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Her clothes were casual, nondescript—a loose knit shirt, white, with short sleeves and a sports logo on the pocket, beige linen slacks and sneakers that were broken in but not quite worn-out.
His attention returned to her mouth. A flash of white as a tooth scraped her lower lip, a glimmer of pink as her tongue darted out for moisture. She cleared her throat. “I’ll buy Lissa another dog, a puppy of her very own. I’ll even teach her how to train it—”
“No.” He flinched at his strident tone, softened it. “It’s a generous offer, and I thank you for it, but Lissa won’t accept another dog. She wants Rags.”
“I know that, too.” C.J. regarded him with peculiar sadness, and a hint of understanding that was oddly troubling. “And Lissa always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?”
Richard stiffened at the truth. “My daughter is not like other children. She can’t run through blooming meadows, ride her bike or play softball in the park, and she’s spent more time in hospitals than most children spend in school. It’s not her fault that she’s fragile and ill. It’s not her fault that she’s doomed to grow up without her mother. It’s not her fault that she has been denied the normal joys of childhood, which is all any child wants and deserves.” He gritted his teeth, spoke through them. “So the answer is no, Ms. Moray, Lissa definitely does not always get what she wants.”
“Please, I meant no disrespect—”
“But if you’re implying that I try to compensate for all my daughter has lost by indulging those few pleasures still available to her, then I plead guilty as charged.” He jammed the bills and wallet into his pocket and folded his arms, more angry at himself than the woman whose acute perception was more accurate than he cared to admit.
Richard was a father, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew perfectly well that Lissa wasn’t above faking illness to get her own way. His daughter could be difficult, but she had reason to be. Along with a plethora of food and environmental allergies, Lissa’s asthma was a serious, sometimes life-threatening condition. The child was physically vulnerable, emotionally fragile and motherless. Despite the difficulties of single parenthood, Richard adored his child, had devoted his life to protecting her and making her happy.
At the moment, happiness hinged on the outcome of a canine custody dispute centered upon one very specific, slightly devious and undeniably clever little dog. It was a dispute Richard dared not lose.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was husky, like wafting wood smoke. A tingle warmed his arm where she touched him. “I know how much Lissa loves Rags, believe me, I know. But they’ve only been together a few weeks. Rags has spent his entire life with me. I’ll give you whatever you ask for him. Five hundred...a thousand...ten thousand. I’ll take out a loan, sell my car, I’ll do anything.” Her fingers trembled, tightened their grip above his wrist. “I know I’m a grown woman and your daughter is only a child, I know I must seem shrill and selfish, and maybe I am, but I’m desperate. You don’t understand, you don’t know what Rags and I have been through together.”
To his horror, tears swelled, spurted, careened down her cheeks.
“Children are resilient....” Her voice quivered, her gaze slid to the window, behind which Lissa sobbed openly, hugging the shaggy mixed breed that consoled her with frantic face licks.
C.J. stared for a moment, then turned away, shaking her head. “My God,” she murmured. “Listen to me. I can’t believe that I’m actually willing to break a child’s heart to protect my own.” She wiped her face with her hands, propped one fist on her hip and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. There’s no excuse.”
Before Richard could respond, Lissa shot out the front door, sobbing her heart out. “No, Daddy, no, Ragsy is my dog! Don’t let her take him away, please, please—” gasp “—don’t let her take—” wheeze “—him—”
As Richard snatched out the inhaler, C.J. laid a restraining hand on his arm as she squatted down in front of the wheezing, red-faced child. “I’m not going to take your dog away,” she said quietly. “But there are some things about Rags you need to know. If you love him as much as I think you do, you’ll calm down now, so you can listen and learn how to take good care of him.”
To Richard’s shock, the strained gasps ceased, the child’s breathing deepened as she focused a skeptical stare. “I already take good care of Rags.”
