“I’m aware of that,” I added. Just so we were all on the same page.
A moment earlier I had glanced at Bertie. Now I glared.
Instead of looking upward, she was now gazing down. Bertie’s hands were clasped in front of her . . . and she was twiddling her thumbs.
Twiddling. Seriously?
Being familiar with the condition myself, I’m inclined to give pregnant women a lot of leeway. But Bertie was starting to test the boundaries of even my goodwill. I reached over and poked her in the side. I needed her to refocus on the discussion at hand.
“I had to tell him,” Bertie said plaintively. Then she added in a low voice, “Morning sickness.”
“I was afraid she had the flu,” said Crawford.
“No such luck,” Bertie muttered. Now that I was looking, she did appear to be a little green around the gills. “It was supposed to be over by now.”
Crawford just shook his head. “Instead I find out that congratulations are in order. And that rather than staying home with her feet up, Bertie decided to gas up her truck and bring a dozen dogs to Kentucky. What kind of husband lets his wife do something like that? The guy must be an idiot.”
“Bertie is married to my brother,” I mentioned.
“It figures.”
Ouch.
“Crawford, I’m fine,” Bertie said. “Really. So I threw up. It’s no big deal. And I feel much better now.”
Crawford arched a sleek, gray eyebrow. “Are you still pregnant?”
“I should hope so.”
“Then you’re not fine. And you shouldn’t be working.”
I loved Crawford dearly but this was ridiculous. I thought of all the complimentary adjectives I’d applied to him and silently added another: old-fashioned.
“How would you know?” I asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“Last time I looked you were gay.”
“Oh my God,” a familiar voice squealed behind me. “Crawford is gay? When did that happen?”
I spun around and smiled in spite of myself. Terry always has that effect on me.
He was carrying a cardboard tray filled with several cups of coffee but he shifted it to one side so that we could lean in and air kiss each other’s cheeks. It wasn’t my makeup we were trying not to muss, it was Terry’s. The man had on more eyeliner than I did.
“You’re not helping,” I told him.
“I should hope not,” Terry sassed right back. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” I said.
At the same time, Crawford uttered an emphatic “Yes.”
Bertie just sighed. “I’m pregnant.”
“Good news, then? Congratulations.” Terry set down the tray on a nearby tabletop. Then he wrapped his arms around Bertie and hugged her close. “Are you sure you should be drinking coffee?”
There were three insulated cups in the cardboard holder. Terry must have taken her order before heading over to the concession stand.
“Not you, too,” Bertie grumbled.
“What?” Terry managed to look innocent. “I just got here.”
“Everybody has an opinion about something that should be my business.”
“Can’t help that,” Terry said with a shrug. “It’s what we do.”
It was indeed.
Terry stepped back and shifted his attention my way. “If I’m reading the signs correctly, you’re in trouble again. What did you do now?”
“Nothing!” I insisted.
“And that’s precisely the problem.” Crawford inserted himself back into the conversation. “Bertie told me I shouldn’t worry because you were going to be here to help out and make sure that she didn’t overexert herself.”
“You threw me under the bus,” I said to Bertie.
“Hey,” she replied, reaching for her coffee. “Better you than me.”
Sad to say, I couldn’t argue with that logic.
“So here I am,” I said instead. “At your disposal.” Then a sudden thought struck me. “Except for one thing.”
“Now what?” asked Terry, sounding delighted that our dilemma—seemingly solved only seconds earlier—was once more up for debate.
“Coffee break is over.” Crawford cast a meaningful glance in the direction of his grooming tables. Then he looked back at his assistant. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
All four of Crawford’s Minis had their coats brushed out and scissored. But three needed to be sprayed up, and one still had its topknot and ears encased in the brightly colored wraps it would have worn since its bath the day before. I didn’t need to check the show schedule taped to the raised lid of Crawford’s tack box to know that even with both handlers applying themselves, they still had a lot of work to accomplish in a small amount of time.
