A Soft Place to Fall

by Barbara Bretton

  "Damn New Yorker," he said, softening his words with a smile of his own. "I should've found myself a Mainer for a partner. At least New Englanders know when to keep their mouths shut."

  At that Ellen threw back her head and laughed. "I might have believed that malarkey about taciturn New Englanders before I moved up here, but not anymore. When it comes to gossip, Shelter Rock Cove is ground zero."

  Ellen was right, as usual, about both the town and his feelings. You couldn't hide much from your partner when you ran a small practice in an even smaller town. Ellen had been in Shelter Rock Cove for less than a year but already she had a better grasp on the town's history, both social and cultural, than most of the born-and-bred townies. She had an instinctive understanding for family dynamics and she could sniff out a budding romance from six blocks away.

  She pitied him. Didn't that beat all? He was a highly-respected member of the community, a doctor who loved his patients and dedicated himself to their care. Hell, he gave out his home phone number to nervous expectant parents so when the big moment came they knew they would be able to find him. Even his ex-wives sent him Christmas and birthday cards every year. He had a great car, a big house, a fat bank account, two healthy and happy college-age daughters and two more barely out of pre-school. Not exactly the kind of guy most people would pity but, damn it, that didn't stop Ellen Markowitz, M.D. from doing exactly that. He saw it every time she leveled those big grey eyes in his direction or wrinkled her brow at the mention of Annie Galloway's name.

  You're right, Markowitz, he thought as he climbed behind the wheel of his Land Rover and started the engine. I've been in love with Annie Lacy Galloway since high school and she doesn't know I'm alive, not the way I want her to.

  She was the standard by which he judged all women and found them wanting. He'd loved her when he was a senior in high school and she was a painfully young freshman with eyes for only Kevin Galloway. He and Kevin's sister Susan ran with the same crowd and most nights they all ended up on the front porch of the Galloway house, laughing and talking while the The Knack and Blondie provided the soundtrack to their lives. He remembered the day Annie moved in with the Galloways. She was a senior by then, more lovely than ever before and even more out of his reach.

  He was the Kindly Family Friend, comfortable and dependable as an old pair of Birks and about as exciting.

  Not exactly the way a man wanted the woman of his dreams to think of him.

  Susan had been on his back for months now, urging him to step out of the shadows and into Annie's life but after twenty-five years of playing background music, he wasn't sure he knew how to solo. "What are you waiting for?" she demanded. "You're alone and so is she. You've known each since forever. Don't you think it's time you made your move?"

  He stopped for a red light where the hospital parking lot fed into Harbor Road, the town's main thoroughfare. He watched, mesmerized, as the young couple in the lime-green VW behind him, fell into a tangled embrace the second their car rolled to a stop. Over the years he had imagined Annie Lacy Galloway in just about every situation a man could invent, but he couldn't imagine her going at it at a stoplight. Annie was too self-assured, too dignified for that. He had no doubt she was a warm and passionate woman but she was the kind of woman who kept those passions private.

  The couple behind him untangled themselves. The driver beeped his horn twice and gestured toward the green light swinging overhead. Red-faced, Hall gunned the engine and sped away, feeling like a middle-aged pervert.

  "What are you dragging your feet for, Talbot?" Susan had asked him. "An engraved invitation from Annie?"

  What was wrong with picking up a stack of pizzas and running them by her new house? He'd grab a couple of six-packs, a few sodas, maybe a half-gallon of ice cream and a dozen roses, and take his chances. He wasn't entirely sure he was doing the right thing but so far doing the right thing hadn't helped him win the fair lady's heart. Maybe it was time to step out on a limb and take a chance.

  It wasn't like he had anything to worry about. Annie's manners were impeccable. She would never embarrass him. If she thought he'd gone too far, she would never say so. She would greet him warmly, hand him something cold to drink, then drift away into the crowd, leaving the family friend to fend for himself.

