Dog Sitters

by Rozsa Gaston

"That's another question. How about if I let you know another time?"

  "What other time?" His eyes wandered to her mouth. She could feel his breath, warm on her face.

  "The right time," she countered, opening the door and slipping through. Gently but firmly, she shut it in his face.

  He leaned against the other side, his face pressing into the glass, like a wet, tired six-year-old boy. The navy blue of his eyes beckoned to her. Her heart melted. Luckily, the locked door between them shielded her from succumbing to her feelings.

  She put her finger up to the glass across from his mouth. With her index finger she traced the line of his lips. They were well-shaped, not too thin.

  For the first time in her life, she was deliberately teasing a man. Instead of feeling guilty, elation danced inside her. Her gut told her if she was enjoying this so much, then he was, too. Something about him made her spiral closer to herself. Who knew she was so playful, deep inside? Even she herself hadn't known until now.

  On the other side of the door, Jack's mouth opened. His hands moved up to either side of his head, pulling his hair. He made a funny face at her.

  Her index finger took on a life of its own. With it, she outlined the strong line of his jaw, then slowly crawled down his neck over one broad, horizontal shoulder. She wanted to continue, but minefields lay to the south. Besides, her elderly neighbor was a night owl and would most likely poke her head out her front door at that moment to see who was there.

  Remembering the background research on Jack she needed to do the next day, she fluttered the fingers of her right hand, bidding him good night. She couldn't help but laugh as his mouth twisted into the same expression her nephew Russ wore on his face when he couldn't get his way.

  Then she turned and slowly climbed the stairs to her apartment.

  Inside her door, the blinking light of her answering machine greeted her. With her feelings so charged, the last thing she wanted to do was return to Planet Earth, but someone might have called about Percy. She hit the button.

  "Hi, Hint? It's me, Brian. I met someone today who may have spotted your friends' dog. You need to call me as soon as you get this. 769-5120. Bye."

  She shuddered. Who was this twit in a tight tee shirt to order her to call him? He was her superintendent, for goodness' sake. She would call him when she felt like it. Which would be never.

  Then Percy's sweet face came to her, forlorn, confused. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the number Brian had left. The phone rang several times, then a click told her his answering machine message was coming on. About to slam down the phone, she caught herself. Jack Whitby's home number was scrawled on her message board, directly in front of her. She'd written it there over a week ago, when he'd first called to arrange picking up Percy.

  "Brian — Hint Daniels," she said at the end of Brian's recorded announcement — cocky as usual. "I got your message. Listen, could you call me at…" she said, giving him Jack's number. "If I'm not there, just leave the details with my partner, Jack. Thanks a lot for your help. Bye."

  There. She hoped Brian would toss and turn all night wondering what she'd meant by 'partner.' She had no idea herself, but she liked the way it sounded.

  Suddenly, she realized how dead tired she was. It was as if half the events of her entire life had taken place in the past twenty-four hours. After a long hot shower, she pulled on a pale, pink tee shirt and purple silk boxer shorts then rubbed lavender on her temples. She hoped to fall asleep right away, but the thought of Percy outside in the rain forbade her. Hot tears welled in her eyes when she thought about the dog spending his third night alone, outdoors. She prayed, asking God to protect him and sharpen her wits with new, inspired ways to find him.

  Invading her prayers, a silky web of non-dog related thoughts spun through every corner of her mind and body. Who was she kidding? All she really wanted to think about was the moment she'd woken up in Jack's arms that morning. How had that happened? And what had happened in the hours before dawn when their bodies had found their way to each other in the cool, night air?

  Despite her unanswered questions, she didn't feel anxious. As she stared up at the ceiling over her bed, she imagined dark blue eyes looking down at her. Watchful. Waiting. An anticipatory energy rocked her in its arms and whispered to her that whatever had passed in the wee hours of the night before had been aligned with the stars, the full moon, and the summer night. It had been meant to be.

