Kind of Cursed Page 12

  Harry palms the butt of the handle. “I can hit it as hard as I want?” he asks, a defiant jut to his chin.

  Maybe I’m wrong. He looks like he could smash the whole room if I let him.

  “You can hit it as hard as you want, amigo.”

  With a subtle nod and a narrowed eye, he surveys the U-shaped counter space. Then he hefts the sledgehammer and rests it on his right shoulder.

  “I call this side,” he says, eyeing the long arm of the counter closest to their kitchen table.

  “Then I call that side,” Emmett pipes up, pointing to its opposite.

  Mattie turns to her big sister. “You want to take either side of the sink?”

  “Sure,” Millie says with decision. She’s grinning and wearing the safety goggles I gave her. She looks adorable. Those goggles never had it so good.

  Without another word, Harry heaves the sledgehammer and slams it against the counter. With a great, clanking crash, tile chips fly everywhere.

  The Delacroixes share a collective gasp at the jagged hole in the countertop. Not to be outdone by his older brother, Emmett bashes the surface in front of him. And it’s like someone fired a starting pistol. Hammers and mallets fly with a fury I’ve never seen in a kitchen demolition.

  Smash. Crash. Crunch. Shatter.

  I stand the hell out of the way and just watch—a little in awe. Harry raises the sledgehammer and roars, bringing it down with teeth-rattling force. In the next instant, Mattie and Emmett take up the cry, Mattie’s pitching to a scream as she pounds with her hammer, Emmett sounding more like a panther’s cry.

  This goes on, Emmett trading his animal sounds for a karate-style Hi-ya! with each strike.

  And beneath the sounds of screams, bellows, smashing, and shattering, Millie is laughing. My eyes land on her. Sure, she’s bringing down her mallet, popping tiles like one would pop bubble wrap, absently and with her eyes on her brothers and sisters. Laughing her ass off.

  For the first time, she looks loose and relaxed. Her hips sway as she turns from watching Harry and Mattie on her left to Emmett on her right, her legs almost giving as she laughs. It’s like she’s dancing.

  She wears dark washed jeans. They hug her neatly. And I swallow with the certainty that beneath them is just enough silk and lace to kill a man.

  Chapter Twelve

  MILLIE

  “She needs to wear an e-collar.”

  It’s Saturday. I don’t usually work Saturdays, Dr. Thomas does, but she’s at a wedding, so I’m the one to see what the four-year-old Catahoula mix has done to the near perfect cruciate ligament repair I performed on her Thursday. The incision is a good five inches long. I closed the muscle and subcutaneous tissues with monofilament sutures and the epidermis with staples, one of which has been licked clean off. The distal aspect of the incision is gaping slightly, but at least the underlying sutures are still intact.

  Naturally, my patient’s name is Millie. The only other Millies I know are either eighty-year-old ladies or dogs.

  “The Cone of Shame?” her owner, Mrs. Louise asks, wincing. “She’s going to hate that.”

  I nod. “She is going to hate that. At first. This time tomorrow, it’ll be just the way things are,” I say, keeping my tone kind but firm. “Otherwise, she’s going to open this up all the way instead of just licking out one staple, and then we’ll really be in trouble.”

  Mrs. Louise blanches at this. “Okay. I’ll keep the cone on her.”

  “And let’s make sure to stay on top of the pain medicine. Are you giving her the Tramadol every eight to twelve hours?”

  Mrs. Louise winces again. “She wasn’t whining or anything,” she says meekly.

  I stifle a sigh. “A dog won’t tell you when she’s in pain,” I explain. “The most she’ll do is lick, pant, or pace. Whimpering or whining is a liability in the wild. Animals just don’t do it.”

  I run my hand down Millie’s sleek back, admiring her beautiful tricolor coat. Her back and head are black with a dusting of brown on her ears, and her belly and legs are white with hundreds of black spots. She’s a beauty. “Our girl here had the doggy version of ACL repair surgery two days ago, Mrs. Louise. That’s painful.”

