Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  I turned and stalked back to my car. As I backed the Volvo out of my driveway, Rich had the nerve to wave again. As if he wanted me to know he was ready. As if we were friends coordinating our efforts. Deliberately I kept both hands on the steering wheel and stifled the gesture I wanted to give him.

  When I started down the street, the Mazda pulled out and fell into place behind me.

  Phil Dutton lived in a small, older home on a crowded street near the railroad tracks in Old Greenwich. His was a bachelor’s house, a commuter’s house; comfortably, if sparsely, furnished and often a little messy. As far as Mutt and Maisie were concerned, however, I’m sure it was heaven on earth.

  The two dogs were littermates of an indeterminate breed—Shih Tzu/terrier mix was my best guess—that Phil had rescued from the Stamford pound when they were puppies. Some miserable, coldhearted person had left the pair, small and shivering, in a box by the side of the Post Road. Rescued before they could freeze or starve, they’d been transported to the pound where Phil had found them. Now, eleven years later, Mutt and Maisie ruled Phil’s house as if it was their own private kingdom, which, of course, it was.

  Over my protests, Phil had given me a key to his house. “If anything ever happens to me,” he’d said, “I want to know that someone will be able to get in and take care of my babies.” And, having seen pictures of Faith and Eve, he’d offered to take my key and safeguard the Poodles for me. Luckily I knew I could count on Aunt Peg should the need arise. Though I was sure that Phil meant well, his offer wasn’t anything I wanted to accept. I was hoping to find a way to sever our relationship, not enhance it.

  As I unlocked the front door, I could hear the scramble of eager feet. Two leather leashes hung on a hook by the door. I grabbed them before dropping to my knees to greet the little dogs.

  Though they were littermates, Maisie and Mutt didn’t have much in common when it came to looks. Mutt had reddish hair that was long and curly, and a tail that flipped up over his back. Maisie’s blond coat was shorter and wiry. Her ears stood up on the top of her head, and there was a devilish gleam in her dark eyes.

  As always, Maisie greeted me by throwing herself into my arms. Her smooth pink tongue licked my neck, my ears, my face. Mutt was the shyer of the two, hanging back for just a second before allowing me to reach out and scratch under his chin.

  “Time to go out,” I said. Two tails, one short, one long, whipped back and forth with delight. “Who wants to go for a walk?”

  Our routine seldom varied. Mutt had to stop and sniff every bush in his tiny front yard on the way to the street. Maisie, accustomed to the delays, used the time to rub up against my legs like a cat and enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. Finally we reached the sidewalk and were off, the dogs running at a sprightly gait that belied their age, toward a baseball field at the end of the road.

  Forty minutes later, the two hairy monsters dragged me home with as much enthusiasm as they’d pulled me away earlier. If they’d been my dogs, I would have taught them how to walk on a leash properly. But since Phil didn’t seem to mind their lack of manners, I simply wrapped one lead around each wrist and jogged along behind.

  Back inside the house, both dogs headed purposefully for the kitchen. As I placed the leashes back on their hook, I could hear Mutt and Maisie slurping at the water bowl. I’d fill it again before I left, but in the meantime I needed to do a quick tour of the downstairs and make sure neither dog had had any accidents before my arrival.

  Many of the homes along Phil’s road had been remodeled in the last decade to take advantage of soaring real estate values in the area. Not this one. Its small windows and cramped, dark rooms still reflected its 1950s origins. Even the living room, with drapes open and TV on—tuned to Animal Planet for Mutt and Maisie’s viewing enjoyment—caught little afternoon light. I was staring hard at the patterned rug, trying to pick out any abnormalities in the design when the hair on the back of my neck rose.

  Someone was watching me.

  Involuntarily, I whipped around. The room behind me was empty. Even Mutt and Maisie, who usually stuck like shadows during my visits, were nowhere to be seen. Frowning, I expelled a shaky breath. My gaze slid to the front window. There was no sign of the blue Mazda.

