He said, “Black Lab, two years old, red bandanna and rope leash. Say, is this the dog?”
“What dog?”
“Didn’t you hear? Some homeless guy ran into the street and got hit by a bus. At first they thought it was to get a five-dollar bill some jerk threw at him because he thought it was funny. The wind blew it into the street, and turns out the dog ran after to fetch it.”
She whispered, “Good dog.”
“Yeah, but the homeless guy ran to save his dog in the street and got hit instead. Then it ran away, and the cops couldn’t find it after. I think they want to find it because it bit the guy who threw the money. At least, that’s what the guy claims now, because they want to charge him with something about endangering the public, and he’s trying to get out of it.”
She slowly nodded, but said, “No, this is my dog. His name is Sergeant.”
The End
Sergeant
* * * * *
“There is so little difference between husbands you might as well keep the first.” ~Adela Rogers St. Johns
“It's easy to understand love at first sight, but how do we explain love after two people have been looking at each other for years?” ~Author Unknown
~~~
THE SENSIBLE BRIDE
Somewhere in proper British society . . .
How could the bride have known?
Formal gardens, perfect weather and impeccable arrangements—the whole affair could have been written up in the manual of instructions under: The Perfect Wedding.
It was all so consistently predictable that it was also rather boring to her. She didn’t understand the challenge of wedding planning that so many people told her about. Perhaps it was because she had always been more sensible than romantic.
The fact is that it was not a wedding of overwhelming romance; it was not a reluctant wedding either like in the grand old days of the aristocracy, when marriage was also a matter of financial or military alliance.
They had always been good friends, the bride and groom. They had talked about it like two lawyers discussing a merger: He wanted the inheritance from his maternal grandfather’s estate sooner rather than later. He was meant to receive it on his 35th birthday if he was still single. However, on the event of his marriage after the age of 25, he’d inherit sooner.
For her part, she thought it was time—on the off chance that she’d want a child or two. It had to be in the next few years, before she got too old to get her figure back after the fact.
Convenience? Was that an appropriate term?
What did they used to call it in the days of arranged marriages? Did it matter? Not a bit, but the couple made the deal this time, not the parents. They were terribly sensible about the whole thing. It was strangely old-fashioned in these modern days—right down to the subdued wedding decorations, traditional vows and plain white cake.
How could she know then, as she stood before the world and said the appropriate words, that there would be any other choice so near at hand?
It was only after, during the large reception, that a lost passion pulled the bride aside. Passion, by the way, might have been an understatement. He had once been her obsession, but she had been too shy to share that bit, so let things take the course he had set for them.
Now, behind a particularly discrete decorative column, he said desperately, "You should have married me!”
He said it near her ear, and she remembered how he smelled. She felt his hot breath on her skin and hair, and for a moment, she wavered.
In fact, it took a moment to sink in.
At first she thought he was joking; it was in poor taste, given she had just said her vows to another. It was also totally in character for this man. But a cautious look into his eyes showed that he was not kidding—he was serious, and looking at her like . . .
That look made her feel funny and not in a good way either. The sensation was more than a little queasy, but it would not do to retch on her wedding day.
In fact, the bride had felt no butterflies at her wedding, but there was something larger inside her now. Something dull and heavy and threatening to break free.
It pushed her breath away, and she could not catch it again.
She led him further away from anyone who might hear them and into a quiet corner. She said, "My Goodness, you're only now just deciding that?”
"When I saw you up there beside another man—I never thought it would be anyone else but me. You know I was just hesitant because I knew you’d always be waiting, but turns out I underestimated . . .”
The muscles on the side of his jaw tensed; he could be a movie star for the way he did that. It usually took her breath away, and he knew that. She had always found that to be a most attractive feature . . . physically.
Mentally, he was quite a pill and had left a string of broken hearts all over Britain and also parts of the Europe.
She decided to play his game. "I never knew you felt this way. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you stop the wedding?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he said roughly.
Of course—that would not have been the proper thing to do, and he was certainly quite proper where his family’s money was concerned. He wasn’t willing to jeopardize his inheritance. Weren't they all the same?
She said as much, and then, "You're right, of course. What a scene that would have been, and yet would have served no purpose but to embarrass a good man. How sensible you are. It's a terribly sensible day, isn't it?"
He said, "You sound bitter, my dear. No second thoughts now, it's quite unbecoming for a brand new bride."
She flinched. "Brand new bride, is there any other kind?"
He grinned wide, the muscles on the side of his jaw relaxed into their devastating dimples.
"Always the charmer, aren't you?" the bride replied.
She couldn't help but smile at his boyishness, his simplicity. She wanted to rumple his hair—his perfectly groomed hair that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but in fact, she knew for a fact that he spent several minutes on it each morning, and checked it every time he passed a mirror.
