Gone With the Woof (3 page)

Finally, he said, “The first one . . . It turned out that she didn't like dogs. Now, how was I supposed to work with that?”

“Probably not very easily,” I admitted. Considering the book's subject matter, it seemed like a valid objection.

“You like dogs, don't you?”

“Of course I do.”

“You see? I knew any relative of Margaret's would have to be a dog person.”

Luckily, March hasn't met my brother.

“And the second candidate?”

“That was a problem right from the beginning. When he took notes, he wrote things down in that horrid shorthand that passes for conversation nowadays. What's it called? Textspeak?”

“Oh my.” My inner teacher cringed in sympathy.

“You see? Like I said, idiots. But I can already tell that this is going to work.” March leaned toward me across his desk. His hand slid along the polished surface, grasped my fingers in his, and gave them a squeeze. “You and I are going to get along famously.”

Gently, I disentangled my hand and put it down in my lap, out of reach.

That remained to be seen, I thought.

T
here was a soft knock at the door, and Charlotte let herself in. She was carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, milk and sweetener, and a plate of sugar cookies. Even so encumbered, she maneuvered her way through the crowded room with ease.

Charlotte eased the tray down onto the desk, between March and me, then leaned across and whispered something in his ear.

“Tell him not now,” March said shortly.

“But he said—”

“I don't care. He'll have to wait.”

Charlotte glanced my way. I did my best to look as though I wasn't listening. I probably wasn't very convincing.

“Please help yourself,” she said. “The cookies are Mr. March's favorite.”

They looked good, but the coffee smelled heavenly. I picked up one of the cups and topped it off with a dollop of milk. March followed suit, then added sweetener as Charlotte let herself out.

I waited until the door had closed behind her, then asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Of course. That was nothing, just family business. Let's get back to my book.” March looked up from stirring his coffee. “What do you know about Irish Setters?”

I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Big Red.”

I had discovered the classic book in grade school and had read it numerous times. In my dog-deprived childhood, it had shared a place of honor on my bookshelf, along with
White Fang
and
Lassie Come Home.

“And, of course, I see them at the shows,” I said. “They're gorgeous dogs.”

March nodded. “It's that external beauty that has been the breed's glory, but also its undoing. Irish Setters are sporting dogs first and foremost. The first ones imported into this country were valued above all for their ability to work in the field.”

March had slipped into lecture mode, and his enthusiasm for his breed was infectious. I was happy to sit back and be educated.

“As bird dogs, they're bold and tenacious, and they can work all day. But, of course, their appeal doesn't stop there. They're also charming, and happy-go-lucky, gentle, and loyal to a fault. Quintessentially Irish, you might say. Those traits, coupled with their good looks, have positioned them as the ideal show and companion dog.”

“They sound wonderful,” I said.

“They are.” March was firm in his opinion. “There's not a better dog to be had.”

I bit back a smile. Everyone feels that way about his own breed. Which isn't surprising, because every breed of dog has its charms. Let's face it. They're all pretty terrific.

“Speaking of Irish Setters,” I said, “do you still have any of the dogs that you used to show? I've been told that your Russet setters were famous, and justifiably so.”

“Indeed, they were.” He sounded pleased with himself. Clearly, getting March to open up and talk about his achievements was not going to be a problem. “But I haven't been in the show ring except as a judge in more than twenty-five years. Now the Russet name lives on solely as a foundation bloodline for other breeders who were fortunate enough to appreciate its merits and put them to good use. I have just one dog left, Russet Red Robin. She's with Charlotte. I asked my assistant to keep her out of the way this morning so that we could meet without distraction.”

Most dog people I know love to be distracted by their pets. That's the whole point. But as I was quickly learning, Edward March made up his own rules. Maybe that was why he and Aunt Peg got along; they both believed in bending the world to their will, rather than the other way around.

“So your book will be mostly about Irish Setters,” I said.

“Certainly not.” March selected a sugar cookie from the plate, dunked it into his coffee, then popped it in his mouth whole. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I thought that was what we were talking about.”

