by Brooke Moss
Worked it out. Sorry to be late but be there in 25 minutes.
Sure you’re okay?
Yeah. Explain everything soon. Can’t wait to see ya.
You too pal.
I click off and get back to driving. Bart is quiet again in his crate but this time I don’t look back to check on him. He’s fine and simply sleeping. Which is what I should have assumed in the first place! I pass lots of rustic cabins surrounded by trees, and the forest is getting denser. I crack open the window, in part to air out the cigarette stink, but also to enjoy the pine and earthy scent. I pass only a few stores: a taxidermy barn with a painting of an antlered deer on the front, a canoe and kayak rental place and a homey-looking general store with benches out front.
Another mile brings me to Lakeview Drive and then the cabin we rented. It’s a wood-slatted two-story place with a red roof, red shutters and a wraparound porch. Tinsley waves wildly. She’s on the lawn by the driveway and her puppy is wagging her tail so hard it appears she may topple right over.
I carefully pull into the pebbled driveway. No more fender benders for this girl! Tinsley dashes over with Lyric leading the way. This inspires raucous barking from Bart, who is more than ready to escape his crate. My friend is dressed in tight jeans with an artful rip in each knee and a white, jersey top sloped off one shoulder. Large, white hoop earrings poke out of her flyaway blonde hair, and her pink lipstick matches her chunky pink statement necklace.
I get out and give Tinsley a big hug. “Wow, it’s been too long, girl. Why’d you have to move to Nashville?” I screw my lips into an exaggerated frown.
“Um, for a job writing songs for southern royalty, remember? Janey Thorpe? Sister Brother Cousin? Camino Real? Only the newest, hottest stars in country rock!”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
We cackle and hug again.
“Hey, meet Lyric,” she says. Lyric has already made my acquaintance. She’s leaping up and licking my hands.
“Hi, cutie,” I say, ruffling her plush ears. “Now, meet Bart!” I open my rental car door and extract Bart from the crate, making sure to leash him first. Beagles are notorious for chasing a scent and never coming back! He bounds out, all giant paws, snuffling nose, and expressive, brown eyes. Bart is small, yet fearless. He bounds over to the larger Lyric and they launch into puppy frolic—jumping, licking and barking.
“Oh. My. God. They’re such a pair!” she gushes. “We couldn’t exactly head to Club Med to look for hot guys with these furbabies, but hell, we’re going to have big fun out here.”
“I hope so. I really need a break.”
Tinsley looks me over, as if she’s my mom, assessing my health and welfare. “How is it trying to develop your new business while you’re still teaching? I can imagine it’s a lot to juggle.”
“Getting it all together while trying to grade papers is stressful. The business plan, the hires, the promo. Not to mention buying all of the equipment.”
“Aw, hon.” She gives me a sympathetic grin. “Using your photography degree to do pet poses is a genius idea, though. It’ll be amazing. You were always so good at photography in college. What are you calling it?”
“Adorbs Pet Portraits. By Arianna.”
“Ooh! Love it. So, you’re not open yet?”
“Nope. I planned to open in May but was delayed by all of the drama from this last winter. Now I’ll open just after Labor Day.”
We watch the pups roll on the lawn. Bart is still attached to the leash but he doesn’t even notice.
“We’re not getting any younger,” I say. “I’m thirty-one, you’re—?”
“Thirty-two. Don’t remind me.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, as far as your pet portrait business, good things take time,” Tinsley reasons. “By the way, how is the mad, cheater ex?” There was no love lost between Tinsley and Van. She had him pegged as a sleazoid from day one. I was just too enamored for the two years by his metrosexual style and his alluring, but forked tongue. His high energy was addicting. He was always up for a party, a glitzy gallery opening, or a spur-of-the-moment concert. He was like the handsome warlock who casts a dark spell, which makes the world look flowery and sunny, when in reality it’s dangerous with potholed roads, polluted skies and marauding thieves.
“The mad, cheating ex is completely out of my life. Finally.” I brush off pretend dirt from my hands.
“Any new prospects?”
