The Glass Butterfly (19 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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“Oh! Oh! That was sweet of you,” Puccini said. His hair was tumbled over his forehead, and he reeked of wine. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette even as he leaned toward her, nearly falling as he bent to smile into her face. “Such a sweet little nurse, aren't you? L-l-lucky Elvira!” and he did stumble then, missing the next stair and landing hard on his bad leg.
He groaned, and she put out her hand to support him. “Signore, go to bed,” she said firmly. “And no more smoking, or you'll likely catch the house on fire.”
He straightened with difficulty, still grinning, and released the cigarette back into his pocket. He gave her a mock salute, the edge of his hand unsteadily meeting his forehead. “Yes, signorina!” he said. “Nurse's orders! I'm off to bed.”
Doria stood where she was, watching him struggle up the stairs and cross the landing to the bedroom. The door opened and closed, and she heard the thunk of his boots on the floor. She waited a moment, to see if Elvira would scold. Instead, she heard a soft murmur of voices, and Puccini's sudden laughter. The light went out, and seconds later she heard the noise of the bedsprings beginning to squeak.
Doria turned toward her own room, pursued by the rhythmic sounds of the marital bed, creaking and thumping and complaining. The house had grown cold, and she shivered as she unpinned her hair and hurried into her nightgown. By the time she slipped between her icy sheets, hugging herself for warmth, the sounds upstairs had ceased.
Perhaps the
signora
would be in a better mood tomorrow. She hoped Elvira had rubbed off the face cream before her husband saw her.
Or,
Doria thought wickedly, as she nestled into her pillow,
perhaps she didn't.
 
Tory woke, shivering this time instead of perspiring. She sat up, finding her blanket gone and the sheet pulled down to her waist. Blinking in the predawn darkness, she reached for the bedspread. She tugged at it, but it didn't move. She flicked on the bedside lamp.
The dog, though she had made a bed of towels for him on the floor, now lay next to her on the bed, a skinny length of brown-and-white fur stretched across the foot in a tangled fold of beige chenille. His eyes slid sideways when the light came on, but his big paws didn't move. Only the plume of his tail moved, silently beating against the blanket.
Dogs. There had been dogs in her dream, scratching and whining at a closed door.
She lay down again, frowning into the vague dawn light, searching for meaning in the strange succession of her dreams. She didn't find it.
She reached toward the dog, and curled her fingers into his long fur. The gesture felt familiar somehow, natural. It must be instinctive, this link between canines and humans, bred into them both by centuries of cooperation. The dog's long pink tongue lolled, and the corners of his mouth curled upward as he panted.
“Are you smiling at me?” she demanded softly. “And who raised you to think you belong on the bed?”
His tongue disappeared, and his eyes closed again. Once his fur had dried, it proved to be silky and long, matted in places under his forelegs and along his ribs. She had spent a good part of the evening brushing him, an operation he was clearly accustomed to, lifting his paws when she wanted him to, submitting to scissors when some of the mats wouldn't give way to her hairbrush.
Gently, Tory tugged the bedspread out from under the dog, and smoothed it up again over her side of the bed. She was about to pull on her sweatshirt and go out to make a cup of tea to watch the light rise over the water, but on an impulse she slipped back under the blanket, and turned out the light. The quilt was warm from the dog's body, and having him there—calm, accepting, another breathing, living being—soothed her restiveness.
She snuggled deeper under the covers, washed by a comforting tide of drowsiness. Just as she fell asleep again, she felt a weight on her ankles, and heard the slight, contented groan as the dog settled his head across her legs. Tory, her dream forgotten for the moment, slept again.
16
Mi piaccion quelle cose, che han si dolce malìa . . .
che parlano di sogni e di chimere. . . .
 
Those things please me, which have such sweet magic . . .
which speak of dreams and of chimeras....
 
