by Brooke Moss
“I wasn’t even—”
“Yeah, you were. I know you too well,” she says as we walk closer, our dogs trotting by our sides, still leashed.
Dave heads our way, his dogs at his heels. “It’s okay,” he says. “Let the pups go free. They’re safe here.”
There is a nice wide swath of sand between the stonier parts of the waterfront. Still, I’m panicked. “You’re talking about Bart! He’s a wild nut-job!” Bart follows his nose as loyally as a priest follows each bible verse.
“We’ll work on him,” Dave says cheerfully and gives me a hug. Every part of me tingles. He gives Tinsley a light hug, too. He’s democratic, fair, and friendly, but her hug can’t possibly feel as breathtaking as mine, could it?
We spread out our towels and plop our gear on them. Dave loans us a sun umbrella and gallantly sets it up. Nice touch.
I’m still clutching Bart’s leash, stalling on the moment when I unclip it and watch him go full maniac. Fred and Wilma gather around Bart and Lyric, sniffing but in a sort of civilized way. They don’t jump on the pups, but just reach out with their snouts and take it all in. The effect of Dave’s strong guidance on them is clear.
“May I?” Dave nods to Bart. “Why don’t I put my long leash on Bart and we can do some obedience training before we fully let him off.”
“Yes, thanks,” I say, relieved.
He clips the long lead on Bart and gives me a handful of puppy training treats. “You walk away and then tell him ‘Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!’” he explains. “When he runs to you correctly, give him not one, but two separate treats, to let him know he did amazingly well.”
I try it. Bart is such a smart little dude and so into munching he picks this task up within fifteen minutes. “He seems to enjoy practicing,” I note.
“Yeah,” says Dave. “Dogs like to know they are doing valuable work.”
“Makes sense,” Tinsley chimes in. “People are the same way.” She practices the task with Lyric, who also picks it up impressively fast.
We joke about how the TV Dog Whisperer, Caesar Milan’s secret to success is all about the food and the way he taps the dogs and utters a loud ’chuh‘ sound.
“Food and chuh. The magic formula,” Dave agrees.
We sit down for a break with chilled seltzer. Dave joins us and the dogs mill around him, nuzzling, licking and vying for his attention. Uh, yeah, he’s so charismatic that if I were a puppy I’d do it, too. I take this opportunity to click some cute dog pix.
“What categories would you enter your pups in for the Pooch Palooza?” he asks. “There’s Best Couch Potato, Best Swimmer, Best—”
“Wait! Before you explain all of the categories,” Tinsley says, “I showed Arianna the poster and we checked them out.”
I give her the narrowed eye glare to ensure she doesn’t reveal how I was obsessing over Dave. She’s usually savvy enough not to blurt out something embarrassing but she’s slipped a couple of times.
“Not sure our critters would qualify for any category,” she says.
I nod. “Yeah, not even Couch Potato because Bart and Lyric are live wires.”
“Aw, you underestimate your pups. What do you want them to aspire to?” Dave quirks up his brow as he emphasizes the word aspire. “Because, we have a few days to train them.”
I stare at him in amazement. “You’re willing to spend a bunch of time out from your garage work and well, your life to help us train our dogs?”
He shrugs, and then breaks out in a charming grin. “Why not? I run Pooch Palooza and we need more talented dogs… and owners. Besides, my guys at the shop can hold down the fort in the mornings. We’re not talking about a month, just a handful of days.”
“I’m touched,” quips Tinsley.
I’m touched, too, and shocked. The tingling in my chest flares into a full-fledged aching throb. “Well, if you’re asking, sure Bart can bay. But I’d love for him to learn how to fetch. He runs for a ball, but never picks it up.”
“Doable,” Dave insists.
“I’d love for Lyric to swim,” Tinsley says. “I haven’t tried her in the water yet but aren’t labs natural mermaids?”
“Absolutely,” Dave agrees. “Trainable in less than an hour or so.”
“Wow!” She lowers her sunglasses and gazes out at the lake.
Dave reaches into his pack and pulls out a rubber ball. Leaping to his feet, he takes hold of the long lead he’s put on Bart, and he calls his name.
Bart stands immediately. He’s all ears. He’ll dog Dave around anywhere, puns intended.
“C’mon, Arianna.” Dave waves me over. “You’re Bart’s alpha goddess. You need to be part of this.”
