Page 9 of Expecting an Argument
My podcast still had another five minutes left, so I jogged down our long driveway and headed to the back of the manor. According to the Bored Bros, my Lindsay University Crimson Knights had a good chance of winning the upcoming Thanksgiving game.
“I don’t know, Bobby,” Bret Bogeman groaned into the mic. “We can’t count out Plains State’s new running back. Lindsay’s defense might not be able to stop him.”
“He’s fast,” quipped Bobby Ballinger, “but he’s no TysonCopeland. No one at PSU has gotten close to breaking his record—”
I pulled out my earbuds and tossed them into my hoodie pocket. Bobby had never played a down of football in his life, don’t know why he thought he was such a fucking expert.
I made a turn around the manor’s southern wing and finished off my run at the back patio. I picked up a new tennis ball out of the wire basket at the end of the patio sectional and rolled it in my palm as I passed the firepit and outdoor bar.
As soon as I reached the covered pool, I found my favorite pile of white fluff lying on the glazed tile deck between two lounge chairs.
“It’s November, boy,” I said to my big silly dog. “You’re not going for a swim until May.”
Titus lifted his head and let out a low whine.
Poor boy, I missed the pool too. The patio was much too quiet when the waterfall wasn’t turned on.
I tossed the tennis ball up in the air and caught it. “Come on, nothing makes you forget the silence like a run!”
I turned and launched the tennis ball. The ball soared about eighty yards before rolling down the grassy hill to the pasture where the cows were having their morning graze.
Though I expected to see Titus’s giant body fly down the hill after that ball, I turned back to find him still between those deck chairs, looking up at me like I was some dumb asshole.
I sighed. Get a working breed, the managers at headquarters had said, they’ll keep you busy. None of the breeders I spoke with ever mentioned that a Great Pyrenees was the biggest baby money could buy.
My phone buzzed. Odd, I wasn’t expecting any messages.
I took out my phone to see that my finance guy was calling.
“I swear to God,” I answered, “if you’re about to tell me about another charity gala invitation…”
“How aboutfive,”Chuck answered with a groan. “But I do hear Mistletoe Masquerade in the city is actually pretty good—”
“You go, then.” I sneered. “Wear some goofy mask and pretend to be me. See just how fun it is when all those opportunistic women corner you and ‘inconspicuously’ whine about how single they are.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing…”
“Chuck, I will gnaw my arm off before I’m caught dead at another gala,” I snapped. “Just give them money.”
“Which galas? And how much? You’ve already maxed out your tax-deductible charitable contributions for this year, so there’s no financial reason to—”
“All of them,” I said. “Find the highest pledge tiers and add an extra zero to the checks. Send a message that my absence is much better for charity than the sight of me in a tux.”
Chuck sighed. “You’re a real Kris Kringle, Beau.”
“And if I don’t hear a peep from another gala until next year,” I said with a tight smile, “you’ll get another zero added to your Christmas bonus too.Ho ho ho.”
And I hung up.
I whistled for Titus to follow me as I headed back inside. He padded across the patio after me as I pushed open the French doors into the manor. My footsteps and the little clicks of Titus’s paws echoed in the foyer. Just as I nearly turned into the media room, my phone buzzed again—a text this time.
Furrowing my brows, I pulled out my phone to read the message.
“About to fly over international waters. Aunt Liz is already two martinis deep. Won’t activate phone service until we land on the island. Only call me if the Crimson Knights win.”
Damnit, Mom.
I held back a sigh. I knew I shouldn’t have filled the fridge with all the old family favorites for Thanksgiving, but I got myhopes up anyway.
