She could recall the rest of that flight like a highlight reel. Clawing off her seat belt and running to the bathroom, feeling like she was going to vomit. Trying to pry the ring off her finger so violently that she drew blood. She’d rinsed the trail of red off and dangled the ring from the tip of her finger over the toilet bowl, letting it sway back and forth just centimeters from a sky-high grave. Any turbulence would’ve done the job for her, but fate wasn’t on her side.
When she’d emerged from the bathroom a flight attendant saw her tear-streaked, blotchy face and rushed her back to the galley for a dose of sisterhood and a shot of tequila. With a crew’s worth of pep talks and a blanket from first class draped around her shoulders, she’d walked back to her seat next to Aaron with her chin high and refused to look at him for the remainder of the flight. She knew he could see right through her bravado, but she didn’t care. She refused to show him any weakness.
Aaron never told Cora exactly what had happened to bring him to that conclusion, so she was forced to try to find the facts hidden within his platitudes—it’s not you it’s me, we’re different people, you need things I can’t provide—and map out her own version of their relationship implosion. Every possibility left her feeling like damaged goods.
It took her a long time to feel ready to put herself out there again. Her self-imposed dry spell was good for her brain and her bank account—it allowed her to focus on building her business and kept her too busy to worry about distractions like Tinder and Facebook stalking. Now, though, she was ready to dip her toe in the dating pool again. Her bed was starting to feel too big.
Cora glanced around the yoga room. No comers in Bikram, that’s for sure, she thought. The gray-haired ponytail guy was a creepy close-talker who hugged without invitation. The decent-looking guy two rows ahead of her always wore Lycra bike shorts and a tight racer-back tank top. She didn’t care how normal he seemed during their brief chats before class. She just couldn’t come to terms with a guy who willingly exposed the outline of his package to everyone in the gym each week. Besides, it wasn’t that impressive of an outline. The one gorgeous, yoga-chiseled, suitably attired guy in class? (Shorts of a respectable length every week.) Perfect, but gay.
Corpse pose. Finally. Savasana, Cora’s favorite position. She couldn’t quite master Balancing Stick pose, but she could lie on the ground, palms upturned, with the best yogis in the world.
“Namaste, people. See you next time.” Ravi bowed to the class. Cora didn’t even bother thinking impure thoughts about Ravi, he of romance-novel hair, tan skin, and perfect physique. There was the unwritten yoga instructor’s code about not dating students, and then there was the problem of Ravi’s stunning spin instructor girlfriend. Cora wasn’t a poacher.
Charming Charlie Gill flitted into consciousness. Off-limits, Cora reminded herself.
“Hey, sweaty Betty,” Maggie called to Cora, still resting on the floor. “I’m going out to get a smoothie with Gym Jack from the front desk.”
“You mean Gym ‘Jake’ from the front desk?”
“Jack, Jake—close enough.” Maggie shrugged. “Wanna come?”
“I’d love to be your third wheel but I’ve got to get home and let Fritzie out.” Cora was timepiece precise about walking her dog.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow? Maggie—you’re all gross from class! Are you serious?”
“I’m sure he has a shower. Besides, getting clean is half the fun!” Maggie gave a little cheerleader kick and headed for the front desk, where Jake watched with a mooney expression on his face. Maggie hoisted herself up on the counter and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Hurricane Maggie strikes again, Cora thought.
She zipped up her hoodie and headed out to the street. Their gym was a bargain basement cement box in a seedy part of town, but the instructors were excellent, and Cora didn’t need bells and whistles like Olympic-size pools and racquetball. She couldn’t bear the thought of putting on makeup and fancy outfits just to work up a sweat.
The spring air was cooler in the darkness. She pulled the hood from her sweatshirt up onto her head.
“Hey, Red Riding Hood! Hey, girl!”
Cora looked around to see local eccentric Joe-Elvis emerge from an alley.
“Hey, Joe! Got a song for me tonight?”