"The charmer,” he said, sarcastically. “You always thought so before, and I wonder that we never quite got together, at least, got together more than we did.”
He touched her hand wistfully, then the spidery-gossamer veil that was made when her grandmother was wed. With him, the touch was an act of longing, and of possession. He might have just as well said: "You should have been mine."
The day was getting too hot.
She said, "I was always waiting for the right moment. I suppose you were too."
It was almost a question, but she wasn’t brave enough to ask it for real.
He smirked. That was not so attractive.
He said, "Yes, waiting to see who was round the next bend."
"And who was it there that was worth waiting for?"
He flinched. Was that a stab of jealousy? No, it couldn't be, she was a married woman . . . and this was her wedding day.
He said, "No one of consequence." Then he sighed and turned, full profile. Just as good—strong chin, straight nose, perfect—and he always knew how to use it to advantage.
But real life was not posing for effect. It was not stolen moments captured by sneaky photographers in cheap gossip tabloids either. She wondered if he’d ever find a proper job and be more than just a figurehead.
What was the term they used to use: playboy?
"Still, you had your fun," she said, putting her hands together to stop them from shaking.
He smiled, still looking far away.
"Wild oats and all that? Well, it's true, that's the way of it. A man doesn't realize what he's missing until you're gone."
Until you’re gone . . . Cliché, but to the point. He was smooth when it came to seduction—some of her friends knew that too. It was one of the reasons her head had held him at arm’s length, even though her heart wanted him close.
She suddenly felt
the weight of the day. "I could use a drink.”
"You sit here, my dear. I'll get us some punch.”
He winked and was off.
"Gin would be better," she called.
He turned back with a grin and gave her his slight salute. His eyes were twinkling, but in such a glassy sort of way—not warmth, she knew, but more like the glitter of ice.
Was that a look of conquest? Had he won after all?
That was cynical, she thought, and on my wedding day too. This should be a day of new beginnings, of happiness and plans, not of looking back.
Moments later, he returned with two tall glasses festooned with all manner of fruit and rainy-day paraphernalia.
She laughed and said, "Umbrellas in the drinks? My mother is a silly, sentimental old woman."
"Sentimental? We have no right to talk," he said, quite serious now.
Nostalgia for what might have been was no substitute for what actually was.
She sighed heavily and busied herself with the drink. It was stronger than she was used to. She should have eaten something today. His nearness was quite as intoxicating too, and she smirked at her own cliché where he was concerned. She closed her eyes, and breathed deep.
The drink was medicine-y; that would be the juniper part of the gin, she figured. Unless he put something else in it . . . she breathed again . . .
He never did wear men's cologne openly, but smelled of leather and horses and dirt. Not the dirt in corrals or stalls, but the dirt of newly plowed fields. Quite a feat, she knew, given that he’d never been near one in his life.
She wondered how he managed the scent of a workingman in the middle of such a posh affair—especially when he’d never actually been one. He lived off his parents until they’d had enough, and then he lived off his grandmother and a great-aunt.
He had expectations of inheritance himself, but who knew when that might be, or how much? Speculation had it that he was holding out to marry someone with deep coffers, but had yet to convince someone of his good intentions when enough money was on the line.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said.
"You are filled with original quips today, aren't you?"
"I am filled with you."
At his tone, she looked up. His eyes burned into her—it was a stare like you’d see in those old movies too: Bella Lugosi as a vampire or magician, mesmerizing the hapless heroine.
It made her want to giggle a bit—or many that was the gin and tonic. Instead, the bride swallowed hard, trying not to wither like those damsels always do in the Barbara Cartland books. Still, it seemed the appropriate thing to do. He might expect it, but it seemed . . . foolish.
Her mouth was dry, yet she didn't think to drink. He moved slightly towards her. She moved more.
The kiss was long, tender at first—it almost hurt in the end. There was anger in it for his part, she knew. His hand meant to brush her breast, but she felt an ache deep inside her chest as she pushed his hand away. Then she realized it had been there all along—this feeling.
It felt like her heart was crying.
He broke away abruptly, "I can't stand this!"
And he was gone, his drink left behind. The bride finished hers, and then his as well—luckily, there wasn’t much left. Then she fanned herself as best she could. She only glanced up when her name was called from afar—how long had she been here?
I must get back—I have guests.
~~~
She smiled, adjusted her veil and got on with it. The bride shook hands with people who claimed to have known her as a child. She received sloppy kisses and dry, shallow pecks of congratulations.
The bride must pose here in this historical setting—it was the groom’s ancestral home, though he hadn’t lived here in years.
She must be seen there with people who came from halfway across the country. After all, his was quite an impressive and historical family.
