Chow Down

by Laurien Berenson

  “You’re in the neighborhood?”

  “I’m virtually at your back door.”

  I pulled around the house. Dogs—several Poodles, two Dalmatians, and a Chow—that had been snoozing in their runs jumped up and began to bark. Terry’s face appeared in the kitchen window.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he said, snapping his phone shut with a flourish.

  By the time I got out of the Volvo, Terry had the door open and was standing on the sill waiting for me. Dressed in shorts, a linen shirt, and scuffed topsiders, he still managed to look like every woman’s dream. Except for the whole gay thing. And the highly suspicious look on his face.

  “Hey there!” I said jauntily.

  “Hey yourself.” He folded his arms over his chest. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “I told you, I need a haircut.”

  I swooped in and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Gestures like that make Crawford uncomfortable, but not Terry. He smirked, grabbed my shoulders, and steered me back so he could buss the other cheek, too, European-style.

  “Yes, well, you also need to win the lottery and I don’t see you standing in line at the gas station.”

  Terry had snapped out the sarcastic reply without thinking. I looked at him and arched a brow. He stopped and reconsidered. “Oh right, you have Sam, the video game mogul. Strike that last part.”

  “Consider it stricken.” Without waiting for an invitation, I walked past him into the kitchen.

  Recently redone, the room was sleek and modern. It had granite counters, polished hardwood floors, and appliances that were large enough to prepare food for an army. Left to his own devices, Crawford mostly used the microwave. Lately, however, Terry had been taking cooking classes. It looked as though the shiny pots and pans that hung from a rack above the center island were finally beginning to get some use.

  “Coffee?” asked Terry. His own mug was already sitting on a counter.

  “Please.” I pulled out a stool and hopped up onto it.

  He opened a glass fronted cabinet, got out another mug, and filled it almost to the top. Then he carried it over to the Sub-Zero fridge. “Just milk, right?”

  I nodded.

  If I’d made coffee for Terry, I’d have added two sweeteners, no milk. We were close enough to be that conversant with each other’s personal habits; how had I ever imagined that he wouldn’t realize why I had come?

  “Where’s Crawford?” I asked casually.

  “Out.” He sloshed milk into the mug, then slid it toward me across the counter. “Running errands.”

  “Supermarket, dry cleaners?” I smiled as I asked the question. Crawford wasn’t the domestic type.

  “Something like that.”

  Terry slid onto a stool opposite and I sipped at my coffee. The flavor was deep and rich, with just the slightest hint of almond.

  “You like?” he asked.

  “I like.”

  “Good. Now tell me why you’re really here. And make it entertaining, if you don’t mind. I could use a little distraction.”

  “I have questions,” I said slowly, wondering what sorts of things Terry might be wanting distraction from.

  “So what else is new?”

  “You may not like these.”

  “Oh, please. Has that ever stopped you before?”

  No, I thought. Not really.

  “I want to know what’s wrong with Crawford,” I said.

  Terry’s expression was bland. “What makes you think anything is?”

  “Because I pay attention to details and I’m not stupid. I’ve seen him taking it easy with his entries and leaving shows early. He isn’t acting like himself. He hasn’t been for the last month.”

  “What if I told you that nothing was going on, that everything was fine?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “You think I would lie to you?”

  Terry sounded genuinely offended, and I realized that if I persisted I might be pushing the boundaries of our friendship.

  “I think you would do anything you felt was necessary to protect Crawford.” Partly to mollify him, partly because it was true, I added, “It’s one of your better qualities.”

  Terry shook his head. He wasn’t appeased. “And yet you’re sitting in my kitchen asking me to betray a trust.”

  My stomach went hollow. “So there is something wrong.”

  “Crawford’s a very private person. You know that as well as anyone. He doesn’t talk about his personal problems and he certainly wouldn’t want me to. There may be an issue or two. Tests are being run, things are being looked at; that’s all I’m going to say. Crawford doesn’t want this to be a subject for discussion.”

  “Not even with friends?”

  “Not even.” Terry was firm. “In my place, you know you’d respect his wishes. How can I not do the same?”

  “You can’t,” I said softly. Even I could see that. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll let me know if that changes?”

  “I will.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  Terry laughed. “I never expected any differently.” He tipped back his head to finish the last of his coffee. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, do you still want your hair cut or was that just a clever ruse to get you in the door?”

  “Of course I want my hair cut. Can’t you tell?”

  I’d given him an opening the size of a barn door and I thought Terry would go for the easy insult. Instead he stared at me, narrowing his eyes. After thirty seconds or so, I began to get nervous.

  “What?”

  “Shush, I’m thinking.”

  He stood up, walked around the island, and placed his hands on either side of my head. His fingers tunneled gently back through my hair. Terry was so close that I could smell the faintly musky smell of his aftershave and see the smooth muscles of his chest through the sheer linen. Coming from another man, the touch would have felt intimate, maybe even erotic.

