by Ivy Pembroke
Arthur closed his eyes, took a breath, and then opened them. Max watched him closely, feeling that, if he blinked, Arthur would somehow squirm away from him, wriggle out of his grasp.
Arthur said, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Max countered.
“All right,” Arthur said. “I’m not. How are you fine? It’s bloody irritating, you know, that you’re not the least bit—”
“If you think I’m not upset, or disappointed, you’re wrong.”
“You just hide it better?” asked Arthur mockingly.
“I just look at you and think that I’ve already won the lottery once in my life, so it’s a little ridiculous of me to get stroppy over not winning it a second time,” Max snapped.
Arthur looked across at him, his dark eyes wide and gleaming in the last of the dusk that was still clinging to the sky. He said finally, softly, “I know. I’m a spoiled brat.”
Max shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
Arthur reached out, picked up Max’s hand, pressed his lips to Max’s knuckles and then leaned his forehead against them, breathing deeply.
Max, after a moment, turned his hand over to rest it against Arthur’s cheek, to draw his head closer so he could plant a kiss on the top of it. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured.
“Is it?” Arthur asked, head still down, pressed now against Max’s shoulder.
“Yes,” said Max. “No matter what happens. Yes.”
* * *
Pen Cheever had a habit, in the last minutes of her day, before allowing sleep to claim her, of pulling her laptop into bed with her and calling up her blog.
The blog had started as just a way to keep herself honest with regard to her writing goals. Every night, she would post in her blog how much she had managed to accomplish that day. And then it had slowly, creepingly, expanded. She started putting up facts about her daily runs, and then recipes for her protein shakes, and then just interesting things she’d come across while working on whichever article had caught her attention at the moment.
And now, she had to admit, a large part of the blog was the goings-on of the street around her, which she saw a great deal of during her runs. Her street, she thought, was typical of most London streets. The neighbors all thought that they kept to themselves, exchanging nothing but polite waves when they encountered each other, but really each one of them told the most remarkable life stories if you merely paid attention. And Pen was a journalist. Her job was to pay attention.
Tonight’s blog entry was all about Jack, as they frequently were, because Jack was often one of the more extraordinary of the street’s inhabitants, and the true common thread between them, house location be damned.
As you know, all of the children on the street are mad about our dog Jack, Pen wrote. The parents on the street all seem decidedly less enamored. But it does seem as if Jack may be the cause for an unlikely friendship between Grouchy Old Man and New Boy on the Street. An alliance one might not have predicted, but I witnessed it with my own eyes during my evening run.
Speaking of evening runs, it’s time for a new protein shake recipe! Even Jack seems to approve of this one!
Chapter 3
Please join us for a backyard bar-b-q!
September 1, noon, No. 4 Christmas Street.
RSVP to Sam (the new neighbor).
Teddy looked absolutely horrified. “What? No!”
Sam lifted his eyebrows. “Teddy, it’s an invitation to a party. I’m not asking you to eat worms—”
“Eating worms would be easier! At least it’s not embarrassing!”
“What is embarrassing about delivering invitations for a party?” asked Sam, exasperated.
“Can’t you just put them in the mail like a normal person?” asked Teddy.
“Everyone who’s invited lives right on this street. Why put them in the mail when we can just hand them to people?”
“What if everyone wants to talk to us?” complained Teddy.
“That’s the general idea,” remarked Sam drily. “We’re trying to meet people.”
“We wouldn’t have to meet people if we’d just stayed in America,” Teddy grumbled.
“I know,” responded Sam equably. “And look at the adventure we would have missed out on. The adventure of ringing people’s doorbells and handing them a party invitation.”
“I still think it’s embarrassing and weird,” said Teddy. “I’ve never heard of anyone handing out party invitations like this.”
“That’s because we’ve only known boring people. Come on, let’s go.”
Teddy, moving approximately as fast as a snail, dragged himself toward the front door. Sam was counting this as a win. The past couple of days had been nothing but Teddy locked up in his room playing video games or sitting in the back garden, with or without Jack, frowning in the direction of the potential dognapper next door. Teddy’s adventure of the day at dinner last night had been “another day without dog-related crime.” Sam had had every intention of putting the invitations in the post “like a normal person,” as Teddy said, except that he was looking for any excuse to break Teddy out of this rut. And if that meant they had to walk up and down the street knocking on doors and handing out invitations as if that was something people did, well, so be it.
Jack came bounding up to them as soon as they stepped outside, and Teddy brightened immediately and scratched behind his ears and said, “No one’s stolen you yet, Jack? That’s good.”
Sam sighed and walked up to the old man’s house and rang the bell. Mr. Hammersley, Teddy had said he was called. The one neighbor Teddy had managed to strike up a conversation with.
Sam and Teddy and Jack stood in front of the door and waited.
And waited.
And kept waiting.
“Maybe he’s out,” suggested Teddy.
Jack stood up, wagged his tail in apparent agreement, and then sat back down.
Sam’s office looked out over the street and he spent a great deal of time spying. He hadn’t yet seen the old man leave his house. Nor had he seen anyone go over there. Except, apparently, his son. His eight-year-old son, who was only friends with the old man next door.
