by Janet Dailey
Rebecca wished she could wait for Jack's return, but Midas deserved better than that. "Well, I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but you were right, Midas is in a lot of pain. We have to think about what's best for him. I don't think it's fair to let him go on suffering when we can help him."
"You mean... put him down? Now?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. You've given him a wonderful life, he's sixteen years old, and I believe he's finished and ready to leave. We'll just be easing him on his way. It's a very gentle passing, I promise."
Rebecca watched as the fear rose in the woman's eyes. In her years as a veterinarian, Rebecca had found a pet's owner far more afraid of death than the animal.
"I can't," Beatrice said, backing away. "I mean, I'll let you do it, if you think it's best, but I can't watch." She burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I feel like a traitor, but I just can't help you do it."
Rebecca rose, walked over to the woman and put her arms around her. "Please don't feel guilty, Beatrice. Many owners can't watch their pets be put to sleep. There's no reason to put yourself through it if you'd rather not. I'll take care of it all."
"Will you... will you talk to him and pet him when you...?"
"Of course I will."
Michael stepped forward and placed a hand on Beatrice's forearm. "Mrs. Riley, why don't you let me take you out into your backyard. Some fresh air will do you good."
He turned to Rebecca and lowered his voice. "I'll be back in a minute or two to help you."
"Thank you, but I'll be fine. You just take care of Bea for me," she replied, silently blessing him for his compassion.
She waited until she heard the back door close, then she returned to her patient.
Sitting beside him, she slowly, carefully lifted his head into her lap and began to stroke his ears. The big, brown eyes opened for a moment, and she knew, despite the pain, he was enjoying the attention.
She pulled her bag toward her and reached into it for the syringe and necessary medication. Laying her supplies aside, she petted him again, speaking soft, soothing words. "There, there, Midas. It's going to stop hurting very soon. You've been such a good dog, guarding the house all these years, chasing those pesky mailmen and meter readers. You put up with Bea's bunko parties, and Jack's snoring and those noisy grandkids. You fetched all those sticks and took Jack for all those walks. But now your work is done and you get to rest."
Quickly and efficiently, Rebecca administered the necessary dosage. The dog barely even flinched when her needle found the vein. He truly was tired and ready to leave.
Relief came within seconds; Rebecca felt him relax in her arms and his tail thumped once more. She continued to stroke his ears and speak to him until she felt the essence that had been Midas Riley leave the wom-out body.
"How can you stand it?" Michael asked as he turned the Jaguar onto the main highway that led back to Rebecca's home. "How can you deal with that sort of sadness on a regular basis? I wouldn't be able to take it."
He wasn't the first to ask that question; Rebecca had asked her own heart the same thing many times. So she gave him the answer that she had always received.
"Sadness isn't necessarily a bad thing," she said, watching as the landscape swept by her window. "It's just part of the fabric of life. So is death. Souls come into the world, souls leave."
"Are you telling me that Midas is in heaven now?" he asked with a half-sarcastic smirk.
"I don't think he's sitting on a cloud somewhere, sprouting wings and a halo and playing a harp, if that's what you mean. But I've held enough living creatures in my arms at the moment of their deaths, and I do know one thing... they leave, they don't just stop."
He was silent for a long time, and she could feel the impact that her words had on him. She wasn't sure why.
Pulling off the highway, he guided the car up the drive to her house. He parked in front and turned off the ignition.
"I wish I could believe you," he said softly, staring straight ahead... and into the past.
Rebecca said nothing but waited, knowing that he needed to continue.
"I wasn't there when my wife died." His expression and the tone of his voice suggested that he was making a confession of the most difficult kind. "I left the hospital twenty minutes before..."
She noticed that he was gripping the seat with fingers that trembled. Reaching down, she covered his hand with hers. "If you'd known, you would have stayed," she said. "Your wife knew your heart. I'm sure she understood."
"I hope so. Were you there, with your husband when he...?"
