Love, Chocolate, and a Dog Named Al Capone

By Abigail Drake

Pride, prejudice, and a puppy! A romantic comedy from a Labrador's perspective.

 

Capone, the newly acquired puppy of Miss Josephine St. Clair, owner of Bartleby's Books, is a literature loving Labrador. Obsessed with Jane Austen, and cursed with a terrible name, Capone hopes to change his doggie karma and prove he's just as much a gentleman as the heroes in his favorite books, by finding the perfect Mr. Darcy for the lonely and bookishly adorable Miss Josie.

Unfortunately, the only men Miss Josie seems to encounter aren't Darcys at all. They're Wickhams, Churchills, and Willoughbys. Even worse, there is trouble afoot. Someone has been sabotaging Miss Josie's business, and all signs point to her evil ex. Can Capone find a way to save Bartleby's Books, help Miss Josie find her true love, and earn, at long last, a name befitting a true gentleman? 

***Honorable Mention, Writer's Digest Self-Published E-book Awards, 2019. Winner of the Stiletto Contest, 2020***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abigail Drake
• Release date: Sep 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201068639

Abigail Drake

Abigail Drake is the award-winning author of seventeen novels, but she didn't start her career in writing. She majored in Japanese and economics in college, and spent years traveling the world, collecting stories wherever she visited. She collected a husband from Istanbul on her travels, too, and he is her favorite souvenir. Abigail is a coffee addict, a puppy wrangler, and the mother of three adult sons. She writes contemporary romance, women's fiction, and young adult fiction, and has taught workshops for many different writing organizations. In her spare time, she blogs about her dog, Capone, and teaches writing classes for children at her local library. 

Book preview

ONE

A list of things not to do on a horse farm:

Irritate the horses.

Mess with the cows.

Make an enemy of the barn cat.

First of all, stampedes happen. It’s a fact of life. But how could I have known horses spooked so easily? And cows—don’t get me started on cows. It took nothing but a whinny or two from some neurotic horses, followed by a few random stomps of their hooves, for the cows to get themselves worked into a tizzy.

Cows. Such idiots.

Mr. Collins, the barn cat, never saw it coming. He was too busy lecturing me at the time.

What are you doing? he asked, jumping down from his perch on the fence post to march after me with a swish of his fluffy orange tail. You aren’t supposed to be here. You know the rules. No puppies in the pasture. Go back to the house, where you belong.

I ignored him, even though I knew he was right. This was against the rules, and rules existed for a reason. I’d learned this the hard way.

One time my caretaker, Mistress Sue, warned me to stay away from bumblebees. She told me it was a rule. I should have listened to her, but the creature looked so fuzzy and yellow and delicious. Sadly, it did not taste as nice as it looked.

Note to self: Never eat something with a knife growing out of its butt.

But no bumblebees buzzed around the pasture on this bright autumn day. And even though Mistress Sue told me never to bother the horses, surely sneaking under the fence to nibble on a teeny-weeny bit of horse poo did not constitute a crime.

We all had our weaknesses. Mine happened to come from the back side of an equine. I’d never met a pile of poo I didn’t like.

Capone, you’re disgusting, said Mr. Collins, watching me eat the horse droppings with revulsion. And you’re going to get in trouble again because of this. Why can’t you make good decisions? You’re the worst dog I’ve ever met.

Since Mistress Sue bred Labradors, Mr. Collins had encountered a lot of dogs. If I was the worst he’d ever met, I must be pretty bad.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s like you have a personal vendetta against me, but I’ve never done anything to deserve it, I said, pausing between mouthfuls. Well, other than the time I bit your tail by accident. And the time I ran too fast and knocked you over. And the time I ate your food. And the time⁠—

Enough. We both know the truth. You’re a menace, and no one wants you. That’s why you’re still here. Your brothers and sisters were adopted ages ago. He narrowed his eyes, spitting out words that felt like daggers to my heart. You are a bad dog.

