Must Love Dogs: (Book 1)

by Claire Cook

  I was still holding the phone to my ear, even though my father's answering machine had long since beeped the end of my message. It was hard to know quite what to do next. I took a deep breath, put the receiver down and thought, Sarah, you are a grown-up. "Dolly, I'm sorry, but you can't stay. I mean it. This is my house and I want you to leave right now." I waited for her to say something, maybe even to stand up. "I go to bed really early and it's been a long week. Dolly?" I walked around the couch and looked her straight in the eyes.

  Dolly looked straight back. "So, go to bed already. Those circles under your eyes aren't doing the rest of your looks much good at all. Daddy and I will lock up when we leave."

  I dug deep. "No, I really mean it." Pitiful. I dug deeper. "You cannot wait for my father here." I caught myself before I softened it with an apology.

  Calmly, Dolly reached for her pocketbook, which looked like a small wicker picnic basket. A scrimshaw oval on top of it read DOLLY. She flipped the latch and reached inside. I was half-expecting her to pull out a gun, maybe a small pearl-handled affair that doubled as a cigarette lighter. I could even feel my heart picking up its pace in anticipation. Instead, Dolly removed a small clear plastic pouch. I watched her shake out what looked like a rain hat, only made of white netting instead of plastic. She draped it over her hair and tied it in a perky bow under her chin. I must have been staring, because she said, "You should try one of these. It'll save your hairdo for an entire extra week." I nodded. Found myself reaching up to smooth my hair.

  Meanwhile, Dolly kicked off her shoes, pulled off her knee-high nylons, wiggled her toes. Fluffed up two of the pillows from my couch, slid her puffy coat off the back and drew it over her like a blanket. "You run along now. Don't worry about me. Dolly will be just fine."

  Maybe the direct approach wasn't going to work. I would pretend to be docile—not a big stretch—and come up with something when she least expected it. I tiptoed into my kitchen, grabbed the remnants of a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and the cordless phone. Tiptoed on into my room, closed and locked the door behind me.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  "Carol," I whispered when Carol's answering machine instructed me to please leave a message. "Answer the phone if you're there. Come on, Carol, it's an emergency." I waited for a minute, then hung up softly.

  I tried Christine. Four rings and then her machine picked up. "Christine . . ." I whispered. "It's me, Sarah. Pick up. Please." Great. A pattern seemed to be emerging. Why, the rest of the world actually went out on Friday nights.

  Michael answered on the second ring. "Mother Teresa! Drop it! It's not a toy! Phoebe, will you get her so I can answer this? Phoebe . . . Hello."

  "Michael, it's Sarah."

  "Is something wrong with your voice? I can hardly hear you."

  "I'm whispering. Dolly's here. In the other room."

  "Who?"

  "Dolly. Dad's girlfriend. She's trying to find Dad and Dad isn't answering his phone. And now she says she won't leave my couch until he comes to get her."

  "Bummer. Guess you've got your night cut out for you."

  "Michael! Listen, you've got to help me. Go get Dad and bring him over here." I was sitting on the edge of my bed, talking as softly as I could.

  "Jesus, Sarah. I'm exhausted."

  "Come on, Michael. You're my favorite brother."

  "Yeah, right. I haven't fallen for that one since I was about six and found out you were using the same line on Billy Jr. and Johnny, too." Michael paused. I waited him out. "Oh, all right. I have to take Mother Teresa out again anyway." I heard a bark in the background as Mother Teresa recognized her name. "Shh. Oh, God, I better go before she wakes the kids. You don't want a slightly used dog, do you, Sarah? Listen, I'll walk her and then go over to Dad's. In the meantime, why don't you just ask Dolly to leave?"

  "Now why didn't I think of that . . ." I whispered sarcastically, but Michael had already hung up. I pushed the OFF button on my cordless, thought for a minute, then dialed my father's number again. When Frank Sinatra started to belt it out, I joined in with a few regrets of my own. Frank's cheery attitude was really starting to piss me off. My father, instructing me to plant my message, was getting on my nerves, too. I whispered, "Dad, Dolly is on my couch and I'm in my bedroom. She won't know if you pick up. So, Dad, PICK UP THE PHONE RIGHT NOW. Dad, I mean it. Get her out of my house. Now." I thought about telling him that Michael was on his way over, but decided not to tip him off.

