Must Love Dogs: (Book 1)

by Claire Cook

  . . . . .

  I heard the knock at my door while I was brushing my teeth. Carol. Probably stopping by to make sure I had enough ice. When I'd talked to her earlier, she'd thanked me again and said Siobhan was like a new person, laughing and joking. Why, she'd even set the table without being asked.

  I was still brushing when I opened the door to Ray Santia. "Hi," he said while I wiped toothpaste from the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. "Sorry to just show up like this. But I left you about ten messages first."

  "That's okay," I lied. I was wearing the thick kind of gray sweatpants that nobody had worn for years. And Winnie the Pooh slippers that one of the kids had given me for Christmas last year. Most of my face was covered in a slippery moisturizer with retinol and, as if in tribute to a lingering adolescence, I had a dot of Clearasil on my right cheek and another one on my forehead. I shut my eyes to make Ray disappear.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Okay."

  "Then you'll have to open the door a little wider."

  I turned quickly, which sent a rush of pain through my abdomen, kind of pushed the door open with my heel, and made a beeline for the bathroom. "Be right back," I yelled. I grabbed a wet washcloth and scrubbed while I kicked off the slippers. Brushed on mascara with one hand while I used the other to dry my face with a damp towel. "Make yourself at home," I shouted in the hallway between the bathroom and my bedroom. I locked the bedroom door behind me in case Ray took that literally. Stepped into a pair of loose pants that had landed on the floor earlier in the week, pulled them up carefully over my navel, and grabbed a T-shirt I hoped was a step up from the one I slept in but wouldn't look like I was trying too hard.

  Ray was leaning against my kitchen counter. "You didn't have to change for me."

  "I didn't." It was true. I'd changed for me. So that I wouldn't have to think about how bad he thought I looked.

  "Okay. Well, whatever, you look good. Now where were we before you disappeared on me the other night?" Ray smiled. In the harsh light of my kitchen it seemed an arrogant smile, not all that far from a sneer. I noticed he'd taken off his boots, which seemed fairly presumptuous given that we barely knew each other. His hair looked funny, too, maybe a bad case of hat hair he'd tried to fluff up on the way to my door.

  "I think we should go sit down in the living room," I said.

  "Your wish is my command." Kevin used to say that when we were married. I'd found it an irritating phrase. I mean, it's not like he ever meant it.

  Ray sat next to me on the couch, draped his arm across the top of it, inches above my shoulders. If I leaned my head back, we would touch. I stayed where I was. "So, where's your puppy?" he asked. "Asleep?"

  "Well, actually," I began. He lowered his hand to my shoulder and I jumped, just a little, but enough to feel a jolt of pain from my navel. "Ouch," I said, my eyes filling with tears.

  "Are you okay?" Ray slid over on the coach, as if he might catch something.

  "Just a little minor surgery," I said.

  "Oh, I'm sorry." Ray looked at me for more information. "Do you want me to leave?"

  "Actually, Ray, there are a couple of things I need to tell you. I don't have a dog. You know June, the teacher you talked to on the phone? It's her dog. And, by the way, she liked you a lot, and you know, if you want to call her or anything, it's fine with me."

  Ray considered this for a minute. "What's she like?"

  "She's a babe," I said.

  I heard the slamming of drawers in the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of Carol's voice. "Jesus, Sarah, you're a total slob. I can't find anything here."

  . . . . .

  "Sorry to scare him away. I never would have walked in like that if I knew you had a live one here. I didn't see an extra car in your driveway. Guess I didn't factor in a street parker."

  "That's okay. We'd already decided we weren't right for each other."

  "Why, is he married?"

  "No."

  "Well, then, I don't know what your problem is." Carol had taken over Ray's place on my couch. Her feet were on my coffee table next to a bottle of Merlot she'd brought. I leaned over the bottle with a corkscrew, careful not to disrupt my ice pack, while Carol stirred a bowl of macaroni and cheese. "It's kind of runny. What'd you do to it?"

  "Just try it."

  "Mmm, this is good." While Carol ate, I poured the Merlot into two glasses. I wondered if I should warn her that she was about to mix red and white wine. Decided I didn't want to hear her lecture about how I lived like a transient and, if nothing else, I should at least consider making a commitment to groceries. "So, what went wrong?" she asked.