“I’m sure you do, but did you know, for example, that Rags loves bananas?” The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s right, but if he eats more than two bites, he gets really, really sick, so you have to be sure to keep them out of reach. He likes apples, too, but again, you have to be careful how much he can have. There are certain brands of dog food he won’t eat.”
The girl brightened. “Daddy had to buy three different kinds before he found one Rags liked.”
“You see? You’ve already discovered one of his secrets. He’s finicky, and as long as you feed him apples and bananas, he figures he doesn’t have to bother with stuff he doesn’t really like. You have to be careful only to give him treats that are good for him. His tummy can be sensitive.”
Lissa nodded solemnly. “Is he allergic, like me?”
“Well, he reacts badly to fleabites, I’m afraid, but that can be controlled. I have some medicine that helps him. I’ll—”She paused, bit her lip, then managed a tremulous smile. “I’ll bring it to you.”
The child cocked her head. “You will?”
“Yes. I’ll bring you all of his vet records, and his favorite toys, too, but you have to promise me that you’ll watch him carefully, especially when he’s on his skateboard, because sometimes he doesn’t pay attention to—”
Richard interrupted. “Skateboard?”
C.J. glanced up with a shaky smile that made his heart quiver strangely. “Rags is quite the little sports dog. He also jumps rope, surfs and knows how to ride a windjammer. I was planning to take hang gliding lessons this summer, and had a special harness made so he could come with me....” Her voice drifted away.
Lissa’s eyes were appreciatively wide. “Gee, Rags does lots of tricks, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper. C.J. cleared her throat, offered a bright smile with quivering corners. “But he can also be quite a rascal. He’ll try to get away with lots of things that are dangerous. You’ll have to learn how to protect him, and keep him safe. You have to train him to respond to you. I can teach you how, if you like.”
It was a generous offer. For a moment, Richard thought Lissa might actually accept. Instead, the child’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I can do it all by myself.” Lissa spun, strode to the front door, paused with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Ragsy is my dog. He doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Lissa!” Richard flinched as the front door slammed, then faced the shaken woman rising to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
C.J. shrugged. “It’s all right. This has been difficult for her. I understand.” Oddly enough, he believed that she did. She raked a hand through her hair, took a deep breath, then suddenly fumbled in her slacks pocket and extracted a business card. “I’ll forward Rags’s things. If you have any questions or problems, you can reach me here.”
He absently glanced at the card, did a double take. “‘All That Jazz Academy of Dance’?”
“If I’m not there, that number will forward to my beeper.”
She licked her lips, blinked rapidly. Too rapidly. “Please give my regards to Lissa. Tell her I’m glad Rags found such a good home.”
“Ms. Moray—”
But she’d spun away, crossed the yard and was already climbing into her car. A moment later, she drove down the street and disappeared, leaving Richard both relieved and conflicted.
For the sake of a child she did not even know, C. J. Moray had relinquished all claim to the pet she clearly adored. He was grateful, of course, but he was also deeply saddened by the niggling sense that this might have been one battle his daughter should not have won.
“You just left him there?” Under the best of circumstances Bobbi Macafee was an imposing woman, tall, broad shouldered, with a thick mane of ebony hair and a horsey face that oddly enough was not unattractive. When perturbed, that face tightened into a furious mask, reddened like a neon beet and was frightening enough to have once cowed a professional wrestler, who’d unwisely refused to pose for a photograph, into hiding behind his trainer to escape her wrath.
Now Bobbi loomed large and intimidating, jammed her fists on her hips and gaped at C.J. as if she’d just confessed to abandoning an infant on a doorstep. “How could you do such a thing? I mean, Rags is family! You might as well have given up your own child!”
“There wasn’t any choice,” C.J. mumbled, retrieving the palm-sized glucometer from a kitchen shelf. She pricked her finger, smeared a blood drop on a test strip, which she inserted into a slot at the side of the machine. “That little girl loves Rags. She would have been devastated to lose him.”
“What about you?” Bobbi insisted. “Don’t your feelings count?”
