The Happiness in Between

by Grace Greene

  Oh, crap. She leaned against the wall and slid partway down it. Honey panted in her face.

  His voice sounded calm and apologetic. He knew her aunt. A neighbor, he’d said. Nothing about him, except his presence here, should have been cause for alarm. The man had looked reasonable. Sandra wanted reasonableness. Mostly she wanted him gone.

  “Look, it’s important. I’ll wait in the yard, OK?”

  Honey whined loudly and bumped her head against Sandra’s leg. She reached down to scratch her. “It’s all right, girl. I can do this. I lost my head for a minute, that’s all. He doesn’t seem dangerous. But then, they never do, do they?”

  Sandra yelled to the man, “Just a minute.”

  She pushed away from the wall, smoothed her cropped hair, and squared her shoulders.

  “Honey, you’re my backup. Let’s send this guy on his way.”

  The stranger wasn’t on the porch. She could see that much through the window. After a deep breath in and a slow breath out, she flipped the lock. She intended to open the door and slip through quickly, keeping her hand on the knob. If he made a move for the porch, she’d jump back inside. But she never got the chance. As soon as the door opened a few inches, she was knocked off her feet.

  By Honey. As the dog raced past her to reach the stranger.

  In joyous abandon, Honey tried to jump up and lick his face, but she wasn’t tall enough and hit him at the shoulders. The man knelt and gave her the chance to greet him with a swipe on the cheek, then stood and commanded her to sit. She did, but it was iffy as to how long she could restrain herself.

  Traitor dog.

  Clearly, Honey knew this man. He’d said he was a neighbor, after all, but this seemed a total failure of loyalty.

  “Good girl, Sammy.”

  Sandra frowned. “Her name’s Honey. I thought you knew my aunt?”

  “Her name is Sammy. She’s my dog. Rather, my son’s dog. She didn’t come home yesterday. He’s been worried. Could hardly sleep last night.”

  Sandra opened her mouth, then closed it. She walked over to the vine growing by the porch rail as an excuse to turn her back to him. Think. Think. Trouble was, she couldn’t conjure up any scenario in which it made sense that Honey wasn’t this man’s dog.

  Not Honey. Sammy.

  Sandra turned back toward him. “But that means my aunt’s dog is missing. I thought this was Honey. Where is Honey?”

  She ran into the house and grabbed a small, unframed photo from the bookshelf and returned to the porch. The picture showed Barbara and her dog sitting on a blanket. Sandra looked at Honey-Sammy and back at the photo.

  The man said, “They are similar.”

  Sandra shook her head. “Somewhat, but the dog in the photo doesn’t have brown on her ear, and the black-and-white markings are a little different. I didn’t look closely before.” She was talking more to herself than to him. “Why would I? The dog was here on my aunt’s porch.”

  “No hard feelings. I can see you didn’t do this on purpose. The dogs are similar.” At the sound of him speaking her name, the dog moved closer to him, and he reached out to scratch her head. “She’s a good girl. Sammy and Honey are friends.”

  She sat on the blue bench and gripped the armrest. “Now what? Where is my aunt’s dog? What happened to her?”

  The man moved nearer to her. Honey—rather, Sammy—moved closer to sit at Sandra’s feet. “She’s around. She’s probably out visiting in the area. She’ll come home.”

  Sandra didn’t believe it. Honey would’ve returned yesterday. She would’ve shown up for supper. If not at the back door, then certainly, as Sammy had done, to this porch.

  “Last night I told Aunt Barbara that Honey was here and fine. How am I going to tell her that her dog is missing?”

  He didn’t answer right away. When he did, she felt the sympathy. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you should check around first. Like, the shelters? You might find her right away.”

  Shelters. Maybe. Oh, no. What if Honey had been adopted or claimed by someone? What if she was already on the list to be euthanized?

  “What if I’m already too late? What if they put her down?” Sandra jumped to her feet.

  “No way. It’s only been twenty-four hours. Call them, starting with the nearest. Quick and easy to check.”

  “How? No one has phone directories anymore.”

  “Use your computer. Google them.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “No problem. It’s easy enough to search on your phone.”

