by Nora Roberts
couple of drawers before he found the flatware, but that gave him the opportunity to marvel. Every drawer was tidy and organized.
How did she do that? He’d been in his house for only a matter of months and his kitchen drawers looked like a flea market. Nobody should be that organized. It wasn’t natural.
Interesting-looking woman, though, he decided as he poked around a little. The hair that wasn’t really red, wasn’t really blond, the eyes of absolutely clear and perfect blue. Her nose tilted up a little on the end and sported a dusting of freckles, and a slight overbite made her bottom lip seem particularly full.
Long neck, he thought as he poured the coffee, lanky build with no rack to speak of.
Not beautiful. Not pretty or cute. But . . . interesting, and the few times she’d smiled? Almost arresting. Almost.
He dumped a spoon of sugar from a squat white bowl in one mug, picked up the other.
He took his first sip looking out her over-the-sink window, then turned when he heard her boot steps. She moved briskly, with an efficiency that hinted at athleticism. Wiry, he thought, as much as lanky.
He saw her shift her gaze down, followed it and saw Jaws circle and squat.
Simon opened his mouth, but before he could yell Hey!, his usual response, Fiona tossed the folder she carried on the counter and clapped her hands twice, sharply.
The sound startled Jaws out of his squat.
She moved fast, scooping up the pup with one hand, grabbing the leash with the other. “Good dog, Jaws, good dog. Let’s go out. Time to go out. Pantry, second shelf, canister with mini-treats, grab a handful,” she ordered Simon, and clipped the leash on the collar as she headed out the back door.
The three dogs whooshed after her in a flurry of fur and paws.
He found her gnome-sized pantry as scarily organized as the drawers, dug out a handful of little dog cookies the size of his knuckle from a big glass jar. Hooking the mug handles in one hand, he walked outside.
She still carried the dog, with her long legs eating up the short distance to the edge of trees that guarded the back of her property. By the time she put Jaws down Simon caught up.
“Stop.” She stopped the pup from attacking the leash, rubbed his head. “Look at the big guys, Jaws! What are the big guys doing?” She turned him, walked a few steps.
Obviously, the pup was more interested in the dogs, currently sniffing, lifting legs, sniffing, than the leash. He bounded after them.
“I’m giving him some slack. Thanks.” Fiona took the coffee, drank deep, sighed. “Praise Jesus. Okay, you’re going to want to pick a regular spot for your Pooptown. You don’t want land mines all over your property. So you consistently take him where you want him to go. Then he’ll just start going there. You’re the one who has to be vigilant and consistent. He’s just a baby, so that means you’re going to have to take him out several times a day. As soon as he wakes up in the morning and before you go to bed at night, every time he eats.”
In his mind’s eye, Simon saw his life becoming a revolving door swinging at the whims of the dog’s elimination needs.
“And when he does what he’s supposed to do,” Fiona continued, “be thrilled. Positive reinforcement—lavish. He wants to please you. Wants to be praised and rewarded. See there, the big guys are going, so he’s not going to be outdone.”
Simon shook his head. “When I take him out, he spends an hour sniffing, rolling and screwing around, then cuts loose five seconds after I take him back in.”
“Show him. You’re a guy. Whip it out and pee.”
“Now?”
She laughed—and yeah, he thought, almost arresting. “No, but in the privacy of your own. Here.” She handed him the leash. “Get down to his level, call him. Happy, happy! Use his name, then when he comes, make over him, give him one of the treats.”
He felt stupid, making happy noises because his dog shit in the woods, but thinking of the countless piles he’d cleaned off his floors, he followed instructions.
“Well done. Let’s try a basic command before the others get here. Jaws.” She took hold of him to turn his attention, stroked him until he’d calmed down. She took one of the treats Simon held, palmed it in her left hand, then lifted her right over the pup’s head, extended her index finger. “Jaws, sit. Sit!” As she spoke, she moved her finger over his head so he looked up, trying to follow it. And his butt hit the ground.
“Good dog! Good!” She fed him, petted him, praised him. “Repeat, repeat. He’ll automatically look up, and when he does the back of him goes down. As soon as he sits, praise, reward. Once he gets that, you try it with just the voice command. If he doesn’t get it, go back and repeat. When he does, praise, reward.”
She stepped back.
Since the pup wanted to follow her, Simon had a little struggle.
“Make him focus on you. You’re the boss. He thinks you’re a patsy.”
Annoyed, Simon shot her one cold stare. But he had to admit, when the pup’s rump hit the ground, he felt a little spurt of pride and pleasure.
