Text in Show: It's a Dog Text Dog World ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 4) Read online

  Text in Show

  An Accidentally in Love Story, Book 4

  Whitney Dineen

  Melanie Summers

  Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Dineen and Gretz Corp.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by 33 Partners Publishing and Indigo Group

  First edition

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-988891-39-2

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-988891-40-8

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ overactive imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. And we don’t mean maybe.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the authors. But let’s face it, if you love it, they’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact them first.

  Made in the United States.

  June 2021

  * * *

  Cover by: Becky Monson

  Created with Vellum

  The Accidentally in Love Stories

  By Whitney Dineen & Melanie Summers

  Text Me on Tuesday

  The Text God

  Text Wars

  Text in Show (coming June 2021)

  Mistle Text (coming Fall 2021)

  Also by Whitney Dineen

  Romantic Comedies

  Love is a Battlefield

  Ain't She Sweet

  It's My Party

  The Event

  The Move

  The Plan

  The Dream

  Relatively Normal

  Relatively Sane

  Relatively Happy

  The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan

  Mimi Plus Two

  Kindred Spirits

  She Sins at Midnight

  Going Up?

  Non-Fiction Humor

  Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs

  Conspiracy Thriller

  See No More

  Middle Reader Fiction

  Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory

  Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?

  Children’s Books

  The Friendship Bench

  Also by Melanie Summers

  ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  The Crown Jewels Series

  The Royal Treatment

  The Royal Wedding

  The Royal Delivery

  * * *

  Paradise Bay Series

  The Honeymooner

  Whisked Away

  The Suite Life

  Resting Beach Face (Coming Soon)

  * * *

  Crazy Royal Love Series

  Royally Crushed

  Royally Wild

  Royally Tied

  WOMEN’S FICTION

  The After Wife

  The Deep End (Coming Soon)

  Dedication

  To our moms,

  Who taught us everything we know including how to mom, how to love, and how to be funny. We’re grateful for every damn day with you.

  With infinite love,

  W & M

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon…

  Afterword

  About the Authors

  1

  Autumn

  “All I’m saying is that I wish you’d reconsider,” my mom says, stabbing a piece of her French toast much harder than necessary before waving it through the air to make her point. “You’re going to spend all that money on a plane ticket, only to come right back home when you realize that life with Helen in that concrete jungle is not for you.”

  “Mom, I can handle it,” I tell her while dodging a spray of boysenberry syrup as it flies off her fork in my direction.

  “New York or your sister? Because I know for a fact you’re not ready for either.” She finally pops the food in her mouth to save my dad and me from a further syrup shower. You’d think the woman was Italian by her love of hand gesturing.

  “You act like I’m some fifteen-year-old country bumpkin, which I’m not,” I say heatedly. “I am twenty-eight years old, I’ve traveled the world, I graduated magna cum laude and I have my masters degree.” My voice might be a little bit louder than polite brunch standards dictate, but darn it, I’m getting really riled here.

  My parents and I are currently sitting in a booth at our favorite local diner, Curds and Whey. What was supposed to be a send-off brunch has quickly deteriorated into a continuation of the argument we’ve been having for weeks. The one where my parents continue to throw it in my face that it took me so long to graduate from college. In their eyes, that apparently means I’m not the sharpest tack. The truth is that I simply love to study everything that crosses my path and couldn’t make up my mind what to specialize in.

  “Magna cum laude in people watching?” my mom scoffs, then starts furiously slicing her French toast again. “It took you eight years to get your first degree, Autumn. Eight years of flitting from major to major. People become doctors in that amount of time.”

  This is exactly why I need to get out of Koshkonong, Wisconsin—so I can start fresh in a place where my parents don’t live, where curiosity is encouraged, not reviled. Don’t get me wrong, my parents love me, and I love them. They just don’t understand that my path is different from theirs.

  Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I explain yet again, “First of all, I took a gap year, then I took another year to work, so I was really only in school for six years for my first degree.”

  “Still, two years too long,” she says, pursing her lips.

  “I don’t know why we’re still talking about this,” I say while twisting my paper napkin with a death grip. “The decision is made. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going to help Helen with her dog show, and, in exchange, she’s going to give me room and board. Also, she said that Stan has a connection to world-renowned sociologist Gladiola Simms at Columbia. If things go well, they might be able to introduce me to her ahead of time.” I needlessly add, “Having her as an advisor would be the most amazing thing I could hope for.”

