by Lee Robinson
“You couldn’t have known, Delores.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, that maybe this is a blessing for Charlie, for her. “Would you like me to drive you home?”
“No, I’ll be okay. You take care of your mama.”
When she leaves I call Gina, tell her about Charlie, about Mr. Hart’s visitors.
“I can’t believe Anna brought the kid,” she says. “I always knew you had incredible powers of persuasion.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Of course you did.”
“Would you mind bringing Sherman here? Just close the office, take the afternoon off.”
“You okay? You sound like you’ve been crying yourself.”
“I’m sad for Delores.”
“But it’s good news about the Harts.”
“I guess so, but it means saying good-bye to Sherman.”
“Maybe they’ll give you visitation rights.”
I postpone the dinner with Ellen and my other girlfriends. Ellen argues with me. “You’re going to spend your birthday in that condo with your mother?”
“It’ll be a threesome,” I say.
“Oh, I see. The vet’s coming over.”
“No, not tonight.”
“Don’t tell me it’s Joe.”
“Of course not.”
“Quit being so mysterious.”
“It’s Sherman.”
“What’s so special about that?” she asks.
How can I explain why I want to spend this night with a little dog who knows nothing of birthdays? If I can lure him away from my mother maybe he’ll sleep at the end of my bed, and maybe when I wake in the darkness I’ll feel his warmth, the twitch of his feet as he travels—who knows where?—in his dreams.
A Work in Progress
Every case is a story, my old law school professor used to say.
When I left the hospital, I thought Hart v. Hart had reached its final chapter. Joe Baynard signed the order of dismissal this month. The case is legally over, and the Harts are living together again, but to say they’re “reconciled” is a stretch. She calls me to gripe about him; he grabs the phone to tell me his side of the story.
“Maryann’s finally gotten it through her head that we can’t afford two houses anymore,” he says. “I thought she’d agreed to sell the one downtown, but now she’s changed her mind, says she won’t live out here at the beach unless I promise I won’t ever see the girl again. I’m not promising any such thing.”
I change the subject. “How’s Sherman?”
“My buddy’s fine.”
“How’s it going with your daughter?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“At least we’re talking. Maryann’s planning a trip to New York. I’ll go with her, provided I don’t croak first.”
“That sounds good.”
“I just wish she had a husband—Anna, I mean. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, a kid growing up without a father in the house.”
In the background I hear Maryann Hart: “Stop harping about that!”
“Like I say, we’re talking. You deserve the credit for that.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“It wouldn’t have happened without you. Hold on, my wife wants to ask you something.”
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous,” Mrs. Hart says, “but when we go to New York, I want to stay long enough to have a nice visit—a week at least. Rusty’s reluctant to leave Sherman at the kennel. Dr. Borden suggested you might be willing to dog-sit. Again, I don’t want to seem presumptuous, and I wouldn’t ask if Dr. Borden hadn’t recommended you.”
“I’d be happy to. I’ve missed him.”
“We haven’t made any definite plans yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Why don’t you bring him by the office sometime? Or maybe I could drive out to the beach with my mother. She misses him, too.”
My mother is still with me. When Compassionate Care called to say they had an opening in the Alzheimer’s wing, I turned it down. Delores says she wants to keep working. “I’m not going to sit around and mope all day long,” she says. I’ve hired two other sitters, one for the night shift and the other for weekends. Even with all this help I don’t know how long we’ll be able to manage. Last week Mom insisted she was “going away on vacation.” I humored her, didn’t interfere when she pulled a suitcase from the closet and started packing. It wasn’t until she tried to add a bunch of ripe bananas and a jar of mayonnaise to the pile of clothes that I had to stop her.
Sometimes I think, this isn’t my mother. My real mother is still a presence in my life. She’s still following me around the kitchen, so close I feel her breath on my back. “You might add a little salt to that soup,” my real mother says. Or when we’re sitting on the balcony watching the ships come and go in the harbor, she’s giving me advice about my love life, about how I should be careful not to ruin things this time, because “Darling, this could be your last chance.”
My real mother and I still argue all the time. It grieves her that I’m not sure I believe in life after death—at least not in her kind of heaven. She fears for my soul, she says. She wants us to be together in heaven someday. “If you don’t believe,” she says, “you’ll risk eternal damnation.” Don’t worry, I reply, if you nag God enough, I’m sure he’ll make some allowance.