  “Mutt? Maisie?” I lifted a hand and massaged the back of my neck. “Where are you guys?”

  Hiding with guilty consciences, no doubt. They knew what I was doing.

  I gave myself a mental shake and got back to work. The living room rug looked in need of a good vacuuming but was otherwise fine. On to the dining room, where I headed first for the table. One of the dogs persisted in thinking that if the evidence of a misdeed was hidden I’d never find it.

  This room was as dimly lit as the one I’d just left. A light switch on the wall didn’t help much, turning on a dusty chandelier over the table but most of the bulbs were out. Muttering under my breath, I pulled out a chair and hunkered down to have a look.

  A flashlight would have helped. Failing that, I gave the area the sniff test. Nothing. Mutt and Maisie were in the clear.

  “You can come out now,” I called, my voice muffled as I backed out from beneath the table. I braced my hands on my knees, rose to my feet, turned in place . . . and screamed.

  It took a moment for the face, only inches from mine, to swim into focus. “Oh,” I said, heart still fluttering. “It’s you.”

  “Of course it’s me,” Phil Dutton replied. “This is my house. Who were you expecting?”

  “Nobody.” I tried to back up. The table, right behind me, prevented a retreat. “I wasn’t expecting anybody. That’s why you startled me.”

  “Sorry about that.” Phil’s thin lips lifted in a smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He was an unremarkable-looking man, perhaps a decade older than I. The kind of man you’d never pick out of a crowd, or remember the day after a party. He reached out a hand to steady me. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Absolutely fine.”

  I hated that my voice was shaking. I’m not a jumpy person, I don’t scare easily. My reaction felt all out of proportion.

  All I could think was that this had to be Jill and Rich’s doing. I wasn’t accustomed to being followed, much less spied upon. Knowing they were out there somewhere must have set my nerves on edge.

  It wasn’t Phil’s fault that I was behaving like an idiot. Nevertheless, I wanted his hand off me. I slipped out from between his body and the table and headed for the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Isn’t this one of your New York days?”

  “Meetings got cancelled. I came home early. I’ve been working in my office in the basement. I guess that’s why I didn’t hear you come in.”

  I paused in the doorway to the kitchen. Mutt and Maisie’s water bowl was empty, the linoleum floor around it wet. The dogs were sacked out on a rumpled blanket close by. No wonder they hadn’t been as desperate for diversion as they usually were.

  “You mean you’ve been here the whole time?”

  Phil nodded.

  “Why didn’t you call and tell me not to come?”

  “And deprive Maisie and Mutt of the pleasure of your company?” His voice was smooth, his tone oily. He reminded me of a man sitting on a bar stool and trying out pickup lines by rote. “You know how much they look forward to your visits.”

  “They’re wonderful dogs. I look forward to seeing them, too.”

  So why was I suddenly feeling so uncomfortable? Looking for distraction, I grabbed a couple of paper towels off the roll and began to mop the floor. Puddle gone, I threw the towels in the garbage, then picked up the water bowl and refilled it in the sink.

  Phil had gone over and sat down on the blanket between Mutt and Maisie. He had an arm curled around each. Usually I would take some time to play with the dogs now, maybe brush through their coats or clip their nails. But not unexpectedly, both seemed content to sit with their owner.

  “I guess I’m done, then,” I said.


  “Until Thursday,” Phil agreed. “Thanks. From all of us.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I could feel his eyes on me as I walked all the way to the front door. Or maybe it was my imagination again. Jill’s power of suggestion seemed to be working on me, big time.

  On the other hand, I supposed I could look on the bright side.

  At least I hadn’t found any dead bodies yet.

  7

  Pam’s pony farm turned out to be a delightful piece of property tucked away in a private location just off Old Long Ridge Road. The unpaved driveway slowed my speed, giving me plenty of time to appreciate the pastoral setting. Fields, bound by post-and-rail fencing, flanked the long driveway. Each held a small band of grazing Welsh ponies. The ponies lifted their heads curiously as I drove by, then went back to munching contentedly on the abundant spring grass.