He’d gone too far. Feeling defensive, I barked at him. A lot. And I may have chased him around too, but I didn’t expect the cows to go crazy. I certainly didn’t want Mr. Collins to get hurt.

When the cows charged, rushing toward us, I ducked under the fence and ran away as fast as my puppy legs could carry me. Mr. Collins wasn’t so lucky. With one well-placed kick by a cow to his backside, Mr. Collins went flying into the air, over the fence, and onto the green, green grass of the meadow.

He didn’t die. In fact, other than having a limp for a few days, and a severely bruised ego, he recovered rather quickly. But now he had a new goal in life; to make me as miserable as possible.

Goals, like rules, are important. And Mr. Collins took his seriously.

He insulted me and called me names every chance he got. The horses joined in, like they always did when Mr. Collins bullied me. He told me over and over again I was a bad dog, but I refused to believe it. I knew I had the potential somewhere deep down inside to be something great. Something interesting. Something… more.

Needing love and reassurance after an especially intense round of bullying and verbal abuse by Mr. Collins, I went back to the farmhouse and snuggled up on the couch next to Mistress Sue to watch PBS. It always soothed me. Everything I knew about humans came from Mistress Sue and the Public Broadcasting Service. Well, that and books. With little to do on the farm at night, and because we lacked cable television, we had limited options for entertainment. Mistress Sue either read me a book or turned on PBS. On this particular evening, as the sun set in the sky, we watched a program that changed my life.

The Rules of Being a Regency Gentlemen.

At last. I now had rules to follow which actually made sense.

I watched, spellbound, and learned about tying cravats and waltzing and helping ladies alight from carriages. The more I watched, the more a plan formed in my little Labradorean brain. I’d prove Mr. Collins and those nasty horses wrong by becoming the one thing a lab had never been before.

A proper gentleman.

There was only one problem. I had few opportunities to learn how to become a gentleman while living on a horse farm. Although a lovely place, it was basically only a stretch of grass, a few glorious piles of horse poo, a mean cat, and some exceedingly unfriendly horses. Not a single person to practice the waltz with, and definitely no one to teach me more about becoming a true gentleman. It was hopeless and I sank into a deep pit of despair.

The next morning, I woke up, wishing I had a cravat to tie, and a valet to tie it, when I heard a knock at the door. We never had guests this early, which meant perhaps someone had finally arrived in response to Mistress Sue’s advertisement in the local paper.

Full bred Labrador retriever puppy for sale. Black. Male. Energetic and extremely friendly. Three months old. Last of the litter. Will consider all offers. Must have previous puppy experience.

Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my many virtues, but Mistress Sue knew what she was doing. I hoped for the best, but what greeted me at the door was even better than I’d ever imagined; an elegant, red-headed vision in a mossy green skirt.

She was a lady. She had to be.

Mistress Sue grabbed me by the collar to keep me from jumping all over our guest. I wiggled to escape, but to no avail. Mistress Sue had a grip of iron.

The stranger smiled at me. I’m Anne Weston. I’m looking for a puppy for my friend, and I hear you have one available for adoption.

Mistress Sue stared at Ms. Anne with a critical eye, taking in her fancy clothing and high heels. Who is your friend?

Her name is Josephine St. Clair. She’s the owner of Bartleby’s Books of Beaver. I want this to be a surprise gift for her.

Are you sure your friend even wants a puppy?

In spite of the wording in her advertisement, Mistress Sue did not give her puppies to just anyone, but this might be my only chance. I squirmed and wiggled until Mistress Sue released me, then I ran over to Ms. Anne. I licked her high heels and slim ankles, and she bent down to give me a pat and a scratch behind the ears.

"She doesn’t just want a puppy, she needs a puppy, and this one is so sweet. What’s his name?"

Capone, said Mistress Sue.

Ms. Anne let out a laugh, the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. It sounded like bells tinkling, or the wind chimes Mistress Sue had out back.