Everyone commended her too:
“Well done, my girl. Not like those strange affairs with things like hot-air balloons to carry off the bride and groom, or circus tents and rock and roll acts.”
“My dear, it takes good English virtue to be so conventional.”
“How brave of you to take on the traditional. You must feel proud of yourself.”
The bride felt like screaming.
Her mother sidled up and grabbed her by the arm. The woman hadn't stopped smiling since the engagement had been announced. The grin had widened today unto the point of almost being obscene. With the fur trimmed gown, the older woman now resembled a large ginger tabby, lapping up the cream.
"Have you seen Daddy?" asked the bride.
"Oh, my dear, he's probably off telling those boring stories with his old Army friends. He hasn’t seen some of them in years, and they do go on, believe me. Never mind about him, you have more important guests."
"Yes, Mother. It's all so beautiful. Thank you."
The older woman kissed her on the cheek, then wiped at the gloss left behind. The kiss was not from affection—it was not like that between them.
In fact, it was from too many umbrellas for all concerned.
The bride laughed, for her mother was never one to lose control. She was a frivolous woman, but impeccably proper in public. Usually.
The bride then realized how much this meant to her parents. After all, she was the first and only bride in the family. She was quite a bit younger, an unexpected joy and the last of the litter, said her beloved father. Her five older brothers had been married for years. She knew they had a betting pool and wondered who had finally won.
It seemed that most had given up on her, but never her mother. Mothers never really do admit defeat, do they?
She wondered if they really would have children, if she would be a mother someday too. Maybe. It wasn't something they had discussed, but isn’t this why she had jumped into this? That’s what she told herself, but was that the only reason?
Suddenly, the bride felt a sense of dread.
What have I done? What have I done?
The question bounced back and forth in her head like the clapper on the church bells that rang for so long to announce what they had done—gotten married. The noise threatened to overwhelm her now.
It must have shown on her face.
A gentle voice said, "All too much for you."
It wasn't a question; it was an understanding. She felt the tears well up, and her father put an arm around her shoulders.
"It's not unusual for brides to cry, my dear. Remember John's wedding? That girl was sobbing all the way down the aisle. One would think she was being dragged down and forced into it like in the old days of family alliances via the veil."
"Those were tears of happiness at finally landing old Johnny," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.
"Come into the library, my dear. We can chat."
They didn't talk of love and hope and futures. He poured her another gin, minus both umbrella and tonic. She hesitated, but he insisted. Then they talked of horses and breeding and races to come this season. She loved this life; she’d been born to it. Her father was a wonderful man, and always knew just the right thing to do.
Her tears long gone, she thanked him.
"They say the father's only job is to pay for the wedding, but I'll be damned if I let you down, my dear."
He took her shoulders and looked into her face. "You are my own darling girl, and that is enough of that for the both of us."
It was the way that his voice cracked at the end that made her cry again. They hugged each other, she wiped at his tears. Then they released their holds on one another, and in one synchronized movement, reached out and finished their drinks in one gulp.
Both then let out hearty sighs, and then burst into shared laughter.
"And now we are ready to face the world again," he said.
She nodded, and that was the last she talked to her father that day. It was enough, he had summed up their lifetime of caring. It didn't take much, no
t flowers or music or crepe paper bells that had been made in her mother’s church group and so had to be used.
But it was enough.
The first thing she saw when she emerged was the other man talking to some pretty girls. He always found the pretty girls. Or maybe they always found him. Occasionally, he would look around until his eyes caught her, always trapping her for long seconds with that electric glare.
He had such a smug look on his face.
Did he think she would have an affair?
Did he think she would leave her new husband?
Did he think that kiss meant anything at all?
It was like purging an infected wound, that’s all.
Her head was spinning—too much gin.
Just where was this prize she had won?
He had been deemed the most eligible bachelor for three years running. And she, a spinster past thirty, had caught him.
Did anyone know it was not a love match? Did it show on their faces? Did anyone know that they were both driven by a sense of self-purpose, and the goals just happened to be mutually beneficial?
"Not very romantic at all," she murmured.
The bride looked for the other man again; and again he was looking her way. He held up his drink in a silent toast. His eyes were smiling, but he had that quirk to his mouth.
She had seen it before, that twist in the corner of his lip. It came when he was bragging of a recent triumph. It could have been sexual conquest, or a win at the track, or even beating a traffic ticket by brow beating a constable.
It was anything he had won. Had he just won her?
He must have thought so. A man brushed by, pecking her on the cheek. "Buck up darling, you look divine. I won quite a pile today, you know."
It was her middle brother, John, followed closely by his brood of boys and a struggling wife. They were expecting their fifth child. Bets were rampant that it would be another boy.
A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 17