—Mimì,
La Bohème,
Act One
T
here was no veterinarian's number in the slender telephone directory for Cannon Beach, but when Tory called information, it turned out a new vet clinic had just opened. She called the number, and the doctor himself answered. When she had explained the situation, he said, “No collar or tag? We'd better check to see if he's chipped.”
“Chipped? I don't know what that means.” Tory was standing beside the counter in her little kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. The dog lay on the rug in front of the fireplace, his eyes following her, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice.
“It's a microchip, usually inserted in the skin at the back of the neck. If it's there, it will tell us who owns the dog.”
“Oh.” Tory turned to face the back wall, not wanting to look at the dog—who might belong to someone, who might need to be restored to his rightful owner, his proper place. She tried to achieve a matter-of-fact tone. “I understand,” she said. “I have an appointment this morning, but I'll bring him in after that, if that's all right.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “We're not busy yet. We've just opened our doors this month.”
“It will be about ten, I think. Maybe ten-thirty.”
He chuckled. It was a nice sound, baritone-deep, resonant. “Walk-ins welcome,” he said cheerfully. “Like a barbershop. See you then.”
Tory drew a deliberate breath, closing her eyes for a moment to pull herself together. The dog wasn't hers, after all. Someone was probably desperate to find him, and she had to do the right thing.
She opened her eyes to find that the dog had come to sit in front of her, tongue lolling, ears pricked forward. She crouched down to stroke his smooth head, and his tongue lapped at her cheek. It felt warm and dry and slightly prickly.
“Clearly,” she said to the dog in a husky voice, “I've been alone too long.” The dog put his head to one side, watching her. “Breakfast?” she said, and he stood up, ears turned forward, tail wagging.
The night before she had fed him hamburger. He had drunk all of the bowl of water, and after she refilled it, drunk even more. The liquid sound of his eager lapping had been oddly satisfying. He ate all the hamburger, and when he was done, he flopped down on the rug with a sigh she interpreted as relief. This morning she gave him scrambled eggs, which seemed to suit him just as well as the hamburger. He made a circuit of the yard while she watched, a little anxiously. He seemed to have no inclination to leave, and he already looked significantly stronger than he had the night before. When she opened the door, he was right at her heels, eager to follow her back inside. He drank more water, then sat down in front of the door as if he was worried she might go somewhere without him.
She checked her appearance in the small mirror in her bathroom. She supposed she might have to buy some clothes, but for now the black Costco sweater and jeans and sneakers would have to do. The no-cosmetics look seemed to fit Cannon Beach just fine, as did the flame-red hair dye. She ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it, dipped her little finger into a jar of petroleum jelly and smoothed some on her lips, and she was ready.
She went back into the bedroom for her black coat. It looked really dilapidated now, the down shifted here and there to make lumps in strange places, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She paused for a moment, as she often did, beside the bureau where the file lurked in the bottom drawer. It was no wonder she had bad dreams. The file lay there like a monster hiding under the bed, waiting to pounce the moment she made a mistake. Another mistake, that is. It reminded her of all that was wrong, the mess she had created and that now she didn't know how to fix.
Jack. Son. Be safe.
She drew a deliberate breath, turned away from the bureau, and marched out of the bedroom toward the front door. As she reached it, the dog rose, tail waving, ears lifted. The sight of him moved something in her, softened her despite her resolve. She stroked him, and wondered, as she shouldered her handbag, if she was making things worse for herself. Ice Woman was impervious. This dog-patting, vet-visiting person was vulnerable.
She meant for the dog, big as he was, to ride in the back seat of the VW. She moved the driver's seat forward and urged him in. He jumped in with an impressive flowing motion, and she said with some surprise, “Good boy.” Why had she thought dogs were difficult? He was as obliging a creature as she'd ever met.
Then, as she settled herself in the driver's seat, he slid past her right arm, his feet slipping as he scrabbled over the console. It took him only seconds to arrange his big body in the cramped passenger seat. Tory opened her mouth to object, but found herself laughing instead. The laugh felt strange, as if some involuntary process had seized her, a sneeze or a shiver. She couldn't remember when she had last laughed aloud. The dog turned his head, his long tongue lolling, the corners of his mouth curling in that expression that looked exactly like a grin. When she didn't object, he faced forward, looking out the windshield in the manner of one who knew just what he was doing.
“I guess I've been missing out on the whole dog thing,” Tory told him. “Jack would have something to say about that. I wish he could see you.” The dog cocked his head in her direction, listening. Her heart fluttered at the strangeness of the morning as she fired the engine, backed down the short driveway, and turned toward town.
She left the dog in the car, the window open, as she went into the florist's shop. The place was easy to find, right on the main street. As she opened the door, a bell above it tinkled, and someone called out, “Don't leave! I'll be right there.” Tory glanced around at the shelves and racks holding assortments of souvenirs and postcards, ornaments and stationery. She walked forward, and found herself in a bower of vegetation, poinsettias, miniature pine trees with Christmas ribbon around their pots, bunches of carnations dyed red and green, a few arrangements with candy canes or snowmen stuck into them.
The woman who emerged from the back wore a florist's apron over a long purple skirt and yellow cowboy boots. She was startlingly young, dyed black hair cropped short, a stone of some kind sparkling in one nostril, and lips painted deep red. “Hi!” she said. “I sure as hell hope you're Paulette!”
The girl's energy swept across the counter like a gust of wind. Tory had to resist the temptation to take a step back, away from the fern-and-ribbon-littered surface. “I am,” she said, but she sounded unsure even to herself.
The girl stretched her arm across the cluttered counter to shake Tory's hand. Her fingernails were short and square, painted the same vivid red as her lips. “Hey,” she said, grinning. The deep color of her lipstick made her teeth look faintly yellow. “I'm Zoe. God, I love your hair. Wish I could wear red like that.”
Self-consciously, Tory touched her hair. “Thanks.”
“Are you gonna take the job? I'm about to go under here.”
Tory couldn't help glancing around at the empty shop. Zoe gave a belly laugh that belied her slender frame. “I know, you're wondering why! But I have a list of orders a mile long, and Mom won't be back until next week.” At Tory's puzzled glance, Zoe said, “Mom. Betty. She and I own the shop together. And trust me, this weekend things are going to be hopping. The holiday people are coming in. Two weeks till Christmas!”
“Two weeks?”
“Oh, yeah!” the girl exclaimed. “You haven't noticed?” She opened her eyes wide. They were ringed with mascara and smudged with navy-blue eye shadow.
Tory felt pallid in the face of Zoe's vitality, but she made her lips curve in a smile. “I've been distracted. Two weeks, my goodness! But yes, I'd like to take the job.”
“Great! Can you come Friday?”
“Don't you want—I mean, an interview, references . . .?”
Zoe gave her a wide scarlet grin. “Nah. Cannon Beach, you know? Iris talked to Mom, and that settled it.” She swept her arm across the counter, shoving the detritus off as if she had only just noticed it, catching it all in a metal wastepaper basket.
“That's all you need, that Iris talked to your—Betty?”
Another grin. “Yep. Iris collects people, you know. And she's never wrong.”
“Okay, then,” Tory said awkwardly. “Friday it is. What time shall I be here?”
When she went back to the VW, she thought she couldn't have been inside the shop for more than five minutes in total. The dog was watching for her, his nose stuck through the open window, nostrils fluttering as he sniffed the breeze. She climbed into the driver's seat and sat for a moment, trying to take it all in, trying to imagine working for someone like Zoe.
“Well,” she told the dog, as she turned the key in the ignition. “That's an interesting girl. I'll bet there's no color she doesn't like.”
 