  It took me a minute to realize she meant Ray and not the pasta. I sipped my wine, wondered. "I don't know. We went out the other night and one minute I was enjoying myself and the next minute he was looking for condoms and I was thinking, I don't know anything about this guy."

  "You mean like who he's been with?"

  "No. I mean, sure. I bet you always think about that. But it was more like I didn't even know his middle name or his favorite color."

  "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah."

  "I know, that sounded silly even to me."

  Carol put the empty bowl down and I handed her a glass of wine. She slid over to the far end of the couch, tucked a pillow behind her back, shifted around so she could put her feet on the middle cushion. Her socks smelled like wet wool. "Dennis and I couldn't find a condom once." She paused, smiled.

  I waited, not particularly wanting to hear Carol's condom story but knowing there would be no stopping it.

  "Wanna know what we used?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Saran Wrap."

  I spit my wine back into my glass. "God, Carol. Thank you so much for that vivid image." I disliked Dennis enough without having to think about his plastic-wrapped penis. I decided to move the story along, just to get it over with. "So, how'd it work?"

  "Not very well. Siobhan was born nine months and five days later."

  I tried the wine again. "You think Saran Wrap has improved over the years? Better grip, fewer leaks?"

  "Yeah, it comes in colors now, too. I imagine the rose would be the most flattering."

  "You ever try it, just for old times' sake?"

  "Nah, Dennis wouldn't think it was funny. He can be such an asshole."

  I let that sink in. Carol actually knew that Dennis was an asshole. I thought carefully about how to phrase my next question. "So you actually know that Dennis can be an asshole? I mean, not that he is all the time or anything."

  "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. I've only been married to him for almost two decades."

  "So, what's the up side?"

  "Oh, I don't know. The kids are great, even Siobhan, sometimes. He's a good dad. I love him. And he still makes me laugh."

  "Kevin never made me laugh." It was probably a slight exaggeration, but it had the feel of truth. "He didn't really listen to me either. I could tell when he was pretending to. He'd repeat the last two words of everything I said."

  Carol took a sip and considered this. "You mean like, if you said, 'Oh, Kevin, you have such a nice ass,' he'd say, 'Nice ass'?"

  "Yeah, and if I said, 'I want to wrap you in Saran Wrap,' he'd say . . ."

  "Saran Wrap," we yelled together. We laughed and laughed. Our laughter was the kind that comes in spasms, and hurts your stomach after a while, even if you didn't just get it pierced.

  Chapter

  Twenty-nine

  Just as I was walking Carol to the door, Mother Teresa burst in. If my life kept up, I was going to have to think about installing a revolving door.

  Michael was right behind her. "Mother Teresa, sit!" he tried. Mother Teresa trotted a few laps around the kitchen, then headed down the hallway, probably looking for greener pastures.

  Michael started after her. "Let her go," I said. "She's fine." Michael shrugged, stood just inside the door to let the snow melt onto the kitchen mat. "Gee, Michael, have you been trying
to reach me? I haven't been answering the phone." I unwrapped the towel from the ice pack, put the ice pack back in the freezer. Maybe I was just getting used to the pain, but my stomach didn't seem to be throbbing at all now.

  "No." Michael clomped over, sat in a kitchen chair, rubbed his face with both hands.

  "Did you hear I got my navel pierced?"

  "No, sorry. I guess I missed the news bulletin." He shrugged his shoulders. "Phoebe kicked us out. Both of us. I was hoping Mother Teresa and I could move in with you for a while. Just till I figure what to do?"

  "Of course you can, Michael."

  "No, he can't." Carol stepped back out of her boots, walked around to sit across from Michael at the table. "Don't be an idiot, Michael. It's almost Christmas. Go home, tell Phoebe you're sorry, even if you're not. Tell her you love her, love the kids, all that stuff. And leave the dog here."

  Michael looked as if he was about to cry. "I'm just so sick and tired of fighting over every single little thing. If it weren't for the girls . . ."

  "So don't fight," Carol said. "And if Phoebe starts something, don't fight back."

  "Well, I've tried that. But then she says I'm giving her the silent treatment."

