Once Upon a Summer

by Brooke Moss

“Yes! Yes, I plan to drop in around two pm. That’s when the damage assessor man said he’d be there. You’ll be there, too?” Her voice sounds so hopeful.

  His belly drops and lifts as if he’s on a rollercoaster ride. “I’ll make sure.”

  “Oh, good.”

  His hand is unsteady when he shuts his smartphone. What’s my deal? While he waits, he has a surge of energy. He cleans the counters of crumbs and cellophane from customer’s snacks and cigarette packs, he swashes out the grubby toilet and sink, fills the toilet paper dispenser, empties the trash, and peers in the washroom mirror before leaving. “Woo Boy, lookin’ raggedy,” he says under his breath.

  He combs his hair with his fingers, breaks into an openmouthed grin to make sure there’s no sausage left in his teeth from breakfast, and hitches up his jeans. “Lookin’ good, man,” he says and exits the washroom with a bounce in his step.

  Dave’s just fielded another AAA distress call when Bobby drives back, hauling a sideswiped Prius Prime. Boom, even the best of the best get dinged up.

  “Hey, Bobby, how’s the morning treating you?” he asks his one and only son who has Marilyn’s freckles and easy good looks.

  “Not bad, can’t complain.”

  “Attaboy.” Dave reads off the next haul. “I’ve got a sideswiped van on the corner of Rollin Hill and Birch Lane. Can you go get it now? George is out on a long tow, all the way down to Manhattan. You can take a break when you get back.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Dave won the lottery for sons in Bobby. He’s never grouchy, never critical and a tireless worker. Dave had Bobby when he was only eighteen. He and Marilyn were married young. Bobby’s seventeen now. Poor kid was only thirteen when his mom passed. Another pang of guilt hits him in the stomach. Bobby’s serene persona reminds him so much of Marilyn. Well, the other half of stubborn. The guilt is also because he wants Bobby to get going before Arianna arrives.

  ***

  Bobby rumbles off in the tow truck fifteen minutes before Arianna arrives. Dave walks toward the side hedge where she’s parking.

  “How’s the rental car treating you?” The words flow from his mouth before his brain engages.

  She gives the door a spirited slam as she exits the sedan. “Not bad if you don’t mind the stale cigarette fumes.”

  Dave takes a hard look at the shabby rental car and cringes. “I’m afraid you got the last one off the lot the other day,” he says apologetically.

  “Don’t take me seriously. I’m just giving you a hard time.” Arianna waves her hand. “Honestly? I was grateful to get anything. You were so kind.”

  He straightens up and smiles. “Want to take a quick look at your car up on the lift before Mr. Insurance arrives?”

  “Yes! I won’t sound like such an idiot when he talks car parts.”

  “I wasn’t trying to say you—”

  “No worries, really. I didn’t think you were insinuating anything. But I am dense when it comes to cars.”

  “You can learn.”

  She rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a grin in there, too. Damn she looks good with her hair all loose around her shoulders. She’s got on a low-cut clingy blue top that shows off her twin sisters, which he forces himself not to stare at. She’s wearing Roman tie-up sandals and some type of black yoga shorts that show off her fine butt, not too wide but generous with lovely pear-like slopes. Lord, at this rate, he won’t be able to look at her without his eyes wandering into one danger zone or another. Stay on the face.

  He leads the way into the garage and suggests she stand a little ways in front of the Rogue so there’s no chance of injury should it slip off the riser. Then, he points to the various parts underneath the Rogue and names them, and explains what happened during the accident. “You saw the hole in the tire rim.” She nods. “Well, during the impact, the inner and outer tie rods bent and the ball joint was knocked out of place. You may also need a control arm bushing, the pitman arm and drag link. Some of the larger parts cost way less than the tiny ones. Go figure.”

  “You’re so impressive. My brain just doesn’t work like that,” Arianna gushes.

  She doesn’t have to look at him like he’s Einstein, but it’s a thrill she considers him so smart. “Most folks just want to get this part over with and get on to the tabulated cost,” he says.

  “I’m stalling,” she jokes.

  “It’ll only be a five hundred dollar deductible, remember?”

  At that moment, the assessor pulls into the lot. He leaps out of his fancy BMW and marches over. Shakes Dave and Arianna’s hands and gets to work, inspecting the car and writing down data on his notepad.

