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At noon, I jogged up to Belles & Beaus to make an emergency bird feed delivery. They’ve installed a large cage in the foyer and I filled it with peach-faced lovebirds to greet their customers. I love a lovebird—makes sense, doesn’t it?—because they are playful and energetic and yes, can be taught to give kisses. Though it’s a completely up-to-date spa, the main floor has been kept to look like the Victorian house that it is. Lush pinks, lace, teacups, ornate furniture and all the things the Victorians loved are accounted for in this place. It would make me wacky to have to work in such sensory excess, but it’s popular with its clientele. I admit I can stand it quite nicely, however, for as long as it takes to have a facial or a pedicure.
On the way back to the Ark, I stuck my head into the open door of the building that was to be the new toy shop. The man and woman stripping wallpaper in the back of the room jumped as if I’d fired a rifle when I knocked on the door.
“Not open until next week,” he yelled.
“I don’t want anything except to welcome you to the neighborhood.” I took a step inside the door. “I’m Norah Kent, from Norah’s Ark pet shop.”
Reluctantly, as if they were walking in cold molasses, the couple moved toward me. They were in their midfifties, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes.
Something had gone awry in these people’s lives. I could see it in the deeply etched frown lines bracketing his lips and the deeply cut wrinkles making her forehead nearly as furrowed as the Shar-pei puppies I sometimes sell.
These people, with their grim expressions, didn’t look like they belonged on happy-go-lucky Pond Street. Neither did they look like owners of a toy store. Or maybe I’d confused them with the cultural image of Santa Claus. Toy store owners didn’t have to have round bellies, pink cheeks and perpetually be saying, “Ho-ho-ho.”
“I’m Franklin Morris and this is my wife, Julie.” He reluctantly stuck out his hand for a shake.
Franklin and Julie. Simple, commonplace names for ordinary people. What kinds of monikers had I expected? Big Bad Wolf and Cruella De Vil?
“Looks like you still have some work to do before opening day.” The fellows who built the pyramids didn’t have to work any harder than these guys would to get this place done in a week.
“Yes,” Franklin said tersely.
“Are you hiring any help?” My voice was beginning to sound falsely chipper—annoying even to my own ears.
“No.”
“Doing it yourself, then?”
“Yes.”
Well, don’t talk my ear off!
“We’re in a little over our head. The building is in poorer shape than we realized.”
Overwhelmed. Now that I can understand.
“If you need help, holler. We treat each other like family here on Pond Street.”
Franklin and Julie exchanged glances, their expressions indicating that they weren’t sure if this was good news or not. Then Julie rallied. “Thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll visit your pet store after we get settled.”
I had to be content with that. First Connor, then the policeman and now the new toy store owners. Suddenly there were a lot of strangers on Pond Street.
I hadn’t noticed Auntie Lou sitting in the shade in a big balloonlike hanging wicker basket chair left over from the late seventies until she accosted me with her broomstick. She was so short that her feet didn’t touch the ground and the chair all but gobbled her up. She was still wearing her cloche hat but did have her teeth in now which smoothed out a few wrinkles. Occasionally Lou’s choppers clatter when she talks so it’s fifty-fifty which is actually better—teeth in or teeth out. Sometimes it sounds like she’s playing the castanets when she talks.
“How’s the cat doing?” I looked around but didn’t see him in her window.
“Big slug is sound asleep on my bed. Eat, purr, sleep. Eat, purr, sleep. That’s all he does.”
“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?”
“What about mousing? A batch of field mice could set up shop right next to him and he’d never blink,” she said with a smile.
“Give him time, Lou. He’s just getting settled in.”
“Settled-schmettled. He’s just as lazy as my former husband.”
And, I realized, that the backhanded statement had somehow been a compliment for both the cat and the man.
“Can you sit awhile?” Auntie Lou asked hopefully.
“Not now, but I’ll come over later and pin up that dress you need hemmed.”
“You’re a good girl, Norah. What would I do without you?” Auntie Lou patted my hand with such gentle affection I felt tears coming to my eyes.
Chapter Four
My place is a townhouse situated on Lake Zachary that I purchased from my father, who’d once owned it as investment property. I’d renovated it and made it my ideal retreat. After work I hurried there for Bentley, who had opted for a morning at home over a day at the shop with me. Bentley enjoys his peace and quiet but he’s not immune to getting lonesome. Especially for moi.
