A Tail for Two

by Mara Wells

  “Don’t make me call the cops.”

  “Call the cops? On a dog?” Lance scooped up Beckham and held him under his arm. “Are you kidding me?”

  “He shouldn’t be on the playground.” The woman’s sloppy bun listed to one side. She kept a protective hand on her daughter’s head.

  “Fine.” Lance snapped. Technically, she was right. Technically was a big thing today. He grabbed Oli on his next swing, slowing the momentum until he could wrangle him out of the seat—no easy task while maintaining his hold on Beckham. “Come on, Oli.”

  Oliver didn’t notice the adult tension. He grabbed Lance’s hand and tugged him toward the slide. “Next, please,” he said with a charming smile, clearly remembering the manners his mother tried to drill into him.

  “Sure thing, kiddo.” Lance watched Oli climb the short ladder, figuring that if he were holding Beckham, then Beckham wasn’t technically on the playground. What, they were going to give him a ticket for taking up air space with his pet? He ignored the woman’s glare and watched Oli’s slow descent on the slide. When he hit the bottom, he hopped off and ran for the ladder. Rinse and repeat indefinitely. It took about fifteen turns on the slide before Oliver was ready for something new. By then, the no-dog woman had wandered away, apparently deciding the dog was controlled enough that she didn’t need to call the authorities. Beckham wiggled in his grip, but Lance kept a firm hold.

  Oliver eyed the rope net that some older children clambered on with interest and turned a hopeful face toward him.

  “Sorry, kiddo.” The openings between ropes were twice the length of Oliver. “Wanna climb the hill?”

  South Pointe Park boasted a small hill, man-made of course, as all elevations in South Florida were. The trail, popular with walkers and cyclists, wound around the side. Some folks parked beach chairs on the hill and watched the cruise ships sail through the channel and out to sea. Another trail cut through the middle of the hill, a shortcut to the beach path on the other side.

  They passed the kid fountain, water spurting from wiggly poles in unpredictable bursts. From toddlers in diapers to children who looked much too old for this kind of game, children ran through them like sprinklers. Parents overflowed the benches, for the most part absorbed in their phones. Some took pictures, and others sipped from cold drinks bought at the small concession stand.

  “What do you say, guys?” It was a hot evening, the air thick with humidity.

  “Yes, yes!” Oliver’s legs pumped faster. Beckham hit the end of his leash and looked back at Lance with accusation in his eyes. Lance picked up his pace, too, and they raced through the fountain area together, Oliver screaming his delight.

  “Again!” Oliver spun around, unfazed by his wet shirt and shorts or the way his shoes squeaked when he took a step. He took off before Lance could say yes or no. Beckham raced after him. Lance resigned himself to a thorough soak.

  “One more,” Lance cautioned, following Oliver as he made his third dash. When Oliver spun for a fourth turn, Lance placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Hold on. Let’s see if your mom predicted this.”

  Sure enough, the flowered backpack contained a towel. First he wrapped Oliver up like a mummy and hustled him under the hill and through to the other side, where hopefully, with the fountain out of sight, it would also be out of mind. He toweled his own head dry, and then, for good measure, roughed up Beckham’s coat. Should he stuff the towel back in the bag? Wouldn’t that get everything in there wet? Maybe he should stuff it in an outer pocket. When he unzipped the side pouch, he found a plastic bag perfect for a small, wet towel. Perhaps if he’d been parenting for almost three years, he’d think of everything, too. No. This level of preparedness was all Carrie.

  In the shoulder bag, he found a thin sheet perfect for spreading out on the grass. He led Oliver and Beckham up the hill, and when they got to the top, he spread the sheet out. Beckham spun a few times, lay down, stood up, spun a few more times, sniffed the grass at the edge of the sheet, then dove into the grass, nose first, for a roll. Legs in the air, he wiggled, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth like a total goof.

  Oliver laughed and copied him, rolling in the grass, arms and legs like a dead bug in the air. Could they be more adorable? Lance suddenly wanted so badly to share this moment with someone else. With Carrie. He pulled out his phone, a poor substitute, and filmed a few seconds of the back-rolling duo. His finger hovered over the button that would send it to Carrie, but at the last second, he stopped himself. The cruise ship’s horn in the background was a dead giveaway of their location. He sent it to Caleb. He didn’t know why. He could’ve shown it to Carrie later, but the urge to share was too great.

