Hot Dog (31 page)

“So he's a man who used to have good dogs,” I said. So far, this all sounded like old news.

“Not just good,” Aunt Peg corrected. “Some of the very best in his breed. And like his handlers, he followed up by becoming a very good judge. His opinion really meant something, and that's a rare gift. If Edward March put up your dog, you knew you had a good one.”

That was high praise coming from Aunt Peg. She didn't hand out accolades lightly.

“And?” I asked.

“And what? Isn't that enough?”

“It's plenty. But what does it have to do with me?”

“Oh, that.” Aunt Peg sniffed, as if the change in topic from dog show royalty to her wayward niece was distinctly uninteresting.

“Now you've got me curious, too,” said Sam. “So March is turning in his judge's license. Where does Melanie fit in?”

“Apparently, in celebration of his fifty-some years in the dog show world, Edward intends to write his memoirs. Anyone who's ever seen his desk could tell you that organization isn't his strong suit. He's looking to find a coauthor to help him do the job properly. I told him I knew just the right person.”

I
sat up straight in my chair. “Me?”

“Of course, you. You'd be perfect for the job.”

“But I'm not an author. I don't have the slightest idea about what goes into writing a book.”

“You used to be a teacher. You tutored children who were behind in English class. It's all the same thing, isn't it? Just grammar and stringing sentences together in a way that makes sense. How hard can that be?”

That was the sort of question Aunt Peg always asked when she wanted to involve me in a project that I knew better than to attempt. The problem is that my aunt has never run from a challenge in her life. So it's never crossed her mind that her relatives don't feel equally invincible.

“It sounds like an interesting idea,” said Sam. “From what I know about Edward March, he's quite a character. I'm sure he has some fascinating stories to tell. His life was pretty much dog show history in the making. You could end up writing the definitive record of our sport over the last half century.”

It's not as if
that
lowered the intimidation factor any.

“Will there be pictures in your book?” asked Davey.

“I should think so,” Aunt Peg told him. “What good is history without illustrations?”

Sam nodded in agreement.

Did you hear that? “
My
book,” Davey had said. And nobody had argued with him. Not even me.

That thought was enough to goad me back into the conversation.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I'm not even sure there's going to be a book.”

“Of course there's going to be a book,” Aunt Peg informed me. “That's already a given. With or without your help, Edward plans to write his memoirs. All we're discussing now is your participation . . . or lack thereof.”

“Something like that would be pretty time consuming,” I mentioned. Was I grasping at straws, or did it just feel that way?

“I'm sure it will be. I'd imagine that Edward would require a proper commitment from you. But since you currently have neither a job nor even a single dog in hair . . .” Aunt Peg swept an eloquent gaze around the room. “Really, Melanie, what do you do with yourself all day?”

Sam, that traitor, was laughing quietly. He'd angled his body away, but I could see his shoulders shaking.

“If I agree to do this, it means that you're going to be spending more time taking care of Kevin,” I said to his back.

The threat of extra baby duty wasn't nearly enough to sway him back to my side. Sam just shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Good,” said Aunt Peg. “Then it's settled.”

“Yay, Mom's going to write a book!” cried Davey.

On the floor, several of the Poodles lifted their heads and cocked an ear, wondering what all the excitement was about.

Nobody seemed to want to hear my vote.

“I guess that means I'm in,” I said.

It all sounded so simple in theory.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before reality reasserted itself. Less than three days actually, starting when Monday arrived and Davey's school reopened for the new semester. And we got four more inches of fresh snow.

Aunt Peg's call came just minutes after Davey's bus picked him up at the end of the driveway. I hadn't even had time to pour a second cup of coffee. Sometimes I think she must have our house bugged.

“You're all set,” she said. “I told Edward to expect you at nine thirty.”

I knew Aunt Peg worked fast, but even for her, this was warp speed. And would it have been too much to ask for her to have checked with me first?

“Of course this morning. Edward's eager to get started. I assumed you would be, too.”

Peg tends to be enamored with her own version of the truth. I bet she even said that with a straight face.

“Kevin has Gymboree this morning. We go every Monday.”

“He's a baby, Melanie. I'm sure he doesn't know what day of the week it is. You can take him tomorrow instead. He'll never know the difference.”

“
I'll
know the difference, and so will the teacher. Our class is today, not tomorrow.”

“Really.” Peg exhaled in a huff. “As if a baby should even have a schedule.”

Yet another reminder that Aunt Peg had never been a mother.

“Gymboree?” Sam stuck his head out of his office door.

He designs computer software and works for himself. Most days that's a blessing. Today, not so much.

Frantically, I waved him off. Blithely, he ignored me. “I can take him.”

“That man is an angel,” said Aunt Peg. “You don't deserve him.”

There were moments when I was quite sure that I didn't deserve either one of them.

 

 

Edward March lived in Westport, a cosmopolitan Connecticut town about fifteen miles up the coast from Stamford. Financially speaking, Westport has the same kind of profile as Greenwich, but the money there is quieter. Celebrities move to Greenwich when they want to be seen. They move to Westport when they want to enjoy the pastoral peace and privacy.

March's estate was on the north side of town. I took the Merritt Parkway and followed Aunt Peg's directions from the exit. Luckily, the trip took less than half an hour, because I'd gotten off to a late start.

Trust Aunt Peg to think that in a house with a husband, two children, and five big dogs, a half hour's notice would be enough time for me to get everything squared away before heading out for the morning. I used up ten minutes just folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher.

At least the tight schedule didn't leave me much time to worry about the fact that I was on my way to a new assignment for which I felt conspicuously underqualified, and which also involved working for an eminent person whom I'd never even met.

