Until Odette convinced Liam Davies to sign with us, business had been deadly dull at Mattimoe Realty. Which explained why I was participating in a not-so-happy Thursday afternoon happy hour at Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill: I had nothing better to do. And no better place to do it.
The office phones weren’t ringing. A couple new agents had recently quit for lack of commissions or the promise of any, anytime soon. My part-time agents weren’t getting results, and my senior full-time agents were getting restless. Unless you counted foreclosures, nothing much was happening on the local real estate scene.
But now, thanks to Odette, my company had reason to celebrate. And I had a reason to comply with Susan Davies’ ridiculous request regarding my diva dog. We ended our phone conversation by setting an appointment for her to come by and meet Abra: in two hours, exactly. That gave me sufficient time to get sober enough to drive home. And then try to locate my hound.
The barkeep replaced my empty rock glass with a mug of black coffee. I set my cell phone on the bar next to Jeb’s.
“You knew about the dog show thing, didn’t you?”
“Susan might have mentioned it.”
“When?”
What I really meant was “How often do you see this woman?” Fortunately, I stopped myself from sounding like the jealous shrew I am.
“We run into each other now and then. In Grand Rapids. It’s not that big a town.”
Way bigger than Magnet Springs, I thought, which automatically qualified it for romantic trysts. I forced myself to choke down half the coffee. During the intervening silence, Odette offered a troubling tidbit.
“Susan and Liam have one of those on-again, off-again marriages. Or so I hear. They’ve separated a few times but never gone through with the divorce.” She turned to Jeb. “Is the marriage on or off these days?”
When he shrugged, I didn’t buy it.
“You don’t know the marital status of your Number One fan?”
“I thought you were my Number One fan.” He grinned. “As for Susan and Liam, I think they’re working on it. I think they’re always ‘working on it.’ At least that’s the official line.”
“Rather like Fenton and Noonan,” Odette said, referring to our local New Age gurus. Fenton Flagg and Noonan Starr considered themselves “permanent spouses.” In other words, soul-mates. They had married long ago, split up almost immediately, yet never bothered to divorce. Why? Because they liked each other and had so much in common, including the Seven Suns of Solace step-program for inner peace. That didn’t stop them from having affairs with other people, however. Fenton had almost had an affair with me-before I hooked up with Jeb again.
“Well, maybe they’re like Fenton and Noonan,” I said cautiously. “Except that Fenton and Noonan are… “ I mentally fished for the appropriate euphemism.
“Nuts?” Jeb suggested.
“Unique,” I said and then gave up all pretense. “Are Susan and Liam crazy, too?”
“I haven’t met Susan,” said Odette, “but I can tell you that Liam is logical and blunt. When it comes to doing business, he’s a straight shooter who wastes nobody’s time.”
She and I looked to Jeb for his assessment of Susan. He took a long swig of scotch. And remained silent.
“Well?” I prompted.
“I don’t know what Susan’s like when it comes to doing business. I only know her as my Number One fan.”
I threw a cocktail straw at him. Even with two and a half drinks in his system, Jeb’s reflexes were excellent. He snatched the straw in midair and lobbed it back at me. Only I didn’t duck in time. Or even blink. The straw hit me right in the eye like a tiny javelin.
“Ouch!”
It really did hurt. Apparently I needed a lot more coffee. As well as some ice for my eye. And a couple aspirin. Jeb and Odette decided that I also needed someone to drive me home. My ex won the coin toss. At least I think he won; in any case, he provided the ride.
I resisted leaving my car at Mother Tucker’s until Jeb promised he’d drive me to work in the morning. Translation: he planned to spend the night. With ice on my eye, I was in no position to argue. I just wanted to get through the damn meeting with Susan Davies and her associate. Presumably they needed to eyeball Abra in order to confirm that she was as awful as her reputation. I should have been mortified; their choice of her as the worst possible Afghan hound clearly condemned my skills as pet owner.
But I had an out. I’d come to accept that I didn’t “own” Abra any more than I owned the wind. According to Four Legs Good (Fleggers)-the Ann Arbor-based animal rights advocacy founded by my veterinarian and my former nanny-all creatures were entitled to… some version of legal independence. To be honest, I couldn’t quite follow their reasoning. If it got me off the hook when Abra broke the law, then I was on board. The Afghan hound was free to be her own “person.” I just wished she could afford her own lawyer.
“Do you even know where Abra is?” Jeb asked once we were inside his shiny red Beamer, the first brand new car he’d ever been able to afford.
“Uh, I saw her this morning.”
“You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“Nope.”
And I doubted that I could locate her in time for the meeting with Susan Davies. Granted, I had in place a secure exercise area with an eight-foot-high fence and a doggie door that opened directly into my kitchen. I had also hired Deely Smarr, former Coast Guard Damage Control Specialist and nanny (hence “Coast Guard nanny”) to train Abra. But those measures were less effective than they sounded.
Since my stepdaughter Avery had removed her charming infant twins and her charmless whining self from my home in July, I hadn’t seen much of Deely. Funny how that worked: Avery no longer required the nanny’s services once I stopped signing her checks. So Deely had to find a new full-time gig. She hired on as assistant to her veterinarian boyfriend and fellow Flegger, David Newquist. That left precious little time for her to drive out to my home in the country and work with my dog-I mean, the canine who lives with me.
