Gone With the Woof

by Laurien Berenson

  “I’m not telling you what my father wants. I’m telling you what I want,” he snapped. “And how things are going to be. You need to listen to what I’m saying. There’s no point in your getting any further involved with my family, because there isn’t going to be any book.”

  “Mr. March thinks there is.”

  “He’s mistaken. And trust me, it isn’t the first time. There’s no way I intend to sit by while my father pontificates about his own importance to anyone who will listen. We will not be airing our family’s dirty linen in public. I have a business to protect, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. One of us was clearly confused. I really hoped it wasn’t me. “This book that you’re so upset about, it isn’t about your business. It’s about dogs and dog shows.”

  Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Well . . . no. Not in so many words. But the whole point is, what I know about is dogs. That’s why my aunt recommended me for the job. Mr. March and I spent most of our time together talking about Irish Setters.”

  “Dogs.” Andrew spat out the word. “That’s all he ever talks about.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You don’t have anything to worry about. The book is going to be called Puppy Love.”

  “Oh, hell no!” Andrew leapt to his feet. The Poodles, who had settled around us on the floor, jumped up and scattered.

  “Okay, maybe it isn’t the best title. But at least it describes the subject matter. Nobody could confuse that with a book about your company.”

  I’d thought the title might placate him. Instead, it was having the opposite effect. He leaned down and shook his finger in my face.

  “This isn’t over,” he snarled.

  I pushed his hand away and stood up. “I think you’d better leave.”

  Andrew rewrapped his scarf—like that was going to ward off the cold—strode over to the door, and let himself out. As the door slammed shut behind him, Faith whined softly under her breath.

  “I know.” I reached down to tangle my fingers in her topknot. “I feel the same way.”

  How very, very strange.

  Cell phones are the bane of my existence.

  At the risk of sounding like a Luddite, I have to admit that I was much happier before so many different ways existed for me to reach out and touch someone. Or vice versa, as is usually the case. I’ve simply never understood the appeal of being readily available to the world 24-7.

  I carry a cell phone with me, but it’s there for emergencies or in case a close friend or family member needs to get hold of me. Since I don’t give the number to anyone else, I don’t get a lot of calls. And that’s just the way I like it.

  So when my cell phone rang the next morning and an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen, I was already frowning when I pressed the phone to my ear.

  “Melanie? Edward March here. Are you ready to get started?”

  Good question. And now that I’d spent three days pondering it, I knew what my answer was going to be.

  Andrew’s visit the previous afternoon—meant to warn me away—had instead succeeded in whetting my curiosity. Not only that, but while my family life was wonderful, lately the opportunities for intellectual stimulation had been few and far between. That one interview with Edward March had been enough to remind me that I liked having a job, that I enjoyed feeling useful in some capacity outside the home.

  I’d missed that. And it was time to get my brain back in gear again.

  “I’m ready,” I said. “Just one thing, Mr. March—”

  “Edward. If we’re going to be working together, you must call me Edward.”

  He couldn’t see me, but I shook my head, anyway. I had no desire to call March by his first name. That small barrier of formality between us was just fine by me.

  “Where did you get this phone number from?”

  “Margaret gave it to me.”

  Of course, I thought with a sigh. I should have guessed.

  March and I made arrangements to meet after lunch. I picked up Kevin, who was on the floor at my feet, and went off in search of Sam. I found him in the family room, unpacking a fresh load of firewood from a canvas log carrier.

  Most of the logs were already in the wrought-iron rack. Sam was using the last few to lay a new fire. As he knelt on the floor and leaned forward to pile them directly onto the andirons, I took a moment to admire the view. Really, it never got old.

  “Time for you to make good on your promise,” I said as he finished what he was doing and turned.

  Kevin wiggled in my arms. He wanted down. As I lowered him to the floor, Sam swiveled around and sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Kevin trotted across the room and into his father’s outstretched arms.

  “March just called. I’m going back to Westport after lunch. He wants me to help him with his book.”

  “Did you tell him that Andrew was here yesterday?”

  “No, but I will when I get there.” Sam and I had discussed Andrew’s visit the previous evening, and Sam had been just as baffled as I was. “Can you watch Kevin this afternoon?”

  “Sure.” Sam cupped his hands around his son’s, and the two of them clapped in the air happily. “Take all the time you need.”

  Once again Charlotte met me at the front door, and once again she escorted me to the library entrance. Since it was a straight shot down the wide center hall, then a left-hand turn into the room, I was pretty sure I could have found my own way, but March’s assistant accompanied me, anyway.

  “I’m glad you decided to come back,” she said. “He’s been in a good mood all day.”

  “I hope I don’t do anything to ruin it,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you won’t. Now that he’s going to be getting started on his book, I’m sure things will settle down around here.”

