by Cathy Ace
Of course I’d said yes.
After that first night, when I’d ended up having to lift Marty onto my bed just so he’d stop whimpering, we’d really bonded. How can you not bond with a creature that eats all their meals with you, becomes your bedfellow, wants to follow you into the bathroom and even tells you when it’s time to wake up? He was such a good boy.
It was Saturday, so I spent the day tidying up the house, clearing away the detritus that I feel it’s only reasonable to allow to gather through a busy work week. I packed Marty’s food, bed bags (day beds, of course), grooming kit, medications, and toys into the rubber bins Bud had used to deliver them. Everything was looking pretty good by the time Bud’s taxi pulled up at the front of my house. Until Bud emerged.
Marty went berserk. I don’t know how he knew that it was Bud out there on the street, but he did, and he ran around the house, upstairs and down, jumping up at me, pulling on my sweater, knocking over the little table inside the front door that had a very nice cactus on it (they really don’t need much attention). By the time Bud was actually at the door, the whole place was a mess. I grabbed Marty’s collar as I struggled to open the door. He didn’t understand that to let Bud in, he’d have to get out of the way. The creature was frantic with excitement, and threw himself at Bud, almost knocking him over.
After a few minutes of frenzy, Bud said, “So, you haven’t been feeding him, eh?”
“Yeah—right—he’s a waif!” I replied, trying to gather up broken pot shards, soil, and the remains of a very spiny cactus. It wasn’t easy, and I was worried about Marty’s paws.
Bud tempted Marty away from the perilous cactus and into the kitchen with the promise of a treat that he magically produced from his jacket pocket. I wondered how long it might have been there and if it had made the journey to Egypt with him.
I dumped the contents of the dustpan into the bin beneath the kitchen sink and asked, “Coffee? Or do you just want to load up and be off?”
“Coffee’d be great—thanks,” said Bud. Marty was gradually simmering down, but his tail was wagging so fast that I thought he might hurt himself. Bless him!
I didn’t think asking “did you have a great time?” was the right way to go, so I stuck with something more neutral. “How was it?”
“It was tough,” said Bud, petting Marty’s head with vigor. “Amazing place. But tough. Jan would have loved it. It was everything we’d ever thought it would be. But bigger. It’s so much bigger than it looks in the books or on TV. You get no sense of scale until you’re there, standing next to something that was built with almost no tools, thousands of years ago. My God, it makes you think! We’re nothing, aren’t we? Just specks. Insignificant.”
“Yes. That’s how it made me feel when I was there.”
“Did you prefer Cairo or Luxor?”
“Luxor, and the Valley of the Kings.”
“Yep. Me too. I mean, the pyramids are incredible—but they’re so . . .”
“Yep. They are.”
“So, any news?”
“Bud, you’re just back from an incredible trip almost half way around the world, and you’re asking me if I’ve got any news?”
“Just normal stuff, you know? How’s this fella been, eh?” Bud and Marty were smiling at each other—I swear.
“He’s been a very good boy, haven’t you?” Marty all but nodded. “And I shall miss him when he goes. If ever his Dad can bear to loan him out, he’s got a taker, hasn’t he?” Until then, the way that dog owners talked to their pets had always puzzled me, but now it seemed to make perfect sense.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Bud, smiling and petting. He was checking out Marty’s wonky ear, which had now fully regrown its fur, like my injured head had regrown its hair—thankfully.
“Oh, I have got some news for you,” I said, as I poured coffee and dared to put a few cookies on a plate within paw-reach of Marty. “You remember the Widow Tamsin, in Nice?” Bud nodded. “Well, I got an e-mail from Pierre Bertrand this past week.”
“Ah, your little French boyfriend,” teased Bud.
I gave him a suitably withering look. “Oh, come on, he’s sweet—all enthusiasm and wide-eyed innocence . . . And he did save my life, after all. Well, he tells me that Tamsin is to marry a Polish count at Christmas. The ceremony will take place in Gerard’s gardens at the Palais. He’s off his crutches and will be giving the bride away.”
“That’ll be fun for them all,” replied Bud. “Will she be going up the aisle with one octogenarian, and back down with another?” I swatted at him. “Well, come on, Cait, I know I never met the woman, but your descriptions of her have been . . . shall we say ‘caustic’?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I haven’t been too kind about her, have I? And I have to admit that when I read Pierre’s e-mail, I couldn’t help but conjure up a mental image of her swooshing up the aisle, bedecked with finery and jewels, on the arm of some rich, withered old guy. And I don’t mean Gerard. Which might be doing her a terrible disservice, but I suspect it’s not too far from the truth.”
“What about Nazi-boy? Any news yet on when his trial is due to kick off?”
“Pierre said it would likely be in the new year.”
“Yep. That’s about as long as it takes here,” noted Bud. But I knew there was a very different trial on his mind. I decided to carry on.
“Apparently, Beni Brunetti went off to Milan and is now back with his wife: they’re making quite a splash in the fashion business there.”