He could see Fiona, standing hip-shot, arms folded. Judging him, Simon thought, as he went through the routine again, and again. When her dogs wandered over to join her, sitting like three sphinxes, he felt ridiculous.
“Try it without the motion. Point, use the voice command. Keep eye contact. Point, use the command.”
Like that was going to work, Simon thought, but he pointed. “Sit.” And gaped when Jaws plopped his ass on the ground. “He sat. You sat. Nice job. Nice work.” As Jaws inhaled the little cookie, Simon grinned over at Fiona. “Did you see that?”
“I did. He’s a good, smart dog.” Hers went on alert. “Time to get started. Your classmates are coming.”
“How do you know?”
“They know.” She laid one hand on the closest dog’s head. “Here, let Newman smell you.”
“What?”
She simply gestured, then took Simon’s hand, held it down to Newman. “Newman, this is Simon. This is Simon. Walk with Simon. Walk. I need to set a couple things up. Newman’s going to walk with you while you practice leading Jaws on the leash. Stop off and get the head collar, then come on around. Newman’ll give you a hand with him.”
When she and the other dogs dashed away, Jaws leaped to chase. Newman simply gave him a gentle body block.
“Want to come home with me, big guy? I could use you. Walk, right? Walk!”
In fits and starts, with the big Lab running interference, Simon managed to lead, pull and drag the puppy across the lawn.
If the wiry, almost arresting dog trainer earned her fee, he thought, he might end up with a dog as appealing as Newman.
Miracles happened—occasionally.
AN HOUR LATER, exhausted, Simon sprawled on his own living room couch. Jaws scrabbled at his leg, whined.
“Jesus, don’t you ever wind down? I feel like I’ve been to boot camp.” He hefted the dog up and Jaws wiggled and licked and snuggled. “Yeah, yeah. You did okay. We did okay.”
He scratched the pup’s ears.
In minutes, man and dog were sound asleep.
THREE
With a day loaded with classes, Fiona needed a jump start to the morning. Over sweetened black coffee, she debated the relative fuel ratios of Froot Loops versus Toaster Strudels.
Maybe a combination of both, she considered, as she’d missed out on that fat burger and mountain of fries the day before due to man and dog.
Sexy man, sweet dog, she mused, but she’d ended up settling for frozen pizza at the end of a long day because she’d been too tired to think about actually cooking.
Since she had another long day ahead of her, what was the harm in an extra boost of sugar?
As she debated, she drank the coffee and watched her dogs play outside. She never got tired of watching them. And wasn’t she lucky she could make a reasonable living in the company of dogs, and do something important?
She thought of a little boy, warm and safe, and
a father weeping with relief with his arms around a very good dog. Now that very good dog pranced around the yard with a stick in his mouth, as proud of that find—or nearly—as he’d been with the kid.
As she watched, all three dogs alerted, then raced around to the front of the house.
Somebody had driven over her little bridge.
Damn it. Her day wasn’t supposed to start for nearly an hour. She wanted her solo time, and her Froot Loops/Toaster Strudel combo before she interacted with other humans.
But when she walked to the front door, opened it, her mood took a bounce. She was always ready to interact with Sylvia.
Sylvia hopped out of her snappy hybrid—a compact, energetic woman with rich brown waves bouncing. She wore knee-high boots with skinny little heels under a floaty skirt matched with a gorgeous plummy sweater that had, no doubt, come from her own stock. Huge silver triangles swayed at her ears as she stepped back so her cheerful Boston terrier, Oreo, could jump out after her.
The dogs immediately fell into an orgy of delighted welcome—sniff, lick, roll, run. Sylvia gracefully waded through them and shot Fiona one of her stunning smiles.
“Morning, cutie! We’re an hour early, I know, but I wanted some gossip time. Can you spare it?”
“For you I can.” Fiona crouched as Oreo raced to give her a quick hello before dashing back to his playmates. “Come on back to the kitchen. You can have some tea while I grab breakfast.”
Sylvia’s hello included a long, hard hug—it always did—before, with her arm still looped around Fiona’s waist, she walked into the house.
“The news about you and Peck finding the little boy is all over the island. You did good.”
“Peck was perfect. And the fact Hugh had to pee, twice, didn’t hurt. Still, it’s pretty amazing how much ground a three-year-old in footie Spider-Man pj’s can cover.”
“He must’ve been so scared.”
“More wet, cold and tired, really.” Fiona put the kettle on, gestured to the cupboard where she kept several options of herbal tea, with Sylvia in mind. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you right away to let you know.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvia waved it off as she settled for cinnamon peach. “I was out and about anyway, checking out some pottery—and naturally left my phone in the car. I have to stop doing that.”
