“I said yet, didn’t I?” He lowered his voice again. “All I know is whatever happened, it was bad. It had to be, didn’t it?”
One would think.
“Now I want to hear the rest of the story,” I told him. “So you’ll have to find out what it is. Aunt Peg will want to know too.” Abruptly I stopped speaking. Mention of Peg’s name reminded me of what had happened earlier.
Terry’s gaze swung my way. “What?”
“Aunt Peg just had the strangest encounter with Victor outside the Garden.”
“How is that possible?” he asked. “Isn’t she avoiding everyone until after she does her thing later tonight?”
“Absolutely. She’s been a total fanatic about it. Aunt Peg hadn’t said a word to anyone until Victor accosted her on Seventh Avenue.”
Terry looked shocked by my choice of words. “He accosted her?”
“I’d say so. Victor grabbed her arm and refused to let go.” There was a second grooming table behind me. The Mini Poodle wasn’t using it, so I hopped up and had a seat.
“What did he want?”
“Supposedly he wanted to buy Aunt Peg a drink. Like, right then. When she was needed inside to meet up with important people.”
“The network?” Terry guessed.
I nodded.
“Victor’s an idiot,” he muttered. “I assume Peg put him in his place?”
“Actually I did,” I told him. Okay, maybe I was a little proud of myself. “I nearly broke his finger.”
“You tiger, you.” Terry grinned. “I never would have guessed. Nicely done.”
“Guessed what?” Crawford asked, coming up behind us. He looked sharp in his dark suit and tie. “That Melanie needs to get around to the front of the house and find her seat? Haven’t you two been listening to the announcements? The Hound Group has already been called.”
I looked down at my watch. It was ten minutes to eight. Sam and the boys would have already arrived. No doubt they were waiting in our seats for me to join them.
“Yikes,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
I slid down off the tabletop. “We never had a chance to talk about the wedding,” I told Terry. “I wanted to hear all the details.”
“Not now,” Crawford said firmly.
“Of course not.” I leaned in close and brushed a quick kiss across the handler’s cheek. The gesture took him by surprise. Crawford didn’t have time to pull away. “You look wonderful. Good luck tonight! Have fun out there.”
“I don’t care about fun,” he told me. “We came to win.”
* * *
The seats Sam had gotten for us were on the side of the arena, only a dozen rows above the ring. I had no idea how he’d managed that, and I was quite sure I didn’t want to know what they’d cost. But I was grateful he’d sprung for the purchase. From there, we would have a wonderful view of everything that happened.
“Where have you been?” Davey asked when I slid in between Sam and Kevin. They’d been using the empty seat to hold their winter coats. I had to redistribute them before I could sit down. “We’ve been here for at least half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” Kev echoed. There was a smear of something yellow on his sleeve. The boys had been eating hot dogs again. Or maybe nachos. “And we haven’t seen any judging at all.”
“That’s coming right up,” I told him. “Starting with the Hound Group in just a few minutes.” I turned to Sam. “I was back at the benches visiting with Crawford and Terry. Crawford has his Mini and a Havanese to show tonight.”
“We know all that,” Davey informed me loftily. He was sure teenagers knew everything.
Sam nodded. “We watched replays of the judging when Davey got home from school. Topper looked terrific. And Kaz won in Standards. It should be a great group.”
“There’s Aunt Peg!” Kevin stood up and pointed.
The judge’s table was on the opposite side of the arena. Aunt Peg was taking a seat nearby, beside the Toy and Herding Group judges. Her shoulders were ramrod stiff. She was staring straight ahead into the nearly empty ring. Kevin lifted his hand over his head and waved.
No surprise, Aunt Peg didn’t wave back.
“She looks different,” Sam commented.
I gave him a look. “Different?”
“Awesome,” he quickly amended. “That’s what I meant to say. She looks awesome. Whatever you two got up to this afternoon was well worth it.”
