Gone With the Woof

by Laurien Berenson

  “I should stop guessing and let you tell me.” I pulled a pen out of my purse and opened my notebook to the first page. Hand poised above the empty space, I looked at March expectantly.

  “Puppy Love,” he announced.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s going to be the title. What do you think?”

  “It’s cute.” I thought for a moment. “Possibly a little light on dignity.”

  “My memoirs,” March said firmly. “My choice.”

  “You asked for my opinion. If we’re going to work together, I assume you want to hear the truth.”

  March’s wiry brows drew together as his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’ve misunderstood how things are going to proceed. I’m the one with the expertise. You’re merely the scribe. I do the talking. You write down what I say.”

  I closed my notebook with a sharp slap. “If that’s the kind of help you’re looking for, you don’t need a live person. All you need is a tape recorder.”

  “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. Writing a book is a lonely endeavor, and solitude is not my style. What keeps me interested is interaction. I need someone who can appreciate my stories, someone I can bounce things off of.”

  “Like a book title?”

  March pushed himself to his feet. “I didn’t say I wanted an argument. Just an opinion.”

  “One that agrees with yours, obviously.”

  “When I’m right!”

  “Are you ever wrong?”

  March considered. “I suppose it’s been known to happen.” He snorted under his breath. “On occasion.”

  I stood up, as well. “This won’t work if you think I’m simply going to sit here and nod at everything you say.”

  “Are you going to argue with everything?”

  “I don’t know yet. It depends.”

  We glared at each other across the desk.

  “At least you’re honest,” March said finally. “I suppose that ought to count for something. And you like dogs.”

  “And I hate textspeak.”

  That coaxed a small smile from him. March came around to where I stood. He escorted me to the library door. “So will we make a good team or not? It seems that we both have something to consider.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll make your life any easier,” I told him.

  “I have no doubt that I will complicate yours. Nevertheless . . . I think we may have potential.” He grasped the knob and drew the door open. “Let’s talk again in a day or two. Charlotte?”

  “Here, Mr. March.”

  The blonde came striding down the hallway. Following just behind was a man about my own age. Dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and heavy work boots, he had the physique of someone who enjoyed working outdoors. His expression was thunderous. I was just as happy that he didn’t even glance in my direction.

  “It’s about time,” the man snapped. “I thought you were going to keep me waiting here all morning.” He pushed past me and entered the library. March paused in the doorway before following.

  “Charlotte, please show Ms. Travis out.”

  “Of course, Mr. March.”

  Together, we retrieved my coat and scarf. “Who was that?” I asked when both men had disappeared.

  “Andrew.” Charlotte’s low tone matched my own. “Mr. March’s son. He lives in a house on the other side of the estate. Maybe you saw the other driveway when you came in?”

  I shook my head. I’d been too busy watching out for ice to worry about a second entrance.

  “Andrew runs the company now. The two of them don’t always get along.”

  I could see that much for myself.

  “What company?” I asked.

  “March Homes. You know, the builders?”

  I nodded. They advertised on local TV all the time. I just hadn’t realized there was a connection. Typical of Aunt Peg to tell me all about Edward March’s dogs and not a thing about what he did for a living.

  “So are you going to do it?” Charlotte asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She brushed aside my indecision. “You will.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The other two didn’t last five minutes in there with him. You managed almost an hour. Trust me, the first time you meet him is the worst. He likes to act all surly and impossible, but if you don’t let him walk all over you, things generally improve from there.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  Charlotte stood on the top step and waved as I walked to my car. “See you soon!”

  I wasn’t at all sure I shared her confidence.

  I arrived home to a house that was empty of humans but filled with kindred spirits. I entered the kitchen from the garage to find five pairs of dark eyes trained expectantly on the door. Living with Standard Poodles keeps you on your toes. They’re always one step ahead.

  As always, Faith was the first to greet me. I’m a mother, so I know I shouldn’t play favorites. But Faith had been my first Poodle, the one who had introduced me to the wonders of dog ownership. Before she came into my life, I would never have imagined that we would share a bond that was so all encompassing. Faith understood my unspoken thoughts; she knew my every mood. I only hoped that I was half as good at reading her feelings as she was mine.

  Standards are the biggest of the three varieties of Poodles. Faith’s head was even with my hip, so I didn’t have far to reach when I slipped a hand under her chin and scratched beneath her ears. Poodles in show coat have hair that must be protected at all costs; their owners quickly learn to stroke only those areas that are clipped short. It had been several years since Faith had been inside a show ring, but old habits died hard.

  Eve came next, elbowing her dam to one side and pushing her nose into my cupped hand. My turn, she announced as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud. Raven, Casey, and Tar were right behind her, bodies wriggling in delight as they pressed against my legs, tails beating a tattoo against my thighs.

  “I know,” I said softly. “I missed you guys, too.”

  I tossed my purse on the counter and sat down on the floor. Holding my arms open, I tried to gather them all in at once. Predictably, Tar was the first to wiggle free from my embrace. He dashed across the room, dove under the table, and came up with a tennis ball for me to throw.

