Must Love Dogs (8 page)

We laughed, remembering Dolly’s face. “So, Michael,” Carol asked. “How come Phoebe didn’t come tonight?”

Michael shrugged. “She stayed home to read a book. I don’t think she cares much about getting in good with my family these days. She says we tell too many old stories and that it always makes her feel left out.”

“Kevin used to say that too,” I said. Carol gave me a dirty look. “I mean, not that that means anything,” I added quickly. We all knew that Michael’s marriage was in trouble, but while it was all right to whisper about it behind his back, it was not something we talked about openly. I wondered if all families behaved this way. I tried not to think about what they hadn’t said in front of me about Kevin.

Dad pushed the kitchen door until it swung open just enough for his head to fit through the opening. He looked at Mother Teresa sternly. “You, my four-footed friend, are in deep shit.” He held out a plastic bag, a flash of pink poking out of the top. Mother Teresa was on her feet in an instant. Michael grabbed her by the collar. “Michael, I’d be the happiest man alive if you could find a way to replace this with one of the original length.”

Michael reached for the bag. “Okay, Dad. I’m really sorry. She’s just a puppy.” Mother Teresa made a lunge. I moved faster and whisked the bag to safety.

As usual, Carol had an idea. “Perfect, Sarah. You can shop for a new boa for Dolly. Take the old one with you so you get a good match, then throw it out afterward. I’ll give you a list of stores to try. Maybe pick up some nice underwear for yourself while you’re at it. Just in case.”

My father nodded as if he thought it was a perfectly reasonable idea, but of course he was dating a woman who wore a pink feather boa to Sunday dinner. We heard a distinct crash. “Those good-looking grandchildren of mine out there might need a little supervision. I’m going to run Dolly home.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t wait up.”

We talked until the Miata was long gone, then turned out some of the lights and locked the door. We packed the kids and Mother Teresa into their respective cars to drive off to our other homes. I was about to head out, alone, when Michael walked over to my car. I rolled down my window. “Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

Michael rubbed an index finger back and forth under one of his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine, just checking up on you. You need anything?”

“No, I’m all right. But thanks.”

“Are you, um, getting out or anything?” Even in the dark, he looked embarrassed. I probably did, too. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, it’s not that. There’s just not much to talk about.” Behind us in Michael’s car, Annie or Lainie started to flash the high beams off and on. Mother Teresa barked.

“Well, maybe you should push yourself a little.” He waved at the kids, who responded by flashing the lights faster. It felt a little like being in a disco. “I know it’s gotta be tough, but, Sarah, you have a chance to make a whole new life, you know? You just have to get out there and meet someone.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Who would want me?”

“Come on, Sarah. Lots of guys would want to go out with you. You’re smart, you’re funny. You’re even kinda pretty when you’re not wallowing in self-pity.”

My whole life, my brothers had teased me, making fun of my outfits, pointing out my pimples, belittling my boyfriends. Michael being this nice to me made me want to cry. “Okay, Michael,” I said, not daring to look in his eyes. “I’ll try.”

*

I stripped down to my underwear, a graying cotton sports bra and nylon panties that had seen better days. Rifling through the mess on my closet floor, I found the open-toed silver Italian mules I’d bought and never worn. They were the only backless shoes I owned. Besides two pairs of boiled wool clogs.

I tried not to clomp on the way to the kitchen. I’d thought these shoes would make me feel as glamorous as, say, Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida, but every time I tried them on with an outfit, I’d look at my feet in the mirror and laugh. After a year or so, I gave up on them.

I reached to the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, found the Lysol. I picked up the plastic bag from the counter, and shook out the boa until it collapsed on the floor like a dying pink flamingo. I sprayed the exposed side thoroughly, then flipped it over with the edge of the Lysol can and sprayed again. I wasn’t quite sure if I was disinfecting Mother Teresa’s drool or what my nieces and nephews would call Dolly’s cooties.

The boa was looking a little damp and matted; the bedraggled feathers decreased its drama potential. I put it in the dryer and pushed delicate cycle then start. While I was waiting, I checked my answering machine. Nothing. Not even Carol.