Sam was annoyed because, frankly, he’d kind of been hoping to arrive in England to a new, appropriately aged best friend for Teddy sitting on their front step, ready to be played with, and instead Sam was walking door-to-door handing out invitations practically begging for friends and it was embarrassing and at the very first door he was failing, even though the old man was always home.
“Out where?” said Sam, a trifle shortly. “He’s always home.” Sam leaned forward to see if he could peer through the leaded glass on the door, leaning on the doorbell again as he did so.
Which was when the door opened, so that Sam was inappropriately close to the old man, obviously trying to spy on his house.
“What do you want?” snapped the old man.
“Hi, Mr. Hammersley,” chirped Teddy happily.
Jack stood with a joyful bark and wagged his tail and went threading his way through everyone’s legs.
“Careful,” Sam said, trying to catch the dog before he tipped the old man over.
The old man said, “I can handle a dog!”
“Okay,” Sam said, instinctively taking a step away from this scowling man. And his son had just headed inside for a cuppa here? Sam decided to just get down to business. “This is for you.” He handed across one of their invitations.
The old man took it suspiciously and actually sniffed it, like it might smell of arsenic or something.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said drily. “It isn’t poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” barked the old man, looking as if he thought
Sam was daft.
Sam didn’t blame him.
Neither did Teddy—who poked at Sam’s leg in what Sam supposed was justified horror—or Jack, who actually stopped his boisterous greeting of the old man to tip his head at Sam, like even dogs un
derstood what a git Sam was being.
Sam said, “Not that we would ever give you a poisoned envelope.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed.
“Of course,” Sam heard himself say, as if he was no longer in control of his own voice, “you’re right to be suspicious, because only somebody who had just handed you a poisoned envelope would protest so strenuously that it’s not poisoned.” He tried a jovial smile, like, See, I acknowledge how ridiculous I am being.
The old man thrust the envelope back at Sam. “Whatever this is, I don’t want it,” he announced gruffly.
“No,” Sam said, harshly enough that it sounded very much like a command, which made the old man’s expression grow more disapproving. Sam hadn’t thought that was possible. “I mean”—he tried to correct himself, trying to sound placating—“it’s just an invitation.”
“An invitation? To what?”
“We’re having a party. A backyard barbecue. You know, hot dogs and hamburgers and all that.”
“I’m not going,” said the old man, and swung the door shut in their faces.
Then it opened again, and Jack came bounding out, and then it slammed shut again.
Jack barked a couple of times, tongue lolling out in his delight at all the excitement.
Teddy said, “This is going really well, Dad.”
* * *
The doorbell interrupted Emilia and Sai in the midst of a very important discussion about whether Sai ought to trust his girlfriend enough to cut his hair.
“It’s just that my hair is very important,” said Sai. “You know my hair is very important.”
“You know your hair is very important to me, too,” said Emilia, ruffling at it. “I just think you could change it up a bit, and you know that I am an artist. Look at my fingernails. Don’t you think I’m an artist?”
“I don’t doubt you’re an artist,” said Sai haltingly. Which made Emilia frown.
Which meant it was a relief to Sai when the doorbell rang. Emilia peered out the window and said brightly, “Oh, it’s the new family from next door,” and pulled the door open. “Hiya.” She gave them a wide smile, because she saw nothing wrong with being friendly and welcoming to new people. Emilia had been about the new kid’s age when they had moved onto the street, so she remembered well the feeling of intimidation of all these houses, crowded up against you, filled with strangers. The kid was stone-faced, no answering smile in sight, but his dad gave Emilia a smile in return, looking relieved by it. The dad and the boy looked a lot alike: same sandy hair with a flyaway tendency, same blue-green eyes. Emilia wondered what the mum looked like. Meanwhile, Jack stood between them, tail wagging.
“Hello,” said the father. “I’m Sam and this is Teddy.”
Jack barked.
“And Jack, of course,” added Sam.
“Hello, Sam and Teddy,” said Emilia. “I’m Emilia. And hello, Jack. Jack and I are old friends.”
“Very nice to meet you, Emilia,” said Sam. “I just wanted to stop by and give you this.” He handed across an envelope.
“Oh,” said Emilia, momentarily confused. “Did the post get mixed up?”
“No, no. It’s an invitation. A party invitation. We’re having a barbecue, in the back garden, just to get to meet everyone.”
“Oh,” said Emilia, surprised by that. No one had ever had one of those before. “Okay. Nice.”
“So be sure to invite your parents for me,” Sam said. “Everyone’s welcome.”
“Absolutely,” Emilia said. “Are you inviting everyone on the street?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “Of course.”
“Ta!” said Emilia, and looked down at Jack. “On your way, then, before the cats get all stroppy about you being in their domain.” Jack trotted outside and Emilia said, “Bye!” and closed the door and turned to Sai. “I guess we’re all going to a party.”
“Are we going to have to pretend not to know each other at this party?” Sai said.
Emilia laughed. “We’ll be very polite and distant. I might think you’re obnoxious. You have that look to you.”
“What look?”
“That terrible haircut you have.”
“Look, if you cut my hair, my parents will know I wasn’t at the library.”
