“You got it right,” I said. “They’re untrained mongrels. Nothing you can do to stop him.” The twins came running in, ready to join the action. “Now you’re really in for it,” I said as they hopped up and landed on her legs, flinging fur and slobber in their wake.
“Remember when I was little and I wanted a dog?” she shouted between all the barks and pants. “I take it back!”
“Well, I’d love to help you, but I have to hop in the shower and get ready for my date.”
“Cam! Get them off me!”
Gus, a full-grown male Newfoundland, had to weigh a good one hundred and fifty pounds. The other two were about sixty a piece. Their enthusiasm was going to crush her if I didn’t pull them off. “Hang on, let me get a few treats!” I yelled.
I took the stairs as fast as my gimpy knee would let me, grabbed three fresh biscuits from the beehive jar on the kitchen counter, and climbed back up to my bedroom. “Here guys!” I called. “Treats!” The magic of the T word had them off the bed in two seconds flat. I tried commanding them by saying, “Sit!” like Betty had done by the canal, but I only got a few deep knee bends and tail wags in response.
We’d work on it.
• Thirteen •
I look like a Valentine,” I said, gazing in the mirror at myself all dolled up in Scarlett O’Hara’s red dress. “All frills and ruffles.”
“It’s very … wide, isn’t it?” Monica said, standing behind me, examining the dress with her head cocked to the side.
I spun around, knocking her back a step with my hoop skirt. “Wide isn’t a descriptive word a woman wants to hear before a date.”
The doorbell rang, and the dogs went ballistic. “I’ll go get that,” she said, “so you can make your grand entrance down the staircase.”
“Hysterical,” I muttered as she strode out of my bedroom.
I was having a shoe crisis. I couldn’t wear heels with my knee acting up, and the only flats I owned had thick rubber soles and laces. I could get away with the black ones if I wore pants, like this morning to the dreaded calling hours, but with this dress, I might as well be wearing gardening boots. But I couldn’t go barefoot. Not that it would matter with my giant dress on. Nobody would see my feet.
I tied on the black shoes with the thick rubber soles and hoped for the best. At the bedroom door, I had to stop and grab the knob, trepidation knocking the wind out of me.
I was going on a date. Why was I going on a date? This wasn’t a man I wanted to spend time with. This was getting even with Ben, and it made me sick to my stomach.
Too late to back out now. I rolled my shoulders around a few times, trying to relax, and forced myself out into the hallway. The trek down the stairs felt like a slippery descent into adultery. But Ben and I were separated, and he’d tested out the waters, so why shouldn’t I? Anyway, there was nothing more than friendship between Roger and I. I was accompanying an elderly friend to a Civil War dinner. There was no romance in that. No testing of another man’s waters—or whatever.
First the bottom step came into view, then the hardwood floor in the foyer, followed by two pairs of feet—Monica’s and a pair in shiny black men’s shoes. Those men’s shoes almost had me running right back up the steps, but my knee kept me from running anywhere. Step-by-step, my view of my waiting spectators grew wider. And then I realized something. The man standing beside Monica wasn’t Roger Tillerman. It was Ben.
He burst out laughing when I hit the bottom step. “Isn’t it a little early in the year for a Halloween party?”
“Or a little … old for prom?” Mia said, standing off to the side where I didn’t see her.
All I could do was stand there and seethe.
“She’s going to a Civil War dinner,” Monica said. “You try finding an evening dress from that era at the last minute.”
“Why are you even here?” I asked, whipping around the newel post and striding down the hallway to the kitchen.
“I brought Mia home,” he said, following me.
“Why? She had my car.”
“Yeah. We need to talk about that.”
I spun, making my skirt flare. “What happened?”
“Well, first of all, she’s fine. But she had a little accident,” he said, leaning his hands on the back of a chair at the table.
“How little?”
“Technically, it’s going to be up to your insurance company, but … ” He shrugged.
“But, what?”
“Considering the age of that car and what it’ll cost to repair the damage, I’m thinking it’s totaled.”
Behind my sternum, right between my breasts, a fire of rage ignited. Totaled. My car was totaled. Mia totaled my car. I was glad she wasn’t hurt, but the girl had never spoken to me without sarcasm and irritation. She couldn’t look at me without rolling her eyes, and her father was about to be sorry for bringing her to me to babysit.
“Cam, stay calm,” he said. “You’re shaking and turning red.”
“My car—I—you—ugh!” I couldn’t even form words. I was so mad, spots flashed before my eyes.
“We’ll get you a new one.”
“How much money do you think I’ll get from the insurance company? That car was only worth about a thousand dollars!” I’d had it since college. It was ancient, had more miles on it than I thought possible for a car to have, and was pretty much held together by duct tape and prayer.
He winced. “More like five hundred, but don’t worry. I already know where I can get one that’s only three years old, and I can get it cheap.”
“If it’s a newer car, then why is it cheap?” He was going to set me up in a car that was used in a drug deal and confiscated by the cops or something.
His hesitation confirmed my fear. This wasn’t going to be a car I wanted. “The owner died,” he said.
It took me a minute to put this puzzle piece into place, and then I gasped when I got the whole picture. “You want me to drive Jenn Berg’s car?”