  “Oh, Millie!” Mrs. Louise gushes, bending down and hugging the dog around her neck. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  The dog pants, tipping her head up, looking happy. I don’t care what anyone else says, dogs smile. With open mouths, with closed mouths. All the time. And they’re the most forgiving creatures on earth. Deny me pain meds after surgery, and I’d tear your throat out.

  Of course, I don’t say this to Mrs. Louise.

  The sad truth is she’s doing her best. Some pet owners don’t do shit. They let their dogs get heartworms. Let their teeth rot out. Or let them limp around on a torn cruciate ligament, which Mrs. Louise clearly didn’t do.

  She just didn’t know any better about the pain meds.

  “With the collar, the Tramadol, and kennel rest, she’s going to be just fine,” I say, wanting to reassure her, but making sure the points sink home.

  “Thank you, Dr. Delacroix.” She nods like she’s got it. “Millie’s so lucky to have you.”

  The dog seems to understand because she turns her golden brown eyes up to me, grinning. I let her sniff my fingers before scratching her under the neck. She’s so sweet, I smile back.

  I shouldn’t do it, but I’ve got to know. “What made you name her Millie?” She might know it’s my first name. I just have an M stitched to my white coat. M. Delacroix, DVM, but the business cards at the reception desk give my first and last names. And Exam Room 3 has my degrees on the wall. Mildred Agatha Delacroix.

  Yes, my initials are MAD. With a name like Mildred Agatha, what else could I be? You’d think Mom and Dad would have known better, but no.

  She titters. “Oh, I named her after my great aunt Mildred,” she says, her eyes almost squeezing shut as she smiles. “She never married. Never had children. But she was just so sweet, and she always had dogs when we were growing up.”

  My smile slowly shrinks. A spinster aunt. Of course. Exactly what I’ll be once Emmett and the twins are grown.

  “Is Millie short for Millicent?” Mrs. Louise asks, sounding hopeful.

  Millicent isn’t great, but it’s leagues better than Mildred. I shake my head. “No. I was named after my great-grandmother Mildred.”

  Everyone has always called me Millie. The first day of kindergarten, I came home in tearful hysterics because that was when I’d learned—along with everyone else in Miss Wilcox’s class—that my name was Mildred.

  What were my parents thinking? I wonder for the millionth time?

  Mildew. Mil-dred-ful. Moldy Mildred. Silly Millie. Smelly Millie.

  I’ve heard it all. I was rarely smelly, and I know I was never moldy, but it didn’t matter. Mom and Dad knew how much I hated the name—and for the record, I still hate it—but they never apologized.

  It’s keeping with family tradition, they’d said. It means “gentle strength,” they’d said. You’ll grow into it, they’d said.

  But I haven’t. I told Mom as much after the last time I had to go to the DMV when I turned twenty-four.

  “Grandma Mildred was my favorite person in the world when I was little,” Mom had said, wearing a wistful smile. “And now you’re one of my favorites. It’s perfect for you.”

  She’d taken me to lunch at Bread & Circus Provisions for my birthday when I’d recounted the embarrassing story of sitting in the waiting room next to another Mildred. One who was ninety-two and was denied her renewal because her vision was too bad.

  Mom had laughed and laughed at the story. Not because the other Mildred couldn’t drive, but because I could always make her laugh with my stories.

  God, I miss that.

  “She must have been very special to you.” Mrs. Louise pulls me from my grief daydream.

  “Hmm? Oh… no… I never knew her,” I say, blushing at my lapse. “I was just thinking—”


  If I say about my mom, my voice will crack.

  “—about something else,” I manage, hoarsely. I’ve never cried in front of a client, but I’ve had a couple of close calls. The first euthanasia I did at the clinic when I watched an eleven-year-old girl say goodbye to her very best friend. My grief rose right up to the surface at the sight of hers, recognizing a member of my new tribe. The time a woman about my age casually mentioned going to New Orleans for Father’s Day.

  Both times, I’d made it through the appointment before falling apart in the bathroom for a good ten minutes.

  Mrs. Louise is our last appointment today. I can fall apart when she’s gone.

  But by the time we get an e-collar that actually fits poor Millie, the crisis has passed. Even so, Kath notices.

  “You okay?” she asks, locking up the side exit.

  I nod. “Just thinking about my mom.”