“I’m a grown-up. She’s a child, a sick, lonely little girl who desperately needs love.” C.J. checked the digital readout for her blood sugar level, then put the glucometer away, measured a precise amount of orange juice into a glass and prepared a lean turkey sandwich for lunch.
Behind her Bobbi paced and fumed, ranting about the injustice of the world. C.J. ignored her. Although fiercely loyal and opinionated to the point of irksome, Bobbi was first and foremost a dear friend. They were like sisters, had been since their college days, and C.J. understood that the guilt of having been responsible for Rags’s loss in the first place weighed heavily on her roommate’s conscience.
Not that C.J. blamed her. Moving an entire household wasn’t easy, even for a woman who could bench-press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t Bobbi’s fault she’d been left to tackle the task alone. If anyone was responsible for Rags’s loss, it was C.J. herself. She should have been there to protect her precious pet during the move.
“You should sue,” Bobbi announced, nodding so vigorously that her spectacles slipped down her nose. “I know a lawyer—”
“No.”
“But the county was negligent! Honest to God, Ceejz, I called the shelter six times a day for two solid weeks after Rags ran away, and every dadgummed time they said no animal of that description had been picked up. They lied, they screwed up, they gave your dog away, for Pete’s sake! Someone has to be held accountable for that.”
Heaving a sigh, C.J. set the orange juice down. “No lawyers, no lawsuits. It’s over. I’ve made my decision. Rags is happy, well cared for, and loved. Please, can’t we drop it now? This entire subject is...painful.”
Bobbi’s face crumpled in despair. “Oh, hon—” She stepped forward, stopped when C.J. raised a palm to signal that she was perfectly fine and didn’t wish to be fussed over.
Of course, C.J. wasn’t perfectly fine and Bobbi clearly knew that. She also understood C.J.’s aversion to being the subject of worry or concern, and respected her silent request even if her furrowed brow displayed disagreement with it.
Frustrated, Bobbi straightened her glasses, heaved a deflating sigh. “Look, I have to go. The magazine is sending me out to interview an over-the-hill jockey who’s accusing some racing association of age discrimination.”
CJ. nodded without comment, took a bite of sandwich while her roommate hustled around the cluttered room gathering her briefcase, pocket recorder, camera and other tools of the journalistic trade.
Pausing at the front door, Bobbi shouldered the briefcase strap, raked red-tipped fingers through her thick tangle of long black hair and regarded her friend with blatant concern. “Are you going to be all right, Ceejz? I can reschedule this thing—”
“I’m fine,” C.J. assured her. “You go, do your job.” She enforced that edict with the brightest smile she could muster, and tipped the orange juice glass in salute. “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”
Bobbi responded with a thin nod, an even thinner smile, then slipped out the door.
Alone now, C.J. slumped against the kitchen counter, forcing herself to finish the tasteless sandwich. Eating was more ritual than pleasure. Her body required food whether she wanted it or not. At the moment, her stomach twisted, her head hurt and she was angry with herself for being so emotional.
The reunion with her beloved pet had been bittersweet. Although deeply grateful that Rags was alive and happy, the emptiness in her heart seemed suddenly overwhelming again. For the past six years that crafty canine had been her constant companion, from romps on the ski slope to ocean surfing excursions, and had even shared a hot-air balloon trip she and Bobbi had taken to research one of her roommate’s magazine articles.
Rags was the only creature on earth who accepted C.J.’s quirks without question. He never criticized, never furrowed a doggy brow with worry, never gave scolded warnings or repeated medication reminders. He was thirty fur-covered pounds of unconditional love and acceptance that C.J. desperately needed.
But little Lissa needed it more.
The Matthews child had put a mirror to C.J.’s own lonely childhood, a poignant reminder of how much a friend—even a shaggy canine friend—means to a sick and lonely little girl.
