Must Love Dogs: (Book 1)

by Claire Cook

. . . . .

  The bathroom in Bob Connor's trailer had a cracked porcelain sink with a ring of shaving cream around the inside of the bowl. Two kinds of toothpaste balanced on top of the rim. Most likely the bubble gum flavor belonged to Austin. A crocodile mug held a big and a little toothbrush, and a pump dispenser of antibacterial soap took up the only other available space on top of the sink. I turned on the water and looked at myself in the small mirror of Bob's medicine cabinet.

  There should be a rule someplace that a man who is coming on to a woman must never, ever, under any circumstances, call another woman a babe during the come-on conversation. I checked my face in the mirror for signs of babeness. I mouthed Bob's exact words, etched forever in my brain. She's a babe, though. God, that hair. I mean, it's not that I thought I looked like June. I just thought I had other redeeming characteristics. Like a sparkling personality and a good sense of humor. Nice brown eyes. Shiny dark hair with hardly any gray. Hairdressers always told me I had a great head of hair. Maybe not babe hair, but great hair. I had great hair. Bob Connor was an asshole and I had great hair.

  That much solved, I left the bathroom. I scooped up Wrinkles for something to do, and just kind of stood there holding the puppy and scratching behind its ears.

  It took Bob only two steps to reach me. He placed his hands over mine. Wrinkles dangled between us. "Sarah, what I'm trying to say is that I made a bad choice. I was attracted to you. Then I got sort of sidetracked by June. But I'm back now."

  I slid my hands out, leaving Wrinkles to Bob. "What makes you think I'm still available?" I asked. I was going for a light, flirty tone of voice, but it fell a little flat. Practice flirting came to me in Carol's voice, as if she were hiding over my left shoulder and coaching me on technique. Or lack thereof.

  "Come on, Sarah. I'm all yours now." Bob's eye contact was intense. My heart was doing a fight-or-flight dance, an up-tempo little number with an occasional extra beat thrown in.

  Fortunately, Bob chose that moment to put Wrinkles down on the floor. It was enough time for me to, if not come completely to my senses, at least take a couple of steps back. "You know, Bob," I said from a safer distance, "I don't think this is such a good idea. Austin is a student in my class . . ."

  "So we'll be discreet." He closed the distance between us and put a hand under my chin. "Okay, just one little kiss, then promise me you'll think about it?"

  It was slightly bigger than a little kiss, but I promised him anyway.

  . . . . .

  I kept telling myself that Lorna would know what to do. We were splitting a bottle of champagne, not that there was necessarily going to be anything to celebrate, along with an order of lobster ravioli at the Harborview. It seemed particularly festive after my odd Thanksgiving. I couldn't remember the last time I'd missed a holiday dinner with my family, though maybe meeting Mrs. Wallace would inspire me to find my own itch. I thought about Bob Connor and took a sip of champagne. Lorna and I were using one of my gift certificates and Lorna believed it was psychically important to spend gift certificates from parents wantonly and with abandon. "Or is that redundant?" she asked, taking another sip of Moët & Chandon. "Maybe I should say 'frivolously and with abandon.' My point being that it's important to just blow them. Enjoy a little bit of luxury because basically we deserve it."

  I didn't tell Lorna about the three other gift certificates I'd thrown away because I wasn't so lucky on their expiration dates. It would be too embarrassing to admit that going out to a restaurant, even when it was paid for, had felt like too much work. "Thanks, Lorna, for meeting me here. Mattress Man didn't mind?"

  "Not so you'd notice. He said he'd warm up some leftover turkey. Now, back to you and whatever it is that got you up off your butt and out of your house. Not," she said, wiggling back into the cushiony booth, "that I'm complaining."

  "Well, I was just wondering. Do you think it's unprofessional to date someone who's, um, associated with the school?"

  "Ooh, ooh, this is gonna be good. Do tell." Lorna actually rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

  "Okay, but can we keep it theoretical, you know, not name any names?" I'd spent the drive over working this part out in my mind.