  Kath’s mouth pinches in sympathy. “Is it the kitchen again?”

  “What?” I asked startled. “Oh, no. Since Monday, it’s been good.”

  I’d filled her in on Emmett’s meltdown and the smashfest. I still couldn’t bring myself to talk about the lingerie debacle. But the rest of the week went a lot more smoothly. The four sets of noise-cancelling headphones we got at Best Buy Tuesday afternoon have proven to be a good investment. At least no one can say the renovation is interfering with homework.

  And Luc has been there every afternoon.

  But he won’t be there today.

  My stomach gives a little plunge of disappointment at this thought, and I scold myself for it. Of course, he’s not going to be there today. It’s Saturday. And I shouldn’t feel disappointed anyway. Why should I feel disappointed that I won’t see my contractor until Monday?

  I hope I see him Monday.

  I give my head a violent shake.

  Kath frowns at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I snort a derisive laugh at myself. “Nothing outside of the usual crazy.”

  She smiles and shrugs. “Oh, well, if that’s all.” Then she bites her lip. “I wanted to ask you something.” Her voice is lower, more cautious. David, one of our techs is still here, sweeping up in the back but the rest of the office is empty.

  “Yeah?”

  “Jake and I wanted to invite you and your family to our house for Thanksgiving.”

  Thanksgiving.

  At first, it’s like she’s speaking another language. Because Thanksgiving means Mom, Dad, Harry, Mattie, Emmett, me—sometimes Aunt Pru and Uncle Bill when they aren’t on yet another cruise—and Mom’s traditional menu. Cranberry-beet chutney, cornbread dressing, butternut squash and kale gratin, and, of course, roast turkey. And for the last four years, the twins and I have been responsible for the desserts. Together, the day before Thanksgiving, we make three pies: pear, apple, and pumpkin.

  Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away, and I haven’t thought about it once. Because how can there be a Thanksgiving without Mom and Dad?

  I stare at Kath, my lips parted, unable to speak. And she’s watching me, patiently. Compassionately. And not at all like I’m an imbecile.

  “You don’t have to give me an answer right now—”

  “Kath—”

  “It’ll just be me, Jake, Daniel, and my in-laws, and we’d love to have you,” says my sweet, kind-hearted friend.

  “I-I… I’ll have to ask the kids,” I say, knowing already this is going to be hard. All of it. The holidays are going to suck, and somehow, I’ve got to get us safely through to January 2nd. How the hell am I going to do that?

  But we have to have Thanksgiving somewhere. It’s not like our kitchen is an option—even if my cooking didn’t inspire mutiny. And we’re not about to have our first Thanksgiving without Mom and Dad in a restaurant.

  I take a deep breath and accept yet another reality check.

  I force a smile. “If they’re all on board, could I bring some store-bought pies for dessert?”

  Kath laughs. “Store-bought pies are my favorite.”

  I’m about to ask her if she wants to grab a coffee before heading home when my phone rings. It’s Harry. Probably wanting lunch.

  “Hey, Harry. What’s up?”

  “Are you on your way home?” His voice is tight, and I hear a noise in the background.

  “Not yet. What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning.

  “Um…”

  My spine tingles, and I’m on full alert. “Harry, is everyone okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. We’re all good. It’s just the kitchen—”

  “What’s going on in the kitchen?” The noise in the background gets louder. It’s like… a rushing. “Are you washing clothes?”

  “No, there’s a leak,” Harry says.

  “What?!”

  Kath’s eyes go wide at my shriek, but I’m on a mission. Purse. Keys.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks, following me to the back office.

  “What’s leaking?” I ask Harry at the same time.

  “Um… I think it’s the pipe where the dishwasher used to be?”

  I grab my purse and keys from my locker and head for the back exit. I throw a desperate glance over my shoulder. “Kath, I gotta go. Can you lock up?”

  But she’s already fanning me away, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Go. Go. Don’t even worry about it.”

  And then I’m out the door, sprinting to the Infiniti. “Is there a shut off valve?” I climb in, throw my purse on the seat and punch the ignition button. The car revs to life and ping… ping… pings, patient but insistent that I put on my seatbelt, even though I’m already backing out of my parking spot, sending gravel flying.