"No. He was killed instantly in the accident."
"Does it feel strange to you that you weren't there, that you didn't share something so important with your mate after going through so many other things together?"
"Yes, very strange."
Neither of them spoke as he waited for the flood of emotion to subside. Finally, he said, "How long does it take, Dr. Rebecca, for a heart to heal? At least enough that you can stand the pain?"
"I suppose that depends on the person and the circumstances. But for me, the hurt began to fade when I began to let go of it."
He turned to her, puzzled. "What do you mean? Why would anyone hang on to a pain that hurts so much?"
She shrugged and gave his hand a squeeze. "Maybe to punish themselves because of some sort of misplaced guilt."
Rebecca knew that her words had struck home by the way he winced, then pulled his hand away from hers.
"Thanks for having ice cream with me, Dr. Rebecca," he said, making it clear that he considered the social amenities over. "I'll walk you to your door."
His abrupt dismissal surprised and hurt her. One moment they seemed close, almost friends, but the next instant the intimacy was broken. She felt as though she had reached out to him and he had pushed her away.
"You don't need to escort me," she said as she opened the car door. "It's still daylight. I can find my own way."
"Rebecca, wait," he said, reaching for her. His hand closed around her forearm, his touch imparting his warmth and particular male vitality. "Thank you for what you said. You're right. But I have to think about it before I can... you know..."
"Yes, of course. I understand."
As Rebecca watched him drive away, she realized that she understood him much better than she wanted to. His heart had suffered a blow from which he would probably never fully recover. So had hers. He was afraid to love that deeply again, to risk losing again. So was she.
And, judging by the look in his eyes when he had told her goodbye, he was terrified that continued contact with her might cause his heart to open up again, might make him vulnerable to loving and maybe losing.
Oh, yes, Rebecca understood all too well. She was terrified, too.
It was always so much easier to see what someone else needed to do, to give advice and expect than to accept it gracefully. But it was quite another to take your own words to heart, she decided as she walked into her house, which seemed more empty, more silent than before.
In spite of all the wonderful things in her life, Rebecca knew there was an emptiness, a void in her heart. It had been there since Tim's death.
The silence... the heavy, oppressive silence was always there to remind her of all she had lost.
Her heart didn't seem to be speaking to her much anymore.
Or, maybe, somewhere along the line, she had simply stopped listening.
Chapter Five
"Well, how did it go? What happened, Daddy? Huh? What did you do? Where did you take her?" Katie bounced up and down on the front porch, unable to wait until her father had entered the house.
"For heaven's sake, kiddo, let me get my foot in the door before you interrogate me."
Katie gave him one of those female know-all-and-see- all looks. Damn, she was good at that and she was only eight. He pitied the poor guy who was to be his son-in- law someday. She propped her hands on her waist and planted her tiny sneakers apart, blocking his entrance.
/> "Did you guys have another fight?" she demanded. "You did! You were rude to her again, weren't you?"
He slipped his hands under her arms, lifted her and set her aside, out of his way. "No, we didn't have a fight. Good grief, you make it sound like we're heavyweights, going fifteen rounds. I don't fight women."
"Were you mean to Dr. Rebecca?" She followed him inside, slamming the door behind her. "Did you yell at her again?"
He reached the living room and collapsed into his favorite easy chair, suddenly exhausted. Patting his knee, he invited his daughter to sit on his lap. He knew he was in trouble when she shook her head. Having always been an affectionate child, Katie never refused the opportunity to cuddle.
"I'll stand, thank you," she said with cool formality and dignity far beyond her years.
He stifled a chuckle. "Katie, I did not yell at your dear Dr. Rebecca. I was not rude to her. You will be pleased to hear that I even refrained from chewing my nails, scratching my armpits and picking my nose in front of Dr. Rebecca."
"No burping?" she asked without cracking a smile, hands still on her hips.
