Paws for Love, A Novel for Dog Lovers

by Dana Mentink

  She toyed with the zipper on her windbreaker. “Uh, no, I was actually after the dog, but he’s not mine. I mean, I’m the tutor.” She shook her head. “Not the dog’s tutor. I Tucker Mr. Tutor. I mean, I tutor Mr. Tucker.”

  He grasped the straw. “Ah. Wait a minute. You’re with the film crew, aren’t you? I think I saw you when I delivered the chocolate fondue yesterday. I’m Bill Woodson.”

  Her face took on a dreamy look. “Luscious.” She started. “Oh, um, I meant the fondue. It was great. Everyone loved it.”

  He laughed. “Thank you. My special recipe. So you’re not an actor? Do you work for the director, then?”

  Her brows puckered. “I’m not completely sure.” There was something in her face, a painful confusion that made him want to help. With what? He didn’t even know what they were talking about, and even now she was shifting on her feet as if she wanted to grab the dog and run for the exit.

  His cell phone rang. After looking at the screen, he said, “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll just be a minute, and then maybe I can get you a cup of coffee.”

  She began to protest, but he held up his hand and stepped away to take the call, which turned out to be an order from Vivian Buckley for three dozen chocolate cream balls and assorted caramels for the Lady Bird Hotel. He mentally high-fived himself. Orders were slowly picking up, thanks to the film crew rolling into the tiny town of Albatross, California. Maybe he’d have enough extra this month to get Fiona a bike, at least an old one that he could fix up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m…” But he turned to find that both the dog and the blushing woman were gone.

  Fiona’s head was quirked a bit to one side, as if she was realizing the same thing he was.

  He hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name.

  Two

  Lawrence sat rigidly on a chair in Misty’s newly assigned trailer the next morning, mouth pinched in concentration, the violin resting on his left collarbone. The window was partially open, letting in a whiff of the ocean.

  Misty gave him an encouraging nod. “That’s great, Mr. Tucker. Now let’s try the G major scale again, okay?”

  Jellybean sat licking his paws. When Lawrence raked the bow over the strings, Jellybean let out a tortured whimper, scurried across the worn linoleum, and leapt on top of the bed. It was only through effort that Misty did not do the same.

  Lawrence smiled indulgently. “He’s sensitive. Loud noises awaken tragic memories in his heart. I rescued him, you know.”

  She repositioned Lawrence’s fingers on the bow. “From where?”

  “A frozen lake.”

  It was not the answer she’d been expecting. Jellybean, she’d guessed, might have belonged to an indulgent elderly dowager who fed him cake and named him as sole beneficiary in her will.

  “It was in Minnesota six years ago.” His eyes glazed over as he recounted the memory. “I was on a break from a film shoot. I took a walk in the woods. I’m a method actor, you see, and I was playing the part of a man hiking through the wilderness to save his daughter who had been kidnapped by a motorcycle gang.” His eyes glittered. “That was an amazing film. You could feel the cold, the isolation, the man-versus-nature theme. Critics went wild for it.”

  Misty made a mental note to ask her grandmother if she’d seen that one. “And you found Jellybean?” she encouraged. Lawrence had a way of drifting off the conversational path, she’d learned in their short acquaintance.

  “It was freezing, and as I turned to go back, I saw this fuzzy head poking out from a hole in the ice. He was whimpering and shivering, so weak, tiny paws about to lose their hold. The ice was thin, but I could not leave this helpless animal there to slip under the frigid waters.”

  “So you went out on the lake to get him?” Misty looked from Lawrence to Jellybean, who was making a nest of her blankets.

  “Step-by-step, inch-by-inch. It was a close call.”

  Lawrence let loose with another squeaking attempt at the G scale.

  Jellybean whined. Misty whined internally.

  “Less pressure on the strings. Retract the weight of your bowing arm back into your shoulder.”

  Lawrence tried again, and this time he produced a fairly decent sound. He sat back, beaming. “Thank you, Misty. I may call you Misty, mayn’t I?”

  “Sure. All my students do.”

