Try, Try Again

by Herne, Ruth Logan

  Jerome had disappeared again, but now he trotted into the garage, a large blanket splayed between his hands. Conor circled the dog’s neck with care, looking for the clasped hook to unchain him, found the latch and refused to think what might be matted in the animal’s fur. As he unclasped the chain, he held tight to the dog’s collar while Jerome handed him the blanket.

  No need. The neglected animal could barely stand, much less run. Conor wrapped the chilled beast in the nappy spread and hoisted him with surprising ease. He sent Alicia and Jerome a no nonsense look. “Nearest vet?”

  “On Witherspoon, near the hospital.” Alicia moved ahead of him, her footsteps brisk. “We’ll take my car.” Hurrying to the back door of the SUV, she wrenched it open. With help from Jerome, Conor climbed up, still clutching the dog, ignoring the horrific smell.

  “In?” Alicia sent him a look through the rear view mirror once she’d climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “In. Drive.”

  “I’m on it,” she muttered, her forehead etched in concern. She didn’t once pinch her nose or whine about her Range Rover’s upholstery. She took the turn onto Nassau with more speed than normal, flicked a glance to Conor and made a face of apology. “Sorry. Had to jump out. Saturday afternoon traffic.”

  He nodded, keeping a grip on the near lifeless animal in his arms. “We’re okay.”

  Within minutes they arrived at the vet clinic. A tech swung open the door, eyed them with surprise, then winced at the odor emanating from the blanketed figure in Conor’s arms. “We need help, fast.”

  She nodded, swung the door shut behind them, climbed a short flight of stairs and grabbed up a phone. A few minutes later a man strode in, buttoning a scrub coat over Saturday dress that looked golf club friendly. “What’ve we got?”

  Conor shook his head, one hand atop the dog’s matted head. “Some kind of dog. Abandoned. We found him tethered in the garage of a piece of property we bought two weeks ago.”

  “Not yours, then?”

  Conor met Alicia’s look of concern over the top of the prone figure. “No. Former owner, I would guess.”

  The vet eased the blanket away, his eyes watering at the rank odor.

  Conor bent low and stroked the dog’s head. “It’s okay, old boy. We’re okay.” His tone, deep and low, seemed to soothe the animal’s anxiety. Sighing, the dog dropped his snout to his front paws, as though grateful for help at last.

  “Our best bet would be to put him down,” counseled the vet, his expression saying he found the decision more repugnant than the odor. “He’s malnourished, bug-infested, with body sores from laying in his own waste. His name is...” the vet bent and peered at the oval metal disk attached to the dog’s collar. “Sarge. He’s deserted and homeless, possibly untrustworthy—”

  The name jabbed Conor’s heart. Why hadn’t he examined the carriage shed last week? His carelessness caused this poor animal six extra days of suffering. “He’s not homeless anymore.” Conor straightened, keeping a gentle hand to the ruff of the dog’s neck. “He’s mine.”

  Alicia stared at him. “Conor Bradstreet, since when did you grow a heart?”

  “It’s taken a while,” he responded, keeping his voice soft, eyes down. “A long process, all told.”

  “Where do you expect to keep him in New York?” she demanded, coming around the table. “You think Foster will babysit him?”

  Conor flashed her a look. “You’d be amazed what Foster can do, but no. I’m not sure where we’ll house him, but that’s moot for the time being. He needs veterinary care and convalescent time, right, Doc?”

  The doctor gave him a careful once-over. “Mr. Bradstreet...”

  Ah, yes. He’d caught the name and knew who he was dealing with. Conor mentally saw the cash register add in every possible extra a sick dog could need, right down to a puppy pedicure...

  “I know you can afford this dog’s treatment.” The vet gave Conor a look that showed more concern for the dog and less for harnessing Conor’s money than Conor had given him credit for. “In Princeton, that’s rarely an issue. But, given his condition, and the probable treatment he’s undergone, this dog—”

  “Sarge,” Conor supplied. At the word, the dog’s head rose slightly and the tail thumped three times before he sighed and dropped his head again.

