by Dana Mentink
“No,” he’d said, “but I think God is.” Uncle Mel probably thought he’d lost his mind. At odd moments, Rhett feared that his uncle was right.
The sound of a car engine caught his attention. Someone was completely ignoring the five-mile-per-hour campground speed limit. He stepped out on the metal porch of the trailer, which groaned under his weight. A Suburban pelted into view, coming to such a sudden stop that it skidded for a few feet on the pine needle carpet.
Two women got out, one older, braid flapping; the other younger, too well dressed for camping or Big Thumb in general. To his utter astonishment, they both raced into the thicket of bushes, leaving the car doors flung open.
He waited a moment to be sure they weren’t dealing with nature’s call or some such thing, but when he heard them hollering something he couldn’t make out, he hopped off the step and headed toward the thicket. He reached it just as the younger girl emerged, her chic twist of dark hair mussed and a rip in the knee of her pants, panic written on her face.
“What’s—” he started.
Her dark eyes were wild. “Big dog. White.”
“How—”
“Find him!” she shrieked.
Rhett was a man who rarely took orders from anyone, a tendency noted on multiple occasions in his school records. This time, the escalating hysteria in her voice caused him to comply, more out of curiosity than altruism. Something about the frantic woman intrigued him. Pushing through the branches, he searched.
“Hey, doggie. Come on out here, fella.”
A half hour later, hot and sweating, he caught sight of the older lady marching grimly back to the Suburban. He followed. The young woman was there now too, looking even more worse for wear than he’d noted before.
“Ms. Wharton,” the young woman said in a soothing tone. “Please try to calm down. I’ll call the police and animal control. We’ll find your dog. I promise. He can’t have gotten far.”
Ms. Wharton did not appear assuaged. Rhett saw now that she was thin, very thin. Her brown face was webbed with lines and speckled with spots of sun damage.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman continued. “We’ll fix this, but can we conclude our business first?” She offered a smile, which Rhett had to admit lit her face like a beacon. Dark hair, dark eyes, porcelain skin.
“Your manuscript is priceless,” she said. “It would be a tragedy if something happened to it.”
Priceless? Now he was hooked.
Ms. Wharton considered for a moment, her mouth working as if she was reciting a speech to herself. Then she stalked to the backseat and hauled out a cardboard box tied with a string, her hands clutched around it so firmly that her knuckles turned white.
The younger woman’s eyes danced. “That’s it?” she breathed. “I can’t believe it. Finally.” She held out her hands, fingers trembling slightly.
Ms. Wharton pulled the box tight to her chest. Her voice sounded low and rusty from disuse. “If you want this, you are going to find my dog and bring him to me.”
“What?” the woman said, her face turning from ecstasy to puzzlement. “Are you saying you won’t give it to me now?”
“Nail on the head, sweetie.”
“But Ms. Wharton—”
She freed a hand to point one long bony finger straight at the young woman’s chest. “No dog, no manuscript. I’m going home. I hate it here.” She shot a look at Rhett. “Too many people now.”
“Wait,” she cried as Ms. Wharton put the box back into the car and gunned the engine. “You can’t just drive off. How will I—”
“Find Sweetness!” Wharton shrieked. Through the open window, Rhett saw the spark of tears in her eyes. Dust swirled from under the churning tires, and then she was gone.
It was like a moment straight out of a classic movie. The young woman’s mouth was open as she stared after the departing car, one hand frozen in the air.
“What just happened?” she whispered.
“Seems like she wants you to find her dog,” he said, helpfully.
Slowly, very slowly, her gaze swiveled to him. “I feel like screaming.”
He stood aside and held the trailer door open. “You can scream in here if you like.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And what are you going to do during the screaming?”
He was already pulling on a baseball cap to contain his irritating curls and walking down the road. “Find the dog,” he called.
Two
Stephanie’s head spun as she stood there between the rusty trailer and the rapidly departing man. The screaming fit was tempting. She’d just been within arm’s reach of the manuscript that would change everything, only to have it whisked away. And now she was…where exactly?