"No burping. No bodily expulsions of any kind.''
She continued to give him the deadpan stare. "I'm so very proud of you," she replied flatly.
"Thank you."
Dropping the indignant act, she climbed happily onto his lap and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
"So, tell me all about it," she said. "I want to know everything. Did you kiss her?"
He drew back and stared at her, eyebrows raised in shock. "Katherine Stafford! How could you suggest such a thing? I'm a gentleman!"
"Nah," she said, pinching his cheek, "just because you didn't burp or pick your nose doesn't make you that much of a gentleman. Did you kiss her or not?"
"Not! I took her out for a banana split, and I didn't kiss her, didn't serenade her, didn't tango with her in the moonlight, didn't—"
"Okay, okay. Then tell me one more thing, but it has to be the truth. You can't fib at all, promise?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I promise."
"You didn't kiss her, huh?"
"Katie!"
She leaned forward until the tip of her nose was touching his, her blue eyes filling his vision. "Did you want to?"
Did he want to?
Hell, yes, he had wanted to. It was all Michael could think about as he sat at his desk the next day, pretending to be working, pretending to be doing anything except fantasizing about Rebecca Barclay.
She had looked so cute, sitting there across from him in the ice cream parlor, a couple of yellow and blue fluffs of feather in her hair, compliments of Frederick the parrot. And later, the kindness she had shown the old dog and his owner had touched Michael's heart, whether he had wanted it to or not.
"Michael, I'm going home now. Michael..."
The soft voice reached into his reverie, pulling him back to the present. Mrs. Abernathy stood in his office doorway, purse and keys in hand.
"Oh, yes, good night. See you tomorrow."
She gave him a crooked smile and shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Why? Are you taking the day off? Did I forget your dentist appointment again?"
"No, Michael," she said, "I'm not going to the dentist, because he's taking the day off tomorrow, too. The whole country is taking off. It's Thanksgiving, you nitwit."
Briefly, Michael wondered how he had ever hired an employee who would call him a nitwit to his face. Then he realized she was right. How could he have forgotten Thanksgiving?
"Oh, well sure. I knew that."
She laughed and shook her head. "I assume this means that you and Katie don't have plans for dinner."
"Ah... not solid plans.''
Her face softened. "I'm sorry, Michael. I'd love to have you come to my house, but I'm not cooking this year. I'm going to visit my daughter in the valley."
"No problem, Abernathy, really. We'll be fine. See you on Monday."
After a couple more apologies, Mrs. Abernathy left, and Michael decided to do the same. Without her there, and with the salesmen and mechanics gone, the place seemed too quiet. Tonight he wasn't in the mood for quiet. Aware now that it was the day before Thanksgiving, he felt more lonely than ever.
Each holiday since his wife's death, he had tried to celebrate with Katie, but it was difficult. Beverly had always done the decorating, the cooking, the shopping, and he had taken her efforts for granted. He didn't seem to have that knack for making occasions special for Katie. Or for himself, either.
A multitude of plans raced through his head as he walked through the elegant showroom with its restored classics, turning lights off and alarms on. Bridget and
Neil would be leaving at sunrise tomorrow morning to go to her mother's home in San Francisco. Weeks ago, they had asked for the days off and he had gladly granted them. He had assured Bridget that be would make Thanksgiving dinner plans on his own, that she didn't need to leave a full meal in the refrigerator.
Which left him with a dilemma: What should he do for Katie?
He could take her out to a restaurant, try to cook a bird himself—fat chance he could pull that one off—or get a bucket of chicken somewhere and pretend it was turkey. Maybe he could face her out with some of those deluxe microwave dinners.
No, she was a little too sharp for that. He could see it now, Katie hauling the empty boxes out of the garbage and shoving them under his nose.
A restaurant was probably the best bet. He wondered what might be open. In this small, family- oriented community, most businesses closed on the holidays.
