuckles. “So skip that part and tell me what’s good.”
“All righty, then.” Finnie peered at her phone, which Agnes knew was so magnified it barely showed four letters on the screen at a time. “It’s a text from my son, Daniel. He says, ‘Tell Yiayia that we have just gotten word that a man in town named Rad Shepherd’—”
“Are you reading that right? What kind of dumb name is Rad?”
Finnie looked up, a familiar chastisement in her expression. “Agnes, you’re slipping back to yer old self a wee bit frequently.”
Agnes made a face. “Damn…er, darn. I know. Okay, okay.”
“Don’t mean to pester, Agnes, but ye asked me for a remindin’ to smooth out the sharp edges. Now, most of the time, your wit is just a nice edge. But sometimes, it cuts.”
“Got it.” Agnes’s cheeks warmed, knowing she was right. “And you’re not pestering.”
“Good. And let me add that Shepherd seems like a very fine name indeed, especially on Christmas Eve.”
“Now, what’s the good news, Finola? If it means more baking, I need to get to it.”
“No baking. The good news is that this Rad Shepherd has a dachshund you can buy from him.”
“A dachshund?” At the pitch of excitement in her voice and the familiar word, both dogs of that very same breed jumped up from their naps and barked, sensing something big was afoot. And it was.
“A brown, short-hair, two-year-old doxie,” Finnie said.
No! That was it! That very dachshund who…she shook off the thought. “Are you sure?” Agnes sidled around the counter to seize the phone from Finnie’s hands, blinking at what had to be seventy-three-point font. “How on earth do you read texts like this?”
“Much more easily than on your phone.” Finnie gave her an elbow jab. “Be nice. Last warning.”
“So this guy acquired the dog from his dead uncle and wants to unload it?” she asked after reading Daniel’s message.
Finnie frowned. “I’m certain those weren’t my son’s words.”
“But that’s what he means. Let’s go.” She shoved the phone back into Finnie’s hand. “Let’s go get the dog. Whatever he wants. Money. Cookies. Hell, I’ll sleep with the man.”
“Agnes Santorini! You are eighty years old.”
Eighty-two, but hey, what’s a few years among friends? “I need that dog, Finnie. And not one of that breed has come through your family’s canine business.”
“Well, there was that long-hair tan one I loved.”
Not long hair. Not tan. It had to match her memory. “But that was not the dog of my…dreams.”
Finnie tsked and reached down to pet Gala’s head. “She loves you, too, lass.”
“Oh please, Galatea and Pygmalion know I worship the ground they poop on. But…” There was another one out there whom she had to have. Brown with short hair. She could close her eyes and see his face, clear as a bell, as the memory of that…that trip…would forever be in her mind. She could still feel the air, see the light, and remember the word she’d heard over and over again. Charis.
“And boy or girl, its name will be…” Charis.
“Didn’t you read the end of the text?” Finnie asked. “’Tis a boy, already named Rover.”
“Rover?” She almost choked. “Is that a joke? Why not just call him Boy Dog? That has to be the most unimaginative, stupid, pathetic—”
One of Finnie’s white brows lifted. “He’s not so busy on Christmas Eve that He can’t hear what you say and how you say it,” she said softly, clearing up her brogue so the reminder came in loud and clear.
Agnes made a face. “Something tells me that you don’t mean Santa Claus.”
Finnie fought a smile at the quip, but it faded quickly. “Aye, but speaking of Santa Claus, that’s the bad news.”
“Hasn’t got the sleigh packed yet?” she joked.
“He left town.”
“Excuse me?”
“George Snodgrass, the man who has been playing Santa Clause to my Mrs. Claus all week at the Winter Wonderland Festival in Bushrod Square? His kids surprised him with tickets to New York, and he’s gone.”
“Just like a man,” Agnes grumbled. “You have one more night to do the festival, and it’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake. How could he just up and leave you to find a Santa substitute on the night the