“Enough to put a championship on a Boxer with a bad bite.”
Ouch. “So Ben is handsome. And he apparently doesn’t mind manipulating people. Anything else?”
Aunt Peg nodded. “Bertie was probably correct to talk about Ben’s career in the past tense. At one point when he was younger and starting out, it seemed as though anything at all might be possible: parts on Broadway, character roles in movies, Shakespeare in the Park. But somehow years went by and none of that ever came to pass.”
She paused for breath, and Terry took up the explanation. “After the stint in the soap opera, Ben’s career pretty much stagnated. In any other business, he’d be in his prime. And Lord knows, the man looks good. But as an actor in his early forties, he’s already a has-been.”
“Don’t let Ben hear you say that,” Bertie warned. “He’d probably lop your head off and hand it to you on a plate. Facing reality has never been Ben’s strong suit. His career might be fading, but he’s not going down without a fight.”
“Which brings us back to you,” said Peg. “And this contest offering national exposure to the winner. Everybody knows how desperate Ben O’Donnell is to make a comeback. I’m betting he sees this as the way to make it happen.”
“I read the contest rules,” I said. No point in mentioning that I’d read them after the fact. “Chow Down is offering exposure to the winner’s dog, not the owner.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Ben will find a way to shoehorn himself into the publicity even if he has to handcuff Brando to his wrist.” Terry paused reflectively. “Though now that I think about it, the notion of Ben with a pair of handcuffs—”
“Terry.” Aunt Peg glared.
“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked his head.
“You guys must be exaggerating.” I held up my hands as if forming a scale. “Chow Down dog food?” One hand rose. “Shakespeare in the Park?” The other plummeted. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Plenty,” said Bertie. “And the worst part about it is that Ben and Brando are in it at all. But you don’t have to take our word for it. You can see for yourself what a sweetheart Ben is because here he comes now.”
“Really?” Peg swiveled to look. I did, too. Then Terry joined in for good measure. Which meant that by the time Ben O’Donnell reached us we were all standing there staring at him like a quartet of idiots with nothing useful on our minds at all.
I supposed he could be forgiven for tipping his head sideways and staring back. We must have looked rather odd. Not to mention the fact that we’d all suddenly fallen silent at his approach.
“Ben!” Aunt Peg said heartily into the awkward silence. “Imagine that. We were just talking about you.”
“Really? Saying only good things, I hope.”
The actor’s smile was smooth and practiced and, all right, pretty darn appealing. He possessed the kind of rugged good looks that, at one time, would have been perfect for cigarette commercials; I could see why he’d been cast as a cowboy. Idly I noted that he was probably the only person on the show ground with better hair than Terry.
Whom, as it happened, he was staring at right now. “Nice feathers,” he said.
“Thanks.” Terry’s grin was cheeky. Like maybe he was hoping the jury was still out on the whole hetero thing.
Ben didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he turned and focused his attention on me. Beneath the cool shade of the grooming tent, being the object of his regard was like having a beam of sunlight turned in my direction.
“I know everyone else here,” he said. “Which means that you must be Melanie Travis. I’ve been looking for you.”
“You have?”
“Of course. Haven’t you been looking for me?”
“Umm . . . No.”
“That surprises me.” His voice was low and smoky. His words sounded teasingly seductive.
“Why?” So help me, it was an effort to form the thought, much less the word. Behind Ben’s back, Bertie was biting her lip. Terry was laughing at me openly.
“Because I understand you and I are going to share an adventure together.”
“We are?” Belatedly I realized he was talking about the contest. Idiot. “So you’re here today checking out the other finalists?”
“Of course. I’m surprised you’re not doing the same.”
“I guess I’ve been a little busy since I got to the show,” I said vaguely.
“I see. I guess that’s where we differ, then. I make time for the things that are important to me.”
“Maybe the contest is more important to you than it is to me.”
“Excellent.” Ben smiled again.
This time I could see the tiny lines that creased his cheeks. They didn’t diminish his appeal at all.
“It is?”
“Of course. That way you won’t be too upset when Brando is chosen to represent Chow Down and Faith isn’t. I hate to disappoint a lady.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt my competitive juices rising. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on being disappointed.”
“That’s the spirit!” Aunt Peg clapped a hand between my shoulder blades and almost sent me sprawling.
“I understand Faith is a Standard Poodle,” Ben said. “I saw her picture on the contest web site, she’s a real beauty.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant to watch the Poodle judging, but I was occupied with Brando earlier. He won the breed, and we’ll be competing in the group later. How did Faith do today?”
If Ben had seen one of the pictures Davey had submitted, he had to have known that Faith was cut down. She hadn’t worn the labor-intensive continental trim since she’d retired from the show ring two years earlier. Now Faith wore a sporty-looking kennel trim. Her face, feet, and the base of her tail were clipped close, and a dense blanket of short black curls covered the rest of her body.
Was Ben that ignorant about the mores of showing Poodles or was the question intended to psych me out? I wondered. He’d certainly wasted no time in letting me know that his dog was still showing—and winning.
