Stepdog

by Nicole Galland

  His free hand he placed around my neck and tightened it a bit.

  “Are you fucking mad?” I shouted, my voice strained.

  “Make amends,” he ordered. “You saw my hurt, and you chose not to help me, even though you gained nothing by depriving me. That’s a senseless, selfish cruelty. Make amends.”

  “I don’t need to make amends for trying to save my wife’s dog. Take your fucking hand off my throat! We’re not killing each other over a dog.” That seemed insufficient. “We’re not killing each other at all,” I clarified furiously.

  “If that’s your answer, you’ve only yourself to blame for this.” He began to squeeze and I felt panic because—like that—he cut off my breath completely. “I can do this,” he said steadily, softly—more to himself than to me. “I can do this.” I saw that old melancholic gaze on his face as the edges of my vision started blurring out.

  With the intensity of a jackhammer I desperately jerked one knee up and against his lower back, which shoved him forward over me, and he had to release my throat so he could put a hand down to steady himself. I took a huge painful inhale.

  In that moment between his releasing me and his reaching ground, I twisted all my weight and energy to my left—toward the edge—and pulled him over with me so that we were side by side, my face at his chest—but only for a beat.

  Because then the lip of the ledge began to crumble under his weight.

  He clutched wildly at me while I clutched wildly at him. I caught his wrists and planted my body totally flat on the dirt. He swung like a clumsy pendulum down along the vertical cliff face—his only attachment to the ledge was my hands on his wrists. Within seconds, either his weight would pull me down with him or I’d somehow yank him back up to safety—where he’d go at me again.

  “Oh Jesus,” I said, horrified.

  There was a third option: I could just let go of him. He would fall, and I would not. We both realized it at the same moment, and looked right at each other, directly face-to-face now. It wasn’t even a choice, really. We both looked down at our hands as his, slippery with sweat, began to slip slowly through mine. We looked back up at each other.

  Our shared horror and disbelief made time slow way down. He was falling, we both knew it, and neither of us could stop it happening. We both could feel I wasn’t holding tight enough. But even if I squeezed tighter, his weight would drag me over, and unless I released him, we would both plummet.

  “If you’re the least bit decent this will haunt you every moment for the rest of your life,” he said, trembling.

  “No fucking way,” I said. I let go one of his hands. A true mortal fear, like I’ve never seen before on anybody, tightened his face. He wanted to die with dignity but it wasn’t going to happen.

  Instantly with my free hand I grabbed under his arm, under his shoulder, around his back, my body spread flat on the ground to hold me stable, only my shoulders, arms, and head over the edge. I released his other wrist and wrapped my other arm around him, too, at the same moment that I torqued my body, jerking hands, shoulders, torso up and over to try to roll him over me. Every muscle in my body clenched against the pain. Utterly disoriented, I heard myself scream, thinking I was falling as everything went white. A great and terrible weight was pulling at me, like a ship being heaved up onto a beach during a storm—

  . . . and then suddenly there was no weight. My arm muscles and back muscles spasmed and then released, vision returned, and I saw blue, blue sky—sky everywhere and reddish dust. I was lying flat on my back drenched in sweat, ribs blazing with agony. Lying beside me, snug against the cliff, gasping for breath, was Jay.

  He took a huge breath in, released it. I tried to, too, but it hurt like hell. For a moment we just lay there staring at the enormous, brightening sky, and breathing.

  “Now you can’t haunt me,” I declared. “So for fuck’s sake, leave me alone.”

  I was so winded and dazed by pain, he could have easily rolled me right off the edge. He didn’t. A pause. “All right,” he said. “I guess we’re even.”

  “Even?” I echoed, incredulous. “I just saved your fucking life. Get some perspective.”

  “I have,” he said. “Just like they say, your life flashes in front of you. I saw so clearly what’s mattered most.”

  “About time,” I said.

  “It was Cody,” he said. “What she represents, I mean.”

  I considered pushing him off the cliff.

  “Never seen it clearer,” he said, with his philosophical melancholy, still staring at the sky. “But there’s a price to pay for everything. The price of my life is losing her. I get that.”

  Thank God! “Look at it this way,” I suggested. “You should have died just now. You didn’t. No way I should have been able to haul you back up here. But I did. You just got a new life. A fresh start. So you’re not really losing anything, because you’re starting from zero.”

  He closed his eyes and laughed, but it was a brief, pained laugh. “That’s a pathetic attempt at sympathy. I’ll manage my own loss, thank you.”

  “But you admit it’s loss?” I said. “You let go? You accept she’s mine?”

  He looked startled. Truly startled. He looked at me with his one good eye, and considered me as if he hadn’t seen me before.

  “Yours?” He smiled the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, all the sads of Leonard Cohen and Samuel Beckett rolled up together—with a little smugness just to oil it up. “You’ve never called her that before. At least my loss has been for something.”

  I slapped my hands up to my face and shouted briefly into them. “If this fight wasn’t over, I would punch you in the face,” I said.