  I didn't know quite how to say it. "I don't get it, Michael. You and Phoebe, what exactly is your problem?"

  Michael put his head down by his knees and scratched his scalp with both sets of fingernails. "Good question," he said. He sat up, rubbed his hands back and forth from his knees to his thighs. "We're just so different. I like to stay home. She wants to go out more. She thinks the kids need structure. I think they should have fun like we did growing up. I don't know, it all sounds so small, but it's exhausting."

  "Well," Carol said, "you're not going to solve any of it if you move in here."

  As soon as I handed Michael a beer, my father arrived. In my family, when one person showed up, another was sure to follow, as if there was some natural law of synchronicity. So I wasn't even surprised to see him. If he'd given me the chance, I would have asked what took him so long.

  But of course Dad had his own opening line. "I have the distinct impression that my very own family is smack-dab in the middle of a party to which I was not invited."

  "Yeah," Michael said. "And we almost got away with it." He took another sip of his beer. "How's it going, Dad?"

  "Can't complain, Mikey-boy. Can't complain at all. I was just headin' home, saw the cars in the driveway." He watched as Michael took a long, sad sip of beer. "Hey, what's your tale, nightingale?"

  Michael stood up, poured the rest of the beer down the sink. He walked over to our father, managed to shake his hand and hug him at the same time. "Nothing, Dad. I gotta go. I just stopped by because I hadn't heard from Sarah in a while."

  I slid my feet into my father's boots and followed Michael out to his car to get Mother Teresa's things. "Michael, you know you're always welcome here. We'll just have to hide you from Carol."

  Michael smiled sadly. "Thanks. Carol's right though, about staying here not helping things. I guess I've got to try talking to Phoebe. I mean, really try. God, I hate this stuff. I'm just so bad at it."

  "Maybe it's genetic. But, Michael, if I have one big regret about my marriage with Kevin . . ." I took a breath, traced a squiggly line through the snow on Michael's car with my bare finger. "You know, when we just started drifting apart, it's that, well, I wish I'd tried a little harder."

  Michael loaded me up with Mother Teresa's food and bowls and toys, said he'd be back for her tomorrow. Then he kissed me on the top of my head and said thanks.

  . . . . .

  Mother Teresa had her head in my lap. We were sitting on the floor, across the coffee table from Dad and Carol. "You're a good cook, Sarah. All my girls are good cooks, thank the good Lord." He was finishing the macaroni and cheese, which had certainly been a hit. "So what were you kiddos talking about when your old dad walked in?"

  I waited for Carol to answer. She was pouring the last of the Merlot for Dad, while I leaned across Mother Teresa to fill our glasses with seltzer. "Oh, you know, Dad. Life and love and why people stay together and why they don't."

  My father nodded. "Well, I can't say I haven't cast an eyeball at that question a few times in my life. How a saint like your mother ever fell for a flutter bum like me . . ."

  "She was crazy about you, Dad. We all know that." I looked at Carol for confirmation. She smiled vacantly, probably still reliving her condom adventures.

  "Well, if I had to put it down to any one thing, I'd have to say the great magic for me was that I never once stopped wanting to know what your mother thought about something. Couldn't wait to get home to tell her some crazy thing. All day long I'd be saving up stories to razzle-dazzle her with at night. Even now, when something happens, I think about how I'm going to tell it to her." He wiped what might have been a tear from his eye, took a sip of wine. Carol sighed.

  I scratched Mother Teresa behind her ears. My father continued. "I still talk to your mother every night. Tonight I'll tell her how happy I was to spend time with two of my girls. How Carol still has her eyes, and Christine has her lovely smile."

  "Sarah, Dad. Sarah."

  "Just making sure you're awake, Sarry girl." He raised an eyebrow at me. "And I won't breathe a word to her about this belly button nonsense. I don't want her to think I'm letting our little girls turn into a bunch of floozies."

  . . . . .

  Carol was the last to leave. We hugged carefully at the door. "Thanks, Carol. And thanks for helping out with Michael. I would have just let him move in. You're right, of course. He and Phoebe have too much going for them to let a little fight split them up."

  "What are you talking about? Michael and Phoebe don't have a prayer."

