“So by default that leaves you with Bill and Allison.”
“Plus, of course . . . They really need the money.”
“They do?”
I spun around. Luckily Terry had seen that coming and he held his hand away from my head, scissors angled outward. Otherwise I might have lost an ear.
“How do you know that?”
“Everybody knows that, doll.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, make that everyone who’s been paying the slightest bit of attention. It’s not cheap to put championships on a dog in three different disciplines. Think about it.”
He was right, of course. Up until now, I’d considered only how the Brittany’s varied accomplishments would affect her standing in the contest. I hadn’t stopped to think about the amount of time and effort, not to mention the financial commitment, that had gone into producing a record like hers.
I was mostly conversant with the cost of showing a dog in conformation. Depending on the breed, the quality of the dog, and whether the owners handled themselves or hired a professional to do the job for them, the cost of procuring a championship could easily run into the thousands. Exhibiting week after week wasn’t cheap, no matter how you looked at it.
“Who showed Ginger in breed?” I asked.
“I think Allison started her, but the two of them didn’t get very far.”
I remembered the conversation I’d had earlier with the couple. “I’ll bet she got too nervous taking her in the ring.”
“Something like that. Anyway, Ginger went to Todd to get finished.”
Todd was Todd Wickham, a top professional handler so well known among dog show aficionados that he went by just one name, like Madonna or Bono or Sting.
“That must have cost plenty.”
“Even more so because Ginger, for all her glowing attributes, doesn’t happen to be a particularly good Brittany. She was originally bought as a family pet, and for Bill to play around with in obedience. But once the Reddings started going to shows, Allison was seduced by the glamour of the conformation ring and decided that she wanted Ginger to finish there, too.
“You know Todd. He could walk a pot-bellied pig in the ring and convince the judge it was a French Bulldog. And even he had a hard time getting that last major on her.”
I supposed that showed what little I knew about Brittanys. I’d always thought that Ginger was a perfectly fine specimen of the breed. Certainly she was a pretty dog to look at. Then again, I’d learned enough from Aunt Peg to know that the fact that a dog was attractive didn’t necessarily mean that it had correct structure or breed type.
“It all adds up,” Terry was saying. “Even when you do part of it yourself, there are entries, gas, and hotels. Not to mention time off from work. Which, by the way, neither Bill nor Allison is doing at the moment. Right now their idea of gainful employment seems to consist of promoting Ginger.”
“Are you sure? First time we met over at Champions, Bill was wearing a suit and tie. I thought he looked like he’d left work to come to the reception.”
Terry shook his head. “The way I heard it, Bill was in the habit of cutting out on work whenever something that looked like more fun came up. He got laid off about six weeks ago. Maybe he had an interview the morning you saw him. Or could be he was thinking of the contest as his potential new job. One hundred thousand bucks would take care of a lot of bills.”
It would indeed.
While we’d been speaking, Terry had finally stopped working. He’d laid the comb and scissors down on the counter. He studied me carefully, then reached up to nudge a few errant strands of hair into place with his fingers.
My hair had been damp when he’d started cutting it. Usually Terry would blow it dry when he was done. But now it was so much shorter, it felt as though it had dried already. I slid off the stool and lifted a tentative hand to touch the results.
“No touching.” Terry slapped my hand away. “Look first.”
He led the way to a powder room off the kitchen, flipped the light switch, then stood back so I could slip past him and see the mirror.
I was almost afraid to look. What if I hated it? I’d seen the mound of hair on the floor beneath the stool. I’d never done anything this drastic before. If it was awful, it would take years to grow back. Sam had married a woman with long hair. What if he hated it . . . ?
“Would you stop agonizing and look already!”
So I did.
Slowly I turned to face the mirror. My eyes widened. For a moment, I didn’t even recognize the face I saw there. Now framed by a cap of loose, tousled curls, it looked like it belonged to a totally different person.
“It turns out your hair has a lot of body when it’s not weighted down by all that length,” Terry said.
I was still staring at my reflection. I’d had long hair all my life. Long straight hair. I would never have imagined that lopping off seven or eight inches would make this big a difference.
“Wow.” I exhaled.
That didn’t seem to be the response Terry was hoping for. He squeezed into the small room next to me. Our faces swam side by side in the mirror. Mine still looked like I’d been poleaxed. His looked unsure.
“Is that wow good, or wow bad?”
“I think I love you,” I said.
Terry grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I shook my head, gently at first, and then harder. The curls bobbed and spun, then settled back into place. “Upkeep?”
“Wash, finger comb, maybe add a little gel if you feel like it. That’s all there is to it.”
After years of hassling with a blow dryer and hot rollers, that routine sounded like heaven. “Will you marry me?”
“You’re already married.”
“Damn.”
“But I’ll do your hair forever.”
“Will you?” I turned to face him. An image of Crawford flashed before my eyes. Suddenly the moment felt serious. So many things were perfect in my life right now; I didn’t want any of it to change. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Terry affirmed. “Scout’s honor.”
Neither of us could control the future. He knew that as well as I did. But just for that moment, I wanted to believe.
“Scout’s honor,” I echoed softly. It came out sounding like a prayer.
