The Truth About Cats & Dogs (10 page)

S
AM WONDERED
if his heart was broken or if the pain he felt in the region of his chest was due to breathing the musty air of the church basement. He'd been hauled down there by his best man to meet with his bride's father, a husky former Olympic wrestler, who'd choked back tears as he'd informed him that the wedding had been cancelled.

The one-hundred-seventy-four guests, due to arrive within the hour, would be told there would be no wedding. Apparently, the bride had sent her apologies; the bridesmaids had returned crimson dresses to their hangers; and the mother-of-the-bride had thrown a crystal vase filled with red and white roses against the locked door of her daughter's hotel room.

“I suppose it must be for the best,” his former future father-in-law had sniffed before blowing his nose on the red silk handkerchief he'd pulled from the jacket pocket of his size fifty-two tuxedo. “Though for the life of me I can't see how. I don't know why she made this decision now, of all times.”

Sam could have told him. He could have said,
“Your daughter never
could
make up her mind, sir. Have you ever seen her try to order from a restaurant menu? Decide which black dress in her closet to wear? Select new sheets and towels for her apartment?”

But he kept silent, afraid that any words out of his mouth could be construed as bitter. Or worse, angry.

“Uh, Sam,” the older man said, flushing red before he reached inside his jacket once again. “She wanted to make sure you got—well, here it is.” He handed Sam the six-carat diamond engagement ring.

“Thanks.” He swallowed his disappointment, shook hands with the man who'd fathered the woman Sam had had the bad luck to propose to, accepted the sympathetic slap on the back from his best man, and untied Darcy from the metal post by the stairs. The ring, selected by his fiancée after too many trips to every jeweler in town, was slipped into a satin-lined pocket of his tuxedo jacket, to be immediately forgotten.

“Let's go get drunk,” his best friend said.

“At ten o'clock?” It was to have been a morning wedding, followed by a champagne brunch in the Emerald Room of the city's most exclusive hotel. Sam had hoped for dancing, had even picked out the band, but the bride had opposed participating in anything but the most sedate and elegant reception. Susan was nothing if not sedate and elegant. He had liked that about her, not being a sedate or elegant kind of guy.

“Sure,” Jim said. “What else do you have to do?”

“Call my parents, I suppose.” His mother had come down with a bad case of the flu last week and had been too sick to travel to the wedding. His father wouldn't leave her, of course. Not even if he had been thrilled by Sam's choice of a bride, which he hadn't.

“At least Darcy won't have to go to the kennel again.” Jim led the way up the stairs to the back of the church. A side door took them to the parking lot, now with only three cars.

“I tried to bring him there this morning, but he started howling—well, you know what he sounds like when he gets going.” The English mastiff, a brute of a dog with the heart of a poodle, wagged his tail and licked his master's hand.

“Like all the hounds of hell have gotten loose?” Jim chuckled. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Susan would have a fit if she knew I brought him to the church.”

Darcy pranced over to a snow-dusted bush and lifted his leg. The two men, dressed in identical black tuxedos and red cummerbunds, stood with their backs to the wind and ignored the bitter cold December air.

“What Susan likes or dislikes doesn't matter anymore,” Jim reminded him.

“Yeah.” That was a strangely freeing observation, Sam noted, though he would have liked to have married. They'd been together for more years than he
could remember and he didn't know what to expect next. He was alone, he was thirty-three and he couldn't imagine starting the dating process all over again.

Darcy walked to Sam's SUV and sniffed the back tire before peeing on that, too.

“Come on back to the house,” Jim said. “I've got a bottle of scotch that'll cure anything, even a disaster like this.”

“I appreciate it.” He unlocked the doors of the three-year-old Escalade and opened the back door for Darcy. “But I think I'm going to head back to D.C.”

“You shouldn't be alone this weekend. Stay with me and Caroline. Darcy can play with the kids and you and I can watch football and yell at the Redskins.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don't think I'd be good company. Right now all I want to do is get out of town. Tell the rest of the guys that I'm fine, will you?” The six ushers were to have met in the lobby of the hotel in half an hour, where they would have been chauffeured to the church in time to seat the guests.

“Sure. I'll go over to the hotel now,” Jim promised. “I'm sure they've heard what's going on. Susan's father probably spread the word before he came here.”

“Thanks.” Sam opened the driver's door and slid inside. He'd inherited the Escalade from his father, who'd wanted a luxury SUV to drive after a particularly harsh New England winter. He'd had it for a year, until Sam's mother's arthritis had prevented
her from climbing into it without pain. Susan had wanted to trade it in for something smaller and more politically correct, but Sam liked the Escalade. He was a large man with a large dog and he liked having room.

“No problem,” said his best friend. “Take it easy.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, before closing the door. He would take it easy, all right. After he did whatever it was a groom did when he'd been dumped an hour before the wedding.

