by Elsa Kurt
Jenna picked her head up with a smile and said, “You go on, Griff. I’d like to spend some time with Kate, and then Myrna after, if you don’t mind?” She put her head back down beside Kate Hepburn’s and all but dismissed him.
Griff sighed and turned on his heel, almost walking into the slack-jawed Michael, who’d come up behind him to peek into the stall. Michael jumped back as if slapped, his already bulging eyes now golf ball wide. This would be twice that he overheard a staff member call him by his first name. Even Tilly—cheeky as she was—at least called him Mr. Griff. He clapped the young man on his bony shoulder and walked around him and out the kennel doors, four obedient dogs in tow.
Griff decided to take the boys out into the field for a run. He needed to clear his thoughts just as much as they needed to stretch their long legs. John Wayne stayed beside him, gazing dolefully at his beloved master when Griff said, “Go on, boy. A little jog will do you good.” Griff’s heart clenched when the gentle giant merely leaned his warm body against his leg. The regal old hound had just passed his eighth birthday. For a dog his size, he was pushing his life expectancy.
When Grace had declared her intentions to breed her own pedigreed line of dogs he’d shrugged indifferently. “Whatever amuses you, dear,” he’d said, never lifting his eyes from his paperwork. Still, Grace had surprised him with John Wayne, a gangly loping little-mottled beast with bright eyes and an instant attachment to Griff. There was nothing pretty about him, and Griff had laughed and said, “What the hell kind of dog is this?” Grace had smiled her gentle, serene smile and said, “Irish Wolfhound, sweetheart. I knew you’d love him.” He’d gazed at her incredulously. “Me? What does it matter if I love him or not? This is your hobby, Gracie.”
Grace had shrugged, that small smile playing on her pale lips. She was so pale, already back then. Then she set the documents and breed information on the corner of the desk. “Play with him a while, will you, dear? I’m so tired today, I’m afraid.”
To her retreating back, he’d called, “Can’t that stable boy watch him?” Grace hadn’t looked back or answered, and Griff ended up spending the day with the puppy, eschewing the mountain of work that beckoned him and the incessant ring of the business line. It could wait. Later that night, while in bed, Griff read about the characteristics of the breed. When it came to the part about life expectancy, he slapped the pamphlet against his knee and swore. “Gracie, did you even read this? Short life expectancy? It says six to eight years! That can’t be, can it?”
Grace arched a delicate eyebrow at him and said, “Why yes, dear, that is so. They’re a very large breed. It’s their hearts, apparently. Big hearts tend to give out sooner than, well, average sized ones.” She gave an ironic smile.
Grace could’ve just as easily been speaking of herself, as it was almost the very condition she had been born with. It angered Griff—perhaps irrationally so—that she would choose a breed with such a similar prognosis. Short life expectancy. How he hated those words. He had one more year with Grace before her tired, too-big heart gave out. In that time, he’d had the kennel built. Close to the house, so she wouldn’t have to walk far. In between his meetings and business trips and things that couldn’t wait, she’d talked to him about her plans. Grace wanted four males and two girls, who she planned to breed and sell, with the money going to her charities.
Griff had said, “Whatever you want, dear,” before rushing off to Nevada for business.
“Slow down, darling, you’ll miss your life.” That’s what she’d said to him that last morning.
He’d responded distractedly, “Yes, of course, my love. Remember, I’ll be at the de’Scala until Monday. Maxwell Scala offered his personal penthouse suite. Timothy can fly you out if you change your mind.” He kissed her forehead and left. That conversation always haunted him because he’d ever after have to wonder if she had said life…or wife.
After Grace passed, Griff abruptly and effectively retired from all his active roles in Pierce Industries, giving over the day to day operations to his more than capable CEO, Gloria Lang, and taking on a supervisory role. She’d been groomed for this very inevitability, but she—like the rest of the world—had been stunned.
