Dog Crazy (21 page)

“No, of course not. Who would want to steal him? Has Anya convinced you that's what happened?”

“Not exactly. It clearly makes way more sense that he just got out of the house somehow and wandered away . . .”

“But?”

“Well, Anya is just so sure that someone stole him. She's
certain
that he's alive somewhere. I keep wondering if maybe she knows something she doesn't even realize she knows, and that's why she came up with this theory about Billy being stolen.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

I sigh. “I don't really understand either. I guess I just wanted to know if you thought there was anyone in Anya's life who might want to . . . I don't even know. Punish her? Hurt her?”

Henry's eyes widen. “I sure hope not.” He thinks for a moment. “Frankly, I don't know that she even has enough friends to have enemies, if that makes sense. She doesn't know that many people.
She's always kept to herself. I don't think she keeps in touch with anyone from her high school. There are the people she works with at the frame shop, Huan, Rosie, Clive, Terrence, me . . .”

“She and Clive seem to have a fairly antagonistic relationship.”

“Oh, but they've always been that way. It's harmless. Clive can be a bully, but he'd never do anything as bad as steal her dog.”

“And Terrence?”

He shakes his head. “Terrence wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“How about the nurse? What's her name? June?”

Henry looks skeptical. “Really? Why on earth would my grandmother's nurse steal Billy?”

“I don't know. I don't know! I just feel like we're missing something here. Anya is
so
sure. It's hard not to believe someone with that much conviction. And she knows Billy the best, right? If she says he wouldn't run away, wouldn't even wander out of the house if someone accidentally left the door open, shouldn't we at least consider believing her?” I run my hands through my hair. “Will you just talk to Clive and Terrence about it? I don't even know what I want you to ask them, but maybe something will come out of it. And then we'll know we've exhausted all the possibilities before you leave for . . .” Anya and Huan are waiting ahead on the sidewalk in front of the house, and I let my words trail off.

Henry grows serious. “About that. I've been wanting to talk to you—”

“Hey, Henry,” Anya calls, interrupting him. “For someone so focused on work, you sure take your sweet time getting to the office when Maggie is around.”

Henry pulls out his phone and checks the time. He grimaces.
“I do have to go. I'll talk to you later, okay? And I'll . . .” He hesitates, glancing at Anya. “I'll think more about what you said.”

“Thanks.”

After Henry drives away, I ask Anya and Huan if they are photographing any more dogs that week.

Huan nods. “We have two more dogs to shoot before the auction next Saturday.” He looks embarrassed. “I mean, not that I'm doing the photographing. I'm just pressing the squeaky toys and carrying the equipment and dog treats. Anya's doing all the real work. The art.”

“You're helping,” Anya says matter-of-factly.

Huan beams. “I should get back to my schoolwork,” he says. “Big exam tomorrow. See you at the fund-raiser? Anya invited me.”

“Oh, good. I'll see you,” I say vaguely.

Huan ducks his head to his chest and hurries off toward his house. When he reaches his front door, he turns and waves. Anya lifts her hand to wave back, and then drops it to her side when she catches me watching her.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I smile.

Anya crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You
are
going to the fund-raiser, aren't you? Sybil is expecting you. You basically planned the whole event, didn't you?”

“No, no. I just solicited a few donations.”

“Whatever. Stop evading the question. Are you going?”

I sigh. “No, Anya, I'm not going. I haven't told Sybil yet. But parties and I . . . don't mix.”

“Leaving your apartment didn't seem up your alley last week either, and look at you now.”

“This is different. I've always had this thing with parties. But it's going to go off without a hitch—Sybil is a fund-raising machine. You'll have a great time.”

“Me? Oh, no. If you're not going, I'm not going either.”

“But you have to go! It's going to be great for your new business. Don't miss out on my account.”

“I've already decided. I don't like parties either.”

“Anya, come on. You can't pull this every time you want me to do something. You're not in charge of fixing me.”