  “I have a phone, but it doesn’t . . . it can’t . . . it doesn’t have that capability.”

  This time the pause was longer. Sandra noticed his lashes, his profile. He had nice features, pleasantly strong but not too sharp. She looked away. She knew better than to judge by appearance.

  “Do you have pen and paper? We’ll do the search on my phone, and you can write down the numbers.”

  “Pen and paper. I’ll be right back.” She dashed inside. Where would Aunt Barbara keep such things? She yanked open the kitchen drawer and pushed the junk around for the second time that day. No. On the end table with the skeins of yarn unraveled and cascading over the edge? No, again. In the dining room on the buffet? Yes, bingo.

  Sandra sat again on the bench outside and held the pencil and paper at the ready. “Sorry it took so long. I’m not familiar with where Aunt Barbara keeps things.”

  He chuckled. “No worries. Your Aunt Barbara keeps lots of things, which, no doubt, adds to the challenge.”

  He ran his finger across his phone screen, scrolling, and she experienced a moment of phone envy. Hers was very basic. But it was enough, she reminded herself. It met her needs.

  “There are a few animal shelters and some pet rescues, but most of them are for specific types of dogs, not dogs like Honey.” He glanced up. “Like greyhounds or other special breeds. But there are animal shelters in Mineral and Goochland. Neither is real close, but my bet would be on one of those.” He held up his phone. “So you can give them a quick call right away. Here are the numbers. Write them down. Say you’re looking for a dog that looks like this and her name is Honey and so on. Do you know whether she was wearing a collar or . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

  Sandra looked at him, staring.

  “You don’t know?”

  She wanted to go hide in a dark corner or do something equally shameful and cowardly. It wasn’t him. He was being kind, and he had a nice-looking face. No, it wasn’t about him. It was her. She’d been given two tasks in exchange for a roof and a place to rest—watch over her aunt’s house and her dog. The house was still standing. Sandra could say that much after twenty-four hours onsite. Actually, there was a third task. It was to take care of herself, too, to recover so she wouldn’t be this burden-person, this person who had to sleep in her car or beg her mother for money or other help. She was too old for this. She’d made a mistake. But then she’d made it a second time and lost the goodwill and sympathy of her friends and family.

  Now was the time to move forward, and first on the list was to find her aunt’s dog.

  This man, this neighbor she’d treated so poorly, dialed his phone.

  “The shelter in Mineral,” he said as he pushed the “Dial” button and put the phone to his ear. “Hi, I’m looking for a lost dog. Lives in Louisa. A few miles from Mineral. Near where that new subdivision is going in? Yes, there.” He listened for a moment and then said, “Medium hair, black and white markings. Female named Honey. Border collie. Age?” He looked at Sandra.

  “My aunt thinks Honey is about ten.”

  He continued into the phone. “She’s an older dog, about ten years old. She’s been missing since yesterday.” Another pause. “No? Thanks for checking. Hold on.” He turned and asked, “What phone number should she call if Honey shows up?”

  She gave him her number. “Tell them my name is Sandra Hurst.” After he hung up, she asked, “What’s that about a subdivision?”

&n
bsp; “Through the woods as the crow flies. Near where I live. It’s small as subdivisions go, so the houses are big and expensive, but the construction shouldn’t bother you given the location.” He put his phone in his pocket. “So no luck at the shelter, but at least they have your name and number. Meanwhile, it might not hurt to check out the construction site. A few of the homes already have families, and maybe someone thought she was a stray.” He smiled. “I’m over there every day. I’m in construction. I’ll check around the jobsite. If she hasn’t come home by tomorrow, what about making posters?” He held up the photo. “Do you have any way of making copies?”

  “No. Maybe I could find an office supply store. Or a library would have a copier.”

  “My son will help. He can make a copy of the picture, write up a flier, and print out a few. He’s good with a computer.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’ll be proud to help Barbara and Honey. Mind if I take the photo with me?”

  “No, of course not. I appreciate it. I don’t know my way around here at all. It would be a big help.” She added, “I grew up in Richmond, but I’ve been away for a while.”

