Must Love Dogs: (Book 1)

by Claire Cook

  "But how did you find me?"

  "Drove to Marshbury. Found a phone book. When I had the address, I asked directions at a gas station."

  Bob made an entrance from the kitchen. He was still holding the dish towel. "You asked directions? I thought real men never ask directions. What's it like?" Bob grinned and moved to stand as close to me as possible. I waited to see if he would pee a circle around me to stake his claim. Instead, he draped an arm across my shoulder and stuck out his other hand to John. "Hi. Bob Connor."

  "Oh, I am so sorry, Sarah. I had no idea you'd have . . .." John blushed right to the tips of his ears. He reached for Bob's hand, shook it silently. Bob shook back with extra vigor, clearly enjoying himself.

  I stepped out of Bob's one-armed embrace, and walked over to kiss John on the cheek. His light brown hair felt soft and silky against my forehead, slightly damp. He must have taken a quick shower before he left. He was wearing jeans and a deep olive sweater that made him look more handsome than I remembered him. In the reflection of the outside light, his eyes looked almost golden. I noticed that his lower lip was slightly, adorably chapped. "Thanks for coming, John," I said. "What a nice thing to do. Um, come in."

  "No. No. As long as you're fine, I'll just be running along. I didn't think you'd have quite so much company. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

  "Really. Come in. Please."

  John was holding the doorknob, half in and half out of my doorway. Dolly leaned past him, scanning the street for signs of my father. "Listen, baby cakes," she said to John as she leaned back in. "Make up your mind. You're in or you're out. We can't keep heating the whole outdoors."

  . . . . .

  Bob Connor and John Anderson sat at either end of my couch. I imagined them as the ingredients that would combine into one perfect guy, not too sweet or too spicy, too coarse or too fine, too risky or too safe. Then I imagined them both split down the middle, lengthwise, with half of John welded together with the opposite half of Bob. Too messy, I decided, not to mention hard to find clothes for.

  Dolly maneuvered past the coffee table and Bob's feet and sat down between Bob and John. She untied her bonnet and took it off, pulled both ends to pleat it like a fan. Folded it in half once, then twice more, snapped it into its clear plastic case, put it away in her picnic basket purse. We followed each step as if it would lead us to conversation.

  "Be right back," I said, escaping into the kitchen. I looked around to find something to fix for us, to delay my inevitable return to the other room. I managed to unearth a cardboard box filled with individual servings of instant cocoa. The packets were a little hard. I bent them back and forth a few times until they softened.

  I found four mugs, and realized that if a fifth person arrived, we'd have to share. Or use the wedding-present cups and saucers. As I blew potential crumbs out of each mug, I read: FAVORITE TEACHER, I LUV MY TEACHER, TEACH PEACE, and VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS. I dusted off a tray I found tucked between the stove and a cabinet. Kevin and I used to call it our breakfast-in-bed tray.

  "Go fish," Dolly was saying to John as I placed the tray in the center of the coffee table. I sat on the floor, across the coffee table from the couch. Bob scanned the mugs, put his cards down and picked up VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS. He took a sip, then pretended to read it for the first time. He opened his eyes wide in an exaggerated look of surprise. "I think it's a sign," he mouthed. He put the mug down, crossed his hands over his heart and pumped them up and down. I rolled my eyes at him, and hoped John hadn't noticed.

  "Deal you in, Sarah?" John asked. I couldn't read his expression.

  "Sure," I answered. Since playing Go Fish required only partial concentration, I found my thoughts drifting. Bob picked up his mug again and I wondered why I'd bothered to save it from the trip Kevin and I took to Virginia Beach. Four years ago? Five? It was July, hot and sticky even in coastal Marshbury, and by the time we made it through the ever-changing maze of signs and arrows to Logan Airport, we were ready to kill each other.

  Kevin had chosen Virginia Beach. It was his turn. The year before, we'd gone to a small island off the coast of North Carolina. We'd driven in our rental car along U.S. 17 from the tiny Wilmington airport, past clusters of tar paper shacks and rows of tobacco. Isn't this charming? I said. I hope it gets better, he said.

