by Grace Greene
She yanked off the gloves and tossed them aside in frustration. This was an impossible task. Better to nuke the area.
Sandra went out through the gate and walked the perimeter of the yard calling Honey’s name as loudly as she could, not caring who heard. Anyone close enough to hear was trespassing anyway. Her pulse began to thrum in her temples, but it felt good to release some tension by yelling.
“Honey!” she shouted as she ventured down one of the paths. “Honey!”
She stood and listened but heard nothing except birds and squirrels and a light breeze ruffling the new leaves.
Sandra tried the other path, again calling out. This time, she heard something more. Something heavier was coming and brushing against the lower branches. Honey? Could it be? She froze. It might be a bear or a coyote.
No, it wasn’t Honey. Sandra recognized Sammy as she trotted closer. The dog paused out of reach.
“Where’s your family, Sammy?” Sandra knelt and extended her hand.
Sammy moved closer. She allowed Sandra to scratch around her ears. “They let you out on your own again? I’m glad you came to visit. Honey still isn’t home.”
The dog’s paws and underside were muddy. “Where have you been, girl?”
Sammy barked and ran past her toward the house. She stopped at the garden and looked back.
Sandra caught up. “She isn’t here, Sammy.”
Sammy stood, her tail wagging, staring at Sandra. Sandra went inside and filled a bowl at the tap, but when she brought it outside, the dog was gone. Sandra picked up her aunt’s gloves and spade. The day was nearly done and so was she.
She’d been here two full days and still no Honey. She should call Barbara. There was nothing her aunt could do from Florida, but she deserved to know.
One more day. Would it hurt to wait? Maybe their visit to the shelter would yield results tomorrow.
Sandra started the water running in the tub, and while it was filling, she opened the windows to allow in fresh air. She found some bath salts in the other bathroom, and she dumped them into the steaming water along with a few drops of lavender.
She wasn’t a smart person, and she wasn’t a survivor, but an important lesson she’d learned was that one tragedy wasn’t improved by another or by self-denial. A person had better enjoy what they could today, despite what ailed them, because it might be worse tomorrow.
Sandra woke shortly after midnight and lay there in the dark.
She hadn’t been this rested in years. She’d gone to bed early, exhausted by the emotional day and relaxed by the lavender salts bath. Her reward was to awaken for no reason and know she wasn’t going back to sleep right away. And the dreams. Haunted for the last two nights by Trent and Uncle Cliff, tonight it was dogs and dogs and more dogs and their big, wet, begging eyes. But not a nightmare. The dream had seemed more . . . informational. She didn’t know what to do with the information. She left the bed and went to the window overlooking the backyard. She parted the curtains. The moon was still bright and mostly full.
Maybe a snack? She’d barely touched supper.
Navigating the stairs in the dark was made more interesting by the items Aunt Barbara had left on them. Moving this stuff was going on the to-do list for tomorrow. Rather, later today.
The kitchen was half-lit by the moon. Honey’s garden looked different, almost alien, and certainly wild and unkempt. A poor comparison to the holding pens she’d seen at the shelters. Those pens were modern and reasonably clean. In that case, it was the occupants that made them seem so tragic. In this case . . . Sandra moved to the door and looked out through the glass . . . In this case, the absence of the dog was the tragedy.
Sandra pressed her face to the glass. She could believe with all her heart and with everything in her being that Honey would come home. And that belief would get her exactly nothing and nowhere.
When would she dredge up the courage to tell her aunt?
It bubbled up—hot anger at the stupid broken-down fence that was her aunt’s fault and the loss of the dog on Sandra’s watch. Correction—discovered as missing on her watch. The dog may have run off before Aunt Barbara made it to the main road. But it was typical that Sandra would take the fall for it.
The moonlight glinted on the mended wire. She could see the repair was already coming apart.
She stomped outside, flinging the screened door wide, and nearly stretched its hinges beyond recovery. Sandra was already across the garden and yanking the fence wire back together when she realized sharp things were pricking at her tender soles. She was barefoot. Disgusting.
Irate, she wrapped her fingers around the fence and pulled, stepping backward and yanking. Something popped, and suddenly the whole side sprung loose. Her heel hit the corner of a half-buried brick, and she stumbled. A corner pole followed her momentum. She regained her balance and then realized she was yelling. Not polite, reasonable yelling but words that sounded a lot like enough, enough, enough. She tripped again and fell. The yelling had stopped. She disentangled her foot from the wire and sat there, exhausted.
What had she done? She’d pitched a hissy fit worthy of a two-year-old in the moonlit night in the dog’s garden. Yes, she had, and she was suitably humiliated and disgusted.
Her hands and pajamas were filthy. She plucked at her muddy pants, doubtful they’d ever come clean, and she laughed. It was a small, uncertain, uneasy sound, but it was something, and she felt better than she had in a very long time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sandra stood, glad and relieved that only the moon could see her face, which was surely bright red with embarrassment. She brushed her hands clear of debris. She shook her clothing to shed the dirt and bits of grass. Sandra was past thinking of the smell of the dog garden, of the nastiness. She stepped over the bunched fencing and the corner stake, crossed what was left of the open space, took hold of the doorknob, and went back inside, gently pulling the door closed behind her.