  He didn’t ask more questions, so she gave him credit for courtesy. They stood, and he extended his hand.

  As they shook, she said, “Thank you very much, and I’m sorrier than I can say for the confusion over Honey. I mean Sammy. My aunt said Honey would be in the fenced area when I arrived, and she wasn’t. So when I found the dog lounging on the porch, I was so relieved I didn’t notice the differences in the picture. I hardly looked at it. I’m sorry for the worry I caused you and your son.”

  “Aaron is my son’s name, and no harm done. I’m glad we met. I’ll be back with posters tomorrow. Hopefully they won’t be needed.” He withdrew a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “You can reach me here if Honey comes home.”

  He headed toward the woods with the dog trotting closely at his side.

  Sammy. Not Honey.

  She waited for him to round the corner of the house before descending the steps, and then followed. As she reached the back corner, she saw him take the right-hand path. Within moments, he had disappeared into the woods.

  Sandra quickened her pace, then paused again as she reached the edge of the woods.

  Was Honey in here somewhere among the trees, lost in the forest? If she were near, surely Colton and Sammy walking through the woods would draw her out more quickly than a strange woman she’d never met.

  Oh, Honey. Where are you?

  The house seemed empty without Honey. Or without Sammy, rather. Sandra had never had a pet. Her mother wouldn’t allow animals in the house and said it was cruel to pen them up outside. Sandra believed it was her convoluted way of saying, “No pets.” Trent owned Leo. She’d shared living quarters with that dog for several years, but never by any stretch of the imagination did she ever consider Leo a pet. He was merely another means by which Trent set traps for her. His points of failure. There were many. She suspected he added to them as he saw fit. Being a survivor was an important point, as well as saying you are as weak as your weakest link. Trent also cited one about valuing the opinions of others, that trying to live up to the good opinion of others was a fool’s task and deserved the heartbreak it was bound to bring.

  Sandra had met Trent’s father once, and he hadn’t seemed evil, but he was a hard man and had had a hard life. Whatever wisdom he’d tried to pass on to his son must have been twisted and stained in the transfer.

  The loss of Honey wasn’t her fault, and she hadn’t failed anyone. It was just a dog anyway. But Aunt Barbara was going to be devastated by the loss of her pet, and Sandra didn’t want to be the point of failure that caused her pain.

  It turned out that a dog sleeping by the front door did make a difference. Sandra knew it was true because that second night, alone, she felt uneasy. She pretended everything was cool, that the evening was normal, but suddenly the house was too overwhelmingly junky, the room she had chosen was too bare, and those painted vines and trees in Aunt Barbara’s room were extremely vivid, even as a memory. Sandra had a swift vision of them growing, their tendrils creeping around the walls of Barbara’s bedroom until they reached the doorway, and then sending shoots forward to grip the doorframe and probe the hall.

  She shivered and got out of bed. She crossed the hallway and closed Barbara’s door, and then went downstairs. She searched the pantry for a snack and found cookies. She put a few on a plate and carried it, along with a glass of lemonade, upstairs and set them on the nightstand.

  New problem. Was she going to sit here in bed, staring at the dingy walls of this nearly empty room while she nibbled and sipped? No.

  Back downstairs again, she found a book out of the numerous ones Barbara was hoarding. Not the knitting treasury, thank you, nor any of the heavy encyclopedias, and definitely not a hot romance. She was done with romance and men and the crap they called love. But here was a dusty blue volume of American history, fat but not huge. A friendly size. It looked reasonably certain to put her to sleep fairly quickly.

  She rearranged the pillows and settled in again.

  The book was actually rather quirky. It was amusing and informative and wasn’t doing the sleep trick at all, especially when the author, Mr. Woodward, got going on King Henry VIII and his daughter, Elizabeth. A lone woman, queen or not, had done what her predecessors couldn’t and had balanced England’s budget. The author’s description of her didn’t paint a flattering word portrait, but he clearly admired her skill and vision.