  “Not in the house,” I told him. “You know that.”

  Actually, he probably didn’t, but he was supposed to. The other four Poodles certainly did. Raven and Casey, like Faith and Eve, were typical Standard Poodles: highly intelligent, with an innate desire to please and an infectious sense of humor.

  Tar was beautiful. He was funny. He was kind. But smart? Not so much. None of us had ever seen a dumb Poodle before, but there he was. The most well-meaning dog in the world, Tar could barely think his way down a flight of steps.

  Lack of brainpower had never interfered with the big dog’s total enjoyment of life, however. Pomponned tail whipping back and forth, Tar trotted back over and dropped the ball in my lap. Then he backed away and waited happily for me to comply.

  Faith and Eve watched to see what I was going to do next. Before Kevin was born, when I had more time to spend with them, I would take the Poodles for a run in the park. Now I was planning to make a shopping list and put in another load of laundry.

  That thought brought a sigh. Maybe Aunt Peg was right. Maybe I had become dull.

  Faith and Eve had adapted to all the changes I’d thrown their way. They’d thrived in our new, bigger family. But even so, I knew that sometimes they missed the easy intimacy of our prior relationship. And so did I.

  I reached back and levered myself up off the floor. Housework could wait.

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “Let’s go outside and play ball.”

  It turned out that the shopping list was unnecessary. On the way home from Gymboree, Sam and Kevin had stopped at the supermarket.

  “You just like the fact that women fawn all over you because you have a
baby,” I said as we put away the groceries.

  Kevin has his father’s blond hair and blue eyes. Together, the two of them make an arresting pair, a fact that Sam is not above using to his advantage on occasion.

  “What can I say? The kid’s a chick magnet. If I could bottle his appeal, we’d be millionaires.”

  The chick magnet in question had already finished the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d had ready for him when he got home, and now was meandering unsteadily across the kitchen floor in the direction of the dogs’ water bowl. I’d seen this trick before: Kevin liked to tip the bowl over and watch the water slosh across the polished hardwood. If he managed to place himself in a position to get soaked, too, that was an added bonus.

  I swooped down and picked him up just in time.

  “No,” Kevin said firmly. “Down.”

  “It’s time for your nap,” I told him. Despite his protests, my son’s eyelids were already drooping.

  Kevin had spent the first year of his life thinking that sleep was the enemy. Now he napped and slept through the night like a champ. I liked to take credit for the turnaround, but in reality I didn’t have the slightest idea what had caused it.

  Sometimes I think that motherhood is just one surprise after another. Luckily, most of them turn out to be good.

  After the eventful morning he’d had, it took only ten minutes to get Kevin changed and down for his nap. When I got back to the kitchen, Sam was putting the finishing touches on a couple of chicken salad sandwiches.

  “So tell me about your meeting with Edward March,” he said after we’d poured drinks and sat down to lunch.

  The Poodles spread themselves out on the floor around the table. They’re more likely to get lucky when Davey’s home, but they like to keep their options open.

  “It was interesting, certainly. And maybe a little odd. If that’s what dog show royalty is like, I can’t say I’m too impressed.”

  “How come?”

  I shrugged. “March himself is a bit of a curmudgeon. No, more than that, a bully. And I think he’d be quite happy to hear himself described in those terms. He seems to enjoy browbeating people.”

  “He was known for running a strict ring, but that’s not unexpected. The best judges have high standards. They know what they like, and they don’t settle for less. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he’s a tough old bird.” Sam slanted me a look. “I take it, he didn’t succeed in browbeating you.”

  “He certainly tried. I ended up arguing with him, and judging by his response, that doesn’t happen often. It turns out that I never did hear what his book is going to be about.”

  “I thought we already knew that.”

  “Apparently not. He was starting to tell me when I insulted his title.”

  “Way to go, Mel.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. Listen to this. March plans to call the book Puppy Love.”

  “Seriously?” Sam grinned. He lifted a hand and cupped his fingers around his ear. “What’s that I hear? Is it the sound of a sixties pop star crooning . . . ?”

  I reached over and slapped his hand down. “Cut it out. I mean it.”

  “I’m not doubting you.” He was laughing now. “I’m just setting the mood. So now what? Do you think you’ll be going back?”

  “I guess we’ll have to see. The decision isn’t entirely up to me. First, March has to decide whether he wants to work with me or not. Although, his assistant told me that two previous candidates for the job didn’t even last ten minutes, so maybe he doesn’t have a lot of choice.”

  “It sounds like you’re a shoo-in,” said Sam.

  Chapter 4

  I migh t have agreed, except that two whole days passed without any word from Edward March. Maybe he wasn’t in a hurry to get started on his book. Or maybe he’d found a better candidate for the job. Either way, I had plenty of other things to keep me busy; I had no need to go chasing after him.

  On the third day, there was a knock on my front door.

