Page 1 of Patio Lanterns (The Blue Canoe Cottage #1)

Robin

Slumped behind the wheel of her dust-crusted minivan, Robin shovelled in a mouthful of fries as she scouted the parking lot.

Surely a lonely trucker was bound to come along any moment, although what she’d really love was a road-weary family headed to cottage country.

But as time wore on, she’d realistically settle for any chump willing to take a smelly, three-legged mongrel off her hands.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a disgustingly long, viscous strand of drool now swinging perilously close to the carton of fries perched on her boob shelf.

“No,” she snapped.

The homely hound instantly pulled back, baffled by her severe tone.

She did feel sorry for the dog. It wasn’t his fault he’d made the disastrous decision to hop-limp into the artists’ tent at the music festival and glom onto the Dawn Cherries’ lead singer.

But, as with most shiny things Parker picked up on the road, the appeal went from infatuation to inconvenience in under sixty seconds.

And then, as with most things Parker grew tired of, the tramp became Rockin’ Robin Pelletier’s problem to get rid of.

But of all the low-down, depraved things she’d been coerced into doing, she'd never imagined abandoning a dog at a roadside burger stand would be one of them.

It would’ve made the job a hell of a lot easier if he’d come in a cuter package with all his originally manufactured parts.

Being shortchanged on both good looks and a front leg was totally unfair.

To him and to Robin. Yet even with his wretched, hot-garbage breath and matted fur, which was a murky mix of dishwater grey and lung-tar brown, the dumb dog still deserved better than to be left in the middle of nowhere as Parker had instructed. That was just fucking cruel.

He emitted a low whine, his glazed eyes fixed on the box of greasy deliciousness. “Oh, fine.” She relented, holding up a single fry. “But just one.”

Rehoming the mooch was the final task she had to check off her to-do list before heading to the lake. With the Cherries’ summer tour unexpectedly derailed and her schedule cleared for the foreseeable future, she’d run out of excuses not to return to the cottage.

For the past year, her sisters had been pestering Robin to nail down a date for spreading their mother’s ashes up at Lake Whippoorwill.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want to fulfill her mom’s dying wish.

But she wanted to avoid hearing all about Lark and Dove’s latest personal and professional triumphs while being judged for not striving for what they considered success.

Career. House. Marriage. A bank account that held more than wishful thinking.

Lark, the oldest, was her most scathing critic.

She loved tut-tutting all over Robin’s aimless, rootless existence, as if not having her life mapped out by the age of twenty-eight should’ve sounded quarter-life crisis alarm bells.

It’d make a great drinking game. Take a shot every time Lark said, “Better get your shit together before life catches up to you, little sister.”

With a heavy sigh, Robin slid further down in her seat. Her wavy, cinnamon-brown hair stubbornly clung to the ragged fabric headrest as a pudgy muffin top spilled over her denim shorts. Maybe she was getting worked up over nothing. Maybe she just needed to stuff her anxiety down with a burger.

She peeled back the foil wrapper and bit into hot. Juicy. Goodness. She moaned, savouring her first taste of the charcoal-barbecued two-hander, the kind only found at out-of-the-way joints that believed in rewarding you handsomely for stopping by.

The scrawny frame of her tri-pawed passenger trembled as he snorfled the air around the steaming beef in her hands.

It seemed unjust to deny a condemned inmate his final meal, especially as this one had received little else during its short-lived stint with the Cherries. Not even a decent name. The dog had no idea how close the band had been to calling him Nutsack.

Robin claimed one last mouthful of burger, then pushed back the tin foil and handed the rest over to the mutt.

“Mutt Lange.” She chuckled, amused by the pun linking the mongrel to the shaggy-haired music producer. “Now that would’ve been a great name for you.”

As the dog wolfed down his feast, Robin turned her attention back to the parking lot.

Through the cracked windshield, she spotted a young couple with a wholesome, crunchy granola vibe.

They were seated at a picnic table next to an old Wagoneer with twin kayaks tied to the roof and a bumper sticker that read: There is no Planet B.

Well, if they were really into sustainability, then taking home a recycled dog should be right up their alley.

The twisting knots in Robin’s stomach tightened. Just do it. It’ll be simple. Drop the dog off and be done with it , she told herself. You’re doing him a big favour.

She had integrity, dammit, and enough common decency to know right from wrong.

What Parker had told her to do was heartless and vicious.

Robin’s solution was far more compassionate.

The way she saw it, this was giving Mutt a decent shot at a good home and a sweet life that’d be far better than living on the road with a band of hooligans that didn’t have the combined competence to keep a cactus alive.