Since C.J. wouldn‘t—couldn’t—take that away, she set about fulfilling her promise to forward Rags’s possessions. Retrieving a box from her bedroom closet, she examined the contents. Tiny tags, still snugged on Rags’s collar ring; his old training collar and leash; special ointment for the skin condition that flared occasionally, along with a folder of medical records, all meticulously maintained from the day she’d brought him home as a feisty ten-week-old pup; his favorite chew toys, the plastic Frisbee he adored; a tiny wet suit for beach excursions, a warm saddle coat for snow trips; and of course, his beloved skateboard.
There were photographs, too, a record of their time together, of the adventures they’d shared. But the pictures were hers, and hers alone. All she had left were those images, and the memories they evoked. Good memories. Joyful memories.
Memories of mountain hikes and walks in the park, of the reassuring bed lump that always crowded her legs, of the rushed vet visit when a wasp had stung his tongue.
Memories of warm fur and a cold nose and wet, doggy kisses that made her sputter and laugh. Memories of friendship. Memories of love.
C.J. remembered it all, relived it all. And she smiled through her tears, content in the knowledge that there would be more memories of friendship and love created between a big-hearted pooch and the lonely little girl who needed him.
Chapter Two
“I can have the revisions done by the end of the week.” Shifting the telephone, Richard spread the curled blueprint over his drafting table, readjusted the corner tape to hold it flat. “The changes you’re suggesting shouldn’t have more than a minimal impact on cost—”
“Daddy!”
“But I’ll run the new specs through the computer and give you an update—”
“Daa-ddy!”
“In a day or so.” Richard sighed as Lissa stomped into the secluded den that served as his architectural office. “Listen, Jay, can I get back to you on this? Thanks.”
“Ragsy won’t play with me,” Lissa announced as soon as he’d cradled the receiver. “He won’t play dress-up or chase his ball or do anything ’cept sit on the back of Gramps’s chair with that dumb Frisbee in his mouth and look out the window.”
Richard swiveled on his drafting stool, and squeezed the back of his aching neck. As he opened his mouth to speak, one of a half-dozen antique clocks displayed throughout the office began to chime the half hour. Seconds later another chimed in, then another. The sound soothed Richard, offered a moment of calm retreat. He loved clocks, particularly the old ones, with rich embellishments, gilded etchings and intricate carvings crafted by long-ago artists who took pride in their work. His collection of such treasures was a source of great joy to him, and he could spend hours restoring a neglected piece to its original luster.
After a few seconds, the clocks fell silent, and Richard returned his attention to the sulking child beside his drafting stool. His voice was firm, but not particularly convincing. “Lissa, you know you’re not supposed to interrupt me while I’m working.”
She poked her lip out, folded her arms. “I want to play with Rags.”
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Richard motioned his daughter over, pulled her into his lap. “Rags doesn’t want to play right now, punkin. He’s feeling sad.”
Lissa’s lip quivered, then clamped in anger. “It’s that mean lady’s fault. Gramps even said so.”
With some effort, Richard kept an impassive expression. Thompson McCade was rich, powerful, smoothly controlling and as devoted to his grandchild as was the man’s timid, beleaguered wife. Richard considered his father-in-law a tyrannical bully, but had always kept that opinion to himself out of respect for his wife’s memory, and because he didn’t want to alienate Lissa from her grandparents’ love and attention.
Now, as always, Richard tried to straddle a fine line between supporting McCade’s inappropriate blame-mongering, and openly contradicting his daughter’s beloved Gramps. “I can understand your grandfather’s concern, punkin. He hates to see you upset. But you have to remember that Gramps hasn’t met Ms. Moray, so he’s really not in a position to comment on her motives. I believe she only wants what’s best for Rags, and for you, too.”
“I don’t care. I hate her.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“Well, I do hate her, I do. She’s trying to steal my dog and I just wish she’d dry up and die.”
“That’s enough.” Speaking sternly enough to startle his daughter into attention, Richard enforced his position. “It’s okay for you to feel bad, and it’s okay for you to be angry, but it’s not okay for you to say mean things about people even when they’re not around to hear them.”
