Hot Dog (15 page)

“Don't be silly.” Bob came up behind her, holding two amber beer bottles by their long necks. He reached out and offered one to me. “It's a toy. There's nothing risky about it. Right, sport?”

“Right!” Davey agreed happily.

You had to love it. Father and son were like children at play, operating on the same wavelength, and perhaps even the same maturity level. The mother was probably the only one who noticed the fresh rip in Davey's jeans and the smear of dirt across his cheek.

“Do you let him ride it in the house often?” I asked.

“Only when it's raining,” Bob said blithely. As if that made everything okay. “How was your dog show? Did Peg tick off lots of exhibitors?”

Bob and Aunt Peg have never gotten along. She and I became close during the time when Bob had disappeared from Davey's and my lives and I was struggling to raise my young son as a single parent. Even now that my ex is back, Peg has never managed to forgive him for his past lapses.

“Not that I saw. My aunt was judging today,” I explained for Pam's benefit. “I just went over to the show to watch.”

She nodded. “Bob tells me you're very involved in all that dog stuff. Standard Poodles, the big ones, right? He says it takes up tons of your time.”

“Not that much,” I said, uncertain how I felt about the fact that Bob had been discussing me with Pam. “Probably less than you spend with your ponies.”

“Yes, but they're my career as well as my avocation, so it makes sense for me. Besides, I don't have a family yet.” She smiled sweetly. “When I do,
my
priorities will change.”

Was it my imagination, or was I hearing my life criticized by someone I barely knew?

Pam lifted her head and sniffed the air. “Oops. Be right back. I've got to go stir. Come with me, Davey. You can help.” The two of them strode off in the direction of the kitchen.

I stared after them, bemused. “Pam is cooking you dinner?”

“Yeah. Isn't she great? It's amazing how quickly she and I have gotten comfortable with one another. I feel like we've known each other for months, instead of just days.”

“Are you sure that's a good thing?”

“Why not? She's really terrific. Wait till you've had a chance to get to know her better. You'll see what I mean.”

He was either the biggest optimist or else the biggest sucker around. I supposed we'd find out which one soon enough.

“W
hy are we standing out here in the hallway? Come on in, sit down, get comfortable.”

“I only have a minute,” I said, even as I followed Bob through to the kitchen.

I'd already left the dogs home alone for most of the day. And though they were probably sleeping, unaware of the extra time I might steal at their expense, I couldn't help feeling guilty.

Bob's kitchen was a showplace, newly remodeled before the house had been put on the market. There were Corian countertops, glass-fronted cabinets, a subzero refrigerator, and a collection of copper pots hanging from a rack above the center island. Most of the luxurious appointments were lost on my ex-husband, but Pam seemed to be putting everything to good use. Several pots were simmering on the gas-powered range, and something that smelled delicious was baking in the oven.

“You should stay for dinner,” Bob said expansively. “I'm sure Pam's making plenty.”

Busy at the stove, Pam didn't turn around, but she did shoot me a look out of the corner of her eye. There wasn't anything welcoming about it. Putting myself in her place, I could understand her feelings; it wasn't as though Sam's ex-wife and I hadn't had our difficulties.

Woman's intuition told me that Pam had more than dinner brewing. Bob might not have realized it yet, but there was romance in the air. Neither one of them would thank me for ruining their chances.

“Another time,” I said. “I've been out all day, and I need to get back to the dogs. Are you about ready, Davey?”

“Sure.” My son jumped up. Oh, to have the effortless energy of a seven-year-old. “But first you have to come up and see my room. Dad and I hung up some great new posters.”

Bob accompanied us on the trek upstairs; Pam remained behind in the kitchen. The first month Bob had been in his new house, Davey's sleepovers had involved air mattresses, sleeping bags, and a pillow carried from home. Somehow, the barren accommodations had made the whole thing easier to take emotionally. At least in my mind, the situation had seemed temporary. I wasn't giving up my son, I was simply adding another experience to his life.

But bit by bit a little boy's bedroom had taken shape in a spacious corner room on the second floor of Bob's house. Over time, I'd had to accept the fact that Davey loved his home away from home. Now there were bunk beds, homemade bookshelves, and a ceiling fan painted to look like an airplane propeller.