  Oh my God. He was one of those fathers. Next thing you know, he’d be posting pics of Oliver’s every movement to his various social media platforms, the ones that previously he’d primarily used to keep up a presence for Excalibur Construction. He’d always scrolled quickly past baby photos. God, it was worse than posting pictures of every meal. Maybe all parents felt this urge to document. Had Carrie?

  Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Maybe Oliver’s first step, first word, first swim were all documented on Facebook. But when he looked her up, her profile didn’t mention Oliver at all. No pictures, even when he went through her photo albums. Everything about her social media was professional, nothing too personal, nothing family oriented. No Oliver. Why?

  Because she’d been hiding Oliver from him. It hit Lance then, how much more involved her lie had been than simply neglecting to tell him. She’d avoided social media, must’ve avoided anyone they both knew, stopped going to places they might run into each other. For all that Miami Beach was an international destination, it could be a surprisingly small town when you’d lived here your whole life. He’d never thought much about how completely she disappeared from his life after the divorce. Considering that he sometimes ran into his third-grade teacher at the movie theater and got together with his high school friends every few months, it should’ve occurred to him earlier how deliberate her absence was. Never see her on Lincoln Road? Never run into her at the Sunday farmers market, one of her favorite weekend activities?

  Only now did he admit to himself that maybe he’d been looking for her at their old haunts, that he’d somehow thought they’d run into each other again. That was some fancy footwork on her part. Watching Oliver roll onto his side, planting his face square on Beckham’s exposed belly, Lance felt a sweeping loss, followed quickly by that now-familiar rage. Yeah, he’d said he understood, even forgave her for keeping Oliver a secret. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry and cheated and—if he was honest with himself, which he was desperately trying to be—sad. Sad at the loss of all that time with Oliver and sad over how he couldn’t seem to get his conflicted feelings about Carrie under control. She was the moon to his tide, and even he couldn’t keep up with the constant push-pull of their relationship.

  As if his anger conjured her, he spotted Carrie on the wide path that ran alongside the channel, ending at the southernmost tip of South Beach. Her long hair trailed down her back, and her face was upturned, laughing. Adam pointed out a sailboat on the horizon. In his other hand, a doggy bag hung from Adam’s fingers. Carrie’d always loved the enormous slices of coconut layer cake but could never finish one. He’d bet that was what they were taking home, maybe to share over coffee later.

  He didn’t think about what he was doing as he packed up the sheet and corralled Oliver and Beckham into sliding down the front side of the hill with him. Oliver laughed, thinking it was a game, and Beckham leapt ahead, sure it was a game. They slid to the bottom a few moments after Carrie and Adam passed their location, and Lance took up a casual pace, trailing them.

  Not spying. Not stalking. He was walking his dog. Spending time with his son. If they turned and saw him, he would act surprised. What a coincidence!

  But they didn’t turn around, strolli
ng toward the South Pointe pier. When they got to the end of the walkway, they paused to kick off their shoes. Carrie turned her head, and Lance spun in place, tangling Beckham’s leash around his legs in his hurry to act like he was walking in the opposite direction.

  Lance stepped over and through Beckham’s leash, somehow getting even more tangled than he’d been in the first place. Beckham bounced in place, higher and higher with each jump, until he was clearing Lance’s hip. People gave them a wide berth, passing without much of a second glance. He attempted to step over the leash at the same time the dog let out a yip, inspiring Oliver to plop onto the ground and give Beckham a hug. The leash moved; Lance misjudged the step, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, blinking up at the darkening sky.

  “Lance?” Carrie’s voice sounded as surprised as he was planning to act. “Oli? Is that you?”

  “Mama!” Oliver took off at a run, and Carrie squatted down to catch him when he threw himself at her. Lance pushed to his feet, his right knee twinging from taking most of his weight when he went down. He brushed at his jeans impatiently, wishing that the fall had rolled him into the channel so he could swim anonymously away, knowing Oli and Beckham were safe with Carrie. Then, he’d never have to admit to trailing after her like a lovesick but angry puppy.

