One More Time

by Deborah Cooke

  Fortunately, the telephone rang.

  Leslie snapped her fingers. “That’s probably your father. Why don’t you talk to him?” Annette’s face lit up. “Go! Go, before the machine takes the call.”

  Annette ran, which had to be good for her. The happy burble of her voice a moment later revealed that Leslie had named the caller right.

  Which meant that the Queen of Efficiency had another job to do before she could sleep, or eat. Household Administration was the duty of choice. FileMaster—or FileMistress, as the case might be. Leslie headed for the filing drawer in the desk in the spare room, which had been Matt’s home office. Within hours, it would be Beverly’s pied à terre. She was fishing the credit card invoices out of the files before she had the brilliant idea of having Annette give the information to her father.

  That way, she wouldn’t even have to talk to Matt herself.

  Perfect, if cowardly. Leslie decided that she could live with that. She had to think about what she would say to Matt, how she could explain that she couldn’t just blow off her own job after he’d blown off his best chance of having one.

  Money didn’t grow on trees, after all.

  Besides, she needed to go to the grocery store if they were going to eat anything resembling real food for dinner.

  And it was past six already.

  * * *

  Beverly hated being late, but late she was. She couldn’t find the address the lawyer had given her, not right away, and was compelled to make a U-turn on a busy street to try it again. The address she was seeking was on a street she didn’t know well, where there were lots of little office parks and strip malls, the kind of neighborhood with fast food restaurants she would never patronize. And it was rush hour, so it was difficult to slow down enough to read addresses without getting rear-ended.

  And to be fair, she was irked. Not only had she had two dogs dumped on her without warning, but they had an appointment that had to be kept, courtesy of the same lawyer who had pressed their leashes into her hands. The icing on the cake, of course, had been her landlord meeting her in the lobby with the eviction notice for her condo.

  It was true that no dogs were allowed in the building, but the paperwork had been done before Beverly even knew she’d have dogs. No, the prime mover was one Robert Coxwell, to whom she had assigned power of attorney many drunken moons ago, who had never been a man to overlook a tool he could use.

  Before he killed himself, knowing full well that all of his assets—and thus Beverly’s—would be knotted up for months, he had served notice to the condo that there would be no further rental payments made. It had been one last act of vengeance, one that made Beverly hope they did meet in Hell, just so she could give him a piece of her mind.

  And really, a trick like that wouldn’t look good on his application for Heaven.

  Beverly finally pulled into the parking lot of the vet’s office, a good thirty minutes late and harried. After one sniff, Champagne whimpered and Caviar laid down on the back seat, hiding her snout under one paw.

  It was almost as if they knew where they were. Beverly wondered whether these dogs really were as smart as their PR maintained.

  “Well, don’t get too worried about it,” she counseled. She had already taken to the habit of talking to the girls as if they were people. It seemed as if they understood, but then, that impression could have had as much to do with the fact that she was slightly sizzled as with their reputed intelligence. “We’re late and they’re supposed to be closed by now. You might be home free, for tonight at least.”

  The girls leaped out of the car with admirable grace and stood patiently while Beverly gathered their leashes and locked the door. She liked their manners. They might not be anxious to go to the vet, but they weren’t going to make a scene. Beverly had to admire any creature with social graces. She also liked the way they walked demurely beside her, not pulling or sniffing disgusting things on the ground.

  Marissa had trained the girls well.

  Beverly hurried to the door, as if that would make a difference to her expectations. There were other businesses in this particular plaza and a few other cars in the lot, though she had no way of knowing which cars were at which establishments. Her heart sank when the door proved to be locked. Sure enough, the hours posted on the door declared that the office had closed twenty minutes before.

  Beverly swore slightly under her breath. The girls watched her with some trepidation, poised to go back to the car if she gave the slightest sign.

  “I guess we’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she told them and they pivoted as one, their tails high again.

  Beverly was halfway to the car when a door scraped behind her. “Are you Beverly Coxwell?”

  She spun in shock at hearing her own name. A man in his forties was holding open the door to the vet’s office, his white lab coat giving one good clue as to who he might be.

  “How did you guess?”

  He smiled. “Caviar and Champagne, of course. Marissa told me about you and when I heard the news…” He shrugged. “You could say that I was expecting you.”

  It was his smile, however fleeting, that unnerved Beverly. It wasn’t that he was such a fabulously handsome man, or that she was unaccustomed to people being friendly. Even from halfway across the parking lot, she could see something in his smile, something appreciative and flirtatious, something that made her want to leap into her car and drive far far away.

  “Well, you’re closed. We’re late.” Beverly spoke with uncharacteristic haste. “We’ll come back another day.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’m in no rush to get stuck in traffic. Come on in.” He stepped back, still holding the door.

  Beverly looked to the girls for guidance. They seemed to have mixed feelings about this vet. Their tails wagged, but not wildly, and they held their ground.

  So, he was a nice man, but a vet all the same.

  Maybe it would be better to get this over with.

  “Come on then,” she said crisply to the girls. “Anything is worse if you put it off.” She met the warmth in the vet’s gaze—which only grew warmer as she got closer—and wondered who the heck she was trying to convince.