Terry just grinned. Nothing rattles that guy. Plus, he’s a whiz with hair. Terry can accomplish more with a Mini coat in ten minutes than I can achieve in an hour. Which is probably why he’s Crawford Langley’s assistant and I’m still a lowly owner-handler.
He stepped over to the closest table, picked up a pair of small, sharp scissors, and quickly popped the row of tiny rubber bands holding the Mini’s topknot hair in place. Deftly he pulled the colored wraps free and set them aside. With a quick spritz of water he tamed the inevitable fly-aways, then used a pin brush to smooth out the long, black hair.
“I’ll work, you talk,” Terry said to me. “Spill.”
“Yes,” Bertie agreed, back at her own grooming. “And speak up so we can all hear. What are you up to now?”
“It was Aunt Peg’s idea—” I began.
“Of course it was,” Terry agreed. He picked up a long knitting needle and used it to section off a small bit of hair above the Poodle’s eyes, which he gathered it into a supertight ponytail. A second section quickly followed.
Terry was flying through the topknot. It was easy to see why. He didn’t have to stop and redo mistakes, like I usually did.
“Aunt Peg,” Bertie echoed. She didn’t sound surprised. “I probably shouldn’t admit this but road trips with that women scare the crap out of me. Peg stirs up plenty of excitement at home. Take her to a strange place and you never know what might happen. Remember when we went to that judges’ conference and she hooked up with a new boyfriend that she’d met on the Internet?”
“Really?” Terry looked up. “I don’t remember that.”
“That’s because Richard didn’t last long,” I told him.
“Not even until the end of the conference,” Bertie said with a laugh. “And now there’s this thing with the horse.”
“What horse?” asked Terry.
Even Crawford, busy spraying up a Mini farther down the line of tables, glanced over at us in surprise.
“Aunt Peg inherited a Thoroughbred broodmare named Lucky Luna,” I said. “She lives at a breeding farm near Lexington.”
“I love it!” Terry chortled.
That nugget of information would probably make his day—and keep him busy all afternoon. By the end of the dog show, pretty much everyone within shouting distance would know all about it.
“Peg with a racehorse,” Terry said happily. “That’s priceless. Is she going to ride it?”
“Definitely not,” I told him. “Lucky Luna is ten months pregnant.”
“Ten months?” Bertie raised a brow. Unconsciously she lifted a hand to her own stomach.
“Gestation in horses is eleven months and sometimes longer.” Thanks to my book, I was a font of newfound knowledge. “Lucky Luna is due in April.”
Bertie sighed. “I wish I only had a month to go.”
“Don’t we all,” Crawford said under his breath.
“Yesterday Aunt Peg and I went to Six Oaks Farm to see her new acquisition,” I continued. “And along the way we stopped to visit an old friend whom she hadn’t seen in a long while, Ellie Gates Wanamaker.”
“Miss Ellie?” Crawford’s head snapped up. “She lives near here?”
“She does,” I confirmed. �
�In Midway.”
“Imagine that,” he said. “I had no idea. It’s been years since I’ve seen Miss Ellie.”
Bertie looked over at Terry, who just shrugged. Neither of them had a clue. I knew why: Miss Ellie’s tenure in Poodles had taken place long before either Terry or Bertie had become involved in the breed. Still, it was nice not to be the only ignoramus for a change.
“Who is Ellie Gates Wanamaker?” Terry mouthed silently to me.
“She was Gatewood Standard Poodles,” I said. “Miss Ellie bred Poodles with great success for decades. She was a big deal twenty years ago.”
“She was more than that.” Crawford spoke up. “In those days, Miss Ellie was a veritable pillar of the breed. Everyone looked up to her. Her Standard Poodles were among the very best around.
“Miss Ellie didn’t compete in our part of the country often. We might see her a few times a year at PCA and Westminster, and maybe Westchester. But when she did show up, we all knew we’d better shine our shoes and straighten our ties because it was going to take every ounce of talent and luck we had to beat her.”
