by Fran Stewart
* * *
I had a quiet breakfast, with no conversation to speak of. Karaline was swamped. It felt like everybody in town had decided to have breakfast at the same time. I thought about driving back home, but I didn’t want to face the shawl. If I opened it, he’d be mad. If I didn’t, I’d feel guilty.
I ate the last bites, paid, and headed for the ScotShop.
Gilda was there before me. “Shoe’s in the back room,” she said before I’d even shut the door behind me. That unique smell of old floors and new fabric usually brightened me as I walked into my store, but today it didn’t do much to dispel the sense of . . . of loneliness.
I missed Harper. That was what was wrong. I did not miss Dirk. I didn’t. I stuffed my gloves in my pockets and pulled out of my green parka. I straightened a tartan skirt that hung askew on the rack closest to the door and strode across the room to the cash register. I was absolutely not going to think about Dirk all day long.
“How’s it going, Peggy?” Gilda reached for my parka. “The storeroom’s so full, we can’t reach the coat pegs anymore. I’ll throw this over one of the boxes.” She looked particularly bright this morning, with her blond corkscrew curls bobbing in all directions.
I looked her over carefully. Her eyes were clear, and her hands weren’t shaking.
She drew herself up. “I haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you’re worried about, and I went to my AA meeting last night.”
“Why is everybody so defensive today?”
“You don’t have to snap my head off.” Ever since she’d gotten back from the rehab facility, she’d become what she called “assertive” and I called “obnoxious.” Unfortunately, that brought Dirk to mind and my little mistake before breakfast. Crapola on another piece of toast. Was the whole day going to be like this?
* * *
It was.
First of all, Emily Wantstring showed up within minutes of opening, bringing in a gust of cold air when she opened the door. Thank goodness for the long johns I routinely wore under my long skirts in the winter.
“I changed my mind and drove home last night.” She covered her mouth, but I could see an enormous yawn hiding back behind her hand.
“You shouldn’t drive so late, Emily. It’s not safe.”
“I wanted to be here when Mark got back.”
That made sense.
Just then, a flood of tourists poured in and Emily left. I appreciated the bus companies for dropping their passengers off right in front of the ScotShop—they tended to buy a lot either before or after they ate at Karaline’s Logg Cabin Restaurant. But it did make for a hectic forty-five minutes or so with each busload. Two more busloads were scheduled, but one of them, based in Boston, called to cancel because of the weather. I tried to be gracious—after all, tour buses brought in the majority of my business. We rescheduled for the following week, but Susan, the woman who’d called, said she wasn’t sure they’d be running again that soon.
“We’ll just play it by ear and hope for the best.” I turned my face up to the sky—well, to the ceiling—hoping some weather god was listening to my plea.
15
The Joy of a Little Scottie
The final group of the day, thirty-two people from southern Alabama, had chartered their own bus. They’d planned to see autumn leaves. They’d counted on seeing autumn color. With none of that available, they were royally ticked off. It was hardly my fault that we had empty branches and three feet of snow this time of year, but I was the one who had to put up with their bellyaching. The trees in Vermont are usually bare by Columbus Day, but you can’t convince a Southerner that winter shows up so early this far north. At least they bought what seemed like a truckload of shortbread, and a heck of a lot of tartan ties and shawls. I’d have to put in another order soon.
By three o’clock I was about to give up on the day when the bell over the door jangled. I looked up as Sam walked in with a navy blue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “You’re not working today,” I said. “Why the visit?” I didn’t know why I even asked. He was probably here to see Gilda, but she was over by the side window waiting on the one and only customer we had at the moment.
He gave me a noncommittal wave and set the duffel down gently on one of the benches near the display of ghillie brogues. The blue and green tartan-patterned carpet in that part of the store muffled his footsteps, but I heard the distinct sound of the duffel bag’s long zipper. Well, if he didn’t want to answer me, I’d put him to work. “While you’re here, you can go help your brother in the back. There are a couple of boxes too bulky for one person to lift.” I knew they were too heavy to lift, as well, but I was smart enough not to mention the excess weight. Shoe, with his baseball-hardened muscles, would object to any implication that he wasn’t strong enough. Sam was a little less sensitive, but I’d learned over the years to be respectful of the male ego. Testosterone poisoning was no fun to deal with.
Sam looked over at the customer and lowered his voice. “What’s the hurry?”
“Those boxes are blocking the back exit, and I don’t want to risk a fine if the fire marshal stops in.” The ScotShop storeroom, protected from public view by a sign that said Staff Only, was filled to the brim.
Sam nodded, but he didn’t move. He just stood by the shoe display grinning like a demented monkey. Before I could ask if he was nuts, I heard an inquisitive woof behind me, in the general vicinity of my ankles. I spun to my left and promptly fell in love.
“Who is this?” I bent to touch a little nose and then scratch a pair of perky black ears raised like little flags above a set of chocolate brown eyes—dark chocolate, the best kind. His wiry eyebrows splayed out a good inch or two above his eyes. “Where did you come from?”