It didn’t sound like he wanted to hear details, so I gave him a brief summary. “Aunt Peg was resistant to the process at first. But I think she ended up enjoying it. She informed the stylist that the Westminster broadcast might be the only exposure that millions of people would ever have to a dog show. So it was important for her to make an effort to look like it mattered.”
“She succeeded,” he replied. “That’s no surprise.”
The audience fell silent as a color guard marched into the arena. We all stood for the singing of the national anthem. When that was finished, the sonorous voice of the Westminster announcer called the dogs from the Hound Group into the ring.
The sight of thirty-five beautiful hounds—each a superb representative of its breed—gaiting across the bright green carpet was electrifying. Their entrance gave me chills.
Kev was staring at the parade of breeds with his mouth gaping open. I’d worried about keeping him up past his bedtime. I’d also been concerned that he might get bored having to sit in a seat for so long. But judging by the rapt expression on my son’s face, keeping him interested wasn’t going to be a problem.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing at an Irish Wolfhound. “I want one!”
Of course that particular dog had caught his eye. The Irish Wolfhound was the biggest breed in the Hound Group. Massive and shaggy, they weighed well over a hundred pounds.
“You have Bud,” I told him brightly. “Bud is better than an Irish Wolfhound any day.”
Kev screwed up his face. He didn’t look convinced. But his gaze was already moving on. There were so many fun dogs in the ring, he couldn’t decide where to look first.
Before the hounds were finished being judged, my younger son had also fallen in love with a Borzoi, a Beagle, and a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen. He wanted one of each. Meanwhile I was having a great time watching him discover the wonder of the Westminster Dog Show.
The Saluki won the Hound Group. Sam thought that was a good decision. Davey declined to offer an opinion. Kevin pouted for a few minutes—he’d wanted one of his favorites to win—but then the Toy Group came strutting into the ring and he forgot all about the hound breeds.
“There’s Crawford.” Davey motioned excitedly as the handler appeared with his Havanese. Now that he had a rooting interest in the outcome of the judging, he sat up to pay attention.
Two rows of square, yellow boxes ran the length of each side of the arena. Each bore the name of a breed, listed in alphabetical order. Exhibitors set up their dogs in front of the low boxes when they were being judged and allowed their dogs to relax behind them when they were not.
Crawford and his Havanese were toward the end of the first line. The two of them looked great—but then so did every other toy dog and handler in the ring. These dogs were the best their breed had to offer. Each had earned its place in this spotlight. They all deserved the adulation that the spectators had come to bestow on them.
Crawford walked the Havanese into a perfect stack. Then he stood in front of the dog, holding a piece of bait in his hand. Crawford kept one eye on his small dog and the other on the judge. Don’t ask me how he made that work. It’s a gift that all the best handlers possess, and one that I have yet to master.
As the judge began her individual examinations, Sam leaned over and said, “Crawford’s dog is outclassed in this company.”
I sighed. “Yes, I know. I’m sure he does too.”
The other toy dogs the Havanese was competing against all had more experience than he did. Most were accomplished specials�
�with previous group and Best in Show wins gracing their lofty resumes. Many were grand champions. The Pomeranian was the current top-winning toy dog in the United States. The Pekingese was the number one toy in England. He had already won Crufts—a show even bigger than Westminster—and his handler was hoping for similar success here.
By contrast, Crawford’s Havanese had fought his way to Best of Breed from the classes. That accomplishment was quite a coup by itself, and I suspected it was all he would get. My guess was confirmed when the judge’s eye slid right past the Havanese when she prepared to make her cut.
The judge pulled eight toy dogs out into the middle of the ring. Crawford’s wasn’t among them. Minutes later, she’d placed the Pomeranian first and the Peke second. The audience cheered their approval.
“That’s too bad,” said Davey.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “He’ll do better with Topper.”
Kev was frowning. He crossed his arms over his slender chest. “I wanted Crawford to win. Crawford always wins.”
“It might seem that way at the dog shows we go to,” Sam allowed. “But Westminster is different. This is a whole new ball game.”