I think of Blue-Eyed Beagle Breeder and my heart flips. He probably has a girlfriend or worse, a wife. Most of the good guys do. Plus, even if he’s single, I don’t want to gush about him before the fact because Tinsley’s looking, too. We’ve had a bit of history, competing over men, even if it was back in college. But her blonde, windblown, good looks can still make me insecure on days I’m looking tired, or my dark hair is disobediently dull. No, that’s silly. It’s really because I don’t know the guy.
“Snap out of it, Arianna!” There’s a wicked twinkle in Tinsley’s green eyes. “Does your zoned-out state mean you’ve fallen hard? It does, doesn’t it?”
I sigh. She’s nosy, too. “Honestly, I’m zoned out and late because I wrapped my brand new car around a pole and had to rent this junker on the way over here.” I point to the beat up Ford Focus.
“So that’s what you meant by car trouble? Oh, hon, this requires more than just a hug, this requires a drink and a comfy couch. Let’s go inside and check out the cabin. Can I help you with your bags?”
“Thanks.” It’s true I can’t carry as much as I normally can with Bart tugging on his leash.
We deposit all the bags and puppies in the cabin. Finally, I can let Bart off-leash. He scampers madly about, sniffing shoes and cabinets and bags. Then, he and Lyric settle into more wrestling.
We choose rooms. I’ve got one with twin beds that’s decorated in red gingham and sailboat posters. Tinsley’s room has white lace curtains and framed pictures of Victorian girls being rowed about by straw-hatted boys in canoes. Cornball but sweet.
When we’re each unpacked, we reconvene in the dining room, which opens to the living room. It’s homey in here, with woven placemats, silk daisies in a blue glass jar and a Lazy Susan stocked with condiments on the wide wooden table. Each of the living room chairs has its own afghan, and the sofa is brimming with pillows sporting images of ducks, cardinals and owls. There is a TV, but we probably won’t watch it much now that we have a chance to chat nonstop and cavort with the pups.
I’m obsessed with pomegranate daiquiris so I made sure to bring supplies, including crushed ice in my icepack. There’s a blender under the counter. I haul it up and mix a pitcher with snippets of kiwi and ginger, my special add-ons. Tinsley was going to drink her classic rum and coke but I’ve made her a convert.
“My lord, this is the bomb!” she admits, taking another gulp.
“Whoa, not too fast. There’s hella firewater in it.”
“So, who’s the guy?” she prods. “You’re not getting away with keeping secrets on this trip.”
“Well, if you want the truth, I don’t know him.”
“What?”
“That’s right, Tinsley. I’ve only exchanged about ten lines of conversation with the guy.”
She breaks out in guffaws. “This is rich. How did he get so lucky? Love at first sight. That’s worse than what you did with Van. You only knew him for a couple of days before you were head over heels.”
“Hey, hey, hey! You should talk. You dated a flaky wannabe musician who wrote atrocious songs and a beach bum who expected you to buy him dinners and clothes.”
She cringes. “Don’t forget the drunken poet who threw up on my fancy heels.”
Tinsley’s like a meddlesome neighbor. Unless I toss her an info nugget, she’ll keep on bugging me. “Okay, if you must know, I’m crushing on the guy who is going to fix my dinged up car.”
“A mechanic, eh?” She appears intrigued if a bit cynical. “What’s his name?”
“Not telling you. But he’s got big, ca
lloused hands, wide shoulders, tight jeans, and I got a good look when he bent over to inspect my tire.”
We shriek with laughter. It’s so darn delightful to see my friend again and unload without being completely civilized. The dogs respond by leaping up on our laps and licking us. Which inspires more rounds of laughter.
“Well, how are we going to get to know him better?” Tinsley asks.
“We?” I frown at her. “I think it’s a job for one.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She tells me about her dating life these days. She’s playing the field—on PlentyOfFish and eHarmony. But she admits she’s still a sucker for live musicians—both the famous and infamous ones she writes lyrics for. She admits she’s kissed ‘Cousin’ of the band, Sister Brother Cousin. I saw them on Austin City Limits and even though I’m not a fan of country music, I was impressed with Cousin’s slide guitar.