“But it’s not fair,” Lissa wailed. “Ragsy is my dog.” Pulling away from her father’s embrace, the child leapt down, kicked at a cardboard blueprint tube lying beside the drafting table. “He was real happy before she showed up, and now he won’t eat or play or do anything at all. He’s no fun anymore, and it’s all her fault.”
After emphasizing her pique with another kick at the hapless mailing tube, Lissa spun on her heel and marched out. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed.
Richard pushed away the contract file with which he’d been working, leaned back on his stool and rubbed his eyelids until they stung. As annoyed as he was with his father-in-law’s interference, he still couldn’t blame Lissa for feeling helpless and frustrated, particularly when he felt that way himself.
Ever since C. J. Moray’s less than fortuitous appearance, Rags had shown every symptom of an animal grieving himself sick. The poor little dog had eaten nothing for four days now, and even the neatly packed box of toys, bowls and other doggy belongings that had mysteriously arrived on the front porch hadn’t helped dissuade the animal’s melancholy mood. If anything, the pooch seemed even sadder, carrying the pathetic Frisbee in his mouth as he wandered from room to room, then returned to his vigil at the front window and stared dolefully outside as if awaiting his mistress’s return.
Yesterday Richard had decided a romp in the neighborhood park would perk Rags up. The moment the front door opened, the dog had shot to the very spot in the front yard where C. J. Moray had been standing, then followed her scent to the curb. Had the animal not been leashed, there was no doubt in Richard’s mind that Rags would have chased the scent as far as possible in pursuit of the mistress he had never forgotten, and still clearly adored.
Rags was obviously heartbroken. Richard feared the stoic little pooch would grieve himself to death, and was convinced that something had to be done. He’d already formulated a plan. Lissa wouldn’t like it, of course.
But she’d like the alternative even less.
The dance studio was situated in a tidy corner of a bustling strip mall, the kind where neighborhood residents gathered for groceries, a quick video rental, or to peruse the aisles of a local bookstore. Richard parked, paused outside the studio’s glass front to read a few posted flyers announcing beginning ballet lessons, tap dance classes and the like.
He swallowed a guilty twinge. Lissa had always wanted to take ballet lessons. The request had been denied, as had her desire to participate in playground softball and other such athletic endeavors, because Richard was worried such physical exertion would exacerbate her asthma.
Lissa’s asthma was no joke. She’d nearly died twice, and had been hospitalized more times than Richard could count. Doctors hoped the condition would ease as she matured, but so far there’d been no perceptible improvement. Attacks came on suddenly, without warning, and could escalate to life-threatening proportions with hideous speed. It was a terrifying situation, not for the faint of heart.
Lissa’s mother hadn’t been able to deal with the terror, the helpless horror of watching her only child slip to the edge of death time and time and time again. Richard had understood his wife’s fear. He’d even understood her guilt, and the secret sense of failure at having given birth to a frail and sickly child. What Richard hadn’t understood, still couldn’t understand, was why a mother, any mother, would give up on her own child by giving up on herself.
Despite years of emotional withdrawal during which Richard and his wife had become virtual strangers, he’d been nonetheless shattered by her death.
Now he gazed into the glass window, his own reflection revealing the bitterness of that memory. It hurt. It would always hurt. He’d failed as a husband. He was determined not to fail as a father.
Squaring his shoulders, he yanked open the dancestudio door and walked into chaos.
Beyond the partitioned entry, blaring music vibrated the walls, the floor and his back molars. Bongos bonged, cymbals crashed, tambourines tonated in a wild calypso cantata that was part Caribbean reggae and part “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” with a jarring jab of New Orleans jazz tossed in for good measure.
Richard would have hocked everything he owned for a sturdy set of earplugs.
Above the deafening musical fray was a voice, sharp, firm and familiar. “And one and two... twirl, twirl... hands high, Shelly, reach for the sky...that’s good, very good. And bend, twist, and bend and twist... come on, fairies, high on your toes, stretch those arms...fluid, graceful, hands flutter like fairy wings.”