“You already have her dogs, why not her car? It’s a sporty red Kia with low miles. You’ll like it.”
I wanted to drive that sporty red Kia right up his rear.
“Um, excuse me,” Monica said, breaking through the haze of disbelief clouding my brain. “Cam, your date’s here.”
Roger Tillerman stood behind her with a blue and red kepi hat perched on his head. He was dressed in full Union uniform and stared at my costume with an amused smile on his lips.
“Rhett Butler, I presume,” Ben said, holding out a hand to Roger. They shook, and Ben glanced back at me. I thought he might tell me to have a nice time or beg me not to go, but he didn’t. He left the house without another word.
Roger and I walked the two blocks to the Briar Bird Inn amongst a trainload of other men and women dressed in uniforms and petticoats. Although no other woman sported a shiny, fire-engine-red dress, there were quite a few in hoops. Mine was the biggest by far, probably exaggerated due to the fact that it was a costume and not a historical garment.
I had the distinct impression that my fellow patriots traipsing through town spent more time in their Civil War clothes than out of them. I knew there was a popular culture of reenactors and collectors, but I’d never met any of them before. It seemed like something that was poked fun at in TV and movies and not an activity that real people actually participated in. But here they were!
“Are you sure you want to go?” Roger asked, eyeing me with his watery blue eyes.
“Of course,” I said, plastering on a bright smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”
After the day I’d had, this dinner was the last thing I wanted to do, but at least I wasn’t at home resisting the urge to scream my lungs out at Mia. Roger hadn’t said a word about Ben, for which I was grateful.
“Do you do Civil War events a lot?” I asked.
“These tra
in rides, of course, for work, and our yearly reenactment with the Freemasons.”
“You’re a Freemason?”
“I’m a Shriner, which is part of the Freemasons.”
“Is Carl Finch?” I asked. Anytime I thought of Carl, I thought of Freemasons and Knights Templar, the Holy Grail and the Arc of the Covenant. “My handyman, Andy, is making a documentary about him and all of his religious artifacts.”
“Is he really?” Roger lifted his chin with interest. “I hope I get to view it when it’s finished.”
“Andy’s hoping the entire world gets to view it,” I said, grinning. I couldn’t hold back my pride for my young friend. “He’s been working his tail off on it.”
“Speaking of tails,” he said, “how many dogs do you have?”
“Four. I had five, but one was a biter and now my mother-in-law is suing me.” I waved the thought away. “Anyway, I’m searching for a missing puppy, so if you see one wandering around, let me know.”
Roger blinked a few times, taking in my rabbit trail of statements. “I’ll be sure to.”
We entered the Briar Bird Inn and were ushered into a large room with high ceilings and round tables. We were seated with Fiona and Jim Stein, proprietors of the Metamora History Center, where the train depot was located.
“Nice to see you, Cameron,” Fiona said. I couldn’t remember if she’d been at Jenn Berg’s calling hours to witness the morning’s fiasco.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, taking in her navy blue, off-the-shoulder dress. It had short, puffy sleeves adorned with ribbons, and she wore her hair up in a knot at the crown of her head.
If I had to guess, I’d place Fiona and Jim in their early fifties. He was bald, boisterous, and big. Santa Claus big. And he was one of the few clean-shaven men in town. When I first met Fiona, she told me she couldn’t tolerate facial hair on men and wouldn’t allow Jim to have a beard. She ruled their relationship with an iron fist while Jim told jokes and played up to every crowd he could immerse himself in.
“That’s a lovely dress,” she said, while I stood a good yard away from my chair deliberating how I was supposed to sit with a hoop under my skirt.
“Thank you.” I started to sit, aiming to plop myself into the chair and live with the consequences.
“I think,” Fiona said, taking my hand before I threw caution to the wind, “you want to lift the hoop a bit in back. Then you can sit.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, squeezing her hand before feeling around behind me for the hoop.
“Not too high,” she said. “Just enough to move it out of the way.”
I essentially made a hole between the bands of metal for my rear to reach the edge of the chair through the rest of the petticoats and crinoline. I bent at the waist, sticking my behind out toward the chair and lowered myself down.
To my horror, the chair slid backward on the hardwood floor and I fell off balance, flapping my arms like a wounded bird. I gripped the tablecloth and my place setting came crashing down onto the floor with me. Roger grabbed me from behind, stuffing his hands under my armpits, and hauled me back onto my feet.
For the second time that day, everyone in the room was staring at me. Jim’s obnoxious laughter drowned out the whispers and murmurs. “Good thing you have those tennis shoes on,” Jim said, “or you really would’ve gone flying.”
“They’re not tennis shoes,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said, as servers rushed around me, sweeping up shards of crystal and china and replacing my table setting.
“I always thought those things were dangerous,” Roger said, nudging my skirt. “I don’t know why in the world women ever wore them.”
“You know what? I don’t, either. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I hustled from the room into the lobby and through the door marked Ladies. My dress wouldn’t fit in a stall. I stood in front of the sinks and lifted my dress, shedding the bell underneath and leaving it in the corner. I’d pick it up on my way out after dinner.