Goddess! I’ll take it! “Makes sense if Bart’s going to take orders from me.”
“Let me demonstrate the first time, and then you take it away.” He shows Bart the training treats he’s extracted from his pocket stash. Curling his hand around the chicken-flavored bits, he prevents Bart from gobbling them up. Then he lets Bart nose the ball, tracking its scent, before he throws it down the lake beach. “Fetch, Bart! Go fetch!”
As Bart has done before in the Philly dog-parks, he dashes after it. But also as he’s done before, he merely noses it before losing interest. Instead, he roots around in the sand—smelling dead lake trout? Someone’s buried sock? A kid’s discarded popsicle stick? He runs in dizzying circles.
“Bart!” calls Dave as he wags the fist with the treats. “Bart, fetch! Treats!”
Bart perks up, stares at Dave and returns to sniffing the sand.
I sigh. “See what I mean?”
“Ye of little faith,” Dave teases. “It takes more than one try to train a stubborn hound.”
“You’re not kidding,” Tinsley says, watching from the beach blanket where she’s sitting with Lyric in her lap. Lyric’s ears are cocked and Tinsley’s restraining her from jumping into the action. It occurs to me Lyric’s breed is called a retriever. Hmm. If Bart can’t catch on, she could.
This time I try. Dave has plied me with a handful of training treats. I copy his ball toss moves, though I’m not as strong a pitcher. Bart runs after the ball. This time he grabs it and holds onto it. “Bart! Fetch. Treats!” I hold up my arm and wave it at him. “Treats!”
Bart drops the ball and comes running for the treat.
“No treats unless he brings the ball back,” Dave insists.
Reluctantly, I wave Bart away. We repeat this many times. In the best try, Bart comes halfway to me with the ball before dropping it. I am ready to throw in the towel for the day, when in the last run, Bart runs the ball all the way to me!
“Good, Bart!” I ply him with two separate training treats, saying “Good Bart!” each time.
“Do it again,” says Dave. “Cement the deal.”
I’m getting hot and sweaty but this is momentous! I repeat the request two more times and Bart delivers perfectly. “Yay!” I hug him and scruff up his long, silky ears. “We can play ball in the dog park now.”
“And enter the Pooch Palooza,” Dave reminds me. He gives me an enthusiastic, brotherly squeeze. My whole body comes alive under his touch and I almost turn toward him and plant a kiss on his mouth. But instead of looking into his scorching blue eyes, I turn away and glance over at Tinsley, who is grinning her sly-dog grin. She knows me well enough to know exactly what I was tempted to do.
It shall remain forever our secret.
This crush stuff is dangerous. I need to slow down and repress my wild instincts before I rip Dave’s bathing suit off.
Speaking of the handsome devil, he yells, “Last one in is a rotten egg!” and makes a run for the water. His beagles dash in with him.
Tinsley and I give each other a look. It’s hilarious Dave can be like a kid as well as a hot hunk of man. We are too shocked to disobey. Plus, we are baking out here. I thought the pine and birch trees would shade us more, but this June sun is no joke! I peel off my cover-up and Tinsley peels off hers. We unleash Bart and Lyric
and carry them in our arms like footballs to lake’s edge. Bart barks with excitement.
“Just plop him down and see what he does,” Dave suggests. He’s already in the water and Fred and Wilma are doggie paddling around him.
I wade in. Despite the heat, the lake water is quite chilly, and I’m sure my nipples are turning rock hard. Bart wants in though. I wade in further, up to my chest so Dave can’t see my nips, and I hesitate only an instant more before plopping Bart in. He takes to it immediately and performs his own feisty paddle, with his ears floating on either side.
“Good Bart!” I exclaim.
Tinsley has braved the cold and with a “Brr!” she’s all in. Lyric is also an instant swimmer. She’s splashier than Bart, and makes yipping sounds as she swims. They are so darn cute as they paddle around each other in circles. But not as adorbs as David Jensen, who is tossing sticks for Fred and Wilma.
He breaks one of the sticks in two and gently tosses us each a half. We throw them for Lyric and Bart. Unlike on land, in the water, they get the fetch part right away.
“Good Bart!” I say as he paddles toward me with a proud, brave look on his face. I catch Dave gazing at me with a slight sadness dimming his eyes despite the smile. A moment of hunger and longing connects us despite the fact we barely know each other. Or do I imagine it? I want it to be real, but after Van, I need concrete evidence. I need to be pragmatic and weigh the pros and cons.
