Two
The next morning I overslept. If it hadn't been for Faith, who wandered in at seven-thirty and licked my face until she got a response, Davey and I might never have made it to school.
I ran downstairs first thing and let the puppy outside. Poodles are extremely smart and once they learn something, like housebreaking, they hate to make a mistake even ifâespecially if-it's not their fault. Faith is a Standard Poodle, the largest of the three varieties. She stands twenty-four inches at the withers, has a beautiful head and expression, long legs, a high tail-set, and a dense coat of long black hair. I've just started taking her to dog shows and according to my Aunt Peg, when Faith matures, she should do very well.
If anyone should know, it's Margaret Turnbull. She's Faith's breeder, and owner of the Cedar Crest Poodles, one of the top Standard Poodle kennels on the east coast. She and her husband had been involved in breeding and showing for nearly thirty years, until his death the summer before. Now Aunt Peg was carrying on alone.
She's an imposing woman, with keen intelligence and a boundless supply of common sense. She's almost sixty, but that hasn't slowed her down a bit. At half her age, I sometimes have trouble keeping up, especially when Poodles are involved.
I opened the back door and Faith bounded down the steps. There were still six inches of snow on the ground from a storm the week before. Freezing temperatures overnight had covered it with a thin film of ice. I watched long enough to make sure that the puppy could handle the footing, then turned on the coffee maker and got out a box of instant oatmeal for Davey's breakfast.
“Mom!” Davey called from upstairs. “Where are my clothes?”
At five, my son has yet to master the art of choosing an outfit. Left to his discretion, he invariably ends up dressed in the same color from head to toe. Last time it was red. He looked like a misplaced Christmas elf. I work at Hunting Ridge Elementary, where Davey goes to school, so I have to watch things like that. It's hard to inspire confidence in other parents when your own child looks to be sorely in need of adult guidance.
“Be right there!”
The coffee was starting to drip; Faith was waiting at the back door to come in. If only I'd had a third or fourth hand, I'd have switched on the TV and tried to find the weather. March in southern Connecticut always leaves you guessing. I opened the door for Faith and threw down a bowl of dry kibble, then grabbed a cup of scalding coffee and ran back upstairs. I could only hope the day's forecast wasn't critical.
Davey and I made it to school by the second bell, but just barely. The last of the big yellow buses was parked at the curb when we pulled into the already full side lot and designated our own unmarked parking space.
The ride to school had taken less than ten minutes, but in that time Davey had managed to shed both his hat and his mittens. I had his backpack on the front seat next to me or he probably would have unpacked that, too. Organization isn't a strong suit with him. He gets that from his father.
It was only a stray thought, but it stopped me where I sat. A chill washed over my head and neck. For a moment I thought it was an omen; then I realized Davey had opened the Volvo's back door.
He got out and jammed his hat on his head. “I thought we were late.”
“We are.”
Still I didn't move, except to smile as I gazed at my impatient child. My son. In the space of an instant, his birth had transformed everything I thought I knew about love.
Davey's cheeks were pink with cold, his breath coming in small puffs of steam. He'd gotten the green knit cap on crooked, covering one ear but leaving the other bare. Sandy hair stuck out from beneath the rim. He had mink-brown eyes much like his father's. They were heavy lidded and rimmed with long dark lashes. Someday he'd be a heartbreaker, I had little doubt of that. He already held my heart in his hands.
For five years, I'd been the focus of Davey's world and he of mine. I'd always thought I wanted Davey to have the opportunity to get to know his father; but now that it seemed he would, suddenly I was apprehensive about the prospect. When Bob reappeared, everything would change. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.
“Come on,” Davey said insistently. He wasn't allowed to cross the parking lot alone. “Hurry up!”
“I'm coming.” I gathered up my things from the seat, got out and locked the car behind me.
“Race you to the door!”
“Davey, wait! Take my hand!”
Fat chance. We hit the school running and went inside to start the day.
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My formal title is Learning Disabilities Resource Room Teacher. What that actually means is I'm in charge of special education. I work with all the elementary school grades at Hunting Ridge, taking aside in small groups any children who are in need of extra help.