  "What?"

  "Phoebe's spoiled and entitled and if she's not falling apart about Mother Teresa, she'll just find something else."

  How was I ever going to learn to see this stuff? I wondered if there was a course I could take. I wondered how Carol and I emerged from the same gene pool. "So, why'd you send him back home, Carol? I don't get it."

  "What's not to get? It's Christmas, he's got kids and a wife, and how much fun could it be for him here with you?"

  "Gee, thanks."

  "You know what I mean." Carol zipped up her parka, put a hand on the doorknob. "Any other questions?"

  "Yeah, about Dad. Do you buy all that stuff about him still talking to Mom?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "That's nice. Sad, maybe, but nice."

  "But, Sarah, factor in that this is also a man who's dating at least two women. That we know of."

  I waved to Carol as she backed out of the driveway. Mother Teresa joined me at the door. I held on to her collar, and we stood for a while with our faces peeking out into the cold, flaky night. I didn't know about Mother Teresa, but I was wondering why anyone ever ended up with anyone.

  . . . . .

  Bob Connor called and said he had a better offer. He picked me up early Saturday night and we drove to the highway and headed south. "Come on, tell me," I pleaded, even though I was thrilled not to have any idea where we were going. I was also a little bit relieved to be getting out of town, since I still wasn't comfortable being seen with the father of one of my students. Apparently, though, not so uncomfortable that I wasn't doing it anyway.

  "Not on your life. The element of surprise is a part of my strategy. Ms. Hurlihy."

  I watched Bob's profile as we drove around the Cape Cod rotary, took a break to appreciate the view over the sides of the Sagamore Bridge, turned back again to Bob. "Well," I said, probably fishing for a compliment, "I hope I'm at least dressed for wherever it is we're going."

  "It wouldn't have mattered. You'd be perfect anyway."

  I looked down at my outfit with alarm. "Does that mean I'm dressed wrong?" I'd figured on dinner and decided on a black skirt and tights with a soft orchid sweater.

  "No, Sarah, it means you'd be amazingly gorgeous no matter what
you wore." He took his eyes off the road and looked me up and down. "That was the part where I butter you up. Another integral part of my strategy."

  "And what strategy might that be, Mr. Connor? Or is that a secret, too?"

  "No secret at all. I'm bound and determined to get you to fall for me. Hook, line and sinker."

  . . . . .

  It's probably not the type of restaurant I would have chosen, I thought, as I looked at Bob Connor in the flickering candlelight. The safari theme was a bit overdone, so many animal prints in so little space. The table appeared to have been made from an elephant foot with a round of glass placed on top of it. I was afraid to ask if it was real. Bob and I sat on big, overstuffed pillows, I assumed because the table was so short.

  "Pretty exotic, huh?" Bob said. "And this is just the beginning of our little walk on the wild side." He picked up his blood red glass of wine and clinked it against my glass of white. "To us."

  "To us," I repeated, trying out the sound of it.

  I was half-expecting the menu to have things like ostrich and buffalo, but instead it was an orgy of more traditional fare like pasta primavera and baked stuffed seafood casserole. I searched for something not swimming in cheese sauce, finally decided on the grilled swordfish. Bob ordered the steak-and-seafood medley. "Variety," he said, "the spice of life."

  Bob was thoroughly attentive throughout the meal. He charmed me, cajoled me, sweet-talked me. I basked in the warmth of his flattery, the luxury of his focus.

  While we were sipping our coffee, he reached over and held my hand. "There's more to the surprise," he said.

  "I had a feeling."

  "I reserved the Huggles and Bubbles Suite."

  "What kind of a safari name is that?"

  "Who cares?"

  . . . . .

  It is very disorienting to wake up in a round bed. It doesn't help to peer across the room through an opaque cloud of mosquito netting to a heart-shaped Jacuzzi, no longer frothing with foam, but a presence all the same. There were several possible reasons why I'd ended up here. Perhaps it was because I was dying to see what the room would look like. Not sleeping with Ray might have made me statistically and hormonally more apt to sleep with the next guy. Bob was cute and funny and I liked him. And it had been so very long since I'd slept with anyone. Besides Mother Teresa.