  Lorna shook her head vigorously. "Absolutely, unequivocally not. I want the three D's—dirt, dish and details. Not because of any vicarious interest on my part, believe you me, but because it's the only way I can give you accurate, state-of-the-art advice." Lorna paused for a bite of lobster ravioli, washed it down with a sip of champagne.

  I took a deep breath. "All right. It's one of the parents."

  "Well, that's a relief. I was afraid it might be one of the preschoolers. Come on, Sarah. Tell me."

  I giggled as if I were still in junior high. Took a sip of my champagne. "Bob Connor," I whispered.

  "Oh, yeah. Curly hair, sort of a flirt, kid who talks a lot?"

  I giggled some more. The lobster ravioli was amazing, especially the gingery sauce. "I guess you could describe him that way."

  "Is he divorced?"

  "Separated."

  "What's the wife like? You must have met her at the parent-teacher conference at the beginning of the school year."

  "She seems nice, I guess. Pretty with auburn hair. Sort of dressed for success. She has some big job with a bank in Boston."

  "Did it seem like there was still chemistry between them?"

  "I don't know. It was Bob and his estranged wife and June and me all sitting in kid-sized chairs talking about Austin. It was hard to tell whose chemistry was whose. I was mostly hoping they wouldn't start fighting about who was the best parent."

  "Bingo. Just one of several potential problems. Soon-to-be-divorced parents have been known to kiss up to teachers, no pun intended, with ulterior motives." Lorna paused for a sip of champagne. "Maybe get the poor unsuspecting teacher to say something about what good parents they are, or how the other parent was late picking up their kid one day. And then before you know it, the poor unsuspecting teacher is dragged into a divorce, asked to give a deposition, the whole mess. Then, of course, there's the chance the parents could get back together, or the wife could take it upon herself to tell Kate Stone about her husband's extracurricular activities with her son's poor unsuspecting teacher, or Austin himself could . . ."

  I gulped down the rest of my champagne and buried my head in my hands. "Never mind," I mumbled. "It was a stupid idea. Pretend I never said anything."

  "I'm not saying forget about him. Just be careful. Maybe dabble a little, but don't put all your eggs in the Bob Connor basket."

  . . . . .

  Michael was sitting on one of my front steps when I got home from the restaurant. Mother Teresa was sprawled across the step below, her furry body draped across his feet, but he was shivering anyway. "When the fuck did you start locking your door?" he asked.

  "Michael, you're the one who's always yelling at me for not locking it." I stepped around the two of them, leaned in to unlock it.

  "Well, when the fuck did you start listening to me?"

  "Coffee?" I asked. Michael never said "fuck" unless he was drunk.

  "Got any beer?"

  "Nope. Sorry." I walked straight to the coffeemaker, put in a fresh filter and started scooping in espresso roast liberally.

  Michael sat down in one of my kitchen chairs. He wasn't quite centered on it, but didn't look to be in any immediate danger. He crossed his arms over his chest. His hazel eyes glistened. "Jesus, Sarah, what the fuck am I gonna do?" he asked. A tear rolled down his cheek. Mother Teresa stood up from where she'd settled on the linoleum beside him. She lapped his face. "You big lug," he said. He buried his face in her fur.

  I stood waiting for the coffee to brew. In our family, you didn't hug a person who was crying, especially one of the boys. You gave him some space until he stopped. When Michael sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, I handed him a mug of coffee. "You wanna talk about it?" I asked.

  "Nope. Maybe later."

  "Okay." I waited t
o see if he'd change his mind.

  "What's new with you?" Michael enunciated each word carefully.

  I smiled at Michael. Whatever had happened must have been all Phoebe's fault. "Well, I actually went out tonight."

  "With a guy?"

  "No, with a friend from school. But she was giving me advice about a guy." It couldn't hurt to get a second opinion from Michael. With luck, he wouldn't remember the conversation tomorrow.

  Michael sat up straighter. Mother Teresa nudged his hand for a pat. "Advice? Why didn't you ask me for advice? Come on, ask me anything. What the fuck do you want to know?"

  "Remember the night Dolly was here? Remember Bob, the guy with the curly dark hair? His son is one of my students."