  #

  Ceil had been packing groceries at The Yankee Shopper for as long as Annie could remember. Each morning she took her place at register one and watched the people of Shelter Rock Cove come and go. If you wanted to know what was happening in town, all you had to do was ask Ceil. She had been the first one to know that the Liccardis had broken up. Ceil claimed if Angie hadn't wanted the world to know her business, she shouldn't have bought the single lamb chop and one sorry little baking potato then waited five minutes for Ceil's line to move when Dave at register three was standing there, twiddling his thumbs.

  It wasn't Ceil's fault that she was a natural-born detective who had every episode of Murder She Wrote on tape. Besides, what woman worth her salt wouldn't have noticed that Frankie Carll was drowning his sorrows in Oreos and Heavenly Hash and growing jowls like a basset hound. When a middle-aged man buzzed through the express lane twice a day, you knew things weren't going well at home.

  So it was no surprise to Annie when Ceil glanced at the bags of potato chips and pretzels, the popcorn, and the four dozen cans of soda on the conveyor belt and said, "Moving day, honey?"

  Annie smiled at the older woman and nodded. "Afraid I misjudged my helpers' appetites. I'm always amazed at how much food teenagers can consume." Not to mention their parents and friends.

  Ceil slid a bag of chips across the scanner with a world-weary sigh. "You wouldn't say that if you had a tribe of your own. When my boys were young, I swore they were going to eat us out of house and home. Why my milk bill alone would have set a grown man to weeping." She peered at Annie with curious dark eyes. "Not meaning any offense, honey. No, you have it easy, all things considered. At least you're not a single mother, struggling to make ends meet without a husband."

  Years ago Ceil's innocent words about her childless state would have cut Annie to the quick, but she had long ago learned how to deflect these little unintentional hand grenades. All you had to do was smile, nod, and keep your mouth shut. It was easy, really, once you got the knack of it, especially if you had bigger secrets to keep.

  "So how did your daughter-in-law's blueberry jam turn out?" she asked and Ceil, bless her chatty heart, shifted conversational gears and launched into a detailed critique of Emily's canning technique that made Annie shudder inwardly. Poor Emily used too much sugar, didn't clean up after herself, and wouldn't know a ripe blueberry if it jumped up and bit her on the ankle. Annie whispered a prayer of thanks that she had never had those problems with Claudia. If anything, Claudia loved her so much that her own daughters sometimes grew irritated. "Don't forget I'm the one who inherited your thighs," Susan had been known to say to her mother upon occasion. A gentle, daughterly reminder that never failed to infuriate Claudia, who didn't think her thighs were joke-worthy, and made Annie (who wouldn't have minded inheriting Claudia's thighs) laugh.

  "You take care now, honey," Ceil said as Annie pocketed her change, "and don't eat too many of those potato chips. We both know where all that grease ends up once a girl hits that certain age." She eyed Annie's midsection and ran a plump hand over her own size 18 hips in warning, then turned to the next customer before she had a chance to see Annie's jaw drop open in utter astonishment.

  Okay, so maybe her jeans were a bit tighter than they had been six months ago but since when did an extra ten pounds merit a lecture from the nosiest woman in town? If she was really blimping up the way Ceil suggested, you would think Susan or Eileen or surely Claudia would have dropped a subtle hint or three. They had all been quick enough to tell her she was skin and bones after Kevin died. Shyness, after all, was not a Galloway family trait.

  Still, she was thirty-eight now, the age when all of those nice friendly hormones be
gin to shift and move around in preparation for some major redecorating. And it wasn't like she spent a lot of time gazing at her body in the mirror or anything. She couldn't remember the last time she had paid any attention to herself at all except to take care of basic grooming.

  She glanced at her reflection in the plate glass window as she headed for the Yankee Shopper exit. Her denim shirt was easily three sizes too large for her. Who knew what horrors were going on under there. And what was the deal with her hair anyway? She touched the top of her head and winced. She looked like she'd been in a fight with a Weedwacker and lost the battle.

  To hear Ceil tell it, bad hair was the least of her worries. She was wondering whether or not she'd be able to maneuver her hips through the exit door this time next week when she noticed the dog sitting behind the wheel of her car.