  Eventually, we traveled over a narrow causeway to a small paradise called Ocean Isle. We met up with my family at a secluded house at the far end of the sandy white beach. Three stories, two decks, plus a gazebo with a Jacuzzi. Everybody was there—all six brothers and sisters and their spouses, all the nieces and nephews. Mom was still alive then; she'd been sick for so long that we were all temporarily lulled into thinking she'd live forever.

  Dad was on his best behavior, content to play poker and Monopoly with his children and grandchildren, to walk to the docks to finagle a deal on more pounds of shrimp than we could ever eat. Kevin was the only one who couldn't settle down. How far is Myrtle Beach? he asked. Isn't there anything to do around here? Anyone want to go for a drive? Nobody did, and Kevin never really forgave me or my family for that.

  The trip to Virginia Beach was Kevin's way of showing me. How to have fun. How to do things right. How not to be with my family. We stayed in a chain hotel near the boardwalk. The public beach was loud and crowded. Kevin rented a surfboard and I tried not to get sunburned while I read, assaulted by boomboxes on all sides. We played strikingly similar games of miniature golf at Shipwreck, Around the World, Jungle Lagoon.

  Finally, because Kevin wouldn't go, I traveled by myself to Assateague Island to see the wild ponies. The next day I drove to Newport News to the Mariners' Museum. Bought a miniature gondola and a Chinese sampan to show the kids at school. By the end of the week, Kevin and I had entered a new phase of our marriage. We were polite. We talked only when necessary.

  "Sarah, your turn."

  "Oh. Sorry." I had drifted away so completely. I wasn't even sure who had spoken. I might not have had many coping skills, but I sure knew how to detach from an uncomfortable situation. I looked at my cards. "John, do you have any sevens?"

  The phone rang. Dolly and I both jumped up. She was closer to the hall table I'd placed it on, and I was kind of tired of bailing out my father at this point. So I let her go. I sat back down. Smiled reassuringly at John. Gave equal time to Bob. "So," I said.

  "Go fish," John said.

  Dolly yelled from just around the corner, "Telephone for Sarah Hurlihy! It's another bo-oy! Heavens to Betsy, girl, you're on a roll!"

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  "I shouldn't have called this late. I'm sorry, I thought you'd live alone. What is it, a boardinghouse?"

  Oh, my God, I thought, it must be George from Hanover. Or, worse still, maybe Ernest Hemingway had Caller ID. I hadn't factored that in. "Who is this?" I sat down hard on the straight-backed chair beside the little telephone table in the hallway.

  "My name is George? You called me earlier? You sounded really depressed, and you said you'd be up late, so . . ."

  "Sarah, honey . . ." Bob was leaning over my shoulder, aiming his voice at the telephone receiver. "Are we out of champagne, or is there another bottle in the fridge?" I elbowed him. Hard. He made a loud kissing sound.

  "Who was that?"

  "No one. Listen, things are a little crazy around here. Can I call you back tomorrow?"

  Before I could hear George's answer, Mother Teresa careened around the corner, lapped my face, then grabbed the receiver with her mouth.

  "Mother Teresa! Drop it! Right now!" Michael said as he came down the hallway right behind her.

  "Good girl, Mother Teresa. Give it to me," I said.

  "Mother Teresa," John said, coming around the corner with his arms out. "Remember me?"

  By the time I got the phone back and wiped away the drool with a paper towel from the kitchen, all that was left of George from Hanover was a dial tone.

  . . . . .

  All of a sudden, my father stoo
d in the doorway, wearing an old plaid yard jacket over a dress shirt and slacks. It looked like a quick change to me. I tried to remember what he was wearing when he was here earlier tonight. A sweatshirt and sneakers?

  "Dolly, my darlin' angel, what kind of trouble have you been causin' these children?" My father was still standing in the doorway, a sign that he was pretty sure it wasn't going to fly.

  Dolly had the couch to herself at this point. "Don't hand me any of that darlin' angel jazz, you two-timing gigolo." Michael, Bob, John, Mother Teresa and I were kind of lurking in the hallway behind the couch, not wanting to miss the show, but not wanting to attract Dolly's attention.