  “I’m Dr. Matheson. Ross Matheson,” the vet said, offering Beverly his hand. She shook it, not knowing what else to do.

  “Well, you already know who I am,” she said, feeling flustered, and he smiled.

  “And it’s good to see the girls again.” He was a tall man, built lithe and lean, who had to bend down to greet the girls. His hair was thinning, but clearly had been blond. His eyes were brown with a bit of green and his smile was easy. Beverly watched him pat the girls and saw gentle strength in his hands.

  A biscuit each and they remembered that he was more or less trustworthy.

  “Come on in. We’ll just do a check-up. It won’t take long. No shots this time either, they have them all done later in the spring along with their heartworm tests.”

  “Of course,” Beverly said, as if she knew what he was talking about. Shots? No wonder they were suspicious of him. She wasn’t much for shots herself.

  “I suggested this appointment so that you could ask any questions about the girls that you might have.”

  “I don’t know what to ask.”

  “Have you had dogs before?”

  “Never.”

  “Ah, well, they’re both spayed, and are almost three years old. The breeder is one I work with a lot, a very careful breeder. I have some of the genetic records for their parents here, if you’re curious.”

  “Not really. So long as they’re healthy. Are they sisters then?” Beverly was surprised that she hadn’t thought of that.

  But then it wasn’t as if they had a long intimate acquaintance.

  “Yes. Same litter. They have three brothers and two more sisters, though I only see the eldest male in my practice. The others were taken by families farther away.” Dr. Matheson glanced up briefly. “He’s a chocolate. Beautiful dog.
They’re showing him and he’s doing quite well.” He patted Champagne before checking her teeth. “Though you two have the easier life, that’s for sure.”

  Beverly could tell that Champagne didn’t like having her lip pulled back, though she didn’t bite or growl. It was more the look in her eyes, as if she felt rebellious but knew it would be vulgar to do anything about it.

  Beverly could relate to that look.

  Caviar watched, then laid down on the examining room floor with her paws curled beneath her. She trembled a little, so she wasn’t big on having her teeth checked, either.

  Beverly found herself squatting down to pat Caviar, who then leaned against her leg and trembled a bit less. The dog licked Beverly’s finger tips, as if to thank her, and remarkably, Beverly didn’t mind a little dog spit on her hand.

  “I don’t know why Marissa left me her dogs.” Beverly felt a strange need to say something. The room seemed so small and so quiet. “I never even knew she had them until today.”

  “Because she knew the three of you would look good together, of course,” the vet said, with easy charm.

  “Be serious.”

  “All right. She thought you needed some company.”

  “I don’t think so…”

  “No? Well, that’s what she told me. And she was convinced that there was no better company for a woman alone than the girls. She spent her time with them, after all.” He gave her a piercing look. “How’s that for a serious answer?”

  So, Dr. Matheson knew that Beverly lived alone. That was a bit disconcerting. “Sounds like something Marissa would say. She always thought she knew what was best for everybody.”

  “So, you’d prefer to be alone?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I didn’t think so. How’d you like to go for dinner some time, Beverly Coxwell? I can provide a couple of good references.” He gestured to the girls, both pleased with him now that he was leaving their teeth alone and offering them each a biscuit.

  “I’m married,” Beverly said curtly.

  “That’s a different kind of being alone, isn’t it?” he mused, as if he didn’t really expect an answer.

  Beverly was intrigued by his comment, but said nothing. She liked that he didn’t press her for information or confidence, didn’t push her about dinner.

  What did he know about lonely marriages?

  He checked Champagne’s ears and Beverly watched him. “See this hair here?” he asked, and Beverly had to move directly beside him to see what he meant. “You need to pull it out, once a week or so.”

  She looked at him with horror. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not.” He grabbed the fine hair in the curve of Champagne’s ear and pulled it out. The dog looked bored, so at least it wasn’t a painful exercise. “It doesn’t hurt them, though it can if you leave it to grow. Poodles have the distinction of having hair grow in their ear canals: if you leave it, it fosters infection.”

  “I’m too busy to do that.”

  “Oh? What do you do?”

  “If I did nothing all the bloody day long, I’d be too busy to do that.”

  He laughed. “Did you get the ear drops from Marissa?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll give you another bottle. You just pour in a drop or two once a week. It helps to manage the wax. Do it on a different day than you pull out the hair.”

  “I told you…”

  “Well, you can bring them here, then, and I’ll pull it out. It’ll give me more time to persuade you to go for dinner.”

  Beverly eyed him, not bothering to hide her suspicion. “Sounds as if I’ll need a schedule.”

  He laughed, a rich sound that put Beverly more at ease. “I doubt it. Marissa used to say that they would remind her, by putting their heads in her lap when their ears needed attention. I guess they get uncomfortable and they’re smart enough to know that people can fix the problem for them.”

  Beverly blinked. “Caviar was trying to do that this afternoon. I wondered what she was doing.”

  “Well, then we’d better have a look at those ears, hadn’t we, Caviar?”