  The vet nodded. “Sarge. He may not be the best choice for co-habitation. What I’m saying is, he may have been mistreated to the point of not being reliable any more. If he ever was.”

  Conor gazed into the animal’s amber eyes and saw no choice. “We need to take a chance.”

  The vet’s gaze traveled from Conor to Alicia and back. He nodded. “All right. Serena?”

  The young woman who met them at the door re-entered the room. The vet nodded her way and gave orders in an easy but authoritative tone. The dog lay submissive, eyes half-closed, his breathing more relaxed as if recognizing help.

  *

  “Do you think he’ll make it?” Alicia chanced a look into Conor’s eyes as they climbed into her smelly SUV, and was taken aback by the mix of emotions she saw there. Compassion, mercy, a hint of fear. The realization took her aback.

  She’d steeled herself long since to see Conor as the callous, legalistic, financial guru, respected by all and hated by a choice few. She’d made the short list in that respect years before.

  Funny how the man who showed up in her living room a few months ago wasn’t the cold-hearted monster she’d created in her head. Maybe he never was. Maybe monsters grew in proportion to broken hearts. If so, it was no wonder her demons were combo-meal super-sized, minus the refreshing cold drink.

  Conor gave a firm nod. “He has to.”

  He had to? Because...? Alicia sensed a puzzle behind his words, but didn’t pursue it because of his next statement.

  “Let’s stop by Jon’s grave.”

  Her heart stutter-stepped in her chest. They hadn’t gone to Jon’s grave together since the funeral, and that was a day she didn’t care to relive. Not now, not ever. So many people, strangers, really, business acquaintances of Conor’s, or those wishing to score points by showing up in Princeton to pay their respects, uninvited and unwelcome, in her sphere, anyway.

  She’d kept herself aside, hating those people and their polished New York lives, their hustle and bustle, the every day busyness they would return to while she’d wake up to a house bereft of a little boy’s footsteps. His laughter. His voice, once full of life, expectant, now silenced in the grave.

  Alicia gripped the wheel, emotions spinning, then caught hold of herself. Jaw tight, she gave a quick nod. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  Conor’s staid profile hid the depths of his feelings, but then it always had. She’d known that, had twitted him about the fact when they were younger, back when they laughed together and teasing was an integral part of their relationship, in and out of the bedroom.

  A spot of heat worked its way to her cheeks, recalling their interchange in the bookstore that morning. For just a moment it had been the old Conor and Alicia, trading quips and barbs, his wry humor spurring her smiles.

  She pushed a mountain of emotions aside as she parked the car at the lower end of the cemetery. They walked the shallow slope side by side, Conor’s gaze dipped, his footfall steady. He held the gate open for her. She stepped through, then turned. “Thank you.”

  His right hand stole to her cheek, his touch a caress, his expression almost...tender. The look and the touch made her want to press her cheek into his palm, feel the thickness of his fingers, the warmth of his hand against her skin.

  He shifted his attention and dropped his hand, her cheek suddenly cool in the afternoon chill. Moving right, he headed for their son’s grave, his steps silent against late winter grass. Alicia followed, awkward, feeling out of place, which was ridiculous because wasn’t she the one who polished the stone on a regular basis, who tended the flowers, who scrubbed the lower right-hand surface with a mild bleach solution to d
iscourage the mold that longed to grow along the narrow, northern face?

  Yet Conor seemed quite at home, despite his years away.

  He turned to face her at that moment. Held out his hand in a gesture she’d longed for in the weeks and months following Jon’s death. She’d prayed that he would reach for her then, come to her, just be with her, anything to ease the horrible pain and emptiness that wrenched her each and every morning.

  He hadn’t. He’d stayed away as often and as long as possible, leaving her to struggle through her grief while raising two teenage girls whose schedules refused to allow time to wallow in emotion. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, didn’t care, not really, she only knew that Conor’s extended hand was about eight years too late. She dropped her chin, stubborn, anger clenching her heart, strangling what soul she had left, and it wasn’t all that much.