  "Come on, Dolly, honey. Don't blow your pretty little top. I rode over with Michael just so you could drive me home. You must be beat to the socks and I wouldn't mind piling up a few z's myself." My father smiled his most charming smile, reached out a hand from the doorway.

  "Not me. I've just been sitting here all night with nothing to do. I've had nothing but rest. Not much chance of you being able to say the same would be my best guess, Mr. Billy Hurlihy."

  My father took a few steps toward Dolly. "Nothing like a jealous woman to make a man feel wanted."

  "You stay right there."

  He kept walking toward her. "Did anyone ever tell you the madder you get, the prettier you look?"

  "I'm immune to your sweet talkin'. It'll never work on me again." Dolly picked up her pocketbook from the coffee table. She stood up, handed him her coat. He helped her into it, leaned down to kiss the pinky top of her head. "There is not a blessed thing you can say to convince me you weren't out runnin' around with some floozy tonight."

  My father put his arm around Dolly, escorted her through my front door. Looked back over his shoulder as he closed it. Wiggled his eyebrows at us, then winked.

  . . . . .

  We were all clumped around Mother Teresa. Bob was the only one not scratching some part of her body. "Thanks, Michael. Where'd you find Dad?" I asked from my station behind Mother Teresa's right ear.

  "I didn't. He just came home. I told him what was going on and we hopped in my car."

  "So where was he?"

  "He didn't tell me. I figured Carol would get it out of him later."

  Mother Teresa noticed Bob's inattentiveness and leaned forward to nudge him with her nose. He moved back slightly, tucked his hands behind his back. "Big dog you got there." Nobody said anything. "I'm not exactly a dog lover," he added.

  "Dogs always know who loves them," John said. "What a good girl you are, Mother Teresa." He knelt down, picking up the pace on the front of her chest. "Are you planning to show her?" he asked Michael. "I've done a bit of research in that area."

  "My wife would like to show her, all right. Show her the door." Michael shrugged. Tonight there was no sign of the crooked smile that reminded me so much of Mom. "Which reminds me . . . Sarah, any chance Mother Teresa could stay with you for the rest of the weekend? Phoebe and I need a break from her. Bad."

  "Sure. Want me to follow you home to get her stuff?" I was having a hard time picturing Bob and John actually leaving. It might be easier to just go somewhere myself for a while.

  "Uh, as a matter of fact, her stuff is in the car. I was kinda counting on you to understand. Thanks. I'll go get it."

  "Need a hand?" asked John. "Does she sleep in a crate?"

  Michael stared at him. "Yeah, we use a small U-Haul trailer."

  John looked hurt. Michael noticed. "Sorry. No, she sleeps pretty much wherever she chooses. I'll just go get her food and dish and toys. And her other leash in case she eats this one."

  . . . . .

  Mother Teresa was chewing on a stuffed doggy toy, a pig that squealed every time she bit down. I yawned loudly. "Well, thanks a lot, everybody. I'll talk to you all later." Michael headed toward the door. Neither Bob nor John made a move.

  Michael owed me and he knew it. "Okay, guys, on the count of three, we're all leaving."

  "I'll call you tomorrow, Sarah." Bob blew me a kiss from the door and walked out with Michael.

  John hesitated. Walked back in. I kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks for driving all the way down here, John," I said.

  Bob stood in the doorway. "Cheater," he said to John. "Didn't you hear her brother say we were all leaving together?"

  When Mother Teresa and I were finally alone, I filled her water bowl and put it on the kitchen floor. Made a place for her with an old blanket at the foot of my bed. Went into the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth. Spent a little extra time putting on moisturizer. Wondered what George from Hanover must be thinking. Wondered if I'd call him back. It had been a long time since I'd had much to wonder about at the end of a day, and I had to admit to myself that it felt pretty good.

  When I returned to my bedroom, Mother Teresa was lying on my bed, her head on one of the pillows. I stood beside her, scooped both hands under her furry body and shoved. "Don't even think about it," I said. "That's my side."

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Mother Teresa and I slept late. We ate a big breakfast, went for a long walk on the beach. I brought a tennis ball, threw it as hard as I could along the rocky expanse of sand. Remembered Billy Jr. and Michael saying to me when we were kids, If you don't practice, Sarah, you're always gonna throw like a girl. I practiced, but I still threw like a girl. I never quite grasped that flick-of-the-wrist thing.