  Sandra flipped back to the flyleaf. Copyright 1936 by W. E. Woodward. Inside the cover was written the name Clifford Shoemaker and the year 1940. It had to be her grandfather’s writing, since the date would’ve been before her uncle had been born. There were lots of books downstairs. She might enjoy thumbing through more of them. Somehow it surprised her to realize that the Shoemakers had been readers.

  Finally, about midnight, Sandra put the book aside. She made a trip to the bathroom, then stopped at the window on the way back to bed.

  The moon was huge and so bright she could pick out every bush and distinguish twigs and leaves lying on the lawn. Among the trees, the shadows were deep, and the line between moonlit landscape and intense shadow was stark, almost magical.

  It would have been nice if the pole light near the shed worked. She might have to call Aunt Barbara to ask where the switch was located.

  Only days ago, the shadows at the commuter lots and parks, sometimes even in daylight, seemed threatening—the genesis or lair of possible nightmares—especially toward the end, until Barbara had finally called. One’s eyes began to see things that the brain had not perceived before. Vague threats sometimes, but real people did lurk in the shadows in the woods near the commuter lots, and most definitely in the park restrooms. Even walking through the mall when you had no money to spend made you feel marked. A fraud. Someone who was where she didn’t belong. But not here. This felt like . . . well, not home, but not foreign, either.

  This was the Shoemaker homeplace. This was where Mom and her siblings grew up. It was impossible to imagine her mother as a pigtailed, dirty-faced kid. No mud pies for Meg Shoemaker, Sandra was sure. Meg had gone off to college, majored in business, and had had a career in banking before meeting and marrying James Lovett, and then they became parents—Mom and Dad as far as Sandra was concerned. Barbara had never moved away. Never married. Nor had Cliff. Barbara and Cliff had stayed here with their parents and had cared for them until death took them, and then had grown old here themselves, until Cliff died two years ago.

  Sandra understood somewhat. It wasn’t about being trapped in the past or where you lived, but rather choosing to stay somewhere safe and familiar where you were loved and needed. Had her aunt and uncle wanted to move on with separate lives? Sometimes the home you knew was the best place imaginable. You already knew what unhappiness or sadness dwelled there. The familiar was often better than the unpleasant surprises t
he world held in store for the more adventurous.

  Her memory of Uncle Cliff was vivid. He was a tall, large man, yet quiet and gentle. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, it was a shy smile. Mom and Dad drove out here a lot when she was a child. She remembered being told to be quiet because her grandmother was sick upstairs. Sandra had her Barbie dolls and a case full of clothing and accessories. Beneath the clothing were her coloring books and crayons. Sometimes she brought her special doll, Felicity, but Felicity didn’t go into the case. She was more like a friend who came along to keep Sandra company. She would set it all up at one end of the porch, the opposite end from the swing and between the wicker chair and the railing. She created her world. Mostly, she felt forgotten by the adults, and she was OK with that. She never felt the least inclination to explore the woods or the house. This was her safe place, about four by four feet, and she had her friends, Barbie and Midge and Ken and the others.

  Uncle Cliff would show up, wandering out to the porch through the screen door that tended to slam, or, more often, he would emerge from the woods having trod paths she couldn’t see. Mom would’ve punished her if she’d wandered away and caused an uproar like a big search or such. The porch was her territory. Sometimes her uncle would carry a twisted brown paper bag in one hand. He held it down by his side. She never saw what was actually in the bag, but she recognized the shape. He rarely spoke more than a few words to her, but he always nodded pleasantly, and his thick eyebrows would arch, as if in surprise. He might say, “Where’d you come from, Cassie?” and laugh like it was the funniest joke, then keep on to wherever he was going. There was always a smell about him, a distinctive odor that she hadn’t recognized until many years later. Cheap wine and beer. But she liked his laugh.

  He didn’t get along with Sandra’s parents. It was something about him not living up to his responsibilities. Those were words overheard on a day when the windows were open and no one remembered the little girl sitting on the end of the porch with her dolls, quiet in her pretend world, waiting to be told when it was time to leave. The squeak of the swing’s chain if someone walked by, a breeze that set the trees to swaying overhead, their leaves brushing and singing their own song, those were the voices she heard most often out at the homeplace.