How perfect. A tough guy wrapped in an adorable, furry package. Josie will love him.

I’m not sure this is such a good idea. Capone requires a great deal of supervision, said Mistress Sue. He’s very…curious.

Ms. Anne seemed unfazed. Not a problem. He can stay with Josie all day while she works, so he’ll be well supervised. He’ll love it at Bartleby’s. It’s a beautiful bookstore.

Mistress Sue eyed me carefully as I pranced around in a circle, nearly exploding with excitement. I loved books, and Mistress Sue knew it. I’d already heard wonderful stories about barn spiders spinning miraculous webs, rabbits in velveteen jackets, and faithful dogs doing heroic things. To live in a bookstore would be a dream come true.

Mistress Sue offered Ms. Anne a spot on the couch. Capone’s a strange little dog, and he likes books, oddly enough. There isn’t much to do in the evening here, so I read to him almost every night. Even so, I’m not sure he’d be the right fit for your friend.

Ms. Anne leaned down to pat my head again, and I stared up at her with adoration. I liked the way she smelled, like flowery perfume and scrambled eggs made with butter and cheese, which was probably what she had for breakfast that morning. I crawled onto her lap and licked her fingertips, which still carried a trace of butter, and Ms. Anne smiled.

Josie will love him, she said, and I thought I heard a hint of sadness in her voice. She lost her parents a few years ago, and she’s all alone. She needs him for companionship, and also for protection.

Mistress Sue’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Don’t let the name deceive you. Capone’s not guard dog material. He’s a licker, not a fighter, and he has the attention span of a gnat.

I wanted to protest but got distracted by a bit of dust on the floor. I wiggled my bum, eyeing it the way a lion stalks a gazelle on the Savannah, and pounced on it. Several times. Then I hopped up and down on it to make sure it was dead and barked at it, too. When I finished, I looked up to find both Mistress Sue and Ms. Anne staring at me.

Curse my overactive imagination.

He’ll grow out of it, said Ms. Anne after a long moment. I always trust my instincts, and right now they’re telling me Josie and Capone belong together.

I sat up straighter, hard to do when my rolly polly puppy belly kept getting in the way. This might be the answer to all my problems. I could live at the bookstore with Miss Josie, become a faithful and attentive companion, and learn how to waltz and play Whist. I could also protect her from rogues and miscreants. Gentlemen always provided this service to ladies. They were extremely clear about that on the special on PBS.

I stared at Mistress Sue, hoping she’d see the longing in my eyes. To my great surprise, it seemed to work. Fine, she said. I’ll let you take Capone, but only on a trial basis. I’ll come check on him in two months. If he’s not adjusting well, I reserve the right to bring him back to the farm. Are we clear on this?

Definitely. Ms. Anne stood, a smile lighting up her face. Josie will be so happy. She loves surprises, and Capone will be the best surprise of all.

TWO

Ways not to greet a lady:

Lunge at her.

Stick your nose up her skirt.

Lick the back of her thighs.

Get a tiny bit of lint from her stockings caught on your tongue.

Make gagging noises as you attempt to dislodge it.

Urinate on her favorite potted plant.

Bartleby’s Books had a bright blue façade and gold lettering above the door, but I barely noticed its splendor. Instead, I panted nervously as a cloud of white dandruff erupted from my skin, making it look like I’d wandered through a snowstorm.

Curse my high-strung nature.

I forced myself to calm down through sheer power of will. I had to make an excellent first impression on Miss Josephine St. Clair, but how?

Although butt sniffing was a time-honored tradition among members of the canine persuasion, and animals in general, I doubted it would work when meeting a lady. I never saw any gentlemen sniffing butts on the PBS special, not even once. I suspected it might not translate well between species, so I chose not to smell Ms. Josie’s bottom.

Well, not on our first encounter at least.