“Oh, no, indeed. We're just getting better acquainted. Discussing a mutual interest, you might say.”

If the interest was supposed to be mutual, we ought to be talking about Poodles, too, I thought. Yet another subversive notion best left unspoken.

“Are you thinking about something with a broader focus, then? Maybe a definitive history of dog showing in America?”

March propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers beneath his nose. He stared at me thoughtfully. “I suppose if anyone is eminently qualified to attempt such a tome, it would be me. But no, that isn't what I have in mind, either.”

“I should stop guessing and let you tell me.” I pulled a pen out of my purse and opened my notebook to the first page. Hand poised above the empty space, I looked at March expectantly.

“
Puppy Love,
” he announced.

“Excuse me?”

“That's going to be the title. What do you think?”

“It's cute.” I thought for a moment. “Possibly a little light on dignity.”

“My memoirs,” March said firmly. “My choice.”

“You asked for my opinion. If we're going to work together, I assume you want to hear the truth.”

March's wiry brows drew together as his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you've misunderstood how things are going to proceed. I'm the one with the expertise. You're merely the scribe. I do the talking. You write down what I say.”

I closed my notebook with a sharp slap. “If that's the kind of help you're looking for, you don't need a live person. All you need is a tape recorder.”

“Now, that's where you're wrong. Writing a book is a lonely endeavor, and solitude is not my style. What keeps me interested is interaction. I need someone who can appreciate my stories, someone I can bounce things off of.”

“Like a book title?”

March pushed himself to his feet. “I didn't say I wanted an argument. Just an opinion.”

“One that agrees with yours, obviously.”

“When I'm right!”

“Are you ever wrong?”

March considered. “I suppose it's been known to happen.” He snorted under his breath. “On occasion.”

I stood up, as well. “This won't work if you think I'm simply going to sit here and nod at everything you say.”

“Are you going to argue with everything?”

“I don't know yet. It depends.”

We glared at each other across the desk.

“At least you're honest,” March said finally. “I suppose that ought to count for something. And you like dogs.”

“And I hate textspeak.”

That coaxed a small smile from him. March came around to where I stood. He escorted me to the library door. “So will we make a good team or not? It seems that we both have something to consider.”

“I'm not sure I'll make your life any easier,” I told him.

“I have no doubt that I will complicate yours. Nevertheless . . . I think we may have potential.” He grasped the knob and drew the door open. “Let's talk again in a day or two. Charlotte?”

“Here, Mr. March.”

The blonde came striding down the hallway. Following just behind was a man about my own age. Dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and heavy work boots, he had the physique of someone who enjoyed working outdoors. His expression was thunderous. I was just as happy that he didn't even glance in my direction.

“It's about time,” the man snapped. “I thought you were going to keep me waiting here all morning.” He pushed past me and entered the library. March paused in the doorway before following.

“Charlotte, please show Ms. Travis out.”

“Of course, Mr. March.”

Together, we retrieved my coat and scarf. “Who was that?” I asked when both men had disappeared.

“Andrew.” Charlotte's low tone matched my own. “Mr. March's son. He lives in a house on the other side of the estate. Maybe you saw the other driveway when you came in?”

I shook my head. I'd been too busy watching out for ice to worry about a second entrance.

“Andrew runs the company now. The two of them don't always get along.”

I could see that much for myself.

“What company?” I asked.

“March Homes. You know, the builders?”

I nodded. They advertised on local TV all the time. I just hadn't realized there was a connection. Typical of Aunt Peg to tell me all about Edward March's dogs and not a thing about what he did for a living.

“So are you going to do it?” Charlotte asked.

“I don't know yet.”

She brushed aside my indecision. “You will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The other two didn't last five minutes in there with him. You managed almost an hour. Trust me, the first time you meet him is the worst. He likes to act all surly and impossible, but if you don't let him walk all over you, things generally improve from there.”

“Good to know,” I said.

Charlotte stood on the top step and waved as I walked to my car. “See you soon!”