  “Give me twenty minutes or so,” the assessor says as he fiddles with his tie.

  Dave and Arianna exchange bemused looks and he whispers to her, “Want a quick soda while he finishes up? I’ve got my beagle, Fred here. You want to meet him?”

  “Of course!” Arianna seems relieved to get out of the garage and away from the potent mix of oil, gas and car wax.

  They reconvene in Dave’s office. He pushes a pile of auto journals to one side of his couch and offers her a seat. “Back in a flash. Will it be Coke, Ginger Ale or club soda?”

  “Coke. Perfect. Here, let me contribute.”

  He waves her off when she reaches for her purse. “My treat.” He walks through a door to the other part of the glassed-in waiting room where the vending machines are. In a few minutes, he returns with two chilled sodas, a bag of chips, and Fred, who bounds toward her.

  “Heel, Mr. Fred,” Dave commands. The handsome beagle reluctantly stops and waits for Dave to catch up, at which point the hound walks obediently by his side.

  “Oh, my, God. If only Bart would do that!” Arianna exclaims. “You trained him so well.”

  Dave could get used to this woman’s flattery. But it’d be better for the woman to see herself as his peer, like Marilyn. Oh, Marilyn. Why is he thinking of her right now? The connection makes his brain go blank. After all, he’s guilty of nothing but enjoying a friendly conversation. He shakes off his unease and serves the sodas. Fred parks himself at Arianna’s feet. He looks longingly up at her, making a bid for her attention.

  Like dog like master.

  “Fred, you’re a well-mannered gentleman.” Arianna pats his head and ruffles his long ears. He leans into the massage for all he’s worth.

  “Such a handsome boy,” says Arianna and smiles up at Dave.

  Dave’s heartbeat booms in his ears because he could swear she’s really talking about him. The way she’s still gazing shamelessly at him. He wants her, but it’s also so intense. He hasn’t liked anyone for so long in this way. And ironically, nothing’s happening on the surface; it’s all in undertones and silent, couched emotions. He’s so rusty with all of this flirting, heart-based stuff.

  They eat some of the chips and take sips from the sodas.

  “The only reason Fred isn’t going for the chip bag is because I spent weeks training him not to beg for food.”

  “Aw, he’s such a good boy,” she says, popping a chip in her mouth.

  Dave gets up from the couch and faces the long stretch leading to the door. He calls Fred over. The beagle comes right away, sits by his master and looks up adoringly. “Okay, Fred, let’s show Arianna a little of what we do at Pooch Palooza, okay?” Dave fishes out a small plastic ball and holds it up.

  “Ready, Freddie Boy? Ready, Arianna?”

  “Yes!” she replies enthusiastically. Fred barks once in response.

  Dave makes sure his dog is completely focused on him before he tosses the ball forward in a high arc. “Turnaround!” Dave commends.

  Fred dashes forward, leaps in the air and twirls around like a ballet dancer! He catches the ball in his mouth upon completion of his three hundred sixty degree turn while still airborne.

  “Good job, Freddie!” Dave calls. The beagle runs to collect the treat Dave has in his hand.

  “I’m so impressed!” Arianna blurts.

  “Wit
h Freddie or my training? It can’t be both!”

  “It’s a dead heat,” Arianna quips.

  Dave and Fred perform the trick a few more times before the damage assessor comes into the office.

  He taps on his notepad with his pen. “All done, Ms. Jordan. I’ll send you a full report by tomorrow. I have your email. Is email okay?”

  “Fine,” she answers. He has her sign more papers and then, he shakes everyone’s hands and leaves. The assessor ignores Fred. Not one glance his way.

  “Bah, he’s not a dog guy,” Dave says.

  “Yeah, Fred, no respect from Insurance Man,” Arianna says, playing along.

  Dave screws up his courage—every ounce of it, pushing through the damn PTSD or whatever it is. “This was fun, despite the car wreck circumstances…” he rolls his eyes, which makes her smile. “So, uh, now that you’ve met Fred, how would you like to walk the dogs soon, over by Lake Wallenpaupack? You’re actually right across the road from the dog-friendly beach.”