  But this was Terry we were talking about. As he lifted his hands and let the hair fall back into place, I glanced up. His eyes were focused not on me, the woman seated in front of him, but on some thought process that had to do with scissoring, or styling, or setting a trim.

  The sad fact of the matter was, as far as Terry was concerned, I might as well have been an ungroomed Poodle.

  “I’m thinking it’s time for a change,” he said.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  I liked my hair long. I’d been wearing it down around my shoulders for years. Or, to be honest, forever. On previous occasions, Terry had added shape, and layers, and wispy bangs. And I’d learned to give him free rein because when it came to hair, he had good instincts.

  But now it sounded like Terry was talking something momentous. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  “Have you ever thought about going blond?”

  I reared back in my seat. “You must be joking!”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” I sputtered automatically. Then I stopped and thought. “Brown is a good color, a fine color. Maybe not exciting, but certainly perfectly decent. It matches my eyes.”

  “Your eyes are hazel. Hazel goes with blond.”

  I shook my head as my thoughts on the subject began to define themselves. “Blond isn’t me, it’s somebody else. Someone who wants to be noticed, someone with bigger boobs, someone who has a whole lot more time than I do to spend worrying about how they look.”

  “I see,” Terry said thoughtfully. “So it’s a maintenance issue.” Notice how he ignored the whole bigger boobs part.

  “Mostly, I guess.”

  “Then I have another idea.”

  The fingers were back, lifting, parting, rearranging. Terry could see what he was doing; all I could do was feel. The touch of his fingers brushing through the strands of my hair was hypnotic. I had to keep reminding myself that the man caressing my scalp had an ulterio
r motive.

  “Short and shaggy,” he said, his fingertips pressing gently now and moving in a circular motion. “I’m picturing a Meg Ryan look.”

  “Meg Ryan is a blonde,” I said suspiciously.

  “Ignore that part and focus on the cut. All wisps and layers, kind of a gamin thing. It’ll be fabulous on you. And just think how easy it will be to take care of. Just wash your hair, shake your head, and go.”

  “The blond thing was a ruse, wasn’t it?” I grumbled. “You were setting me up.”

  “So sue me. It doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

  “I like my long hair.”

  “It’s boring. It never changes.”

  Unlike Terry’s hair, which shifted shades and styles regularly. No doubt he was the darling of whichever hair salon he frequented. At the moment Terry was blond again, his hair long enough to curl down over his ears. He looked like a charming cherub. One who was itching to get a pair of scissors into my hair.

  “Sam likes my hair long,” I said. It was beginning to feel like I might lose this battle.

  “Sam likes you.” Terry was digging around in drawers and cabinets. He laid out a towel on the countertop and began setting out the tools of his trade. “He wouldn’t care if you wore a bag over your head.”

  Terry might be right. I hoped he was. Because I was beginning to imagine what it might feel like not to have to blow my hair dry after I showered. Not to have anything clinging to the back of my neck in the heat of summer.

  “You’re not thinking too short,” I said cautiously.

  “Here.” His fingers brushed my chin, then the lobe of my ear. “And along here. Maybe a bit longer in the back. But it will have body, and swing. It’ll move when you move. It will give Sam a good excuse to buy you a new pair of diamond earrings.”

  “I don’t need new earrings.”

  I was arguing for the sake of arguing now. The decision had already been made and I suspected we both knew it. Certainly Terry, who now had a spray bottle of water in his left hand and a comb in his right, looked ready to rock and roll. Trust a man who showed Poodles for a living to be ready to start snipping at a moment’s notice.

  “Last chance to say no,” he said, spritzing away.

  I shook my head, letting my hair slap back and forth across my shoulders for the last time. “I trust you.”

  Terry leaned toward me, his voice lowering intimately. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, doll.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Danger is my middle name.”

  Terry laughed. Then he picked up his scissors and went to work.

  22

  The first cut sent a long skein of hair slithering down my shoulder. I shifted on the stool and hoped my trust hadn’t been misplaced. There was no turning back now.

  “Stop fidgeting.” Terry poked me with the tip of the scissors. “If you want me to get this right, you have to sit still.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I couldn’t see him but I knew he was grinning. That made me feel better and I began to relax.

  “Talk to me,” Terry said as he worked. “How’s your summer going? Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “You know perfectly well what I’ve been up to. Faith and I are engaged in an epic battle to become the new face of Chow Down dog food. Whether we want to be or not.”

  “Of course I know that, but I want details, the newest scoop. What’s going on behind the scenes?”

  The scissors continued to flash open and shut, nicking off bits and pieces of hair. I watched them go without regret.

  “For one thing, Lisa Kim has disappeared—”

  “Wow.” He uttered the word with no inflection at all. I’d led with my biggest news and Terry sounded almost bored.

  I turned my head slightly to look at him. Firmly but gently, Terry turned it back. I sighed and faced the far wall.

  “That doesn’t surprise you?” I asked.

  “Should it?”

  “Yes.” I might have sounded a little huffy. “Every time someone disappears it surprises me. I like people to stay where they’re supposed to be.”