A quick tumble in the dryer did wonders for the boa. I wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth and fluff were encouraging. I held the boa by both ends and jump-roped the length of the kitchen, not an easy feat in mules. When I stopped, a few pink feathers floated in the air. I slid my hands closer together along the boa, let it fall behind my shoulders and shimmied for a bit. Added a step-kick, then a step- kick-kick. Then a long low hip circle and a couple of bumps.

Okay, this is it, I decided. I walked into my bedroom, lit a candle. Turned the lights down low with the dimmer switch by the door. The tape deck was on the bedside table. I played John’s message, said the words along with him as I paraded around the room.
Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice.

It had been a long time since I’d had a compliment from a man. I supposed that technically it was Carol’s compliment, since she’d recorded my message, but I decided to take it anyway. I wrapped the boa around my neck a few times, sprawled on the bed with my legs arranged seductively. I looked down at my feet, still wearing the mules. Considered painting my toenails.

You have a terrific voice
, I repeated. Then I picked up the phone. And I called him.

I figured I’d go through Michael’s wife, Phoebe, to borrow Mother Teresa for a couple of hours. Less chance of word leaking out that way. Phoebe was an only child and had never developed a talent for mining sibling gossip.

I was wearing black jeans that looked good either standing or sitting, plus a cuddly red fleece jacket that had big pockets so I wouldn’t have to think about what to do with my keys. My hair was having a good day, curling crisply rather than frizzily, for which I was thankful. I felt as if anything were possible. This was more than meeting up with a man. It was staking a claim on a life. Grabbing some gusto. Catching a wave. Well, maybe not catching a wave, but still.

“Did Michael talk you into this?” asked Phoebe as she struggled to hook a hot pink leash onto the puppy’s matching collar. As soon as she attached it, Mother Teresa grabbed the other end in her mouth and started to walk herself out the door. “Get her! Oh my God, this dog is driving me crazy.” Now that she mentioned it, Phoebe did look slightly deranged. Her straight blond hair didn’t seem to know in which direction to fall, and her pale blue eyes looked lost, too.

“No, it was my idea. Just thought you could use a little break. I’d offer to take the kids, too, but I really need a workout. Mother Teresa and I are going for a very long walk. Could be hours. I’ll make it up to Annie and Lainie next time.”

“That’s fine. They have homework anyway. And the girls are a piece of cake compared to Her Holiness here.” Mother Teresa looked up at Phoebe adoringly, then leaned her body into Phoebe’s thigh. Phoebe took a few quick steps backward and braced herself against the wall.

I buckled Mother Teresa into the front seat of my Honda Civic. She seemed to like it and, keeping her eyes on the road, began to gum the seat belt contentedly. It was kind of nice to have company. The twenty- minute ride to the puppy playground was over before I knew it.

We entered a chain-linked gate with a sign that said welcome to puppy paradise. I sat on a green park bench. Mother Teresa jumped up beside me. I unbuckled her leash. “Go play with the other puppies, honey.” I elbowed her. “Come on, don’t be shy.” She put her head in my lap and looked around cautiously.

I looked around, too, for someone who resembled Harrison Ford. Maybe even wearing his Indiana Jones hat. Probably from the second episode,
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
. Daredevil archaeologist hot on the trail of the legendary Ankara Stone. And a ruthless cult that has enslaved hundreds of children. I would have been a less whiny costar than Kate Capshaw. I could have kept up with all the action, wouldn’t even have considered a stunt double.

A man leaning against a concrete tunnel was glancing my way. Actually, he seemed to be glancing surreptitiously at my breasts. I looked down, thinking Mother Teresa might have left a conspicuous deposit of drool. Nothing. I looked back up. Harrison Ford he was not.

It couldn’t be him. This guy was actually kind of cute, but he definitely wasn’t over six feet tall, more like five-nine or five-ten. Although maybe he just looked shorter from a distance. I tried to remember what else his message had said. Let’s see, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, though the effect was more Michael J. Fox than Harrison Ford. He was a little pale, too, and had shiny hair it would be a stretch to call
blondish
, though maybe
tannish
would fit. I searched for some hint of Harrison — his wry grin, the confident sway of his shoulders, the way his whole body smoldered with intensity. Nothing.