Soon, the dark has crept up on us and we are famished. We each brought plenty of kibble so we feed Lyric and Bart, but we haven’t gone grocery shopping yet and the fridge is empty.
Tinsley offers to drive us to find food. She finds two tiny stores on her smartphone guide. We corral the pups in the bathroom, each already snoozing in their respective doggie beds, tuckered out from wrestling nonstop for hours. I put their water bowls down, take their picture for Instagram, and then, we head out.
It’s pitch dark here. I’m used to streetlights, like on every block. Since the sun is down, the air has cooled quite a bit, so I’m glad I thought to wear a sweater. The first place is closed.
“Uh oh, do they roll up the sidewalks at sundown here?” she asks.
“We’re not in Philly or Nashville,” I say.
Just when it seems we are doomed to starve, we see the general store I passed earlier and the lights are on! We jump out of the car and head in. There are tons of prepackaged and canned items like Cheetos, Doritos and baked beans. Normally, I scoff at processed food with high fructose corn syrup. But hey, I’m starving and about ready to inhale a jumbo bag of chips washed down with Mountain Dew, when I see a corner display stocked with local veggies and fruits. There’s more good stuff in the narrow refrigerator near it. Homemade cheeses, organic farm-raised chicken and pork, and even farm-fresh yogurt.
I load up my basket.
Tinsley gets stuff for s’mores and some chocolate frozen yogurt. “Being too healthy isn’t good for one’s soul,” she reasons. I’ll play along. “Back in a minute,” she adds. “I want to check out their magazine rack.” I nod.
At the counter, a hunched over twenty-something guy in a green hoodie rings up our order. Behind him, a bulletin board covered with business cards catches my eye. Especially one: Jensen Auto Body. I point to it after I pay and he’s bagged the goods. “Excuse me, but um, do you think that auto repair place does good work?”
The counter guy looks over his shoulder to where I’m pointing. “Jensen’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Best around here by far.”
“Does David Jensen work on the cars or does he have other mechanics do it?”
The dude gives me a funny look, but he does answer. “Yeah, Dave normally does all the complicated stuff. His crew does the towing. Why?”
“Oh, just wondering. I’m thinking of taking my car over there.”
Tinsley has crept up behind me. She grabs a brimming bag and we walk outside. As soon as she steers the car out of the lot, she says, “Busted!”
“Huh? What, weirdo?”
“David Jensen.”
I feel my neck heat up. She’s a sly-dog, that Tinsley.
CHAPTER THREE
Dave fields the call from Arianna’s Geico damage assessor as he gulps his morning coffee. “Yeah, Ms. Arianna Jordan’s Rogue is a 2017 and it’s dark gray. Yeah, it’s waiting for you here. You have her number, right? Sure, I’ll be speaking to her, too. Yeah, I’ll let her know you’ll be out later today to give it a good look. The right front tire is knocked way out of alignment, so no doubt there’s more damage under the car. I’ll tell her to give you a call. Bye.”
The mechanic wonders about Arianna. She is pretty with her dark, soulful eyes and long brown hair. He liked how she gazed at him as if she was hungry for something. He liked how she trusted him in her crisis. He liked how she relaxed in his company. Even her puppy, Bart relaxed around him. Heck, the pup almost fell asleep when he petted it. He’s partial to ladies who love dogs—simple, but true. And Arianna clearly loves her puppy. I wonder what she does for a living down in Philadelphia and what kind of guy she goes for?
Probably not a country boy like me. Not a mechanic with oil-stained hands who is on-call fourteen hours a day hauling cars. At least, his son, Bobby, helps him.
It’s only 9:10 am and already Bobby has towed in one car whose alternator blew, and a second-hand van whose engine caught fire! The driver was darn lucky he was able to jump out of the window before the whole shit-storm filled with choking black smoke. God, he’s seen his share of horror stories. Last winter, a guy died trying to escape a similar vehicle fire. He couldn’t get the digitally controlled window open in order to jump. Something to be said for antique manual roll-downs! For safety, he carries a crowbar at all times to smash out a window or whatever else if need be.