  It wasn't so much that there was a dog in the driver's seat that brought her up short; it was more the size of the dog. The Labrador retriever filled the seat so completely, like a big yellow bear, that Annie couldn't imagine how he had been able to squeeze through the partially opened window to climb inside in the first place.

  Annie wasn't a dog person. She could pill a cat without breaking into a sweat, trim razor-sharp feline claws, even bathe a reluctant tabby who had had an unfortunate encounter with a neighborhood skunk, but when it came to dogs she was clueless. The dog behind the wheel of her SUV was so big he could probably swallow a pot roast whole and consider it an appetizer.

  "Nice doggie," she said, wheeling her cart a few feet closer. "Don't you have some place to go?"

  The yellow Lab ignored her and kept looking straight ahead.

  She angled the cart to a stop near her right front tire then approached the door. "Out!" She patted the side of her leg and made a clicking sound. "Come on, pooch. It's too far for me to walk home and I doubt if you know how to drive."

  She reached for the door handle then jumped back when the dog's upper lip lifted just enough to reveal an impressive set of teeth.

  She didn't need to be told twice that it was time to regroup. She leaned against the shopping cart and considered her options. She wasn't a risk-taker by nature. She had never jumped out of an airplane, kayaked the rapids, or tried to smuggle homemade popcorn into the Shelter Rock Cove Cinema. She could always call home and ask Susan to come rescue her. Susan had a houseful of dogs. She would know what to do. Dog people always struck Annie as being very practical and down-to-earth.

  She glanced around the parking lot. A white Chevy Malibu was double-parked in front of the Kate's Laundromat next to the Yankee Shopper. The driver was a middle-aged woman named Marcy who Annie knew from the Annual Three Towns Firemen's Fair Bake Sale. Marcy was one of those skinny, nervous types who baked with applesauce instead of butter then swore she couldn't tell the difference. Marcy caught sight of Annie and waved a well-manicured hand in her direction.

  Annie considered cupping her hands around her mouth and bellowing, "Did you lose a yellow Lab?" but thought better of it. Marcy wasn't the kind of woman who ever lost anything, including (or so her ex-husband said) her virginity. She waved instead. The two Coleman girls ran barefoot along the sidewalk, shrieking as they burst through the laundromat door which meant Sarah's washing machine was still out of service.

  Near the pizza parlor, Fred Custis of Custis Hardware and Marvin Applegarth of Computer Solutions were engaged in conversation with Dave Small, owner of the diner up the road. They were the ones who had supported her successful bid for president of the Shelter Rock Cove Small Business Association. Their matching minivans were all parked facing north. She was sure they'd be glad to help her out of her current predicament.

  "Hey guys," she called out. "Anybody lose a yellow Lab?"

  They glanced her way, laughed when they saw the dog behind the wheel, then shook their heads and kept on yakking. That's it, guys? Nobody's going to come over here and take a closer look? Whatever happened to chivalry? When it came to things like spiders, stinging insects, and strange noises after midnight, Kevin had been her knight in shining armor. She would have liked to believe his chivalrous nature belonged to her alone but the truth was, Kevin had loved to ride in on his metaphorical white charger and make things right for everybody. He was the one you turned to if you ran out of gas on the back road or your car wouldn't start on one of those famously frigid Maine mornings. He was always happy to shovel your walk for you or help you dry-dock your boat in the fall.

  It was only when it came to the bigger things, like keeping a roof over their heads or trouble away from their door, that her knight in shining armor revealed his tragic flaw: real life.

  The dog leaned his big face out the window and looked straight at Annie.

  Annie leaned against her shopping cart and looked straight back at the dog. "I can outwait you, pooch."

  The dog, obviously unimpressed, yawned.

  Annie didn't.

  She considered it a moral victory and settled down to wait.

  #

  The cashier, a pillowy white-haired woman with curious brown eyes, slid the container of milk across the scanner then pointed toward the fifty-pound bag of dog chow. "Read me the numbers under the bar code," she told him in a no nonsense tone of voice. "No reason for me to get myself a hernia for Yankee Shopper, is there?"

