Heaven Sent Rain Read online

  “I’m afraid that won’t work. But maybe we can talk to the vet when we take her in to have her stitches out.”

  “Next Saturday.” He yawned. “She needs her toenails trimmed, too. See?” He held up Mutt’s paw.

  “She hasn’t been walking enough outside now to keep them short. Does she need shots or anything?” Dinah sat on the edge of the bed. Her knowledge of dogs was woefully lacking. Her unruly thoughts flipped to Dr. G, as Jonah was calling him. Calling him with these kinds of questions might have been a natural thing to do if he weren’t so curt with her. She could probably find all the info she needed on Google anyway. Save both time and money.

  Jonah shrugged. “We never took her to the vet before.”

  “Mm. She smells a little funny, too. We should take her to a groomer.”

  “She doesn’t like getting baths.”

  “All the more reason to use a groomer. Does Mutt like toys?”

  “I guess.”

  Dinah had figured out that when Jonah answered with “I guess,” it usually meant they’d not had the money to buy or do whatever. Or Corinne had not had the energy. “I think another stop at the pet store would be a good idea. Does she play with a ball?”

  “We lost it. She likes my socks.”

  “To chew?”

  “No, to carry around.” He smiled up at her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She wasn’t sure what for, but, reaching forward, she smoothed the lock of red-brown hair off his brow. “You ready to say your prayers?”

  “Yes. Mommy used to read to me before I went to sleep. We haven’t been doing that.”

  “Do you have a book to read?”

  He dug under his pillow and handed her his illustrated Bible. “I like to hear about what Jesus did.”

  Dinah swallowed. The last thing she wanted to read out of was his Bible. Tomorrow she would order some books, fun kids’ books, but for tonight, she flipped to Mark and read the first story she came to. When she finished, she shut the book. “It’s getting late.” She listened to his prayers and kissed his cheek. “Night.”

  If you didn’t want to read his Bible, why didn’t you just tell him no? The reasonable tone of the accuser in her head made her flinch. You’re not his mommy.

  No, she wasn’t his mommy, but she was all he had right now, and she would do the best she could. She found one of his socks behind the door to her bathroom. Getting both the dog and the boy some toys might be a good idea. But what?

  The next morning on the way to the Extraburger, she asked, “Jonah, did you have some games and books and things?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Jensen said they would bring my things over to your house.”

  “What games do you like to play?”

  “Mommy and I played Go Fish and Old Maid. I always won.”

  “What about Hearts? My gramma and I used to play Hearts.”

  “Do you like puzzles?” He looked up at her. “I have two, one is new.” He pulled open the door for her. “I got it for Christmas but Mommy got too sick and we didn’t start it. Do you have a card table? We did the puzzles on a card table that Grammy Trudy loaned us.”

  Add another thing to the list. They waited in line, turned in their everyday order, and headed for their table. Eric aka Tattoo wasn’t working the cash register this morning, so when their number was called, Jonah went up to get the tray.

  Her phone vibrated. April. She thumbed the button. “We’re downstairs.”

  “Good. There are a couple of reporters waiting here—just thought I’d warn you.”

  “Thanks. Do I need to hurry?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Let them wait.”

  “Hand them our materials, give them an education. Be there soon.”

  April chuckled. “Bon appetit.”

  “Do you need lunch money?” she asked when Jonah set the tray on the table. How had she not thought of that yesterday?

  “No, I get free lunch.”

  Another thing she better talk to the school about. They had her contact information, but so far no one had called her. But then, why would they unless there was a problem? She’d read of mothers being volunteers in classrooms, attending parent/teacher meetings, being involved, as they like to say. Did they have PTA here like they did when she was in school? How was she going to carve time out of her schedule for all that?

  “Jonah, would you like to go to the library sometime?”

  “Sure.” He scooted over to stand up and sling his backpack on. “You want me to come to your office after school?”

  “Yes, please. Have a good day.”

  He nodded and smiled at her. “I asked Jesus to give you a good day, too.”

  She watched him go out the door and when he got even with her window, he waved. Her list of questions for Mr. Jensen was growing. Did Jonah have a doctor, a dentist? Who cut his hair? Did she set up an appointment with his teacher or would the teacher call? Had the school told the teacher what had happened? And what was her name? Jonah had mentioned it. F something. Foster? Farrell? Oh yes, Dinah Taylor. Mother of the year. You don’t even know your kid’s teacher’s name.

  She needed to ask Mr. Watson if there were any other children in their building. Did Jonah not have any friends? He never mentioned any. The more she thought about it, the more she was realizing that being a mother, or a guardian, whichever she was before they went before the judge and signed the papers, was taking up more and more of her time. She’d not spent a single evening working at home since Jonah came.

  Which, when she thought about it, was only last Thursday night, and today was Tuesday. And if she didn’t get up to the office, the workload might just meet her in the hall.

  April greeted her with “They were waiting on our doorstep when I arrived. Three women and a man. I stuck them in the back conference room with coffee and doughnuts. And Hal says he’ll stop by shortly.”

