Norah's Ark

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“We…Bryce…needed to start over…another school district.” She looked pained. “He got in with a bad crowd. We felt it would be a good idea to move someplace farther out of the city. You understand, of course, that we don’t want this to be public knowledge. He’s a good boy, really. A kind heart.”

I squeezed Julie’s hand and silently determined to put the Morrises at the top of my prayer list.

Connor was sitting at a small table in front of the Java Jockey, sipping espresso from a small china cup and staring toward Lake Zachary. When he saw me, he waved me over, jumped to his feet and gestured toward a wrought-iron chair.

I hate the cliché “Curiosity killed the cat.” Violence of any kind toward animals is abhorrent to me. But I figure curiosity isn’t going to get me without a fight, so I pulled up the chair and sat down.

“Funny, but even now I can’t get enough of the lake—or any water for that matter,” he said. “Sitting here, looking across it is still a delight to me.”

“It couldn’t hurt that you have six luxury cruise boats moored at the dock.”

He smiled and his even white teeth flashed in the sun. Tucked as they were into a handsome face with a perfect golden tan, it was quite a sight. I understand why Lilly hears wedding bells when she looks at him.

“Have you taken one of my cruises, Norah?” He said it so casually he might have been asking if I’d ridden one of his bicycles.

“A few times, for weddings.”

People around here often rent cruise boats for anniversary and wedding receptions. It’s a perfectly self-contained, no worries, floating restaurant. Only one time did I see a problem with having one’s wedding reception on board. We were sailing nicely around the lake celebrating the nuptials of our friends when someone realized that the bride and groom had not made it to the dock. They had become so lost in each other’s eyes that they also lost track of time and, literally, missed the boat. By the time the captain had turned the ship and sailed back to pick them up, the bride, still in her white dress, and the groom, looking like that little banker, Mr. Monopoly on the board game, appeared pretty dismal. She had tears tracking down her face while her groom was obviously trying to answer that age-old question of newly married men—What have I gone and done? Fortunately, a standing ovation, striking up the band—okay, string quartet—and a buffet cheered them considerably.

“I’d like to have you join me sometime. As my guest. Would you consider that?”

“How generous of you! I’d love to….” My brain went into gear two beats behind my mouth. Recalling Lilly’s building infatuation with this guy, I wanted to make sure she got the attention, not me.

Although he is probably asking me just to be sociable, Connor’s reputation for enjoying beautiful women precedes him. And I’m no doubt worrying prematurely. Look at Lilly and then look at me. Unless he gets a thrill out of women wearing their hair in an aquatic animal imitation—my whale spout of a ponytail—I’m not in danger of holding his attention for long.

“Will there be many of us from Pond Street on board?” I asked innocently, hoping he’d get the hint.

I could read nothing in his well-bred features. His tone was pleasant. “What a fine idea. A party. Brilliant. That would be a good way for all of us to get acquainted.”

A high, sharp sound coming from my shop caught our attention. Bentley stood in the doorway of Norah’s Ark holding his dog dish in his mouth, making the high-pitched squealing noises and staring accusingly at me, eliciting guilt in me from every pore. Little stinker.

“Looks like your dog is hungry,” Connor pointed out unnecessarily. “And who is minding the store?”

“Annie. Sometimes she works at the Java Jockey. Joe and I share her.”

“You love what you do, don’t you?” Smile lines crinkled pleasantly around Connor’s eyes.

“I do. I grew up knowing that I wanted to live with a menagerie around me and the more the merrier. Especially dogs. Norah’s Ark is perfect for me.”

“I felt the same way about the water,” Connor admitted. “I couldn’t get enough. I was sailing things in the bathtub before I could talk. It’s as though I was—” he fumbled for a word “—created to sail.”

“We’re all created for something,” I agreed affably, “there’s no doubt in my mind about that.” I glanced toward the store. Bentley was now lying on his back, legs straight in the air playing dead doggie, bowl still clutched in his teeth.

“I suppose I should take the hint and go feed my dog before rigor mortis sets in.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come running over here to get you.”

“Bentley? Oh, no. He’d never do that. He doesn’t like to cross streets.”

Connor looked at me incredulously. “A dog that refuses to cross streets?”

“It must have had something to do with his life before I got him. Bowled over by a car, maybe. A near miss of some kind. Of course, Bentley doesn’t like a lot of things.”

Like fireworks, staircases, heavy metal music, blenders, motorcycles, electric can openers, suitcases on rolling wheels, the doggie park or, believe it or not, fire hydrants. And those are just his more noticeable idiosyncrasies.

Living with Bentley is an adventure in paranoia. He sees himself in a mirror and goes berserk, ostensibly protecting me from himself. His phobias and suspicions are legion. Fortunately, his capacity for love is even greater.