  “Well then,” said Terry, “there’s your problem. What makes you think that you know where people are supposed to be?”

  I didn’t answer. I imagined that was my way of acknowledging that he might have a point. Hair continued to fall to the floor around the legs of the stool. My head began to feel lighter.

  “Lisa left a whole bunch of dogs behind,” I mentioned after a minute. “Ten Yorkies, to be precise. Don’t you think she would have cared about what happened to them? If she’d left of her own volition, wouldn’t she have made provisions for their care?”

  “Larumph mookie,” Terry mumbled.

  I swiveled in my seat. He was holding a comb between his lips. Considering all the time he spent doing exactly that at dog shows, you’d think he would be better at talking around an obstacle. I reached up and took the comb from him.

  Terry wet his lips and pursed his mouth. “Sit still,” he said. “I’m trying to work here.”

  “You always talk when you work. Why should today be any different?”

  “It isn’t.” Less gentle than he’d been the time before, Terry repositioned me. “I can talk to your back perfectly well.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Where were we? Oh, I remember, you were muttering something about Lisa.”

  Terry reached around and retrieved the comb. He used it to feather through the hair over my ears. “No, I was muttering about Larry. The dogs were his passion, not hers. Didn’t you ever notice that? He was the one who babied them, fussed over them, took them in the ring. Lisa was just along for the ride. You know, the good wife supporting her hubby’s hobby and trying to make it look like she wanted to be involved, when she really couldn’t have cared less.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Terry’s observation expanded on what Bertie had told me. Not only that, but his assessments were usually pretty astute. “I never saw either of the Kims at any shows. The first time I met the two of them was at the opening reception in Norwalk.”

  “Then you’re probably assuming Lisa’s a dog person.”

  I nodded.

  Terry growled a correction. My twitching and fidgeting was definitely trying his patience. “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion if I were you. Maybe Lisa met up with some sort of foul play, maybe she didn’t. But I could see her taking off and leaving those dogs behind. I don’t think she would have worried about it the way you or I would have. Did Yoda get dumped too?”

  “No.” I was careful not to shake my head. “Wherever Lisa’s gone, Yoda seems to have disappeared right along with her.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “There I go . . . what?”

  “She took the potential moneymaker with her. I rest my case.”

  “I didn’t know we were making cases. Since you know so much about it, where did Lisa go?”

  “Oh please. I haven’t the slightest idea. I never said I knew everything.”

  Maybe not, but he’d been guilty of implying it a time or two. I decided to switch tacks. “How’s it coming? Can I look in a mirror?”

  “Your hair looks faboo. And no, you can’t look yet. Not until I’m finished.”

  “But—”

  “Think of your head as a soufflé. If you open the oven door too soon the whole thing falls flat.”

  “That’s a really terrible analogy,” I said. At least I was hoping it was.

  “Tell me something else.” As hair continued to fall to the floor, Terry was determined to distract me from the matter at hand. “How are the other contestants doing? Who seems to be winning?”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes regaling him with the story of our trip to Central Park. Terry listened with rapt attention, humming softly under his breath as he worked.

  “So?” he asked at the end. “You still didn’t answer my second question. Now that you’re most of the way through the process, who’s going to win?”

 
“I wish I knew,” I said fervently. “I really hope it isn’t me.”

  “You mean Faith.”

  “Yes, but I also mean me. Because much as it’s supposed to be our dogs that are competing to represent Chow Down, it’s been obvious that the owners are part of the selection process. When we participate in these events, it feels like we’re on trial, too.”

  “Maybe you’re overidentifying.”

  I couldn’t entirely rule that out. Certainly I’d seen it happen at dog shows often enough: owners who treated their dogs like their children or siblings. Who took every loss personally and celebrated each win as if their own merits had been on the line. But I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “The judges seem to spend as much time interviewing the owners as they do observing the dogs. Doug Allen even admitted as much the other day. I guess they need to make sure that whoever they pick will be up to the task.”

  Terry nodded absently. His hands were moving through my hair more slowly now. The bulk of the work had already been done. Now he was adding the finishing touches. I hoped he liked what he was seeing.

  “If you wanted to win I’d be in your corner all the way,” he said. “But since you don’t, I’m rooting for the Reddings and Ginger.”

  I pondered that for a minute and decided that the couple and their Brittany would probably be my choice, too. Nevertheless, I was curious to hear his reasoning. “How come?”

  “Process of elimination, I guess. Dorothy’s only in it to gratify her own ego—”

  I laughed. “We all seem to be in it for that.”

  Terry kept going without missing a beat. “MacDuff’s getting older. He needs a rest more than he needs a new job. Lisa doesn’t have the right temperament. Being named spokesdog is going to be a lot of work, and she’d never be able to offer Yoda the support she’d need. Ben? He wants the win badly, but if he doesn’t get it, he’ll find something else. Trust me, he’s the kind of guy who always lands on his feet.”