“Faith is retired,” Aunt Peg cut in smoothly. “Rather like one of the other competitors, MacDuff.”
“I see. She’s an older dog, then.” His lip curled slightly.
“No,” I said, ignoring the implied insult. “Just one that finished very quickly.” It was a lie, but what the heck. I figured Aunt Peg would back me up, as well she should. The only reason Faith had taken a while to achieve her championship was because I’d been new and hadn’t known what I was doing. “You know how it is. When they’re that good, they seem to be in and out of the ring in a flash.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to meet her Monday morning.”
“Monday morning?” I echoed.
“At the reception Champions Dog Food is hosting for the five finalists. Didn’t you get the e-mail?”
My bad. “I don’t always check my email on weekends,” I admitted. “I’ll have a look when I get home.”
“Do that,” Ben advised. “You and Faith wouldn’t want to miss that all-important first opportunity to wow the judges.” He nodded to the others and left.
I waited until Ben was out of earshot, then said, “That didn’t go too badly.”
Terry snorted. “The man wiped the floor with you.”
“He did not.”
“He came close.” Bertie was shaking her head. “You’re going to have to ramp it up a notch if you want Faith to beat Brando.”
“Not to mention MacDuff and Ginger and . . .” Aunt Peg turned to Bertie for guidance. “What’s the Yorkie’s name?”
“Yoda.”
“Yoda?”
“Don’t yell at me. I didn’t name her. I think it’s an ear thing. You know.”
“No, I don’t.” Aunt Peg didn’t sound like she particularly wanted to, either.
The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon plotting—unsolicited, mind you—my potential plan of attack for the contest. I spent the rest of
the afternoon mostly ignoring them. Bertie and Crawford showed their other dogs. Then, for the first time I could ever remember, Crawford and Terry packed up and headed home before Bertie was done for the day.
“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?” I asked Bertie, as the Bedford Kennels van drove slowly away from the grooming tent, bumping from rut to rut as it crossed the grassy field.
“What?” She was busy prepping a Cocker Spaniel to go in the last group of the day.
“That Crawford and Terry have left and you’re still here.” With Poodles having finished, Aunt Peg had left, too, but that didn’t strike me as being nearly as strange as this did.
“Maybe they were showing fewer dogs than they usually do.”
“That’s my point. That’s unusual, too. Crawford didn’t have any Standard Poodles entered. Think about it. Crawford’s Standard Poodles are his showcase dogs. He loves showing them. When was the last time you saw him at a show and he didn’t have any entered?”
“I don’t know.” Bertie shrugged. She was relatively new to Poodles. She probably hadn’t noticed.
“Today he only had little dogs. Easy dogs. Not only that, but he was awfully crabby, didn’t you think?”
“For Pete’s sake, Mel. Crawford’s always crabby when Terry doesn’t keep his mind on business. Where are you going with this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Well, for once, try thinking a little less, okay?”
Advice worth living by, if only I could ever manage to do it.
5
It was a good thing it was summer, otherwise it would have been dark by the time I got home. As it was, Sam and Davey were able to show me the progress they were making on the tree house. A foundation of beams had been laid across the span between two sturdy branches, and most of the floor was in place.
For the time being, a ladder was providing access to the project. Sam had left it leaning against the trunk of the tree and while I examined their handiwork from the ground, Davey scrambled up and maneuvered himself out the thick branch and onto the partially completed frame.
My first, automatic response was to call him back down; but then I reconsidered. Years spent as a single mother had honed my protective instincts to a fine point. Maybe too fine, I thought, noting that Sam—busy wresting a tennis ball from Raven’s mouth so he could throw it for the canine crew to chase—seemed totally unconcerned by the fact that Davey was all but dangling in the air. Now that my son finally had a solid, reliable male relationship back in his everyday life, maybe I didn’t always have to be the one who decided what was best.
“Don’t worry,” said Sam under his breath. He tipped back his arm and let fly with the ball. Five big black dogs went sprinting away across the yard. “Davey’s been all over that tree for the last week. He climbs like a monkey.”
“Am I that easy to read?”
He swallowed a bark of laughter. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Now I was miffed.
“Come on.” Sam looped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his side in the gathering dusk. “I love your transparency.”
Like that was a good quality?
His hand began to roam, inching downward. “Almost as much as I love your breasts.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I said. “But your timing stinks.”
His hand was still moving. Now the other one had joined it. One by one, the Poodles came trotting back. This time, Tar had the ball. He dropped it at Sam’s feet. Sam kicked it hard and they raced away again.
“Nah, this is just a little warm-up for later.”
“Kind of like a pregame show?”
“Careful now,” Sam murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Men get turned on by sports metaphors.”
I insinuated my hips into his. “I thought you were already—”
“Hey, Sam-Dad, look!”
We jumped apart like a pair of guilty teenagers. Sam’s hands fell away. He cleared his throat, yanked on his waistband. We both looked up.
Then abruptly I realized what Davey had said. “Sam-Dad?”
“Yeah.” Davey grinned. He was lying on the boards, looking down at us over the rim of the tree house floor. “Sam said I could call him that.”