My job is varied, hectic, and often rewarding. On a usual day, I can barely cram everything I need to do into the time allotted. Tuesday was no exception. I had a small mountain of paper work still sitting on my desk when the last bell rang, and a Pupil Placement Team meeting scheduled for after school.
Davey was going home on the bus with Joey Brickman, a friend from down the street. I'd arranged for him to stay through dinner, as that evening was the monthly meeting of the Belle Haven Kennel Club. I was too new to dogs to be a member, but Aunt Peg had invited me to attend the meeting as her guest.
Peg Turnbull can be hard to say no to under the best of circumstances. When she thinks she's doing something for your own good, she's apt to roll over opposition like a Humvee in low gear. I had only the vaguest notion of what went on at a kennel club, and no idea at all why anyone would want to join one, but it seemed I was going to find out. Aunt Peg was picking me up at six.
When I got home, Faith was waiting at the door. I threw my gear in the hall, snapped on the puppy's leash and took her for a long walk around the neighborhood. Flower Estates is a small sub-division in north Stamford: compact houses on tiny plots of land, built in the fifties and meant to appeal to the young parents who were busy producing the generation of children that would come to be known as baby boomers.
Those families are long gone now. Luckily for us, Flower Estates remains. With its outdated design and air of weathered practicality, the neighborhood is a haven of relatively affordable housing on Connecticut's gold coast.
We'd completed our walk and I was in the kitchen mixing Faith's dinner when the puppy ran from the room, raced through the hall and skidded to a stop by the front door, barking wildly. That's one benefit of getting a dog: guests never arrived unannounced. Aunt Peg was already letting herself in by the time I got to the hall. Standing five foot eleven and swathed in scarves and gloves and boots, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Nanook of the North.
“Cut out that racket!” she said to Faith. “It's me, your grandmother.”
Dog-talk for breeder. Immediately the puppy stopped barking and wagged her tail. As Aunt Peg doffed gloves and hat and unwound her scarf, Faith danced on her hind legs, offering to help. What a pair.
“You're early,” I said. “I'm just feeding Faith.”
“Six,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “I'm right on time.”
My watch said ten to, but it wasn't worth debating.
Aunt Peg followed me back to the kitchen. “Where's Davey?”
“At a friend's house for the evening. I told Joey's mom I'd be by around nine. We'll be back by then, won't we?”
“If we're lucky.” Aunt Peg watched with a critical eye as I added a dollop of cottage cheese and some canned meat to Faith's kibble, then set the dish on the floor. “Sometimes these meetings go on until all hours. It depends how much arguing everyone wants to do.”
“About what?”
“Anything and everything. The members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club are a diverse group, nearly all with different breeds and strong opinions about what's best for each of them.”
I considered that. Faith was the first dog I'd ever had. In many ways, I was still feeling my way around Poodles. I knew even less about what went on in the other breeds.
“Actually,” I told her, “you never did explain exactly what a kennel club is.”
“It didn't occur to me. You know what the American Kennel Club is, of course.”
I did. The A.K.C. was the largest registry of purebred dogs in America. From its offices in New York City and North Carolina, it registered puppies, issued pedigrees, and sponsored more than a thousand dog shows every year.
“Local clubs are a little different, both in their goals and their make-up. They serve a variety of functions, one of which is to give breeders in a particular area a chance to get together, socialize, and compare notes.”
That seemed obvious enough. “What else?”
“A well-run club can act as a liaison between dog owners and the community. Club members take their dogs to visit nursing homes and hospitals. They put on programs in schools. They sponsor clinics, do breeder referral to help people who are shopping for puppies, and many now have rescue services, which take in unwanted pets and find them new homes.”
“It sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is. And that's only half the job.”
Faith finished her food, and looked up. When Aunt Peg patted her leg, the puppy ambled over obligingly. Never one for subtlety, Peg ran her hands over Faith's body; checking, no doubt, to make sure that I was keeping her grandchild in good condition.
I picked up the empty stainless steel bowl and carried it to the sink. “What's the other half?”
“The kennel clubs put on the dog shows. One per year, for most clubs.” Apparently satisfied, Aunt Peg straightened from her inspection and scratched Faith under the chin. “That's their most visible function, and certainly most profitable. If a club knows what it's doing, the show can support club activities for the rest of the year.”