He had no need of any of it, a realization that came too late to matter to his wife. Losing Grace had changed him and caused him to reassess his values. He could, after all, afford to do as he pleased. As Forbes once noted, Griff Pierce’s wealth was well within Rockefeller ranking. His grandfather’s father had built a dynasty and passed it from one generation to the next, right down the line to Griffin Robert Pierce IV. Their commodity was one that would never become unnecessary—energy. Their top client was the United States government. The family fortunes had been amassed, reinvested, and managed with a single-minded ambition that was passed straight down the line.
The Pierce men were cut from the same cloth. Steely-eyed businessman, competitive, and confident. Respected, admired, and to those in their social circles, well-liked. The Pierce women were no less formidable, able to stand up to and beside their men. Grace—despite her frail heart—was no different. The fact that Griff and Grace had no children to carry on the name and company was of no little consequence to Griff, nor had it been to Grace. However, the strain of pregnancy and subsequent birth was deemed too great a risk. The subject of adoption had been broached and agreed upon, but Griff was always busy with work. Then her health declined considerably, and it became too late.
He supposed he would always feel a sense of loss, an absence where children were concerned. But most of all he regretted the time not spent with Grace. Griff had worked when he should’ve been taking his frail wife for trips around the world. Or just spending time with her. Alas, all he could do now was carry on her dream.
Griff looked down at the grand old dog beside him. He scratched behind John Wayne’s ear and told him, “Six years, old boy. She’s been gone six whole years. And I must admit, I’m lonely, J.W.” John Wayne gave a low chuff, and Griff laughed. “Oh, now, don’t be insulted. You’re great company.”
Together they watched the others romp and run in the tall grass toward the sandy lakeshore. Griff sighed, a small smile settling on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His troubles may have been few, but they weighed heavily.
JENNA
Jenna marveled at how trusting both Kate Hepburn and Myrna Loy were of her with their pups. In all the dogs she’d walked over the last few years, she’d never seen an Irish Wolfhound, let alone six grown ones. She felt an almost giddy joy at the realization that she would get to hang out with those gorgeous, ginormous beasts in the most unbelievably beautiful setting she’d ever been in. And there’d been quite a few.
Each move had been emotionally jarring and disorienting, despite her attempt to stay in mostly small towns similar to home. She’d left her small Connecticut suburb where she’d been raised and slipped with surprising ease into life as Jenna Barton, a dog groomer in Madison, Georgia. Then again, in Farmville, Virginia as Jenna Fisher. Later, in Charleston, South Carolina, she was a dog walker. That had been her favorite place, and where she’d come closest to making an actual friend. But just like the other destinations before and after it, it was short-lived. Dane was never far behind.
“Okay, Mrs. Martino, I’ll take Alfred to the park for his walk and then bring him back by noon,” Jenna called over her shoulder to the elderly woman as she took the leash. She left quickly to avoid conversation, and within fifteen minutes Jenna and the little Yorkie entered the park. She made to turn right, away from the more populated areas, but Alfred stopped in his tracks. She followed his quizzical gaze and saw a beautiful, well-dressed woman alone on a park bench a mere few feet away. Her head was bowed, and her shoulders shook. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know she was crying. Jenna bit her lip. Should she check on the woman, or pretend she hadn’t noticed? Alfred decided for her, letting out a very loud yip from his tiny mouth. The woman startled, wiping her eyes and blushing.
; “I’m sorry,” Jenna stammered and let the dog pull her forward, toward the woman. She smiled through her tears, and Jenna felt grateful to the little pup for making their decision. Clearly, she could use a shoulder to cry on. It turned out the woman—Kylie—had lost someone dear to her and was heartbroken. Jenna’s heart clenched, and her thoughts went to her mother. She’d sounded sick the last time they spoke. She swore she was fine, but…it was best not to think about it.
She watched Kylie with Alfred and smiled. They were mutually taken with one another. When Kylie wondered aloud if she should get a dog of her own, Jenna couldn’t help but encourage it, and gave her one of her plain, no-frills business cards—it was just her first name and a hand-printed phone number, really—for just in case. They chatted a few minutes longer and Jenna allowed herself to pretend that they were just two good friends sharing a moment. Then she remembered that friendships weren’t an option. Regretfully, she scooped up little Alfred and said goodbye, noting that Kylie seemed considerably better than when they’d first encountered her. “Good boy, Alfred,” whispered Jenna to the jolly Yorkie as they walked away.