She did a slow circle, ignoring the pinch from her pumps. Trees and shrubs surrounded the place, some sort of camp, she’d discerned. Camp. She’d never been to one, but she’d heard camps were places rank with nature where people intentionally banished themselves. In the distance she could make out the blue nylon of a tent and another trailer up at the top of the hill. The quiet was eerie. No bustle of people, no constant stream of city traffic, no smell of the urban life.
In New York City there was never a still time, a silent hour where one could hear everything from falling leaves to the hammering of one’s own heart. Where were the honking taxis, the incessant hum of traffic? It made her uneasy, all of this lousy quiet.
“You can salvage this, Stephanie,” she said. Swallowing hard, she forced her lungs to carry on working. “Everything will be peachy when you find the dog.” Or maybe the man would. He looked hearty and hale, approachable. What dog wouldn’t come bounding out of the woods to meet him? He probably had dogs lining up to join him in this camping business. She would just send a quick, vague text to Mr. Klein and tell him there’d been a teeny delay, but the matter was well on its way to a happy resolution.
Panic rippled through her insides. Her purse and cell phone happened to be in the front seat of Agnes Wharton’s car. Her palms went clammy. No phone. No money. Not so much as a tissue or a tube of lipstick. Now she did let out a shriek, only one, but it was loud enough to startle two scrub jays from their perch in the trees.
The man reappeared at a run. “What happened?”
“Just a scream,” she said, through clenched teeth. “A small one.”
“I thought you were going to do that in the trailer.”
Stephanie threw up her chin. “This is America. I can scream wherever I like, can’t I?”
His brown eyes widened and he broke into a full-lipped smile, brushing pine needles off of his sleeves. “Depends on what you’re screaming. You’re not allowed to yell ‘Fire!’ in a theater.”
He looked familiar. She tried to place the brown curls that peeked out from under the brim of his baseball cap, the heavy lashes completely wasted on a man, the wide shoulders and muscular forearms showing where he’d rolled up his sleeves. Had she seen him somewhere before? Her stomach tightened. Like on TV’s Ten Most Wanted or something? What better place for a serial killer to hang out than in Big Thumb. Don’t get crazy, Steph. “Did you find the dog?”
“No, but I have an idea where he’s gone.”
Was he a dog whisperer? She felt a spark of hope. “Where?”
“Hot-dog roast today. Can’t you smell it?”
Her nose twitched. “Um, yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Wouldn’t you make a beeline for a bunch of hot dogs?”
“I’d try to think it over first,” fibbed the women with her lead foot perpetually on the gas pedal of life.
“Guess you’re not a dog.”
“How astute.” She regretted the barb. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a very bad day so far. Let’s start again. My name is Stephanie Pink.”
“Rhett Hastings.”
They shook hands. She’d expected his palms to be hardened and calloused, but they were remarkably smooth. Suspicious. “If you would please show me where the hot dogs are, I’ll go try
to find Sweetness myself. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”
He shrugged. “What was that cardboard box thing all about?”
“Ms. Wharton and I have a business deal, and she just welched on it.”
“Written contract? Any legal recourse?”
She started, not expecting business savvy from camper man. “No. My literary agency handled her previous book fifteen years ago, and we’d made a verbal arrangement to do the same for this one, but Sweetness took off after a squirrel just before I arrived and now the whole deal is off until I find her dog.”
“That’s…unusual.”
“You have no idea,” she said as they made their way along a gravel path. She stumbled on the uneven ground, and he offered her an elbow. She didn’t want to take it, but the sooner they ended the debacle, the better. If he was a serial killer, he wasn’t going to murder her within sight of a cookout. She took his arm, strong and solid, and they made their way along the path until they reached a small clearing, where a woman wearing a green apron was rolling hot dogs around on a smoking grill.
“Hello,” she called out. “My, you didn’t have to dress up fancy. It’s just a barbecue.”