  Chapter 35

  I don’t know what exactly Sara told the park rangers, but they seemed to believe it was all just a family scuffle. Which in a way, I suppose it was. We were tended to in a ranger station—Jay’s face, my ribs. My memory of getting there is fuzzy, due to the excellent quick-acting painkillers they gave me. Sara, with Cody, hovered just at the door, not willing to come close to Jay, not wanting to be far from me.

  “You can come in, you know,” I said. “I think he’s been deactivated.”

  “Hallelujah,” Sara said drily. But she went outside anyhow, to call Alto and Marie and Lena and all them, and let them know about our little rollicking adventure.

  Jay was staring into space with his good eye, an ice pack strapped over the damaged mess of his face. He wasn’t really in the room. He was completely empty. I felt compassion for him, which I hadn’t before. He was no danger now. He’d given it his best shot and failed brilliantly, far better than I would ever fail at anything. Probably not much use in pointing that out to him, though.

  For my ribs, the ranger medic gave me the lovely meds, which were starting to work without really working—meaning I felt warm and fuzzy except for my rib cage, which still hurt like hell. He advised me to see a doctor and asked me to sign a bunch of papers, so, for the first time ever, I got to use my green card to prove that I was really me.

  “That signature will be worth a lot of money one day,” I told the medic bloke. (His sound track was “Astral Weeks,” but actually that might have been the meds talking.) “If I were you, I’d make a copy and save the original. You can sell it and send your kids to college.”

  “Oh yeah?” he said, with a sweetly goofy grin. “That’s cool.” Nice kid, he’ll probably be the surgeon general in a couple of decades.

  A few minutes later, I’d been discharged from his services. I joined Sara and Cody in the shade of a tree near the parking lot. “Hey,” I said to Sara.

  “Hey,” Sara said to me. Then she burst into tears and reached out to grab me.

  “Ribs,” I said quickly.

  “Sorry, right,” she said, and released me, reluctantly, sniffling.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I’m grand,” I said. “Sorry about arguing.”

  “Me, too,” she said. Pause
. “Do you think we’re clear of him finally?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “He’s a Tragic Hero now. It’s a much better fit for him than Vengeful Victim.”

  She nodded. “I think that’s probably what he wanted all along.”

  “Good thing I came along to show him how to do it, then. How’s Cody?”

  “The medic checked her out and said she seems fine, although we should take her to a vet in L.A. for a real checkup. But she’s not scratched up or limping or acting strange, her breathing and heart rate are normal.” She smiled sheepishly. “She’s more resilient than her owner.”

  “Bet most pets are.”

  “The medic also said you shouldn’t try the climbing trails while you’re doped up on the painkillers, but we can still do the Rim Trail if you’re up for it,” she said. “It’s paved and fairly level, not too exciting but great views, I hear.”

  “Of course I’m up for it,” I said. “How often do I get to see the Grand Canyon with the most beautiful bird in the world on my arm?”

  I just loved her smile. “While they were tending you, I asked around and there’s a place I can put Cody for a couple of hours, so we can just have time for the two of us. You’re right, we could really use that.”

  I widened my eyes at her in mock amazement. “But you don’t trust kennels.”

  She smiled sheepishly. “I’m adaptable. Clearly there are some things worse than kennels. This place has been vetted by the Park Service, it’s not cheap but it’s safe, and as long as you don’t think Jonathan would try to—”

  “He won’t,” I assured her. “Pretty confident about that. The Tragic Hero thing will keep him busy for a while.”

  “So if you want to grab yourself a coffee at the restaurant, I’ll drive her over to the kennel—why are you smiling like that?“

  What a wonderful woman. “Ah, don’t bother,” I said, as offhand as I could manage it. “I suppose she can stay with us.”

  She looked pleased, but also cautious. “I’m okay with it, Rory,” she said. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t feel really comfortable about it, given how our morning’s been.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “But . . . now, don’t hold me to this, but . . . she’s kinda grown on me. I’d feel like I were missing an elbow or something, without her staring at me.”

  “I thought you found that annoying.”

  “Well, I do,” I said. “But, you know, if she wants to stare at my handsome face that much, who am I to deprive her?” I winked at Sara. “Just don’t tell her mom that, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I never met her mom,” said Sara promptly. “I’m just her owner.”

  “Yeah, right, we’ll see how long that lasts,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Cody, assuming—as always—that we were talking about her, bumped against my leg, tail wagging, and looked up, trying to give me her Little Match Girl kisses.

  “You!” I said, reaching down to grab her by the scruff of her neck and shake her. Her tail wagged harder. “I’ve got you under my skin, Cody. Don’t you be taking advantage, now!”

  I tousled her head roughly and released her. She looked happily between Sara and me, head bobbing a little as if she were getting ready to jump up on one of us.

  “Let’s go, Cody,” said Sara, and turned toward the Rim Trail. I took a step to be beside her.

  “Hang on,” I said. “You’re the newbie here. Cody and I are the pros at adventuring. You better walk behind us and let us blaze the trail for you.”