Without the hoop, my dress dragged on the floor. I gathered it up and strode back into the dining room, not even trying to hide my black rubber-soled shoes.
The servers were swooping around the tables delivering the salad course when I sat down. “You look much more comfortable,” Roger said, offering me the breadbasket.
I took a roll and passed the basket to Fiona. “Much more.”
Roger was nothing short of a gentleman. Having your date fall on her rump, break plates, and ditch her hoop skirt in the bathroom had to be trying for a man. Ben always said I was a handful. He used to say it made life interesting.
I’d really like to make my life less interesting and more un-humiliating. I didn’t remember being so prone to disaster. It seemed to get worse every year, like a symptom of aging. But instead of gray hair or needing glasses, I kept falling knee-deep into trouble and couldn’t avoid it.
As if he disembarked from my train of thought, Zach, the bartender from the Cornerstone, reached in and set a salad plate in front of me. Melody Winker’s voice buzzed through my ears, calling Zach a stalker, talking about Zach driving by Jenn Berg’s house.
A jealous ex-boyfriend made for a tidy suspect—as tidy a suspect as I was, at least. I had to find a way to talk to him.
Dinner continued with Roger offering to dress my salad with the Briar Bird Inn’s own tangy red French. Their salad dressing had been my favorite since Ben brought me here for dinner on our first anniversary. I could forego the lettuce and shredded carrots and dip a crusty buttered roll in the dressing. I would have if I were at home. I’d weaseled the recipe out of Judy and made it when I had vegetables in the house, which was rare for a woman who lived on cookies and coffee.
The main course turned out to be Judy’s chicken and dumplings, a well-guarded family recipe she refused to share with me. It wasn’t on the inn’s regular menu, but guests could request it. When there was a town potluck, everyone crossed their fingers that Judy would bring her chicken and dumplings.
Halfway through dinner, while I was cursing the corset squeezing my mid-section and considering ditching it in the ladies’ room alongside my hoop skirt, Fiona made me lose my appetite.
“I see you’ve made a daring choice with the paint colors on Ellsworth House,” she said. “Irene’s just sick about it.”
“Good thing Irene doesn’t live there,” I said.
“She’s an Ellsworth. It’s her family home,” she said. “Unfortunately, your colors break the town code for historical accuracy, and you did not seek approval beforehand.”
“Approval?” I asked, pressing my hands against my constricted rib cage. “From who?”
“The Daughters of Metamora have to approve variations to the code.”
“So, Irene,” I said and couldn’t keep the smirk off my face. It figured. As President of the Daughters of Metamora, she had the final say in all of their pesky, pesty matters.
“We all vote,” Fiona said, “but yes, her opinion weighs heavily on our decisions.”
“Is everyone in this town afraid of that woman?” I wiped my mouth and set my linen napkin on the table.
“What woman?” Roger asked, catching the tail-end of our chat.
“My mother-in-law.”
“It’s not fear,” Fiona said. “It’s respect.”
Good gravy. Respect, indeed.
“The woman who’s suing you?” Roger asked.
I’d nearly forgotten that Roger didn’t live in Metamora and might not be as up on town gossip as the rest of us. “One and the same,” I said.
“Is she your ex-mother-in-law?” he asked.
Our conversation thus far had been limited to polite pleasantries. That’s a lovely necklace. Thank you. Is that an authentic military badge? I didn’t think he was harboring the illusion that this date was going any
where.
“No,” I said. “I’m separated from my husband. We aren’t divorced.”
“Oh.” Roger scooted his chair back and tugged at the bottom of his uniform jacket. “I was misinformed.”
Guilt for not making that point clear swam around with the dumplings in my stomach. “I apologize. He’s moved into the world of dating, so I didn’t think about clarifying before accepting your dinner invitation.”
“I can see how that would be a confusing situation.”
It shouldn’t be confusing. What was a separation anyway? A trial to see if divorce agreed with you? I didn’t need a trial. I knew it didn’t work for me. I wasn’t ready to accept Ben waltzing back into our marriage and our home, but I wasn’t anywhere near ready to go on a date again—even with a geriatric Civil War reenactor.
Dessert and coffee were served, and no matter how stuffed and constricted I was, there was no way I was missing out on fried apple pie a la mode. Another of Judy’s specialties, the individual pie fold-overs were filled with apples and fried golden, then sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
When all else failed, there was comfort food. Not the healthiest motto to have, but it was working for me at the moment.
I scooped up a spoonful, realizing Zach wasn’t the server who brought our dessert. As surreptitiously as possible, I searched around the room for him, but he was nowhere in sight. Given my luck all day, missing an opportunity to talk to him might not be a terrible thing after all. The odds for a good outcome were not in my favor.
“I need to get back to the train before the riders board,” Roger said, before I’d finished my coffee.
We said our good-byes to Fiona and Jim, and I fetched my hoop from the bathroom. Roger held the door open for me and we stepped outside into the darkening evening.
“I had a nice time,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me tonight.”
“The honor is mine,” he said. “It’s always nice to make a new friend.”
Yes, friends. But the way he said it made me feel guilty, like I had led him on.
Deadly Dog Days Page 11