Bride & Groom

by Conant, Susan

  “Cleaning up afterward?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. But that wouldn’t be Ceci’s responsibility, either.”

  “What about the stress on Althea?”

  “For someone in her nineties, Althea is apparently in decent shape. Except for her eyesight, of course. And she uses a wheelchair because of mobility problems. But there’s nothing wrong with her general health. Heart and lungs and so on. Althea looks frail, and she rests a lot, but I don’t think the excitement would do her any harm. And Ceci just had a checkup. According to her, the doctor said that she could pass for thirty. That’s probably an exaggeration. Well, knowing Ceci, it is an exaggeration. But she thrives on activity. And she has more common sense than you might imagine. If she couldn’t manage a wedding, she wouldn’t have offered. And, Steve, her house is so beautiful! You’ll love it, too. It’s big. So is the yard. It slopes down pretty sharply in back, but the part right next to the house is level. Or maybe the tent should go in front of the house. If the weather is good, we could get married outdoors on the terrace in the back, and then have the reception inside and in the tent, and outdoors, too. And the neighborhood would be perfect.”

  Ceci’s house was a big white colonial in Newton, a suburb just west of Boston. She lived on a hill in a charming area with winding streets and, remarkably, gas streetlights.

  Looking horribly serious, as if he intended to decline, Steve said, "You’re the closest they have to a relative. They really think of you as their niece. Is this what you want?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “Me? I think it’d be great. Now all we need is someone to marry us. I’ve been wondering. What would you think about Althea?”

  “Althea?” I asked casually, thinking, Yes, yes, yes! Althea! And not my father!

  “You might not know, but it’s legal. She could a get a special permit, good for one day.”

  “Oh,” I said innocently, “is that right?”

  “Yeah. I’d like it. Althea is a great lady. If it’d be okay with you.”

  “It would be wonderful.”

  “Good.”

  So, we agreed to offer our hands in marriage to Althea Battlefield. We felt confident that she’d accept. I silently vowed to delegate to Gabrielle the task of informing Buck that his only role in the wedding would be as father of the bride. Hurrah!

  I gloated for the remainder of the ride to the bookstore, which belonged to a national chain and was located in a distant suburb that I’ll leave unnamed lest the store or the chain take offense and never again order 101 Ways to Cook Liver or any other book I may ever write. Not that the store was exactly promoting my current book with unbridled enthusiasm. Not a single copy was displayed in the window. Mac’s books weren’t there, either. As I was wondering aloud whether I had the date wrong, however, Steve spotted a sheet of white computer paper taped to the door. Printed in felt marker on the piece of paper were Mac’s name and mine, together with the titles of our books and a bald “7:00.”

  “Don’t let stardom go to your head,” Steve said.

  Inside, the store was bright, cheerful, and so gigantic that Steve, Kimi, and I had to wander around for a while before we happened on a podium that faced three rows of folding chairs with three chairs per row. The podium sat on a table that also held piles of 101 Ways to Cook Liver and Ask Dr. Mac. As we were about to greet Mac, Judith, and Uli, who stood nearby, an angry-looking blond man bustled up to me and said, “I’m sorry, but dogs aren’t allowed.” He pointed to Uli. “That one’s an exception.”

  Kimi’s exceptionality had been recognized and rewarded by numerous American Kennel Club conformation and obedience judges as well as by her doting owner. At the moment, her exceptionality was evident in her response to the officious man, whose plastic badge identified him as an assistant manager. Ignoring him, my lovely Kimi turned her attention to the only person occupying any of the nine chairs, a long-haired guy in jeans who obligingly grasped her head in his hands and let her lick his face. The dignity of Kimi’s response reminded me of Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous statement that no one can make you feel small without your permission, not that Mrs. Roosevelt translated her belief into action by lapping the countenances of strangers... so far as I know, anyway. But in her own way, of course, Mrs. Roosevelt, too, was exceptional.

  In any case, instead of delivering a tirade to the dog cop, I introduced myself and went on say, “I’m here to sign books. My dog has permission to be here. Her name is Kimi.” Nodding toward Steve, I added, “Kimi has brought along her own personal veterinarian just in case anyone decides to bite her. Steve Delaney.”