“Does Belle Haven know what it's doing?”
“Overall, I'd say yes. Like most dog clubs, we have a core group of dedicated members who do the lion's share of the work. Most of us have been in the dog game a long time. Which is not to say that we always get along. I'll say one thing for Belle Haven's meetings. They're seldom dull.”
I opened the back door and let Faith out into the yard. When I let her back in a moment later, Aunt Peg's gaze went pointedly to the clock over the sink. “We wouldn't want them to start without us.”
“The meeting starts at six-thirty. It takes twenty minutes to get there.” Ten, with Peg driving, but I didn't bother to mention that. “We have plenty of time.”
“So we'll be a bit early.” She was already leading the way to the front hall. “That means we'll get the best seats. On the way, you can tell me all about what's new with you.”
She meant with me and Sam. I knew that perfectly well. Aunt Peg had met Sam Driver before I had, decided he and I were meant for each other, then spent the next six months pushing us together at every opportunity. I'd retaliated by telling her next to nothing about how our relationship was progressing.
It's childish, I know. But sometimes you have to make use of whatever tools are at hand. Aunt Peg was ever resourceful, however. The week before I'd caught her pumping Davey for information.
Wait until she heard what I had to say now.
I got my good wool coat out of the closet. Gloves were stuffed inside the pockets. I figured I'd skip the scarf and hat. “Do you remember anything about Bob?”
“Bob who?”
It was as good a start as any.
Three
A silver moon hung low and full in the clear dark sky. Its light cast a shadowy glow over the great stone mansions and post-and-rail bound fields of back country Greenwich. I'd enjoyed the view many times. With Aunt Peg driving, I kept my eyes on the road.
She had headed west from Stamford and was now going south, navigating the twists and turns of the dark roads with speed and easy familiarity. As always when riding as Peg's passenger, I put on my seat belt, checked the clasp twice, then sat braced, ever so slightly, for impact. That was a psychological problemâmineâand I was trying to overcome it. As far as I knew, she had yet to have an accident; but that didn't stop my life from flashing before my eyes every time she flew around a blind curve or rolled through a stop sign.
“Bob who?” Aunt Peg repeated, once we were under way.
“Travis. My ex-husband.”
“Oh.” She bore down hard on her horn. A driver planning to pull out of a side street thought better of the idea and waited. “Max and I must have gone to your wedding, didn't we?”
“I think so. I doubt that you stayed very long.”
“Probably not,” Aunt Peg agreed.
Max had been her husband, and my father's brother. When Bob and I married, there had been a rift in the family caused by the division of my grandmother's estate. For years, the two sides had barely spoken and done little or no socializing.
Peg closed her eyes briefly, as if trying to summon a memory. I kept mine open and got ready to grab the wheel if necessary. “No,” she said finally. “I'm afraid I don't remember your husband at all. Is there a reason that matters?”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected firmly. “And unfortunately, there is. He called last night from Texas. It seems he's coming for a visit.”
“I see.”
She didn't really; she couldn't possibly. Aunt Peg and I hadn't been close until we'd worked together to find her missing dog the summer before. By then, Bob had been gone for years. Nobody within the family, not even my brother, Frank, knew how devastated I'd been by the circumstances of my divorce.
Aunt Peg flipped on her signal and careened around a turn. “What does Davey think about that?”
“He doesn't know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven't told him.” I could hear how defensive I sounded. With effort, I moderated my tone. “Unfortunately, I imagine Davey will probably be thrilled to know that his father is coming to see him.”
“And that upsets you.”
I struggled to explain how I felt. “The whole situation upsets me. Bob's been gone nearly five years. I've built a life without him. I've gone on. Davey and I are happy. We don't need him back.”
“That doesn't change the fact that he's Davey's father.”
“I know ...” My voice trailed away unhappily. “The two of them should have the chance to get to know one another. It's just that I don't want anything to change.”
“Sometimes change is good.”