Mutt licked at the melted cheese stuck to the foil wrapper and then burped with a satisfied grin. The rancid cloud of beefy dog stench made it difficult to breathe, but hotboxing with him suddenly made it easier for Robin to get done what she had to do.

She leaned across the dash, felt for the handle of the passenger door, and flung it open. “Time to go find you a new home.”

Mutt peered out the door and then turned back to Robin. His mustard-stained mouth was turned down, his sullen eyes blinking at her in disbelief behind his bushy eyebrows.

“Don’t give me that face. You know this is the end of the road.” She scowled as the guilt weighed heavy in her chest. This is why you never name chickens. Or stray dogs.

“Look,” she said, matter of factly. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but the truth is, Parker didn’t want you.

Nobody did. They all left you behind and now I’m stuck with finding you a new home.

So, please, just do your part by going over there and charming the pants off those people, okay? ”

Mutt’s head tilted. His eyes smiled at her.

“Not a chance,” she said. “You absolutely cannot stay with me. I’m just barely meeting my own basic needs, let alone having to take care of yours.” She pointed to the ground. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

He didn’t budge. Maybe, she reasoned, he was afraid to jump out of the van. She couldn’t blame him with only one front leg and a wonky centre of gravity.

Robin climbed down from her seat and marched around the front of the van.

She gathered up an armful of Mutt-butt and lifted him out, steadying his paws on the ground.

“Here’s the plan. See that couple over there?

We’re going to ask them to keep an eye on you while I use the ‘washroom,’” she explained, using heavy air quotes for a dog who didn’t understand duplicity. Or sarcasm. Or English.

She made the mistake of looking into his sad, soulful eyes, and was struck by a pang of guilt. “I promise you, this is for the best. For the both of us.”

Robin led the way, and Mutt dutifully hopped close to her side. He let another greasy burp rip, this time out his back end. Maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to let him finish that burger after all. Thankfully, his wagging tail mellowed the odour before they approached the couple.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you,” Robin said meekly. “But I have to duck inside to use the washroom and was wondering if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Of course we’ll watch him for you,” brightly answered the girl with a frizzy ponytail and a City and Colour tee.

Friendly? Check. Good taste in music? Check.

The moment Ponytail put out her hand, Mutt ducked beneath her palm to coax out a scratch behind his ears, and she happily indulged him. Animal lover? Another big fat check.

“As long as you’re not planning to abandon him,” said her boyfriend, whose braided goatee looked like dreadlocks sprouting from his chin.

Robin’s breath hitched. “Abandon him? Oh God, no . I mean, I would never.”

“You’d be surprised.” Weird Beard’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked on a reusable straw. “People pull that kind of shit all the time.”

“Only monsters would do something like that,” condemned Ponytail. “So, what’s this good boy’s name?” Her voice pitched into baby talk, and Mutt turned into a pile of mush, rolling belly up on the gravel.

“Uh, his name…?” Robin repeated the question as she blanked. “Well, he’ll respond to pretty much anything if you have food, but I call him Mutt Lange.”

Weird Beard smirked. “That’s funny. As in Shania’s husband?”

“Ex-husband,” Ponytail pointed out to him. “He did our girl dirty, remember?”

“He also produced some of the biggest-selling rock albums… AC/DC, Bryan Adams, Def Lep—” Robin started to explain, but hardly had the time to give a crash course in music history. “Look, I’m not defending the guy, nor did I name the dog after him. I just thought it was funny.”

“It’s all good,” said Weird Beard. “You can leave him with us. Your dog will be right here when you get back.”

When you get back. The words echoed in the empty chamber between Robin’s ears. She thanked them before tossing a final parting glance at the pain in the ass who was now officially someone else’s problem. It’s been real, Mutt Lange.

Just don’t look him in the eyes. Don’t look him in the eyes.

Don’t look—

He lifted his head, and she looked into his pitiful, questioning eyes.

And the right hook of remorse smacked her so hard it nearly knocked her flat.

In a cold sweat, Robin raced to the front door of the burger joint. Her heart racing and stomach heaving, a greasy sourness hit the back of her throat as she made a beeline for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall.

The last thing she expected was to be conflicted or to catch feels for that stinky, floppy-eared nuisance.

She should’ve just snuck out of the place, traipsed through the dense brush, ducked between rows of parked SUVs and boat trailers, and drove off, leaving him behind in a cloud of dust without a second thought.

Only monsters would do something like that.

Ponytail’s words came back to haunt Robin as she bent over and paid a retching homage to the porcelain gods.

Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, Ponytail. I am not a monster.