  Comforted by that divinely irrational thought, she fell into a deep sleep, hoping that more of what was meant to be was about to reveal itself to her through the person of Jack Whitby.

  ****

  As Jack turned into his driveway, he let out a sigh of relief. The two-hundred-year-old former pickle farm he called home had been his oasis from his Manhattan workday ever since he'd bought it three years earlier. From its stucco exterior with a wraparound porch to the three majestic trees in the backyard, everything about his farmhouse breathed comfort and rest. After spending the night before in Fox Meadow Park, he was more than ready to be home.

  He desperately needed to sleep. His brain tumbled and churned with new thoughts and feelings, especially the latter. Running up the steps of the front porch, he headed straight indoors and upstairs to his bedroom where he tossed off his shirt and jeans then threw himself on his bed.

  The phone rang. Who was that? His hand fished around on his night table for the receiver. After determining from the caller ID that it wasn't Annabel — he'd heard more than enough from her in the past two days — he clicked it on. "Hello?"

  "Yeah, I'm looking for Hint. Hint Daniels?" The male voice sounded oily.

  He wanted to punch out whoever was on the other end of the line just for sullying her sweet name by stating it aloud.

  "What do you want?" He was less than polite. "And who is this?" He sat upright on his bed, springing to life again.

  "It's… a friend. I've got some information about the dog she lost. Do you know where I can find her?"

  A friend? What friend? The voice was familiar. He'd heard it recently.

  "How did you get my number?" he asked. He didn't want any male friend of Hint's to be calling him at home. He didn't want any male friends of hers to be calling, period. How dare she have male friends?

  "She… uh… left a message saying I could reach her at this number. Should I try again later?"

  "No. I mean, yes. Just give me your name and number, and I'll let her know you called."

  "Uh… I'll try again some other time." The caller clicked off.

  Who had that been? And why had he reacted that way? The caller had been trying to offer some information about Percy. Hint would be upset to hear he hadn't even gotten the guy's name.

  He leaped off the bed and padded into the kitchen, as jumpy as a month-old kitten. Reaching into the cabinet over the wet bar, he fished for something to help him sleep.

  Why had Hint told whoever had been on the phone that he could reach her at his place? Had she intended to come back to his house that evening? Remembering how firm she'd been in clicking the door shut in his face, he doubted it. Perhaps she'd given his number to someone she didn't want calling her, so he could field the calls.

  That was it. She needed him to be her hero. Her champion. She'd known he'd like hearing that she'd implied to a male friend that she could be found over at his place. Something in the bottom of his stomach caught fire. It was either from the heroic role Hint had cast him in, or the shot of brandy he'd just downed. His final thoughts before falling asleep were of the game they had played earlier that evening when they had said goodbye. This time, there was no door between them.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Hint combed her neighborhood for Percy. She dropped into the local pet store where she'd introduced the schnoodle the past weekend and had a long conversation with the owner, who'd taken ten flyers and agreed to help search. He'd had a few grim suggestions that she and Jack hadn't thought of, so she'd returned home shortly past no
on and spent the next three hours calling local and state departments of transportation and animal control agencies to find out if they'd picked up any dead dogs in the past few days.

  The task had been gruesome. Each time she'd been put on hold after asking if the body of a dog fitting Percy's description had been found, her stomach had tied up in knots until the answer came back negative. While on the phone, she'd worked on her computer, posting a complete description of Percy on Findyourpet.com.

  By half past three, her nerves were shot. The end of the workweek was nigh, and she'd worked like a dog. It was time for a complete change of pace — and a brief expedition to the Stanhope Hotel in Manhattan was what she had in mind. If Jack still had something going on with his ex-girlfriend she wanted to know as soon as possible, before she allowed feelings to take root that had begun the day before when she'd woken up in his arms.