  "None that I can think of," Sam said, wondering when New York attitude had made it up to Maine. He recited the string of numbers then waited for her to punch them in before he swung the bag to the end of the counter.

  She scrutinized the two dozen eggs, pound of bacon, bag of blueberry muffins, and can of coffee like his order was the Rosetta Stone. "You're the one who's moving into the Bancroft place, aren't you?"

  "Lucky guess," he asked, "or do you have a mug shot of me back there?"

  "I know everyone in town," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I don't know you. If you were passing through on your way to Bar Harbor, you wouldn't be here buying fifty pounds of dog chow and two dozen eggs. It's too late for the summer season and the only place up for rent was Bancroft's place and I heard it was going to a man from New York and with that accent where else could you be from?" She said it all without taking a breath.

  "You're good." He was impressed, if a bit taken aback by this introduction to the intimacy of small town New England life.

  He paid the bill then tucked the bag of dog chow under his right arm and gathered up his grocery bag in his left.

  "We have a special tomorrow on ground beef," she called out as he headed for the exit. "You might want to stock up."

  She probably kept a mental list of the dietary peculiarities of everyone in town. Buy an extra quart of milk and she'd suspect you of harboring a fugitive.

  He stopped on the narrow strip of sidewalk outside the store and stared at the handful of vehicles in the parking lot. Where the hell was his BMW? All he saw were aging Chevys, a cluster of minivans, and two beat-up SUVs. No sign of his BMW anywhere. His blood ran cold for a second as he thought about his beloved car being stripped and sold for parts and then he remembered that it wasn't his beloved car any longer. He had quit the lease early, paid off the penalty, then turned around and bought this junker.

  Thirty-five and he was losing it already. One of those beat-up black SUVs belonged to him, the one with the big yellow Lab sitting behind the wheel. But wait a second. The truck with the dog had Maine plates while the dogless truck boasted tags from the Empire State.

  Near the trucks a girl was leaning over a shopping cart piled high with potato chips, pretzels, and cases of soda. She wore a pair of faded and patched jeans, high-top sneakers, a denim shirt big enough to cover the cast of Friends, both male and female, but not so big that he couldn't see the dip of her waist or the sweet curve of her hips. Her hair, soft and curly and chestnut brown, was pulled back into a ponytail that danced between her shoulder blades. Sexy, artless, and off-limits because she couldn't be more than seventeen.

  "Your truck?" he asked.

  She nod
ded her head then turned slightly and looked up at him. "Your dog?"

  She wasn't seventeen after all and the realization brought him up short.Her dark blue eyes crinkled a bit at the outer corners and there were faint worry lines between her brows. She wore no makeup. Her skin was fair and the slightest shadow of freckles dusted her straight nose. She looked exhausted and more than a little bemused and he found himself imagining a husband and horde of hungry kids waiting for her at home.

  Definitely off-limits.

  "I didn't know Max could pick locks," he said for lack of anything better.

  "He didn't have to," she said, gesturing toward his vehicle. "He used the window.".

  "Impossible," he said, looking back at Max who seemed to be having the time of his life. "Max only moves when there's food involved."

  She groaned. "Oh, no! I have three pizzas in there."

  "Not anymore you don't." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out two twenties. "It's the least I can do," he said, handing them to her.

  "That's not necessary."

  "My dog ate your pizzas."

  "I should've kept my windows closed."

  "I should've watched kept a closer eye on Max."

  Her serious expression softened and he felt something shift slightly deep inside his chest. A small shift, but significant, as if time had stopped for an instant then started again when she smiled at him. Her mouth was full and he saw the faintest memory of smile lines at either side. He had never been the kind of man who read deeper meanings into every gesture a woman made but somehow he knew she hadn't been smiling a lot lately.

  Not your problem, Butler. Don't you have enough of your own these days? Married women had married problems and it was the wise single man who kept his distance. Especially if the single man found himself wondering how the married woman would look with that beautiful hair cascading over her bare shoulders . . .