A short, round African American of an indeterminate age, he knew every single Elvis song ever recorded, and could sing like a human jukebox when asked. He didn’t like to maintain eye contact, and he spoke with a slow, stilted delivery. No one knew where he lived—though he always wore a beat-up red windbreaker he didn’t seem homeless, since his jeans were always clean and had a grandma-approved seam ironed down the front.
“What do you wanna hear? It’s Friday night, where’s your man? And where’s my dog Fritz? Are you lonesome tonight?” He swayed back and forth as he talked.
“You must be psychic. I’d love to hear that song.”
Joe paused to slip into character. He adjusted his stance to mirror the King’s famous pose, lifted one arm in the air and sang the first chorus with conviction. He held his pose, and then peered at Cora out of the corner of his eye.
“I loved it—that was great!” She burst into applause, ignoring the people staring at the strange tableau as they passed by.
“Thank you, thankyouverymuch,” he replied, still in character. Joe spotted a dark figure walking toward them briskly with two dogs and dropped his pose. “Hey,” he called out to the man. “Hey, I like your dogs. Can I pet them? Yo, can I pet your dogs?”
The man slowed and pulled off his headphones, an angry expression on his face. “What did you say about my dogs?”
Cora sensed the misunderstanding before Joe did. “We just want to pet your handsome dogs. Is that okay?”
The man relaxed. “Oh, sure.”
The muscular steel-gray pit bull and tiny Chihuahua wagged their tails and marched in place, eager for some attention. “Nobody loves dogs more than me. ’Cept maybe her.” Joe hooked his finger toward Cora. “Her boy Fritz looks like this big guy.” Joe knelt between them and placed a hand on each, and the pit bull rolled onto his back on the sidewalk so Joe could scratch his belly.
“Lookit my big tough guy,” the man said ruefully. “You a killer, huh? Pepito is tougher than you, Beefy.”
Cora laughed. “They’re quite a duo. Do they like each other?”
“Like?” The man shook his head. “These two are in love. Brothers from different mothers. They do everything together.”
Cora thought of Fritz home alone and felt a pang.
“Allrighty, boys. Let’s roll,” the man said to his dogs.
“Thank you!” Joe called after the trio as they walked away. He stood up and brushed off his knees. “Bye, girl, see you next time.”
Cora had told Joe her name dozens of times but he never remembered it. “Bye, Joe, see you soon.”
Cora arrived home to find Fritz curled up on the floor near the door. He had three beds scattered throughout the small apartment, but he slept in them only when she was home. Otherwise he took up the uncomfortable post near the door until Cora came back.
He woke immediately as she came in but took his time stretching into his own Downward Dog before he walked over to greet Cora. At eight years old, Fritz was starting to slow down, and his mellowed greetings were a depressing reminder that her best friend wasn’t going to live forever.
Cora had adopted Fritz from the Humane Rescue Alliance when he was a rangy teenager, her first dog as a grown-up. She’d wanted to rename him Cooper to honor the dog that had inspired her canine career, but she worried that she’d be reminded of that dog’s sad life every time she said his name. There were other ways to remember Cooper. To make sure that no other dogs ended up like him.
Fritz had been underweight from his time on the streets, and his brindle-and-white coat was dull and thin. He had a jaunty patch over his right eye that made him look a little like Petey
from Our Gang. He’d been at the shelter for a month, and the environment was clearly taking a toll. When people came near his pen he responded by joyfully leaping up and down with an off-putting fervor. The card attached to the front of his pen described him as a stray with a “big personality,” shelter code for “out of control.” The combination of his square, pit bull face, athletic frame, and wild behavior all but guaranteed him a long stay at the Alliance. Cora fell in love the moment she saw him.
Core knelt by the door in front of Fritz and gentled him closer so that they were face-to-face. She cupped her hands behind his ears and leaned her forehead against his. They meditated together in silence for a few moments, each saying their own little prayer of thanksgiving for the other.
“Mon amour, mon amour,” she sang to him under her breath. “Tu es parfait. There’s no way I’m lonesome tonight because I’ve got you. Let’s walk, baby dog.”
