Gone With the Woof (4 page)

Sometimes I think that motherhood is just one surprise after another. Luckily, most of them turn out to be good.

After the eventful morning he'd had, it took only ten minutes to get Kevin changed and down for his nap. When I got back to the kitchen, Sam was putting the finishing touches on a couple of chicken salad sandwiches.

“So tell me about your meeting with Edward March,” he said after we'd poured drinks and sat down to lunch.

The Poodles spread themselves out on the floor around the table. They're more likely to get lucky when Davey's home, but they like to keep their options open.

“It was interesting, certainly. And maybe a little odd. If that's what dog show royalty is like, I can't say I'm too impressed.”

“How come?”

I shrugged. “March himself is a bit of a curmudgeon. No, more than that, a bully. And I think he'd be quite happy to hear himself described in those terms. He seems to enjoy browbeating people.”

“He was known for running a strict ring, but that's not unexpected. The best judges have high standards. They know what they like, and they don't settle for less. It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he's a tough old bird.” Sam slanted me a look. “I take it, he didn't succeed in browbeating you.”

“He certainly tried. I ended up arguing with him, and judging by his response, that doesn't happen often. It turns out that I never did hear what his book is going to be about.”

“I thought we already knew that.”

“Apparently not. He was starting to tell me when I insulted his title.”

“Way to go, Mel.”

“It wasn't my fault. Listen to this. March plans to call the book
Puppy Love.
”

“Seriously?” Sam grinned. He lifted a hand and cupped his fingers around his ear. “What's that I hear? Is it the sound of a sixties pop star crooning . . . ?”

I reached over and slapped his hand down. “Cut it out. I mean it.”

“I'm not doubting you.” He was laughing now. “I'm just setting the mood. So now what? Do you think you'll be going back?”

“I guess we'll have to see. The decision isn't entirely up to me. First, March has to decide whether he wants to work with me or not. Although, his assistant told me that two previous candidates for the job didn't even last ten minutes, so maybe he doesn't have a lot of choice.”

“It sounds like you're a shoo-in,” said Sam.

I
migh t have agreed, except that two whole days passed without any word from Edward March. Maybe he wasn't in a hurry to get started on his book. Or maybe he'd found a better candidate for the job. Either way, I had plenty of other things to keep me busy; I had no need to go chasing after him.

On the third day, there was a knock on my front door.

Sam and I live in a residential neighborhood in North Stamford. There are wide streets, large wooded lots, and spacious houses set well back from the road. Unlike at my former address—a tight-knit block in a fifties-era subdivision where there was always someone playing in a front yard and you could smell what your neighbors were cooking for dinner—we don't get drop-in visitors here.

Even cookie-selling Girl Scouts pass us by.

So someone showing up unexpectedly was cause for surprise, if not a small twinge of alarm. The Poodles agreed with me. They came running from all corners of the house and reached the door before I did.

Sam was out for the afternoon, seeing a client. Davey was at school. Kevin was in the family room, watching
Sesame Street
on TV. It was left to me to see what was up.

The booming sound of Poodles' deep-throated barking would stop most prudent visitors in their tracks. But when I opened the door, my uninvited guest didn't look alarmed. Instead, as the pack of Poodles spilled out to join him on the front step, his expression was merely one of annoyance.

“You're Andrew March,” I said, surprised. Luckily, I stopped before blurting out the rest of my thought.
What are you doing here?

“Yes, I am. May I come in?”

Maybe March and his son didn't get along because they both shared the same imperious attitude. Without waiting for a response, Andrew simply walked past me and into the house.

Today he was wearing a suit, English cut with narrow lapels. His shirt was open at the throat. Though the temperature was in the thirties, his only concession to the weather was a cashmere muffler he'd wound around his neck. As I called the Poodles back inside and shut the door, I saw that he'd left a shiny black Escalade parked in the driveway.

“Nice house,” he said, looking around with a practiced eye. “How old is it?”

“Ten years, give or take. We didn't buy it new.”

He walked across the hall to the arched entryway that led to the living room. There was nothing I could do but follow along behind.

“It looks like it's in pretty good shape.”

“It is,” I said. “We take good care of it. Did you come here to discuss my house?”

“No, just force of habit. Professional interest.”