A few days later, Jenna entered the same park with the same little dog leading the way. She told herself she didn’t care if Kylie—her friend for pretend—was there or not, but of course, her eyes went straight to the bench where she’d been sitting. Jenna hadn’t realized she’d stopped until the Yorkie chuffed and pawed impatiently at her.
She lifted him and nuzzled her face in his silky fur, then said, “Well, you can’t blame me for hoping. You liked her too, Alfred.” Jenna was just about to set the pooch on the ground when a man’s voice called out.
“Excuse me, are you Jenna?”
She took several steps backward, eying him warily. “No. You’ve got me confused with—”
“That’s Alfred, right?” The young man was in a business suit and looked out of place in the park.
“I—who wants to know?”
“Sorry, Miss Courier sent me to find you. She wanted me to tell you that she very much appreciated your kindness the other day and would like you to have this.” He pressed an envelope into her hand.
“I’m sorry, but who is Miss Courier?” Jenna was genuinely dumbfounded. Relieved too.
The man’s eyes widened, and he cocked his head at her. “Kylie Courier? Granddaughter of Kyle Courier?” Seeing no dawning of understanding cross Jenna’s face, he added in an incredulous tone, “Owner of the NFL Cougars. You’re not from around here, are you?”
Jenna ignored his question and opened the envelope. It was a VIP pass to the next game, in the owner’s suite. She was stunned and excited, then she quickly deflated. Still, maybe, just maybe she could go. She would remember that foolish thought bitterly later.
“I don’t know what to say. I—thank you.”
“No problem. Glad I found you. Miss Courier will be pleased.” He gave a short wave and left her there, standing slack-jawed with a VIP pass and a Yorkie in her hands, staring after him.
It was then that a hulking figure caught her eye down the path. She stiffened, and a cold sweat prickled all over her body. It was him. Dane. She watched, frozen, as he selected a bench along the path and sat down. He had a newspaper under his arm and a coffee in hand. His blond head began a slow sweep of the park. As his profile came into view, her adrenalin kicked in hard and she backstepped into the shadows of the tall oak trees. She waited until he faced the other way again, then walk-ran to the farthest exit.
Jenna was breathless with near hysteria by the time she reached Mrs. Martino’s house. She handed her the leash, made stammered, vague apologies for the early return, and left her gaping in dismayed confusion after her. She could not tell elderly Mrs. Martino that her crazy ex-fiancé—a man who’d regularly threatened to kill anyone who got close to her—had tracked her down again.
An hour later she was on yet another bus to anywhere but there. The first ticket she bought got her as far as Nashville, where she stayed for a few days to regroup and make a plan. In a bar called—ironically—the Hideaway, she overheard a bartender talking about Washington. It seemed a good a place as any. Hell, maybe even better than any, since it was on the other side of the country.
Two days later, and her cash flow dangerously depleted, she walked into a café in the heart of Seattle. Sandy Beach Café, read the sign. The comforting smells of fresh coffee and pie enveloped her as she slipped through the door and sat in a far corner booth, facing the door. She sank down into the worn, smooth vinyl wearily, but her body remained tense and alert. It had become a matter of habit for Jenna to be virtually invisible to the rest of the world. Muted clothing, baseball caps, corner booths she could shrink into. Draw no attention, this was her mantra.
As if confirming the effectiveness, the waitress passed by twice before seeing her. Jenna didn’t mind, the young woman—Sandy, said her nameplate—seemed to have quite an interesting drama playing out on the floor of the café. From what Jenna could tell, she had two very handsome suitors vying for her affection. The waitress seemed flustered and agitated by the second man, but the first guy, well there was no denying their chemistry.
This was her life now. Living vicariously through the little snippets of life she had become a voyeur of. Was Dane ever going to give up and move on? Jenna sighed. The waitress walked by, glanced at her, then did a double take.
“Hey, there. Didn’t see you come in. I’m Sandy. Can I get you a cup of…are you all right, hon?”