Stephanie sighed. “I’m looking for a dog.”
“Plenty of those around here,” she said. Sliding a hot dog in a bun, she handed it to Rhett, but he waved it away.
“Dog’s a runaway. Just bolted today,” Rhett said. “It’s…” He turned to Stephanie. “What does the dog look like anyway? I only saw a streak of white.”
Stephanie shrugged. “Big and fast. I don’t know much about dogs. I’m more of a goldfish person.”
The hot dog lady pointed with the spatula. “Either of those fit the bill?”
Two dogs sniffed around the picnic tables, one, a slender white dog with piles of fluffy hair, and the other, a massive off-white critter with a few scattered brown patches. Fluffy dog pranced around energetically, while the other loped, stub of a tail wagging and quivering nose the size of an eight ball. Each eye was ringed by a darker patch that made him look as though he’d been decorated by a preschooler wielding a magic marker. Roaming closer to the grill, a rivulet of drool dribbled from its fleshy lips.
“Gross,” Stephanie said.
“Does Sweetness have spots?” Rhett said offering the dog a pat.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “Don’t they have name tags?”
“Nope, but they have collars,” the lady behind the grill said. “Mostly when we have dogs show up they belong to someone in camp, but I haven’t seen these guys before.”
The larger dog lifted his hind leg and let loose with a stream of pee on a nearby log. Stephanie jerked away just in time to avoid the overspray. Disgusting. “I’m sure that smaller one is Sweetness,” she said. “It looks well-groomed and…respectable.”
Rhett handed Stephanie a hot dog. “What gives you that impression? Is it wearing a necktie?”
She ignored the jibe. Taking the grilled hot dog, she broke it in half. “There’s only one way to find out.” She bent down on one knee. “Come here, Sweetness.”
Instantaneously, both dogs were at her side, accepting their treats. Rhett and the hot dog lady laughed.
“Guess you’ll have to take both of them,” he said. He was enjoying her dilemma.
“Fine. I’ll take them both and then return whichever one isn’t Sweetness after I catch up to Agnes. Don’t let them leave,” she said, marching toward the tiny camp store. Inside, she searched the shelves in vain for any kind of pet supplies. She found nothing but one box of dog biscuits and a length of rope. The rope would do.
She plopped it down on the counter and scrabbled through the change in her pockets. Her face flushed hot, she came up with only a dollar and forty cents left over from her last airport latte. “I’m so sorry. I’ve lost my purse,” she blurted to the teen behind the register. “Is there any way I can give you an IOU?”
The boy raised an eyebrow. “For a three-dollar package of rope?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ll cover it for you. Take it.”
“There is no way I’m letting you pay for me.”
He shrugged. “It’s no problem. I’m getting nine dollars an hour.”
She had sunk to the point where she was sponging off a kid earning minimum wage? “Look.” She plopped down her money. “Just give me a dollar and forty cents worth of rope, okay?”
“But how will I—”
“Estimate!” she snapped.
He gave her a look indicating he’d just realized she’d escaped from a mental institution. “Oookaaaay,” he said, snipping approximately four yards of rope and cutting that into two equal pieces at her direction. She slapped the money down. “Here you go. Thank you. I’m so sorry. In my real life I’m very organized and not at all the scatterbrained person I appear to be at this moment.”
He stood transfixed by her stream of babble.
Slinking out the door, she handed Rhett the ropes. “Can you please tie them up?”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I’m not skilled with dogs.”
“Somehow I sensed that.” He bent to examine the dogs. “Well, they both have collars and no tags, so I’ll slip the rope on through.” He handed the ends to Stephanie, the proud owner of two canines. Two dogs, one man, and the hot dog lady all looked at her expectantly.
“Now what?” Rhett said.
“Now,” came an angry voice from behind them, “you’re going to give me back my dog!”
Rhett swiveled to face a large bald guy with a fishing pole in one hand and a bucket in the other. A salt and pepper mustache bristled on his upper lip. Because Stephanie seemed to be immobilized, clutching the makeshift leashes and staring, Rhett decided to pinch-hit.