  Her former almost-fiancé had left for Shanghai in August of the year Hint had turned twenty-nine. After he told her via e-mail that Asia had shown him a whole new side to himself, she'd done some research with colleagues of his, who'd also been sent out to start up the Shanghai office and had recently returned, and found out about the personal sightseeing guide who was helping Tim discover his new side. A stunning Chinese girl had attached herself to whichever side of Tim that had forgotten about Hint. That November, Hint had confronted him on the phone about the other woman. He'd said he loved her, but he'd also developed feelings for a woman he'd met locally. He'd thought he'd been sure of a future with her, but when he'd gotten to Shanghai, everything had been different, and he didn't know who he was anymore.

  The conversation had confused her until it simply turned her off. The fact that Tim didn't know who he was anymore helped her figure out exactly who she was. She made up her mind that no man with divided affections would ever again cross the threshold of her heart.

  "I don't know what to do, Hint," he'd moaned into the phone.

  "Are you asking me to tell you?" she'd asked, more disgusted with him by the minute. She'd never before lost regard for a man so fast in her life.

  "I don't know what I'm asking," he'd said. "Can you give me some more time?"

  "Tim, do you remember the plans you said you wanted to make with me before you left?"

  "Yes, of course."

  She sensed he had no idea what she was talking about. "What were they?"

  "They were… they were plans we hadn't made yet," he said.

  "And what were the actual plans you were planning?"

  "I hadn't planned them yet."

  "But your company did have plans. Did those plans change yours?"

  "I had no choice, Hint. It was a great opportunity."

  "I'm sure it was. But what about your own plans for yourself? Wasn't I part of them?"

  "Yes, of course," he'd stammered.

  "But I'm not now."

  "Of course you are. It's just that — so much has happened," he whined. "I just need some time to sort it out."

  "You need to make a decision," she'd told him. It struck her that he was a man who had room in his heart to entertain two women. If she fought for him and won, all she'd end up with was a fiancé and then a husband with a track record of divided affections.

  "I can't," he'd moaned, sounding like a cross between Hamlet and a two-year-old.

  "Well, I can." With lightning clarity Hint sensed this revelation of Tim's character would help her better define her own. "Let me ask you one thing."

  "What's that?" His voice had sounded muffled, thin.

  "Were we engaged to be engaged?" She might as well know, for the record.

  "Yes. Something like that," he'd replied.

  "Well, now we're not." She hung up.

  ****

  At 3:45 p.m., Hint rose from her desk and went into the bedroom. She put on hoop earrings and her largest pair of sunglasses then carefully tucked up every strand of her hair under a black and white newspaper boy hat.

  Studying herself in the mirror, she decided she vaguely resembled Audrey Hepburn. There was no way she looked like Hint Daniels. Grabbing keys, cell phone, and handbag, she set off for the train station to catch the 4:15 p.m. train to Manhattan.

  On the walk to the station, she tried calling Kim in Punta Cana again, but international circuits were still busy, as they had been all morning. Perhaps they were having a tropical storm there. She frowned. What had her cousin meant when she'd described Derek Simpson as a bit of all right?

  She didn't often go into New York City. Occasional contracts, presentations, and lunches with editors called her in no more than once every other month. She was perfectly happy not to frequent the big city, as it still retained its exoticism for her. When she did go in, she felt a buzz of excitement the moment the train crossed over the Harlem River that separatedarlemHar the Bronx from Manhattan.

  "I'll take Manhattan," she hummed as she adjusted her cap in her reflection from the train window.

  She was on her way to the Stanhope Hotel, one of New York's finest and most historical hotels. Once there, she was determined not to be outclassed by any other female on site. Lots of ladies who lunched met there, as well as ladies and gentlemen who cocktailed until they turned into men and women of a more basic order.

  She stared out the window, seeing nothing while she anticipated the events that might unfold from half past five on. If Jack showed up and responded warmly to his ex, she would quietly slip away. If he had the nerve to show up at her place later, as planned, she'd not be home. Just for fun, she'd tape a note to the door in the foyer, saying she was out looking for Percy with Brian O'Connell. Had the muscle-bound clod actually called Jack's home number looking for her?

