Hound Dog & Bean (11 page)

Not really.

And cute! That hair—different, but still sexy. Those incredible topaz-blue eyes, his big (quite big!) Roman nose, and that wide, full-lipped mouth. What would it be like to kiss that mouth. Bean had a feeling it would be nice. Really nice.

H.D. might not look like what he usually brought home to meet the parents, but so what?

That made him think of his mom and dad, mostly his mother, and how he damned well better call her and tell her about the punch before someone else did. If she heard about it from somewhere else first, the shit would hit the fan. It was as if she had spies. Who knows? Maybe she did.

So he called her.

She answered halfway through the second ring: “Darling…! So good of you to call. To what to I owe the pleasure of this extraordinarily unusual communiqué?”

He bit his lip. There she went again. He had just seen her and talked to her the day before. So why did she call this an
extraordinarily unusual communiqué? And who else but my mom uses words like “communiqué”?

He almost said, “Just wanted to hear your voice,” but she would only get annoyed when he led things to where he’d intended from the start. So instead he said, “A couple things, Mom.
First
I wanted to say thanks for dinner—”

“Oh, that was
Big
Dean’s doing. You father
slaved
over that grill….”

Hardly, but Bean knew better than to contradict her. Unless… “Mom, we know it was all your doing. You and I both know that.”

She laughed joyfully, and he could see her in his mind, throwing her head back and waving her hand through the air in an oh-it-was-nothing gesture.

“True, true. But let’s pretend it wasn’t. And didn’t Muriel McKenna
—
wasn’t it nice to break bread with her? She looks good for a woman with”—and then whispering—“cancer” as if it were a rude word, or perhaps simply saying it could make her susceptible to the disease.

“Yes, Mom. She did look good.”

“Speaking of looking good, what about that Sloan? He sure grew up into something handsome, didn’t he?”

Well, don’t get me wrong, Dean, but… you’re not really my type.

“Yes, Mom. He did. Is. Does. Whatever.” Bean didn’t want to talk about Sloan.

“So, are you going to….” She paused then yelled, “Yes, Father! I’m asking him now!” Bean had to hold the phone away from his head. How
could
the woman be a bank president and socialite? “Are you going to ask him out?”

“What?” he asked, now that he could put his cell back to his ear.

“
Sloan
, dearest. Are you going to ask him on a date?”

“I’m not his type,” Bean said, deciding not to play the game and just nip things in the bud.

“You’re what? Oh, nonsense. You don’t know that. How could you not be his type? You’re gorgeous.”

“He told me, Mom.”

“He what? He told…? I see. Well—” There was a pause as she carefully considered what to say. Bean knew this. He knew his mother, even if she only knew him incompletely. She was far too busy a woman—always had been, and probably always would. He, on the other hand, had studied her like a scientist when she gave him her time.
When she did, the time was pretty extraordinary. Museums,
observatories, staying up one night to watch a complete lunar eclipse (she called his school the next morning so he wouldn’t have to go in), observing a Monarch butterfly emerge from its cocoon—all those things and more had been a part of his growing up years. There had been trips to Alaska and the Grand Canyon, Paris, and London, not to forget El Salvador, where he had seen his first coffee plantation.

Few kids had such a childhood. He knew to be thankful for the experiences. But somehow he would have been happy with the two of them simply doing something as uncomplicated as baking peanut butter cookies.

“Well dear, you’ll find someone,” she was saying.

“Sure, Mom.”

“You
will
.”

“I know.” Then he thought of H.D., which was silly, he knew, because how many times had he said he
didn’t
need anyone, let alone a boyfriend? Hadn’t he been thinking it… was it yesterday? But still…. The image of H.D.’s smile came to mind, and Bean was grinning foolishly to himself.

“When are we going to see you again?”

Strange, now that he was grown, how much time his mother had for him. He thought maybe his mother had never known what to do with a child. She had always treated him like he was an adult. Which was why—in the end—she had accepted his bizarre choice (to her) of opening a coffee shop.