  “You’re the best. Let me put my things away and I’ll meet with them in about five minutes.”

  “Here’s your stack. I’ve put the important ones on top.”

  “Thanks.” Dinah slipped into her office and shut the door without even a click. A bud vase with a pink tea rose surrounded by baby’s breath waited in the middle of her desk. There was no card. She punched the button on the intercom. “Who sent the rose?”

  “I have no idea. It was on my desk, so I assumed it was for you and put it on yours.”

  “What made you think it was for me?”

  “No one sends me flowers.”

  She glared at the intercom and shuffled through her orange slips. Nothing that couldn’t wait an hour. Tucking her phone into her jacket pocket, she reapplied lipstick and strode down the hall.

  None of the four watching her enter the conference room looked familiar. The women were dressed the way media women always dress, and the man did not bother to rise. “Good morning. Thank you for waiting for me.” She crossed to the urn to fill her coffee mug, stirred in half-and-half, and chose a raised sugar doughnut. “I assume you saw the interview last evening. Incidentally, I apologize, but I will have to cut this off in thirty minutes. Busy day.” She smiled at them and sat down.

  Why do so many reporters think they have to be blonde? A young woman with shiny yellow hair opened. “You claim your product can cure diabetes. What kind of proof can you offer for such a grandiose claim?”

  “We have never, ever claimed that our product cures diabetes. The press invented that claim by twisting what we said. It is a food additive, a small part of a complete disease-control regimen.”

  “But you said—”

  “No, we did not say.” Dinah interrupted her. “Please read the materials. That is what we say. We do provide the testimony of persons in our trials who have been using the product and find that their health is improving.”

  The male reporter, a rather jaded-looking middle-aged fellow, said, “So if it’s nothing but a dietary supplement, why is the FDA coming after you?”

  “I have
received no notice that they are, but I am sure they will look into everything very carefully. We well-exceed the standard protocols regarding trials, double-blinds, and ingredient analysis. The results are all in open documentation; except the ingredients, of course. Proprietary information. Standard procedures.”

  “I heard rumors of a buyout.”

  “Then your ear is closer to the ground than mine. Incidentally, we’re not for sale. You have our mission statement in front of you. That’s what we do. We will remain independent so as to fulfill the mission.” She glanced up to see Hal standing just inside the door at the other end of the room. He raised a thumbs-up. She felt the same.

  “So what are your plans for distribution?” The woman at the far end.

  “Production is just gearing up. Local release to begin with, and then target both coasts as we build inventory. The same plan we used to distribute Pro Teen, our childhood-obesity supplement. One of our best products. And, again, no claims for cure, but unsolicited testimonials that it helps. We have an extensive distribution system already in place for our other products. None of which have created the furor this one has, as you can tell.”

  Two of them at least smiled.

  The world-weary-looking man barked, “Why are you so hostile toward the press? Toward the truth? That interview, for example. And right now. That smile on your face fools no one.”

  Dinah parked her elbows on the table and sipped her coffee, reminding herself to at least look relaxed on the outside. How to phrase this? “Remember a couple years ago when a young man was shot? The press did not run a recent photo of him. They published a photo of the man taken six years earlier, then implied through the photo that the victim was just a cute little bright-eyed twelve-year-old. If the press cherished the truth, I would embrace it.”

  “But it wasn’t falsehood. And the text was accurate.”

  “Claiming we said Scoparia will cure diabetes is flat-out falsehood. Yes, I am hostile.” She checked her watch. “I can take one more question and then I have a stack of work that has been waiting.”

  “What’s this I hear about a little boy coming to live with you?”

  How did she know? Dinah smiled sweetly, but her voice was iron hard. “My personal life has nothing to do with our product release, nor is it news.” She stood. “Thank you for coming. If you need anything, ask April on the front desk.” She turned and left the room.

  She heard them scooting chairs, rustling, coming behind her. She ducked aside into the larger conference room and closed the door.

  There stood Hal and the staff! They were giving her silent applause, for the reporters had not yet left the building.

  “You did a beautiful job.” Hal was beaming.

  “How did…” She glanced at the video conference monitor behind her, which showed the other empty conference room. “Ah. You watched the whole thing?”

  “I set it up before I showed them in there, but left the other monitor off,” April said.

  Hans moved toward the door. “Our future’s at stake here, you know. Besides, it’s riveting entertainment. Gotta get back to the bench. I have some hydrocarbons transforming themselves.”

  “If you get any furfuraldehydes, let me know.”

  He waved as he left.

  Her merry band of employees dispersed, voicing congratulations as they left. Apparently they especially liked the “Yes, I’m hostile” comment.

  Hal followed her out and closed the door behind them. “I’m leaving for Atlanta this afternoon. Is there anything you need before I go?”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two, possibly three, days. Some family business. When do you meet with Jensen?”

  She knew there was some dissension going on among several of his family members, but since he never volunteered the information, she never asked. “I don’t know. I noticed I have a message from him. And thank you for the rose and the lovely bud vase.

  “Don’t thank me, I didn’t send it.”

  “Then who did?”