  “Oh, cool! My puppy sure needs to run… so um… ” Arianna hesitates, yet the silence doesn’t feel as tense as before. “Tomorrow then? No time like the present when you only have a couple of weeks.”

  In an instant, Dave’s chest is full of butterflies. She said yes. “Great, what time?”

  “11:30 works. Wait, I should check with my friend, Tinsley; make sure she doesn’t have something already planned for us.”

  “If you want her to join us…”

  He’s surprised when Arianna’s expression goes blank, as if she’s reluctant to share him. Probably his interpretation is way off. He’s better with figuring out cars.

  Arianna shrugs. “Tinsley has a puppy here, too, so it makes sense to ask her.”

  As Arianna drives off Dave stands in the lot waving to her like they’re old buddies. A surge of wellbeing rushes through him as he returns to the shop with Fred by his side.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On the way back from Jensen’s, I blast the car radio and sing at the top of my lungs to the oldies Groovy Kind of Love and Do You Believe in Magic? It’s so wonderful to open the windows and let the wind rustle through my hair. When I park and open the bungalow door Bart races over. He madly licks my hands and toes peeking through my sandals. I kneel down and give him a hug, which inspires another round of licks—to my arms and face. I lead him out through the sliding door to the deck with lounge chairs and picnic table, and beyond where the large grassy yard beckons. Thankfully the yard is fenced, but I scout around for holes and loose slats anyway. This hound will be safe on my watch from here on in.

  “Tinsley?”

  “Be out in a sec,” she calls from the kitchen.

  She and Lyric join me on the deck, and Lyric takes off after Bart. They tear around the edges of the yard like crazed track stars. It’s so nice for Bart to have a running mate.

  Tinsley brings out a plate of sliced cheese and turkey, some sesame flatbread, and a bowl of guacamole and chips. “Made it myself,” she brags. We dig in.

  “It’s delicious. Where’d you get the avocados? We didn’t buy any last night.”

  “While you were at Jensen’s, I went back to the market this morning for another round. For a little country store, it’s surprising what tantalizing goodies you can find if you keep poking around.” She smiles wickedly, as if waiting for me to ask why. “Don’t you want to know why I have a shit-eating grin on my face?”

  “Yes, and you want to tell me.”

  She reaches into her canvas shoulder bag, pulls out a flyer and holds it up. I see colorful type, pictures of dogs on a beach and…

  She points to a name that’s already jumpstarted my heart. I read, “David Jensen, Master of Ceremony at Pooch Palooza.” Keeping a lid on my emotions, I say in an understated tone, “Yeah, he told me about Pooch Palooza.”

  “Oh, really?” She gets that sly dog look. “What else did you talk about?”

  I ignore her prying question and ask another. “When is it?”

  “In four days. We’ll still be here.” Tinsley runs a finger down the list of games and contests as she announces them: “Prizes for Best Baying Hound, Best Couch Potato and Best Go Fetch Artist.” I think of Fred’s fancy twirling act. No doubt he’s won this category at least once, if not every time.

  I reel off the rest of the contest categories: “Best Swimmer, Best Agility Course Run, Best Cuddle Bug. That’s adorbs,” I say. “Bart might win for Cuddle Bug but never for go fetch. He chases a ball but doesn’t give a hoot about bringing it back.”

  Tinsley snickers as she eases into the chaise lounge. “Lyric would so lose Best Agility Course or Swimmer. She has no focus. She’s all over the place even on a leash, and I’ve never taken her in the water.”

  “Labs are good in water,” I say. “Could be an instant affinity.”

  “Who knows? But look what else?” She holds up the flyer again and points to the featured musical group, Bearhug.

  “So?”

  “So! It’s a group I actually listen to. I lurrrve Bearhug! They’re a sublime blend of country and alt rock. I can’t believe they’re playing at this shindig.”

  “Cool, are any of them single?”

  She snickers. “I don’t know but I’m going to find out!”

  “That’s the Tinsley spirit.”

  We watch our pups circle around the yard a couple more times and then settle into rolling and wrestling on the grass. I get up and grab my smart phone to take pup photos, weaving and bobbing along with the movement of their antics.

  “I’m in the process of building a business website,” I tell Tinsley. “Can I use the photos with Lyric in them for Adorbs Pet Portraits?”