  Mother Teresa didn't seem to mind. She bounded after the ball again and again, as if each time were her first. Sometimes she brought it back to me; sometimes she let me chase her for it. On the way home from the beach, we stopped at Surfside Variety for a couple of spring waters. I taught her how to drink from the bottle. She was a natural.

  We'd been pretty much sitting by the phone ever since. Phoebe called around two. "Thank you so much for taking the dog, Sarah. Can you stay for dinner when you bring her back tomorrow?" Sorry, I wanted to say, I'd really like to. But I've fallen madly in love and I need to spend every waking moment with . . . And, by the way, you'd better start being nice to my brother or else.

  "Thanks, Phoebe. Can I bring anything?"

  . . . . .

  "John Anderson."

  "Oh, my God, you didn't say 'Yellow.'"

  "It's one of a couple of habits I'm trying to break."

  "I think I kind of miss it." John didn't say anything. I waited to be sure. "Um, I'm just calling to say thank you for last night. It was so nice of you to drive all the way down here. I really appreciate it."

  "Not a problem. I was happy to do it."

  I waited for John to start chatting. He didn't. "Have you come up with any new anagrams?" I asked.

  "Not really."

  "Mother Teresa is staying with me this weekend."

  "I know."

  "She's really fun. We went to the beach. Now we're just kind of hanging around."

  "That's nice."

  "Are you mad at me?" I asked pitifully.

  "Well, if you want to know the truth, last night you didn't seem very date-delayed . . ."

  "It was a-a fluke, a momentary surplus. I mean, Bob Connor lives in Dolly's trailer park and the guy on the phone was someone who answered my ad ages ago and I just called him back because I couldn't get out of my room, and Michael is my brother . . ." Why was I sounding so defensive? Why did I have to explain anything to John Anderson?

  "Listen, Sarah, you don't have to explain anything to me. It might be a good idea to figure it out for yourself though. Anyway, thanks for calling, but I have to be somewhere in about half an hour."

  I hung up without answering. It might be a good idea to figure it out for yourself though, I mimicked silently.

  . . . . .

  I dialed Bob Connor's number. It rang and rang. No answer, no machine to decide whether or not to leave a message. I called my father, thinking I could kill some time yelling at him for last night. Billy Boy's not home right now . . . I hung up. I tried Lorna. She wasn't home either.

&nb
sp; I checked to make sure my answering machine was still plugged in. Pushed the PLAY button even though there was no blinking light. Nothing. Went outside to check the mail. Bills. And an invitation to change my life by changing my credit card. Somehow, I thought it might take more than that.

  "We're becoming one-dimensional," I said to Mother Teresa. "We can't spend the rest of our lives waiting for boys to call." She didn't seem to disagree, so we jumped back in the car and wound our way to the Southeast Expressway. "Where should we go?" I asked.

  Wanna try Puppy Paradise? I imagined her replying. I confronted the fact that I was not only talking to a dog, but answering for one. Decided it was the least of my problems.

  "Great idea, Mother Teresa. Let's do it."

  Most of the leaves had fallen off the trees. They rustled around our ankles as we walked a lap around the fenced-in area, giving it a once-over. A large dog jumped up, placed his forepaws on the horizontal bar of the chain-link fence to get a good look at Mother Teresa. "You can do better than that," I whispered. I started to sing, just loud enough for the two of us to hear, that old song about being nothing but a hound dog. Mother Teresa gave me a look not unlike the one Carol would have given me.

  "Yeah, I know, Elvis does it better," I admitted. "I'm way off-key." I opened the gate, stood back to let Mother Teresa go in first. She circled around behind me. "Oh, all right. Follow me. But you can't spend your whole life waiting for the other person to go first."

  We sat on our old green bench. Slim pickings for humans today, only slightly better for dogs. At least the dogs weren't all half of a couple. The hound came up for a sniff. His owners, a man and a woman nauseatingly clad in matching Boston College sweatshirts, called him from across the length of wood chips. We sat for a few minutes, watching a little fluff-ball cocker spaniel puppy roll around delightedly. Broken bits of leaf clung to its coat.