Must Love Dogs: New Leash on Life

by Cook, Claire

  "Eh," Carol said. "Doesn't have quite the right ring to it."

  "It might if you're a hockey player," I said.

  It wasn't really funny, but we started laughing again anyway, perhaps a little too loudly.

  Another shoe hit the wall.

  Carol sat up and turned her light on. I shaded my eyes while she walked across Michael's mattress and over to the phone. "It's me again. This is my fourth call and if you don't kick those people out of your hotel immediately, you're going to have to move my family and me to new rooms and give us a voucher for a return trip, complete with meals, should we ever be crazy enough to decide to come back. Okay. Okay. Thank you."

  She slammed the phone down. "Done. Sarah, go leave a note on the other side of the door telling Dad not to wake us because we're sleeping in."

  Michael sat up. "I can't sleep."

  Carol sighed, long and loud. "Fine. How about this: Sarah and I will help you get a plan while we're waiting for the people next door to get kicked out, and then we can all sleep in."

  "Yeah, okay," Michael said. "I was thinking that one of you could call Phoebe and tell her you just happen to be in Savannah and would love to meet her for lunch, and then I could be waiting—"

  "Genius," I said. "That'll put her in a receptive mood."

  Michael yawned. "Okay, hotshot. You come up with something better."

  "Have flowers delivered to her," I said, "along with a beautiful note that says you're in Savannah and you'd like to meet her alone for lunch to try to get things right. Because whatever happens, for the rest of your lives you'll always be the parents of two beautiful girls that you both love very much, and you only want what's best for them."

  "Whoa," Carol said. "Somebody write that down before we forget it."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "One question though." Carol yawned. "How can you come up with something like that when you always make such a mess of your own life?"

  I threw one of my pillows at her.

  "Guess what?" Carol said. "Sarah's boyfriend asked her to drink out of a dog dish."

  "I hate you," I said.

  "Grow up, you two," Michael said. He pushed himself off the mattress and grabbed a pad of hotel paper from the desk. "Assuming Phoebe goes for it, what do I say to her when she shows up?"

  "I guess you wing it," I said.

  Chapter

  Twenty-five

  Phoebe's parents lived on Jones Street, which everybody always said was the most beautiful street in the historic district of Savannah. Magnolias and enormous live oaks shaded streets and sidewalks still paved in brick in some parts, and tall elegant homes from the 1800s stood elbow-to-elbow in the steamy summer air.

  A realtor might describe Phoebe's parent's place as a three-story plus garden level antebellum brick townhouse complete with carriage house and oodles of charm. I wasn't quite sure what antebellum actually meant, beyond old, but it seemed to fit. An ornate black wrought iron railing followed two flights of stairs up to the freshly painted black front door, which was surrounded by a white portico. Some sort of serious-looking historical plaque adorned the brick to one side of the door.

  I'd only been inside the house once, the weekend of Michael and Phoebe's wedding, at a party that took place the night before the wedding rehearsal. Most of that long weekend was a blur, but I could still remember walking through the front door and being blown away by a banister that was an exact replica of the one in our family house in Marshbury. The same softly curved solid mahogany in the same shape and proportions, even the same turned white spindles. But while our banister began in a wide center hallway and went up only one flight, this banister was pushed all the way over to one side of the narrow house and then soared up to an extra third floor.

  It was like discovering our house had a taller, thinner long-lost relative, a Southern cousin. At the time we all thought it was a sign Michael and Phoebe were meant for each other.

  All these years later, my family and I were parked in our Ford Focus just down the tree-lined street from the house. A white delivery van pulled up in front of the house. Michael leaned forward between the two front seats so he could get a better view.

  "Right on time," Michael said. "Just like they promised."

  It was Carol who'd remembered that Garden On the Square had done the flowers for their wedding. As an event planner, Carol collected cards wherever she went and added them to a database in case one of her clients ever wanted a destination event. She'd pulled the address up on her iPhone with uber efficiency.