  “And you may call me Lawrence. We are going to be lifelong friends,” he said, flourishing the bow around like a conductor’s baton. She made a subtle grab for it before he could break off the fragile tip by knocking it against the cupboard. Lifelong friends. She didn’t have many of those, for sure. This eccentric man was not what she imagined a close friend would look like, but how was she to know?

  “Now you.” He sat back in the chair.

  “Me? What me?”

  “You must play for me. You will be my muse.”

  She let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, I’m not muse material.”

  “Play for me, my girl. Let me disappear into the music. It’s the only thing that I will remember when I am fallen on the field of battle.” He slouched back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Misty looked from Lawrence to the ball of blanket-wrapped dog on the bed. Outside, a bustle of activity indicated the crew was emerging to begin the Thursday preparations. “Um, okay. What shall I play?”

  He didn’t answer, so she launched into a stretch of Paganini. The music filled up the corners of the trailer. She continued on, the caprice dancing and twirling through the small space.

  The swaddled lump rose from the bed and ran to her, once again sitting on her feet, nose quivering, looking much as he must have appeared to Lawrence as he climbed out of the water onto the ice of the frozen pond. She was not sure what emotion was coursing through that canine heart. Was he happy? Troubled? Ready to pee on her sneakers?

  She stopped.

  Jellybean barked.

  Lawrence sighed. “Incredible how I can disappear into my music.”

  His music? Maybe he was attempting to be funny. So far he’d only managed to produce a painful G major scale. Of course the actual movie music would be dubbed in, but at least he would know violin mechanics well enough to be convincing on-screen. One more lesson maybe, he’d be prepped, and she could go home. Any follow-up could be done by Skype with a computer screen. The thought bolstered her.

  “Mr. Tucker…” She caught his disapproving glance. “Lawrence, I don’t think I can stay here for your shoot after today. You’ve learned enough of the violin basics, and I’m sure you can get another dog sitter.”

  He blinked and looked closely at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Most people would do anything to work with a star on a movie set.”

  She sighed. “I’m not most people.”

  “That is true.” He pursed his lips, head cocked slightly to one side. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Scared.” He waved a hand toward the outside. “Of all this.”

  “No, I’m…” Her words died away.

  How did he know? She had not thought him capable of noticing what she tried diligently to hide. Scared of crowds, closed spaces, scared of people, of life.

  “That’s the thing about being an actor,” he said. “I can read people, study them, extract their motivations for my own purposes. It’s clinical in a way. I don’t engage in other people’s emotions, but I can recognize and use them as one would use a tool. I see fear in you, Misty Agnelli.” He pointed a finger at her. “You are a woman in hiding.”

  Her palms felt sweaty against the wood of the violin. She held it tighter for comfort. “I need to go home.”

  He examined every detail of her face as if he was absorbing it for a later purpose. Creepy, Misty thought to herself.

  Absently, he reached down to caress Jellybean, recoiling when the dog growled at him.

  The silent staring stretched on, and she wriggled like a bug specimen skewered on a pin. How could she politely get aw
ay from this strange man? Was he waiting for her to say something? She racked her brain, trying to think of something appropriate. To her great surprise, he started to hum.

  “Took me a minute to remember the tune. Can you play this one?”

  She listened to him hum a song she had not heard in a very long time.

  “Something about ‘this little light of mine,’ ” Lawrence sang in a fairly decent tenor. “You know it, Misty?”

  She did. She’d sung it in Sunday school and heard it belted out in churches in which she’d never felt at home but had lingered on the fringes, quiet and invisible. Mechanically, she played the melody on her violin, eliciting vigorous tail wagging from Jellybean.

  “Splendid.” Lawrence got up and went to the door. “I’ve got a meet and greet with the people of Albatross today at ten at the Lady Bird Hotel. Jellybean should come. Celebrity dogs always get a good reaction from crowds.”

  “Mr. Tucker, er, Lawrence, didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t stay here. You need to find another dog sitter.”

  He continued to hum. “Misty Agnelli,” he proclaimed as he threw open the trailer door, “it’s time to let it shine!”