“You could have just popped in to a barber’s on the way back.”
“With what money?”
“And the barber thought you were so dashing he cut your hair for free.”
“That is believable,” said Sai.
Emilia laughed again. “Fine. Whatever. Keep your hair. I’ll make sure to comment on it at the backyard barbecue.” She held up the invitation and grinned. “I think this is going to be fun.”
* * *
“So that went well,” Sam said, pleased.
“I guess,” allowed Teddy grumpily.
“You are very difficult to impress,” remarked Sam, as they walked up to the next house. “You’re like Queen Victoria.” He rang the doorbell. “Wait, I think she wasn’t amused, not impressed.”
Teddy gave him his usual not-impressed look. Yes, Sam thought, it was a very Victorian look.
The door opened, revealing a man about Sam’s age, blond-headed and blue-eyed and wiping his hands on a towel and shirt absolutely covered in . . .
“Oh,” said the man, looking down at where Sam’s gaze was fixed. “It’s not blood. It’s paint. Which I recognize is exactly what I would say if it were blood.”
“Hey, I just convinced the old man down the street that I was giving him a poisoned envelope by assuring him that it was not a poisoned envelope,” said Sam, “so I understand the dilemma here.”
The man laughed, which was nice and made Sam feel like maybe he hadn’t entirely lost the knack of interacting with fellow humans. He said, “You’re the new lot who just moved in, yeah? I’m Max.”
He offered his hand for Sam to shake, which Sam did, saying, “Sam.”
Max turned his hand to Teddy, who looked at it and then shook it after a second, saying, “Teddy.”
Sam was at least relieved that Teddy wouldn’t be so rude as to directly refuse to shake a hand and introduce himself.
“And hello, Jack,” Max said to the dog, who bounced about a little in joyful greeting, and Max scratched briefly behind Jack’s ears before turning back to the humans. “Sam and Teddy. Very nice to meet both of you. Welcome to the street. I’m sure it’s only slightly bonkers. No more so than any other street. Or so I tell myself. Was there something I could do for you?”
Sam handed across his envelope.
Max took it and said, “Oh, did the post get mixed up?” Which apparently was going to be a standard response. “No, it’s a party invitation,” Sam said. “Thought I’d save money on the postage by inviting everyone personally.”
Max had opened the envelope and was studying the invitation. “How nice of you. Backyard barbecue, hmm?”
“I thought it would be a nice way to meet the neighbors,” said Sam.
Max gave him a look he couldn’t quite read and said, “I see. Well, lovely idea, thank you. My husband and I will appropriately RSVP.” Max gestured to the RSVP request on the invitation.
“Great,” said Sam. “Thanks.”
“See you, then,” said Max, and closed the door on them.
“He thought that was weird,” Teddy said.
“He maybe thought that was a little weird,” allowed Sam.
* * *
Diya Basak was sorting through her husband’s old clothes, because Mayra Khatri knew someone in desperate need of some nice clothes for an interview, and Darsh certainly had enough to spare. The doorbell ringing surprised her, because they didn’t ordinarily get visitors during the day.
Sai was at the library, as he usually was, but Pari was downstairs, so Diya shouted down to her, “Pari! Can you see who’s at the door?”
“It’s the weird new people,” Pari called back up.
Surely loudly enough to be heard by whoever was standing at
the door.
Diya frowned, both at Pari’s rudeness and at the fact that she had no idea what Pari meant by “weird new people,” and walked down the stairs to answer the door.
Pari was staring out the window at the visitors.
“Get away from the window,” Diya hissed at her.
Pari said, “He has Jack with him. My Jack.”
“What?” asked Diya, far more concerned with how Pari looked than with whatever Pari was saying. “Did you even brush your hair this morning?” What were people going to think? She had a rude and messy-looking daughter.
Diya opened the door and smiled brightly at the people on the other side of it: a man, a boy, a dog. The boy looked very unhappy. In fact, he looked just as unhappy as Pari, whom Diya shoved behind her before Pari could be any more horrifyingly rude. The man looked uncertain. The dog wagged its tail and barked and immediately stormed into the house.
Diya shrieked and ran up the first couple of steps of the staircase, as if that would stop the dog from reaching her.
But the dog didn’t look interested in her. It seemed to be attacking Pari.
“Help her!” Diya commanded the man, who was just standing uselessly in the doorway.
“Help her?” the man echoed.
“It’s okay, Mum,” said Pari, and Diya realized she was laughing. “This is Jack. You know, my dog Jack.”
“Your dog?” Diya said. “You don’t have a dog.”
“Jack belongs to the entire street,” said the little boy on the doorstep. “Jack belongs to everyone.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Pari.
“Mr. Hammersley,” said the little boy.
“And who is that?” responded Pari.
Diya said, “Pari, that tone. Be polite.” She looked to the man on the doorstep. “And please could you control your dog? I don’t like dogs.”
“Er,” said the man, looking at the dog, and then he whistled and said, “Here, Jack.”
Jack left Pari alone to come running to the man and leap at him.
“Okay, boy,” said the man to the dog, and grabbed at his collar to settle him at his feet.