Anya laughs. “No shit. But I really
don't
like parties. You're the only one I'll even know there other than Huan. What the hell are the two of us going to talk about for hours on end if you don't come? I'll probably get drunk and do something stupid and then no one will want to hire me and my photography business will go up in flames even before it really
is
a business and it will all be your fault.”

I let out a low whistle. “You are really good at this guilt thing, aren't you?”

Anya's lip twitches.

“Is it enough if I tell you I'll think about it?” I ask. “That's all I can honestly say right now.”

Anya smiles. Not her little half smile, but a full, broad smile that makes her look young and, though she would probably hate me for thinking it, sweet.

“I guess it's enough,” she says. “For now.”

T
he week leading up to the fund-raiser goes by quickly. Sybil included my name and professional title on the list of sponsors on the SuperMutt gala invitation, and each day I receive a few e-mails and calls from prospective patients interested in learning about my counseling services. I'm relieved to find that my appointment schedule for the month ahead is slowly filling.

Maybe this little practice has legs after all,
I think
.

Every morning before my first appointment of the day, I walk over to Grant and Chip's apartment to take Seymour out for some reconditioning. Sometimes I take Giselle along, but sometimes I don't. I have even begun to stop at the café on Cole Street for a latte and croissant. These outings aren't devoid of the usual symptoms, but I survive and, mostly, I enjoy them. I'm finally feeling like myself again, though even this feeling is strange—like
awakening to find that you are who you've always been, but your entire life is different than you remember. I'm living alone, without Toby, in San Francisco, a city I still feel I hardly know. It's time to make friends, to build a life here. Henry is leaving and who will remain? Lourdes, Anya, Sybil. Considering this, I decide I owe it to Sybil and Anya—and myself—to attend the SuperMutt fund-raiser. If anything happens—if it feels like too big of a step—I'll just go home. Simple.

A few days before the event, I call Henry to ask if he'd like to come with me. I know he's leaving for Los Angeles soon afterward, and figure we might as well enjoy one official date together before he goes.

“I'd love to,” he says. “But I have a few work calls that evening that might make me a little late. Is it okay if we plan to meet there?”

“Of course,” I say, though I can't help feeling disappointed. I'd hoped that Henry's presence would help distract me on the journey across the city to Sea Cliff—the farthest I've been from my apartment since Toby died. But I decide making my way there alone will be good for me, one final test of my progress. And knowing that I'll see Henry soon after I arrive at the gala should be an excellent reconditioning incentive.

T
HE AFTERNOON OF
the SuperMutt event, I head upstairs to raid Lourdes's closet. The girls are sitting on the inside staircase, waiting for me; apparently Lourdes has promised them that I'm going to do a fashion show. When I bend down to hug them, Lourdes cries out:

“Wait! No!”

I look at her sharply.

“Portia has some kind of bug,” she warns.

Portia blinks up at me. She does look sort of wan. My stomach flip-flops.
When was the last time I took my vitamins?
It's been days. Maybe weeks. I force myself to reach down and hug her. Lourdes watches me, amazed.

I look at her and shrug. “I can handle it.”

Upstairs, Lourdes hands me a few dress options to try on in the bathroom. “I wish I could come with you tonight,” she calls from the bedroom as I change. “This sick kid is really cramping my style.”

“It's okay,” I call back. “I have a date, anyway.” I step out of the bathroom in a silver cocktail dress with cap sleeves and a thin black belt.

Portia and Gabby's eyes grow wide. “Love it,” Portia breathes. Gabby nods in agreement. They're sitting on the floor, eating crackers from a bowl. Giselle is having a field day, scarfing up the crumbs that fall to the carpet, her tail whipping around at a mile a minute.

Lourdes looks down at her children and rolls her eyes, then strokes Giselle's back. “How I love you, Giselle,” she says. “I would have to vacuum so much more if you weren't around.” She cocks her head, evaluating the silver dress. “Maybe. Try another.”

“Oh!” Gabby says. “I have something
beautiful
.” She races out of the room.

When I come back out in a knee-length black dress that's a bit too slinky for my taste, Gabby dumps a yellow tutu and a puffy
pink cat costume and a pair of sparkly purple fairy wings at my feet.