I wasn't at all sure I shared her confidence.

 

I arrived home to a house that was empty of humans but filled with kindred spirits. I entered the kitchen from the garage to find five pairs of dark eyes trained expectantly on the door. Living with Standard Poodles keeps you on your toes. They're always one step ahead.

As always, Faith was the first to greet me. I'm a mother, so I know I shouldn't play favorites. But Faith had been my first Poodle, the one who had introduced me to the wonders of dog ownership. Before she came into my life, I would never have imagined that we would share a bond that was so all encompassing. Faith understood my unspoken thoughts; she knew my every mood. I only hoped that I was half as good at reading her feelings as she was mine.

Standards are the biggest of the three varieties of Poodles. Faith's head was even with my hip, so I didn't have far to reach when I slipped a hand under her chin and scratched beneath her ears. Poodles in show coat have hair that must be protected at all costs; their owners quickly learn to stroke only those areas that are clipped short. It had been several years since Faith had been inside a show ring, but old habits died hard.

Eve came next, elbowing her dam to one side and pushing her nose into my cupped hand.
My turn,
she announced as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud. Raven, Casey, and Tar were right behind her, bodies wriggling in delight as they pressed against my legs, tails beating a tattoo against my thighs.

“I know,” I said softly. “I missed you guys, too.”

I tossed my purse on the counter and sat down on the floor. Holding my arms open, I tried to gather them all in at once. Predictably, Tar was the first to wiggle free from my embrace. He dashed across the room, dove under the table, and came up with a tennis ball for me to throw.

“Not in the house,” I told him. “You know that.”

Actually, he probably didn't, but he was supposed to. The other four Poodles certainly did. Raven and Casey, like Faith and Eve, were typical Standard Poodles: highly intelligent, with an innate desire to please and an infectious sense of humor.

Tar was beautiful. He was funny. He was kind. But smart? Not so much. None of us had ever seen a dumb Poodle before, but there he was. The most well-meaning dog in the world, Tar could barely think his way down a flight of steps.

Lack of brainpower had never interfered with the big dog's total enjoyment of life, however. Pomponned tail whipping back and forth, Tar trotted back over and dropped the ball in my lap. Then he backed away and waited happily for me to comply.

Faith and Eve watched to see what I was going to do next. Before Kevin was born, when I had more time to spend with them, I would take the Poodles for a run in the park. Now I was planning to make a shopping list and put in another load of laundry.

That thought brought a sigh. Maybe Aunt Peg was right. Maybe I had become dull.

Faith and Eve had adapted to all the changes I'd thrown their way. They'd thrived in our new, bigger family. But even so, I knew that sometimes they missed the easy intimacy of our prior relationship. And so did I.

I reached back and levered myself up off the floor. Housework could wait.

“Come on, guys,” I said. “Let's go outside and play ball.”

 

It turned out that the shopping list was unnecessary. On the way home from Gymboree, Sam and Kevin had stopped at the supermarket.

“You just like the fact that women fawn all over you because you have a baby,” I said as we put away the groceries.

Kevin has his father's blond hair and blue eyes. Together, the two of them make an arresting pair, a fact that Sam is not above using to his advantage on occasion.

“What can I say? The kid's a chick magnet. If I could bottle his appeal, we'd be millionaires.”

The chick magnet in question had already finished the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I'd had ready for him when he got home, and now was meandering unsteadily across the kitchen floor in the direction of the dogs' water bowl. I'd seen this trick before: Kevin liked to tip the bowl over and watch the water slosh across the polished hardwood. If he managed to place himself in a position to get soaked, too, that was an added bonus.

I swooped down and picked him up just in time.

“No,” Kevin said firmly. “Down.”

“It's time for your nap,” I told him. Despite his protests, my son's eyelids were already drooping.

Kevin had spent the first year of his life thinking that sleep was the enemy. Now he napped and slept through the night like a champ. I liked to take credit for the turnaround, but in reality I didn't have the slightest idea what had caused it.