  Caviar proved to have wax gathering in one ear, which the vet easily removed. It didn’t look much different from human ear wax. Beverly watched, still skeptical that she’d be able to do this task in the future.

  When he was done, there was no doubt that the dog was relieved: shy Caviar licked his ear and wagged her tail in gratitude. “None of that now,” he teased her. “You’ll be making Mrs. Coxwell jealous.”

  Beverly laughed despite herself. “There’s wishful thinking.”

  He turned a sparkling gaze on her. “Maybe there is a bit of that. Your husband’s a lucky man, Mrs. Coxwell. Maybe you should remind him of it.”

  Beverly turned away, grief catching her by surprise. She gripped the stainless steel table behind her. “He’s dead,” she said, not meaning to do so and probably just as surprised as the vet when the words leaped out. “Maybe you read about Judge Coxwell in the paper.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me…”

  “You could never have known and there are too many Coxwells around here for you to have guessed.” Beverly straightened and looked him in the eye. “He committed suicide and I never anticipated it. I still can’t really believe it.”

  “I can imagine as much. I’m very sorry.”

  Because he was sincere—a nice man despite being a vet, as the girls might have said—and because it had been a long time since Robert Coxwell had had much of a claim on her heart, Beverly confessed a little more. “We’ve been estranged for a while, which was probably what Marissa meant. In fact, we were in the middle of a divorce.”

  “Been there, done that,” he said with a smile. “But my ex-wife just ran away to Seattle with her new girlfriend.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I was the proverbial last person to know. Not quite so dramatic as your story.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a story that would still have people talking.”

  “But it wouldn’t make the papers.”

  Beverly had to concede that, so she didn’t know what to say.

  Dr. Matheson patted the dogs, as if he was also at a loss for words, then gave them each another biscuit.

  “They’re going to get fat, having so many snacks at once.”

  He was unchastened. “It would be good to do their heartworm tests around the beginning of May, though you’re welcome to come back sooner if you have any questions.”

  He seemed more somber than he had and Beverly felt responsible for the change in his mood. She had the urge to prompt his smile again. “Or if the girls need their ears cleaned.”

  “Or that. Of course.” He nodded, still serious.

  “Or presumably if I have a burning desire to go for dinner.”

  He smiled then, a smile of surprise, and their gazes met. “No, you can just phone for that. No appointment necessary.”

  Beverly cleared her throat. “You must know that I’m a lot older than you.”

  He shrugged. “You can’t mean to argue that women aren’t attractive once they pass thirty, because if you do, you’ll get a good fight from me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  Their gazes locked and held for a long moment, one that left Beverly’s mouth dry.

  She really shouldn’t have drunk that sherry this afternoon. It was clearly affecting her thinking and her judgment.

  She made hasty excuses to leave, and the girls were right there with her. Dr. Matheson accompanied her to the door, locking it behind her when the girls made a beeline for the car. When Beverly glanced back, he was still standing there. He smiled and waved, and before he turned away, Beverly smiled back.

  “A nice man, for a vet,” she told the girls, but they just leaped into the back seat of the car and looked anywhere but back toward the office.

  Chapter Nine

  The f
ront door was unlocked and no one answered her knock, so Beverly walked directly into Matt and Leslie’s house. She shouted a greeting to no reply, though there was music coming from the kitchen.

  Loud music. Beverly grimaced, guessing that Leslie was out and she’d have to face that child herself. She stepped into the kitchen to find her worst nightmare: Annette making herself a sandwich, probably a pre-dinner snack, that could have been a reasonable meal for three.

  Despite the music, Annette must have heard her. She glanced over her shoulder, giving Beverly a dark glare.

  Beverly crossed the kitchen and turned off the radio. She could have sworn that Annette hissed: she certainly hunkered down and glowered.

  Beverly refused to consider the origin of the child’s manners. She wasn’t precisely a snob, but neither had she been pleased by Matt’s choice of a wife.

  The product of their marriage was no better mannered than a feral cat, Beverly thought.

  Witch, thought Annette.

  Then they smiled simultaneously, false bright social smiles that faded as quickly as they had appeared. Beverly leaned against the counter, wondering whether the child had learned something from her, after all.

  Beverly glanced over the makings of Annette’s sandwich, then let her lips tighten. “I hate to be the one to disillusion you, Annette, but mayonnaise is not a beverage.”

  Annette left the ample dollop of mayonnaise on her sandwich and the knife in the jar, undoubtedly on purpose. She closed the sandwich with care and took a large deliberate bite. Beverly didn’t doubt that this bit of theatrics was for her benefit.

  Annette then looked her grandmother up and down while she chewed with some exaggeration. “I hate to be the one to disillusion you, Grandmother, but no one really thinks you’re toting tea in that thermos.”

  So, the cat had teeth. Little sharp ones. Beverly straightened, because this exchange had just gotten interesting.

  At least the child was bright.

  * * *

  Annette saw immediately that she had drawn her grandmother’s fire. “You are an audacious child…” the witch began to lecture, though there was an appreciative gleam in her eyes that Annette couldn’t explain.