Love Has The Best Intentions
Read Love Has The Best Intentions Online
Authors: Christine Arness
Tags: #pregnant, #children, #divorce, #puppy, #matchmaker, #rumor, #ice storm, #perfect match, #small town girl, #high school sweetheart
by Christine
Arness
Published by
Satin Romance
An Imprint of Melange Books,
LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Love Has the Best Intentions,
Copyright 2015 Christine Arness
ISBN: 978-1-68046-043-8
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this
book are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover Design by
Angela Archer
Dedicated to my editor, Nancy Schumacher, and to my
writing friends at Northern Lights Writers. You’re the best at what
you do, all of you. I’m so happy to have such a talented group of
friends and fellow writers.
Love Has The
Best Intentions
An artist working in his home studio finds a
new direction for both his art and his love life when a young woman
who operates a puppy training center moves next door.
An order gone wrong at a big city pizzeria
starts out as humiliating but ends up as love filled experience for
a small town girl.
Trying too hard to achieve a perfect body,
Becca nearly forgot the importance of being herself.
Gail’s matchmaking skills go awry when she
arranges for a date with an acquaintance and, too late, realizes
he’s her perfect match.
Kate’s intentions to meet her knight in
shining armor undergo a change when their cars collide.
Rosemary’s intentions to make the holiday
perfect for her family go astray when an ice storm causes a power
failure.
A young mother realizes her grief over losing
the contents of their home in a fire is keeping her from starting
new memories with her family.
A young divorce attorney realizes the
heartache she’s experiencing in her practice is causing her
disillusionment about marriage.
Claire must make a decision whether to keep
her unborn child or lose the man she loves.
Linda threw away her high school sweetheart’s
declaration of love. Years later, she returns home and finds both a
refuge and another chance at love.
A couple’s marriage struggles due to not
enough hours in the day and they seem to be growing in different
directions. Then an innocent remark by one of their children starts
a nasty rumor circulating but, strangely enough, it also starts the
healing process.
Jenny receives a letter from her husband
written just before he died in combat. This letter takes her on a
journey to an orphanage in France where she finds half of her
heart.
Charlotte’s embarrassment over her father’s
fun loving personality changes to pride when she glimpses the joy
he brings into the lives of others.
Puppies from
Heaven
My life changed, irrevocably, when she rang
the doorbell. I was out and Burt, my tenant, has been known to
snore through tornados, garbage truck collisions, and Mrs.
Barnstable’s practice sessions for her opera lessons. But as an EMT
working the midnight shift, he’s conditioned to always respond to
bells.
Fate could have been thwarted by some
incisive questioning when Burt brought up his angelic visitation,
but I decided to be humorous instead. “Describe this celestial
being.”
“She had glossy black hair and the most
heavenly blue eyes,” he murmured dreamily.
“And what did our special visitor want?”
Convinced Burt was pulling my leg, I played along.
“She had a clipboard. I remember signing a
paper.”
“No doubt you ordered angel hair pasta, Girl
Scout cookies or something equally divine. Face it, pal, you
dreamed up your dream girl.”
Burt frowned. “But I can still see that
angelic smile ...”
The nape of my neck prickled, but as a
graphic artist/painter, I have enough daydreams without analyzing
Burt’s. Original Harrisons were beginning to shuffle out of the
gallery which displays my work and a fall showing had been
scheduled. My ambition is to become self-supporting with my brush,
even if it means living in a tent.
No danger of that at the moment, however. I
own a brownstone in a Chicago suburb, a gift from my parents upon
their migration to Florida. Burt rents the upstairs; we share
kitchen privileges. For me, the main attraction spans the back of
the house, a sunroom with marvelous eastern lighting, which faces a
yard enclosed by a box hedge that’s murder to keep properly
trimmed.
Mrs. Barnstable occupies the house to the
right. After Mr. B’s demise, his widow broadened her horizons in
all directions, with opera lessons, learning to quilt, and ballroom
dancing, among other pursuits.
My neighbors on the left had sold their house
and moved out weeks ago. I was yet to meet the new owner as I spent
every spare moment, when I wasn’t working as a freelance graphic
artist, preparing for my fall show titled “City Glimpses”. My
newest effort featured a wizened vendor at Wrigley Field. Using a
zoom lens effect, I had focused attention on gnarled hands
clutching peanut bags with the background blurred into a collage of
Cub caps.
Nearly a month after Burt’s “visitation”, I
was back in my studio. The sunroom’s placement and the hedges
filtered out most street noises, so I was startled to hear a bark.
A glance at the yard revealed only a carpet of rippling green
velvet, but the yap was repeated.
Convinced I had a trespasser, I jammed my
brush into a jar and stalked outside. Standing in ankle-high grass,
I surveyed the yard and felt foolish. The phantom dog remained
invisible; the breeze tickled my face, scented with Mrs.
Barnstable’s roses. Another yip! Pasting a fresh frown on my face,
I strode over to demand that my new neighbors keep their puppy
quiet.