“There’s a ball game?” Kevin’s eyes opened wide. He looked from one end of the arena to the other. “Where?”
“Not a real ball game,” I said. “It’s a figure of speech. But keep your eye on the ring. Because Aunt Peg’s turn is coming up next.”
“Yay!” Kev got excited all over again. “I hope she wins.”
“She can’t win, silly.” Davey ruffled his brother’s hair. “She’s the judge.”
“Cool.” Kevin was impressed. “I hope she wins the judging.”
Davey shot me a look. “You explain it to him.”
“Aunt Peg will win the judging,” I said to Kevin. “She’s going to do a terrific job.”
Davey grinned. “You know that’s gonna come back to bite you someday.”
Since there was no way to “win” at judging, Davey was probably right. On the other hand, Kevin believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. And his grasp of abstract concepts was still evolving. Not to mention that on a normal night he’d have been asleep an hour ago. With luck, Kevin would forget all about this conversation by tomorrow morning. As long as Davey didn’t remind him.
“There’s Peg now.” Sam drew our attention back to the ring as she stepped out onto the green carpet.
Aunt Peg looked resplendent under the lights. She was statuesque and imposing. Her posture was impeccable. Her beaded dress glittered. Best of all, she had a huge smile on her face.
As the non-sporting dogs came flying into the arena, I saw Aunt Peg’s fingers clasp at her sides. She was impatient to begin. The sight of so many gorgeous dogs in her ring had to be an incomparable treat. I knew she couldn’t wait to get her hands on them.
The moment we’d been waiting nearly two years for had finally arrived. And then it seemed to go by in a flash. Aunt Peg had twenty-one dogs to judge and only a limited time in which to decide how she was going to place them. I watched her make every second count. From the moment she took her first walk around the arena, Aunt Peg never took her eyes off the group of dogs.
Even during commercial breaks, when the two previous judges had sat down to catch their breath, Aunt Peg never stopped staring at—and evaluating—her group. Obviously she wanted to do a superior job. But I knew it was even more important to her that every exhibitor felt their entry had been judged fairly, and given an equal chance to win.
Non-sporting was the most diverse of the seven groups. It consisted of breeds with different sizes, shapes, coat textures. Aunt Peg appeared to be judging the dogs against each other. But what she was really doing was comparing each one to its own breed standard, and assessing how near it came to achieving that level of perfection.
Of course she was immediately drawn to the two Poodles in her group. But anyone in the audience who expected her to favor her own breed didn’t know Aunt Peg. More than anyone else, she was aware what a truly great Poodle should be. If anything, that would make her more critical of the Standard and Mini in front of her, rather than less.
Even so, I knew early on that Topper had caught her eye. She also liked the French Bulldog and the Tibetan Spaniel. And her gaze returned more than once to the snowy white Coton de Tulear.
As the dogs were brought forward for their individual examinations, Aunt Peg confirmed with her hands the attributes she’d gleaned from her first look. She weighed each dog’s merits against those who had come before. That meant she was also constantly reevaluating the make-up of her first cut. There were many top-quality dogs in the ring, and many deserving winners. It would have been almost impossible to make a mistake.
Aunt Peg wasn’t worried about doing a job that was just good enough, however. She wanted her choices to be perfect.
“She likes the Xolo,” Sam said. Last to be examined, the hairless dog was being gaited down and back by his handler. The breed, originating in Mexico, was formally called Xoloitzcuintli. But Xolo (pronounced show-low) was enough of a mouthful for most people.
I nodded. “She likes Topper too.”
“I like the Dalmatian,” Kevin said loudly. Of course he did. Like Bud, it had spots. But I was pretty sure that dog wouldn’t be in Aunt Peg’s final line up.
“Topper may get a piece,” Sam whispered back. “But not the whole thing. It’s not his time yet. I’m betting on the Frenchie. He’s been virtually unbeatable all year.”
“It’s Westminster. Crawford would be delighted with a placement,” I said. “I know I would be.” Who was I kidding? I would be over the moon just to have a chance to walk in the ring.