Every now and then, in these imaginary conversations, one of us says something unexpected. She apologizes for giving Brownie away. “It broke your heart,” she says, “to lose your father, and then to lose that dog, too.” I tell her I’m sorry I never gave her enough credit for being so brave after Dad died, going back to work, persevering. I tell her I know she did the best she could. My real mother can’t quite bring herself to apologize for the way she behaved after I left Joe, blaming me for everything. But I don’t expect miracles.
Shortly after he signed the order of dismissal in Hart v. Hart, the Honorable Joseph H. Baynard moved back home. Last week I saw him coming toward me on Broad Street and I expected him to nod, smile, and keep going, as he’s done the last couple of times we’ve seen each other, but he stopped. “How are things?” he asked.
“Fine,” I answered. “You?”
“Better.”
“I was glad to hear about you and Susan.”
“It’s still a work in progress,” he said.
“Isn’t it always?”
“You must have thought I’d lost my mind,” he said.
“You were going through a bad time.”
“But you were still mad as hell at me, and I deserved it. How’s your mother?” I gave him a brief report. “Tell her I’m thinking about her,” he said before we shook hands. The handshake lasted longer than it should, a second or two beyond mere friendship, and after we parted I realize I was the one holding on, not Joe.
* * *
I spent last weekend with Tony Borden at his house not far from the clinic. It was chilly, but one night we snuggled in the hammock on his screened porch, under a blanket, watching the sun go down behind the marshes.
“It’s so peaceful out there,” I said. “Hard to believe we’re only twenty miles from the city.” I was already feeling guilty about leaving my mother, though she’d seemed fine when I’d left her with the new weekend sitter.
“It’s an illusion,” Tony said. “Nature isn’t all that peaceful. Right now the snakes are coming out to hunt, the owls are scouring the field for mice, and the vultures have just about finished off that dead deer you saw on the way out.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“The only difference is, the animals are just doing it to survive. So in my opinion, they’re nobler than humans. Except for you, of course. I make an exception for you.” He reached down to rub the beagle’s forehead. “You sure you won’t take her?”
“Maybe after I get Mom settled in with her new sitters. Right now I just don’t see how I can handle a dog full-time.”
“You did okay with She
rman.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That seems to be your standard line.”
He’s been moody lately. His son is coming for a visit over Christmas. Tony’s worried about how it will go. I try to be reassuring, though I have my own worries. Will Jake like me? I’ve represented hundreds of children over the years, but what do I really know about twelve-year-old boys?
And last weekend Tony said I love you.
I wasn’t ready for that.
“What are you waiting for?” asks Gina when I tell her about my hesitation.
If my mother could speak she’d undoubtedly say, Don’t mess it up. This might be your last chance.
“He’s perfect for you,” says my friend Ellen.
Sherman seems to have an opinion, too. I keep a picture of him on my desk, the photo that was once part of the court file. When I’m overwhelmed with work, like today, his dark eyes look right at me, bright and wise, steady: I’m glad you took that cat case. Even a cat deserves a good lawyer.
About the Author
Lee Robinson practiced law for more than twenty years in Charleston, South Carolina, where she served as executive director of a legal services agency and later worked in private practice, concentrating on family law. She was elected the first female president of the Charleston Bar Association and received the Bar Association’s award for her work in public-interest law. She lives on a small ranch in the Texas hill country. This is her first novel for adults. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Lee Robinson
Gateway
Poetry
Hearsay
Creed
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Brief of My Life
Lost Something
Love Gone Bad
For Better or Worse
Beauregard’s Fancy
Losing Things
These Things Happen
The Dowager of Domestic Relations
Lusting in My Heart
A No Win
No Secrets
Not Too Much Pressure
Dogs Can Tell You Things
Territorial
It’s Complicated
A Real Bitch
It’s Reality
The Devil in the Details
He Deserves It
Mr. Adorable
Running in his Sleep
Neutered
Golden Memories
A Memo to the File
Such a Little Sexpot
Another One?
Dog King of the World
Trying Dogfully
Off the Deep End
Fifty
A Work in Progress
About the Author
Also by Lee Robinson
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
LAWYER FOR THE DOG. Copyright © 2015 by lee Robinson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Young Jin Lim
Cover photographs: dog by Petra Wegner / Alamy; Spanish moss by Shutterstock
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05241-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5403-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466854031
First Edition: July 2015