  "What about him?"

  "Well." Now I was wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. I mean, what a stupid thing to talk about with your brother. "Let's see, he's getting divorced from his wife, and I was sort of wondering whether I should go out on a date with him."

  "Absolutely fucking not."

  "Michael, you don't even know him."

  "I know his type. He looks good for a while, but ya know, ya can't shine a sneaker."

  "Where did you get that?" I asked. Michael was drooping in his chair now, listing a little to the left. I leaned over and grabbed his shoulders and straightened him out. I was starting to think this might be a very short conversation.

  "I'm not kidding, Sarah. Stay away from him. He's fucking unreliable. Doesn't know which fucking end is fucking up. Whatever he does, he's always gonna be thinking about his kids."

  "Bob Connor only has one kid. Plus, I think it's more likely that he's always going to be thinking about himself."

  "No, no, it's your kids you'd never forgive yourself for hurting if you left your wife."

  I was about to tell Michael that this was called projecting, but he seemed to have fallen asleep. So much for caffeine. I took away his mug, and sat there wondering if Michael's commitment to Annie and Lainie would help him find a way to fix things with Phoebe. It was the way we grew up, a world where no one ever doubted that family was the most important thing. I loved Michael for still thinking that way, and knew that deep down inside somewhere I probably did, too.

  I picked up the phone and called Phoebe to tell her he was at my house. "Great," she said. "Keep him."

  Chapter

  Twenty-two

  Since neither Lorna nor Michael had exactly jumped up and down and yippeed about me dating Bob Connor, I decided I might have to pursue other options. Though I wasn't completely giving up on him. I was sipping my first coffee of the morning and planning my campaign, when the phone rang. It was George from Hanover. His wife had the kids for the weekend. He'd waited to call me back, he said, because he liked to spend as much time as possible with them when they were home. Had he mentioned that he was the custodial parent? he wondered.

  I'd set up a clipboard for my new date possibilities. I found his page and brought it to the top of the pile. I drew one red flag on it, colored it in. "Yes, George, I think you mentioned that." I lifted up George's page, and scanned the list of questions I'd begun working on. "So, tell me, George, what are you looking for?"

  "You mean, in terms of companionship?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  "Well, when I'm with my kids I don't really think about it too much, but when they're gone, it's so damn lonely around here. It'd be nice to have someone to do things with. Maybe dinner. A movie."

  I made a star next to the flag. "What kind of food do you like?"

  "Just about anything—Northern Italian, Asian, mom-and-pop home cooking."

  I added two more stars. "How 'bout your kids? What do they like?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your kids. What kind of food do they like?"

  "Why?"

  "I was just thinking, if we ever all went out to dinner together, George, it might be nice to bring your kids someplace they'd enjoy." More red flags.

  "My kids have been through a lot. I'd rather keep them out of this."

  "So you're looking for someone to see when your kids are with your wife?"

  "Yes. Exactly. You're so easy to talk to, Sarah."

  "And how often are your kids with your wife?"

  "One weekend a month. Extra visits on birthdays and holidays."

  I started connecting the flags like the ones that flew in long strips at car dealerships and gas stations. "So, George, we're basically talking here about dinner and/or a movie and/or . . . whatever . . . one weekend a month. No strings. No commitments. Am I right, George?"

  "Yes, that would be perfect. God, you're great, Sarah. So, how 'bout now? Right now. Are you busy?"

  "Actually, George, I'm looking for someone with a tad more availability. But thanks for calling. And I hope you find the part-time love of your life."

  I hung up. This was good. I knew enough to stay away from George from Hanover. Maybe part of finding what you wanted was recognizing what you didn't want. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

  . . . . .

  A week's worth of newspapers lay piled on my kitchen table. Perhaps "piled" was a bit optimistic. I tended not to notice this sort of untidiness. I'd walk by the amassing stack without registering it, day after day, until suddenly it would catch my eye and I'd think, Where did that come from? I made a mental note to look for a guy who was laid back as opposed to fastidious. Either that or someone who liked to do housework.