Sure. No butterflies there.

I navigated the last mile of the trip with care. March's quiet country road hadn't been plowed since the overnight addition of new snow, and a thin sheet of ice coated the shallow ruts left by previous travelers. My Volvo handles adverse conditions like a champ, but having lived in Connecticut my whole life, I've learned to give ice and snow the respect they deserve.

There was a tall, wrought-iron gate at the end of March's driveway, but the intent seemed to be more decorative than functional, since it was sitting open. From the road, all I could see of the house were two brick chimneys, visible in the distance, above the treetops. Acres of rolling meadowland, snow covered and glistening with the soft sheen of the morning sun, extended outward on either side of the driveway and ended at a distant tree line.

The house was a traditional Colonial, two stories tall and built symmetrically square, painted white, with black shutters. It wasn't as large as I might have expected from the grand approach; most likely, it had been built before land values in Fairfield County had soared into the stratosphere.

The driveway circled around in front of the door, and there was a parking area off to one side. I pulled over there, turned off the car, and gathered up my purse and notebook. Really, an actual notebook. The kind with pages.

Running out the door that morning, I'd had no idea what sort of writing tools a potential coauthor might be expected to supply. I hadn't wanted to arrive empty-handed, but I didn't want to appear overeager, either. Just because Aunt Peg had nominated me for this position didn't mean that Edward March was going to agree with her choice.

The deep, sonorous tone of the doorbell had barely finished echoing before the front door drew open. A young woman, dressed in a chunky turtleneck sweater and faded blue jeans, greeted me with a smile.

“Good. You're here. Mr. March appreciates punctuality. Please come in.”

After the cold outside, the house felt wonderfully warm.

“I'm Melanie,” I said as she shut the door. I was already unbuttoning my coat and unwinding my scarf.

“And I'm Charlotte,” the young woman replied. Her handshake was as firm as my own. She hung my coat and scarf on a rack tucked in a corner behind the door. “I'm Mr. March's assistant. He's waiting for you in the library. If you'd please follow me this way.”

Charlotte's formal way of speaking was at odds with her college coed looks. Blond hair, straight and shiny, swung around her shoulders as she proceeded down the wide center hallway. Dangly earrings, one to each ear, swayed in time. Her make-up had been applied with a light hand, and her unpolished nails were bitten short.

“I know Mr. March is looking forward to meeting you,” she said, stopping in front of a dark wooden door. “This project is dear to his heart, and he's been very anxious to get started.”

“I hope I'll be able to help.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will. Mr. March can be a little, um . . . disorganized. But he has so many wonderful stories to tell. All he needs is someone who's willing to listen and then figure out how to make order out of chaos. I'm sure you'll do just fine.”

Her belief in my abilities was quite touching, I thought. Especially considering the fact that we'd just met.

“Besides . . .” Charlotte confided in a low voice as she drew the door open. Her hand at my back ushered me forward into the room. “You look like you're made of much stronger stuff than the last two candidates.”

Last two candidates?
I spun around in surprise, only to find the door closing in my face. Having delivered that unexpected news, Charlotte was gone.

Briefly, I closed my eyes and wondered if Aunt Peg had been aware that her friend had already attempted—and failed—to begin writing his book with two previous applicants. Knowing my aunt, that was just the sort of incendiary information she'd have been tempted to keep to herself.

“Don't just stand there.” Edward March's voice was an imperious growl. “Come over by the light so I can get a look at you.”

Once I'd turned and had my first look around, it was easy to see why March had summoned me to join him by the window. The room was only dimly lit, and there wasn't anywhere else to sit down. The expanse of the library between us was impossibly cluttered.

A suite of overstuffed leather furniture was covered with cartons, books, and periodicals. Two file cabinets, a world globe on a massive frame, and a glass-fronted cherrywood cupboard all vied for floor space. I was pretty sure I even saw a wooden rocking horse tucked away behind a couch.

March himself, standing just in front of his expansive desk, was a large man with a stern look that matched the growl he'd just uttered. He had a full head of white hair and broad shoulders that stooped forward, causing his frame to look as though it was collapsing inward. The effect made him no less intimidating. March's left hand, fingers gnarled with age, grasped the top of a wooden cane.

No wonder the previous two candidates hadn't lasted long, I thought. I was half tempted to make a run for it myself. Then my gaze slid back up, and I saw the calculating look in March's eyes and realized that was exactly what he was expecting.

“Well?” he demanded. “How long are you going to keep me standing here? Do I look like I have all day?”

Begin as you mean to go on,
I thought and walked with a determined stride across the room.

It was like navigating my way around an obstacle course. I didn't give March the satisfaction of looking down to see where I was going. And I didn't so much as wince when I stubbed my toe on the damn globe.

“My name is Melanie Travis,” I said.

“I know that. Margaret called and told me to expect you.”

Margaret?
I'd never heard anyone call Aunt Peg by her full name before. Intrigued, I filed that tidbit away for further consideration.

He peered at me closely. “You don't look like a teacher.”

“Really? What do teachers look like?”

“Skinny. Buttoned up. Like fun is out of the question.”

“You don't look like too much fun yourself,” I told him.

“You should have known me when I was younger.” His laugh was a dry, wheezing cackle. He patted a nearby chair that was angled toward his desk. “Come over here and take a seat. Tell me how someone as pretty as you got to be a teacher.”

Wonderful. A man who was twice my age was flirting with me. I wondered if this was why his assistant, Charlotte, had been in such a hurry to leave the room.

“I thought we were going to talk about you,” I said. “My Aunt Peg tells me that you want to write a book.”

“Indeed I do.”