As I wracked my brain, trying to decide what to do, I came up with a great idea. Hand kissing. The perfect solution. On the PBS special, it worked like a charm. Women generally responded to hand kissing by fluttering their fans and blushing adorably. If I kissed her hand, Miss Josie would be so amazed by my manners and comportment; she’d want me to stay with her forever.

I walked into the shop with Ms. Anne, desperate to do well. It intensified when I saw Miss Josie.

She was lovely. The prettiest human I’d ever seen. She stood at the cash register, engrossed in a book, as the sun streamed through the windows, bathing her in its light. Her hair shone in a curly halo around her head, the color of spun gold. She’d stuck a pencil in her bun and had black-framed glasses perched on her tiny nose. Her eyes, the dark grey of a summer storm, focused on her book, and a little wrinkle of a frown formed between her brows.

She looked worried, and I wanted to make all her worries go away. I knew the moment I saw her she was my human, my destiny, and I loved her with an intensity that surprised me. I wanted her to love me back so badly it was nearly agonizing.

I went over my plan again in my head. Kiss the hand. Flutter of the fan. Coquettish smile. Success. But there was one problem.

Miss Josie did not have a fan.

How could she flutter a fan as she stared at me adoringly if she didn’t have one? Also, I faced a logistical problem as well. I could not reach her hand to kiss it.

Curse my short puppy legs and my lack of a decent vertical leap.

I had no choice. Desperate times called for drastic doggie measures, so I found another solution. I stuck my nose under the woolen folds of her grey, pleated skirt and licked the back of her thighs.

I’ll be frank here. This technique was never mentioned on the PBS special, but it felt right. Judging by Miss Josie’s reaction, however, I’d committed a terrible faux pas.

She jumped, making an odd squeaking noise, her expression akin to blind panic as she looked down at me. What is that? she asked.

Your new alarm system, said Ms. Anne. She extended her arm, showing me off as if I were a prize on a television game show. A purebred Labrador retriever. Isn’t he gorgeous? You should pet him. He’s as soft as black velvet. His name is Capone.

Miss Josie stared at me, her grey eyes huge behind those black-framed glasses and wisps of her blond hair falling in a tumble around her face. I didn’t know a lot about human behavior, but I knew enough to gather Miss Josie had been rendered momentarily speechless.

To make matters worse, the lint from Miss Josie’s stockings stuck to my tongue and made me gag. They didn’t cover this particular problem, gagging on fluff from a lady’s stockings, in the rules on being a gentleman either. I had no idea how to proceed.

Ms. Anne came to my rescue, fishing the offending bits out of my mouth. I licked her hand to express my gratitude and rolled over to show off my irresistibly soft and slightly chubby tummy. It worked like a charm. Even Miss Josie was not immune. She came out of her stupor, reached down (probably against her better judgment), and gave me a scratch.

He’s cute, she said. But I don’t understand why you brought him here. A bookshop is no place for a puppy.

You need a better alarm system, and you also need a companion. Capone is both. Surprise.

Miss Josie, it seemed, did not like surprises as much as I’d hoped. She studied me dubiously as I rose clumsily to my feet and sniffed around. He’s not going to pee on my books, is he?

In truth, I hadn’t considered relieving myself on her books until she brought it up. Funny how it happens. Now it was the only thing I could think about.

Ms. Anne, with her ninja-like reflexes, scooped me up and rushed me outside. We made it just in time. I lifted my leg near a large, potted plant as Miss Josie cringed.

I bought those mums this morning, she said.

Note to self: Never pee on pretty potted plants.

As a small river of urine trickled its way down the side of the plant and onto the sidewalk, I tried to hop away but hadn’t entirely stopped peeing yet. A strange splatter pattern appeared on the ground, as even more pee ran down my legs in a humiliating stream. Oh, calamity. I was not making a good first impression on Miss Josie at all.

Curse my overactive bladder.

Ms. Anne pulled me away from the mum with a gentle tug of my leash and cleaned my pee-splattered legs with a wet wipe from her purse. Behave, Capone, she said softly. You have to keep out of mischief, or you’ll end up back on the farm, and she needs you, remember?