FIVE
* * *
Cora detoured to Politics & Prose after she finished with her rainy Saturday clients, soaked shoes and growling belly temporarily ignored. Time to stop thinking about thinking about the audition e-mail and actually do something about it. She wasn’t ready to make any bold moves yet, but if she could find a book that would convince her that auditioning was easy and fun, and that anyone could do it, then maybe she could take the next step. She felt like she needed a sign.
She navigated the shop’s narrow aisles, not sure what she was looking for. She passed an Ershovich endcap featuring his best seller and felt like his smug face was mocking her for even thinking about auditioning. How could she go head-to-head with a powerhouse like Ershovich?
But the details in the e-mail attachment that Wade had forwarded intrigued her. The program was going to feature dog-friendly techniques only and use spy camera footage to show what goes on in the typical household after the trainer leaves for the day. Cora often wished she could see what her clients were doing after she headed out at the end of a session. She could tell when people skipped their homework or practiced an exercise the wrong way for an entire week until she came back and worked on it with them. She could envision the spy cam footage of people on the show making typical mistakes, and a funny sports guy voice-over doing a play-by-play of what they should be doing instead, complete with corrective red ink on the screen. This sounds different, Cora thought when she reread the e-mail. This isn’t a heavy-handed dictator forcing dogs into submission while the owners stand by applauding. It’s a collaboration between the pet parents and the trainer, which is more realistic. Maybe I could be the person they need.
The store was packed with a mix of older hippies browsing the day away, handsome yuppies with their unruly children, and Georgetown students looking to escape the library. Cora kept her eyes downcast as she passed people. By the end of a four-client day, she was wrung out and tired of using her observational skills. She wanted to find some sort of inspirational “yes, you can do it,” Oprah-style book and spend the evening on the couch.
“Hey, I know you!”
That voice made her stop in her tracks. There, not five steps away, stood Charlie Gill, looking as if he’d walked between raindrops.
“Oh my gosh—hey. It’s Oliver’s person!” It sounded like she had forgotten his name but “CharlieGill! CharlieGill! CharlieGill!” echoed in her head like a demented Greek chorus. Cora ran her hand over the top of her wet head, lamenting the frizz surely popping from her thick braid.
“Looks like you worked outside today. You’re soaked!” He laughed sympathetically.
Cora did a little curtsy. “Yep. The glamorous life of a dog trainer. I now have raisins for toes.” She felt the splotches forming on her neck. Toes? Why did I bring up my feet? Cora had planned on putting a little extra effort in her appearance the next time she was due to meet with Charlie and Madison—an ironed shirt and tidy ponytail at least—but here she was looking positively shipwrecked.
“I have an idea—want to warm up and grab some coffee with me downstairs? I actually have about a dozen Oliver questions I’d love to ask you . . . I’m buying.”
She felt another splotch bloom near her ear. Coffee with Charlie? Was Madison going to join them? Could Cora use the opportunity to win Madison over so their remaining lessons would be conflict-free? But what if Charlie was alone? Would joining him for coffee be an ethics breach . . . especially because he looked even better than she remembered?
Cora wanted nothing more than to sit across from Charlie with a hot cup of coffee in her hands while a Sinatra-wannabe crooned a movie soundtrack in the background. She let her mind drift for a few moments, lulled by how perfect it would be if he weren’t actually her client with a supermodel girlfriend. Maybe their feet would touch accidentally under the table. Maybe he’d laugh at all of her jokes, and tell her that he liked the way her one curl fell right above her eye. She could feel the blush splotch threatening to take over the side of her face.
“I wish I could, but I’ve got to finish up here and get home. Long day.” Cora clung to her honor code even when she hated it.
“Understood,” Charlie said, smiling and nodding his head agreeably. “So I’ll see you in a few days?”
“Definitely. Good luck with Oliver’s homework!” She waved awkwardly and moved away from him quickly, hoping to avoid running into Madison in her waterlogged state.
Cora had a hard time focusing on the books. She kept glancing around the store, trying to catch another glimpse of Charlie so she could study him from afar. What was it about him that unnerved her?