The latest addition, apparently, was wall covering. Posters that catered to my son's car fetish now adorned much of what had been blank space. I saw a Hummer, a Porsche, and a racy looking T-bird. The two of them had even managed to find a poster of a Volvo station wagon, my current mode of transportation.

Bob leaned against the doorjamb. “What do you think?”

“It looks great. You've done a lot of work in here.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I had a lot of time to make up for.” Bob slipped an arm around his son's shoulders. “And Davey helped, too, right?”

“Right!” He ran into the room and launched himself toward the bunk beds, grabbing the upper frame with both hands so he could swing into the lower berth. “Dad said we did such a good job on the bookshelves that we can build a tree house next.”

“Wonderful.” I forced myself to smile, holding back the multitude of warnings about hammers, and branch strength, and falling from high places that I wanted desperately to issue.

“Don't worry,” Bob said gently. It was as though he were reading my mind. “We're saving that project until summer when it's warmer. You'll be out of school then; you can come and help if you want.”

“I'd like that.” And if Pam didn't—assuming she was still around—she could just learn to deal with it.

Back in the kitchen, I rinsed the beer bottles for recycling, gathered up purse and car keys, and shepherded my procrastinating son toward the door. Though he and Bob were busy debating the merits of taking the scooter home or leaving it there, Pam had turned off the oven and had the door sitting cocked open. It wasn't hard to see she was growing impatient for us to move this party along.

“Leave it here,” I said, deciding for them. “That way it will be a special treat for when you're visiting your dad.”

“Like Willow,” Davey said.

“Right. Like Willow.”

I hadn't had a chance to ask how their day at the pony farm had gone, but that oversight was rectified on the trip home. Davey treated me to a blow-by-blow description of stall mucking, tack polishing, and pony grooming. By the time we reached our house I felt incredibly well versed on the topic of equine cleanliness.

All three dogs were, of course, absolutely delighted to see us. The first twenty minutes after our return were devoted to taking them outside, telling them how wonderful they were to put up with us, apologizing for the neglect we'd visited upon them, and bribing them with peanut butter biscuits to make ourselves feel better about the unfortunate way their day had gone.

When things finally settled down, I got around to listening to the three messages on my answering machine. The first one was from George Firth.

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “We met this morning. I've been thinking about what you said about the dog and all. It looks like this whole thing isn't working out too well. I called Peter Donovan and told him I want the puppy back. He said you've got it, so now I'm calling you. It might have been nice if you would have come clean this morning and told me that. Anyway, I've changed my mind and I want my dog. Call me back.”

He left a phone number, which I duly noted on the pad by the phone. I supposed I would have to call him; there didn't seem to be anyway around it. But that didn't mean I had to hurry.

Our conversation had made it clear that George had no concept of the puppy as a living, breathing animal. Like the children who ended up as pawns in a battle between their parents, Dox was a tool he was hoping to manipulate to his own advantage. Tomorrow would be a fine time to talk to Mr. Firth about returning Dox. Maybe even the day after.

The second message was from Jill Prescott. “Hi Melanie!” she said cheerfully. “I just wanted to check in and see how things were going. You did promise to keep me posted on any new and interesting developments in your life.”

No, I hadn't, I thought.
Had I?

Not that it made any difference, since Jill's idea of interesting involved police sirens, dead bodies, and camera-friendly sound bytes. Luckily, I hadn't even come close to anything like that.

Her chirpy voice continued. “I'm doing what you asked and giving you plenty of space, so I trust you'll live up to your end of the bargain and keep me informed. Here's my cell phone number, call anytime. Talk to you soon!”

Jill's phone number joined George's on the pad. Another call I'd put off making for as long as possible.

The answering machine beeped again, signaling the third message. Maybe this would be the one from Ed McMahon telling me that I'd won the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes?

No such luck. It was Aunt Rose.

“Melanie, dear,” she said, “I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know Peter and I have taken tremendous advantage of your good nature, thrusting you into the middle of this situation with Dox. We'd like to try and make it up to you. This week is your spring break, right? Would you and Davey like to come to dinner, maybe Monday night? Let me know, when you get a chance.”