  And then it occurred to me: what if my father wasn't home? I thought about this for a minute. What if he'd run off with another woman? I wondered how long an unsquirrelly woman like Dolly would stay camped on my couch, and if I'd be responsible for feeding her. I kind of admired her, in a way, from a safe distance, and considered trying to pretend she was giving me a lesson in assertiveness training. I reached for the bottle of wine. I noticed that I had neglected to bring a wineglass into my bedroom. I looked around for strays. Nothing. I pulled out the cork and took a long slug from the bottle.

  Even with the wine for company, there wasn't much to do. I tried calling John back but he didn't answer. I hoped he didn't think I'd hung up on him on purpose. The television was in the other room with Dolly. The book I was reading was in the kitchen and I didn't want to risk disturbing her by leaving my bedroom to go get it. I tried thinking about my life. I knew for certain I didn't want to spend the rest of it alone in my house, where the only company I'd had in eons, besides the Bradys, was my father's crazed girlfriend.

  Beyond that, things got a little foggy. I'd spent so much time scrunching my eyes shut, trying to stay numb, telling myself, Well, this isn't so bad, that I'd all but forgotten any other way to behave. As painful as it was to think about having to open myself up and actually feel again, I couldn't think of any graceful way around it. Maybe I could try to think of dating as an adventure.

  I looked at the tape deck. The tape Carol had made was still in it. I let that realization flop around for a few minutes. I thought about John Anderson, wondered if he was already planning his next singles soiree, if he'd stay for the whole thing this time, how long it would be before he met someone else. I wondered how I felt about that. Should I attempt a similar approach, maybe try a few more dates myself? I took a sip of wine. Just a small one in case I had to make it last all night. Watched the tape deck for a while longer. Okay. Just one more, I decided.

  Ten twenty-seven p.m. October 26, the ad began. That was almost a month ago, the guy could be married by now. Um, my name is George. I'm forty-four years old. Five eleven with brown hair and brown eyes. A non-smoker. I'm the divorced father of two great kids. You didn't mention kids in your ad so I hope that doesn't scare you off. They're really good kids, though, and they live with me in Hanover. I'm college-educated, gainfully employed and in reasonably good shape. If you'd like to give me a call, it's area code 781-555-8236. The best time to call is after eight o'clock in the evenings when the kids are in bed.

  I looked at the clock. Ten past nine. What the hell.

  . . . . .

  Of course, my life being my life, even George from Hanover wasn't home. Some father he was. Before I thought about how desperate it would make me sound, I left a short message. Hi. My name is Sarah. You answered my personal ad about a month ago. Well, it's Friday night and you're not home, so it could be that mine wasn't the only one you answered. But just in case you're having a lousy date right now, my number is 781-555-7773. I'll probably be up late.

  It seems that when it's Friday night and you're locked alone in your bedroom, listening to just one personal ad response is not all that different from eating potato chips. Okay, just one more, I decided. Nine-nineteen p.m. October 19. This response was even older than George from Hanover's. Hi. My name is Maxwell. I'm forty-nine years old. I realize that's the upper end of your range, but be assured that I'm distinguished-looking and financially secure. People tell me I look a little like Ernest Hemingway, in part because I have gray hair and a be
ard, I would assume, but also because I am a true adventurer. Interestingly enough, my personal ad box number is one higher than yours—185. That's 991185 to your 991184. Kismet? Karma? Destiny? Fate? Call me at 508-555-3030 and let's find out.

  I wasn't surprised when Maxwell's machine picked up. How could it be otherwise? "So, Maxwell," I said. "Is your resemblance to Hemingway still running?"

  I waited a long beat. "Well, you'd better hurry up and catch it!" I hung up quickly, then laughed uproariously into my pillow. The tears wouldn't stop. Either it was all just so damn funny, or I was spending too much time with the kids at school. Austin Connor had told that old joke the other day at circle time. Except he said it the traditional way—Is your refrigerator running? Anyway, the kids all laughed. Kids always know when to laugh. Maybe instead of trying to date, I should just babysit on the weekends.