  “I don’t know.” Harry’s voice comes through the car’s speakers, and I ditch my phone in favor of the seat belt. Chemin Metairie Road is clear, but I hesitate at the stop sign anyway. There is no fast route home. All three ways I could go will take at least twenty minutes.

  “Shit.” I make a left, opting for Ambassador Caffery Parkway, judging it’s the route where I’m least likely to get a speeding ticket. “Harry, you have to look. Go up to the wall. Look for a little knob or a lever to turn.”

  Through the speakers, the sound of water gets louder, like I’m driving through a car wash. I press the gas, picturing this geyser flooding the kitchen.

  “Harry? Tell me what’s going on,” I prompt.

  “Um…”

  “Words, Harry. I need words.” Why isn’t he saying anything? What is it with teenage boys? When he was ten, he’d never shut up. Now, he only talks to complain or ask for food.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Shit.” I take the forced right and get over to make the U-turn to head north again. The main shut off is outside in the front yard somewhere. But I’ve never had to find it. “Where’s Mattie?”

  “She’s…”

  I pound the steering wheel, biting down on my full repertoire of curse words. “Harry,” I growl through gritted teeth, swinging into the northbound lane and gunning the accelerator. “Where’s Mattie?”

  “She’s talking to Emmett, geez,” he says, clearly affronted. “You sound demonic.”

  “Because you’re not communicating. Tell Mattie to grab a bath towel, wrap it around the pipe, and put pressure on the leak while you go outside and look for the shut off.”

  The light at Verot School Road turns red and I nearly drop the F-bomb. A moment later, Mattie’s shrieks eclipse the sound of rushing water. Harry must set the phone down because I’m treated to the distant sound of the twins arguing.

  “It’s freezing!”

  “Hold it tighter, Matt.”

  “YOU hold it. I’m getting all wet!”

  “Millie said for you to hold it. I have to find the shut off outside.”

  Mattie protests, but I can’t make out what she says. The light at my intersection finally turns green. By the time I get home, everything in the house will be floating.

  “So where’s the thi
ng?” Harry asks, clearly picking up the phone again.

  “I don’t know. Outside somewhere. Wherever the water meter is? Close to the street probably?” Then inspiration strikes. “Luc probably knows where it is. Keep looking. I’ll call you right back.”

  I disconnect before he can respond and voice command my phone to call Luc Valencia, grateful that Mom’s Infiniti has a lot more bells and whistles than my old Mazda. The call rings twice.

  “Millie?” Luc’s voice surrounds me on all sides. He sounds surprised.

  “Hi. I’m sorry to call you on a Saturday.“ I hope he won’t block me for this, but I’m desperate. I know I sound desperate. “But do you know where our water main shut off is? We’ve sprung a leak.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen,” I say cringing. “Where the dishwasher was.”

  “¿Cómo?” Disbelief overrides the word. “The shut off is by the street on the south side of your property. But you’ll need a trumbull. I’m on my way.”

  “A what?”

  “A trumbull. The T-shaped screwdriver tool to close the valve,” he says. And then I hear the sound of a car door slamming—in his case, it’s probably a truck door—and then the unmistakable sound of an engine roaring to life. “I’m on my way.”

  “Me too.”

  “Where are you?” he asks, confusion in his voice.

  “I just left work. I’m on Ambassador by Chuy’s.” I say this as I pass the restaurant and cringe. Will he think I said Chuy’s because he’s Latino? As if the only landmark he would know on this side of town is the Tex-Mex chain?

  “A-and B.J.’s Brewhouse and Buffalo Wild Wings,” I add, stammering.

  “You hungry, Mille?” Luc asks, sounding even more confused.

  “Um… No… Just pointing out landmarks on Ambassador.” Like an idiot.

  I hear him sniff. He’s probably laughing at me. Again.

  “Well, I’m on Colonial. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Okay,” I say, letting out a breath.

  He disconnects before I can thank him. He’ll get there at least ten minutes before I will. And he’ll know what to do.

  He’s on Colonial? That’s not far. Just on the other side of West Congress. Is that home?