  What was he talking about?

  “Lawrence,” she tried again. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “Let’s go, Jellybean,” he called.

  With a swish, Jellybean dove back under the rumpled covers. Misty wished with all her strength that she could do the same.

  Bill led Fiona into the preschool classroom where Dina Everly was putting Play-Doh onto colorful trays. Her hair was pulled back into a blond ponytail, and he wondered why twenty-five-year-olds looked so darn young compared to his thirty-six. Of course, since the accident three months before that had taken his brother and sister-in-law, he’d probably aged a good decade or two. Now he understood why his own parents sometimes had that haggard look when he was growing up. Parenting was not a game for the timid.

  Dina knelt down to talk to Fiona, who cowered behind his leg, clutching his knee. “Hey, Fiona. Glad to see you.”

  Fiona clung tighter.

  Ms. Everly had told him quick goodbyes were best.

  “Yeah, uh, you have a great morning. I’ll be back at one to get you, okay?”

  Fiona sniffed. Oh dear, sweet Lord, he prayed. Please don’t let her cry. His insides felt as if they were being seared by a red-hot poker when he had to leave her crying.

  Ms. Everly snatched up a toy teddy bear that was nearly Fiona’s size. “Here’s Honey Bear. Take her to the reading corner, Fiona. I just put out a new book there for you. It’s about frogs. I know how you like to read about frogs.” She gestured to a girl with pigtails wearing two macaroni necklaces. “Macy, can you go show Fiona our new frog book?”

  The girl waved to Fiona, who trailed after her to the reading corner, Honey Bear in tow. Fiona’s mouth was pinched, but she wasn’t crying. Miss Dina was good. He heaved a sigh and followed the teacher to the door. She offered him a manila envelope and extended a palm.

  In exchange, he fished the papers from his back pocket and handed them over.

  “I’ll take a look,” she said. “See you later.”

  He eased out the door and stopped on the porch, eyeing the worn Happy Days Preschool sign. “This the next project?”

  She nodded. “The paint’s peeling and one of the hooks is about to let loose. Can you fix it?”

  “’Course I can.”

  She grinned. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  He felt the familiar twinge of shame. “Think you already know the answer to that.” Resisting the urge to look in again on Fiona, he hurried back to the shop and stowed the envelope on a shelf. The smell of chocolate greeted him, and his memory took him right back to his mother Ada’s kitchen. Her candy-making sessions were the best days of his life, his success measured in easy moments with her and the simple bliss of those pans full of homemade candies. He surveyed the conching machine and the enormous mixer.

  Was he really doing this? Was he really running a chocolate shop in the tiny town of Albatross? Three months ago he would not have thought twice about starting such a risky new venture. Three months ago he never would have dreamed that he would abruptly become a parent to his preschool-aged niece. He swallowed down an unaccustomed feeling that he took to be fear.

  Gunther waved a freckled hand from behind the counter. “Finished boxing the bonbons.”

  Bill was pleased to see that his new hire, seventy-year-old Gunther, was wearing the neat white apron Bill had insisted on and the paper hat that covered his perfectly bald head. Bill donned his own apron and hat, took his place next to Gunther, and loaded up the peanut butter puffs and chocolate-dipped strawberries he’d prepared starting at three a.m. in the shop while Fiona slept soundly upstairs across the hallway from his own tiny bedroom.

  Gunther pushed his glasses up on his face and moved to the chalkboard easel. “What you want it to say?”

  “Just list what we’ve got in the shop today, and write something about the grand opening tomorrow.”

  Gunther raised an eyebrow. “How grand’s it gonna be?”

  “I’m getting balloons. That’s pretty grand, isn’t it?”

  He raised the other eyebrow.

  “You just wait, Gunther. This is going to be plenty impressive. A tour bus is coming to check out the film site. One hundred candy-loving tourists, and they’re all going to want chocolate.”

  “What if they don’t like chocolate?”

  Bill laughed. “Gonna have to work on your optimism, friend.”