  We'd showered and changed this morning as soon as our alarms went off. After devouring coffee and egg sandwiches at a Hilton Head bagel place tucked behind some trees, we'd managed to find Abercorn Street. We'd just pulled into an empty parking spot in front of Garden On the Square when a pretty blond woman unlocked the front door.

  The bell rang as we walked in. "How're y'all doin' this mornin'?" she said.

  "A top o' the mornin' to you, darlin'," our father said as he tipped his Coast Guard Auxiliary cap.

  Carol jumped in. "Hi there. Beautiful morning, isn't it? Okay, so is there any way you can look up my brother's wedding to see what kind of floral arrangements you did for it? He needs one delivered ASAP."

  "I sure can." The woman smiled at Michael. "Almost forgot your anniversary, honey? Happens all the time."

  "Something like that," Michael said.

  Michael copied over his note on a thick white card in his best handwriting. He sealed the envelope and wrote Phoebe on it. A few minutes later, we were looking at a mason jar wrapped in lace holding a bouquet of blue hydrangeas, magnolia leaves, and Spanish moss.

  "So sweet," Carol said. "I actually remember those from the wedding."

  "Let's hope you're not the only one," Michael said.

  I reached into a pocket on the inside of my shoulder bag and pulled out a seagull feather. I had no idea whether it came from a laughing gull or not, but when I'd found it in the parking lot this morning on the way to the car, it felt like it might be a good luck charm.

  I held it out to the woman. "Okay to add this?"

  "Of course." She slid it into the bouquet at an artful angle.

  Michael coughed and turned away.

  "Okey-dokey," our father said. "Now that we've got that squared away, do you have anything I can look at in a wrist corsage for a certain cray-cray Southern Lady?"

  "I sure do, honey," she said.

  "By the way," I said. "You don't happen to know what cray-cray means, do you?"

  She smiled. "I don't know what it means in your neck of the woods, but here in Savannah it means taking crazy to a whole 'nother level."

  "Hurry up," I said as the door to the florist van opened in front of Phoebe's parents' house. "Let's go." This whole stalking thing was making me flash back to high school, when my friends and I would drive by the houses of all the boys we had crushes on, hoping for a glimpse of them. It was both thrilling and embarrassing back then, but by the time you got to be my age, the thrill had gone and all that was left was the embarrassment. I hoped I wouldn't be reduced to driving by John Anderson's condo a few months from now. I hoped I could just move on.

  "Wait," Michael said. "I want to make sure Phoebe answers the door. If her parents recognize my handwriting on the card, they might not give the flowers to her."

  Maybe we'd all time-traveled back to high school. "I thought Phoebe's parents liked you," I said.

  "Do we still like Kevin?" he said.

  "Good point," I said. "But then again, I don't think you ever liked Kevin."

  "Only because he was an asshole," Michael said.

  "Language," our father said. "Though, I might have to give you special dispensation on this one. Even on his best day, that husband of yours was a card-carrying cad."

  "Gee, thanks," I said. "Funny how when I was married to him, none of you ever said things like that."

  "We figured you already knew," Carol said. "Why rub it in, you know?"

 
"Oh, right," I said. "I forgot how much you guys hate to rub things in."

  Michael dropped his head down. "She's opening the door. Come on, get me out of here. Fast."

  Boston is a fantastic city, but the streets are a muddle of confusing twists and turns and changing street names. Savannah is laid out on a grid that actually makes sense. The GPS on Carol's phone sent us onto Montgomery Street, took us past the Savannah Civic Center, and circled us around a couple of charmingly landscaped squares complete with walkways and benches. We found the riverfront, putted along in traffic, then pulled into a garage just up a side street so we could kill some time walking around.

  Carol and I wandered into a souvenir shop while Michael and our dad hung out on the sidewalk. "Do not let me buy anything that isn't for me," she said. She picked up a T-shirt in Maeve's size. Put it down again.

  I found a Pinball Hero baseball hat. Picked it up, put it down, picked it up again.

  "So," I said, as I put it down one more time. "How are we going to handle this thing with Dad?"

  "Well, obviously," she said. "We're going with him."