  He shrugged. “By the way, I heard rumors that one of the weekly rags is planning an exposé using someone who claims to have become terribly ill, as in life threatening, after using Scoparia.”

  “And how much are they paying this person?”

  “No idea. Just thought you should know.”

  “Any basis?”

  “I’m sure an attorney will be contacting us.”

  Dinah heaved a sigh. And all she wanted to do was make sick people’s lives better. Diabetes was a killer, she knew that well. So why were so many people trying to prevent conquering it?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Looking back, Garret assessed that the dinner had gone well, and Monday flew by as if chased by rambunctious five-year-olds. Since Susan was on for Monday night, Garret went in early Tuesday to try to catch up on paperwork. And review the list of applications they had received in response to their ads for another veterinarian. Whoever they hired had to like working the night shift in urgent care.

  Valiant had been on the new antibiotic since late Monday, so only twelve hours so far. The last blood work had shown the white count still high but no worse. So the other medication had contained the infection, he hoped, and maybe this one would knock it out. They would ease the dog off the sedative today. The pain levels should be manageable with other drugs. They needed to get him up and moving.

  Sitting in his office with the door shut and a jug of coffee beside his feet on the desk, Garret flipped through the stack of ten applicants. Three still in school; hadn’t they made it clear they needed someone with more than just school experience? One had a letter of referral from an old friend of his. Garret set that one in the to-read-again stack. Another application was from a husband-and-wife team. Could they use two? Only if two came for the price of one. He set that one by to read again, too. By the time his coffee was empty and the bagels digesting, the ten were in three stacks; one didn’t even seem worth responding to because the person was a vet tech, not a certified veterinarian.

  He refilled his coffee. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be popping antacids again. This was all the response they had after a week of advertising in the online veterinarians’ newsletter. He put notes on three to set up interviews, on three to send thanks but no thanks, leaving four to think about.

  A knock at the door told him the day had officially begun. “Tessa’s here.”

  “Tell her I’ll meet her at Valiant’s cage.”

  He laid the stack on Susan’s desk—see what she thought—and continued down to the cage room. She was already there, her hand in the open door, stroking her comatose dog. “Good morning, Tessa.”

  “He’s coming out of it, right?”

  “Yes. We’ll cast him and try to get him on his feet today.”

  “Did you find out anything about the prowler?”

  He smiled. “A man showed up in ER claiming a pit bull ran out and bit him when he was innocently walking down the street. Has a long rap sheet. Did you file the report?”

  “I did, and an officer came out and took the tools. Said they’d get back to me if they learned anything.” There was a quiet smugness in her voice. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if Valiant were able to identify him?”

  Garret’s mind left the cage room for a moment, trying to set up scenarios with Valiant fingering the would-be burglar. A police lineup was not out of the question.

  She leaned over to stroke Valiant’s head. His full tail moved this time and he whined, trying to lift his head. “As a writer friend of mine often says, ‘The plot thickens.’”

  Garret laid a hand on her shoulder. “Call us if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  He left the room, from the rarified atmosphere of a sweet, disabled lady with her heroic dog to the heavy air of half a dozen sick pets and their owners. Ah, and two routine checkups for this afternoon. You would think with all the work, the time would fly. The whole day dragged.

  Finally he had
a minute to stop by the lab. “A day without emergencies is like a day without…”

  Susan was back, just suiting up. She shrugged into her lab coat. “I read those apps. I agree with your assessment. At least two of the four might be worth interviewing, although, since we can’t pay moving costs, that pretty much leaves the California applicant out.”

  “Not necessarily. She graduated Davis and worked there a year as an intern. She has great references. We should consider her if she can afford to come on her own.”

  Sue nodded. “She’d find living back here less expensive, too.”

  “Good thing to remember to add that to the sales pitch if we decide to try her.”

  They both got back to work.

  “Hey, Dr. G,” Mrs. Tarbell said as he examined her schnauzer-with-eczema. “I saw your comic strip in yesterday’s paper. I get a kick out of them.”

  “Thank you.” Actually he’d forgotten what day it appeared. He’d preferred Sunday, but the paper was still trying different days to see if any got a better response than others. For him, the pleasure was in the creating. At least he was a couple ahead for now.

  They put Valiant under again to cast his leg, so that when he became fully alert the cast would be hard, although with today’s new quick-drying compounds, that was no longer a problem most of the time. When Garret left for the day at three, Tessa was parked beside her dog again.

  A blinking light on the phone greeted him when he arrived home. Three new messages. Why did they all wait until he went out the door?

  The first was Mom. “Hi, Garret, just a reminder that dinner is at two on Sunday. I have something I need to talk over with all of you, but this just came up so I do hope you plan to be here. Dad says hello. I say been too long since we’ve seen you. We love you.”

  He had the family dinner on his calendar, but once he started the paintings he’d been toying with the idea of not going. Should he call her back and insist on a heads-up on what she wanted to say? Or was it needed? He nodded and hit Erase. Call two: someone selling something. He was on every no-call list known to man. How had that one gotten through? Delete. Call three.