“And sometimes it ruins everything.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way. Our destination was a steak house down by the Sound called Francisco's. Aunt Peg bypassed the long hill of Greenwich Avenue with its trendy shops and nouveau-everything restaurants. Even at that time of night, the center of town could be slow going. We drove under the railway bridge, past the Bruce Park entrance, and into Francisco's driveway.
“When is Bob coming?” she asked as we got out and locked the car.
“He didn't say. In fact, I might be worrying over nothing. Follow-through never was Bob's strong suit. With luck, he might not show up at all.”
Aunt Peg snorted softly under her breath. Apparently she didn't believe that any more than I did.
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Francisco's is a big, old fashioned, family owned steak house. According to the sign by the door, it had been in operation for more than forty years. If, in that time, the owners had read any reports on the dangers of cholesterol, it was not reflected by changes they'd made to the menu. The steaks still came in two sizes-large and truly monstrous. Baked potatoes smothered with butter and sour cream accompanied them and the side salads were covered with crumpled gorgonzola cheese. Proving what everyone already knowsâthat most Americans would happily sacrifice good health for great tasteâa loyal clientele kept the dining room full.
In the front room, the hostess stepped forward to greet us, then evidently recognized Aunt Peg. “The kennel club, right?”
We both nodded.
She waved toward a stairway just beyond the cloak room. “You're in the front room tonight, right at the top of the stairs. Looks like it should be a pretty good turn out.”
We left our coats, then headed up. At the top of the stairs, an elderly couple stood uncertainly, blocking the doorway to the meeting room.
“Paul? Darla?” Aunt Peg stepped up beside them. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh no, not at all.” The man turned and smiled. He was mostly bald and the small amount of gray hair he had was carefully combed over his freckled scalp. Though he wore a thick, fisherman knit sweater it added scant substance to a torso that had shrunken with age. “We're just waiting for the waitress to finish setting out the ashtrays. Last time we sat down too early and ended up on the wrong side of the room.”
“Paul coughed all night,” said Darla. She was small and frail, with skin like crepe and cloudy blue eyes. “It was just terrible.”
Aunt Peg grasped my arm and thrust me forward as she performed the introductions. “Paul Heins is our club vice-president,” she added.
He laid his hand limply in mine and left it to me to shake. “Welcome to Belle Haven. Your aunt is a valued member of our board.”
Was she? I hadn't known that. Then again, knowing Aunt Peg, I should have guessed.
She fielded my glance and said, “Recording secretary. I do the grunt work. I think we can all go in now.”
“High time,” said Paul. With a stride that belied his age, he marched on ahead. “What's holding up this show, anyway?”
The meeting room was big, square and plain. The only decoration was an overly ornate chandelier that hung down from the center of the ceiling, illuminating the area so brightly that the white tablecloths made me squint. Long tables, set end to end around three sides of the room, formed a horseshoe with seating for about thirty. A few of the places were already taken; others had their chairs tipped forward against the table to show that they were being saved.
Paul and Darla Heins headed for the far side of the room. I started to follow, but Aunt Peg steered me in another direction.
“Yoohoo Peg! Over here!” A heavyset woman with improbably red hair stood up and waved. She gestured toward the chair beside her. “There's an empty seat right here.”
Aunt Peg hesitated fractionally; if I hadn't known her well, I wouldn't have noticed it at all. “Sorry Monica, we need two seats. This is my niece, Melanie. She's my guest this evening.”
Monica gave me a long, assessing look. She wore big round glasses with brown tortoise-shell frames. As if to compensate for the fact that they hid so much of her face, she'd applied a great deal of make-up. Her cheeks and lips were a matching shade of bright pink.
“I'm sure we can make room.” Monica turned to look, her gaze straying two seats down where a wool-lined Burberry raincoat had been folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Maybe Louis can move.”
“I don't think so,” a deep voice said firmly. The man who came up behind us was mid-forties, tall and slender, and holding two glasses. Scotch on the rocks, I guessed for one; the other was frothy and had an umbrella on top. He had a wide brow, a neatly trimmed black beard, and wore a tweed sports jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Did I hear Peg say you're her niece?” he asked. “Louis LaPlante, club treasurer. I hope you're planning on joining Belle Haven. We could certainly use some fresh blood. My wife and I have Yorkies. What's your breed?”