How do I know my dog likes it quiet? At Norah’s Ark, every time Winky starts whooping it up or a batch of puppies start squealing, he flops on the floor and manages to get his front legs and paws up over his ears as if to say, “Turn down the volume.” When my television is too loud, Bentley stands in front of it growling at the screen until I adjust the sound. Bentley definitely needs his quiet time.
Actually, what Bentley really needs is therapy. I rescued him from a shelter nearly two years ago. One day I saw the Humane Society sign and turned in to the lot as though someone else was driving the car and I was simply along for the ride. The car parked itself, expelled me from the driver’s seat and my legs, under no direction from my mind, walked inside.
I’ve never been able to go into a Humane Society without coming out with a pet or two—or three, if you count that ferret—that’s why I regularly mail my donations rather than deliver them in person. Someone other than me should have a chance to save the entire animal kingdom. But that day, maybe because I’d just moved into my home and tripled my living space, I’d felt a giddy sense of freedom.
That same lack of restraint kicked into high gear as I heard myself say to the receptionist, “I’d like to see the dog here that needs rescuing the most.”
Without a blink, she led me to a cage at the back of the dog room holding a pathetic black-and-white creature. Mangy and flea-bitten, with mud up to his belly, his head was drooped so low that his nose nearly touched the floor. But as we neared, the pup’s head came up, his deep brown eyes connected with mine and zing, Cupid’s arrow—Lilly says it was actually Stupid’s arrow—hit me right between the eyes.
That “love at first sight” thing? I’m not sure it happens with humans, but it does with dogs. Bentley and I started a love affair right then and there.
“A bath might help,” the woman said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown him to you until he was cleaned up, but you asked….”
“Any story on him?” His eyes never left mine.
“Not that I know of. He’d been showing up at some garbage cans behind a restaurant, waiting for someone to drop something he could eat. Apparently the staff started ‘dropping’ more food than the manager liked, so he called us. Our vet thinks he’s part beagle, part Staffordshire terrier and maybe a dribble of pit bull, although you’d never know it by his disposition. We’ve nicknamed him Romeo because he’s so eager for love.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been abused because he’s nervous,” she continued. “But he’s also a survivor, no doubt about that.”
I stared at the little mixed package. His head, ears and soft eyes recalled a beagle, but his solid, stocky body and thick, shiny hair were reminiscent of a Staffordshire. His physical look reminded me of Sylvester Stallone of Rambo fame. His personality? Pure Rodney Dangerfield.
Of course, as Paul Harvey says, it’s easy to guess “the rest of the story.”
Bentley has come out of it beautifully—physically, that is. He’s black-and-white, with a black eye patch, one black ear and one mottled gray one. He has the stocky body of a strong dog thanks to that dash of pit bull in the soup, most likely. His nose is one great big black licorice dot and his expression is sweet. He’s all bark and no bite, although he can growl fiercely from the pit of his stomach if he’s frightened. He frightens himself quite regularly by looking in my full-length mirror.
But while Bentley has physical bearing, he’s a neurotic canine. He’s allergic to loud noises, most men and cheap dog food. At first, even my dad couldn’t get close to him without Bentley planting his feet firmly and rumbling from somewhere deep in his belly. A street dog has to learn to fight even if its true nature is more Romeo than Rambo.
When Dad finally got sick of all the dog’s posturing and took two steps toward him, Bentley dropped to the floor and rolled on his back, belly exposed for scratching, panting happily. Bentley has a highly ineffective force field of protection. Talk about being all bark and no bite.
Anyway, Bentley was at the door to greet me with the giddy, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-because-I-thought-you-had-abandoned-me act he does—a series of flips and circles, frantic running to and fro across the living room floor making excited woo-wooing sounds and finally, a dramatic collapse into a heap at my feet.
If I could ever affect a man that mightily—sans the running across the floor, of course—even I would get married.
Then, as I stepped from the foyer into the large living-dining area, my ears were assaulted by a nerve-jangling screech, a “Well, hello, baby!” and the excited flapping of wings. Again, if a man were to greet me with as much enthusiasm as Asia, my mynah bird—Asia, as in Asia Mynah—my heart would go pitter-patter.