  We dropped Michael off a block or so from Reynolds Square so Phoebe wouldn't see that he'd brought his family for reinforcement. He'd asked her to meet him at The Olde Pink House, the restaurant she'd taken him to when he first visited Savannah. We were all sure he'd get extra points for remembering.

  Michael reached for his door handle. "Do I look okay?"

  "Smokin'," I said.

  Our father turned around in his seat. "Like a stallion. Now march right in there and use your best apple butter on that baby cakes. It got her circled to you once, and mark my words, you'll be back in fat city before you know it."

  "Thanks. I think." Michael managed a smile, but it didn't look very convincing.

  "You look fine," Carol said. "Just remember, if Phoebe tries to start a fight, do not engage. Tell her she looks great, ask her how her parents are. Ask her if the girls are having a good visit."

  "And whatever you do," I said. "Do not bring up Uncle Pete."

  "Thanks," he said. "I needed that."

  "Sorry," I said. "I just mean that you're there to talk about the girls and what's best for them. You need to stay focused on that and not on your personal relationship with Phoebe. At least for now."

  I'd suffered through more than my share of agonizing conferences with parents whose marriages were in the middle of a break-up. One minute we'd be talking about their preschooler's verbal skills and the next they'd be using their own to throw daggers at each other.

  "I know, I know," Michael said.

  Our cramped economy car felt almost empty once he was gone. We sat there for a while, watching him walk down the street, getting smaller and smaller.

  "He has a good swagger when he walks," Carol said. "Like I might be a nice guy, but don't mess with me."

  "I'm proud to say I taught him that swagger," our dad said, "after two young hellions from his cub scout troop gave him a hard time. I had him going back and forth and back and forth in the basement rumpus room all one Sunday afternoon until he had it down cold. The likes of them never bothered him again, thank you very much."

  "Good to know, Dad," Carol said. "I'll keep that in mind in case the boys need any swagger coaching. Wait, I'm not going to talk about my kids. They're fine."

  "Ha," I said. "Remember when Michael used to call his favorite stuffed animal Winnie of Poo? And every time he said it we'd all crack up because it sounded like Winnie was made of poo."

  "We were known for our sophisticated senses of humor," Carol said.

  Our father let out a big laugh and hit the dashboard with his palm. "Your mother and I used to tell you kids you weren't allowed to have broccoli until you were twenty-one. You'd get down on your hands and knees at the dinner table and beg for the stuff."

  "Nice, Dad," I said. "We couldn't have broccoli, but you'd give us sips of your beer."

  Our father shook his head. "Only when your mother wasn't watching. Children sampling a wee bit of alcohol did not go over well with Marjorie Hurlihy, let me tell you. And here we were both brought up in households that believed Guinness was good for anything that ailed you, the next best thing to mother's milk."

  "Remember," Carol said, "when Grandpa used to give us those disgusting orange marshmallow candies shaped like peanuts? He always had a bag hidden under his recliner when we came to visit?"

  "Ha," I said, "Remember that time Michael, no, maybe it was Billy, went toddling into Grammy and Grandpa's kitchen screaming, 'Where's my penis?" and Dad pointed to his diaper, and said, 'Right here, big boy, right here.' And he kept saying it and getting madder and madder, and we finally figured out he meant peanuts." I cracked up all over again, and Carol and our dad joined in.

  "I'm pretty sure it was Billy." Carol wiped tears from her eyes. "Such a classy bunch."

  "Speaking of which," I said. "We'd better get going. It's almost time for Dad's date with Sugar Butt."

  Chapter

  Twenty-six

  "Dad," I yelled as our father made a beeline for the Crystal Beer Parlor. "Wait for us."

  "And tone down that swagger," Carol hissed. "You look like somebody crossed a penguin with an old John Wayne movie."

  He turned around and waited for us to catch up to him. "Nothing wrong with the Duke."

  "Don't worry," Carol said. "We're not going to hang around. All we want to do is check her out to make sure it's not some kind of scam."