Joining? Fresh blood? I was barely two feet inside the door. Beside me, Aunt Peg was grinning like a magpie.
“I have a Standard Poodle. She's only a puppy. Actually I'm just getting startedâ”
“Poodles, of course. I should have known.” He set down both drinks. The scotch went beside the raincoat. The other he set in front of a woman with frosted, shoulder length hair who was sitting one place down. She had a leather purse the size of a knapsack in her lap and was pawing through it with great concentration.
“Honey,” said Louis. “This is Melanie. She has Poodles.”
I got a distracted wave, but no eye contact.
“My wife, Sharon.” He cast her a fond gaze. “She's always looking for something. She'll surface about the time the salad arrives.”
“Look!” said Aunt Peg, pointing suddenly. “Two seats together. I think we better go grab them.”
“Nice meeting you.” I'd barely gotten the words out before I was being hustled across the room.
Aunt Peg homed in on the seats in question, tossing her purse on one and waving me toward the other.
“I take it we didn't want to sit with Monica or Louis and Sharon?” I asked in an undertone.
“Louis and Sharon are fine. He's a lawyer in town, and he's recently applied to judge. Dogs, that is; not people.”
Aunt Peg busied herself with getting settled. “Monica Freedman's the one we're avoiding. She'll talk your ear off, telling you every single solitary thing she's done in the last two weeks. Then she'll expect you to reciprocate, and she'll have an opinion about everything you have to say, most of them annoying. Just the thought of having a conversation with that woman wears me out.”
“Does she hold a position in the club?”
“Corresponding secretary.”
“I thought that was your job.”
“Almost, but not quite. I'm recording secretary. The secretary position involves a tremendous amount of work, so most clubs split the job in half. Monica handles all the club mailings. I'm responsible for the minutes of the meetings.” She opened her commodious purse, pulled out a pen and a fat notebook, and laid both on the table in front of her.
“I see you're all ready to get started, Peg. As usual.” The comment could have been innocuous, but the tone in which it was delivered had just enough edge to give it sting.
The woman speaking tipped back the chair on the other side of Aunt Peg and sat down. She had small, sharp features and dark blond hair, liberally streaked with gray. A covered rubber band gathered it into a careless pony tail at the nape of her neck.
Judging by her clothesâa chunky cardigan sweater and a heathered wool skirt that fell to beneath her kneesâshe might have spent the afternoon walking the Scottish moors. I'd have guessed her age at fifty, but with the frown lines that seemed permanently etched on either side of her mouth, it was hard to tell.
“Punctuality is a virtue, Lydia.” Aunt Peg glanced at her watch meaningfully. “One you might try a little harder to cultivate.”
The woman managed to laugh without sounding the least bit amused. “There's no starting a dinner meeting on time at the Belle Haven Kennel Club. Everybody knows that. You may as well relax and have a drink, Peg. They won't even start bringing up the salads until everyone's seated.”
The room was filling rapidly now. One by one, most of the chairs were being taken.
Aunt Peg leaned back in her seat, so that I could see across in front of her. “Melanie, this is our club president, Lydia Applebaum. She breeds Miniature Dachshunds and she's the person in charge of this melee. If you have any complaints, you must take them directly to her.” Aunt Peg's dark eyes gleamed mischievously. “Lydia, my niece, Melanie Travis.”
“Complaints?” Lydia snorted. “With friends like these, what could anyone possibly have to complain about?”
On my other side, the chair pulled back. A stocky woman with a ruddy complexion sat down. “You're new,” she said. “I know everyone who belongs to Belle Haven, and I've never seen you before.”
“Melanie Travis,” I said. “First time.” I stuck out my hand and it was firmly shaken.
“Joanne Pinkus. I sell insurance. Let me give you my card.”
I started to demur, but it was already too late. “You never know when you could use some extra coverage,” she said as she handed over the card. “I have Norwich Terriers. Want to see a picture?”
It seemed pointless to say no; I didn't even bother. Joanne opened a large, white cardboard envelope, and pulled out several eight by ten glossy photographs. Win pictures from dog shows.
“This is Camille,” she said, passing the top one. “And this is Rupert.”