by Susan Wilson
“Why don’t you do it out on the kitchen table?”
“I need privacy.”
“Call me if you want help.”
Such a sweet mom, so delusional. “Yeah. Okay.”
The little blurp of an incoming message.
Wht up?
Got ur dog
Where?
Staying here at LakeView
Dunno whr is
Cody tells him where the LakeView is, but his response is slow in coming.
Hw m I gon gt thr?
Hitch?
There’s no reply for a few minutes. Cody waits, ready to fire off another message, when her phone rings. She answers it before it gets to the second note of the Nokia ringtone, a sound that will surely bring her mother to the door.
“I want my dog, but there’s no way I can get there.”
“He’s only here till Friday night.”
“I don’t know what to do. No way I get there; I’m like stuck. Can’t hang with my homeys; got freakin’ curfew. I hate this place; it’s like jail but no bars. I think that I’d like jail better than this residence.”
“Look, Mr. March is a regular here.” Cody thinks for a moment. “He’ll be back in, like, a couple of weeks. At least I think so. He’s got an event at the AC.”
“So?”
“So, maybe you could, like, get here then, and…”
“Okay. Text me when you know he’s coming. Maybe I can figure it out, if I have more warning. I can make a plan.”
“I will.”
“Hey, you give Dawg a pat for me?”
“Sure.” Cody flops back against her pillows, which are neatly arranged against the headboard of her bed, something she’s never done, although her mother does it every morning despite complaining that she has so much to do that she doesn’t have any time left over for niceties.
“Cody? You want to take a break? Have some ice cream? I’ve got a little of that Chunky Monkey left.”
“Sure. Got any chocolate sauce?”
“No, we’re out of chocolate, but there’s some caramel left.”
Cody emerges from her room, careful to let the door shut behind her just in case there’s any hint of pot left in the air. “That’s okay. I’ll just have it bare.” She takes the bowl of ice cream from her mother’s hand, sits at the table. “Thanks. I was just thinking I needed a snack.” For once, she doesn’t avoid her mother’s smile.
* * *
It’s a lot less springlike this morning, and I shrug on a polar fleece vest when I go out to check the mailbox. Mostly junk, ergo more recycling. A renewal notice for one of the magazines I keep for guests. I might just let that one slip. An industry magazine for me with articles that aren’t really pertinent to my situation, although I like looking at the pictures of pretty hotel rooms. A letter from a real estate office. I get those and cold calls on a regular basis, as if they can sniff out a struggling business, a struggling businesswoman ready to throw in the towel. Not yet. Not yet.
The house phone rings and I set the mail down, chucking the envelope from the Realtor into the trash, and lo and behold, it’s someone looking for pet-friendly accommodations in the Berkshires. Affordable, they say. And I say: Yes, we are. They ask if we know of a day care for dogs in the area; they want to see the new exhibit at the Clark. I think Adam may be right: Maybe I should offer add-ons to make this a destination. Doggy day care is an option. I could have Carl, suddenly back from wherever, do up the last cabin with whatever it takes to make it attractive and safe, put up a fence, find some ambitious dog lover who wants to lease it as a kennel with benefits. A win-win. I’d get the lease money, and that cabin would pay for itself; then I could offer a service to potential guests, increasing the number of visitors. I book the guests, promising to look into their request, by which I mean talk Cody into dog-sitting, and then go to the computer station, pull up a word-processing window, and start tapping out concepts. Maybe Adam will take a look at them for me.
Speaking of whom, I haven’t seen Adam yet this morning. Well, it’s a vacation, not a work visit for him, so he’s probably sleeping in. I also realize that I haven’t heard the dogs. Guess they know when to leave him alone. It’s harder on men to be bereaved. No one to take care of them anymore. That sounds cynical, and I edit my thought. It’s the loss of companionship. No wonder the women around him are hounding Adam; there is something attractive about a man bearing up under loss. And, for an older guy, he’s pretty attractive—trim, good head of hair. Whoa. Nuff of that.