“No, Father!” She was yelling again. His dad was almost assuredly downstairs in his man-cave. “He’s not going to ask Sloan out… Well, because Sloan isn’t his type.”

Bean smiled. Of course she’d decided to report the story that way.

“Mom?”

“Yes, darling one.”

“Speaking of the next time you see me…. I don’t want to alarm you, but you might be a little shocked.”

“Did you finally shave? You know I hate that you cover your handsome face—”

“No, Mom. The beard is still there. But I have two black eyes.”

She laughed again. “Yes, Dean. And I got my nose pierced.”

He chuckled but then set her straight. “Mom. I really
did
have my eyes blacked.”

“You’re serious.” It was a statement and not a question.

“Yes, Mom. It was sort of an accident.”

“You’ve got two black eyes, and it was an accident?” And once more, not quite so loudly, “Yes! I said he’s got two black eyes!”

Suddenly, it was his father on the phone. “Were you in a fight, Son?”

“Not hardly. This man went after a customer in the store, and I got in the way.”

Then he heard his mother in the background: “See! I told you that neighborhood was dangerous!”

“Dad. Tell Mom not to even go there. It was all a mistake. And besides, H.D. made up for it.”

“Archie? Who’s Archie?” his father asked.

“H.D.,” Bean corrected, and immediately regretted it.

“Who’s Archie?” his mother said into the phone, obviously having taken it back on her end. “Have you met someone named Archie and didn’t tell me about it? Is that why you don’t want to date Sloan? Is he nice—”

“
Mom
. There is no one named ‘Archie.’” Which was true. There wasn’t. Of course, he could always be accused of a sin of omission later when he decided not to correct them. H.D. was a secret right now. And why not? Tomorrow would be their first date, and they might find out they couldn’t stand each other.

Bean hoped that wasn’t the case.

After that he steered the conversation away from the punching, although it took a bit of doing and a promise to come by over the weekend.

Why not? He loved his parents. Even if they were weird.

W
HEN
B
EAN
got off the phone, he headed upstairs to get ready for bed. He’d been awake now for over twelve hours since the Great Punching and thought it would be safe, concussion or no concussion. Yet he wasn’t sleepy. He knew he would just wind up staring at the ceiling. Staring and wondering about tomorrow night.

So before he climbed in bed, he decided to go into his study and sit at his desk and boot up his laptop. He’d heard there were websites where you could answer a bunch of questions and get advice about what kind of dog would be a good match for you. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he really did want a dog.

He found several sites right off, but a few seemed designed more to sell dog food than to help him find a dog that was best for him. Finally, he found one he was willing to try. Some questions were a little strange, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer the ones that would only let him click on one answer. Sometimes several of the choices applied.

The site was divided into sections, and it started off with a part about the home.

“Your Home” said the title. Then…

Some dogs, especially high energy and large dogs, aren’t happy in small spaces. Unless you have time to walk them often or give them lots of exercise, you will want to avoid this type of dog. What is the size of your home?

A) I live in an apartment/very small home

B) I live in a cozy home with a small backyard

C) I live in a two to three bedroom house with a large backyard

D) I live in a mansion

“Well, hell,” he said aloud. None of these were right exactly. He had a three-bedroom house—two-and-a-half—with a small backyard. It was part of why he chose it. He didn’t have a lot of time to maintain a yard or garden. He shrugged and picked “C”.

Then came “Dog Size.” As in “What size dog would you prefer?”

“Small,” he said.

The choices were…

A) Pocket: Under 5 lbs

Jeez. That was small. But then his aunt Helen’s Yorkies were probably that small and he did love them. Would have scooped them both up and snuck off if he thought she would have let him live.

B) Tiny: 5 to 12 lbs

C) Miniature: 13 to 25 lbs

“Damn.” Thirteen to twenty-five pounds was considered miniature? On what planet?

D) Small: 26 to 39 lbs

“Oh, for goodness sake!” he exclaimed. Moses weighed around thirty pounds and he had never thought of his beloved dog as “small.”

E) Medium: 40 to 59 lbs

Really? Really?
This was impossible already!