The three of us listened to Crawford’s homage with varying degrees of bemused astonishment.
For one thing, Crawford is usually a man of few words. And for another, like Aunt Peg, he has been involved with the Poodle breed at the highest levels for decades himself. He’s seen it all, done it all, and succeeded at most of it. So it takes a lot to impress him. I found it interesting that even years later, Crawford remembered Miss Ellie with such regard and appreciation.
“Miss Ellie sounds like an interesting woman,” Bertie said. She appeared to be surprised by Crawford’s response as I was. “I’d love to meet her.”
“In that case, I have good news,” I told her. “Because the reason I can’t stay here and help you is because Aunt Peg convinced Miss Ellie to come to today’s show. I’m going to spend the day showing her around.”
“Good luck with that,” Crawford said with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“The Miss Ellie I recall didn’t follow anybody around. Ever. I’d say that it’s a great deal more likely that she’ll lead you on a merry chase around the showground instead.”
“Oh goody,” said Terry, finishing up his topknot. “This should be fun to watch.”
As if on cue, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and had a look. Miss Ellie had texted to say that she’d parked her car and was on her way to the Expo Center’s west wing entrance.
“You’re sure you’re okay without me?” I said to Bertie.
“Absolutely. I’ll be fine.”
“Go,” Crawford said. “Trust me, you don’t want to keep Miss Ellie waiting.” He cast a meaningful glance at Bertie. “I’ll keep an eye on things around here.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled. “I think.”
Terry lifted his hands and shooed me on my way. “Off to the races,” he said merrily.
Chapter 8
Even though it was just past nine-thirty in the morning, the Expo Center was already crowded. Most of the people I passed as I skirted around the rings and hurried toward the entrance appeared to be exhibitors. But once I reached the wide lobby on the other side of the pavilion I realized that spectators were beginning to pour in as well.
It took me a minute to spot Miss Ellie in the throng. When I did, I raised my hand and waved. She smiled and veered in my direction.
Miss Ellie wasn’t much taller than I was but she moved with such a firm sense of purpose that people simply seemed to melt back out of her way as she advanced toward me. Seeing her in action, I realized that Crawford had been right. Miss Ellie didn’t look like she had any intention of following me anywhere. In fact, I’d probably be lucky to be able to keep up with her.
“Good morning, Melanie,” Miss Ellie said as she drew near. “Peg told me that I was to put myself in your capable hands.”
Let’s hope you’re up to the task, her expression proclaimed.
So now we both knew where we stood.
“I’m sure you know your way around a dog show,” I told her. “But hopefully I can be of some use to you today.”
Miss Ellie didn’t bother to reply. Instead she simply strode past me, heading for the back of the lobby and the entrance to the large auditorium that housed the show rings. Caught flat-footed, I scrambled to catch up. The chase turned out to be brief. When Miss Ellie reached the opening, she stopped so suddenly that I nearly bowled her over from behind.
I hopped to one side and shot past her. It was a miracle I didn’t fall on my face.
Miss Ellie didn’t even notice. In fact, I realized as I righted myself, she wasn’t looking at me at all. Instead, she was gazing out over the vista that appeared before us: matted, well-lit rings filled with beautifully groomed dogs of all sizes and shapes; exhibitors—some fretful, others composed—hurrying every which way around the room; dignified judges directing the activity in their rings and reveling in their position as arbiters of canine quality.
No matter how many times I’d seen that same spectacle, it never failed to thrill. It looked as though Miss Ellie felt the same way.
“It’s been such a long time,” she said softly. “But it never changes, does it?”
“Not the parts that matter,” I told her. “Not the dogs, nor the people who love doing this. I bet you’ll see lots of old friends here today.”
Miss Ellie gave me an enigmatic look then shifted her gaze back to the rings. The Miniature Poodle judging had yet to begin, but from our vantage point I could see that an assortment of breeds from each of the seven groups—Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding—were already in the rings. Choices abounded, all of them good. I wondered what Miss Ellie would want to see first.