“What? Oh, yeah, fine. Thanks. Coffee would be great.” Jenna made a point to relax her shoulders and unfurrow her brow. The waitress looked as though she wanted to say something more, but her eyes also darted to where the second, remaining man sat. The first guy had left, but not before shooting daggers at the other one on his way out. “Really, I’m fine. Looks like you’ve got a situation over there to handle.” Jenna grinned and thrust her chin in the direction of the young man staring at the waitress intently.
Sandy rolled her eyes and shook her head, “You don’t know the half of it! He kept me waiting once, now he can wait while I grab your coffee.” A moment later she set the steaming mug down in front of Jenna, then stage-whispered, “Wish me luck,” before striding over to the man.
Jenna covertly watched their exchange, keeping the bill of her cap low and her mug poised before her face. All too soon her coffee was finished. Jenna left her payment and a tip on the table, grabbed a newspaper from the rack, and mentally wished Sandy good luck before she slipped out the door. No one noticed.
That afternoon, Jenna found a one-room rental in the house of a young couple who—to Jenna’s great relief—were willing to take her in without the usual first, last, and security fees. In the same newspaper, she’d found the rental, she had circled four dog walker wanted ads. Though she was off to a good start, Jenna couldn’t quell the melancholy feeling brought on by the steady Seattle rain. Never mind the fact that she was alone in yet another strange place, isolated from her only family, and uncertain when she’d ever feel safe again.
Jenna stayed in Seattle for only three months before the gravitational pull of home and a perhaps false sense of safety made her pack up her things. She just had to head back to New England. She called her mother from the bus station to let her know. On the third ring, an unfamiliar voice answered the phone.
“Hello?” It was a woman, but not her mother.
“I think I dialed the wrong number, sor—”
“Is this Jenna, by any chance?”
Jenna was silent. Dread filled her gut like hot lead. “Y-yes. Who’re you?”
“Oh, honey. This is Rose. From next door? I’m afraid something’s happened to your mom, and—”
“She’s in the hospital. Right? That’s where she is.” Jenna willed it to be so.
“I—I’m afraid not, dear. Your mom passed last week. It was her heart, the doctor believes. I remembered that she mentioned once that you couldn’t be reached, that she waited for you to call her once a month
, so I hung on to her cell phone, just in case.” Jenna said nothing, and Rose rushed to fill the void. “Now, don’t worry about a thing. Your gentleman friend—Mr. Andersen? He’s been such a dear. Handled everything. In fact, he’s just come up the walkway. He’s been quite anxious to talk to you. Hang on, I’ll let him speak.”
Dane’s rich baritone filled the phone line and wormed into her ear. “Time to come home, sweetheart.”
Jenna ended the call and dropped the phone into the trash. There was no home. Not anymore. The world went on around her, oblivious to her tears and her grief. Behind her, a couple argued.
“Arizona? What do you mean, Arizona? Sure, ya got the desert. But I tell ya, I’d go to New York City, baby.”
“New York? No way. You can’t make your mark there, Fiona. Mark my words, go to the Big Apple, and poof! You’re instantly invisible. At least in…”
Jenna walked away, heading straight for ticketing. She put on her sunglasses and tugged the bill of her hat down and said, “What’s the best route to get to New York City?”
Two days later she began a semblance of a life in there. This time as Jenna Maxwell. The first week went by in a blur. As if on a loop reel, Jenna watched the last time she’d seen her mother’s face. She was on her mother’s doorstep, and it was the night she left home.
“Mom,” Jenna had said, “it’ll only be for a few months. Just until he…I don’t know, moves on or something.”
“Oh, honey. Shouldn’t we call the police instead? Get a restraining order? This seems so extreme, Jenna.” Then her worried eyes narrowed. “Is there something you’re leaving out, honey? You can tell me. I can—”
“It’s my mess, Mom. I got myself in it, I’ll get myself out.” Jenna stood under the porch light, trying to hide the fear tremors that wracked her body in waves. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve listened to you. Dane is—well, it doesn’t matter. I’m done.”