  “Need some help?” Adam held out a hand for the leash. “I can take him for a bit.”

  “I’ve got it.” Somehow, he was already tangled up again. The dog was a whirling dervish of excitement. Lance studied the leash’s pattern around his leg and, with a few strategic twists, finally freed himself. “How are you?”

  “Good.” Adam’s long toes poked out from the hem of his tan pants. His loafers rested between his wide-set feet.

  “Nice evening for a walk on the beach, isn’t it?” Lance shielded his eyes, playing it casual, like he was only here for the beach, too.

  “It sure is. Funny seeing you here.” Adam’s gaze was knowing. He clearly remembered disclosing the location of his plans to Lance when they’d both been on-site earlier today. He was not going to buy the coincidence theory.

  Beckham switched from his high bounce to a lunge, pulling against the leash in his desperation to get to Carrie and Oli. Lance let the retractable leash out a bit more so he could reach them.

  “These two needed to blow off some steam.” Blaming a dog and a child. Shameful but better than admitting to spying. Or stalking. Neither of which he was doing because neither involved this excruciatingly awkward conversation. “Well, you two should get back to it. We were heading over to the dog park. Beckham could use a good run.”

  “In these clothes?” Carrie coached Oliver to raise his hands overhead. “What have you been up to? Why are they both wet to the skin?”

  “The fountain.” Lance jerked his head in the direction of the hill.

  Carrie reached for the shoulder bag, ripping it down his arm like removing a Band-Aid—quickly, efficiently, no concern for the pain it might cause. She rooted around in the main compartment, emerging with a clean T-shirt.

  Oliver stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t like that one. It’s for babies.”

  “Too bad.” Carrie shook out the navy cotton, a wrinkled Peppa Pig smiling from the center of the chest. “You can’t run around in wet clothes.”

  “Lance-Daddy said I could.”

  Lance gaped at the son who had just stone cold thrown him under the blame bus. “I didn’t actually say—”

  “Lance-Daddy doesn’t get a vote.” Carrie pulled the shirt over Oliver’s head.

  He squirmed, head stuck in the neck hole. “It’s too small, Mama. I don’t fit anymore.”

  “The shorts are probably too small as well. It’s only been a month since I changed out the spare outfits, but you are growing like a weed.” Carrie blew out a frustrated breath and pulled the shirt off Oli. “He can’t run around in wet clothes.”

  “He’ll be fine.” There were plenty of times on summer job sites when he’d stood under a hose, soaking himself to the skin, and then gone right back to work. Evaporation cooled the skin. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

  “You know he was just sick. Are you trying to cause a relapse?” Carrie glared up at Lance. “Plus, he has sensitive skin. He’ll get a rash wherever the cloth rubs.” Her tone implied he’d failed a test.

  Well, hell. He supposed it was true. Oli’d been so cheerful and active; the virus seemed a distant memory. He really hadn’t thought about it. And sensitive skin? He certainly didn’t know about that, would never have even thought to worry about it. What else didn’t he know about his own son? He swiveled his head, looking up and down the walkway like a fresh change of clothes might suddenly appear. “I’ll take him right home.”

  “I’ll take him.” Carrie stood, wiping her hands on her black skirt. Apparently, once you fail a test, you don’t get a second chance. “You don’t mind, do you, Adam?”

  Adam slipped his loafers back on. “Of course not. Whatever you need.”

  Lance felt a surge of triumph. The date was ending, and rather badly, too. Then he saw the look Adam gave Carrie, a sort of good-natured resignation, and the triumph turned to guilt. He wanted Carrie to be happy. She’d been enjoying herself before he’d stumbled into their date. She deserved a couple of carefree hours.

  “No, no.” Lance shouldered the bag once again. “I’ve got him. Adam, you don’t have safety seats, do you? My truck’s all set up.”

  “It is? Since when?” Carrie tugged the wet T-shirt back over Oliver’s head. He wiggled in protest but obligingly stuck his arms through the holes.

  “Since your mom texted me photos of what I needed, and Amazon took care of the rest.” He flashed her some pictures of the kid-friendly adjustments to his ride because he could tell by her wrinkled nose that she wasn’t sure if she believed him.