  “Yes, I can see how it’s important to have a good advisor when you’re not even going to get your PhD.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, then mentally kick myself for giving her an opening to share yet another unwanted opinion.

  “This psychology thing—”

  “Sociology,” I correct her.

  “Same thing.”

  “It really isn’t,” I tell her in a sharp tone.

  “Whatever. I predict you’re going to get bored and find some new shiny thing to go after, then you’ll be onto that,” she answers. “You might as well just stay home and work with Dad and me at the feed store. That way, at least you can start saving for a house.”

  My shoulders drop and I look at my dad, who, up to this point, has been silently scarfing down his bacon and eggs. I give him a “help me” look and he sets down his fork with a little sigh, then reaches across the dinged-up Formica table and pats me on the hand. “Autumn, sweetie, it’s bad enough New York has already taken one of our daughters. Your mother and I are worried you’ll never come back either.” So much for helping me convince my mother that I’m a serious student of human society who is most definitely going to get her doctorate and make it her life’s work. Thanks, Dad.

  Yet, the truth is, he sounds sad that I’m leaving, which breaks my heart a little. While many people resort to emotional manipulation to get their way, my dad doesn’t play that game.

  My mom, on the other hand, will use every weapon in her arsenal. While continuing to aggressively cut through her French toast, she adds, “Besides, Helen left for college when you were only seven, so you don’t really know her. You two couldn’t be more different.”

  “Different is good. I love different. Plus, think of how well we’ll get to know each other while I’m living with her.” And not here, constantly hearing how I’m making the wrong decisions or not living my life fast enough. So much for those inspirational t-shirts that proudly declare life isn’t a sprint.

  My sister is spearheading a prestigious new dog show in Manhattan and asked me to come there to help launch it. While I don’t
have the first clue about dogs or dog shows, I jumped at the chance. If all goes well, not only will Helen let me live with her and Stan while I get my doctorate—free anything in New York City will be a big help—but she might introduce me to Professor Simms, who I’ve been totally fangirling over ever since I read her book, Big Girl Panties Aren’t Just for Girls.

  Kathy-the-Relentless (this could be my mom’s Viking name) offers, “I don’t think you understand how … difficult Helen is.” She says this like I haven’t seen my sister since she left for college twenty years ago.

  “Mom, I know Helen’s a borderline narcissist, but don’t forget, I’ve been studying sociology and psychology for years.”

  “Oh, we know,” she mutters, once again referring to the amount of money they shelled out while I “found myself.” Although, once I passed the four-year mark, I paid for tuition myself, which is partially why it took me so long.

  Ignoring the jab, I say, “I’m something of a behavioral science connoisseur. Trust me, I can handle her.”

  “Whatever you say, honey,” she singsongs in that way she does when she’s trying to placate a person she’s convinced is wrong.

  I reach across the table and stab my fork into her breakfast. “Most parents would encourage their children to form a closer bond.” Two can play at this game, Mom.

  “I love you and your sister very much.” She pushes her plate to the middle of the table, so I don’t have to reach as far to help her eat her meal. “Having said that, I see you both for who you are. In Helen’s case that’s a highly strung, social-climbing woman of a certain age who cares way too much what others think of her. That can be hard to take in large doses.”

  Wow, if that’s how she “loves” Helen, how the heck does she “love” me? Also, “woman of a certain age”? Helen’s thirty-eight. “New York’s a big city and while I plan on honoring my agreement with my sister, I do not plan on spending every minute with her. I’ll stay at her place, help her out with this dog show, and other than that, we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “Even though I’m sad you won’t be here,” my dad interjects, “I’m glad my girls will have this time to become closer. After all, your mom and I aren’t going to live forever. After we’re gone, it’ll be nice to know you’ll have each other.”

  “My god, Bob, you make it sound like we have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. I’m only sixty-two.”

  “Jeb Wilkerson had a fatal heart attack at fifty-seven. He ran five miles every morning and never let red meat pass his lips.”

  He had to bring up Jeb Wilkerson. Ever since my parents’ neighbor died, I’ve considered the possibility that Jeb has become dad’s spirit animal, whispering words of caution night and day. And believe me, the last person my mom would want my dad to emulate is Old Unfaithful, as she calls him.