“Ah—Beni with the wonderful eyes, and the wonderful teeth, and the wonderful—”
“Bud—don’t be mean! You’re just making fun of me now. I told you it was just a passing thing. Honestly . . . I’m never going to tell you any secrets ever again if you’re going to be like this.”
“Yes, you will . . . Marty, down!” Marty’s nose was poking above the table top sniffing out the exact location and recipe of the cookies.
“I guess. Unless I save them all up and tell them all to Marty instead. He won’t make fun of me, will you Marty? No you won’t. You’re a good boy!” I got up and petted my new friend as I reopened the packet of cookies. A few more wouldn’t hurt.
“I have a secret to tell Marty,” said Bud.
“You can tell me too,” I offered.
“Well, it won’t be a secret for long, so I guess I might as well. You see, I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Ha, ha—very funny. No, this is serious, Cait, I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past couple of weeks . . .”
I sat myself down. Bud deserved my full attention. “Go on,” I said.
“Well, I know I had that couple of months off work, but there was such a lot going on that . . . well, I guess I was just doing stuff and not really thinking ahead. You know?” I nodded. I’d seen how he’d been: like an automaton, running at full speed, with no direction. “Well . . . I guess that I’ve finally had a chance to think about where I go from here. How I carry on without Jan. Not day to day. But forever. You see, Jan was the planner. She was the one looking ahead and mapping out our future. And now . . . well, there’s no Jan. So no future. At least, not with her. And being in Egypt really affected me. Like I said, it’s all so old, so big . . . and so much about dead people. It made me think that I can probably go one of three ways: I could kill myself and be done with it all—and don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”
“Oh Bud, don’t talk like that,” I said quietly.
“Don’t panic,” he replied with a weak smile. “I’m past that now. About three months past it. But you need to know I considered it. Seriously. But let’s put it to one side. So, if I’m going to be around for a while, I could live my life as a memorial to Jan and keep on living the life that we were going to live, doing what we were going to do, alone. And that’s what I was trying when I went to Egypt. It had been our dream. And being there without her was just awful. So I don’t think that that option is goi
ng to work. So there’s one more alternative, and that’s what I’ve decided to do.”
“And that is?”
“I can set about building a new life for myself. I’ve tried to think about what Jan would have wanted me to do, and I think I’m making the right decisions. They have to be decisions that I can live with—not what someone who’s not here might, or might not, agree with. Jan will always be a part of my life—but a part that’s missing now. She’s gone. So . . .” Bud took a big gulp of coffee and looked me straight in the eye. “I’ve made some pretty big decisions, Cait. It’s time. First, I’m going to resign from the force.”
“You’re kidding!” It was out before I could stop it.
“No, I’m not. I’ve put in more than thirty years, and I’ll never rise above my current rank. I’ll get a good pension and there’s Jan’s life insurance. It sounds cold, but because of that I can manage to live the rest of my life without working. My heart’s not in it any more. And that’s not fair—to me, or my colleagues. It could even be dangerous. I could end up putting someone’s life at risk.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I ate another cookie.
“I’m going to sell the apartment and buy some acreage somewhere out toward the Fraser Valley. Marty’ll love it, and, who knows, he might even get a friend to play with—there are lots of dogs at the pound who’d like a few acres to run around and a good friend like this fella. Right?” He was talking to Marty again. “When I’m settled, I’d like you to marry me. How about that?”
“What?” I believed my ears, but my brain was telling me he must be speaking to the dog. He must be! He couldn’t be talking to me!
“I want you to marry me, Cait. Do you want to marry me?”
“Me. Marry you? Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I won’t marry you. Are you mad?”
Bud looked taken aback. “Okay, okay, calm down. I didn’t think I was that repulsive.”
I stood to speak, then I sat down again. I reached for another cookie, but the plate was bare.
“Well, thank you!” I exploded at the plate.
I was shaking with anger. And terror. And confusion. Why had he said that?
I wasn’t sure what I should say next, so I made sure I spoke straight from my heart. I tried to be calm, despite the mass of emotions that were welling up inside me and threatening to take over my tear ducts.
“Bud Anderson, you are quite something. First of all, you’re not repulsive; that’s not what I meant and you know it. You’ve had women of all sorts chasing after you your whole life because of those blue eyes of yours and that wicked sense of humor you’ve got, and don’t shake your head like that because I know it’s true—the guys you work with have all told me, so there! And, you know what? You might well be right to leave the force, and even sell the apartment and move on to, literally, pastures new. I’ll do whatever I can to help with all that, and be as involved as you like, because we’re friends. That’s what we are, Bud. We’re friends. We might be the only real friend the other one has, but that’s not a reason to ask me to marry you. It’s not fair! I’m not made of rubber, Bud. There are only so many times I can ‘bounce back,’ you know! Everyone seems to assume that ‘Cait will always be fine,’ but quite often, Cait isn’t ‘fine.’ Quite often Cait puts her trust in people and they let her down. Or Cait lets someone into her life and they just use her. Or Cait falls for someone and they turn out to be a violent, alcoholic scumbag who knocks her around, then winds up dead and she gets the blame. I cannot allow myself to be used again, Bud. At some point I have to protect myself. I’m breakable, Bud. I’m more than the fat woman in the pub who’s one of the boys. I’m more than a life support system for an intellect. I’m not going to step up and make everything lovely for you by replacing Jan.”