  Gunther snorted. “I’m a senior citizen working for minimum wage in a candy shop. Where’s the rosy side of that?”

  “You could be the laundryman working for a diaper service company.”

  Gunther let loose with a cackle. “All right,” he said, waving a stick of neon-colored chalk at Bill. “I’ll make the sign. You go spread your joy around with those movie nuts.”

  “Nothin’ better than chocolate with nuts,” Bill said as he gathered the candy-filled boxes and headed out.

  The Lady Bird seemed like a particularly grand name to Bill when he’d first heard it. It was a two-story Victorian structure that could use a good repainting. The tall windows along the front of the building were framed by fancy wood trellises, and a porch sported cozy cushioned rocking chairs. He’d learned from Gunther that the place was actually more of a bed-and-breakfast with five guest rooms and a paneled sitting room with a slate-faced fireplace. He was happy to see the fireplace was not in service now as he let himself in and set down the boxes on the table provided. The place was done in soothing blues and sea foam greens that gave off a beach vibe. There were entirely too many knickknacks for his taste—jars of shells, pelican table lamps, and fussy photo frames with mermaids painted on the glass.

  The owner, Vivian Buckley, a slender woman with a long, graying braid down her back, was already busily working the room, chatting with the dozen Albatross residents and tourists who had staked out the best chairs waiting for their meet and greet with Lawrence Tucker.

  As Bill finished fanning out the napkins in what he figured was a pleasing arrangement and loaded the chocolates onto silver trays, he heard a yip from underneath the table. It was a terrier much like the one that had busted into his shop, only this one was the color of hazelnut ganache and chubbier around the middle. It was curled up on a pet bed, and he had bumped the cushion with his boot. “Sorry, dog-o.”

  “Tinka,” Vivian said, looking up. “Come here, baby.”

  Tinka pattered over to Vivian and, with one impressive leap, jumped into her arms.

  The front doors opened, and the star of the film trundled in. Up close, Lawrence looked much older than he did in the one movie that Bill had seen. He was shorter too. His graying hair was cut close, brows darker than his hair, eyes quick as a squirrel’s as he immediately shook the hand of the nearest lady who goggled at him.

  He moved on to the next and the next, but Bill’s attenti
on was drawn to the woman in the back, the one who had chased the dog she was now holding into his shop.

  She looked, in a word, terrified. Back pressed to the cluttered sideboard, she held the dog under her chin as if to shield herself. From what? he wondered. The small group of Lawrence Tucker’s adoring fans who had arrived ahead of the pack? No worries there, he thought as he squeezed over to her. The fans had eyes for no one but the star.

  “Hey there,” he said. “You in charge of this critter again?”

  She blinked and nodded. “I told Lawrence I’m leaving, but I just sort of get swept along, like he’s a planet with his own gravity field or something.”

  Bill chuckled. “I know people like that. Is this his dog?”

  “Yes. Jellybean.”

  “Is he friendly?” Bill asked, putting out a hand.

  “No.”

  Bill took his hand away. Her eyes continued to slide toward the door with longing in their brown depths, and she swayed gently from foot to foot. “Don’t like crowds?” he guessed.

  She started. “Is it that obvious? I was trying to blend.” She shivered. “Too many people in here. Not enough oxygen.”

  Claustrophobic? He offered his warmest smile. “I’m Bill Woodson. Never got your name.”

  “Misty,” she said quietly, hoisting the dog a little higher. “Misty Agnelli. I am…I was Mr. Tucker’s violin tutor, but I’m leaving,” she repeated firmly.

  “So you mentioned. Why?”

  “He doesn’t need me.”

  They both looked at Tucker, who had the entire room riveted.

  “I grew up not far from Albatross, you know,” he told the group. “Went to high school right up the coast.”

  Vivian Buckley beamed a smile that was a little too bright to be sincere. “It’s true,” she said. “And you even had a local girl for a sweetheart too.”

  Tucker gazed at her, his smile never wavering. “Ah, Viv. I was just getting to that.”

  “I’m sure you were.” She glared at him as she settled into an upholstered chair, stroking her dog’s silky ears.