“That’s Scamp.” Sam moved toward me, but paused and picked up yet another tartan skirt that had gone askew on its hanger. He lowered his voice even more. “Gilda took care of him while she was in rehab.” He straightened the skirt and put it back where it belonged. “It was part of their program. Each resident got to care for a dog who wouldn’t have a home otherwise.”
“How could any dog as cute as this one not have a home?”
From his six-foot height, Sam peered down. “I guess nobody wanted him. He can’t qualify as a show dog.”
“Why not?”
“His bite is off.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s something that disqualifies show dogs. Something about the way his jaw is formed.”
I looked back down at the little fellow. I could see what Sam was talking about. His lower jaw did thrust forward. On a person it would have looked pugnacious, but on him, it just looked cute.
“The puppy mill where he was born was raided and shut down, and there weren’t enough foster homes available. It’s a miracle they hadn’t already put him down.”
I’d read about puppy mills and thought they all ought to be shut down. But shutting down this one was better than nothing. “Poor little guy.”
“Somebody in the rescue organization that took the dogs thought he had the right temperament to help people. Somebody with big bucks paid to have him neutered, and subsidized all his food as long as he was in the rehab program.” He smiled over at her. “Gilda gets to keep him as long as she goes to her AA meetings every day.”
“Sounds like you’re one lucky little dog.” I knelt, and Scamp leaned his head against my skirted knee. I obliged him with a good scratch under his chin. “Where’s Gilda been hiding him?”
“Shoe and I help. Whoever has the shift free, we take care of him.”
“I’m happy to meet the little guy, but why did you bring him here?”
Sam looked toward Gilda again. I could see her between the racks of full-sleeved poet shirts. The customer was bent over a selection of tartan scarves; Gilda looked quickly over at Sam and smiled. Her blond curls shone in the a
fternoon sunlight slanting in through the tall windows.
I glanced at Sam. Still smitten. He obviously hadn’t heard my question. He gulped. After a couple of seconds he returned to the land of the conscious. “Is it okay if I leave him here?”
Scamp let out a quiet but enthusiastic woof—in people talk it would have meant yes—but Sam gave a quick hand signal, and the dog subsided. Sam looked vaguely surprised, but I didn’t have time to ask him why. At least the dog was quiet. That was good, but before I agreed, I had to be sure. I bent closer to Scamp’s head, and he rewarded me with a brief lick on my chin. His long beard hair brushed my hand. He wasn’t smelly. That was definitely a point in his favor. “Will he leave the merchandise alone?”
“I walked him right before we came here.”
“What does that have to do with my merchandise?”
“Scotties have a lot of energy. They need long walks to settle them down. Especially a Scottie as young as he is.”
“Then why were you carrying him when you came in here? I assume that’s what the duffel bag was for.”
“It’s not a duffel bag; it’s a Sherpa.”
“A what?”
“That’s what it’s called. Owners use them to carry the dogs on airlines.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
“The snow sticks to his fur, so I brushed him and dried him before I brought him in here. No need to have any more melting snow than necessary, and I didn’t want him to be wet all day, even though his outer coat is virtually waterproof.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t mean to sound so dry, but what was I going to do with a dog shedding all over the kilts?
As if he’d read my mind, Sam said, “Scotties don’t shed, and he’s a good dog.”
“I don’t want him jumping on my customers.” Or on me, I thought. “What if somebody’s trying on shoes? Will he try to jump in their lap?”
“He won’t. Scotties aren’t lapdogs. If you had a couch in here, he’d be perched up on the back of it. They like to be up high.”
My brother’s companion dog, Tessa, never jumped, but I hadn’t ever given any thought to the training that had gotten such a positive result. Maybe it was just her personality. “Okay. He can stay.” I stood up. “Don’t start grinning yet. It’s going to be on a trial basis. Anything he messes up, you and Gilda pay for.”
“That’s fine with me. He’ll be so good you’ll hardly even know he’s here.”
As if to underscore Sam’s comment, Scamp burrowed under a rack of low-hanging sweaters. They rustled from side to side as he settled down. Finally, all I could see of him was the tip of one front foot peeking delicately from under a luscious off-white fisherman’s knit. Thank goodness he didn’t shed that black hair of his.
Shoe walked out of the back room and sketched a wave at his brother.
Something still bothered me. “If Scamp is such a good dog, why do you want to foist him off on me?”
Sam glanced toward the cash register where Gilda was ringing up a purchase. He leaned a little closer to me. “Gilda said she was lonely at work, and I thought Scamp might be the answer.”
Gilda? Lonely? That was ridiculous. I was here. How could she possibly be lonely? But, if she was, why hadn’t she confided in me? I looked around at my three employees. We’d grown up together, shared adventures and scrapes, laughed a lot, had our tiffs and made up afterward.
I was the boss—that was why. I was removed from them now. I hadn’t even recognized Gilda’s drinking problem over the past few years. I’d believed her when she said it was migraines, when all along she’d been having the most horrific hangovers. Sam had known, and so had Shoe, but they hadn’t clued me in. What else were they hiding from me?