“No, no . . . You’ve got it all wrong—I’ve said it all wrong. I don’t want you to replace Jan!” cried Bud. He looked horrified.
“You might have said it all wrong, Bud, but that’s not the problem. I’ve never allowed myself to think of you . . . that way. You were Jan’s husband when we met. When Jan died, well, you’ve spent more time with Marty since then than with me—or anyone else for that matter. You might have been thinking about this for two weeks, but I still think of you as my friend Bud. Jan’s husband, Bud. I mean, come on, we’ve never . . . well, we’ve never anythinged! We haven’t dated, or held hands, or cuddled, we’ve never kissed—and we’ve certainly never you-know-what-ed. See? I can’t even say it! How ridiculous is that? I’m a grown woman, for heaven’s sake! A marriage has to be more than two friends settling down together. There have to be feelings, Bud. Feelings.”
Bud looked hurt. “Don’t you love me? I thought you loved me, Cait. You act as though you do.”
And there it was, finally. The Question.
The one that really matters.
Not “Will you marry me?” but “Do you love me?”
It was the time for truth.
“Yes, I love you, Bud. I do. I’m not sure that you love me. No! Ssh. Please. Not in the right way. I think that you believe you love me. But I also think that there’s so much upheaval in your heart and in your life right now that this is the worst possible time to say you’re ready to make a commitment to another human being. I’m not even sure you should be getting another dog, let alone a new wife. So don’t do this. Please? Don’t pull me toward something I don’t believe you’re ready for. Give us time?”
Bud looked resigned but hopeful. “Okay, I’ll give us time, but not too much. Life can be over a lot sooner than we think, as we both know.”
I saw red. “That’s a terrible thing to say! Don’t ever do that again, Bud! Do not hold Jan’s death over me, or over ‘us’ . . . or anyone else, for that matter. That’ll never work. You need to cool off, Bud. You need to think about this—no, we need to think about this—for a hell of a lot longer than two weeks! It’s . . . well, as you can tell . . . it’s taken me by surprise.” I was beginning to catch my breath, to calm down a little. “I tell you what, Bud: if you still want to, you can ask me to marry you again a year from now. Between now and then, you are absolutely not to mention it at all. Not to me, or anyone else. How about that?”
Bud nodded. “A year it is,” he said. “And in the meantime . . . ?”
“In the meantime, we’ll do . . . well, you know . . . ordinary stuff. We’ll be friends, and we can see what feels natural as we go along. Okay?”
“Okay. So, can I kiss you now?” Bud asked very quietly. “Would that feel ‘natural’?”
I couldn’t help but smile. In fact, I know I was beaming, and almost in tears. And my tummy was churning. That wasn’t because of all the cookies. Well, maybe it was a bit.
“I guess . . . I don’t really know . . .” I replied.
So we stood, a bit awkwardly; and reached out to each other, quite timidly; and we held each other, for a long time; and then he kissed me.
“We’re going to enjoy doing things together we’ve never done before,” said Bud, eventually.
“As always, you’re right.”
Acknowledgments
MY IMMENSE THANKS TO THE following people: Martin Jarvis and Rosalind Ayres—if they hadn’t produced my short story “Dear George” for BBC Radio 4 in 2007, it’s unlikely that I’d have found the confidence to write the two volumes of short stories within which Cait was born and developed; Dr. G. Anderson, School of Criminology, Simon Fraser University, BC, who helped me understand the path Cait might have taken to build her career; my friends in the south of France—Monique and Jonas, who allowed me to “use” their apartment, and Anne, my “French connection”—they opened their hearts and homes to me, and showed me a Cote d’Azur I could never have discovered alone; Stephen Halford, BSc, a museum technician and “Victorian naturalist” at Simon Fraser University, BC, who took the time to talk to me about critical elements of my plot; Ruth Linka, and everyone at TouchWood, who gave Cait a chance to live her life and have her adventures; Frances Thorsen of
Chronicles of Crime, my editor, who was very gentle with me; and my family and friends, who have supported and encouraged me in so many ways, especially when I have feared that this novel might never be realized.
Born and raised in South Wales, CATHY ACE moved to London after graduation to pursue a career in marketing communications. Since relocating to British Columbia in 2000, she has taught at various universities, and is currently lecturing at Simon Fraser University. Cathy’s love of crime fiction began at an early age: she graduated from Nancy Drew to Agatha Christie when she was ten and has never looked back! Cathy makes her home in Maple Ridge, BC, with her husband and beloved Labrador dogs. The Corpse with the Silver Tongue is her first novel. Please visit cathyace.com
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