  "She's on the up and up, I can feel it right here." Our father put one hand over his heart. Then he held up his wrist corsage with his other hand. It was made out of yellow roses and peacock feathers and had twirls of purple ribbon dangling off the sides. "You don't think this is too extravagant for a first date, do you? I don't want her to think I'm made of money."

  "It's perfect, Dad," I said. "Nice change of pace from your usual single yellow rose."

  Carol grinned. "You mean like the single yellow rose he brought for your date?"

  If I lived to be a thousand, my sisters and brothers would never let me forget that I'd once accidentally answered one of my own father's personal ads. As if it couldn't have happened to anyone.

  My father being my father, the embarrassment was completely one-sided. "And what a lovely time we had, Sarry girl, now didn't we?" he said.

  An older woman with an explosion of canary yellow hair was leaning up against the rough brick wall of the Crystal Beer Parlor under the shade of a crisp black window awning. She was wearing bike shorts and a stretchy lime green sleeveless shirt. The green of her wide-brimmed visor matched her shirt exactly and her black faux leather fanny pack was studded with round metal rivets, adding a touch of motorcycle edge to her bicycle look.

  My father picked up the pace.

  The woman slid her sunglasses up to the top of her visor. "Lord love a duck, you're handsome," she said.

  "Billy Hurlihy," my father said as he extended the wrist corsage. "And you must be Sugar Butt."

  Just as I was trying to decide whether to call her Sugar or Ms. Butt, she threw her head back and let out a great big laugh. Her yellow hair didn't move an inch.

  "My special friends call me Sugar Butt," she said, "but my given name is Belva Rae O'Garrity."

  "You'll always be Sugar Butt to me," our father said as he stepped forward. Sadly, she'd always be Sugar Butt to me, too. My father helped her into her wrist corsage, then introduced us. She wasn't our mother by a long shot, but she didn't seem all that dangerous either. Who knew, maybe she and our dad could work their way into a long distance casserole relationship.

  Carol gave me the look. I took a step back. "Well," I said, " I guess we'd better get going so we're not late for, um, you know."

  "You can't leave us before the Slow Ride," Sugar Butt said. "We'll do all the work, but you've got to at least come and watch."

  "Excuse me?" Carol said.

  Sugar Butt turned to our father. "Tell 'em it's okay, Daddy."

  "Excuse me?" I sa
id.

  Sugar Butt pointed. An odd contraption filled with senior citizens was parked at the curb. It had a curved roof and a big sign on the front that said SAVANNAH SLOW RIDE.

  "Jump on in," Sugar Butt said. "We've got two extra seats. Handley Crawford is resting up from having her face lifted and Jelly Roll Jenkins just up and died on us."

  "That's encouraging," Carol said.

  There was a good excuse to get out of this just on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't come up with it fast enough.

  "Welcome aboard," a bearded driver in shorts and a T-shirt said as Sugar Butt herded us on. His seat faced forward and he had a big steering wheel, which seemed like moderately good signs. Sugar Butt took our father by the hand and led him to one of the two empty seats with pedals. I counted ten pedal seats in all—five on each side facing each other across the length of the trolley car-like vehicle. The center aisle was narrow because a wooden wrap-around bar took up the rest of the interior space, giving everybody including the driver a place to rest both their elbows and their drinks.

  Carol and I found two empty seats just above the back wheels. They were pedal-less. There was also a vacant bench way at the back of the vehicle, maybe to take a nap if you needed one.

  A bald man wearing aviator glasses and a Hawaiian shirt turned to us. "You're our back-up in case we lose anybody."

  I leaned forward. "What exactly do you mean by lose?"

  Everybody laughed. I hated being funny when I didn't mean to be.

  "Haven't lost one yet this week, honey," the driver said.

  I thought the pedals were some kind of touristy gimmick, but they turned out to be the entire propulsion. Our dad got right into it, pedaling as hard as the best of them. The thigh muscles on those senior legs put mine to shame. Maybe I'd dust off my old bicycle when I got home.

  "You doing okay, Billy Boy?" Sugar Butt said a long time and maybe half a block later.

  "Don't you worry about me, darlin'." He wiggled his eyebrows. "You know what they say about riding a bike."