The books in the theater reference section weren’t quite what she was looking for. They were too anchored in the intricacies of technique and offering tips for trying to survive as a “working actor.” She shuddered. She didn’t want to be an actor. She wanted to find a book that would give her the confidence to stand in front of strangers with Maggie’s bulletproof self-assurance and Aaron’s preening swagger. Even though she knew her dog training stuff, Cora had to admit she was in short supply of both self-assurance and swagger.
When the book titles on the shelves stopped making sense, Cora decided it was time to pack up and go home. One quick turn through the café wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?
When she glanced around the room, her eyes were drawn to Charlie in a far corner, his head cradled in his hand, reading intently. There was only one cup of coffee on the table. She watched him for a moment, trying to decide if she should walk over or escape unnoticed. He looked up as though he felt her eyes on him and caught her staring. Her face went scarlet.
“Hi,” she mouthed to him, waving again.
“Come sit,” he mouthed back, gesturing to the seat across from him.
She shrugged and threaded her way through the crowd to him.
“Change your mind? Sit down, let’s chat.” He started arranging his belongings to make room for her.
“No, no, I really shouldn’t.” She looked down at the magazines in front of him, and he followed her gaze.
“It’s all car stuff. I’m looking for a new car and wanted to read up. Now that we’ve got Oliver my Bimmer ain’t going to cut it. And you can bet he’s never going to set foot in Madison’s little TT.”
“You’re buying a car just for Oliver? That’s awesome! What kind?”
“I’ve pretty much decided on a Range Rover. Can’t you picture it? Me and the O-man, rolling in our Rover?” He pantomimed being behind the wheel. “You can come for a spin with us!”
If Madison didn’t exist, that might have sounded like a prelude to a date. Despite their professional arrangement, it still felt like the invitation was leaning more toward pleasure than business. She decided to clear up any confusion. “That would be fun, we could work on his car manners. Oliver’s a lucky dog, you’re really looking out for him.”
“Yup, he’s gonna be a baller in his new car. Hey, I’m excited for our next session. And of course Oliver is, too. He was totally in love with you.”
“The feeling was mut
ual.” Cora’s face burned. Were these double entendres?
Charlie slammed his palm on the table, startling Cora. “I almost forgot! I meant to e-mail you after you left last week to tell you that Madison is going to be away for the next few weeks on an assignment. So it’s going to be just you and me. Is that all right?”
“Yup,” she sqeaked. “It’s fine, it’s great! I mean, it’s better to have the entire household take part in training, but that’s not always possible. We’ll be fine. It’s okay. Is she upset about missing it?” Cora was babbling.
“Yeah, she seemed like she didn’t want me doing it alone, but I don’t want to wait until she comes back—too much time for the O-man to forget his lessons.”
“That makes sense. Okay. Cool,” Cora answered. She knew she needed to make her face look normal but she couldn’t stop grinning. “Anyway, I’ve got to head out, I’m sure my dog is sitting by the door with his legs crossed. You know how that goes.”
“Actually I don’t. Oliver pees whenever the mood strikes.”
“I guess we need to focus on potty training next time!”
“Please. And is it okay if I text you with questions in between sessions? I promise I won’t pester you, just once in a while.”
“No problem, of course.” There was no way that Charlie Gill could ever pester her. She pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and tried to keep her fingers from trembling as she entered his number.
SIX
* * *
Cora arrived home to find Maggie and Fritz sprawled on the couch together, TV blaring. Fritz leaped from his perch to greet Cora, nailing Maggie in the gut as he dismounted.
“Oof, dog! I’m gonna need a kidney transplant someday thanks to you!”
Fritz and Maggie were fast friends, and their bond made Cora love Maggie a little more, if that was even possible. Maggie was the sister Cora had always wanted—the perfect mix of partner in crime, cheerleader, sympathetic ear, and court jester. Cora was still slightly in awe that this petite force of nature allowed her into her orbit. Maggie was a postmodern pinup feminist, with the allure of Monroe tempered by the convictions of Steinem.
Life on the Leash Page 3