I ducked my head, ashamed. She was right, but who knew there would be so many new rules? I mean I loved rules, but the PBS special didn’t cover any of this.

Miss Josie stared at me, probably wondering what I might pee on or lick next. What on earth were you thinking, Anne?

He needs a home, Josie. And a family.

A family? she asked. But why me?

Ms. Anne gave Miss Josie a sad, gentle smile. Because you need a family, too, she said. I know it was hard after you lost your mom and dad, then Mr. Bartleby, but you barely even leave the bookstore these days.

I have a business to run. If I fail, I’ll have to sell the shop and find a new job. Bartleby’s is all I’ve ever known. Miss Josie folded her arms across her chest, her eyes sad. I’m on my own here. It isn’t easy.

Which is why you need Capone. Trust me. The last time you had a break-in they did a lot of damage. Even with your new security system, each layer of protection you add will help. Think of him as an additional layer.

But a dog, Anne? Really?

Do it on a trial basis. His breeder will come to check on him in two months. If it’s not working out for you, she’ll take him back. No harm, no foul.

Ms. Josie tapped her foot nervously on the sidewalk. Her shoes were grey, like her tights, and tied with old-fashioned looking rose-colored ribbons. I’d never seen anything more beautiful or tempting in my life. I leaped at the ribbon, taking it into my mouth and yanking on it. She moved me away with a none too gentle push of her leg and shot Ms. Anne a dirty look as she knelt to retie her shoe.

You’re employing emotional blackmail.

I’m doing it because I love you and have your best interests at heart. I’ve been worried about you, and it’s gotten so much worse ever since you broke things off with Cedric— Miss Josie held out one hand to silence her, making a hissing noise, and Ms. Anne rolled her eyes. Sorry. Since you broke up with he-who-shall-not-be-named, your life has been a train wreck.

I’m a mess, but it has nothing to do with him. It has to do with this. She pointed at the shop next door, First Impressions Café. A Grand Opening banner waved across the front, and crowds of people streamed in and out, sipping large cups of hot coffee and fancy drinks like espresso, lattes, and cappuccino. It smelled delightful. I lifted my nose for a better whiff. Mmmmm. Could it be pumpkin spice?

The coffee shop?

From the moment they moved in, it’s been nothing but trouble.

As she spoke, a woman in a large SUV attempted to back out of her parking space while juggling what looked like a large iced coffee in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She nearly hit a passing car. The man in the car honked at her, making a rude gesture out the window.

Ms. Anne didn’t blink an eye. But books and coffee go together, right? Those might be your future customers.

Miss Josie shook her head as two teenaged girls posed for selfies. They made duck faces and held up their coffee cups in a mock salute.

They are not my customers, she said. They wouldn’t know a rare book if it knocked them on the head. And don’t even get me started on the manager. He’s a nightmare. Oh, great. Here he comes now.

A tall man with curly brown hair wearing a First Impressions Café T-shirt walked out of the shop, a big smile on his face as he greeted customers. His smile disappeared as soon as he saw Miss Josie. He stomped over to where we were standing.

Josephine St. Clair, he said, a muscle working in his jaw. Did you seriously call the police yesterday because one of my customers dared to park in front of your store?

Nate Murray. She spat out the words, as if she found each syllable of his name offensive. She squared her shoulders, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with anger. I called a tow truck, not the police. As you can see, these spots are marked, ‘Parking for customers of Bartleby’s Books only. All others will be towed.’ Is that not clear enough for you?

I watched their interaction closely. When faced with an awkward social situation, a gentleman must always do his best to smooth the waters. I wagged my tail and gave Mr. Nate my paw. His face immediately softened, and he leaned down to scratch me behind the ears. Crisis averted, and the scratching felt wonderful.

Note to self: A little cuteness goes a long way.

Ms. Anne gave him a friendly smile. Hello, Nate Murray. I’m Anne. Nice to meet you.