I’d last seen Abra that morning when she scooted past me through the breezeway connecting my kitchen with my garage, and then bolted out the open door. A squirrel had caught her eye. She’s a sight hound, after all.
I had neither the time nor the speed to chase her.
“In case you didn’t know,” I told Jeb, “Afghans can gallop up to thirty-five miles per hour, turn on a dime, and jump seven feet from a standing position.”
“Impressive stats,” he agreed.
“Damn straight.”
I couldn’t have competed with those numbers back when I captained my high school volleyball team. And that was sixteen long years ago.
I’d left the garage door open for Abra, hoping she’d return on her own. Her habit, however, was to find trouble before she found her way back home.
“She always shows up eventually,” Jeb said.
“So far,” I said.
There were times I wished she’d stayed gone even though she was my late husband’s last misguided gift to me. When Abra stole precious jewels or a priceless painting, for example, some folks thought I’d trained her to do it. Please. I couldn’t train her to come when I called.
By now Jeb and I were less than two miles from Vestige on a wide country road. He floored the accelerator, treating us both to a taste of fine German engineering.
“Hard to believe you owe this Beamer to Fleggers!”
I was referring to the phenomenal success of his recent Animal Lullabies CD, put out by Dr. David’s group and then picked up by a major label. Deely had discovered by accident that Jeb’s voice soothed the savage beast, a.k.a. Abra. Unlike his previous attempts at blues, Celtic, country, rock, and rockabilly, this CD did not land in remainder bins. This CD was a hit. Who knew there were so many affluent people with pets in need of musical solace?
As we approached my property, I removed the makeshift icepack from my right eye to fully enjoy the view. The late great Leo Mattimoe had launched me in real estate and the good life. I’d lost him far too soon. But he’d left me Vestige, a trace not only of the old farm that had once occupied this coastal promontory, but also of our love. Now the sun rode low over Lake Michigan, making the big water beyond my house glow like fire and sending spears of light through leaves turning yellow, orange, and red. It was late September, too deep in the year for water sports, but the perfect season for reveling in Nature’s visual bounty.
“Is that Velcro?”
Jeb’s question shattered my serenity. He could only be talking about the teacup-sized shitzapoo, technically shih-poo, that I’d recently returned to my neighbors after they’d tried to palm him off on me. Sure enough, a tiny black furball bounced across the lawn directly toward us. Yipping at top pitch and full volume.
Fortunately, a boy appeared behind the designer dog. The very boy to whom the dog now rightfully belonged.
“Hey, Chester!”
As I greeted my eight-year-old neighbor, Velcro circled my ankles in his customary frantic fashion. Now that he no longer lived with me, I could tolerate brief bouts of neediness. Velcro’s, in addition to Chester’s.
“What are you two doing here?” I said.
“We’re locked out,” Chester explained, and I knew he wasn’t referring to my house. I had left the place wide open. For Abra’s convenience.
“Your mom’s… gone… again?”
He nodded. Then we all turned in the direction of an exuberant woof. Amber-gold Prince Harry the Pee Master loped across the lawn from the direction of the Lake. Prince Harry is Abra’s illegitimate son and Chester’s first dog. Suddenly I had three new roommates: one kid and two canines. Me, who tried to avoid all dogs and most children.
Chester’s mother was Cassina, the single-named pop-harpist diva. She, her son, his father, and their ever-changing staff inhabited the Castle, a twenty-thousand square-foot manor house just up the coast. Cassina toured frequently and imbibed more often than that. She was also on questionable terms with Chester’s father, her on-again, off-again manager. As a result, Chester seldom enjoyed parental supervision. Rupert, his father, had hired MacArthur, known as “the cleaner,” to look after loose ends at the Castle. I had also hired MacArthur to help me sell real estate. The man was versatile: a licensed Realtor and chauffeur and someone skilled at making sticky situations go away. Oddly, he was now living with my stepdaughter, or rather she and her kids were living with him, in his rooms at the Castle. Since MacArthur was a hunk, and Avery was a shrill screaming bitch, I could only assume she was blackmailing him.
“Avery and the twins are gone, too?” I asked Chester.
“Nobody answered the door. And I forgot my key. Again.”
I suspected that Chester lost his key on purpose. No doubt he got lots more attention at my house than at the Castle. Besides, he adored Abra. He’d even had some success training her using tips downloaded from the Dogs-Train-You-dot-com website. Now that I thought about it, having Chester around for a few days might be a good thing. If Abra came back. Assuming, also, that Chester could keep Velcro away from my ankles and prevent Prince Harry from peeing on my floors.
Honestly, though, I couldn’t imagine a world in which having three dogs was better than having no dogs at all. I had just closed my eyes to recall the tranquility of life before hounds when a car horn rudely honked. Unfamiliar but expensive sounding. A foreign car, for sure.
“Hey, Susan!” Jeb called out.
I opened my eyes. The lashes on my right eye stuck together, but I could still make out my ex-husband’s other Number One Fan. Susan Davies had pulled her bright white Audi into my driveway. A whole hour early. With no Abra in sight.