  I would have asked what she meant by that, but we’d already reached the library. March was waiting just inside the doorway, his body tipped forward as he leaned heavily on his cane. If he was happy to see me, it wasn’t evident by his disgruntled expression.

  “Shut the door behind you,” he said to Charlotte, dismissing her with barely a glance. “Melanie and I have work to do.”

  As she complied, March began the slow walk toward his desk. “We’ve done a little rearranging since you were here last. Come along and find yourself a seat.”

  The room did look as though someone had done some straightening. There was marginally less clutter, and a bit more open space had been carved out around the furniture. Several tabletops were cleared, and rather than just one empty chair, I had my choice of places to sit. I wondered why whoever had done the neatening hadn’t thought to put higher-wattage lightbulbs in the lamps—or, failing that, to push back the heavy drapes that covered much of the large window behind the desk.

  I’m a teacher. I like a cheerful workplace. And the thought of spending weeks confined to this somber, dimly lit library was mildly depressing. Surely, I couldn’t be the only person who felt like I was entering a tomb each time I walked inside.

  I sat down in a wingback chair not far from March’s desk. “Before we get started,” I said, “I have something to tell you.”

  “Well?” He reached his seat, a cordovan leather chair on rollers, and sank into it heavily.

  “Your son came to visit me yesterday.”

  “Andrew?” He said the name with a scowl. So much for my not wrecking March’s good mood. “Whatever for?”

  “He warned me to stay away from you. He told me that there wasn’t going to be a book.”

  “That’s not up to him.”

  “That’s not what he thinks.”

  “What Andrew thinks on this topic is immaterial. My son has always been under the impression that if he wants something, that’s reason enough for it to be his. He has thwarted me in the past, but I assure you that despite what he might have told you, he won’t succeed this time. Feel free to put him out of y
our mind.”

  I’d be delighted to, I thought, as long as Andrew was willing to do the same for me.

  March opened a folder on his desktop and withdrew several sheets of paper. He lifted them up and stared at the top sheet thoughtfully, rubbing it back and forth between his forefinger and thumb.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract that outlines the details of our arrangement. Considering that this is my story, it seems to me that a ninety-ten split of any potential profits is more than equitable.”

  Up until that moment, I hadn’t given any thought to the financial aspects of our collaboration. The project had simply come along at the right time, piqued my curiosity, and offered to satisfy my need for adult interaction. But now I stopped and thought about the fact that once I signed that contract, I’d be agreeing to work hard. There was no way I was going to sell my services that cheaply.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Ninety-ten?” I made sure I sounded equally dubious. “I don’t think so.”

  March opened his fingers and let the papers drop. “All right, then, what sounds fair to you?”

  I considered for a minute before answering. Even on our short acquaintance, March struck me as the kind of man who would take advantage of a situation if he could. I, however, spent my days dealing with a two-year-old. Which meant that I knew all about setting proper boundaries right from the beginning.

  March was right about the fact that this was his book. But without my input, it wouldn’t be written at all.

  “Twenty-five percent for me, seventy-five to you,” I said.

  “Fifteen, eighty-five,” he shot back.

  “I’m not negotiating, Mr. March. You asked what split sounded fair to me, and I told you. If you don’t agree, you may feel free to find another partner.”

  His eyes narrowed, his bushy brows lowering in a ferocious scowl. March gathered up the papers and shoved them back into the folder.

  “I’ll have the contracts redrawn. You can sign them the next time you’re here.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  March wasn’t about to let me have the last word.

  “Now, if you’re finished taking advantage of an old man,” he grumbled, “let’s get down to work.”

  Chapter 5

  On my first visit to March’s house, I’d brought a notebook. This time I’d traded up and come equipped with a laptop. The only problem with that, I realized now, was that I’d left the computer sitting on the passenger seat of the Volvo.

  “I’m ready to get started,” I said, hopping up out of my chair. “I just have to run out to my car for a second. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait!” March cried.

  I was already halfway to the door. When I paused and glanced back, the expression on the older man’s face surprised me. He looked more than a little alarmed.

  “I’m just going outside,” I told him. “I brought a laptop to take notes on. It’ll only take me a moment to get it.”

  “Stay right there. I’ll call Charlotte.”

  “There’s no need.” I reached the door and pulled it open. “I know the way.”

  “Please . . .”

  It sounded like a word he didn’t use often. That, more than anything else, stopped me where I stood. As I hesitated in the doorway, Charlotte came running from the back of the house. She skidded to a halt in front of me.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Nothing.” Was it just me, or was the weird vibe definitely back? “I was just on my way outside to get my laptop so we can get started. I left it in my car.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte blew out a breath. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief. “That’s fine. Go right ahead.”

  I intended to. And I did. As I’d told March, it took me only a minute. Charlotte waited in the hall until I’d returned.