  Thinking about Austin made me think about his father. I felt this little kick in the center of my chest. I pictured him in a crisply laundered shirt, with his wayward curls and twisted-tooth grin. Impulsively, I called information and got his number. Looked at the clock. Nine forty-eight. Called him anyway.

  When Austin's dad answered, I said, "Sorry to bother you so late, but do you happen to know if all three of Dolly's ex-husbands died and, if so, was it of natural causes?"

  "Who is this?" Bob Connor sounded as if he had been sleeping. Maybe he was just otherwise occupied in bed. It had been so long since I'd heard the voice of a man in bed, it was hard to tell.

  "Oh, God, I'm sorry. It's Ms. Hurlihy, I mean Sarah Hurlihy. And I'm in the middle of a crisis. Well, a small crisis. It involves one of your neighbors."

  "Dolly?"

  "Yeah, Dolly. You see, I can't seem to get her to leave my house, and I was thinking you might be able to tell me if she's potentially dangerous."

  "You wanna back up and tell me the whole story?"

  So I curled up on my unmade bed, pulling the comforter over the tangled sheets and blankets until it covered my legs, and whispered the whole story to Bob Connor. When I finished, he said, "Rumor has it that all three of Dolly's husbands are buried somewhere in the trailer park."

  "That's not funny!"

  "Sorry. Let me think, what can I do? How about if I come over and convince her to leave?"

  "How?"

  "I could tell her there's a meeting of the tenants' association or something. It's a bit late, and we don't exactly have a tenants' association, but it could work . . . Or I could just keep you company until your father shows up."

  "All right," I said, though even I knew it could be trouble. Bob Connor was the parent of a child in my class. He'd already made mincemeat of my flagging self-esteem with a casual reference to another woman. But there was just something so . . . so . . . okay, so hot about him.

  . . . . .

  "Can I please tell you the June story?" Bob Connor asked. "Every time I try, you walk away." Bob and I were sitting on the couch. Dolly had relocated to my kitchen to scramble some of my eggs.

  "Your personal life is your business, not mine."

  "What an interesting thing to say to a man who's sitting on your couch at ten-thirty on a Friday night. At your request. Although, I must say, that's quite the chaperone we have in the other room."

  "I have not one iota of interest in what the two of you are doing out there. So take me off your chaperone list," Dolly yelled from the kitchen. "I am here for one reason and one reason only. To make sure that big-talking, double-crossing father of yours knows that I'm on to his shenanigans. The day that Dolly can be snowed by the likes of Billy Hurlihy is the day . . ."

  We waited patiently for her to finish. Instead, she let the sentence hover in the air. Bob and I looked at each other, wondering what to say now that we knew Dolly was listening. "So, how about those Patriots," Bob said loudly. "You think they have a chance at the playoffs?"

  We could smell that the eggs were done. We listened as a fork jabbed a plate repeatedly. "You hungry?" I whispered. He caught my eyes with his and nodded, and I felt that little jolt again. This was all simply too much for a woman in my weakened condition. I tried to remember sex. I traced it back through two years alone to when I was married to Kevin. And had to admit that the best sex I'd had in the last couple of years of my marriage was with the handheld shower massage turned to pulse while Kevin was out of town on business. I would edge the lip of the bathtub with candles and play soft classical music. It was always great. I knew exactly what I wanted.

  "You gonna eat all those eggs, Dolly?" Bob yelled.

  "If there's any left, you two just help yourself. After all, it's a free country. But don't think I'm serving you." I started to giggle. Bob picked up a pillow, held it playfully over my mouth. Managed to twist me sideways a little, then started pushing me backward on the couch. I grabbed the pillow from him, hit him over the head with it and jumped to my feet.

  "I am absolutely famished, aren't you?" I was so glad I'd changed my clothes before he got there. I was wearing perfectly faded jeans with a soft blue V-necked sweater and I knew I looked good. Not June good, but good. I wondered briefly if I wanted to hear the June story or not.

  He reached out a hand. "Help me up?"

  I extended my hand to him, then pulled it back just before he touched it. "Right. I'm about to fall for that one . . ."

  "Whaaat?" He widened his big green eyes as he cocked his head to the side. He really had that boyish thing down. It would probably get old after a while, but at the moment it was pretty compelling.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  Carol never knocks. She doesn't say hi or how's it going, either. She just starts talking as she walks right into my house, as if she's simply picking up where she left off last time.

