The Search

by Нора Робертс

  Sexy man, sweet dog, she mused, but she’d ended up settling for frozen pizza at the end of a long day because she’d been too tired to think about actually cooking.

  Since she had another long day ahead of her, what was the harm in an extra boost of sugar?

  As she debated, she drank the coffee and watched her dogs play outside. She never got tired of watching them. And wasn’t she lucky she could make a reasonable living in the company of dogs, and do something important?

  She thought of a little boy, warm and safe, and a father weeping with relief with his arms around a very good dog. Now that very good dog pranced around the yard with a stick in his mouth, as proud of that find—or nearly—as he’d been with the kid.

  As she watched, all three dogs alerted, then raced around to the front of the house.

  Somebody had driven over her little bridge.

  Damn it. Her day wasn’t supposed to start for nearly an hour. She wanted her solo time, and her Froot Loops/Toaster Strudel combo before she interacted with other humans.

  But when she walked to the front door, opened it, her mood took a bounce. She was always ready to interact with Sylvia.

  Sylvia hopped out of her snappy hybrid—a compact, energetic woman with rich brown waves bouncing. She wore knee-high boots with skinny little heels under a floaty skirt matched with a gorgeous plummy sweater that had, no doubt, come from her own stock. Huge silver triangles swayed at her ears as she stepped back so her cheerful Boston terrier, Oreo, could jump out after her.

  The dogs immediately fell into an orgy of delighted welcome—sniff, lick, roll, run. Sylvia gracefully waded through them and shot Fiona one of her stunning smiles.

  “Morning, cutie! We’re an hour early, I know, but I wanted some gossip time. Can you spare it?”

  “For you I can.” Fiona crouched as Oreo raced to give her a quick hello before dashing back to his playmates. “Come on back to the kitchen. You can have some tea while I grab breakfast.”

  Sylvia’s hello included a long, hard hug—it always did—before, with her arm still looped around Fiona’s waist, she walked into the house.

  “The news about you and Peck finding the little boy is all over the island. You did good.”

  “Peck was perfect. And the fact Hugh had to pee, twice, didn’t hurt. Still, it’s pretty amazing how much ground a three-year-old in footie Spider-Man pj’s can cover.”

  “He must’ve been so scared.”

  “More wet, cold and tired, really.” Fiona put the kettle on, gestured to the cupboard where she kept several options of herbal tea, with Sylvia in mind. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you right away to let you know.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Sylvia waved it off as she settled for cinnamon peach. “I was out and about anyway, checking out some pottery—and naturally left my phone in the car. I have to stop doing that.”

  She turned, narrowed her eyes as Fiona took a box of Froot Loops out of another cupboard. “You’re not having that processed sugar for breakfast.”

  “Fruit, as in Froot Loops.” Smiling hopefully, Fiona shook the box. “There has to be fruit in here.”

  “Sit down. I’m fixing you a decent breakfast.”

  “Syl, this is fine.”

  “It might be, on occasion, if you were ten. Sit,” she repeated, and, at home, opened Fiona’s refrigerator. “Um-hmm, um-hmm. I can work with this. You’ll have a nice egg-white omelet on whole wheat toast.”

  “I will?”

  “And fill me in on the distraction. An interesting eyeful, isn’t he?”

  “Adorable, and with some training he’ll be a wonderful companion.”

  Sylvia shot Fiona an arched look as she pulled out a small bowl and a tiny container. “I meant Simon.”

  “Maybe I did, too.”

  “Ha. He’s tremendously talented, and well mannered, if a little mysterious.”

  “Which one are you talking about?”

  “Smarty.” Expertly, Sylvia separated the eggs, sealing the yolks in the container before whipping the whites together with a little cheese and herbs. “He has a lovely house on East Sound, is meticulous in his craft, has gorgeous eyes, a strong back, a cute puppy, and he’s single.”

  “He sounds perfect for you. Go get him, Syl.”