Rose's number got added to those I'd already written down, an unnecessary gesture since I knew the phone number by heart. Until his marriage to Bertie just before Christmas, the number had belonged to my brother, Frank, as had the apartment where Peter and Rose were now living. At that point, Frank had moved to Bertie's place in Wilton, which had room for the dogs she boarded and handled. Frank's apartment—actually one floor of a remodeled Victorian house in Cos Cob—where my brother had performed odd jobs for the elderly owner in exchange for a reduction in his rent, was now Rose and Peter's new abode.

After checking to find out where Davey, Dox, and the Poodles had disappeared to—all four turned out to be happily ensconced on a couch in the living room, Davey playing Nintendo, the dogs cheering on his efforts—I picked up the phone and called Rose back. She answered on the second ring, proof that her prospects for an exciting social life on Saturday night were as dismal as my own.

Then again, I thought, Aunt Rose was in her fifties, married, settled, happy with her life. I was thirty-three and single, sitting home on a Saturday night and watching my dogs play Nintendo. What was wrong with
that
picture?

“Thanks for the invitation,” I said to Rose, perhaps a little more heartily than necessary. At least I wasn't a total social outcast. “Monday sounds great. Davey and I would love to come.”

“Excellent. I just heard back from Sam. He's going to be joining us as well.”

“Sam?” My voice squeaked. Aunt Rose hadn't mentioned that in her message. Probably on purpose. Apparently Aunt Peg wasn't the only closet matchmaker among my relatives.

“Yes, of course, Sam. After all, dear, the three of you are almost a family, aren't you? I couldn't very well leave him out.”

Of course she could have, and she damn well knew it. In one fell swoop, Rose had turned what could have been a pleasant evening into yet another opportunity for people-whose-business-it-was-not to engage in an unsubtle attempt to pummel Sam's and my sputtering relationship into acceptable shape.

“Does Sam know that Davey and I are coming, too?”

“Don't be silly. I could hardly invite him over without giving him all the particulars, could I?”

Why not? She'd pulled that trick on me.

“Did you say you just talked to him?”

I wondered if Sam had called her from home. I wondered if he was feeling as lonely as I was.

“That's right. Frankly, I hadn't expected to hear back from either one of you until tomorrow, but Sam said something about you running out on him at a dog show . . . ?” Aunt Rose let the thought dangle for a moment, before adding, “He seemed to think you were spending the evening with Bob.”

“Bob has a date.” I was sure I sounded annoyed; I didn't care.

I'd told Sam quite clearly that I was only stopping by Bob's place to pick up Davey. I'd given him every opportunity to ask what I'd be doing after that. The only thing I hadn't done was follow Bertie's advice and ask him out myself.

Idiot, I thought belatedly. Of course Bertie had been right. Chances were
she
hadn't spent many Saturday nights sitting home feeling sorry for herself.

“Good for Bob,” Aunt Rose said heartily. My aunt, the former nun, tends to wish the best for everyone. Except, perhaps, Aunt Peg. “Isn't it nice that he's settling in so well. Maybe I should add him to the guest list for Monday, too?”

Only if she wanted her dinner party to turn into a free-for-all. Spending any length of time with Bob and Sam together left me feeling like the monkey in the middle. “I think not,” I said firmly.

I spent the next few minutes assuring Aunt Rose that Dox was well, mentioning briefly that I'd met with both Marian and George Firth. Rose, not the ever curious dog person Aunt Peg was, let my judicious omissions slide and asked about Davey's progress with his new pony.

When I got off the phone, I fixed supper for Davey and me, fed the dogs, cleaned everything up, brushed out Eve's topknot and ears, then played a rousing game of Scrabble with my son. Just another exciting, fun-filled night at the Travis house.

Of course, everything felt brighter the next morning. A new day, filled with new possibilities. I could deal with Jill Prescott and George Firth; and I resolved to give Sam a call just as soon as I'd gotten some chores out of the way. I had the whole next week off from work, and life was looking grand.

I managed to hold that thought for most of the morning until I was standing in line at the supermarket, with Davey munching on a cruller, a week's worth of groceries being bagged, and their total rung up on the cash register. I reached in my pocketbook to pay.

Everything was grand, all right. Except for the fact that my wallet was missing.