  “How about some coffee for the two of you?” she asked brightly. “I was just brewing a fresh pot.”

  “That would be very nice,” March replied. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  Very nice? Really? The two of them sounded like they were reciting lines from a play. If this was an attempt to restore a sense of normalcy to what seemed to me like a very odd situation, I wasn’t sure it was working.

  Back inside the library, I dragged my chair closer to March’s desk and looked for a place to set the laptop down. Obviously, the recent effort to reduce clutter had not extended to March’s work space.

  The desk itself was a massive piece of furniture, but nearly every inch of its polished surface was covered with . . . stuff. Aside from a leather-bound blotter, an ornate lamp, and a phone, there were also stacks of books and files, numerous pictures, and even old magazines, all vying for the same space.

  I’m not a neat freak, by any means. But this place was a mess, even by my admittedly low standards. I had no idea how March was able to get anything done surrounded by so much disarray.

  “Just push something aside,” he said when I hesitated. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I moved a towering pile of Kennel Reviews to one side. It merged with a nearby stack of Gun Dog magazines. I opened the computer up and turned it on. As I waited for it to warm up, I noticed that the periodical on top of the pile I’d just formed was dated March 2008.

  “If you want, before we start, I can do a little cleaning up,” I said. “It might be easier to work in here if we got things organized first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, these magazines . . . they’re old.”

  In human terms, they were merely old. In dog years they were truly ancient—at least a generation, if not two, from containing current news.

  “Those magazines contain valuable information. I like to refer back to the articles. That’s why I saved them.”

  “Yes, but do they have to sit right here?”

  March gazed around the room, perplexed. “Where else would they go?”

  “How about over there?”

  The longest wall in the room had been lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Unfortunately, they were also already crammed full. The contents had probably started as a display, but now books, figurines, framed photographs, and a collection of old dog show trophies, which were sadly in need of polishing, were all jumbled together in a haphazard fashion.

  “That won’t work,” March said irritably. “I like to keep things handy for easy reference. You let them out of your sight and next thing you know, they start getting lost on you.”

  “Right.” Considering how much junk there was in the library, losing some of it didn’t sound like a bad thing to me.

  Not my call, I reminded myself firmly. I turned back to my computer and opened up a new file on the screen. “Puppy Love,” I wrote at the top of the empty page.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” said March. “I’ll talk, and you take notes. Doesn’t have to be word for word. It’s the stories, the content, that’s the important part. After we get a bunch of pages done, you can print them up and we’ll go over them together.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Shoot.”

  “We’ll start with Caroline.” March leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A small smile played around his lips.

  “Caroline,” I typed.

  “Was she your first dog?”

  His eyes snapped open. “Certainly not. She was the first girl I . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Let’s just say, the first girl I ever loved. I was fourteen, and she was sixteen. An older woman.”

  “Older woman,” I wrote down. I stared briefly at the description, then added a question mark.

  “She had soft blond hair and big blue eyes . . .” March dragged out the words lovingly. He seemed to be enjoying his own descriptive prowess. “And a tiny little freckle at the base of her throat.”

  My fingers hovered above the keys. I was waiting for him to say something worth recording.

&nb
sp; March glanced my way. “Write that down.”

  “Why?”

  “So it will go in the book.” As if that was obvious.

  “A tiny freckle at the base of her throat?”

  “It’s description,” March said curtly. “It’s important.”

  “Maybe if you were describing your first Best in Show winner. Your readers will be interested to know what he looked like. Sixteen-year-old Caroline? I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t ask you to think. I asked you to type.”

  “I am typing. Or I was a minute ago. And as soon as you say something interesting, I’ll start again.”

  March shoved back his chair and pushed himself to his feet. “You know nothing about the publishing business!”

  “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I’m a voracious reader. And if a dog person of your stature wrote a book, I’d be first in line to buy it. I’d love to read about the shows you’ve participated in and all the great dogs you’ve had your hands on over the years.”

  “Rubbish. That’s not what sells books.”

  “It would to me.”

  March glared in my direction. “I’m aiming for a bigger audience.”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “People want salacious details, the more the better. They want to hear secrets and feel like they’re reading the inside scoop. Reality TV on the written page, that’s what makes people buy books. And that’s what I intend to give them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Of course, there will be dogs in the book, plenty of them. It’s not like we can put my stories in context without setting the stage. The dogs will make wonderful window dressing. But it’s the people I’ve known and the relationships I’ve shared that will form the basis for the book.”

  “Window dressing . . . ?” I echoed faintly.

  “I cut quite a dashing figure in my younger days, and the ladies of the dog show community were more than eager to show their appreciation. Think Don Juan. His stories made him famous.” March nodded with satisfaction. “And now it’s finally time for me to tell all.”