The veterinarian's office not only looked new, with the landscaping still raw around its small parking lot, but when Tory coaxed the dog into the waiting room, it smelled new, too, of plastic and tiles and paint. The dog pressed close to her legs, and she kept her hand in his ruff to reassure him.
A woman in a cotton tunic printed with cartoons of dogs and cats stood up to frown at her. “Mrs. Chambers?”
“Miss, but yes. Paulette,” Tory said.
The receptionist, fortyish and sturdy, wore no more makeup than Tory, and her graying hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her lips tightened as she peered at the dog. She gave Tory a stern look, and pointed at a sign on the front of the desk. It read, “Please leash your dog.”
A flicker of irritation lent energy to Tory's voice. “I don't have a leash. He's not my dog, really. I mean, not technically.”
The woman, whose name tag read SHIRLEY, came around the desk to a rack on the wall where several leashes of different lengths hung. The dog crept behind Tory and sat there, tucked against the backs of her knees. Shirley chose a leash from the rack, and a chain collar to go with it. Still without speaking, she held them out to Tory. Tory accepted them, but she couldn't figure out how the collar worked, with its metal circles and sliding chain. Shirley kept her distance, and Tory supposed she was afraid of approaching a strange dog. She turned the chain this way and that, trying to see how it was meant to go on. Behind her, a door opened, and when the vet spoke, his voice was familiar from the phone.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was even deeper in person, creating a faint vibration in the glass of the windows. “This must be our found dog!”
Tory glanced over her shoulder. A tall, lean man with silver-gray hair, startling above his olive complexion, crossed the waiting room and crouched beside her. The dog put his head around Tory's legs for a cautious look at the new arrival.
“This is him,” Tory said. She held up the collar in one hand, the leash dangling free from the other. “I know you prefer a leash, but I don't—”
“No problem,” the vet said. He wore a crisp white coat, and his hand, when he held it out to the dog, was meticulously clean, the nails pink against his skin. “Hey, there,” he said softly. He cupped his palm, and the dog took a gingerly sniff. “We just like to be careful,” the vet said, evidently to Tory. “Sometimes these fellows are scared, and they don't know what to do about it. The leash is a precaution.”
“I didn't have one.”
“Not to worry.” He held out his hand for the collar. She gave it to him, and with a deft motion, he turned it into a perfect circle that slipped easily over the dog's head. The leash was clipped in place a second later, and the vet stood. “What do you say, big guy? Shall we go have a look at you?”
He turned, lifting the leash in his hand, and walked toward one of the two examining rooms. Tory watched, bemused, as the dog—she hadn't said so, but already she thought of him as her dog, though he had no name or anything else to tie him to her—walked obediently beside the doctor and into the exam room. At the door, the tall man turned, twinkling at her. He was much younger, she saw, than his silver hair implied. “Come on in, Mom,” he said cheerfully.
Tory said, with a glance at Shirley, “I guess that's me,” and followed. She went into the exam room, and as she closed the door behind her, she saw Shirley standing, hands on hips, watching as if to make sure Tory obeyed orders.
The vet, crouching again beside the dog, began looking in his ears, feeling his chest, running his hand along the dog's spine. He lifted the dog's lips and examined his teeth. “I'm Hank Menotti,” he said, without looking away from the dog.
“Oh—Menotti. Like the composer?”

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