  The assistant manager apparently decided that I was joking. He gave Steve a nod of acknowledgment and was beginning to speak to me when Mac approached, smiled at everyone, and said, “We’re early. Steve, good to see you.” He kissed my cheek. After glancing at the assistant manager’s badge, he said, “Sidney, Mac McCloud. And the literary figure in the family, my wife, Judith Esterhazy."

  Sidney’s expression made an abrupt shift from bored condescension to awed shyness. “This is truly an honor,” he told Judith, who wore black and looked even slimmer and more awe-inspiring than usual.

  Judith thanked him modestly and said, “Holly, I don’t think you’ve met Ian. Our son.”

  The object of Kimi’s affection rose to his feet. I had the puzzling sense that Ian McCloud looked damp. Kimi had, in fact, licked Ian’s face, but he was otherwise perfectly dry; his forehead wasn’t beaded in sweat, and his long brown ponytail, brown cotton sweater, faded jeans, and well-worn hiking boots showed no signs of moisture. In trying to figure out how a dry person can somehow look as if he’s just emerged fully clothed from a lake, I discounted the dog saliva, which I saw so often that I took it for granted. I finally settled on the watery blueness of Ian’s eyes. In any case, far from holding Ian’s slightly peculiar appearance against him, I felt prepared to like him, not only because Kimi did, but because he’d returned her exuberant affection with warmth and good humor. “I’m happy to meet you,” I said. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” His sister, Olivia, had said that he played a variety of instruments. She’d suggested that her brother might do the music for our wedding, but it would’ve sounded brash and opportunistic to try to hire Ian within seconds of meeting him. Furthermore, for all I knew, Steve and I would hate every note that Ian played.

  “Ian went to Berklee,” Judith said.

  “The Berklee College of Music,” Mac added. “Not UC Berkeley.”

  “Bruce,” Judith said, “in Boston, Berklee means Berklee.” Mac’s wife was the only person I’d ever heard call Mac by his real first name. Neither Mac nor anyone else ever called Judith anything except Judith. “Ian,” she went on, “plays in an early-music group and a jazz band, and he’s the best country fiddler in the world.”

  Steve looked as interested as I felt. Before Steve had the chance to say anything, Sidney, the assistant manager, announced that it was time to begin. Four strangers had taken seats. Ian sat down, as did Steve, with Kimi next to him, but before Judith could join the audience, Sidney beckoned to her and drew her ¿side. He didn’t bother to introduce Mac and me, but led Judith away. She held Uli’s leash, and the old dog followed her. Neither Sidney’s rudeness nor the sparse attendance fazed Mac, who looked so healthy and vigorous that he could easily have been mistaken for the author of an exercise book or a how-to book about the secrets for staying young forever. Taking my arm and escorting me to the podium, he faced our little audience and self-confidently presented himself and me. To my relief, he said, “And since we’re a small group tonight, we’ll keep things informal. I’ll read a little from Ask Dr. Mac, and then Holly will tell us everything about the magic of training with good homemade food. After that, we’ll answer questions, and we’ll both be glad to sign Ask Dr. Mac and 101 Ways to Cook Liver or anything else you want, preferably, but not necessarily, books we’ve written ourselves.”

  As people chuckled, Mac picked up a copy
of his book— pardon me, a copy of Ask Dr. Mac—that he’d brought with him. The jacket bore a ring left by a coffee cup, and slips of papers stuck out where he’d marked passages. I felt like a dope standing there with nothing to do, so I took a seat in the first row, directly in front of Steve and Kimi. As Mac began to read a charming and funny account of a Siberian husky whose indulgent owners had allowed him to eat five love seats before they’d called for professional help, a latecomer arrived, a fellow dog writer named Elspeth Jantzen, who took the seat next to mine, elbowed me gently, and whispered, “Sorry I’m late.”

