“I’ll just need to check off your names, lassies.” Finnie reached for the list of participants with one hand and held her other out to Agnes. “Glasses, please.”
“Claire Cunningham and Mira Saylor,” one of the girls said.
With a reluctant sigh, Agnes handed the glasses to Finnie. There’d be plenty of time later to study Aldo Fiore. As Finnie looked down the list of names, Agnes offered one of the suggestion sheets to the girls.
But they were riveted on something—or someone—across the square.
“Look at him,” one of them said. “Lucas Darling. And he sure is.”
“He looks like he might just take a bite of you, if you get my drift,” the other mused.
Agnes studied their expressions, which looked a lot like Pyggie and Gala when the treat bag crunched, then she followed their gazes and saw long hair and a leather jacket.
“Greyhounds don’t usually bite,” she said with a tease in her voice.
They both turned and stared at her with that sullen, disconnected, humorless look teenagers sometimes had. Not Pru, of course, but so many of her peers. No wonder Pru would rather spend the day with old ladies. At least they had a sense of humor.
“I found you, lassies,” Finnie announced. “Claire and Mira. Now take a sheet of suggestions and go RACK UP POINTS!”
One of them almost smiled. Almost. And the other fake-smiled. “You must be Pru’s grandmother,” she said.
“Great-grandmother,” she corrected. “How did you know?”
They just exchanged a quick, silent look and then both looked off to their left, where Pru was standing on a park bench shouting out instructions to a group of kids like a cheerleader trying to drum up enthusiasm with the losing crowd. “Just a guess.”
She started to walk away, but the other grabbed her arm, pointing at the list of teams. “I can read upside down,” she hissed. “And he’s not on there, Mira.”
“No surprise.”
“But he has to get at least an hour of volunteer points, or he won’t pass the semester.” She pulled her friend closer. “We’re not moving until we find out what team darling Darling is on.”
“Or, better yet, get him on ours,” Mira added in a giddy whisper.
Agnes caught sight of the teenage boy ambling over, stopping every few steps while his leashed dog sniffed the grass. Of course they’d be all over Mr. Swoony. And if he didn’t have a partner…
“Move along, girls. There’s a line forming,” Agnes said, gesturing for them to step away.
Mira narrowed her eyes at Agnes. “There’s no line. And we’re not ready to leave yet.”
Oh, really? She shot a sideways look at Finnie, who already had both her brows raised at the insolence. Giving a fake smile of her own, Agnes sneakily reached down without taking her eyes off them and unclipped Gala’s leash.
Instantly, the little dog did what Agnes knew she would, taking off in the direction of her beloved Pru.
“Oh dear,” Agnes said, pretending to be shocked.
“Your dog got away,” the one named Mira said coolly.
“Go get him!” Finnie ordered with a rare edge in her voice. “Girls! What’s wrong with you? Help an old lady out.”
Agnes let the “old” comment pass as the two started—rather slowly—after the dog. “Gala won’t get far,” she told Finnie.
“Neither will those nasty creatures,” Finnie added, then her smile brightened as a certain young man reached the table. “What a glorious greyhound, lad. What’s his name?”
His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t been expecting the greeting, and Agnes saw they were as dark and dreamy as the eyes of the Greek man she’d married.
“Uh, it’s Tor,” he said.
“And what team are you on, then?” Finnie beamed at him.
“Um…” He shook his head, making a lock of dark hair brush his forehead.
Oh yes, this young man was a looker.
“I’m not going to be on that list,” he said. “I don’t have a team.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Agnes grabbed the team list. “I know just the teammate for you.”
“I don’t need a team,” he said, one hand on his dog’s head. “Just a list of those…rack things.”
Behind him, Agnes could see that the girls had caught Gala and were trying to get her back to the table. She’d have to move fast.
“Everyone needs a team, young man. RACKing cannot be done alone if Bitter Bark High is going to win this.” She reached her hand, palm up, out to Finnie. “Glasses, please, so I can get this nice young man on the perfect team.”
She braced for a surly look from him, the same one she’d just gotten from the girls. But he gave her the slightest hint of a smile, which made those dark eyes just a little darker and dreamier. Oh yes. Pru would thank her for this.
“Thanks, but I have Tor.”
Just then, Pyggie stepped out from under the table to inspect Tor, startling the bigger dog. Tor rose up with a bark, snapping his jaws and snagging the glasses Finnie was holding out to Agnes. Shocked, the boy dropped the leash to try to free the glasses from Tor’s teeth, but the dog took off with his prize, tearing toward the sleigh.
“Hey, Tor, no!” the boy shouted, suddenly in hot pursuit of a dark brown head and a snow-white body that had obviously been trained to do one thing very well—run. “Tor! Stop!”
“Oh my word,” Finnie exclaimed. “My glasses!”
“Quick, let’s get him on the list with Pru,” Agnes said, grabbing a pen.
“Pru’s coming with us to the mall.”
“Lucas Darling,” Agnes said, frantic to accomplish her goal. “On a team with Pru.”
Finnie frowned and shook her head. “No, Agnes! He’s a wee bit…unknown. And maybe best kept that way.”
“Finola Kilcannon,” Agnes chided. “Did you hear Pru’s voice when she told us she’d been ditched by her friends? Did you see her staring at Hot Stuff? Do you not want Pru to have some fun on Christmas Eve? For heaven’s sake, are we not the Dogmothers? This is child’s play for us after the matches we’ve made.”
It was easy to see the doubt in Finnie’s eyes, especially without her glasses. “I don’t think that’s the kind of lad I’d choose for our sweet Pru.”
“How do you know?”
“Just by the looks of him, I think—”
“Finnie! Did you take my judgy pills instead of your calcium this morning?”
She didn’t laugh, but squinted as the boy came back, the leash in one hand—Tor attached—the glasses in the other. What was left of the glasses, that was.
“Man, I’m really…” He glanced at the mangled specs. “Wow. Sorry.”
He held the glasses out. One of the nose pads was askew, and both arms were badly bent. “Geez,” he breathed. “Tor, that was really bad. Even for you.”
The greyhound came around the table and dropped his head in front of Agnes with that look of a dog who knows he’s about to be disciplined.
But the boy crouched down and put his arm around the dog’s long, narrow neck and head. “No worries, my dude. I know you’re sorry. It’s okay.” His words were soft, whispered into Tor’s ear with the same warmth and directness Agnes had seen from so many kids in Finnie’s family, their love of dogs simply infectious. “He gets a little rambunctious,” he said to Agnes and Finnie. “Raised as a racer, and they weren’t…good to him. Anything shiny or small gets him going because they used shiny lures to train him.”