I scanned the playground for more desirable possibilities. Two exceptionally gorgeous guys who had eyes only for each other. Their Jack Russell terrier frolicked nearby. A couple of mother-child-lab combos. A sweet old guy and his beagle. Jeesh.

Mother Teresa jumped down from the bench. “Good girl,” I said encouragingly. She waited while I scratched behind her ears; then she lumbered off toward the concrete tunnel, stopping to sniff every couple of feet. When she was a few yards from the tunnel, a Yorkshire terrier exploded from within, a tiny yelping whirlwind of tricolored fur. Mother Teresa froze, except for her tail, which continued to wag hopefully.

The Yorkie was almost under Mother Teresa’s nose when she stopped. Her barking got louder, the pitch higher. I didn’t know about Mother Teresa, but the little yapper was certainly getting on my nerves.

“Clementine, sit!” the man who was not Harrison Ford ordered. Mother Teresa sat. The Yorkie kept barking. She was jumping up and down on her hind legs. Mother Teresa slid to the ground and buried her head between her front paws. The Yorkie backed off a couple of hops but kept barking.

“Nice bitch,” said the man.

“Excuse me?”

“Your dog. She’s a bitch, right? Show-quality, looks like.”

“Oh, I thought you meant your dog.” Now there’s a bitch, I was thinking.

He didn’t get it. “Yup, Clementine’s a bitch, too. Best of breed, twice. The Eukanuba Classic, two years ago and Newport, last summer. How ’bout yours?”

I was starting to get a headache. “Is there any way you can make her stop?”

“Sure.” He turned to the dog and said sternly, “Clementine, sit.” Clementine kept barking. He took a step forward. She barked louder. He reached out a hand. She bit it. “Jesus! What is your fucking problem?” Shaking his hand, he turned to me and managed a smile. “Sorry. That hurt. A lot.”

“Did it break the skin?” I asked.

He examined his hand. “No, I don’t think so. Listen, can you watch her for a minute while I get her travel crate? That should work.”

I didn’t say a word, and since I hadn’t committed to anything, I figured Mother Teresa and I could just take off if things got rough with Clementine. She had stopped barking, but her stance was defiant. If her owner had any brains at all, he would have hopped in the car and taken off. Instead, he raced back with the crate. Fortunately, Clementine jumped in, seduced by a doggie treat, and he whisked her off to the car.

“John Anderson,” he said, extending his hand, when he came back. I looked for signs of blood before I shook it. Through the cracked window of the car, we could hear the faint sounds of Clementine barking.

“Sarah Hurlihy.” I wondered if I should have used an alias. I wondered if he was using one.

“So.” He sat on the green bench and patted the space beside him. Mother Teresa jumped up. I sat down on the other side of her.

“So. Who told you you look like Harrison Ford?”

“The same person who told you you were voluptuous.”

We looked at each other.
What a jerk
, I thought. It wasn’t as if I actually thought of myself as voluptuous, but what gave this guy the right to an opinion? “Well, gee, thanks,” I said finally, wondering if it was too soon to get up and leave.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Usually voluptuous goes the other way — toward the fat end of the spectrum. ‘Rubenesque’ is even worse, a tip-off for morbidly obese. ‘Weight proportional to height’ is another one to look out for. Anyway, next time you should probably just say ‘attractive’ or ‘great body.’ Just don’t say ‘athletic.’ That means flat-chested.”

“So if you didn’t like my ad, why did you answer it?”

“I didn’t mean I didn’t like it. Let’s see. I’d have to say it was the ‘seeks special man to share starlit nights’ that got me. Slightly overused but a nice image all the same. And I thought ‘alluring’ was an excellent word choice.”

“Why, thanks a bunch. You certainly sound like an expert.” I was feeling a little bit like I was playing a game of tennis but couldn’t tell if I was winning or losing. In fact, I was pretty sure I wanted to lose. “Well, John, the truth is that I didn’t even write the ad. My sister wrote it for me. And I thought the starlit nights line was awful. I’ll tell her you liked it, though.”

He nodded. “So what got you in my message? Harrison Ford?”

“Yeah, sorry. What made you write that?” I mean, you could break someone’s heart with that kind of promise. All those expectations with nowhere to go.