  Elspeth was the reddest person I’ve ever known. She had tomato hair, crimson freckles, and rosy cheeks. Red hair runs in my family, and to a person, every red-headed relative of mine avoids red clothing. My cousin Leah, with her masses of red-gold curls, actually looks good in red, but it is almost impossible to convince her to wear it. Elspeth, however, who looked ghastly in red, favored the color almost to the exclusion of all others. Tonight, she had on a red sweater and red jeans. At thirty-eight, she was a little too old for the jeans. I knew her age because she’d told me. It was sadly typical of her to have given me a piece of personal information in which I had no interest. Indeed, honesty forces me to characterize her as a nice pest. I’d learned to count on Elspeth always to be warm, friendly, and confiding. Just as reliably, she always needed a favor. On Dogwriters-L, the E-mail list for members of our profession, she was forever posting requests for information that she could easily have looked up herself—for example, definitions of veterinary terms and lists of diseases to which certain breeds are prone. She did, however, join other list members in enthusiastically congratulating anyone who’d just published a book, received an award, or put a new title on a dog. In other words, in cyberspace, too, she was a nice pest. Tonight, having seated herself next to me and muttered her apology for arriving late, she dropped her eyes to a manila envelope on her lap, and I absolutely, positively knew that she’d brought a manuscript that she’d ask me to read, edit, or send to my agent or editor. What’s more, I had a vivid premonition that once Elspeth heard of my engagement, she’d try to wangle an invitation to the wedding and, with it, introductions to all the marriageable men who’d be attending.

  At the moment, she had eyes only for Mac, who was reading the happy ending of the story of the delinquent Sibe, whose owners had learned to confine the dog to a crate instead of giving him the freedom to destroy furniture. Behind me, I felt Steve stir and knew that he and I were sharing the thought that a Siberian who’s devouring love seats is a dog who’s begging for exercise; crate training was a short-term measure that ignored the cause of the problem and, in a breed born to run, was doomed to produce some new and different form of misbehavior.

  No one in the small audience voiced the objection. Rather, everyone applauded Mac and then applauded me as Mac introduced me as ‘‘Dog’s Life’s favorite columnist and legendary dog guru, Holly Winter.” As I took my place at the podium, Mac briefly brushed his hand against my arm in a gesture of encouragement and support. For a second, I was glad that it happened to be Kimi’s turn to accompany me and not Rowdy’s. Then my eyes found Steve’s face, where I saw the same watchful expression I’d have seen on Rowdy’s. It was flattering to realize that neither of my big males liked to see another man touch me. Basking in the warmth of Steve and Rowdy’s loyalty, I gave my little talk about training with food. I started with my late mother’s extreme prejudice against "bribing” dogs, as she called it, and touched lightly on what had, in actuality, been my parents’ monumental fights about Buck’s persistence in using food to teach tricks to our dogs. I blathered on for a while and finished by giving a simple recipe for the liver bait that handlers use in the show ring. Secrets of the stars! Steve’s loud clapping and Kimi’s woo-wooing accounted for a lot of the noise that followed, but I still felt pleased to have done anything even remotely like a reading from 101 Ways to Cook Liver.

  While I’d held the center of the minuscule stage, Mac had stood off to the side. He joined me now and invited questions and comments. Elspeth’s hand popped up, and when Mac pointed to her, she said, “Hi, Mac! Nice to see you. You, too, Holly. I just want to say that I loved both of your books. You two are the best.”

  Glancing at Mac, I saw no indication that he recognized Elspeth. Knowing her as I did, I assumed that she was claiming acquaintance to ask Mac a favor. Mac’s blank look vanished in a second, we both thanked Elspeth, and then a stranger asked how we’d gotten published.

  “Luck,” I blurted out.

  Mac recommended web sites and books. He emphasized the need for persistence. He was terrific. No one would’ve guessed that he’d taken no initiative whatever about finding a publisher; on the contrary, he’d been approached by his publisher and asked to do his first book, and his second one was a follow-up to the first. After a few more questions, someone who liked my column asked where Rowdy was and then asked Mac about the Bernese mountain dog on the cover of his book. As Mac was answering, Sidney returned with Judith and Uli. After that, our little audience ignored us, fell all over the dogs, and even I, the author of 101 Ways to Cook Liver, have to admit that we couldn’t have liver-bribed Uli and Kimi to act any sweeter than they did all on their own. The black, rust, and white of Bernese mountain dogs is striking, and to his breed’s beauty, Uli added the engaging habit of smiling. Do dogs really smile? Uli did. He also wagged his white-tipped tail over his big back and, with grace and nobility, accepted the petting of strangers. Uli was perfectly groomed and unmistakably ancient. My heart went out to Judith. In contrast to the sedate Uli, Kimi staged a Rowdy-worthy performance by singing Arctic carols, flinging herself onto the floor, rolling over, wiggling her legs in the air, and then tucking in her forepaws and directing big-brown-eyed pleas for tummy rubs at five potential book buyers, all of whom complied with her demands by administering thumps and scratches, and four of whom had me sign books.