  “Alicia.” His voice, still and deep, sent a blanket of warmth around her, a remembered feeling she needed to resist. Too much had happened during those lost years, too much pain and heartache. Anger. But what did he know of that with his all-so-important New York lifestyle? Nothing, not a darned thing. She set her jaw and shifted her gaze, rock solid stubborn.

  “Leash.” His voice stayed husky low. She chanced a glance his way, saw his face, his eyes, the anguish reflected there. His offered hand reached for her. “Come here.”

  Why did she move forward? Why, after all this time, all this drama, all this anger, did the simple sound of his voice and the touch of his hand bring her to his side in this hallowed ground?

  His arm stole around her, drawing her in. She felt the smoothness of his lambskin jacket, the strong grip of the arm sheltering her shoulders, the scent of unwashed dog and pricey after-shave. Conor raised his free hand to his face, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, staving...

  She looked, saddened and mesmerized by the dampness and grief on Conor’s face, his cheeks wet, despite the effort to still the tears.

  He dropped his chin to her hair, his gaze on the ruddy stone, his grip warm and embracing. “I think it’s time we grieved our son together, Leash.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. They’d gone their separate ways following Jon’s death, bitter, angry, sorrowful, and more than a little guilty that a rich family couldn’t save the life of one little tow-haired boy.

  Conor’s second arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, hugging her, spurring a feeling both ancient and new. His voice cracked on his next words. “I’m so sorry, Alicia.”

  For once her mind didn’t leap to the wealth of things he should be sorry for. Not this time. She burrowed her head further into his coat, not caring that he smelled less than fresh after cradling a tormented dog in his arms. “I know. Me, too.”

  His grip shifted at her words. She felt his cheek on her hair, his arms snug around her, cradling her, his heartbeat soft beneath the layers of clothes. “Well, then.”

  She had no idea how long they stood like that, tears flowing. The squeak of the gate pulled them apart some time later. She glanced up, wiping her eyes with fingers that smelled of antiseptic soap from the vet clinic, wishing for a tissue or a hanky.

  The approaching priest held a thick wad of tissues in his hand. “Thought these might be of use.”

  Alicia accepted them, self-conscious.

  Conor didn’t appear embarrassed at all. “Thank you, Father.”

  The priest offered the full benefit of a gentle Celtic smile. “Laughter and tears. The best medicine, and the price is often right.”

  Conor sighed deep, looked down at the grave, then up at the priest. “Therapeutic?”

  “Exponentially when coupled with prayer,” the old priest announced, his voice warm with hope.

  Alicia stepped back. “And when God doesn’t answer your prayers, Father?”

  The look he bestowed on her held the wisdom of ages and the warmth of gathered angels. The combination thoroughly pissed her off. “Oh, he answers, right enough. We just don’t always like his decisions.”

  “I can’t argue that.” Shattered walls re-established themselves within her. Feeling boxed by the two men, she took another step back, then another. “I’ll be in the car.”

  She turned and strode toward the gate, her movements swift and sure, anger punctuating every step.

  Conor sighed, swiped a hand across his face, then sighed again.

  “You’re not quitting, are you?”

  He met the priest’s gaze, puzzled. “Quitting?”

  “The campaign.”

  “For?”

  “Her.”

  “Ah.” Conor shifted his look to Alicia’s swiftly departing back. “It’s not exactly a campaign, Father.”

  “No?”

  “More like an effort to right old wrongs. Bring us both some peace.”

  The priest nodded, his look disbelieving. He clapped Conor on the back with a grip belied by his passing years. “You keep telling yourself that, my son. See if it works.”

  “Father, I—”

  The old priest’s eyes crinkled with amusement and male understanding that shouldn’t be possible in a celibate man. “I’m praying for you. Both of you. In fact,” he leaned forward, his gaze measured, eyes merry. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can get her into church, other than Kim’s wedding, before year’s end, I’ll take the dunking booth at the summer festival. Half of Princeton’s been waiting for a chance to drop me into that tub of water.” His eyes gleamed. “Great fund raiser. Are you a betting man?”