For the first few minutes, however, the older woman was content to simply stand on the sidelines and take in the busy scene. Her gaze swept from one end of the long pavilion to the other, then slowly traveled back again.
“I’ve missed this,” she said finally.
“I can imagine,” I agreed. I had neither Miss Ellie’s longevity nor her accomplishments, but if it ever became necessary for me to leave the dog show world behind I knew that I would feel its loss deeply. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . why did you stop?”
“Something happened.”
A non-answer if ever I’d heard one.
“What?” I prodded.
Miss Ellie turned and looked at me. When she spoke, her tone was tart. “A Southern lady would know how to mind her manners better than that.”
I was probably meant to wither beneath her rebuke. But we Yankees come from strong stock. So instead I straightened my shoulders and said, “I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m sure you had a good reason.”
“Dunaway,” Miss Ellie spoke the name after such a long pause that for a moment I wasn’t even sure she was speaking to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Champion Gatewood Dunaway, the best dog I ever bred. He was the reason.”
“I’ve seen pictures of him,” I said, thinking back. “Dunaway was gorgeous. You did a lot of winning with him, didn’t you?”
“I most certainly did. He was a five-time Best in Show winner. I loved everything about that dog and the judges did, too. Dunaway was the Standard Poodle I’d always envisioned in my mind, the one I dreamed of producing every time I planned a litter. I knew that he would be the foundation of everything I bred from then on.”
“But he wasn’t,” I said slowly. I knew that. There were several Gatewood Standard Poodles whose names were featured prominently in our modern pedigrees, but I was quite certain that Dunaway wasn’t one of them.
“No, he wasn’t,” Miss Ellie agreed. “Dunaway was killed in a terrible accident. One that was all my fault.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
Now I really wished I hadn’t asked.
“Don’t apologize,” Miss Ellie said with a sigh. “I can unde
rstand why you were curious. Breeding good dogs is a way of life. It’s something that gets in your blood.”
I nodded, hoping she would continue. After a moment, she did.
“There was a car accident. I was driving home from a dog show. Dunaway had won the group, so of course we were there late for Best in Show. It was dark outside when we left and it was raining, too. The roads were slippery. To this day, I don’t really know what went wrong. The only thing I know for sure is that I should have had Dunaway secured in a crate. But I didn’t. He was riding on the front seat next to me.”
We all knew that our dogs would be safer riding in cars in crates, I thought. But we all kept them close to us anyway.
“I walked away from the crash but Dunaway didn’t.” Miss Ellie’s voice caught. “After that, nothing was ever the same. In the blink of an eye, all the hopes and dreams I’d had for the future of the Gatewood line were gone. Just snuffed out like they’d never existed at all. Oh, I kept on showing for a little while after that, but my heart just wasn’t in it.”
“I apologize for bringing up such a sad memory.” I gave myself a mental kick. “Aunt Peg wanted you to come to the show and enjoy yourself. I never meant to get your day off to such a bad start.”
“Bless your heart. I know you didn’t mean any harm. Besides, everything I just told you was over and done with a long time ago.” Miss Ellie lifted her gaze. She looked around the pavilion. “So Peg wanted me to have some fun, did she?”
I nodded.
“Then I would hate to disappoint her. We have a whole, huge dog show to explore. Let’s get this party started.”
Once Miss Ellie got going, she wanted to see everything. Our first stop was the ring where Aunt Peg was judging. Her Poodle assignment was later in the week; that day Peg’s slate consisted of nearly a dozen other Non-Sporting breeds. When we arrived at ringside, she was sorting out a small group of French Bulldogs.
For most exhibitors, the goal in showing a dog is the accumulation of enough points to earn that dog the title of Champion. Points are earned within each breed by beating same-sex competition in the classes. Though a variety of different classes are offered, at most all-breed shows the majority of entries are in one of three classes: Puppy, Bred-by-Exhibitor, and Open. Dogs are judged first, followed by bitches.
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