  As I was sitting at the table penning the final inscription (“To Frodo, Bilbo, Merry, Pippin, and Evelyn, and with special congratulations to AM/CAN CH Galadriel’s Entwife...”), Elspeth’s red glow shone in the comer of my eye, and I heard her address Mac, who sat next to me. “Hey, Mac, it’s been a long time,” she said.

  As smoothly as usual, Mac said, “I guess it has.”

  A quick peek showed me that Elspeth was presenting him with a copy of Ask Dr. Mac.

  “How’d you like this signed? Is it a Christmas present for someone?”

  “Just make it to me,” Elspeth said. “ ‘For old times’ sake.’ ”

  Mac shifted almost imperceptibly.

  I took pity on him. “Elspeth,” I said with admirable clarity and a special emphasis on the p, “it was very nice of you to come tonight.”

  “My pleasure. Actually, there’s something I want to talk to both of you about.”

  I now saw that she held not one manila envelope but two. A smiling couple rescued Mac by asking him to sign a book. No one rescued me. “My editor,” Elspeth said, “was so happy when I told her that you and Mac might do blurbs for my book.” Thrusting one of the envelopes at me, she added, “I’ve brought you the first two chapters, and there’s a form for you to send an advance quote to my publisher.”

  “My time is really short right now,” I said, carefully avoiding using my wedding plans as an excuse.

  “You’re always so busy. That’s why I didn’t bring the whole book. Not that it’s very long.”

  “What’s it about?” I hoped, of course, that the topic would be one I was unqualified to comment on.

  “Kindness to animals. It’s for parents and teachers. It has a companion story for children. It’s about how to teach kindness to children.”

  I could hardly object. “I’ll be glad to read it. But I’ll need to see the whole book.” I was, I might mention, going against Mac’s advice. He’d told me to write every cover quote I had the chance to do. But I was simply incapable of pretending to have read,,never mind liked, a book I
hadn’t gone through in its entirety. Worse, I knew myself to be equally incapable of saying in print that I recommended a book that I’d hated.

  “That’s great. I’ll get you the manuscript. Thank you!” Score: Elspeth, one. Holly, zero. Or so it seemed.

  Elspeth turned to Mac and said, “Hey, Mac, how’d you like to blurb my book?”

  “Delighted,” he said.

  CHAPTER 16

  The first item in the dossier on Bonny Carr came from the web site of a Girl Scout camp in Vermont. The page listed the names of Camp Tecumseh alumnae whose last names began with C. Carr, Bonny appeared near the top, together with an address: 89 Glenn Street, Nashua* NH. I felt oddly relieved and weirdly grateful to my parents, whose need for unpaid kennel help had made me ineligible for any such online list. I’d spent my childhood summers at Buck and Marissa Winter’s Show-Dog Boot Camp, where I’d scooped and disinfected kennels, and trimmed the nails of our golden retrievers. But the field trips had been frequent and fabulous; all had, of course, been to dog shows. If, like Bonny Carr, I’d gone to an ordinary camp, my name, too, might appear on a camp web site, together with my childhood address.

  The second page gave the results of an online reverse search of 89 Glenn Street in Nashua. According to result 1—1 of 1, as the page actually read, the current resident was Lafayette, G.; Bonny Carr’s family had evidently moved since she’d attended Camp Tecumseh. They’d had plenty of time; AnyBirthday.com gave her age as forty-five. The next page of the dossier showed where Mr. and Mrs. Carr had gone. It was not principally about them, but about a man named Charles H. McDonough, who had lived and, more to the point, died three years earlier in Manchester, New Hampshire. This item in the dossier was a copy of his obituary as it had been printed in the Manchester Union-Leader. He had left, among many other survivors, a daughter, Helen Carr, and her husband, John Carr, of Sarasota, Florida. Among McDonough’s grandchildren was Bonny Carr, of Brookline, Massachusetts.