F) Large: 60 to 89 lbs

G) Very large: 90 to 105 lbs

H) Huge: 105 lbs

This was already driving him crazy. He considered backing out of the site and trying another but then figured he’d come this far, he might as well finish and see where it went.

So he thought about it and then chose “Tiny,” even though he didn’t think of thirteen to twenty-five pounds as tiny. The twenty-five-pound bags of fertilizer he had helped his mother lug into the garage last spring had been heavy, even if they weren’t nearly as heavy as the 150-pound bags green coffee beans he had delivered to the shop.

Next there were questions about how many hours his dog would be alone each day (eight, maybe ten?), did he have kids, how much exercise would he get with his dog, was he willing to groom his dog or have it groomed…. They went on and on, and just when he was ready to give up, he was told to click one more button and he would see the best dog for him.

He smiled in relief and clicked away.

And the answer was…

Silky Terrier.

“What the heck?” he muttered. He’d never even heard of a Silky terrier. He leaned closer to the computer screen, then clicked on the image to make it bigger. The dog wasn’t ugly. No, as a matter of fact it sort of reminded him of a larger version of his aunt’s Yorkies. He wasn’t sure, though. And was that a clipped tail? He shuddered. He didn’t like that. They did weigh eight to ten pounds, though. And were companion dogs, and that he certainly needed. A must-have quality.

Now what did the site say about the dog? “The Silky terrier is not a quiet lap dog,” he read out loud. He liked to read out loud. It made concepts stick more firmly in his mind. “It can be daring, spirited, curious, and playful, as well as mischievous. They can be aggressive with other dogs, so keep that in mind if you have another dog. Silky dogs are clever, but also willful. They tend to bark a lot.” Bean sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmmmm….”

He saw there was something else mostly off screen and so he took the mouse and scrolled down a little bit.

“Your next eight choices,” it informed him. And those choices were French bulldog (no), Boston terrier—he shrugged—Chihuahua (maybe… he didn’t hate them like some people), Italian greyhound (huh? Weren’t greyhounds big dogs?), Norfolk terrier (cute, he supposed), Norwich terrier (oh, quite cute), Beagle (Hmmmm…. Didn’t Captain Archer have a beagle? Porthos, maybe? Certainly cute…. And they seemed to always look like puppies, which was a plus…. But no.), and finally a Manchester terrier (not even a little bit cute).

Bean sat back again and sighed. “Well, that sucked,” he said.

Below that was a list of the next 175 choices in order, with no pictures. Well, crap.

For curiosity he looked to see where Yorkies appeared on the list.

Eleven. For some reason this made him smile.

“Is that what you’re thinking, Bean?”

He clicked and the pictures popped up and oh, how he smiled.

But Lord. They were small, weren’t they? Really small for the most part.

Then he happened to notice that one of the very next dogs on the list was dachshund. He flashed on the memory of the one that bit and held onto his lip when he was a kid and shuddered. But then he thought about the three owned by his neighbor on the corner. Long-haired dachshunds. Gorgeous. Stunning even. How he laughed when they walked. You couldn’t see their legs, and their hair rippled when they moved. It always reminded him of caterpillars.

The three dogs loved him. If they saw him on his porch, they moved en masse up his walk, like they were small, elongated Alaskan huskies pulling their musher—sans sled—behind them. Which always made Bean laugh in delight even if he wasn’t sure how Mr. Hornsbury felt about it. Bean would pull them, one by one, into his lap, giving each a turn to kiss him and get held. Their names were, appropriately, Wiener, Schnitzel, and Noodles. It wasn’t until hours after he met them that he realized he must have shed his fear of a dachshund biting him, for hadn’t he let each of them lick his face to their heart’s content?

Bean yawned. Yawned huge, and it hurt his face but he also felt relief. Yawning meant he was ready for bed. If things went as usual, his head would no sooner hit the pillow then he’d be out.

But he used H.D.’s oil first. Gently massaged it into the flesh around his eyes and especially over the dark places. It hurt and felt good at the same time. Maybe there was something to this herb stuff? Funny that he’d never doubted it as H.D. administered his treatment.