* * *
Get up get up get up. Adam is ignoring me. Not a state of affairs that I enjoy. Sometimes he pretends to be asleep, but I always know when he’s faking it. A truly sleeping person breathes in a specific way. Plus, I can hear eyes moving under eyelids. I try to get my companion to help me awaken our sleeping door opener. He’s got himself squeezed into a corner of the room, between a chair and the refrigerator. He looks terrified. I place my forepaws on the edge of the bed and do something I’m not usually inclined to do: lick Adam’s face. I know. There are dogs that make a habit of that behavior, but I’ve never been one of them. However, sometimes a good lick does wonders. He stirs; I jump back. He slumbers on. If I were capable of understanding cause and effect, I might think that the empty bottle beside the bed was the cause of my usually early-rising human being still abed at this hour. Nothing left to do—I go to the door and commence scratching at it. This is a noise I know Adam detests, so I figure that will get him on his feet. But, alas, no. I leave a suggestion of claw marks in the wood. Not a deep scratch, not something suggestive of panic. But, truly, it’s long since time for me to go out.
The other dog whimpers from his corner. Evidently, there is something in Adam’s persistent sleep that frightens him in some way, some association that I cannot comprehend. I go over to him and clock him with my paw, meaning, It’s okay. You’re safe. He sets his jaw down between stubby paws and sighs, skeptical of my assertions. I throw myself down beside him, give a big sigh of my own, and settle in to wait for Adam to come to himself.
* * *
This won’t do, not at all. Adam hauls himself out of bed, glances at his phone, shudders at the hour, and then looks to the dogs, who are sitting between the two queen beds, side by side, like matched ponies, the look of utter disappointment clear in their exophthalmic eyes. Guess what? The day of their anniversary didn’t go away. It’s still April sixth. The thundering headache, the guilt for leaving the dogs inside way beyond their tolerance—although he can’t spot any soiling anywhere—do nothing to supersede the hollow fact of acknowledging an important date without the one who made it important.
* * *
“Nothing fancy. A JP and you are all I need.” Gina scrolled three strands of spaghetti around her fork. They were sitting in one of their favorite places, an Italian restaurant in the North End owned by one of her cousins. Adam couldn’t remember which cousin, just that this place had the best food.
“Let’s at least do it someplace beautiful.”
“Not the town hall? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” Gina’s eyes caught his and he saw the sparkle of affection for him in them, something that he didn’t take for granted. Something that he was still a little amazed about.
“What about the Cape?” He hoped she’d see the affection—no, too weak a word—the adoration in his own eyes.
It wasn’t an overnight coup de foudre, this love for this woman. Their first few encounters were more adversarial than affectionate. But Gina found the worth in his unworthy soul and he found the human anchor he didn’t even know he needed.
And so they decided that a weekend visit well before the high season was just the ticket. They found a dog-friendly B and B, a charming lady justice of the peace, and a beachfront setting. Chance stood as best man; Gina carried roses. No one cried. At least not until late that night, when Adam found himself overwhelmed with joy. It had come about so unexpectedly. Given his past, he never thought he’d deserve happiness again,
and yet he was happier than he had ever been. A fully forgiven man. Gina had helped him. He lay there that night, this beautiful sleeping woman beside him, his life utterly turned around. She almost hadn’t taken him into her life, had dismissed Adam out of hand as a bad guy, a suit with no conscience. Chance had been the great persuader, convincing Gina that Adam was a man capable of change. Of redemption.
* * *
Adam leans over the rail, watching the dogs in their progress around the property. He hasn’t got the strength to whistle them back, nor the inclination. Let ’em be, he thinks. They won’t run away, and Skye won’t care all that much, as long as they don’t poop near the front steps The headache and the ugly taste in his mouth are no strangers. He thinks of the word recidivist. Shakes it off. No, this was a onetime thing. He’s no worse than a dieter falling into the clutches of a chocolate cake. One piece, that’s all it was. He’s not going back to the place he once inhabited. He’s standing in sweatpants and a T-shirt with something dribbled down the front. Recidivist. He reminds himself of the man he was during the dark period in his life, the one that Gina hauled him out of. She deserves better than for him to sink back into that kind of despair.