  “I might, if he wasn’t two decades behind me.” Sylvia poured the egg whites into the skillet she had heating and popped bread into the toaster as Fiona fixed the tea. “You go get him.”

  “What would I do with him once I got him? Besides that,” she added when Sylvia snorted, “men, like dogs, aren’t just for the fun times. They’re a full-out, long-term commitment.”

  “You need the fun times so you can decide if you want the rest. You could try, oh, I don’t know, the wild and crazy concept of a date.”

  “I’ve been known to date. I prefer group socialized events, but I occasionally date. And I occasionally indulge in those euphemistic fun times. And before you give another nudge, just let me say: Pot, kettle.”

  “I married the love of my life, and had ten wonderful years with him. Sometimes I still feel cheated we didn’t have more time.”

  “I know.” Fiona slipped over to rub a hand down Sylvia’s back as they both thought of Fiona’s father. “You made him so happy.”

  “We made each other. I can’t help wanting that for you.” She slid the omelet onto the lightly browned toast on a plate. “Eat your breakfast.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” They sat across from each other at the tiny table, and Fiona took the first bite. “God, this is good.”

  “And hardly took more time or effort than pouring colored sugar into a bowl.”

  “You’re entirely too hard on the loops of fruit, but this is too good for me to argue.”

  “Well, while you’re eating a decent breakfast, I’ll tell you what I know about Simon Doyle.” Sipping, Sylvia leaned back, crossed her legs. “And don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not curious.”

  “Okay, I won’t because I am. A little curious.”

  “He’s thirty-three, originally from Spokane, though he lived the last several years in Seattle.”

  “Spokane and Seattle. Night and day.”

  “Pretty much. His father owns and still operates as a contractor in Spokane—with Simon’s older brother. He double-majored in art and architecture at USC, then worked as a cabinetmaker before he began to design and build furniture. He did pretty well for himself in Seattle, won some awards. Had a very hot affair with Nina Abbott—”

  “The singer?”

  “That’s right. Pop star, rock star—I’m not sure where she fits.”

  “Bad girl of pop,” Fiona said over a mouthful of omelet. “She’s a little crazy.”

  “Maybe so, but they steamed it up for a few months after she commissioned him to design several pieces for her house on Bainbridge Island. She’s originally from Washington state and has a house there.”

  “Yeah, I know. I read People, watch E! TV now and then. I just... Oh, wait. He’s the one? I remember reading some dish about her and a carpenter. The press mostly referred to him as a carpenter. She’s sexy and talented, but there’s that little-bit-crazy factor.”

  “Some people like to shock, I think. Anyway, it fizzled. Still, I expect it didn’t hurt him, business-wise. Then about three months ago, he moved here, and Island Arts is very proud, and damn lucky, to be his exclusive outlet in the San Juans.”

  Sylvia lifted her teacup in toast, then sipped.

  “Did you get all that from his bio for Island Arts’ Web page and brochures?”

  “Actually the bio he gave me was a little thin, so I Googled him.”

  “Sylvia.”

  Unashamed, Sylvia tossed her lush curls. “Listen, when I take on an artist I have to know who they are. For one thing, I often have to travel to them to check out their work. I wouldn’t want to wander into the den of an ax murderer, would I?”

  “I bet you can’t Google most ax murderers. Except those al
ready in prison or in the ground.”

  “You never know. Anyway, over and above his work, I like him. What did you think?”

  “Since he was a little pissed that Jaws ate the headrest in his truck—”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah, and was obviously frustrated with his new puppy-owner status, it might be difficult to judge. On surface observation, and setting aside his physical attributes—”

  “And he has them,” Sylvia said with a wicked wiggle of eyebrows.

  “No question. I’d say he’s not used to having responsibility for anyone other than himself, and more used to solo ventures. A lone wolf sort—which you’ve added to with this morning’s data: a private place on the sound of a very small island, his move away from family, his choice of career.”

  “Sometimes a lone wolf just hasn’t found a mate—or his pack.”

  “You’re forever a romantic.”

