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Marc rubbed the back of his neck, sore from looking up at people all day. “Please. Sit. Down.”
His tension conveyed itself in his voice. Abruptly she sat. “Sorry. I should know better.”
“You probably think I should apologize for myself,” he went on with the lazy cynicism he fell into so easily these days. “I could tell you I’m not really such a jerk as I acted this afternoon but frankly, I’m not sure that bastard isn’t the new me.”
“I’m quite sure he isn’t.” Her bag started moving again. A tiny whimper came from within and Marc heard the sound of scrabbling claws against the straw. “I think underneath you’re a caring man who hasn’t yet come to terms with his disability.”
Marc winced at the word disability and his hands tightened their painful grip on the wheels of his chair. “You’re being a little naive, don’t you think?”
“I believe people are essentially good at heart,” she insisted over the sounds coming from her bag. “Sometimes though, they’re so unhappy the goodness doesn’t have a chance to shine through.”
“Forget the sermon, Pollyanna. Why don’t you show me what’s in your bag?”
He thought for a moment she might refuse but the matter was taken out of her hands, literally, when the top of the bag pushed open from within and a small wiry dog leaped out and into Marc’s lap.
“What the—!” Marc burst out.
“I’m sorry. He has no manners.” Fiona reached for the dog who squirmed out of her hands and tried to burrow under the hem of Marc’s sweater. He succeeded in hiding only his head, leaving his rump sticking out. She added hopefully, “Isn’t he adorable?”
“I’ve never seen a more miserable scrap of fur in my life.” And yet, when he lifted his sweater, the pooch’s woebegone expression made him smile, the first he’d cracked all day. He put a hand out and the puppy cowered away from him, his thin body trembling.
“He was found in a burlap sack by the river. I think he’s been abused,” Fiona told him. “He’s sweet natured, though. With a little TLC he’ll bounce right back.”
Marc noticed a dark patch begin to spread through the fabric of his blue jeans and his glimmer of good humor vanished. “He peed on me!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Fiona exclaimed. “He’s excited after being cooped up too long.” She snatched the puppy away, shoved him back in her bag then got the wet cloth sitting by the sink. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized again and started to scrub at the stain on Marc’s upper thigh.
“Stop!” He pushed her hands away. “Why did you bring the damn dog here, anyway?”
“I thought you might like to have him as a pet. He was abandoned and I can’t keep him. He doesn’t look like much I know but once he’s gained a bit of weight—”
The sound of the bag falling over cut her off. The puppy escaped, skittering across the floor to hide behind a large potted plant. Fiona picked him up and held him close to her chest to try to calm him.
“You thought I might like a pet,” Marc repeated incredulously. “Do I look like I run a lost dogs’ home?”
“Pets are good therapy for the elderly and disabled. It’s a well-known fact that dogs give patients a sense of well-being.” She cradled the puppy protectively against her chest. “Please consider taking him. If your aunt and uncle don’t mind, that is. I must confess I didn’t stop to consider them. It’s their house, after all.”
She’d lumped him in with the elderly and disabled. That alone was enough to make him refuse. That he hadn’t an ounce of physical or emotional energy to give another living creature, not even a half-dead hound, sealed the dog’s fate as far as Marc was concerned.
“They hate dogs,” he lied. “Especially rambunctious puppies.” He hoped she wouldn’t notice Rufus’s food bowl near the back sliding doors. Leone and Jim’s Irish setter slept outside but evidence of his existence was around. “Besides, once I’m walking again, I’ll be back at work. I travel constantly. I can’t take care of a dog. So if that’s all you came for—” Spinning the chair around, he started back to the front of the house “— I’ll see you out.”
Fiona’s heavy sigh rent the silence. “Poor little guy,” she crooned to the puppy. “I’ll have to take you to the pound.”
Marc glanced back at her. “The pound?”
She lifted her shoulders and let them fall in an exaggerated fashion. “Someone will adopt him. I hope.”
Marc’s eyes narrowed. He resumed his progress down the hall. “You’re just trying to guilt me into taking him.”
“Will it work?” Fiona followed with the puppy cradled in her arms.
“No. Too obvious.”
“It was worth a try. If you change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
They passed the living room. Jim glanced up from his newspaper and Leone put down her book to call out, “Leaving so soon?”
“I’m afraid so,” Fiona paused to reply. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Come again, anytime,” Leone said from her seat on the leather sofa. “What a sweet puppy. Look, Jim, isn’t he gorgeous? We just love dogs,” she confided to Fiona.
Groaning, Marc dropped his head into his hand.