As it is, the only pitter-patter I ever hear is the one making its way across my hardwood floor—my Flemish giant rabbit, Hoppy, coming to see what the fuss is about. He sat up and twitched his nose at me and gave me a look that said, “Lettuce, I must have lettuce”—I always imagine he’s speaking in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice—before bounding, as much as a fourteen pound rabbit can bound, to the kitchen to sit in front of the refrigerator and wait for me to do his bidding.
Fortunately rabbits get along quite well with dogs if introduced properly. Besides, Bentley believes that Hoppy is the Alpha dog in the family and the epitome of the canine species. Hoppy is also litter-box trained, a patience-trying process that involves ever-ready alertness and nimbleness—on my part. See Hoppy raise her tail, see Hoppy relax her ears, see Norah run for the litter box, see Hoppy train Norah…and so it goes.
Bribery is actually a very good way to train rabbits—children, too, I’ve heard, but that could be an urban legend. That’s why Hoppy’s box is always sporting a toy and a slice of apple or a sprig of parsley to make it the pièce de résistance. It’s also why I pet and praise her there for jobs well-done. It’s no wonder that she sits in the dumb thing just for fun even now that she’s got complete house-rabbit ranking.
I scratched Bentley, moseyed to the kitchen, gave Hoppy a piece of lettuce and was about to start supper for myself when the telephone rang.
It was my father. “Your mom and I are taking a few days off. We’re going up to the North Shore. She’s found a bed and breakfast she wants to try. If you need me, I’ve got my cell phone.”
They’ve been on a perpetual honeymoon for as long as I can remember. They hold hands, steal kisses, hug, and especially when I was a teenager, kicked up my gag reflex on a regular basis. Still, that’s what I want my marriage to be like, too. If…when…
After I’d gotten the details of the trip and had started to grill myself a cheese sandwich I realized that the theme of my entire day had been “I’d get married if…” Now what’s that about?
I took my sandwich and a cup of tea to the deck and ate it while staring out at Lake Zachary. Maybe Lilly was finally getting to me, making me worry that true love—the kind with bells—would never happen to me. Dating is one thing but finding a soul mate is quite another. Maybe that’s it, my soul is lonely—lonely for someone I can share my faith with as well as my life. Joe’s a churchgoer, there’s no doubt about that, so maybe…
A gull dive-bombed me, startling me out of my reverie. It had to be Lilly’s influence or Joe’s insistence that our relationship be allowed to grow more serious that caused this particular train of thought and brand of misery in me today. “When You want it,” I said, tilting my head back and imagining the God of the Universe caring about trivial little me. Comforted, I returned to the kitchen to dig into the refrigerator to see if I had any other food which hadn’t met and surpassed the expiration date on its packaging.
“Vavavoom!” Joe commented as I opened the front door. “Great look.”
I suppose it’s great if you’re going for the Electrocuted Idiot theme, but I didn’t say that. Instead I waved him into the house. “It was all Lilly’s idea. She thinks I should wear my hair loose and my slacks tight instead of the other way around. I feel like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”
I referred, of course, to my unfettered hair which, unrestrained, floats like black seaweed around my face. The slacks, also Lilly’s idea, were black, slender and cropped just above the ankle. She’d insisted I wear a red silk blouse with a mandarin collar, ornate black frogs and a delicate design stitched in gold thread. The best thing about the getup was the fact that she’d “allowed” me to wear black thongs on my feet so that, although I felt like a poster child for an Asian import company, my feet didn’t hurt.
Joe, looking incredible as always, sockless and in a white shirt and dark trousers, cupped my face in his hands and pressed a kiss on my forehead. “Maybe we should find a sushi bar instead of eating Italian.”
“No, thanks. This is a tribute to your ancestors, remember? We’ll eat pasta until we almost burst and then spoon spumoni and tiramisu into the crevices. Then we’ll roll home groaning and saying we’ll never eat that much again. But on the way we’ll run into a Baskin-Robbins and eat some more. It’s your family’s way, I’ve seen them in action.”
More than once, actually. Joe invites me to all his family’s get-togethers and I often join him. Other times, on holidays, when I know Auntie Lou is alone, I cook a big meal and invite her and, as Lou puts it, other “human strays” I can find to join us. Once, by putting it out there that I would be home for Thanksgiving, I ended up entertaining not only Auntie Lou, but an out-of-town pet food salesman, Barney of Barney’s Gas, Lilly, a courier who came to my door with a package from my parents, a new neighbor in my complex and three people from church who said they didn’t have plans and were going to go home and open a can of soup.