The auto body and towing business is getting awfully hectic, but what gets to him more is the considerable human tragedy involved: the fatal rollovers on black ice, the city folk roaring up here in cars without front wheel drive in the dead of winter, and people who get caught in blizzards of epic proportions.
Then, there was the couple with a six-month old baby who slid on loose mud into a creek at night and froze to death. Same mess with not being able to bust out the windows. He was among the first to the grisly scene, after some random driver finally spotted the tail end of a fender popping up in the flooding, rushing creek. Watching the bodies of the two parents be lifted out by EMT workers was bad enough. He found it almost impossible to watch the cold, stiff baby be lifted out. In fact, he went home and got sick. Had to lie on the tiled bathroom floor half the night.
Dave rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. He would sure love to quit this towing work and go into beagle breeding whole hog. But, he would need to take risks though, and he’s rather risk averse. He’d have to spend his hard-earned capital on buying more prize beagles, getting broader insurance coverage, expanding the kennels and hiring assistants who care as much as he does about these magnificent if obstinate creatures.
It isn’t as if he doesn’t get lots of requests.
But, he no longer shares the business with his wife, Marilyn. She helped feed and groom the dogs, helped field the calls. Gave him pep talks, back rubs and kisses. And he built them a cute bungalow on fifty acres, grew vegetables in the garden he planted. He held her when she cried over her dad’s passing, laughed with her over the antics of Fred and Wilma’s last couple of litters before they sold the pups off.
But that was a long four years ago. He still can’t believe she’s gone. Died in a lightning storm in the middle of Lake Wallenpaupack. They said the scorching strike went right down her backbone. It kills him how she suffered. He’s traumatized every time he imagines it. He was furious at himself for not giving her a harder time for venturing out in their motorboat in the rain. She was into fishing. She claimed the best fish rose to the top when it drizzled. She was beautiful but stubborn. More stubborn than their beagles and that was saying a lot.
Dave and Marilyn used to joke about it:
“You’re as stubborn as Wilma,” he would tell her. “Remember how hard Wilma used to nudge the doorknob on the bathroom, over and over? And when she finally turned the darn knob, rushed in and unwound the entire toilet paper roll on the floor?”
“Dave, you’re as stubborn as Fred,” Marilyn would retort, “when he tried to eat frozen the steaks and chicken we pushed all the way back on the counter, and he kept at it and at it until he hopped up like a kangaroo and ate an entire thaw
ed steak?”
Their rounds of ‘Remember How Stubborn’ would go on for half an hour with lots of giggles. Thank God the beagles are better trained now, or the jokes wouldn’t be so darned funny.
After Marilyn passed, Dave sold the boat and his dock on the lake. The thought of boating gives him the willies. The only thing he still holds onto there is the one-room cottage to change and nap in.
Dave only visits Wallenpaupack for the pet-friendly beach by Lakeview Drive to run Fred and Wilma. Marilyn would have wanted him to do at least that much.
And for the Pooch Palooza, which is coming up in five days. He’s one of the organizers and its most enthusiastic proponent.
He recalls how when he told Arianna about the event, her eyes lit up at his description. He yearns for her the way he swore she did. He wants her to call, wants her to stop by, and wants her to push him out of his painful memories and into the present because he hasn’t been able to date anyone since Marilyn. His therapist suggested his problem was like a form of PTSD.
But Arianna? He imagines walking the dogs on the sandy part of the lake with her. Geez, it’s right across the road from where she’s staying. He shakes his head, trying to push the fantasy from his mind. He’s probably not her type. Yet, the image of them together makes him smile. Guilt swamps him. Would Marilyn approve? God only knows.
As he dials Arianna’s number his heart pounds to the rhythm of the ringtone.
“Hey,” he says when she picks up. “This is Dave from Jensen Auto Repair.”
“Oh, hi!” she answers cheerfully, which takes him aback. He expected her to be more upset. Could she be excited over talking to him? Had she been hoping he’d call?
“The Geico guy got in touch with me,” he reports. “You?”
“Yeah, I was going to call you, but you beat me to it.”
“Ah, okay. Well, did you want to stop by and speak with the assessor? If you do, I can explain the various options for fixing your vehicle and—”