She turned, narrowed her eyes as Fiona took a box of Froot Loops out of another cupboard. “You’re not having that processed sugar for breakfast.”
“Fruit, as in Froot Loops.” Smiling hopefully, Fiona shook the box. “There has to be fruit in here.”
“Sit down. I’m fixing you a decent breakfast.”
“Syl, this is fine.”
“It might be, on occasion, if you were ten. Sit,” she repeated, and, at home, opened Fiona’s refrigerator. “Um-hmm, um-hmm. I can work with this. You’ll have a nice egg-white omelet on whole wheat toast.”
“I will?”
“And fill me in on the distraction. An interesting eyeful, isn’t he?”
“Adorable, and with some training he’ll be a wonderful companion.”
Sylvia shot Fiona an arched look as she pulled out a small bowl and a tiny container. “I meant Simon.”
“Maybe I did, too.”
“Ha. He’s tremendously talented, and well mannered, if a little mysterious.”
“Which one are you talking about?”
“Smarty.” Expertly, Sylvia separated the eggs, sealing the yolks in the container before whipping the whites together with a little cheese and herbs. “He has a lovely house on East Sound, is meticulous in his craft, has gorgeous eyes, a strong back, a cute puppy, and he’s single.”
“He sounds perfect for you. Go get him, Syl.”
“I might, if he wasn’t two decades behind me.” Sylvia poured the egg whites into the skillet she had heating and popped bread into the toaster as Fiona fixed the tea. “You go get him.”
“What would I do with him once I got him? Besides that,” she added when Sylvia snorted, “men, like dogs, aren’t just for the fun times. They’re a full-out, long-term commitment.”
“You need the fun times so you can decide if you want the rest. You could try, oh, I don’t know, the wild and crazy concept of a date.”
“I’ve been known to date. I prefer group socialized events, but I occasionally date. And I occasionally indulge in those euphemistic fun times. And before you give another nudge, just let me say: Pot, kettle.”
“I married the love of my life, and had ten wonderful years with him. Sometimes I still feel cheated we didn’t have more time.”
“I know.” Fiona slipped over to rub a hand down Sylvia’s back as they both thought of Fiona’s father. “You made him so happy.”
“We made each other. I can’t help wanting that for you.” She slid the omelet onto the lightly browned toast on a plate. “Eat your breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They sat across from each other at the tiny table, and Fiona took the first bite. “God, this is good.”
“And hardly took more time or effort than pouring colored sugar into a bowl.”
“You’re entirely too hard on the loops of fruit, but this is too good for me to argue.”
“Well, while you’re eating a decent breakfast, I’ll tell you what I know about Simon Doyle.” Sipping, Sylvia leaned back, crossed her legs. “And don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not curious.”
“Okay, I won’t because I am. A little curious.”
“He’s thirty-three, originally from Spokane, though he lived the last several years in Seattle.”
“Spokane and Seattle. Night and day.”
“Pretty much. His father owns and still operates as a contractor in Spokane—with Simon’s older brother. He double-majored in art and architecture at USC, then worked as a cabinetmaker before he began to design and build furniture. He did pretty well for himself in Seattle, won some awards. Had a very hot affair with Nina Abbott—”
“The singer?”
“That’s right. Pop star, rock star—I’m not sure where she fits.”
“Bad girl of pop,” Fiona said over a mouthful of omelet. “She’s a little crazy.”
“Maybe so, but they steamed it up for a few months after she commissioned him to design several pieces for her house on Bainbridge Island. She’s originally from Washington state and has a house there.”
“Yeah, I know. I read People, watch E! TV now and then. I just . . . Oh, wait. He’s the one? I remember reading some dish about her and a carpenter. The press mostly referred to him as a carpenter. She’s sexy and talented, but there’s that little-bit-crazy factor.”
“Some people like to shock, I think. Anyway, it fizzled. Still, I expect it didn’t hurt him, business-wise. Then about three months ago, he moved here, and Island Arts is very proud, and damn lucky, to be his exclusive outlet in the San Juans.”
Sylvia lifted her teacup in toast, then sipped.
“Did you get all that from his bio for Island Arts’ Web page and brochures?”
“Actually the bio he gave me was a little thin, so I Googled him.”
“Sylvia.”
Unashamed, Sylvia tossed her lush curls. “Listen, when I take on an artist I have to know who they are. For one thing, I often have to travel to them to check out their work. I wouldn’t want to wander into the den of an ax murderer, would I?”
“I bet you can’t Google most ax murderers. Except those already in prison or in the ground.”
“You never know. Anyway, over and above his work, I like him. What did you think?”
“Since he was a little pissed that Jaws ate the headrest in his