Connor stared at me strangely. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who seems to like dogs, and every other animal, as much as you do.”

“Love me, love my dog,” I said cheerfully. Connor, who really didn’t know me very well, had no idea how serious a statement that was.

Chapter Seven

I glanced up from the paperwork I do every Wednesday—ordering leashes, fish food and cat toys—to a jingle of the bell I kept in the store’s entry. There stood a large figure in the doorway, backlit by bright sunlight. The body nearly filled the entry, a silhouette of broad shoulders, narrow hips and lean muscles. I was reminded of an action-adventure movie where the hero enters, a larger-than-life figure come to save the day.

And I wasn’t that far off. He looked so different without his uniform, spit-polished boots and mirrored sunglasses on that I hardly recognized Nick. Today he was wearing dark trousers of some soft, rich-looking fabric, a pale blue polo with a black belt and shoes. Better yet, his eyes weren’t hidden behind those distance-keeping glasses. He looked tanned, fit and, I searched my mind for a word Lilly might use—dazzling.

Then I realized that he also looked frozen in the doorway, so I hopped off my stool and went to greet him. I didn’t come close in the clothing department in my khaki shorts and standard polo embroidered with a Norah’s Ark logo.

“Welcome! Come on in.” I beckoned him in. “Do you like things with wings, scales or fur?”

His jaw was set with the same resolve I sometimes have when I go to the dentist—even though the business card says Gentle Dentistry, I don’t quite believe it. After all, my dentist’s name is Dr. Payne. “No. No pets.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” I said cheerfully. “Unless it’s me you want to see.”

“Do you have a minute?” He looked uncomfortable, as if something might attack him. Of course, Winky was giving him the evil eye and had remained silent, which usually meant he was considering parrot mischief.

“Sure. Annie’s in back cleaning the B and B so there’s even someone on duty. We had a big party last night for one of my ‘guests.’”

“You’re still talking animals, right?” He looked unsure.

“Yes. I have a cat named Pepto staying here who has a bit of an attitude problem. He made his way to the top of the curtain rods and brought them down with him.” I had to chuckle. “You should have heard the noises that came out from under those curtains. I thought the water pipes would freeze and the mirrors crack! Quite a little set of lungs that Pepto has.”

He was looking at me as if I were speaking Swahili so I gestured toward the outdoor tables across the street at the Java Jockey. “Would you like caffeine? You’re looking a little pale around the gills.” There I go, diagnosing him with a fish disorder.

He didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he brightened considerably.

“Sure, yeah. Okay. Fine.”

We took a table in the corner to avoid the bright sun. Feeling frisky, I ordered a large latte with soy and hazelnut flavoring. Talk about living on the edge. Both caffeine and sugar in the same drink, a combination that always loosens my lips.

“You’re looking purposeful,” I commented as I studied him. “Is your visit business or pleasure?” His biceps bulged and I could see veins in his forearms that hinted at dedicated muscle building. He also had long pale scars running from beneath the left sleeve of his polo shirt to his wrist. A car accident, I guessed. The healed wounds looked like they’d been carved by jagged glass.

“Actually, I wanted to see if you’d had a conversation with Auntie Lou about her fall out of bed.”

“She’s fine. ‘Meaner than ever,’ she says.” I was pleasantly surprised to realize that he was concerned for my elderly friend. Though everyone knows Auntie Lou, she doesn’t have many close friends that call on her. Everyone on Pond Street assumes I am the go-to girl when something concerning Auntie Lou comes up.

She loves music and can get a little carried away with the volume on her little old portable stereo in the store. She plays her LPs as loud as she can—until someone sends me over to tell her to turn it down. Sometimes I catch her in the back of the store, eyes closed, humming, shuffling her feet and communing with Lawrence Welk and his friends. She also likes Elvis, but people seem to get less tired of his voice emanating from the back of the shop. Mostly I’m delegated to talk to her about not feeding the gulls in front of her store or leaving mannequins bare except for elaborate hats, in the store windows.

“You don’t think there’s a danger of something like that happening again?” His forehead creased in genuine concern.

“Oh, I didn’t say that. She’ll probably do it sometime. At least she keeps her cell phone beside her—even in bed.”

The frown went away. “Good. I’d hate to think of her lying there, waiting for help….”

“That’s very sweet of you. Is this your duty as a police officer or as a concerned neighbor?”

“A little of both. I have grandparents, too, you know.” He smiled then, really smiled and I saw how truly handsome Nick is. He doesn’t smile often but when he does…let’s just say, it’s worth the wait.

“Where did your grandparents live when you were a child?” I asked, intrigued.

“On an island in the middle of Lake Michigan. Gramps was a fisherman.”