Skye leans out of the office door, takes a look at him. “I’ve got fresh coffee in the office.”
“I figured breakfast was over.”
“I have my own supply. Come on down, if you want.” She ducks back into the office.
Adam does whistle then, and is ashamed at how jubilantly his dog greets him. As if he hadn’t sinned against him by making him wait so long to go out. As if he hadn’t remembered that Chance, too, had a great deal to do with his recovered joy.
A soft vibration tickles his thigh—his phone. He pulls it out and reads the text message. It’s from Kimberly, reminding him of the charity event on Saturday. It’s a cute message, and he can just hear her voice, all coy: We don’t have to stay for the whole thing. A wave of nausea that he doesn’t think has anything to do with his overindulgence last night. He just can’t wrap his mind around this reentry into dating. It is so disrespectful. It’s not “getting on with his life”; it’s demeaning to Gina’s memory. As if the last ten months are something to forget, get over like a bad dream. Before he can think about it, he thumbs a quick Sorry, can’t join you. Something’s come up. Work. Instantly, Adam feels a wash of relief and, with it, a desire for black coffee. Chance and Dawg precede him to the office at a trot, tails swinging.
“I don’t judge, but I do recognize the symptoms.”
“Of an obvious loss of dignity?” Adam indicates his attire.
“Hot coffee and a greasy breakfast are the cure. I can’t offer the greasy breakfast, but here you go.” Skye hands him the Tanglewood mug, already filled.
She reaches into the desk drawer and produces a bottle of extra-strength acetaminophen, offers it to him.
Adam shakes out three. “Any chance you’ve got room for us to stay for a bit longer?”
“You’re so kind to phrase it that way, but yes, of course I do.” She doesn’t even look at the computer.
“I’m ducking out on a date.”
“And hiding out at the LakeView?”
He smiles and palms the capsules into his mouth. “I feel safe here. Like they can’t find me.”
“When you, um, feel better, I’d love to talk with you about an idea I’ve been working on.”
“Would you want to join me in finding a greasy breakfast? We can talk about your idea.”
Skye nods. “I could do with a little nourishment.”
For once, she can’t think of a single reason not to take up a casual invitation. It’s late enough that her morning tasks are done, and the afternoon tasks can wait an hour. “That would be nice.”
* * *
“If you don’t mind riding with the hounds, hop in.” Adam, freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, opens the passenger door for me, then brushes a little dog hair off the black seat. I get in, feel the soft touch of dog breath against the back of my neck, Chance giving me his approval. On the way to North Adams, I bounce my idea of converting one of the cottages into a dog spa, and he listens before offering some good advice. I don’t bring up my delicate financial position, but he’s businessman enough to figure it out. He agrees that leasing the cottage out would create a steady monthly income, and I like that he approves of my business sense. By the time we get to the restaurant, I feel like something is settled. A plan. Some forward thinking.
It’s just a late breakfast, two people sitting in a sunny corner of a mom-and-pop restaurant, eggs over easy with white toast for me and a hangover-curing Sampson with everything for him, much of which Adam slips into the to-go box the server provides. But it’s forty-five minutes of being off duty, of being waited on and conversed with. A second cup of coffee, a little deliberate lingering. No hard topics. Thinking that he’s gotten enough of my business woes, I ask how the fund-raising campaign is going for the Artists Collaborative, which is what brought him to us in the first place.
“Well enough. Like a lot of heads of nonprofit organizations, these guys think that once they’ve hired a consultant, the money will pour in. They don’t realize that all we do is show them how to and whom to ask for support; it’s up to them to do the asking. It’s hard work on their part.”
“I think you are dealing with the artistic, not the realistic.”
“Mosley and his crew think all it takes to raise money is parties. It takes asking for money. Nobody wants to actually do it.”
“So, they’re operating on a ‘Build it and they will come’ fantasy?”
“Something like that. Frankly, I’m looking forward to being done with the AC and getting back to working with my preferred charities.”
Adam holds open my coat, and it feels like the end of a date. A breakfast date. Where is the kiss? I startle myself with the thought and by a sense of disappointment in realizing that someday soon he’ll be gone, his reason for being in the Berkshires accomplished, and will have moved on to other things, other places.