  Sam and I live in a residential neighborhood in North Stamford. There are wide streets, large wooded lots, and spacious houses set well back from the road. Unlike at my former address—a tight-knit block in a fifties-era subdivision where there was always someone playing in a front yard and you could smell what your neighbors were cooking for dinner—we don’t get drop-in visitors here.

  Even cookie-selling Girl Scouts pass us by.

  So someone showing up unexpectedly was cause for surprise, if not a small twinge of alarm. The Poodles agreed with me. They came running from all corners of the house and reached the door before I did.

  Sam was out for the afternoon, seeing a client. Davey was at school. Kevin was in the family room, watching Sesame Street on TV. It was left to me to see what was up.

  The booming sound of Poodles’ deep-throated barking would stop most prudent visitors in their tracks. But when I opened the door, my uninvited guest didn’t look alarmed. Instead, as the pack of Poodles spilled out to join him on the front step, his expression was merely one of annoyance.

  “You’re Andrew March,” I said, surprised. Luckily, I stopped before blurting out the rest of my thought. What are you doing here?

  “Yes, I am. May I come in?”

  Maybe March and his son didn’t get along because they both shared the same imperious attitude. Without waiting for a response, Andrew simply walked past me and into the house.

  Today he was wearing a suit, English cut with narrow lapels. His shirt was open at the throat. Though the temperature was in the thirties, his only concession to the weather was a cashmere muffler he’d wound around his neck. As I called the Poodles back inside and shut the door, I saw that he’d left a shiny black Escalade parked in the driveway.

  “Nice house,” he said, looking around with a practiced eye. “How old is it?”

  “Ten years, give or take. We didn’t buy it new.”

  He walked across the hall to the arched entryway that led to the living room. There was nothing I could do but follow along behind.

  “It looks like it’s in pretty good shape.”

  “It is,” I said. “We take good care of it. Did you come here to discuss my house?”

  “No, just force of habit. Professional interest.”

  Now Andrew was taking a peek at the dining room. This was truly bizarre. If he started to head upstairs, I decided I was going to call 911.

  “Listen,” he said, finally turning back to me. “We need to talk. Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

  Like he hadn’t noticed during his nosy inspection that we had chairs?

  “Living room. Dining room.” I waved my arm from one side of the house to the other. “Take your pick.”

  It didn’t matter to me which room he chose. If Kevin needed something, I could hear his call from anywhere on the first floor.

  “This’ll do,” he said. Living room it was.

  All five Poodles had been milling around our legs while we talked, but now Eve separated herself out and headed toward the back of the house. Having appointed herself his canine guardian, she took her job very seriously, and I knew that I’d find her later curled up by Kevin’s side. Good dog. Under these decidedly odd circumstances, that gave me one less thing to worry about.

  The remaining four Poodles jostled each other playfully as we moved toward the living room. Each jockeyed for position nearest to our visitor. It didn’t take a genius to see that they were wondering what was going on. Funny thing about that, so was I.

  Andrew dropped down a hand and brushed away an inquisitive nose. “Can’t they go outside or something?”

  “No.”

  Andrew frowned.

  I shrugged. My house, my rules.

  He glanced at the oversize couch, with its padded arms and plump pillows, and must have realized that if he sat there, the Poodles would join him. Wisely, he opted for the matching chair instead.

  I settled on the couch. Now we were sitting facing one another. I folded my ha
nds in my lap and waited. I had no idea what might come next. Nor did I intend to initiate the proceedings.

  “We need to talk about my father,” Andrew said.

  “I can’t imagine why. I barely know your father. We met for the first time at the beginning of the week.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re aware that he’s hatched some crazy scheme to write a book. I understand that’s what your meeting was about.”

  “Mr. March is looking for a coauthor,” I replied mildly. “It remains to be seen whether or not that person will be me.”

  “It will not.”

  To tell the truth, I’d had my doubts, too. But the fact that Andrew March seemed to think that he could come into my house uninvited, and tell me what I could or could not do, got my hackles up.

  “I believe that’s for your father to decide.”

  “Listen, that came out wrong.” He reached up and raked his fingers through his hair. Like his father’s, it was thick and bushy. Tendrils spilled forward over his forehead.

  “I’m sure you’re qualified to”—Andrew paused and blew out an agitated breath—“do whatever it is that he thinks he wants done. But there isn’t going to be a book.”

  “Because you object?”

  “Hell, yes, I object. I’ll get a restraining order if I have to.”

  This was getting interesting. “Against your father?”

  “And you, too, if I have to.”

  Law was not my strong suit, but I was pretty sure he was confused about what a restraining order could or could not accomplish. I didn’t think it could stop someone from writing a book about his own life.

  “Why are you so opposed to the idea?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then why are you here?”

  “To tell you to back off. You need to leave my father alone.”

  “I met with your father once,” I said. “I was there at his invitation.”

  Andrew looked annoyed. Obviously, he was no more accustomed to being argued with than Edward March was.