“And you saw a lot of them?”

“I stayed on the island every summer and worked for my grandfather.”

“So you like the water.”

Nick turned to look out at Lake Zachary, still as a mirror rimmed with a frame of lush trees and lawns dotted with large lake homes. “I do. This is an ideal location for me.”

“Then I’m glad you’re here.” I surprised myself with my enthusiasm over his good fortune. I guess I’m glad he’s here, too.

We carried on a rambling conversation about the lake, the weather, favorite foods: His are prime rib, mashed potatoes and corn. Mine are milk chocolate, dark chocolate and white chocolate. And hobbies: Nick is rebuilding a 1969 Camaro in his garage. My hobbies are the same as my business—animals, animals and more animals.

It was a rather cozy tête-à-tête until Joe walked out the front door of the coffee shop and noticed us. As he walked our way, I could see that he looked troubled.

“Hey, Joe, everything okay?” I patted the seat of the chair next to me and invited him to sit down.

He accepted the offer by dropping heavily into the chair. “Just the usual. Somebody wants vacation time and I don’t have anyone to cover it so that means I’ll be working nights next week. The espresso machine is trying to express itself in ways that make me think I’ll have to have it repaired. Same old, same old.” His gaze darted between Nick and me but he didn’t say any more.

“Nick was just asking about Auntie Lou,” I offered. “About her health,” I added vaguely.

“I’m not sure she has much time left at the shop,” Joe said bluntly.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Of course not, but she’s old. Old people lose steam, that’s all. She should be somewhere she can take it easy instead of working like she does.”

“Put her out to pasture, you mean?” For some reason, the idea of Joe suggesting that Auntie Lou’s “steam” was dwindling upset me.

“Hardly that. But I worry about her sometimes.”

“She is a little frail,” Nick added, trying to bridge the gap that had broken open between Joe and me, “but she’s got lots of spirit.”

“I think it’s great that both of you are concerned, as I am, but Auntie Lou isn’t finished yet.” I pushed away from the table. “I have to get back to work or I won’t get my order in on time. Nick, thanks for the coffee.”

He started to rise, but I waved him back into his chair. Such a gentleman.

Joe cleared his throat. “Don’t forget about my niece’s violin recital on Friday.”

I crossed my eyes at him. “If it’s as bad as last time, I’m bringing earplugs.”

“My sister says she’s improved a little.”

“Only ‘a little’? Joe, I suffered hearing loss at her last recital. I’d rather listen to a bagful of cats fight than Mozart’s Adagio in E major played by a nine year old.”

He shrugged helplessly. “My sister is expecting you.”

“Only for Maria, then.” I grinned and turned my back on them, reminding myself to stop at a drugstore to buy myself some cotton balls to plug my ears. I left the two of them together to find something to talk about.

The recital was even worse than I imagined it could be. Joe’s niece blistered out a classical piece that no doubt had its composer turning over in his grave, if not trying to claw his way out to rip the violin from the child’s hands. And she was one of the better ones. Even Joe’s comforting arm around my shoulders didn’t help. Throughout it all, the music teacher sat with a blissful smile on her face, nodding and looking proud.

“Is that woman attached to reality at all?” I whispered to Joe after the wailings and screeches were done. “If I had to listen to those shrieking sounds all day, I’d be deaf as a post.”

I moved a little closer to the buffet table where the prodigies’ mothers were serving pieces from a cake shaped like a violin. Accidentally, I bumped into a tall woman who hovered over the cake plates. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean…” She turned toward me. It was the guilty party. The one who’d taught all those innocent children to play like coyotes howling at the moon, like tires squealing on wet pavement, like turkeys having their tail feathers plucked…. There should be a law against what this woman does to music.

She smiled at me with that serene, unearthly smile. As she did so, I noticed a tiny earplug protruding out of one ear. She didn’t answer but gestured me to move forward through the line. No fair! Couldn’t she be penalized for using illegal equipment? Surely wearing earplugs was frowned on by a Teachers of Musical Instruments Association or something. There’s got to be an organization to prevent cruelty to parents.

“I’ll buy you dessert to make up for this,” Joe said later. At least I think that’s what he said. I’m new at lip reading, having had to start it only this evening, after the concert.

“Bribery won’t work. You owe me more than a crummy piece of pie for loss of hearing. Don’t ever do that to me again, Joe. Never invite me to anything where your family plays, sings, acts or orates. Promise?”

Joe smiled and took my hand in his. A dark curl fell onto his forehead and his eyes were mysteriously shadowed by the light of the streetlamp. “‘Love me, love my family.’ Isn’t that what you say?”

“I say ‘Love me, love my dog,’ Joe. And Bentley doesn’t play a violin.”