We play fetch for another ten or fifteen minutes and then I start to get cold. “Heading out, I’m shivering,” I say as I grab Bart and cradle him. I’m not the only one who is shivering. Underneath this little dude’s beagle hair, he’s skin and bones, really.
“Yeah, the dogs are kind of beat.” Dave swims closer, his dogs following suit. Tinsley, too, reaches for Lyric and wades in.
She and I slip on our cover-ups and settle onto our towels. She gives the puppies each a chicken chew and they lie by us and enjoy their treats. Dave tosses Fred and Wilma bully sticks. I sneak a glimpse of Dave’s ripped abdomen, his powerful muscles moving like cords as he towels off. Then, he slides on his sunglasses and leans back on his elbows. Blue eyes shrouded once again in mystery. We’re quiet for a time, looking out at the lake, and the light making magic sparkles on its surface. Someone out there is kayaking, carving a line through the deep aqua. This is my version of paradise, though I didn’t know it before—a sunny day at a lake surrounded by woods, my BFF, the pups, and a handsome guy by my side, close enough to touch. A guy who loves dogs and takes the time to patiently train them with no yelling or batting them on their sensitive noses. But could I live here year round? Wouldn’t I be jonesing for the city?
“Hey, anyone want the rest?” Tinsley holds up a half-eaten bag of lime-infused gluten-free chips.
“I’ve never seen this brand,” Dave says, a puzzled look creasing his brow. He pops one in his mouth. “Hmm, tasty.” He pours a handful into his palm.
Tinsley winks at Dave. “Too bad Arianna didn’t think to bring a pitcher of her infamous pomegranate daiquiris to wash them down with.”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’ll take a rain check anytime.”
His comment makes my heart flood with pure joy, but I’d rather not have Tinsley as my nudgy matchmaker. I feel stingy and a little controlling, but I want to do all of the work myself—to make sure it’s real and it’s me who decides which steps to take. I won’t say anything to her though. I’ll let this one ride.
I put on my Fitbit and glance at it. “Ooh, it’s going on six pm. Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Shit, I’ve got to get back to the shop.” Dave hops to his feet. He slides into his sandals and folds his towel. His dogs stand at attention by his side like loyal soldiers. “You ladies want to borrow my umbrella for a few days? I have another one.”
“Yes, that’s really nice of you,” I say as he pulls it out of the ground and closes it.
“I’ll help you carry it across the road.” He nods to our puppies and brimming bags. “You’ve got a full load there.”
Tinsley and I leash our dogs, and hoist our bags. We really did take a ton of paraphernalia. I make a mental note to pack lighter the next time.
“Tomorrow’s no good for training—too much going on at the shop,” Dave explains as we walk on the path to the road. “I’m good on Saturday, though. I have to come here anyway to put some things together for the Palooza. Want to meet here for more puppy training before it gets hectic?”
“Yes!” A thousand times yes.
How long can this bliss last until, like with Van, the bubble bursts?
CHAPTER FIVE
Dave’s late getting back to the shop. He told Bobby he’d be back an hour ago. Dusk is coming on, and there are at least four irritable customers milling around the front desk. “Looks like Bobby has his hands full,” Dave mumbles to his hounds. “George isn’t back yet. C’mon guys.”
Leaving the lake gear in his truck, Dave hops out, the dogs trotting by his side. Before he goes into the main office, he heads around back and secures Fred and Wilma in the rear office. He hops into his jeans and fills them a fresh bowl of water and kibble.
This guilt is getting to him—the guilt of being preoccupied, of leaving Bobby high and dry. Dave feels vaguely disloyal to Marilyn. A man needs a caring woman and it’s been too long, trauma or no trauma. Once a month, his therapist hammers this into his brain and encourages Dave to date. There’s Gail and Merry, both dog owners. He likes them. They laugh over dog stories and he advises them on training. Gail has fiery red hair and a brassy laugh, and Merry is caring, always asking him about Bobby and the shop. He’s never once asked either of them out. Something held him back. Hell, they’re no match for Arianna. Just the thought of her heats his blood up.