“Who wouldn’t love a pup?” Fiona said without a trace of reproach in her soft voice.
Marc escorted her to the door. “So now you know I’m a liar as well as a lush,” he said. “Not a fit parent for an impressionable dog. But then, you lied, too. You said you wanted me to do you a favor when all the time you were trying to do me one.”
“Is that so bad?” she demanded. “Life is a lot easier if people help each other.”
Marc had nothing to say to that. Ever since he’d learned to tie his own shoelaces he’d pushed away all attempts to help him. Why should that change just because he was in a wheelchair?
Fiona dropped into a crouch in front of him and put her hand on his forearm. In a low voice not meant for Jim and Leone’s ears she said, “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t really mean that about killing yourself.”
“I didn’t really mean that about killing myself,” he parroted back, deadpan.
With an exasperated sound, she rose, wincing slightly. Her feet probably hurt after being on them all day, Marc thought. He’d give anything to feel pain in his feet.
From the doorway he watched her walk back to her car and waited until she’d driven off before going back inside. The adrenaline buzz induced by her presence drained away and he wheeled slowly back to his room, brushing off his aunt’s suggestion to join them.
His room, virtually unchanged since he’d left home after high school, was plastered with posters of snowboarders soaring above snowy peaks and rock climbers moving like spiders up sheer rock faces and impossible-looking overhangs. The shelves of his bookcase were lined with sporting trophies instead of books and his closet teemed with specialized equipment and clothing he might never use again.
Going to his dresser he opened the middle drawer. Away at the back, beneath his socks and underwear he found the vials of pills he’d been saving since rehab. Pain pills, sleeping pills and God knows what else. They were his safety hatch for that hypothetical day when the doctors told him there was no hope. Without action, movement, adventure, his life would be unbearable.
He opened one vial and let the tablets flow through his fingers. How many would be enough? Leone would know but he could hardly ask her.
Marc put the pills away and shut the drawer. He was feeling low but not that low. Yet.
Wheeling over to the window he watched the street-lights wink on in the growing dusk. His unlit room became darker and darker compared to the outside illumination, reflecting his thoughts. For weeks now he’d ricocheted between anger, self-pity and despair.
And worst of all, sheer excruciating boredom.
Imagine Fiona bringing him a puppy. It was a silly, impulsive thing to do. Damn cute little dog, though. He almost wished he’d had the guts to say yes.
Free: Jack Russell–cross puppy to a good home.
Call Fiona 555-6283.
Fiona got permission from Jason’s hairdresser to put a notice in the salon’s front window when she dropped Jason off for a haircut. She had a whole sheaf of them which she’d photocopied at the drugstore that morning and was now distributing around town. Her heart wasn’t in it—she was attached to the little dog already—but she didn’t see any other option.
“I’ll meet you back at the drugstore in half an hour,” she called to Jason who was draped in a black gown that hung down the sides of his wheelchair.
“Make it an hour,” he said, twisting to speak to her. “I want to go to the Electronics Shop for some components.”
Fiona paused at the door. “I noticed Jeff put an ad in the local paper for help wanted. Why don’t you ask him for an application form?”
Shaking his head, Jason turned back to the mirror. “See you later.”
Fiona dropped off notices at a half-dozen more stores then picked up a couple of take-out coffees from the café and continued to her friend Liz’s yarn shop. As well as handspun yarn and knitting accessories Liz sold sweaters, shawls and scarves she designed and knit herself. She’d made the brown-and-cream alpaca pullover Fiona wore over jeans.
Liz’s cropped dark curls were bent over her spinning wheel as her nimble fingers spun a fluffy mass of wool into a lengthening thread. At the sound of the door opening her foot stopped pumping and the wheel slowed.
“Coffee!” she exclaimed with a welcoming smile. “You read my mind. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been going crazy this morning trying to come up with a theme for Jilly’s birthday party. She wants to invite her whole kindergarten class. How am I going to entertain twenty six-year-olds?”
Fiona handed her a foam cup and sank onto an arm-less wooden rocker that Liz called her knitting chair. “That’s a tough one. I guess fairies won’t work two years in a row?”
Liz shook her head. “She’s over that and anyway, there’ll be boys at the party.”
“If I come up with any brainwaves I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ve been pounding the pavement all morning putting up notices.” She handed one to Liz. “Can I tape this inside your front window?”
“Of course.” Liz sipped her coffee and scanned the paper. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a home for a Jack Russell—they’re so smart and cute.”
“This animal’s not a shining example of his breed, unfortunately. In fact, he looks like a drowned rat. I tried to give him away last night but he peed on the guy’s lap and that was that.”