When he stepped outside the back door, locking it behind him, he heard a strange sound that interrupted his frantic planning session. A tiny, high-pitched whimper, coming from the garage area.
Curious, he took a flashlight from his trunk and followed the sound, trying to find its source. It didn't take long.
There, shivering beneath the Dumpster, was a tiny black puppy. The pup yelped with fright as Michael reached down and picked it up.
"Hey, what are you doing under there? Where's Mom and the other kids?"
Michael looked around but saw no sign of any more dogs. He called out and whistled, but the alley was silent except for the puppy's snuffling against his chest.
"Here you go," he said, tucking the dog inside his jacket. The pup nuzzled its cold nose against him. Its paws and belly were also chilled. Michael realized that if he hadn't found it when he had, the pup would have died. Eyes barely open, it was much too young to be weaned from its mother.
Michael took the puppy to his Jaguar, climbed inside and turned on the heater and the overhead dome lamp.
"Let's take a look at you," he said, pulling the puppy out and examining it. The dog was male and appeared to be a mixed breed, but mostly Labrador. A mutt, perhaps, but handsome, nevertheless. Considering the size of his paws, he was going to grow up to be a big boy, a fine pet and watchdog for someone.
Finding Michael's little finger, the pup latched on to the Mid, sucking hard in hopes of finding milk.
"Sorry, Bruiser," he said, "but you're barking up the wrong tree."
He had to feed him... soon. But what? How?
Michael didn't have a clue. But he did know who would, and all he needed was an excuse—any excuse- to see her again.
Whether he could kiss her or not.
Rebecca answered the door, expecting some terrible calamity. Usually, when they came directly to her door, it was an emergency, often an accident with a vehicle.
In the past few years she had grown to hate cars and what they did to innocent animals unfortunate enough to come under their wheels. Those were, by far, the worst cases she had to handle, traumatic for her, the animals and the owners.
But when she had pulled her robe around her and opened the door she found, not some poor mangled cat or dog, but Michael Stafford. He was standing there, whole and handsome, with a giant grin on his face.
"Oh, hi," she mumbled. "I...I wasn't expecting y
ou." She tied the robe more tightly, suddenly feeling very underdressed. Beneath the terry cloth, she was wearing only a thin T-shirt and panties, her usual sleeping garb. If she had known he was coming over, she would have put on something more appropriate. Like a satin robe and matching chemise.
Stop that, she thought. A chemise, indeed.
"I'm sorry for just dropping by like this," he said. "I suppose I should have called first, but I have a new patient for you."
She glanced down at the ground to see if he were leading something on a leash. "A patient? Where? I don't see anything."
At that moment she heard the distinct whimper of a young puppy, coming from somewhere inside Michael's jacket.
"I've got him in here," he said, pointing to his chest. "He was cold."
"Mmm-hmm... I see. You'd better bring him in— sounds serious. I've heard of a hot dog, but a cold pup?"
He groaned. "That was awful, Dr. Rebecca."
"Well, Mr. Stafford," she said, pulling him into the house, "call next time and let me know you're on your way. I'll have someone write me some better material."
Half an hour later, Michael sat on the end of Rebecca's sofa, holding the puppy in his lap, a tiny baby bottle stuck into its puckered mouth. "He's slobbering all over my hand," he said. "It's running down on to my leg."
Rebecca sat at the other end, watching, laughing at Michael's clumsiness. The puppy didn't seem to mind at all as he slurped hungrily at the rubber nipple.
"What am I going to do with him?" he said, dabbing the milk off the pup's face with the soft white towel that Rebecca had given him. "I can't take him home. Katie will claim him right away."
Rebecca shrugged. "Let her have him."
"I'd like to, but she has enough responsibility right now, caring for Rosebud. Rosie is her first pet. I don't want to overload her with too much too fast."
"I understand, but that does leave you with a problem. He's going to need a lot of care, especially for the next few weeks. Middle-of-the-night feedings, all that."