  “Guilty,” Sylvia agreed. “And proud of it.”

  “Well, on his side, the puppy’s crazy about him. Shows no fear. Right now, the dog is the alpha, which tells me the man has a soft center. It may be small—can’t know yet—but it’s there. That’s also illustrated by the fact that while he’s very frustrated and annoyed, he doesn’t seem inclined to get rid of the dog. And when given logical options, he accepts. He signed Jaws up for kindergarten, and while I wouldn’t say Simon appears to be happy or enthusiastic about it, he did seem determined. So while not especially used to taking responsibility for another, he will take it when he sees no way out.”

  “I swear, you should have gone into psychology. Or profiling.”

  “Everything I know, I learned from dogs.” Fiona rose to take her plate to the dishwasher, then turned to step behind Sylvia’s chair and wrap her arms around her stepmother’s neck. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Have another cup of tea. I’m going to set up for class.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Not in those boots. We’re a little soggy from yesterday’s rain. Change your very sexy ones for my Uggs before you come out. They’re in the mudroom.”

  “Fee,” Sylvia said before Fiona left the room.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s been nearly eight years now, for both of us.”

  “I know.”

  “It hit me this morning. Sometimes it does when it comes up on the anniversary of Will’s death. So I just wanted to get out of the house—and more, to see you. I want to tell you how glad I am you’re here, that I can come by and fix you breakfast, or borrow your Uggs. I’m so glad, Fee.”

  “Me too.”

  “He’d be so proud of you. He was proud of you, but—”

  “I know he was, and I like knowing he’d be proud and happy with what I’ve done. With what I’m doing.” She let out a breath. “Greg would, too. I think. So much of him’s faded, his voice, his scent, even his face. I never thought I’d have to pull out a photo to bring his face clearly into my head.”

  “Seven years is a long time. You were so young, sweetie. I know you loved him, but you were so young. You didn’t have much time together really.”

  “Almost two years, and he taught me so much. I have what I have now because of what Greg taught me, what he showed me, what he gave me. I did love him, Syl, but I can’t remember what it felt like anymore. I can’t bring back how he made me feel.”

  “We loved him, too, your dad and I. He was a good, good man.”

  “The best.”

  “Fee, maybe you can’t bring back what you felt for him because it’s time you let yourself feel for someone else.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes... well, sometimes I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.”

  “Feelings don’t always happen when we’re ready for them.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe I’ll get a surprise. But for now, I’ve got enough to keep me occupied. Don’t forget the Uggs.”

  After her advanced class, a group of six including Oreo, Fiona prepared for her special-skills group, novice level. Most of the students were off-islanders with hopes to earn certifications as Search and Rescue dogs. Some in this larger class would make it, some would not. But she knew every dog and owner would benefit from the additional and more specialized training.

  As students arrived, it was socialization time—for canines and humans. Not a waste of time, in her opinion, but a vital step. A dog who couldn’t be or wouldn’t be socialized would never make the cut. And the ten-minute “mixer” gave her the opportunity to judge how well the dogs and handlers were doing with their at-home training.

  She watched, her hands in the sagging pockets of an ancient hooded jacket. “Okay, let’s get started. We’ll run the basics first.”

  She ran them through heeling, on then off leash—with mixed results.

  “Snitch, Waldo,” she said, addressing the dogs rather than the owners.

  “We’re going to need to practice those off-leash skills a little more at home. We’re close, but you can do better. Let’s try recall. Handlers, step away. I want you to wait until your dog is distracted, then give the command. Let’s be firm. Don’t forget reward and positive reinforcement.”

  She deliberately distracted some of the young dogs herself. Petting, playing. Still, the percentage of success pleased her. That percentage faltered on drop on recall as most of the dogs wanted to play when called.

  She culled out the worst offenders, assigning the others to work on sitstay while she did a few one-on-ones.