  Carrie tugged one last time on Oliver’s shirt, smoothing it over his belly. “I suppose that’s best then.” Small victories.

  “We’ll go straight to the condo. He’ll be dry in no time flat.” Lance reeled in Beckham’s leash, bringing him close. The dog immediately wound himself around Lance’s legs, necessitating more twists and turns to untangle himself. He bent his sore knees and picked up the still-damp dog. Easier to carry him than take another tumble. Who said he didn’t learn from his mistakes?

  “Good idea. Make sure Oli gets a warm bath.” Carrie kissed the top of her son’s head, giving him a gentle push toward Lance. “See you at home?”

  “We’ll be there.” Lance swallowed the lump in his throat, the one full of words he wanted to say but knew Carrie didn’t want to hear.

  “Do you mind?” Adam dangled the doggy bag at Lance, but Beckham lunged at it as if it were a treat meant for him. Only Lance’s firm grip on the dog kept him from taking flight. “If you could take that home for her?”

  “Uh, sure.” Lance opened up the shoulder bag and dropped the smaller bag inside, out of the dog’s sight. What was one more thing to lug?

  “Thanks.” Carrie and Adam resumed their walk, Carrie’s high-heeled sandals swinging from her fingertips, her hair a silky curtain bouncing with each step.

  Lance couldn’t watch. He herded Oli and Beckham in the opposite direction, pretty sure Mendo would say it was time to grovel again. This time, Lance didn’t disagree.

  Chapter 33

  Carrie stared out over the tumbling waves, arms wrapped around her waist as if she were chilled. She wasn’t. Her stomach churned more than the incoming tide as it hit the shore, bubbling up and creating tiny air pockets in the sand. Small seabirds hurried to peck at the bubbles, no doubt disappointed when they came away with only air instead of the tasty crustacean treat they’d hoped for. Out on the water, a few people bobbed in place, determined to stay in the ocean until the last ray of light was gone. Carrie and Adam strolled by families packing up coolers, shaking out towels, and folding up
tents. Ahead at the orange-and-yellow Third Street tower, a lifeguard stood on the wooden deck, arms resting on the railing and a red flotation device at his feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” Carrie finally mumbled, then repeated loudly and more clearly. “Really sorry. I don’t know what that was all about.” She’d thought they could get the date back on track after the Lance interruption, but it all felt wrong now. She felt wrong.

  “Don’t you?” Adam slowed his walk to let her catch up. With his long legs, he kept getting ahead of her. She scurried to reach him, then reached out to grab his hand. Holding it in hers, she stopped their walk. As mixed up as her emotions were, she couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking.

  “It was crazy what Lance did, following us tonight. What else can I do but apologize?” She held Adam in place with her grip and her gaze, craning her neck at a sharp angle to look up into his face. She wasn’t responsible for her ex’s actions, but maybe Adam didn’t see it that way. Maybe his long silence since Lance’s departure was him blaming her or simply plotting how to get away from her with as little drama as possible. She figured they were full up on drama for one night already. Sticking around was probably simple politeness on his part. “I am sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” He smiled down at her, but sadness shaded his eyes. Behind his head, the sky streaked pink and blue. “You need to decide what you want.”

  A nosy seagull wandered over, probably hoping for a french fry. It hopped off when all they did was continue to look at each other. The hope she’d felt earlier at dinner when Adam laughed at her jokes and seemed genuinely impressed that Oliver could write his name and only drew the r backward half the time departed as well.

  “I didn’t ask him to come tonight.” Carrie wasn’t sure why she felt so defensive. She wasn’t the one who’d ruined the date. She stopped herself, recognizing her mother’s voice in her head, justifying her actions, blaming someone else for what went wrong. Yes, Lance’s actions were not her fault, but his spying only brought to the surface what had been brewing underneath. For all that Adam was so handsome other women slowed their walk as they passed him just to get a better look, and no matter how well she and he worked together or how much she admired his building designs, she’d wished more than once this evening that Lance sat across the table from her. That they’d brought Oli and taken a table out on the grass so Beckham could sit under her chair and shred napkins while they shared her coconut layer cake.