The dogs are ecstatic to get the breakfast leftovers, and they make quick work of them, the pair inhaling the eggs and bacon and hash browns Adam sets down beside the car as we stand enjoying the sunshine. Chance licks his chops like a dog in a commercial while the other one keeps on scrubbing the cardboard with his tongue. Finally satisfied that nothing of flavor remains, Lucky sits next to me. I give the dog a pat on the head, think a moment about where he came from, the description Adam has given me of the abandoned house, the crackhead boy. In the strength of daylight, the scars are obvious, and I understand Adam’s determination to keep this red dog safe. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“Thanks. I think he is, too. That’s kind of why I call him that. Lucky.” Adam’s an old-school gentleman, and opens my door for me. “And he’ll be luckier still to find a forever home.”
“Nothing on that score?”
“Not so far. All the rescue organizations I work with seem to be full, so I’m fostering him till a slot opens up.”
“Don’t you get attached to them, fostering?”
Adam doesn’t answer, shuts my door and goes around to the other side. Before he starts the car, he looks at me. “I’ve thought about it, keeping him. But with my travel, it really wouldn’t be fair. The LakeView notwithstanding, it’s hard to find accommodations for two big dogs.”
“Good thing I’m a pushover.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
* * *
It is a beautiful Saturday night and Adam is so happy to be enjoying it on the veranda of the LakeView Hotel, a night he might otherwise have had to spend sitting at an eight-top table, suffering through polite conversation. Adam knows that Kimberly must be pretty pissed off with his bailing on her. Maybe it would have been better to have told her the truth, that the idea of being someone’s plus one was terrifying. No, not terrifying—appalling. Maybe she would have been better able to accept that reason, instead of the cowardly excuse
he’d given her, that he had to be away on business, an excuse that was more like the man he used to be, who always put business before family, friends, human kindness.
Skye has inadvertently reminded him of his origins, not that his upbringing as a foster child isn’t always with him. Foster, for Adam, is an incendiary term. He wanted to tell her that being fostered isn’t a guarantee of being loved. Sometimes it seems to him that only those who foster animals are willing to do it with love, but he knows that’s not fair. The short answer, the truth is, yes, he’s fond of this red-nose pit bull, but he can’t afford to love him. He loves Chance, and that should be enough. This dog, this Lucky, deserves a home where he’ll have stability and love.
CHAPTER 19
“My dad will give us a ride into North Adams.” Black Molly leans over Cody as she does her math work sheets. “I thought we’d hang out.”
Cody is hoping that the other kids in study hall aren’t noticing this tête-à-tête. She hates that she’s embarrassed about Molly’s attention, that it signals her as even more of an outsider to have it. If Black Molly is the quintessential outlier, she, Cody, is fast becoming the second most typical by being seen as her friend. Taylor and Tyler and that wretched a-hole Ryan have stepped up their torment of her, adding innuendo and suggestive noises to their repertoire of torture, all of it implying that she and Molly are lesbians. Cody can’t say for sure, but it is possible that Molly is. And that’s fine. In this world, you have to be open-minded. But she hates it when they make it sound like she is, too. Still, a ride into town is a tempting thing. If she can get into town, maybe she can bump into Mingo. Even if she is seen getting into that beat-up old truck Molly’s dad drives, it would be worth it. “Okay.”
“See you after school.” Black Molly gives Cody a playful shove.
Mr. Frost pulls up ten minutes after the busses have left the yard, so there are few students left to see Cody get into the cab, squeezed on either side by the double bulk of Mr. Frost and Molly. Mr. Frost doesn’t insist on seat belts, and Cody is too overwhelmed to ask to get the catch for the middle lap belt out from under the bench. She just hopes that the bodies on either side of her will act like an air bag in case of emergency. Unlike her own mother, Mr. Frost doesn’t ask one question about Molly’s day. In fact, he is completely silent. Molly is, too. Cody thinks that this is going to be the longest ride of her life. She waits for Molly to say something, and when she doesn’t, Cody asks, “So, where do you want to go?”