  “There are good reasons you need your dog to stop instantly. There could be danger he doesn’t understand. In addition, that instant and complete response shows absolute trust. When you say Stop! or whatever word you choose for that command, your dog needs to obey without hesitation. Let’s work on this with close proximity. Walk with your dog heeling, off leash, then try your drop command. Callie, can I use Snitch to demonstrate?”

  It wasn’t the dog portion of the partnership that needed work, but the human, in Fiona’s opinion. Callie tended to be hesitant.

  In minutes, with a sure, firm tone, Fiona had the puppy heeling like a champ and dropping on command like a soldier.

  “I don’t know why he won’t do it for me.”

  “He knows he can mess with you, Callie. He doesn’t believe you mean it, that you’re in charge. You don’t have to yell or be angry, but you have to be firm. Your voice, your face, your body language. Convince him you mean business.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Slightly better, Fiona judged—but she figured it was residual behavior from her own round with Snitch. Unless Callie toughened up, the little golden would walk all over her, and back again.

  “Okay, short break for playtime.”

  It was the signal her own dogs waited for. They joined in the five minutes of chaos, the running, fetching, bounding after balls, rolling in wrestling groups.

  “I don’t mean to complain.”

  Fiona added on another layer of patience as Earl Gainer, retired cop and owner of a very clever young German shepherd, began all his complaints the same way.

  “What’s the problem, Earl?”

  “I understand one of your tenets is exploiting the play drive, but it just seems to me we spend an awful lot of time letting all these dogs fool around.”

  And time, she knew, meant money as well.

  “I know it might seem frivolous, but at this age, their attention span is very short. There’s a real danger of overtraining. If a dog gets frustrated, simply can’t keep up with all the new demands and expectations, he can give up, or revert or rebel. They need time to work off some of that puppy energy—and to continue their socialization with other dogs, other humans. We’re going to try a couple new things in the second thirty minutes today.”

  Earl brightened immediately. “Like what?”

  “Let’s give them another couple minutes. Kojak has a lot of potential. You know that. He’s smart, eager to please. If you stick with this another couple
weeks, we’ll be into some scent training. Before we go there, we’re going to cement the bond, the socialization and the tractability.”

  Earl puffed out his cheeks. “I heard about what you and your dog did yesterday, finding that boy. That’s what I want to do.”

  “I know, and with your training, your experience, you’ll be a great asset. Let’s help Kojak want to do the same. He’s on his way, I promise you.”

  “Everybody who knows says you’re one of the best in the state, maybe in the Northwest. That’s why we’re taking that ferry ride twice a week. Well, hell, he’s having fun anyway.”

  “And learning.” She gave Earl’s arm a pat.

  She called her own dogs, sent them to the porch where they sprawled to watch the show.

  “Heel your dogs,” Fiona called out, and waited for the line to form. “A Search and Rescue dog can and is called on to search in various terrains, rough ground, frozen ground, rock, woods, urban settings. And water. Today, we’re going to introduce water.”

  She gestured to a child’s wading pool she’d already filled, then picked up a rubber ball. “Each of you, in turn, will take your dog off leash, then toss this ball into the pool. I want you to command your dog to fetch. Don’t worry. I have towels. Earl, why don’t you and Kojak go first? Position about ten feet away.”

  Earl took the ball, got into position. He unleashed his dog, gave him a quick rub, showed him the ball. “Get it, Kojak!” he yelled as he tossed it.

  The dog took off like a bullet, made a leap—and a splash. He came up with the ball in his mouth and a shocked look on his face that clearly translated into, to Fiona’s mind, What the fuck!

  But he leaped out again, returned to Earl when his master snapped a finger.

  Show-off, Fiona thought, but with a grin, and one that widened as Kojak shook ferociously and soaked his proud and praising owner.

  “You see that?” With water dripping from his face, Earl looked over at Fiona. “He did it, first time out.”

  “He did great.”

  And so did you, she thought.

  Fiona routinely tried to schedule an hour between classes, knowing that a good chunk of that would be taken up by handlers who wanted to talk, ask for advice, get her input on the day’s session.