  I dug out the personal ad pages, spreading out the sections on the living room floor so I could see them all at once. Found my clipboard and pen, scissors, glue stick. Sat down cross-legged in the midst of it all and began my search again.

  VERY ROMANTIC Southerner visits

  Massachusetts almost every month for a week.

  Seeking petite, rambunctious, attentive SWF 25-45

  for unconditional fun/romance.

  Hmm. Even if I added this guy's availability to George from Hanover's, I'd still come up with too much free time. Not to mention the fact that this romantic Southerner sure sounded married to me. Besides, "petite" and "rambunctious" made me think he was looking for a small terrier instead of a woman. Maybe I'd ask John to fix him up with Clementine. If he ever called me again.

  45-YEAR-OLD CARIBBEAN male, sincere,

  passionate, animated, fun to be with, seeks

  plus-sized Woman, any race, good morals.

  Well, at least I could eat a lot. "Animated" made me think of Saturday-morning cartoons, though, and all I could picture was a date with the Road Runner or Daffy Duck. Then, again, my morals weren't half bad. I kind of liked that he'd capitalized "Woman," but maybe it was just a typo.

  I picked up my pen, drew a plus-sized X across the Caribbean male. Stretched out on my back with my knees bent, did twenty-five crunches to make sure I'd still have abdominal muscles when I found someone it might matter to.

  I wandered into the kitchen looking for some chocolate. Just a tiny piece. After all, it was a holiday weekend. The last chunk of a frozen Three Musketeers bar had somehow disappeared. I headed back to the living room, chocolateless.

  MY WATERS RUN DEEP. Handsome professor,

  DWM, 48, brown/green, creative and passionate,

  fit, funny, analytical, expressive, ethical,

  complex, "GQ-ish," seeking woman with legs,

  brains and exceptional depth. Bibliophile.

  Well, better than a pedophile, I supposed. Where did these guys come from? Were they trying to be funny? Had they once been ordinary husbands snoring in their armchairs while the TV droned on and on? I'd have to remember to ask Carol. She'd know. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk that would have been better with chocolate, drank it all as I walked back to the living room.

  HOPELESSLY ROMANTIC, old-fashioned

  gentleman seeks lady friend who enjoys elegant dining,

  dancing and the slow bloom of affection. Lonely

  widower of a certain age misses the good ol' days.

  Dad,
I thought, fancy running into you here. At least he'd dropped the part about loving dogs and long meandering bicycle rides. In a lot of ways, a woman could do worse than finding my father.

  Unless, of course, you were his daughter.

  . . . . .

  When the phone rang, I was so focused on perusing the personals that I almost didn't answer it. I was proud of myself for actually recognizing the irony. There I'd been, scouring the personals for that needle in a haystack, a kind, handsome, funny, charming, normal guy. At the very same time, like one of those split-screen scenes in an old movie, an actual man, with at least some of those qualities, had been calling me.

  It was John Anderson. I was so happy to hear from him that I invited him down for dinner without stopping to worry about whether it was a date or an almost-date or even if he was still mad at me for what I'd come to think of as Dolly Night. I'd even cook, I offered, hoping I'd remember how. John said he'd stop and pick up fish and wine once he got to Marshbury. I thanked him very much and hung up. Now I only had to run around and clean the house, jump in the shower, find something to wear, and run to the grocery store to buy everything besides the fish and the wine. I looked at the kitchen clock. All in under three hours.

  . . . . .

  I opened my door to Carol and John, and the incongruity of my sister and my dinner guest standing there together, like a couple, threw me for a minute. John had one brown bag in the crook of his arm, another in the fist of his other hand. Carol carried a plate wrapped in plastic wrap. Leftover Thanksgiving dinner.

  Of course, Carol spoke first. "Guess I should have called before I came, but you forgot to pick this up from Dad's fridge." She smiled at John. "Hi. I'm Carol." Still smiling, she turned back to me. "Been busy?"

  I took the plate from Carol, introduced her to John. They must have just missed each other on Dolly Night. They followed me inside, and John put his bags on the kitchen counter. "Well, thanks a lot, Carol. I'll see you around," I said.