  How could life suddenly have gotten so complicated? Thinking back to Jack on the other side of the glass door the night before, she no longer recognized her own behavior. For the first time in her adult life, she realized that when men and women played games with each other, it was not necessarily a bad thing. More accurately, she would term it an educational process. Wasn't that why children were taught to play games? It was to learn how to play nicely together, share, show good sportsmanship, be gracious in either victory or defeat.

  Sure it was. Her hand clenched the armrest of her seat, throttling it.

  How gracious would she be if that tall, blonde bombshell laid one finger on Jack Whitby's body? And what if he responded? Who would she throw the contents of her drink at first? The blonde or the man whose arms she'd woken up in the morning before?

  Succumbing to her inner devil, she thought about what kind of drink she should order while staking out Annabel Sanford.

  "Something funny?" a man seated next to her asked.

  She must have laughed out loud.

  "No. I was just thinking about what kind of drink a person might order if they were planning to toss it into someone's face." She couldn't believe she'd said that to a complete stranger.

  The man moved slightly away from her, not before she detected a glimmer of admiration in his widening eyes. "Wow. You've got some plans for the afternoon."

  "No. You don't understand. I'm, uh…" She searched for a reason why she might have said something so crazy. "I'm writing a screenplay, and my character is confronting her rival. They're at a cocktail party, so she's about to throw a drink in her face."

  "Nice. I thought she was going to toss her drink into some guy's face. Phew." He looked relieved. Then his expression brightened. "I've got it."

  "What?" Where was she going with this? And why was she discussing an act of violence with a total stranger on a train?

  "Have her order a Bloody Mary. She should tell the waiter to make it extra spicy. Make sure she squeezes the lemon into the drink before she tosses it. When it hits the other woman's eyes, it'll sting like crazy."

  "Ouch." She winced. Was she sitting next to a psycho? Maybe he thought the same of her. She needed to be polite just in case he was some sort of nut case. "That's a great idea. Thanks so much."

  "He
y, will I get a plug in your book? Or play?"

  "Umm, sure. I'll thank you on my acknowledgments page. Look for "Guy on the train." She stood as they pulled into Grand Central Station.

  "Great. Glad to be of help. Who's the author of this work, by the way?"

  "Oh, uh… I go by my pseudonym."

  The man looked confused.

  "I mean, my pen name."

  His expression remained puzzled.

  "Um, just look for the latest play by Annabel Boleyn. It should come out in about a year," she said.

  "What's it called?"

  "Uhh…" She searched for inspiration. Bingo. Looking straight into his eyes, she said firmly, "Bloody Friday."

  "Great title."

  "Thanks. Have a nice weekend." She stepped forward to get past him, and as he moved back, he shot her a look of approval. Apparently her perverse imagination had inspired awe. Funny. She was on her way to a more advanced level of adult womanhood. Whatever happened with Jack Whitby, she had him to thank for transforming her into a sharper, sexier version of herself.

  ****

  The Stanhope Hotel's outdoor terrace in the month of June blended tranquility with sophistication in one of Manhattan's most exclusive neighborhoods. Located on Fifth Avenue, between East 82nd Street and East 104th Street in an area known as Museum Mile, it faced the grand front steps of the Metropolitan Museum.

  At a quarter past five, Hint entered the hotel and quickly found the café bar. She asked to be seated in a corner, directly inside from the terrace and with an unobstructed view of the entrance. Keeping on her sunglasses, she pretended she was Audrey Hepburn having tea at the Stanhope instead of breakfast at Tiffany's. Tempted by wicked thoughts of ordering a Bloody Mary, extra spicy, she settled for a jasmine tea.

  She took in the crowd, noting the angular lines of the women seated at tables and at the bar, the strong definition of their jawbones and necklines. Every one of them assumed the same regal posture, their heads held high in permanent hauteur.