  She gave me the Princess Diana look, which I hadn’t seen in weeks, and which I loved. “You’re my favorite adventurer,” she said. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

  “All right, then,” I said. “A stroll along the Grand Canyon with my girls.” We took hands. Cody pulled ahead on her leash, sniffing excitedly at everything, and then turning round to check in with us in case we’d sniffed it, too. As I said, it’s too beautiful to describe that place in words. But Sara’s smile was the most beautiful thing there, and her smile was like honey spread over a bit of crunchy, buttered toast, offered with a perfect mug of tea. It was like that every time she smiled. Still is.

  In fairness, it wasn’t a bad way to end a hectic week, and it’s a pretty good way to end a story. Which is good, because I have to end this story now, and finish tuning the fiddle before they call for quiet on the set. Today we wrap principal shooting for the first season. What can I say? It’s been amazing. I’m giddy, elated, content all rolled into one. Waiting to hear what happens next.

  Sara found us a great little rental off Mulholland. Her temporary gig at the Getty has ended, and she’s hanging out with Cody in Coldwater Canyon Park in the gorgeous sunshine, painting her heart out and teaching watercolor classes. It’s not the arboretum, but it’s pretty sweet all the same.

  Cody thinks so, too. Just ask her.

  Acknowledgments

  For general assistance, advice, guidance, and love, I am joyfully indebted to:

  Kathy Cain, for early enthusiasm and the unforgettable reassurance that “the Irish use the word ‘fuck’ as if it were a comma.” My favorite official Irishman, Billy Meleady, without whom this book would not be possible—or necessary! The Gorgeous Group—Kate Feiffer, Laura Roosevelt, Cathy Walthers, Melissa Hackney, and Jamie Stringfellow—for responding at all the right spots in all the right ways, when this was still in utero. Brian Caspe, Eowyn Mader, and my ever-wonderful attorney Marc H. Glick for being my hearty “early readers.” My fantastic agent, Liz Darhansoff, and equally fantastic editor, Jennifer Brehl, for their continued faith in me, especially in supporting and standing by as I shifted gears. In an age obsessed with “branding” you have chosen to let me un-brand myself and that’s a biggie.

  For the “radical hospitality” of providing me a space and opportunity to create during an otherwise very chaotic time, Hedgebrook Retreat is the nonpareil of writing residencies. If I wrote their name seventeen times here, it would not be enough to express my gratitude. But they are not the only ones who opened a door and provided a desk to work at. For that I must also warmly thank Deb Dobkin & Tim Bernett, Lynne Adams & George Fifield, Dick Davenport & Derry Woodhouse, and Louisa Williams & Chris Brooks. Much of the best work done on this book was done in your guest rooms, porches, and at your kitchen tables.

  A shout-out to the “real” Alex Craggs, a British writer who participated in an auction for Authors for Philippines, Red Cross Typhoon Haiyan Appeal . . . and won the right to have a character named after him. (I believe he thought he would get to be a feudal lord; he was a great sport about the change of genre.) Douglas Finn, in exchange for holding my Luddite hand through the terror of computer work, is similarly responsible for naming Dougie Martin.

  For individuals generously offering their time and expertise (I take full responsibility for all errors):

  “Podunk Plenipotentiary” Mark Judson; my cousin Johannes Jerez Van Osten; Masters of the Industry Chris Parnell at Sony, Steve Breimer, Rich Green, and of course Marc H. Glick again; Mim Douglas, the ethical housecleaner; fight choreographer Scott Barrow; fiddler Jay Ansill; Dr. Michelle Jasny, veterinarian; Cindy Kane and Wayne Ranney, who know the Grand Canyon far better than I do; and Beverly Conklin and Linda Apple at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

  A special thanks, I suppose, to the USCIS and Department of Homeland Security for our (relatively mild) matriculation into the immigration process.

  And finally, to Anna Yukevich, who innocently prompted my newly minted husband to protest for the first time ever: “She’s not my dog, she’s my wife’s dog.” I suspected right away there was a book in that.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

  About the author

  * * *

  Meet Nicole Galland

  About the book

  * * *

  The Kibbles of Truth Behind Stepdog

  Rory’s Road Trip Playlist

  Chicken Tikka Masala Recipe

  Read onr />
  * * *

  Have You Read? More by Nicole Galland

  About the author

  Meet Nicole Galland

  NICOLE GALLAND’S five previous novels are The Fool’s Tale; Revenge of the Rose; Crossed; I, Iago; and Godiva. She writes a cheeky etiquette column for the Martha’s Vineyard Times. She is married to actor Billy Meleady and owns Leuco, a dog of splendid qualities.

  www.nicolegalland.com

  Friend her on Facebook: /nicolegalland

  Follow her on Twitter: @nicolegalland

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the book

  The Kibbles of Truth Behind Stepdog

  MY HISTORICAL FICTION is autobiographical in a very private, metaphorical way that only I can see (at least I hope so). Stepdog is obviously different. I’ve never worked at a museum, but I really did marry an Irish actor-friend right after falling in love, because he really did need a green card for a work opportunity. It was my idea—we didn’t tell anyone until we had to—we didn’t even live together at first and when we did, my dog on the bed really was the first moment of tension between us.

  So all of that’s true, as are sundry other items. But most of it is fiction, because when you write a novel, you’re not only allowed to make things up, you are, in fact, expected to. The middle bit is all invented. (For starters, my dog was never kidnapped.)