No one needed to know about this unfortunate event. Simply, in the sane light of day, she would fix it. The fence had needed repairs anyway. She would also call her aunt in the morning and tell her the bad news about Honey.
At two a.m., she ditched her pajamas in the laundry room and showered to remove the smell of wet dirt and manure from her body. She then went to her aunt’s bedroom, leaving the lights off and steadfastly keeping her eyes averted from the mural, and looked in the most likely drawer for pajamas. Maybe the right place for storing certain items was genetic, because she hit the drawer right the first time. It was the second drawer in the bureau.
The blinds were open at the front window, and Sandra used the filtered moonlight to negotiate the pajama legs and the ribbon ties at the waist of the pants. She was doing pretty well, too, when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a light moving outside.
One leg in and one leg out, she stopped and peered through the blind slats.
A light. A flashlight. Held about waist high by someone walking around. Looked male and grown.
She struggled to put her other leg into the pajama pants, and when she looked again, he was heading down the dirt road and fading into the darkness.
Part of her wanted to chase after him. Part of her was glad he was going. Was there any chance he’d seen her doing her crazy business outside in the garden? She didn’t think so.
Was it Colton? Maybe Sammy hadn’t come home? Colton might not have wanted to disturb her at this hour by calling or knocking on the door.
That made sense. She felt reassured and decided the next best step was to put on the pajama top. If the man returned, she’d handle it better if she were dressed.
She crept downstairs and looked out the windows. No sign of anyone. She slipped on her sandals and went outside, cautiously, and stayed in the shadows of the porch.
The insects were humming. The night sounds seemed right. Distantly, she heard a motor. It sounded a lot like Colton’s truck, going the other way.
Maybe he’d left his truck down th
e road so as not to wake her.
Thoughtful, of course. Unnerving, too. It would have been better to give her a head’s up. She’d ask him about it the next time she saw him.
Funny how she automatically assumed she would see him again. She double-checked the locks and returned to bed.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as she tried to find sleep. The rough shock of lightning breaking the dark didn’t startle her. It reassured her in a cozy way. The rain hit hard. No one would be out in that by choice. A storm like that was as effective as a dog sleeping by the front door.
In the morning, after breakfast and after making her round of calls to the shelters and police station, Sandra stepped carefully through the garden mud and went to the shed. The grass was soaked, but her feet were dry because, mindful of the rain and mud, she’d grabbed her aunt’s socks and galoshes.
She eased open the shed door. An old plastic egg-carton crate was in the front. It was filled with brown glass bottles. Next to the crate were some wooden tent pegs and some sort of long tool. She found an old metal rake. The business end of the rake, the tines section, had been nailed onto the wooden pole, and though it rattled, it would work. A claw-shaped tool would be effective for breaking up the soil and freeing the weeds. She could use that for sure. She continued to pull out stuff and set it on the grass. Fence stakes. No wire. But how expensive could that be? She had the money Aunt Barbara left. Would her aunt ask for an accounting? Probably not. But regardless, she’d said it was for the house and expenses. Did that instruction include nonessential renovations? Hard to know for sure, but looking at the mess she’d made of the fencing last night, this project was now necessary.
If Colton did come back with his truck, perhaps he would help her get new fence material.
She began working outside the kitchen door and used a screwdriver to loosen the bricks. She broke a fingernail trying to pry one up. The weeds came out in clumps. Within thirty minutes, she was perspiring, a little breathless, and feeling strain on her back. The mud, despite her care, was getting on her jeans and shirt. She changed position to ease her back, then stood to pull the crumpled wire and stake back out of the way, or she tried, but there was nowhere for it to go, especially with those overgrown bushes forming a perimeter. She tugged at the gate, but the posts holding it in place were stubborn, so she returned to working the fencing loose from the other corner stake. She had to pull the fencing outward because those bushes were in the way, but it did give her more latitude to pull back the growing tangle of wire. She tossed the stakes aside to land where they would.
When she stopped to assess her progress, she saw none. In fact, it looked worse. Her heart took a dip. What had she done?
No doubts allowed. After all, there were no witnesses. She had plenty of time to fix it before Barbara returned from Florida.
She took the metal rake and used the tines to loosen the bricks, but the weeds were tougher than she was. She knelt and tried the weed puller. Soon her knees were hurting. Her arms, too.
Skinny wasn’t necessarily good. It was more about how one got there, and she had gotten to this state through near starvation and malnutrition, because stress had stolen her appetite, and she’d been eating junk food for comfort.
Feeling overwhelmed, she reached up to scratch her face, and the dirt got into her eye, and something felt like it was crawling up her leg beneath her jeans. She sat back in disgust. She was a wimp.
“Sandra?”
She jumped a mile. The tool she’d been using went flying.
Colton knelt beside her. “Are you OK?”
When she nodded, he moved back and said, “What’s happening here?”
“This is unacceptable,” she said, shaking her head.
“What?”
“This.” She waved her arms. “Honey deserves better.”
He looked around. “Is she back? Did she come home?”