* * *
Karaline came by an hour later. Her Logg Cabin Restaurant closed at three, but late lunchers frequently lingered over coffee and desserts, and then she had to get the place ready to open early the next morning. I could see the bulge her cash bag made under her parka. Luckily the bank was fairly close, and robbery wasn’t a big problem in Hamelin. It wasn’t a problem at all, in fact.
She surveyed the store. Gilda was straightening the merchandise on the big bookcase we used to display nonbreakable items, and Shoe was in the back room out of earshot. “Where’s Dirk?”
“Hello to you, too, Ms. Logg,” I said. “I’m doing just great. Thanks for asking.”
She looked around. “So, where is he?”
I wasn’t about to tell the only other person in town who could see my ghost that I’d rolled him up in the shawl again. “He, uh, he’s taking a nap.”
“Ghosts don’t take naps.”
“He left.”
She leveled a long stare at me that might have gotten ugly, but Scamp, who was proving to be an absolutely perfect doggie, chose that moment to introduce himself. Karaline looked down at the nose snuffling her boot, and the stare turned into an openmouthed grin of delight. “You got a dog! He’s so sweet!” She held her hand down for him to sniff. “He’s so—” She broke off and twisted to try to look more closely at him. “He’s a boy, right?”
“Don’t bother trying to look. He’s so furry underneath nobody can see anything. But yes, he’s a boy.”
“And such a sweet little—”
I interrupted. Not that I didn’t agree with her, but the gushing did not become her. “He’s Gilda’s, but she said he could be the store dog.”
“What about hair on the merchandise?”
“Scotties don’t shed the way other dogs do.” Don’t I sound like a Scottish terrier expert?
Scamp swiveled his head to look toward the front of the store, and the bell over the door tinkled merrily. He tilted his head and moved back between two hanging sweaters, as if he were getting ready to pounce.
He proved to be very choosy about the people he greeted and those he didn’t. Gilda said it was because Scotties were such good judges of character. All the rest of that day and the next, I learned to watch his reactions. If he turned away from someone, ignored them, I tended to wonder if they were potential shoplifters. Either that or dedicated dog-haters.
* * *
By the time I made it home that evening, I was in a great mood. Dirk was not. “For why did ye wrap me awa’ from ye?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Did ye no?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
He tilted his head to one side and raised one eyebrow.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I canna ken what ye are talking about, foreby.”
I tried to think of a way to smooth this over. “We have a new addition to our staff at the ScotShop.”
“Och, aye?” But he didn’t sound as interested as I’d hoped he might.
“His name is Scamp. I think you’ll like him.”
He crossed his arms. “Will ye gi’ me the shawl? If ye dinna need it for the warmth.”
I guess he wasn’t in any mood to forgive me right at the moment. “I’m sorry, Dirk.”
“My name,” he said, “is Macbeath.”
I handed over the shawl.
* * *
Wednesday morning, Emily didn’t know what to do with herself. She looked around vaguely, hoping to see her knitting, but then she noticed an untidy stack of books. She moved the entire stack an inch to the left and straightened it so all the spines lined up perfectly.
Mark should have been home by now. Or at least he should have called her. Had she mistaken the timing? No, but maybe he’d gotten a ride back to Burlington? That didn’t sound right but, just in case, she called his office. There was no answer, but that didn’t prove anything, so she called another number she had. One of the graduate students answered.
“This is Mrs. Wantstring. Is my husband there?”
“I haven’t se
en him, but, uh, I think I saw his car outside.”
Emily didn’t even say thank you. She just hung up. He’d abandoned her. Something bothered her, but she couldn’t place it.
Hot chocolate would help.
Then, a little later, she’d drive over to the ScotShop and talk to Peggy. That always made her feel better.
16
Dog on a Throne
Thursday morning, oblivious of even the sunshine on my face, I overslept. Shorty finally succeeded where the sun had failed by patting my cheek softly three times and meowing at me. I pulled myself out of bed, aware of every muscle. I shouldn’t have been surprised. This happened every winter. I’d go skiing for the first time of the season, and pay for it with four or five days of aches and pains. It wasn’t like that twenty years ago when I was ten years old. Nothing ever ached back then.
I took a long hot shower—best medicine ever for sore muscles—and pulled on my dark blue silk long john top and bottom, a floor-length heavy green and blue plaid wool skirt, and my old winter standby, a deep green fisherman’s knit sweater. The cowl-like neck of my navy silk long john top draped becomingly—if I did say so myself—over the thick wool of the sweater. I ignored my face in the mirror. I’d taken one quick look and hadn’t liked what I’d seen. My hair hadn’t yet recovered from where part of it had been shaved where I had to have stitches last summer. I’d cut it fairly short, but it was still in that in-between stage that made me look like a stale, warmed-over pancake on one side and a dandelion head on the other. Thank goodness I was used to wearing a Scottish kerchief. It covered a multitude of hair disasters. I’d left mine downstairs. There was no way I’d forget it, though. I had my priorities straight.
The shop opened at nine. I’d planned to get some paperwork done, and now I wouldn’t have time. I absolutely refused to miss breakfast. Gilda would have to open without me. I tromped downstairs. What was Dirk doing in my favorite chair? Before I could say anything, he scanned me up and down. “Will ye be working at the wee shop today?”