It’s nice to meet you, too, he said, straightening and shaking her hand. I realized he looked quite handsome when he wasn’t scowling. A fat pug waddled up to Mr. Nate and plopped down on the sidewalk. And this is my dog, Jackson.

When Jackson breathed, he inhaled with a snort, and exhaled with a sort of wet, slobbery pant. It was disturbing, like listening to an obscene phone call.

Oh, I know Jackson. He keeps pooping in front of my store, said Miss Josie as she glared down at the portly pug, but, to my surprise, Jackson was not offended in the least.

Guilty as charged, cutie pie. He laughed, the sound a rough chortle, and scratched his sizable belly.

Mr. Nate did not laugh. He frowned again.

Oh calamity.

It happened one time, and I apologized, he said, his face darkening. I cleaned it up right away and sent you coffee as a peace offering. What more do you want from me?

I want you to keep your animal on your property, and don’t bother with the peace offerings. I don’t drink coffee.

He rolled his eyes. Of course, you don’t. I bet you drink kombucha and herbal tea.

She glowered at him, which meant he was probably right. It made me wonder, though…what the heck was kombucha?

As the animosity between them intensified, I let out a bark as a way to change the subject. It worked. Mr. Nate dug in his pocket and pulled out a treat.

Where did this puppy come from? He can’t possibly be yours, he said.

Why?

Because you’re a cat person if I ever saw one.

You don’t know anything about me, Miss Josie huffed.

I know enough. Crazy cat ladies always drink herbal tea. It’s a dead giveaway.

I suspected he might be teasing, mostly because of the glimmer of humor I saw in his eyes, but Miss Josie did not seem to notice. She took the leash from Ms. Anne with a scowl.

Well, Mr. Know-It-All-Nate, Capone happens to be mine. And I’m not crazy, nor am I a cat lady. For your information, my cat doesn’t even like me.

I cringed, knowing she probably wished she hadn’t said the last part, but she recovered quickly, lifting her chin and looking down her nose at Mr. Nate. He didn’t seem fazed.

Capone? Cool name.

I can’t stand it. I plan to change it as soon as possible. Good day, Mr. Murray.

Good day, Miss St. Clair, he said. And good luck, Capone. You’re going to need it.

He gave me a final pat and returned to the café. Miss Josie and Ms. Anne went back into the bookstore, and Miss Josie let out a groan, covering her face with her hands.

What was I thinking? Why did I tell him Capone is my dog?

"Because Capone is your dog, Josie, but I’m confused about the parking thing. You’re not the kind of person who has someone’s car towed away for no good reason."

Miss Josie’s shoulders slumped. I know, and I hated to do it, but I’m in a bind here. I need all the customers I can get. If there aren’t spaces in front of my shop, they might drive right past. Most of the people who shop here are older. They don’t want to walk for blocks and blocks to get here. Thank goodness I have a steady online business to keep me afloat. Otherwise, I would have already closed.

Ms. Anne put a comforting hand on Miss Josie’s shoulder. I had no idea it was this bad.

When Mr. Bartleby left me this shop in his will, it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me. I love this place, but it’s a money pit. First, I had to get a new vault because Mr. Bartleby’s wasn’t moisture controlled. Then I had to update the entire computer system and create a website. And then there was the accounting. Do you know Mr. Bartleby did all of his record keeping by hand?

He did?

Yes, which is part of the problem. He recorded everything in old-fashioned ledgers, and the most recent one has gone missing. I’ve been searching for it everywhere, and I’ve been looking for a bunch of valuable books that disappeared from the inventory as well. I don’t know if they were lost or stolen, but I can’t make any insurance claims until I have some documentation that they were purchased in the first place.

I’m guessing the documentation would be in the missing ledger?

It should be, she said, with a despondent note in her voice. And I had to pay for a pricy new security system as well. It’s one expense after another.

"The security system is a good thing. The idea of