“Bad luck.” Liz paused to pull on the wool in the basket so it fed evenly into the spindle. As she set the foot rocker in motion again, she said, “By the way, I sold the last of Snowdrop’s cria wool to a client in Whistler— Angela Wilde.”
“Angela Wilde?” Fiona repeated. “Is she any relation to Marc Wilde?”
“She’s married to his cousin, Nate. Why?”
“Marc is the guy I tried to give the dog to. He— Marc, that is—came into the pub yesterday and got stinking drunk.”
“I heard he’s in a wheelchair now. He was injured during a bomb explosion, I think Angela said.”
“Apparently he’s going to recover but in the meantime he’s not taking his loss of mobility well.” Fiona fingered a soft skein of dark blue wool, remembering the thinly veiled rage and despair in Marc’s eyes when he spoke of his injury.
Liz sipped her coffee. “From what Angela told me, those Wilde men live up to their name. Apparently Marc was the wildest of them all when it came to courting danger.”
So why had he asked her out? Fiona wondered. She was the tamest person she knew, mired in responsibilities she’d willingly taken on but with no life to call her own.
“He invited me to dinner,” she told Liz.
Liz’s eyebrows rose. “And you said…?”
“No, of course.” Fiona put down the skein of wool and rose to pace the narrow aisle between the shelves of yarn. “He was drunk. He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Anyway he’s got a serious attitude problem. I don’t want that kind of negativity in my life. Plus, he’s not sticking around once he’s recovered.”
“One excuse would have been enough.” Liz smiled to herself as the thread slipped between her fingers. “Not because he’s in a wheelchair?”
It took Fiona a moment to answer. “No…” she said finally. “That would be pretty insensitive of me.”
“He’s got a fabulous voice,” Liz said. “Is he as attractive as he looks on TV?”
“In a cynical, world-weary sort of way.” With his dark gold hair and eyes the color of new denim he could have been very attractive if he hadn’t let himself get so scruffy. Fiona noticed Liz watching her closely and turned away to gaze out the front window. “Speak of the devil.”
On the raised wooden sidewalk Marc had stopped to read her notice. Seeing her, he motioned for her to come out. Fiona cast an uncertain glance at Liz.
“Go on,” Liz urged. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’ll see you later.” Fiona gathered up her notices and walked back outside under the shelter of the wooden awning that ran the length of the block. The morning clouds were breaking up and the afternoon promised more of the fine Indian-summer weather they’d been having lately.
“Hi,” she said to Marc. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to her notice. His eyes looked even bluer in daylight and his hair glinted in the sun like gold threads. He was wearing a dark green track suit that showed off his broad shoulders. Marc was more attractive than he appeared on TV, somehow larger than life.
“I can’t keep the dog so I’ve got to do something,” she explained. “Giving him away is better than sending him to the pound.”
Marc shook his head, frowning. “You have no idea what kind of people he’ll end up with. They may say they’ll give him a good home but how do you know he won’t be mistreated again?”
“Whoever answers this ad will be someone who wants a pet,” she said mildly. “But it’s nice that you care.”
That brought him up short. His mouth clamped shut and he glanced away. “I don’t.”
Fiona wagged a playful finger at him. “I don’t believe you.”
One corner of his mouth twisted down as his hardened gaze swept back to her. “I don’t care what happens to the damn dog.”
A woman and a small boy about four years old approached, interrupting their discussion. Fiona stepped to the side, dodging a hanging flower basket, to let them pass and Marc maneuvered his wheelchair out of the way behind one of the chunky posts that supported the awning.
The little boy’s unblinking gaze fixed on Marc. “Why’s that man in a wheelchair, Mommy?” he said in a loud voice.
“Shh, honey.” The mother flushed as she glanced at Marc and quickly away. “It’s not nice to stare.”
“But, Mommy, what’s wrong with him?” The boy tugged on his mother’s hand to slow her pace, craning his neck to look back at Marc.
Fiona saw Marc’s hands tighten on his wheels and felt herself tense up, too. The man was a time bomb waiting to explode. Definitely not ready to handle this.
“I had an accident,” he snarled. “What’s wrong with you?”
The boy burst into tears. His mother stared in shock for a split second before dragging her son away. “That wasn’t very nice, mister.”
“What a horrible thing to say to that poor kid!” Fiona exclaimed. Just when she was starting to think she’d judged Marc too harshly.
Marc shrugged. “Maybe he’ll think twice next time before making comments about strangers.”
“He’s just a little boy.” She shook her head in dismay. “I can’t believe you could be so mean. And on such a beautiful day, too.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