23
That weekend it was my turn to go to a dog show in support of Sam and Tar. While I was there I’d also be helping Bertie with the three Poodles she was going to be handling. Nobody gets a free ride around here.
The show was outdoors, held on the polo grounds in Farmington, Connecticut. Luckily we got perfect weather for the event: warm, sunny, and not too humid. One thing about dog shows; nothing short of an oncoming tornado will shut one down. Over the years, I’ve shown through high winds, unexpected sleet, and near-flood conditions. A perfect dog show day is a rarity, and it was more than enough to put all of us in a good mood.
“All” referred to Sam and me, Aunt Peg, Bertie, and Maggie. Davey was with his father for the weekend, and Frank was tending to business at The Bean Counter. There was no way, however, that Bertie could give a string of a dozen dogs the professional handling job they deserved and take care of a six-month-old baby at the same time. That was where Aunt Peg came in. She had volunteered to baby-sit.
Even if I hadn’t had other reasons for being at the show, I’d have come just to watch that. At the best of times, Aunt Peg can be a dubious influence on those around her. When it comes to managing children, any parents in the vicinity had better sit up and pay attention.
When Davey had been in my aunt’s care, she’d been known to feed him mountains of sweets and encourage him to disregard any inconvenient rules. Most of the time, she treated him like he was simply a height-challenged adult. Of course Davey adored her all the more for it. Which was a constant reminder that I probably don’t know as much about parenting as I’d like to think I do.
When we arrived at the show, Bert
ie, Maggie, and Aunt Peg had already been there for several hours. I knew Bertie had had a pair of English Cockers to show at nine AM, but Poodles weren’t scheduled until after lunch. I figured I’d allowed plenty of time to make myself useful on Bertie’s behalf.
Aunt Peg didn’t agree.
“You two must have slept late this morning,” she said when Sam backed his SUV up to the side of the grooming tent and we began unloading our gear. Bertie was nowhere in sight but she’d left Aunt Peg in charge.
“We did,” Sam replied with a cheerful wink. Nothing Peg says ever ruffles his feathers. “That’s the beauty of having only one dog to show.”
“I’m not showing any and I still managed to get here bright and early.”
“That’s because you had a job to do . . .” My voice trailed away. Aunt Peg was staring at me rather rudely. I couldn’t decide whether she looked fascinated or horrified.
“What on earth happened to you?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Sam was stacking crates. He looked over, reached up, and patted his head. I still didn’t get it. He fingered his hair and lifted a brow. The lightbulb went off. I pirouetted with a smile and showed off my new hairdo.
“Terry happened to me,” I said. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. It’s a big change. I might have to think about it.”
“I didn’t have to think about it,” said Sam. Passing by on his way back to the car, he tousled my hair with his hand. “I loved it right away.”
“You’re supposed to,” Peg informed him. “That’s your job.”
Maybe in a parallel universe, I thought. When it came to marriage Aunt Peg was clearly an optimist.
“Speaking of jobs . . .” I cast a quick glance around the jumble of tables and crates. “You haven’t lost Maggie, have you?”
“Certainly not. I know precisely where my namesake is. She’s taking her midday nap.”
Between the generators that powered blow dryers and radios, and the constant babble of conversation, you might have thought that the noise level alone would have precluded napping under the grooming tent. But I’d seen my niece in action. When Maggie wanted to sleep she was oblivious to all outside influences.
Sam paused in the act of unfolding the legs on his portable grooming table. “Where?” he asked, which saved me the trouble of doing the same.
Aunt Peg gestured toward a medium-sized wooden crate in a lower row. “Bertie was hoping to set up a playpen but there wasn’t room under the tent and she didn’t want Maggie out in the sun, so we had to make do.”
I stooped down and peered into the crate through the mesh doorway. Blissfully asleep within, Maggie wasn’t at all perturbed by her unusual surroundings. She was snuggled contentedly in her baby seat, with her eyes closed and her blond head tipped to one side. One small hand was curled into a fist beneath her chin, the other clutched her favorite toy, a pink stuffed dog with a button nose and floppy ears.
“She’s such a little doll,” I said softly.
“When she’s asleep,” Aunt Peg muttered. “When she’s awake, that child has an opinion about everything.”
Sam ducked his head and didn’t say a thing. I suspected he was thinking the same thing I was. Maggie came by that trait honestly.
“Where’s Bertie?” I asked.
“Showing a Bouvier over in ring eight. I expect she’ll be back shortly.”
Table and crate in place, Sam was unloading Tar from the car. The big Poodle threaded his way down the narrow aisle and hopped up onto the grooming table. Turning a tight circle on the rubber-matted top, he lay down and placed his head between his paws.
“I’ll go park the car,” I said. We’d been in place beside the tent for only a few minutes, but already there was a line of other vehicles waiting for our space in the unloading zone.
“Thanks,” said Sam. “I’ll get to work on Tar.”
“And keep me company,” said Peg. “So far, my job has proven to be rather boring.”
Just wait, I thought. When Mags awoke from her nap she would be raring to go again and Aunt Peg would have her hands full just trying to keep up.