  "Sarah, you remembered to give Dolly the new boa, didn't you?" Carol didn't seem the least bit surprised to see Dolly in my kitchen.

  The three of us looked up from our plates of scrambled eggs. Carol and Bob checked each other out. Carol gave Dolly the briefest of hugs, then held out her hand to Bob. "Hi, I'm Sarah's sister, Carol. You must be one of Dolly's sons."

  "Or I could be courting your sister," Bob said. "Besides, Dolly would have had to give birth to me when she was three or four years old. If that." Dolly and I both beamed at him. He had a definite talent. Still shaking Carol's hand, he said, "Hi. Bob Connor. A pleasure to meet you."

  "Did you answer Sarah's ad?" Shit. Carol seemed bound and determined to ruin this for me.

  "What ad?"

  I stared hard at Carol. Her psychic abilities were apparently limited. "Oh, nothing," I said in Bob's direction. "I was just trying to sell some old stuff." To Carol, I said quickly, "Bob's son is one of my students." Carol's face showed far more surprise than was necessary. She gave Bob an encouraging smile.

  "You haven't seen Dad tonight, have you, Carol?" I asked casually. "Dolly's waiting here for him."

  "Gee, no," she answered nonchalantly. "Well, I just stopped by to say hi. Good to see you, Dolly. Nice to meet you, Bob. We'll all have to go out together some night soon. Uh, Sarah, there's something I want to show you. It'll only take a minute, I promise." She turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  "So, Dolly," I heard Bob say as I followed Carol. "I've been meaning to ask you, are you wearing that hat in case it rains and there's a leak in the roof? Or just because it looks so damn good on you . . ."

  Carol pulled me into my bedroom. She tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears and nodded her head a few times. "Okay. Michael and that foolish dog are driving around looking for Dad. Christine's at the house, calling every possibility she finds in his address book. It's a longer list than even I would have thought. So, how're you holding up at this end? Oh, by the way . . ." She pointed toward the kitchen. "Not bad."

  Carol was in her glory. Ever since we were kids, she loved having a crisis she could be in charge of. "Gee, Carol, you're so good at this stuff. How 'bout if you talk Dolly into going with you?"

  "No way. She's yours
till we find Dad. Just sit tight and I'll be in touch."

  "You don't think anything could have happened to him, do you, Carol?"

  "Do you?"

  We looked at each other. "Nah," we both said, remembering a lifetime of Dad's escapades. Carol left as abruptly as she'd come. When I returned to the kitchen, I found Dolly washing the dishes, and Bob drying. It was kind of cute, really.

  Minutes later, a knock at the door startled us all. Dolly threw her sponge in the sink. "Just let me at him."

  Bob grabbed her wrist. "It's Sarah's house, Dolly. She should answer the door."

  Dolly patted his cheek with her free hand as she moved past him. "Dolly might give you some real competition for this boyfriend of yours if you don't watch out, missy." As soon as she was out of view, Bob put his dish towel over his mouth and widened his eyes in terror.

  "I don't know. I think you and Dolly might make a simply adorable couple. And the older woman/ younger man thing is really in right now. If you'd like, I could leave you two alone for a while."

  "Keep that up, Ms. Hurlihy, and you're the one who's going to be left alone with Dolly."

  "Oh, please. Anything but that." We smiled at each other.

  Somehow, John Anderson's voice was coming from the other room.

  . . . . .

  "Excuse me, is this Sarah Hurlihy's residence?" John Anderson was asking Dolly.

  "It is, it is. Come right on in, honey bunch, and make yourself at home. Let Dolly take your coat." She raised her voice. "Company! Of the male persuasion!"

  "John," I said when I finally managed to walk toward the door. "What are you doing here?"

  "I was worried. First, someone"—he glanced quickly at Dolly and then back at me—"hung up on me. I waited and waited for you to call back. Finally, I called you. Repeatedly. The line was always busy. I wasn't sure if your phone was off the hook, and I suppose it seems silly now, Sarah, but I was worried about you." He smiled sweetly. I could tell he'd rehearsed this speech during his drive south from Boston. About an hour's drive, I figured.