“Well,” Lourdes says, grinning wickedly, “aren't you going to try them on?”

“Oh, Gabby, these
are
beautiful,” I say. I pick up the dress and hold it against my chest. “I'm just worried they might not fit me.”

Gabby's forehead wrinkles. She looks down at the glittery assortment of costumes, then back up at me. She plants her hands on her hips. “Mags,” she says, her little pixie voice turning stern. “You get what you get and you don't get upset.”

T
HAT EVENING, AS
dusk paints the sky a beautiful shade of slate blue, I settle into the back of a cab in a comfortable navy sheath with a scalloped neckline. The car rises and falls over the city's hills, speeding away from my apartment, toward the party. I finger the replica of Sutro Tower in my purse, but I don't look at it. I want to look through the window; I want to see my new home. It's incredibly beautiful. I'd forgotten how the city at night could look like an upside-down sky, each light twinkling like a star, like something eternal, something you could have faith in, maybe even wish upon.

T
HE HOUSE IS
large and contemporary, all glass and steel and pale stucco with oversize globe lights hanging on either side of the entryway. I knock on the enormous red-lacquered door and moments later a petite woman with a wide, sparkling smile opens it.

“Please tell me you're Maggie!”

I nod, immediately recognizing her enthusiastic voice. Still, it's hard to believe that this is Sybil Gainsbury; the woman I'd
envisioned for months as an earthy Joan Didion turns out to be a black Dolly Parton.

“Sybil?” I ask, but she's already grasping my hands in hers. Her shiny dark hair is piled high—and I mean
high
—on her head and her curvy figure is hugged by a long tangerine-colored dress with a rainbow rhinestone border along the low-cut neckline. Even with the mountain of hair and the high heels (also rhinestone encrusted), she can't be more than five feet tall. Just the sight of her makes me glad that I forced myself to come. Looking at Sybil is like looking at a puppy—there's a wonderful effervescence about her, a heartwarming, happy glow that immediately cheers me.

She hooks her arm through mine, guiding me out of the entryway. The house has gleaming hardwood floors and stark white walls; savory smells mingle with the faintly sweet scent of fresh flowers. Before Sybil steers me in another direction, I catch a glimpse of a large living room swarming with servers and caterers in party preparation mode. The house, I realize now, is set high on the coastline overlooking the ocean. The sun is in its final moments of setting and the distant sky over the ocean holds ribbons of color—salmon and gold and robin's-egg blue.

Perfect,
I think.
It's a panic-inducing twofer: a party on a cliff.

“Isn't this house unbelievable?” Sybil asks, angling her head toward mine. “They don't call this neighborhood Sea Cliff for nothing!”

I laugh uneasily.

“Anyway, the Jacobsens, our hosts, are amazing. So generous year after year. And wait until you meet their dogs, Angie and Max—
gorgeous
shepherd mixes with the sweetest temperaments. Former SuperMutts, naturally.” She waves her hand upward as we
pass one of those modern staircases that look like they're floating. “The dogs are up there, somewhere,” she says, then pauses for effect, “with their nanny!” She laughs, but it's a delighted sound, not a mocking one.
To each their own,
her shrug seems to say. Something, maybe the rhinestones on her dress, makes a little tinkling noise with the gesture.

When we step into the bustling kitchen, Sybil calls to a tuxedoed man standing in front of a counter crowded with bottles of alcohol. “Hey, handsome! Do you think you could pour us a couple of champagnes? I owe this lady a drink . . . or ten!” She looks up at me and winks. “A wee bit of party lubrication is in order, don't you think?”

“Absolutely.” I might agree with anything Sybil suggests at this point, that's how charming she is. It's no wonder she has managed to place homeless dogs in hundreds of Bay Area homes. Who could say no to this woman? Champagne in hand, we clink our glasses together and drink.