I thrust my scowling features over the hedge,
pricking the underside of my jaw as my mouth dropped open. A girl
sat upon the grass surrounded by what appeared to be rejects from
the cast of
101 Dalmations.
A noisy dispute suddenly erupted
between a white mop and a black mop over a plastic carrot.
“Play with your own toy.” The girl extended a
ring to the black mop.
“Is your Mom or Dad home?”
The girl rose. Hair as glossy and black as a
raven’s wing (excuse the artistic license) swirled around a tanned
cheek.
“You must be Harrison. I’ve met Burt.” Her
smile forgave me for mistaking her for a child. “I’m Fiona
Flynn.”
Pride being a besetting sin of mine, I
resented that grin. “Well, Ms. Flynn, keep your yapping brats
quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.”
Her smile faded. “These brats are my clients
and this is exercise period.”
My turn to yelp.
She looked puzzled. “If you had any
objections to a puppy day care center, you should have spoken up
earlier.”
“Earlier? This is the first I’ve heard of
this insanity!”
“Working people don’t have time to raise or
train a puppy. I provide a vital service for them.”
I felt my whole body swell with anger. “It
may be necessary, but I don’t want it next door.”
Suddenly noticing her absence, the crew
stopped squabbling. They milled and whined until White Mop spotted
Fiona and led the pack over to her. The yipping chorus broke out
again; the pups were as glad to see her as kids who’d lost sight of
their mom in a crowded store.
Fiona’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her
over the din. She put her mouth near my ear and a tingle zinged
down my spine. “I did bring this issue up already with the
neighbors. Burt signed the petition for my home business
permit!”
“But he had no right—” Heavenly blue eyes.
Burt’s angel! “Was his hair sticking up and was he extremely
agreeable?”
“He was very polite.” Unlike you, her frown
implied.
“A document signed by a sleepwalker won’t
stand up in court. Besides, he’s only a tenant.”
“Burt was asleep?” Fiona laughed, a chime of
celestial bells. “Nice try, but you’ll have to think of something
else. I’ve spent too much money buying and converting this
place.”
“I refuse to live next door to a nursery!” My
shout silenced the clamoring horde.
“Good luck finding a new place,” Fiona said,
giving me a sweetly triumphant smile. “Come, children, nap
time!”
Round one to Fiona. The pack didn’t watch my
dignified retreat, instead they chose to waddle after their
favorite person.
I didn’t have the cash or the stomach for
hiring an attorney, so after a cooling off period, I resolved to
try to get along and make the best of the situation. But Fiona and
her flea circus did their best to make their presence felt. I
struggled to complete “The Vendor” but it was always feeding time,
play-time, or just plain noise time next door.
Each morning, relays of cars brought the
pooches while I hovered by my front window, drinking coffee and
glaring. The regulars soon became familiar and, if pressed, I’d
have to admit a liking for a perky terrier with a wiry salt and
pepper coat.
Once having made a stand, however, I
determined not to back down, no matter how lonely my perch. My
sense of isolation was heightened when Mrs. Barnstable had Burt and
I over for supper and I had to listen to a bass and contralto duet
singing Fiona’s praises.
While passing out napkins folded into swans,
my hostess divulged that Fiona had left veterinary college to care
for her dying mother, had never married, and adored children.
“All right, she’s a saint. An angel!” I sent
a sour look in Burt’s direction. “But I doubt whether she can make
a living babysitting mutts.”
“She charges $80-$120 per week per pup,
Harrison, depending upon the training package.”
I drew a mental sketch of the group and
counted wet noses. “She’s got at least twelve dogs—probably a grand
a week! It took me over a year to sell $1,000 worth of
paintings!”
“A lovely girl. So sweet, so kind,” Mrs.
Barnstable gushed and I wondered whether she’d taken up matchmaking
as a new hobby.
If so, Burt would have hired her in a minute.
He spent more and more of his time off over at Fiona’s while I
grappled with my illusive muse and fumed.
The crisis occurred a miserably hot afternoon
several weeks later as I stared at The Vendor, gripped by the
conviction that my creative juices had dried up completely.
As a background to this self-castigation, I
heard Fiona’s clear voice drilling the troops. “Sit, Bugs. No,
honey, I said sit—not wet. Try again. Halifax, put down that stick.
Tree bark makes you sick. Bugs, sit!”
In frustration, I hurled my brush against the
wall, leaving a jagged blue check mark. Jumping off my stool, I
shoved open the sliding screen door. I had a bone to pick with the
ruler of those bone gnawing mops.
Fiona sat tailor fashion on the grass. The
sun’s bright fingers picked out the blue-black highlights in her
hair, reminding me of a grackle’s plumage.
Canine pupils surrounded her, some dozing on
the grass, others quarrelling over toys, while Bugs, a pop-eyed
bull dog, did his best to please. As Fiona gave the command, he
lowered his head until his jaw rested on the grass and squinted up
at her hopefully.
“Wrong end, baby.” Fiona scooped him up and
tickled him behind the ears. “But I’m proud of you.”
He drooled happily as she cuddled him. My own
eyes popped as I realized how much I envied Bugs!