What am I doing? I’m a nice guy. I’m an honest guy, and I dislike gaming people, especially when it comes to hearts. The last thing I want to do is start this dating thing on a shifty foot. Maybe he should come clean to Arianna about spending time with Merry and Gail.
He’s too simple-minded for it, too. He could never juggle women, he’d fail. He’d mix up his stories. Sighing, he hitches up his jeans as he heads into the front office.
“Bobby, how can I help? Sorry I’m late.” Dave claps his son on the back.
“Hey, Dad. Gee, I’m glad you’re back.” Bobby points to a bald guy in a windbreaker. “Mr. Connor here needs a rental car. He’s filling out the paperwork. After this, we only have one car left from the ones returned yesterday, because I rented the red Kia earlier to some guys staying at Meyer’s Inn for the weekend.”
“Save this last car for someone in a fender bender who can’t drive their own,” Dave advises.
“Already have a candidate. These people—the Schmidts.” Bobby nods to a middle-aged couple in matching windbreakers further down the counter. “They were sideswiped by some boys screeching around Settler Ridge. Those kids were probably drunk as sin. The Schmidts said the boys’ car almost pushed them clear off the cliff.”
“Holy crap,” Dave mumbles. “I hope the boys were apprehended.”
“Yup. Cops took them in. I had my hands full here so I had to call George’s son to go haul the Schmidt’s car.”
“You could’ve called me, Bobby.”
“Nah. I didn’t want to bother you.” Dave can see his son is tired. Bobby’s freckled face is pale with sallow bags rimming his eyes. He’s way too young to look this way. Dave feels another wash of guilt.
He pulls out his wallet, extracts twelve twenty-dollar bills and hands them to Bobby. “Here, take your girlfriend out for a few dinners and movies. Consider it a bonus. Get out of here. I’ll cover the fort until George gets back.”
Bobby’s eyes widen at the stack of crisp bills. “Wow, all of this? You sure, Dad?”
“I’m sure. Love you, son. Enjoy.”
Bobby stuffs the wad of bills in his left pants’ pocket and pulls his car keys out of the right one. He hugs his father. “Thanks, Dad.
Love you, too. See you in the morning.”
Dave helps Mr. Connor out to the second to last rental car. He wishes Mr. Connor well and shakes his hand. Then, he hurries back to the office to help the Schmidts. They are clearly still shaken as they describe the incident. “I tried my best to steer to the right,” Mr. Schmidt says, “but those roughneck good-for-nothings were way over the white line.”
“So sorry you had to deal with it,” Dave says. “Some kids get carried away when they get their first cars. Some of the wild ones end up learning the hard way at someone else’s expense.”
“You’re not kidding,” Mr. Schmidt grumbles as he signs the rental agreement. “If I didn’t have reservations I can’t get out of, I’d take the train right out of here and back to Philadelphia.”
“Hmm. I hope your weekend is better than today was.” Dave leads them out to their car. It’s just a thing that he does, helping them with their bags. It’s the least he can do since Jensen Auto Body is no Hertz, and the rental cars here are spruced up heaps.
Back in the office, Dave leans on the counter as he watches them drive off. He’s defensive about country people. Pocono folks. He was born and raised up here where the air is pure and the trees more plentiful than people. It rubs him the wrong way when travelers visit and complain about the ’boonies’, the ‘hillbillies’, or the unwashed, uneducated ‘rednecks’.
Come to think of it, Arianna is from the big city—Philadelphia. Sure, he’s been there a bunch of times. On tows, and when he was younger on school trips to the museums and such. It’s nice enough: the colonial history surrounding Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, the Philly hoagies and cheesesteaks. His mouth waters realizing he hasn’t eaten dinner yet. The gritty city has its merits. But so does the country. He could fall into the trap of being prejudice about city dwellers if he isn’t careful. He could call them ‘elites’, ‘spoiled’, ‘softies’, ‘bourgeois city slickers’ or just picky and demanding as hell. But, he’s not like that.
He wonders what Arianna really thinks of country stock like him? If she uses terms like rednecks and hillbillies, that would be a deal-breaker. But even beyond that, if by some miracle they kept in touch past these two weeks, started to date and deepen their feelings, would she ever come live up here? Or would she consider it beneath her? Would he ever be willing to move to Philadelphia? Big cities put him off—the traffic, the grubby streets, high rents, teetering skyscrapers, stifling crowds and lack of green.