  At the end of the driveway, I came to a barn that was long and low. Two rows of stalls opened off a wide, covered center aisle. Painted white with green trim, the stable matched a modest, tree-shaded clapboard house on the other side of a turnaround.

  Two tricolor Jack Russell Terriers came zooming outside to bark at my arrival. They raced twice around the driveway, their short legs pumping like pistons, then disappeared back inside the barn. I guessed I’d been officially greeted.

  Pulling over to park next to Bob’s Trans Am in the shade of a large maple tree, I saw a riding ring out behind the barn. Davey was in the ring on Willow. Bob and Pam were leaning against the rail watching. I got out and went to join them.

  “Great,” said Bob. “You made it. The lesson was supposed to be over ten minutes ago, but I asked Pam to hang on a little longer so you could see Davey ride.”

  Pam flashed me a grin. “Bobby can be very persuasive.”

  “Thanks for waiting,” I said. “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

  “Not at all. Davey’s a great kid.”

  I found myself warming to Pam. All right, what mother wouldn’t?

  Coming around the turn at a sedate walk, Davey lifted his reins and steered the palomino pony over to the rail. “Look Mom! I’m riding.”

  “I can see that. Is it fun?”

  “It’s great. I can even trot. Want to see me? Pam says someday I’ll be able to gallop. Willow knows how to jump, too.”

  “Not so fast.” Pam laughed. “We’re going to take things one step at a time.” She reached out and corrected the position of Davey’s leg. “Heels down, remember?”

  “Yup.” Davey nodded seriously. “Heels down. Eyes ahead. If I begin to slip, grab hold of the mane.”

  “What’d I tell you?” said Bob. “He’s a natural.”

  All right, let’s give some credit where it’s due. Davey did look good on the pony. Happy, too. Hard as it was for me to admit, there were definite pluses to having Bob back in his son’s life. Not just for Davey, but for me as well.

  For years I’d wrestled with the pressures of being a single parent. I’d driven myself crazy trying to get everything about Davey’s upbringing just right. Now suddenly, with Bob back in the picture, some of the heat was off. Never in my wildest dreams would it have occurred to me to get Davey a pony. But here, sitting right in front of me, was proof of how good the idea had been.

  “Take her one more time around, Davey,” Pam instructed. “Then it’ll be time to go in.”

  “Okay.” Davey turned the pony’s head back to the track and pressed his heels to her sides. Obligingly, Willow ambled away.

  “What a nice pony,” I said. “Is she always that quiet?”

  “With beginners, yes. She knows her job and she’s very good at it. Some of the other ponies are a little livelier, but from what Bobby told me about Davey I thought Willow would be the best choice to get him started.”

  Pam walked over to the gate and opened it, waiting as the palomino completed her circuit of the ring. The pony walked through the opening and headed automatically for the back of the barn. Reins looped on her neck, Davey turned in the saddle and waved.

  From where I was standing, it looked as though Willow was the decision-making half of that team. But then again, Davey was having a ball, so who was I to complain?

  I glanced over at my ex-husband. He was gazing at his son proudly. “Bobby?”

  Bob flushed slightly. “Don’t ask me. Pam’s the one who started it.”

  “I see.” My lips twitched. “I thought maybe that was your cowboy name.”

  “Smart-ass.” He reached over and smacked me on the butt. “That’s the last time I confess something about my childhood to you.”

  “I hope not.” It occurred to me that I was getting to know Bob much better now than I had when we were married. For the first time we were forming a real relationship as adults. Better late than never. “Is Davey finished now?”

  “Not quite yet. It’ll be another twenty minutes or so. Pam has this theory that it’s really important for kids to learn how to take care of their ponies, not just be riders. Davey will help her take Willow’s tack off, brush her dry, and pick out her feet. He’s not done until the pony is ready to go back in her stall.”

  It sounded like a good system to me.

  “If Pam can make that work,” I said, “maybe she can come over sometime and teach Davey how to clean up his room.”