Aunt Peg took one last look at her entire group. Then she walked down the two rows and pulled out the dogs who’d made her cut. The Bichon and the Coton were first to form a new line. They were followed by the Frenchie, the Keeshond, and the Miniature Poodle. After that came the Tibetan Spaniel, the Tibetan Terrier, and the Xolo.
Just that quickly, we went from twenty-one contenders to eight.
Aunt Peg paused for thirty seconds to let the tension build. I knew I wasn’t the only spectator who was sitting on the edge of my seat.
New York audiences weren’t shy about making their preferences known. When Aunt Peg put the Frenchie on top, the arena exploded with applause. Handler and dog danced happily over to the first place marker. Aunt Peg placed the Coton second, followed by Crawford’s Mini. The Xolo was fourth.
Sam and I stood up and clapped for a job well done. Aunt Peg congratulated her winners and handed out her ribbons. Then she gazed around the ring and out over the crowd. Despite how hard she’d been working for the past half hour, Aunt Peg didn’t appear tired. Instead she looked exhilarated.
This night had been a dream come true. She intended to savor every single minute.
Chapter 9
Tuesday morning it was time to go back to real life. After the previous night’s excitement, that felt like a let down to me.
Faith didn’t agree. We don’t make a habit of leaving our dogs home alone for any length of time, and especially not late at night. Now the big Poodle was happy to have her family back and her routine restored.
“It was worth it,” I told her, as I made the bed before going downstairs. Faith was sitting in the bedroom doorway, supervising. “Westminster was fantastic. And so was Aunt Peg.”
Faith woofed at that. Aunt Peg was one of her favorite people. She recognized the name. And she was probably agreeing that Aunt Peg was fantastic.
Davey came walking down the hall. He paused in the open doorway. “Are you talking to yourself?”
“Of course not. I’m talking to Faith.”
“It figures.”
Davey shook his head like he thought I was crazy. I had no idea why. He talked to the dogs too. It was a family trait.
“I just wanted to let you know that after Kevin told you he was going to get dressed, he went back to bed instead,” he told me.
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“Did you get him up again?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Because you know he has school.” I glanced at the clock. “He and I have to leave in twenty minutes, or we’ll be late.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you took him into New York last night.”
“Maybe the next time I’ll leave both of you home,” I shot back.
“I don’t think so.” Davey grinned.
“Try me,” I invited.
With a heavy sigh, he shifted his backpack off his shoulder and let it drop to the floor. Then he turned and disappeared. Davey was heading back in the direction of Kevin’s room. I hoped that meant he’d gotten the point.
“Teenagers,” I grumbled.
Faith came over and pressed her body against my legs in a gesture of solidarity. Dogs can always be counted on to take your side. Even when you’re wrong. Which I wasn’t. But still.
Downstairs, Sam had the coffee made. There were blueberry muffins, containers of yogurt, and a bowl of apples on the kitchen table. He’d obviously decided it was going to be a grab-and-go kind of morning.
I poured myself a generous mug of coffee and listened for sounds of progress from upstairs. I couldn’t hear a thing. I tried to console myself with the thought that the bedrooms were pretty far from the kitchen. It didn’t entirely work.
“Where are the boys?” Sam asked.
“Coming soon.” The coffee was hot. Nevertheless, my first therapeutic sip was a large one. “I hope.”
“Want me to check on them?”
“Not yet.” I still had fifteen minutes. Enough time for Davey to decide to do the right thing. As long as he got a move on.
Instead, Sam opened the back door. The other Poodles, plus Bud, came flying in from outside. Eve’s and Raven’s legs were covered with snow. Bud, Augie, and Tar looked as though they’d been tunneling through the stuff. Bud even had crystals on his eyelashes.
I’d been sharing a blueberry muffin with Faith. Now I had to stop slipping her pieces, or else everyone would want some. Tar strolled over to my chair, looking for a handout. I gave him a pat on the head instead. The big dog responded by suddenly realizing that he was wet and giving his body a massive shake.
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