Sybil links her arm through mine again and steers me toward the living room. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” she says. “I'm so glad to finally meet you in person. I don't know why, but I had this nagging concern that you might not show up. That maybe I had dreamed up this organized and competent and proactive dog lady who swooped into my life five months ago and helped relieve some of the burden of this passion project of mine.” She smiles. “My imagination can get the better of me.”

“You've been a big help to me, too, Sybil. More than you'll ever know.”

Her perfectly arched brows rise in protest.

“No, really. I only knew two people in San Francisco when I
moved here. And you welcomed me wholeheartedly. You made me feel part of a community right from the first day I reached out to you. You helped me get my practice off the ground. Honestly, I should be the one thanking you.”

Sybil clinks her glass against mine. “What can I say? The one thing that tugs on my heartstrings as much as a stray dog is a stray person.”

I laugh. “Well, I think I'm here to stay. Turns out San Francisco is my forever home.” My own words surprise me. I look around, admiring everything but the view. The living room spans the width of the house and is bookended by huge twin fireplaces that are filled with candles. Large, artfully wild looking arrangements of flowers in shades of red and maroon bloom above skirted cocktail tables. In a corner of the room, a jazz trio warms up their instruments. There is a small stage in front of the windows with a podium from which I assume Sybil plans to conduct the auction.

Sybil watches me take in the room. “And the pièce de résistance . . .” she says, waving her hand with a graceful flourish. I turn and see that the wall behind us holds the seven three-by-five-foot black-and-white photographs of the dogs that we picked for the silent adoption auction. “Didn't Anya do an amazing job? I don't know where you found that girl, but I'm sure glad you did.”

I'm overwhelmed by the power and beauty and wit of the photographs. Each one fairly hums with the spirit of the dog it portrays; joy, devotion, sweetness, mischief, trust, dignity, and humor radiate from the dogs' eyes. Below each photograph, Sybil has printed and enlarged the descriptions that I wrote. The dog's name and, in parentheses, the name of their famous doppelgänger, are boldfaced in capital letters at the top of each bio. I walk
along the row of photographs, my smile growing with every step. There's Vivien Leigh (the sassy little schipperke mix with the lustrous black fur), Charlie Chaplin (the black-and-white Boston terrier with the tragicomic expression), and Marcia Gay Harden (the golden retriever who . . . honestly, just looks a hell of a lot like Marcia Gay Harden).

I slow in front of Seymour's photograph. In it, Giselle is in blurry motion, a fuzzy shape at his side, bringing the crisp outline of Seymour to shine in the spotlight. His big ears flop forward adorably on either side of his head; the little sprockets of blond hair around his nose stick straight into the air as if daring you not to smile.
He'll be adopted tonight,
I think, feeling a twinge in my chest. A long table beneath the photographs holds blank sheets of paper on which prospective dog adopters will place their bids.

Sybil puts her arm around my shoulders, squeezing me. “Powerful, aren't they?” She shakes her head, marveling at the wall of images.

I nod. “It's amazing to think that this time tomorrow each of these dogs will be settling into a new home, changing someone's life for the better.”

“Yes, a lot of dogs—and people—are going to see their luck turn around tonight. Even poor, troubled Owen Wilson,” Sybil says, nodding toward Seymour's photograph. She gives my shoulder one more squeeze, then releases me and claps her hands. “Let's get to work!”

A
NYA AND
H
UAN
arrive with the first wave of guests. Anya is wearing what appears to be a boy's silver tuxedo over a white T-shirt. The tuxedo pants are tucked into her ever-present lace-up combat
boots, but at least the boots have been polished. And for the first time since I met her, her hair looks freshly washed. It's pulled up in a high ponytail, a shiny auburn cascade of hair falling down her back. Somehow, the whole effect is remarkably fashionable. When she turns to inspect the installation of her photographs, I see what looks like a bundle of tiny white tea roses tied around the band of her ponytail. Anya catches me looking and lifts her hand, poking at the flowers self-consciously.

“It's a wrist corsage. I think Huan is pretending this is the prom,” she whispers. “I didn't know what to do with them. I don't wear bracelets.”

“They look lovely in your hair.”