“Hello. I’m Rhett Hastings, and this is Stephanie Pink.”
“And that’s my dog,” the guy said. “What are you doing with her?”
“Oh, it’s a her?” Stephanie managed.
The man quirked a caterpillar eyebrow. “Yeah,” he drawled out. “I raised her from a pup, so I’d like to know what you think you’re doing tying her up.”
“Easy, Joe,” the hot dog woman said. “They thought she was a stray. They’re looking for their lost dog.”
He squinched up his eyes. “And you can’t recognize your own animal?”
Stephanie sighed wearily. “It’s a long story. I apologize. Which one is yours?”
“Cindy, come here,” Joe said. The fluffy, respectable-looking dog trotted away, pulling the rope from Stephanie’s hand.
Rhett caught Stephanie’s look of dismay. Goodbye, respectable. Hello, big galoot. He tried to remember the last time he’d been so amused.
Joe untied the rope and handed it to Rhett.
“You should know your own dog,” Joe said gruffly. “What breed is he anyway?” Joe gave him the once-over and Rhett, Joe, and the hot dog lady offered their opinion at exactly the same moment.
“Great Pyrenees?” said the hot dog lady.
“Sheepdog?” offered Rhett.
“Mastiff?” mused Joe.
“Who cares?” Stephanie said wearily.
Joe shot her a look.
“Uh, sorry about the mix-up, Joe,” Rhett said. “Man, that’s a sweet looking trout in your bucket. Must be a good twenty inches.”
Joe shrugged, but Rhett could tell he was pleased. “Yeah. You should have seen the one I got yesterday. Twenty-five, easy.”
“What are you using for bait?”
What followed was a ten-minute discussion about fishing, a subject Rhett had not entertained for a solid two decades, nor did he particularly care about. The small talk was a means to an end. He and Joe parted with a friendly wave. He turned to find Stephanie sitting on a stump with her elbow propped on her knee and her chin in her hand. The dog, which Rhett now realized was enormous—probably close to a hundred pounds—was giving the ground a thorough sniffing. Every once in a while he would try to lick her hand, which she snatch
ed away out of reach. He settled for rolling on his back, steeping himself in whatever scent he’d particularly enjoyed.
Stephanie appeared lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the rip in the knee of her pants and a tear in the other, which revealed a scratch on her toned calf.
When again offered food, he declined the hot dog, but helped himself to some baked beans, enjoying the breeze that puffed along through the pines, cooling his overheated skin. He’d been in air-conditioned high-rises for so many years he’d forgotten how to be hot or cold or anything in between. Funny. The tangy beans made every taste bud in his mouth stand up and yodel. The personal chef who had cooked his meals had changed his palate the way the temperature-controlled environment had altered his body’s thermostat. Canned beans? Good sense returned as he considered what artificial ingredients he might be ingesting, and he put the bowl down.
Rhett wasn’t entirely sure what to do regarding the puzzling woman and her newfound dog. Uncertainty was a novel feeling also. He fetched her a hot dog.
She blinked, coming back to reality as she accepted the offering and took a hearty bite. “Thank you. I’m starving. Don’t you want one?”
“I don’t eat hot dogs.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not to my taste. Not healthy, anyway.”
“My grandfather lived to be one hundred and two, and he ate a hot dog every day of his life.”
“Statistical aberration. Do you want me to hold the rope while you eat?”
She handed it over. Sweetness righted himself and Rhett scratched the dog behind the ears. The animal flipped over again, offering his fuzzy stomach, his long legs bicycling through the air. Stephanie moved out of range, staring.
“Maybe that’s not really Sweetness,” she said. “Maybe it’s just some random stray.”
“He’s big.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he’s got lots of white parts.”
“I can see that.”
“And he did show up here in the campground just as you were looking for a specimen matching his description.”
She looked unconvinced.
“There’s a letter embroidered on his collar.”