It was sweet he was so happy about the prospect of Honey being found.
“Not yet, but she will. She will return, and this garden is going to be clean and properly fenced for her safety and a heck of a lot better than before.”
Colton knelt beside her again, placing his knee on a brick to avoid the muck. “Sandra, what happened to the fence?”
His tone was gentle, his voice soft. She looked away, almost ashamed.
“It was an accident.” She brushed at the dirt on her arm and made it worse. “The first part was an accident.”
“Your hands . . .” He reached across to take her hand and turned it over, examining it. The scrapes, the broken nail, the minor cuts—all were smeared with black dirt.
She pulled her hand away and held it close. “It doesn’t matter how it happened. Honey deserves better, and I intend to see that she gets it.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He nodded. “You’re going to need a new bale of wire.”
She stared straight ahead. “Can we use your truck?”
“Oh, so you’re assuming I’m going to help?” he said with a sly smile.
“Yes.” She added with a sly smile of her own, “Aaron will insist.”
“He doesn’t need to. I’m all in.”
She felt immediate relief. There was no way she could do this alone.
“But there are decisions to make,” he added.
Decisions? Choices? Those weren’t her forte.
“Where do you want the perimeter? Where do you want the gate?”
“The gate’s stuck right where it is. The hinges, the posts—they won’t budge. Can’t we work with where it is?”
“If that’s what you want.”
It wasn’t, but she wasn’t thinking in terms of what she wanted. Instead, she had to consider what she could manage both physically and financially. Plus, it wasn’t her property. But if she was going all in, then shouldn’t she aim high?
“I need to price it out first. I have a limited budget.”
“All the more reason to figure out exactly what you want. Think big at the start. You can always scale back.”
That sounded reasonable.
“What if I started the fence at the corner of the house that way? And then”—she rose and stepped over a few yards—“brought it back to here and moved the gate to this location?”
He examined the setting. She knew he was calculating the possibilities. He’d said he was a contractor, hadn’t he? So he must know what he was talking about.
Colton mentioned the number of square feet and bales of fencing needed. “It’s more like fencing a small backyard than a dog run.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m taking it too far. I don’t want to pull out my aunt’s bushes. So, really, it doesn’t make sense to do all this.”
“Well, now, hold up. Don’t talk yourself out of it so fast. Check with Barbara if you want to, but I can’t see her being unhappy about the improvement.”
“Nor can I, but it’s still her property.”
“Have you talked to her yet?”
Sandra drew in a deep breath. “About Honey? No. This is the third full day Honey’s been missing.”
“And no word?” He already knew the answer, of course.
“I’ve called them each day. Nothing.”
He looked around the garden. “Why don’t I get some pricing info? In fact, I might be able to scare up some of what we need for the project. I have contacts in construction.”
“My budget is very limited. Even aside from the materials, I’ll need help, and it costs money to hire people. Barbara left me some funds but not all that much, and without her approval . . .”
“Mind if I bring Aaron back after lunch? We can talk more about it then.”
“Sure.” Sandra walked with him to the front, where his truck was parked. “I don’t know why you’re being so kind. You don’t owe me anything.”
He smiled. A slow smile that grew. “Barbara’s a good friend.” He climbed into the truck but then leaned out the window. “See you in a couple of hours.”
As he drove off, Sandra realized she hadn’t asked him about Sammy or whether he’d found her last night. Or, for that matter, why he’d shown up here this morning.
She returned to the garden, picked up the tools, and tried to tidy the work area, and then went inside and showered. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she thought she looked different somehow.
Sandra touched her face, her shoulders. Her collarbone still stuck out, and her face was too thin, making her cheekbones and jaw more pronounced. Her eyes looked huge. The Shoemaker eyes? She smiled at that silliness, and it made an amazing change in her face. She touched the mirror. Was that how she looked when she smiled at Colton? At other people?
But she was no model. Such features, combined with the cropped hair, looked odd. Wrong for regular people like herself.
Still, there was a brightness to her eyes that she hadn’t seen in a while. Maybe she was standing a little taller, too. She trailed her fingers down the length of her throat. She hadn’t been aware of slumping. Deliberately, she put her shoulders back. She thought maybe that helped lift up the rest of her worn appearance. Mom had told her a gal could carry off almost any look, no matter how ill considered, if she wore it like she meant it.
Sandra borrowed a blouse from Aunt Barbara. The jeans she’d worn yesterday weren’t great, but they’d do. While she waited, she called the shelters and local police again. They recognized her name now, but there was still no sign of Honey.
She lingered, staring at the screen on her phone. She should call Barbara. One more day, she told herself. One more day. She felt her tension ease, but the sense of time running out wouldn’t go away. This was no more than a postponement. Meanwhile, she needed to clear the assorted stuff from the stairs before she tripped and hurt herself.
Sandra picked up a sweater from the second step, well-worn shoes from the third, and grabbed a couple of skeins of blue yarn from the next. But now there was a new question. Where would she put this and the rest? The dining room was jammed with boxes, and the living room was full of its own assorted stuff. So not downstairs. Upstairs? In Barbara’s room? No.