Following instructions from the parking crew, I left Sam’s SUV on the other side of the polo grounds at the end of a long line of cars. From there, I cut back across the freshly mown field. This time I approached the show from the other side, where the rings were set up in a tent-covered double row and the judging in several different breeds was in progress.
Ring eight was on the corner. I headed that way and scanned the crowd for Bertie, but it looked as though Bouviers had already finished. A group of exhibitors with Boxers was clustered by the in-gate. Several others were beginning to file into the ring for a class.
My steps slowed as I watched the dogs in the ring and mentally compared them with Brando. Boxers were a popular breed with spectators, and they usually drew a large audience. They weren’t a breed I’d had much exposure to, however, and I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew. Which was why it came as such a surprise when I recognized Cindy Burrows standing next to the ring.
What, I wondered, could have brought the Chow Down product manager to a dog show all the way up in the middle of Connecticut?
Boxer fans were packed in tight at ringside. I maneuvered my way toward the front of the crowd, keeping Cindy in sight. The other times I’d seen her she’d been dressed for work. Today, Cindy looked young and fresh and pretty in a flower-sprigged sundress and low-heeled sandals. Her hair wasn’t confined to its usual French braid; instead she wore it loose and curling down around her shoulders. Briefly, I felt a pang of regret. Then I realized how much cooler I felt with my new short hair and the feeling passed.
I got as close as I could, then leaned around a couple still separating us and said, “Hello.”
Cindy jumped slightly and cast a startled glance my way. “Melanie . . . !” She didn’t exactly sound pleased to see me. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
As one, the couple between us shifted forward, like they were afraid we might try to talk across in front of them and block their view. I could hardly blame them; much as I had no stake in the Boxer judging, I felt the same way when Poodles were in the ring. I drew back several steps, giving up my ringside spot. Cindy did the same. The couple, still staring fixedly into the ring, looked relieved by our departure.
“My husband is showing one of Faith’s relatives,” I said. “What about you? I thought Gus was a frisbee dog. I didn’t know you were into dog shows, too.”
“I’m not really. This is my first one. I’m just learning how things work and what it’s all about.”
Cindy was smiling but she looked uneasy. She sent a furtive glance skirting past me and into the ring. I turned and looked, too. Open Bitch was being judged. None of the exhibitors appeared familiar to me and I wondered who we were looking for. I knew only one person who owned a Boxer.
“Where’s Faith?” Cindy asked brightly. “Is she showing, too?”
“No, she’s retired from breed competition. Poodles are required to be “in hair” if you want to show them, and a trim like that takes a huge amount of upkeep. I cut Faith’s hair off when she finished her championship, so now she’s just a pet.”
Just a pet. In the eyes of some people who showed dogs, those words were about the biggest insult you could offer. I’d never been able to understand why. I’d enjoyed Faith’s show career. I loved the fact that she’d been well-bred enough and well made enough to finish her championship in style. But now I adored not having to worry about her coat all the time. Truth be told, I was enjoying the “just a pet” stage of our relationship more than the ones that had preceded it.
“You’re not giving Faith enough credit,” Cindy said. “All of the finalists are highly accomplished canines. None of them could be labeled as just an anything.”
I nodded in agreement but my thoughts were elsewhere. If I’d had a catalogue, I would have checked to see if Brando was entered. Since
I didn’t, I went with my gut and said casually, “So . . . Is Ben showing today?”
Cindy hesitated. I got the distinct impression that I’d posed a question she’d rather not have to answer. But since we were standing beside the Boxer ring, she must have realized that I would see for myself sooner or later.
“Yes, he is,” she said after a moment. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. He asked me to come and watch him show Brando. You know . . . so I could see the dog in his element?”
Not to mention the dog owner, I thought. No wonder Cindy hadn’t been happy to see me. I was betting there had to be some sort of rule against contest judges fraternizing with the finalists. And yet she’d put on a pretty dress and come to the dog show anyway.
Ben was more than a decade older than Cindy was, possibly closer to two. But he was handsome and charming and I could see how he might have been able to turn her head. I could also imagine him using that connection to his advantage.
“Ben and Brando are in the Best of Breed class,” said Cindy. “Those are the dogs they call specials.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
Standing there gazing into the ring, I remembered what Terry had said about Brando’s faults. Competition in Boxers, especially among the champions, was usually pretty fierce. Ben wasn’t stupid and he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who liked to lose, so I sincerely doubted that he made a habit of specialing the dog.
But Boxers, unlike Poodles, don’t require a lot of upkeep to be made show-ready. As long as a dog is kept in fairly good weight and muscle, they can be exhibited on a whim. Like in the event that an owner felt a sudden need to try and impress someone.
I looked back at Cindy. The judging was moving right along. The Open class was over. Winners Bitch had come and gone. The champions were now entering into the ring. And Cindy looked ready to be impressed.
“Doesn’t he look handsome?” she said as the pair took their place in line.
“Brando?” I asked. “Or Ben?”
She colored slightly. “Brando, of course.”
“He looks great,” I agreed. And to my untrained eye, he did. Which was probably why nobody had ever asked me to judge Boxers.
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