  “Sure! These critters are so darn cute they’ll lure all the customers in. Hey, how about a jingle for your company?” She improvises lines and music:

  “Do you want a photo of your barking queen?

  Or your little puppy prince in a magazine?

  Adorbs Pet Portraits is what you need!

  Perfection for a great, low price, indeed.”

  “Tinsley, you’re amazing at lyrics, can I use this too?”

  “If you pay me residuals every time it’s used.” She winks. “Just kidding!”

  We finish our lunch and laze. The warmth of the sun is delicious. Lyric and Bart have joined us. Bart flops on the end of the chaise by my feet. Lyric snuggles next to Tinsley’s hip.

  There’s a pretty sound of birdsong. And farther off in the distance, of dogs barking. Bart perks his head up. I need to ask Tinsley about tomorrow but I don’t want to make as big a deal out of it as I’m feeling it is. “Hey, Tins, you awake?”

  “Mmn hm,” she mumbles from under her arm, where she’s raised it to shade her face from the sun.

  “You up for taking the puppies for a walk on the pet-friendly beach tomorrow? Say around 11:30?”

  She lifts her arm and peers over at me. “That’s awfully specific.”

  I shrug. “Well, it’s good to plan ahead. Plus um… well, David Jensen might be there.”

  She sits up and gets the sly dog look again—one brow quirked up and the same side of her mouth turned up in a cynical grin. “Ah ha! I knew you were cooking up something.”

  “Nothing much.”

  “I’m game,” she says, leaning over her chair and giving my arm a pat. “This bird is going to see to it you spend time with that hunky man before vacation time’s over.”

  “He may not be my type.”

  “Oh, hon, I see the look in your eyes.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “One-hundred percent.”

  “Crushing on my car mechanic. Good God, Tinsley. How cliché is that?”

  “So cliché. But so cute.”

  We cackle like two witches mixing a love potion.

  ***

  I rise bright and early because since seven am, I’ve been wide-awake and picturing David Jensen as the star in my mental slide show. Dave in a bathing suit, Dave throwing a ball in slo
-mo for Fred and Wilma, his arms bulging with muscle. Dave frolicking in the ocean, which frames him in turquoise sparkles, setting off his blue eyes.

  I get up and shake off the dramatic, soft-porn fantasies. I don’t want to get ahead of my skis, as they say. Giggling, I wonder if there’s a dog lover slogan to match this. Maybe I don’t want to trip over my dog’s leash? Or I don’t want to eat all of the kibble? Oh, hell, I’m no lyricist like Tinsley.

  I struggle over whether to don a bathing suit under a wrap or dress in shorts and a light top. I settle on the bathing suit because, hell, it’s a beach and we may end up taking the dogs in the lake.

  Tinsley’s on the same wavelength. She appears in a leopard pattern cover-up over a black bikini.

  We pack everything under the sun in our beach bags: puppy toys, puppy snacks, my iPhone to take puppy pix, water, fruit seltzers, baked sweet potato chips, beach towels, two kinds of sunblock, hats and geez, I can’t even remember what else. But darn, my bag weighs a ton!

  I check my Fitbit a zillion times. 11:10, 11:15, 11: 23. “Tinsley, let’s go!” I yell as I pace in the living room. Bart is pacing with me.

  “Girl, it’s only across the bleeping street, calm down,” she chides as she leashes Lyric and joins me on the front porch.

  It’s true. We arrive at 11:30 sharp. I hurry down the path toward the beach. It only takes a moment to spot Dave. The sight of him makes my breath hitch. He’s standing on the sandy edge of the lake with his dogs. A tall drink of water in a tight blue T-shirt and a navy bathing suit. Sunglasses frame his nicely angled face and strong jawline. His dark tangle of hair is aloft in the wind. He waves to us.

  “Wow. I see what the fuss is about,” Tinsley murmurs as she stares his way.

  This gives me pause. Will Dave like her happy-go-lucky blonde vibe better than my dark tresses, taller frame and slightly neurotic persona? Suddenly, I feel like Tinsley and I are still in college, competing for guys at dorm parties.

  “Don’t sweat it, Arianna. I won’t put my hooks in him.” Tinsley jabs me playfully with her elbow.