  “Jeb Wilkerson was cheating on his wife,” my mom practically spits.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Mom puts her fork down and explains, “It’s a lot of stress living a double life. Also, when a man is involved with two women, he’d be a fool not to worry about artificially-induced heart failure.”

  “You think Fern poisoned him?” Dad’s mouth hangs open in shock.

  Mom shrugs before answering, “When you invest thirty years in a marriage and finally pay off your house, you don’t want to hand your security over to a twenty-nine-year-old named Willow.”

  “But to kill him?”

  Mom dabs at her mouth daintily with the white paper napkin from her lap. “All I’m saying is that Fern might have accidentally poured a little strychnine into Jeb’s coffee. It happens.”

  “Strychnine?” My dad looks at his own coffee cup and then back to my mom.

  “Relax,” she tells him. “I don’t have any plans to do you in.”

  “But how do you know about the whole strychnine thing? That’s not information that instills confidence.”

  “Remember that True Crime episode you slept through a couple of months ago?”

  “Kathy, how would I remember it if I was asleep?”

  Mom waves a hand and says, “Osmosis. Anyway, it was called ‘Accidental Murder.’ It was all about women who have managed to get away with murder through some very inventive methods. Turns out there’s an estimated twelve thousand murders a year globally, conducted by women helping their husbands into the next world. Apparently we’re very good at it.” Turning to me, Mom adds, “You should make that the subject of your dissertation. Fascinating stuff.”

  My dad sits back against the booth with his jaw practically unhinged. “We’ve been married forty years, Kathy, and I’ve never cheated on you.” He’s such an innocent soul that he’s really sweating the idea Fern might have gone on the offensive. My mom, on the other hand, likes to see the “potential" in people, no matter how dark that might be.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll throw out our box of rat poison when we get home.” Mom offers him an innocent smile, then reaches across the table to take a sip of his coffee so that he’ll feel comfortable drinking it again.

  “Why do we have rat poison? We don’t have rats.”

  Poor Dad.

  “We don’t have rats because I poison them,” my mom replies calmly.

  Deciding it’s past time to intervene, I say, “Dad, Mom is not going to kill you. You’re safe.”

  He doesn’t even seem to have heard me. He keeps his gaze trained on my mom, then, lowering his voice, says, “Did you give Fern some of your rat poison?”

  Mom shakes her head. “Of course not. She can afford her own.”

  “So anyway,” I interrupt. “My flight leaves tomorrow at two. Any volunteers to take me to the airport?”

  “We’ll both take you, dear,” my mom says. “Bob, tell Tyler he can bring his bat to work tomorrow so he doesn’t have to go home to give it its medicine. We might as well stop at IKEA on the way back from dropping Autumn off, and pick up that new area rug we keep talking about getting.”

  Noting the surprised look on my face, my dad explains, “Tyler is nursing an injured bat back to health.”

  “Why?”

  “He accidentally hit it with a broom when it was flying around his head. He felt bad.”

  “The difference between Tyler and most people,” my mom offers, “is that the rest of us consider a bat an unwelcome intruder in our homes. We don’t offer them free lodging. Tyler’s a nice kid but he’s really slow on the uptake.”

  “Just because the boy isn’t a murderer doesn’t make him a dullard,” my dad defends his eighteen-year-old employee.

  Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I say, “I was thinking we should leave home at about ten. How does that sound?” Trying to keep these two on track is proving futile.

  While signaling the waitress for more coffee, my mom answers, “Fine. I give it two weeks though. There is no way you’re going to be able to tolerate your sister for longer than that.”

  I’ve only ever been to New York City twice before. Once when I was fifteen and Mom and Dad took me to see Helen and Stan. We didn’t stay with them because Stan was still in medical school and Helen was waiting tables. As a result, they had no money, and their apartment was so small, it barely fit them.

  The second trip was during my second year of college. My roommate and I had heard about this great program called Standing Up for Broadway where you can see the shows for as little as twenty bucks. The only hitch was you had to stand in the back of the theater to use them. After three shows where I was either situated behind a pillar or next to a pervert who tried to grab my butt, I gave up and spent my money at museums and restaurants. I credit this trip with the start of my love of people watching.