Now Andrew was taking a peek at the dining room. This was truly bizarre. If he started to head upstairs, I decided I was going to call 911.

“Listen,” he said, finally turning back to me. “We need to talk. Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

Like he hadn't noticed during his nosy inspection that we had chairs?

“Living room. Dining room.” I waved my arm from one side of the house to the other. “Take your pick.”

It didn't matter to me which room he chose. If Kevin needed something, I could hear his call from anywhere on the first floor.

“This'll do,” he said. Living room it was.

All five Poodles had been milling around our legs while we talked, but now Eve separated herself out and headed toward the back of the house. Having appointed herself his canine guardian, she took her job very seriously, and I knew that I'd find her later curled up by Kevin's side.
Good dog.
Under these decidedly odd circumstances, that gave me one less thing to worry about.

The remaining four Poodles jostled each other playfully as we moved toward the living room. Each jockeyed for position nearest to our visitor. It didn't take a genius to see that they were wondering what was going on. Funny thing about that, so was I.

Andrew dropped down a hand and brushed away an inquisitive nose. “Can't they go outside or something?”

“No.”

Andrew frowned.

I shrugged. My house, my rules.

He glanced at the oversize couch, with its padded arms and plump pillows, and must have realized that if he sat there, the Poodles would join him. Wisely, he opted for the matching chair instead.

I settled on the couch. Now we were sitting facing one another. I folded my hands in my lap and waited. I had no idea what might come next. Nor did I intend to initiate the proceedings.

“We need to talk about my father,” Andrew said.

“I can't imagine why. I barely know your father. We met for the first time at the beginning of the week.”

“Nevertheless, I'm sure you're aware that he's hatched some crazy scheme to write a book. I understand that's what your meeting was about.”

“Mr. March is looking for a coauthor,” I replied mildly. “It remains to be seen whether or not that person will be me.”

“It will not.”

To tell the truth, I'd had my doubts, too. But the fact that Andrew March seemed to think that he could come into my house uninvited, and tell me what I could or could not do, got my hackles up.

“I believe that's for your father to decide.”

“Listen, that came out wrong.” He reached up and raked his fingers through his hair. Like his father's, it was thick and bushy. Tendrils spilled forward over his forehead.

“I'm sure you're qualified to”—Andrew paused and blew out an agitated breath—“do whatever it is that he thinks he wants done. But there isn't going to be a book.”

“Because you object?”

“Hell, yes, I object. I'll get a restraining order if I have to.”

This was getting interesting. “Against your father?”

“And you, too, if I have to.”

Law was not my strong suit, but I was pretty sure he was confused about what a restraining order could or could not accomplish. I didn't think it could stop someone from writing a book about his own life.

“Why are you so opposed to the idea?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then why are you here?”

“To tell you to back off. You need to leave my father alone.”

“I met with your father once,” I said. “I was there at
his
invitation.”

Andrew looked annoyed. Obviously, he was no more accustomed to being argued with than Edward March was.

“I'm not telling you what my father wants. I'm telling you what
I
want,” he snapped. “And how things are going to be. You need to listen to what I'm saying. There's no point in your getting any further involved with my family, because there isn't going to be any book.”

“Mr. March thinks there is.”

“He's mistaken. And trust me, it isn't the first time. There's no way I intend to sit by while my father pontificates about his own importance to anyone who will listen. We will not be airing our family's dirty linen in public. I have a business to protect, and I won't stand for it.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. One of us was clearly confused. I really hoped it wasn't me. “This book that you're so upset about, it isn't about your business. It's about dogs and dog shows.”

Andrew's eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you that?”

“Well . . . no. Not in so many words. But the whole point is, what I know about is dogs. That's why my aunt recommended me for the job. Mr. March and I spent most of our time together talking about Irish Setters.”

“Dogs.” Andrew spat out the word. “That's all he ever talks about.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. You don't have anything to worry about. The book is going to be called
Puppy Love.
”

“Oh, hell no!” Andrew leapt to his feet. The Poodles, who had settled around us on the floor, jumped up and scattered.

“Okay, maybe it isn't the best title. But at least it describes the subject matter. Nobody could confuse
that
with a book about your company.”

I'd thought the title might placate him. Instead, it was having the opposite effect. He leaned down and shook his finger in my face.

“This isn't over,” he snarled.