“He did, huh?”
I glanced sideways, my eyes suddenly moist. Sam was looking away—perhaps purposely—his eyes following the trajectory of the ball he’d just lobbed again. A minute earlier I’d felt desired, but now my heart swelled with emotion. I couldn’t imagine ever loving a man more than I loved Sam right that moment.
When I didn’t speak right away, he looked back. “Maybe I should have asked you first . . . That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“It’s better than okay,” I said with a sniffle. “It’s perfect.”
Now he looked embarrassed. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal.”
“It’s a name,” Davey said practically, still watching from above us. “I couldn’t call him Dad because . . . you know . . .”
Davey’s real father lived only a couple of miles away. After being mostly absent for the first five years of his son’s life, Bob was now making a concerted effort to play a role in Davey’s upbringing. In fact, the house we were now living in—a spacious colonial on two acres of land—had belonged to my ex-husband before we’d traded homes in the spring.
“So I thought of this instead,” Davey said.
“It’s a great name,” I agreed, trying not to sound too watery.
“So when you guys finally get around to having a baby—”
“Davey!”
“What?” He slid back from the edge of the floor, disappearing briefly before popping, legs first, out onto the branch. He shinnied back to the ladder and was on the ground before I’d even managed to formulate an answer. “Sam said that someday I’m going to have a little brother or sister, but in the meantime I just have to be patient.”
“Really?” My conversational skills seemed to be deteriorating rapidly.
“Really,” Davey confirmed. “I told Sam-Dad I wanted a brother and he said he was trying as hard as he knew how.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“So . . .” Davey fixed me with a level stare. “I hope you’re trying, too.”
“Trust me,” I said, “it’s a joint effort.”
“Well, hurry up.”
I’d heard much the same thing from Aunt Peg, Bertie, and just about everyone else I knew. Sam and I had been married only three months, for Pete’s sake. On several occasions, I’d been sorely tempted to mention that upping the pressure didn’t increase fertility. But not to my eight-year-old son.
Instead I looked at him and smiled. “I’ll do my best,” I said.
When I finally got around to opening my email I found out that the reception Ben had told me about was scheduled to be held at the Champions Company headquarters in Norwalk on Monday morning. Though the event was billed as a social occasion, a chance for everyone involved to meet one another, it seemed pretty clear that this would be the first step in the judging process.
With that in mind, I spent Sunday evening clipping, bathing, and scissoring Faith, devoting as much time to her coiffure as I would have had we been heading to a show. The effort left me feeling like the poster child for ambivalence. I certainly hadn’t intended for Faith to remain a contestant, but now that she had, it had become a matter of pride that she appear at her best before the judges. My Poodle might not win the grand prize, but we weren’t about to give the game away, either.
The Champions Dog Food Company was housed in a large, boxy brick building located in an industrial zone down near the water in Norwalk. According to the information I’d gleaned from the web site, both manufacturing plant and offices were contained within, though the building’s drab exterior looked more in keeping with a factory than a posh company headquarters. The parking lot out front was surrounded by a chain link fence, its gate manned by a bored atte
ndant who waved me inside without bothering to inquire why I was there.
Faith and I entered the building through a double set of glass doors, and found ourselves in a reception area that was surprisingly light and open. Potted ferns wafted gently in the breeze created by the air-conditioning. One wall held a waterfall where streams of water trickled down a backdrop of unmatched rocks and pooled in a basin below.
A middle-aged woman who looked like she’d never outgrown her preppy upbringing, was seated at the reception desk. Her blond hair was held in place by a headband; a light cotton cardigan was knotted around her shoulders. Small pearl studs dotted her earlobes. She stood as we approached and I saw that a border of puppies and kittens were chasing each other around the hem of her A-line skirt. Only in Fairfield County could an adult get away with wearing an outfit like that.
“You must be Faith and Melanie,” she said.
I nodded and Faith wagged her tail.
“We’ve been expecting you. Would you mind signing in, please?”
“Not at all.” I pulled the book toward me.
“Can Faith have a biscuit?”
“Sure, but I’ll have to give it to her. She doesn’t take food from strangers.”
“Oh.” The woman’s brow furrowed. She lifted a bone-shaped biscuit out of a crystal container on her desk and handed it over. “That might be a problem.”
I held out the biscuit and Faith sniffed it politely. She realized immediately that it wasn’t one of her favorite peanut-butter snacks.
“Go on,” I said. “Take it.”
Obligingly, Faith did. Her front teeth closed over the biscuit. She held it carefully in her mouth, but didn’t bite down.
“Those are Champions’ best licorice biscuits,” the receptionist said brightly. “I’ve never seen a dog that didn’t love them.”
Obviously she wasn’t looking down, I thought. I wondered if the entire episode was being captured on closed-circuit camera to be dissected later by the selection committee. Then I wondered if I was being paranoid.
Probably.
“The gathering is upstairs on the third floor. Take the elevator and turn right when you get off. You’re looking for the Cerberus Room. You can’t miss it.”
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