  “She probably could,” said Bob. “Pam’s pretty determined. She inherited this place from her parents, but she runs it all by herself. I wouldn’t think it would be easy to make a go of it, but she does. Teaching lessons in the spring and fall, camp in the summer. She also sells some of the ponies she breeds to the big show barns in Greenwich and North Salem.”

  “I have to admit I’m a little envious. I’d love to have this much land and this much privacy. Faith and Eve would love it here.”

  Speaking of the Poodles, who were waiting for us at home, was impetus enough to make me push away from the fence and head for the barn to collect my child. “I’ve got a pot roast simmering in the crock pot,” I told Bob. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”

  “I would but . . .”

  I paused and glanced back. Bob’s expression was carefully neutral. “But what?”

  “Pam and I sort of have plans.”

  “Pam and you . . . ?”

  Oh.

  I guessed I should have seen that coming. Pam wasn’t just an acquaintance who’d managed to convince Bob that a pony would make a nice present for his son, she was a woman he was interested in. Of course. Willow’s unexpected arrival in our lives made much more sense now.

  “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  I looked up. To my surprise, Bob seemed to be waiting for my approval. “Of course it’s all right. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, you know, you and I . . . You and I, we were . . .”

  “Married,” I supplied since he seemed to be having trouble getting the word out. “But you’ve also been married to Jennifer since then. I don’t remember you caring what I thought about that at the time.”

  “Yes, well, things are different now.”

  He was right; they were. Bob had originally returned to Connecticut hoping to resurrect our relationship in Sam’s absence. Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned, but we’d come through the experience with a friendship that was stronger than ever.

  Bob and I would never be partners again in any way except as Davey’s parents, but I would always wish him the best. Pam seemed like a nice woman, and I certainly never expected him to live the life of a monk.

  “Go for it,” I said. “Have a great time. You can have dinner with Davey and me any day.”

  “Thanks.” Bob brushed a quick kiss across my cheek. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Feel free.” All at once my smile faded. That feeling was back. The one I’d had earlier of being watched.

  I shivered slightly and had a look around. On one side, ponies were standing quietly in their pasture. Another held a patch of leafy woods where all see
med still. In the barn’s center aisle, Pam was holding Willow while Davey carefully brushed her legs. Bob’s and my cars were the only ones in the driveway.

  All was just as it had been moments before. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except my back was tingling and I’d begun to sweat.

  “What’s the matter?” Bob asked.

  “Nothing,” I said firmly.

  As if saying it could make it so.

  Wednesday, when school let out, I made one quick stop, then drove directly to Aunt Peg’s house in Greenwich.

  She and Rose were arguing again. Why on earth either one of them would think I would make a good mediator was beyond my comprehension. Nevertheless, I’d apparently been called up to active duty. Luckily for Davey, he had a play date, thus sparing him the spectacle of watching two grown women spar like a pair of WWF wrestlers.

  When I got to Aunt Peg’s house, Rose was already there. I saw her silver Taurus sitting in the driveway. It wasn’t until I’d pulled up beside it, however, that I realized Rose was still sitting behind the wheel. That didn’t bode well.

  We opened our doors at the same time. Faith and Eve jumped out of the Volvo and immediately ran past me toward the wide steps that led to Aunt Peg’s front door.

  My aunt has scaled down her kennel considerably over the last few years. At the moment there are only five Cedar Crest Standard Poodles in residence, including Eve’s brother Zeke. All of them live in the house; and all but Zeke are retired show champions.

  Aunt Peg’s Poodles are superb watchdogs. I knew they must have alerted her to Rose’s arrival. Even now, I could hear them barking through the front windows of the house. Faith and Eve went flying up the steps, their voices joining with those of their relatives within.

  “Been here long?” I asked Rose.

  “Five minutes.” She reached back into the car and reemerged holding a small red Dachshund puppy. “I was gathering my thoughts.”

  “Really? I thought maybe you were waiting for reinforcements.”