I pushed his hand away and stood up. “I think you'd better leave.”

Andrew rewrapped his scarf—like that was going to ward off the cold—strode over to the door, and let himself out. As the door slammed shut behind him, Faith whined softly under her breath.

“I know.” I reached down to tangle my fingers in her topknot. “I feel the same way.”

How very, very strange.

 

Cell phones are the bane of my existence.

At the risk of sounding like a Luddite, I have to admit that I was much happier before so many different ways existed for me to reach out and touch someone. Or vice versa, as is usually the case. I've simply never understood the appeal of being readily available to the world 24-7.

I carry a cell phone with me, but it's there for emergencies or in case a close friend or family member needs to get hold of me. Since I don't give the number to anyone else, I don't get a lot of calls. And that's just the way I like it.

So when my cell phone rang the next morning and an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen, I was already frowning when I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Melanie? Edward March here. Are you ready to get started?”

Good question. And now that I'd spent three days pondering it, I knew what my answer was going to be.

Andrew's visit the previous afternoon—meant to warn me away—had instead succeeded in whetting my curiosity. Not only that, but while my family life was wonderful, lately the opportunities for intellectual stimulation had been few and far between. That one interview with Edward March had been enough to remind me that I
liked
having a job, that I enjoyed feeling useful in some capacity outside the home.

I'd missed that. And it was time to get my brain back in gear again.

“I'm ready,” I said. “Just one thing, Mr. March—”

“Edward. If we're going to be working together, you must call me Edward.”

He couldn't see me, but I shook my head, anyway. I had no desire to call March by his first name. That small barrier of formality between us was just fine by me.

“Where did you get this phone number from?”

“Margaret gave it to me.”

Of course,
I thought with a sigh. I should have guessed.

March and I made arrangements to meet after lunch. I picked up Kevin, who was on the floor at my feet, and went off in search of Sam. I found him in the family room, unpacking a fresh load of firewood from a canvas log carrier.

Most of the logs were already in the wrought-iron rack. Sam was using the last few to lay a new fire. As he knelt on the floor and leaned forward to pile them directly onto the andirons, I took a moment to admire the view. Really, it never got old.

“Time for you to make good on your promise,” I said as he finished what he was doing and turned.

Kevin wiggled in my arms. He wanted down. As I lowered him to the floor, Sam swiveled around and sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Kevin trotted across the room and into his father's outstretched arms.

“March just called. I'm going back to Westport after lunch. He wants me to help him with his book.”

“Did you tell him that Andrew was here yesterday?”

“No, but I will when I get there.” Sam and I had discussed Andrew's visit the previous evening, and Sam had been just as baffled as I was. “Can you watch Kevin this afternoon?”

“Sure.” Sam cupped his hands around his son's, and the two of them clapped in the air happily. “Take all the time you need.”

 

Once again Charlotte met me at the front door, and once again she escorted me to the library entrance. Since it was a straight shot down the wide center hall, then a left-hand turn into the room, I was pretty sure I could have found my own way, but March's assistant accompanied me, anyway.

“I'm glad you decided to come back,” she said. “He's been in a good mood all day.”

“I hope I don't do anything to ruin it,” I said.

“Oh, I'm sure you won't. Now that he's going to be getting started on his book, I'm sure things will settle down around here.”

I would have asked what she meant by that, but we'd already reached the library. March was waiting just inside the doorway, his body tipped forward as he leaned heavily on his cane. If he was happy to see me, it wasn't evident by his disgruntled expression.

“Shut the door behind you,” he said to Charlotte, dismissing her with barely a glance. “Melanie and I have work to do.”

As she complied, March began the slow walk toward his desk. “We've done a little rearranging since you were here last. Come along and find yourself a seat.”

The room did look as though someone had done some straightening. There was marginally less clutter, and a bit more open space had been carved out around the furniture. Several tabletops were cleared, and rather than just one empty chair, I had my choice of places to sit. I wondered why whoever had done the neatening hadn't thought to put higher-wattage lightbulbs in the lamps—or, failing that, to push back the heavy drapes that covered much of the large window behind the desk.

I'm a teacher. I like a cheerful workplace. And the thought of spending weeks confined to this somber, dimly lit library was mildly depressing. Surely, I couldn't be the only person who felt like I was entering a tomb each time I walked inside.