“But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed….” God invites everyone to His party. He doesn’t believe in exclusivity and neither do I.
“You aren’t as ill-suited for Lilly’s attire as you’d like to think. Frankly, when you aren’t in a sweatshirt and jeans you’re…”
The way Joe was looking at me, I was afraid his next word might be “delicious,” so I hurried to interrupt. “Care for some appetizers? A soda?”
“We’d better get going. I made reservations for seven.”
Joe drives a Jaguar XK convertible, elegant yet sporty, just like he is. He’s also charming, funny, generous, smart and a whole host of other good things. Maybe, I thought, as we careened, top down, toward his favorite little Italian restaurant, I’ve held too tough a line where Joe is concerned. Some women would saw off an appendage to claim he was theirs and here I am, fending off his advances and trying to be his friend when he wants more.
It must have been the top down on the convertible that scrambled my brain because I decided that, for the night, I would play with the idea of spending the rest of my life with Joe. I’ve spent so much time pushing him away, that it seems only fair that I give him at least a chance at proving he’s the one for me.
If I were rating him on good manners, looks, charm and the ability to order great Italian food, he’d get an A+.
I was still picking at my tiramisu when Joe asked, “What is Lilly doing tonight?”
I leaned back and nearly purred, like a kitten sated on warm cream. Actually, most everything we’d eaten—shrimp pizza in white sauce, ravioli, fettuccini—has been made with pure cream, so the metaphor wasn’t that far off.
“Lilly? She had a date.”
“With that engineer she was seeing?”
“Oh, no, as far as I know, he’s history. You aren’t keeping up.”
“I don’t have enough time to do that and run my business,” Joe joked.
It’s true. No one does. Lilly plays dating “catch and release.” Like the fishermen who populate Lake Zachary, she wants the thrill of the catch, not the fish itself. We tried to count one day, just how many men Lilly had dated in the past two years and even she couldn’t remember. Lilly depends upon the cliché “there are always more fish in the sea” and she’s always on the lookout for a new variety.
“I think Lilly has her eye on Connor Trevain,” I commented as the waiter poured me another cup of coffee.
“He’d be an exotic catch if there ever was one.” Joe pinioned me with his gaze. “Is that what you want, Norah? Someone exotic?”
“Me?” I squeaked. “Do you think he likes jeans, sweatshirts covered in dog hair and eau de parfum of Fish Food? I don’t think so.”
“But what do you want in a man?”
I felt an earnestness descend over Joe. The conversation was going in a direction I hadn’t expected. Still, I had promised myself I’d give Joe this chance, so I didn’t brush him off.
“You can almost guess, can’t you? He has to be a Christian and love animals as much as I do, for starters. And he has to dote on Bentley. That’s a given. Anyone who fills those qualifications has potential.” I tried to keep my voice casual, but the thickly curtained, muted booth in which we sat seemed to suck up the lightness and made me sound grave.
“I know you wouldn’t take a second look at someone who didn’t share your faith, Norah, but an animal lover like yourself? Do other people as passionate as you exist?” He was smiling a little, half curious, half amused.
“I hope so. I believe I was put on this planet to care for God’s vulnerable creatures, Joe. I can’t turn my back on that.”
“I’m a Christian and I like animals. Especially Bentley.” He said it so softly that I barely heard his words. “Where does that put me?”
My hand moved of its own accord to his cheek. “It puts you in a very select group of my precious friends, Joe.”
“Just friends?”
Oh, oh. Here we go.
“I know I’ve been pushing back whenever you try to approach this, Joe. The shop, the renovations in my home, the business decisions…”
“Norah…” he chided.
“Okay, so I’m scared.” I crossed my arms over my chest feeling suddenly very vulnerable. “How’s that for honesty? Finding a life-partner is a big deal. What if I make a mistake? What if my choice is bad? Then what?”
He looked at me so gently that I felt like crying. “Where is God in this process?”
I felt a warm rush of humiliation spurt through me. Some big talker I am! All this stuff about meeting a man who loves God and yet I really hadn’t consulted Him about it other than a drive-by prayer or two.
“Hypocrite in the room, I admit. It just seems so permanent. I know I can’t have anyone in my life that doesn’t understand how I feel about—” I paused, feeling a pun coming on “—the underdog!”
“Are you scared of me, Norah?”