  Conor shook his head, but took the pastor’s offered hand. “No, but this is one I won’t pass up. And if we get you onto that dunking stool, Father, I’ll match the festival’s take, dollar for dollar. See if we can help you stay in the black.”

  The priest offered a quick nod of agreement. “You do your job. I’ll do mine.”

  A hint of peace flowed through Conor, easing a still ragged section of his worn heart. “It’s a deal, Father.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Conor stared at the empty parking spot that used to hold Alicia’s 4X4 and sighed, wishing his returning headache away. The morning pills must have worn off and he felt the beat of his heart against his temple in a steady thrump, thrump, thrump. He zipped his smelly jacket a bit higher and walked the short blocks to Teaberry Street, determined to ignore the pain.

  Her SUV wasn’t there, either, nor was it parked near the bookstore. She’d gone home, most likely, back to her pale and pristine existence, away from prying priests and smelly ex-husbands.

  Once back in his hotel suite, he shed his clothing, called for laundry service, showered hot and long, then did it again, just in case he missed a spot. He scanned his cell phone as he re-dressed. Two missed calls. One from the vet, one from Alicia. Weighing his options, he called the vet first.

  “Sarge is resting comfortably right now, Mr. Bradstreet,” the vet assured him. “We’ve got him on IV fluids, I don’t see any internal injuries, although we can’t rule out organ damage caused by lack of food and water.”

  A stab of guilt renewed itself in Conor’s chest. If he’d checked the carriage house last weekend, the dog’s suffering wouldn’t be nearly so bad. The thought of six long days without food or water, suffered in silence, chained in filth, made Conor’s head swim. He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling tired and a touch woozy. “Will he make it?”

  The vet hesitated. “Let’s give him a little time to re-acclimate. He’s had a rough go and dogs in this condition often survive, but some don’t. His age is in his favor.”

  “It is?” Conor had supposed the dog to be well on in years.

  “He’s not more than three I would guess. And Shepherds are renowned for their resilience, so I’m not counting our friend out for the count.”

  A Shepherd, huh? Envisioning the regal stance of Shepherds paraded around Central Park, Conor wouldn’t have guessed that lineage a few hours back. Relieved, he gripped the phone tighter. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I’ll k
eep in touch. We have staff on duty at all times, so if Sarge runs into any kind of difficulty, he’s not alone.”

  His declaration eased another burden from Conor. Mulling the dog’s deteriorated condition, he was determined that Sarge would never be left alone again.

  A knock sounded. Frowning, he crossed the room and swung open the door. Alicia stood in the tastefully decorated hall, definitely fresher than she’d been two hours before. She stepped in, chin up, nose wrinkling.

  “Where are they?”

  “They...?” Conor deepened his frown, leaned down, took a deep breath of her hair, fruity soap-and-water clean, eased back and smiled his appreciation. “Much better. They what?”

  “Your disgusting clothes,” she told him, sniffing the air like a well-trained hound. “No way are you sending dog poop clothes to the hotel laundry.”

  “Oops.” Conor met her gaze, feigning chagrin while he fought a smile. “I figured the sooner I got them out of here, the better.”

  “I don’t believe this.” She sank onto the edge of the couch, her lower lip thrust out, her face mulish. “Why would you do that? You’re letting perfect strangers wash poopy clothing.”

  “I tipped them quite well.”

  “Conor.”

  “Ummm...” Conor crossed the short space between them and took the chair opposite her. “How’s this for an answer? Because I never in my wildest dreams thought you’d show up here after eight years of hating me and offer to wash dog poop clothes. My bad.”

  A tiny smile worked the right side of her mouth. Conor touched one finger to the smile, tracing the curve, remembering a time when he could make love to those lips, that mouth and all the delightful things that came with the package at no extra cost.

  Her lips parted and he knew if he pressed forward, just a little, he could taste what he’d missed all these years. For that reason alone he moved back, wanting her to be sure, knowing she wasn’t.