He wasn't going to cry in his beer, drown his broken heart in whiskey or confront Susan in room seven-twelve of the Hilton Emerald Hotel. No, he had his pride, his dog and a week's vacation.

Sam Grogan was free.

Whether he wanted to be or not.

 

“Q
UIET
,” J
ESSICA
H
ALL TOLD
the barking dogs. “I have to think.”

Two of the Pekes paid no attention to her command, not that she expected them to. But a few moments of quiet would be appreciated, especially now that she sat in her wounded van, its hood propped open for inspection, parked next to a gas station six hundred miles from home.

“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” the young mechanic had said, looking sincerely upset about having to give bad news. “You've got a leak in your transmission. I can fix it, but it will sure take some time to get a new
transmission, or even a rebuilt one. And the money, well, ma'am, you'd be better off putting the money towards a new vehicle, if you know what I mean.”

“Thank you.” She'd thought of her pathetic bank account and a Visa card that wouldn't bear the cost of an expensive car repair. And she did need a new car. Or a new used one.

“Shh,” she told the one of the barking dogs, a red Pekingese the shelter called Harriet. The dog looked at Jess and panted, her little red tongue sticking out of her mouth in typically comical Pekingese style. Harriet was the noisy one, Jess had learned in the two hours she'd had the dogs. Ozzie, too thin and somewhat nervous, was also red, but he made no noise unless Harriet started barking. Samantha, the quiet one, simply hid in her crate and peered out with one frightened brown eye, and Jess didn't think she could see much out of that one.

“Ma'am?” The mechanic returned and knocked on the glass.

Jess rolled down the window and let the cold air sweep inside while the mechanic nervously wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

“I put some transmission fluid in,” he said. “If you go slow you might make it to Richmond before it all leaks out. Least there you can get a place to stay. And maybe somebody there'll be able to fix it for you faster 'n me.”

“Can I buy some of that, just in case?”

“You want to put it in yourself?”

“If I have to, sure. Maybe you can show me where it goes.” She hopped out of the van and had a quick lesson in transmission fluid.

“You let it go dry and you'll blow the engine,” he warned, looking uncertain as he handed her a plastic jug filled with liquid. “Be real careful heading home.”

“I will, thanks.”

He followed her to the driver's side of the car and peered into the back seat while she retrieved a credit card from her wallet. “You sure have a lot of dogs back there. You headed north?”

“I hope so.” She smiled, which made the kid turn red to the tips of his ears. “Thanks for your help.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Ma'am.
That was a new one. She was twenty-eight, not exactly matron material, but to a teenager she supposed she looked like a much older woman. A woman with an old van, old dogs and a thermos half-full of lukewarm coffee. Jess dug her cell phone out of her purse and proceeded to call for help. She left voice mails with Janice, the Pekingese Underground Railroad coordinator who normally would have handled this transport, and with Mary, her partner at Big Hearts for Little Dogs. “Help,” she said. “This is Jessica Hall. I'm stuck in Virginia. Can someone foster two dogs for a week or so?”

As much as she hated to leave her van, she would fly back to Rhode Island and, if PUR couldn't trans
port next weekend, she'd borrow someone's car and drive back to get the dogs herself. Samantha, the oldest dog, was in bad health. She would take her on the plane with her. Surely there would be an airport in—she checked her map again—Richmond, if she could make it that far. She didn't want to count the miles between this small town and Interstate 95. She'd keep driving, at least until someone called her back with a better plan.

Sitting in a gas station worrying about her car wasn't an option. The attendant returned with her charge receipt and she was ready to go. She and three homeless Pekes didn't have any choice but to keep moving forward.

Jess drove slowly, heading east along the road. It was a cold, gray Saturday morning. She hoped it wouldn't snow, though the weather report on the local radio station this morning had predicted the strong possibility of a storm. She hadn't worried, though, planning to be well on her way north before the storm descended upon the mid-Atlantic states.

Thirty-four miles later she stopped for a hot cup of coffee and a chance to take the dogs out to relieve themselves on the frozen grass beside the Krispy Kreme parking lot. She left more voice-mail messages, checked the road map and, as she began to pull out of the parking area, swerved to avoid hitting the largest dog she had ever seen.

Then came the crash.

U
H-OH
. D
ARCY JUMPED
back on the grass and started to shake. Sam would know what to do. He'd been inside their favorite place in the world getting a treat. A super-sugared hot Krispy Kreme treat. And Darcy, relieved to have escaped a week at the kennel and a lifetime of Sam's girlfriend, Smelly Susan, had jumped out of the car and danced for joy as soon as Sam had opened the door to put his coffee in the cup holder. No more Susan. They were both free to be together without Smelly Susan and her voice, a voice that pretended to be nice but underneath said,
I don't like dogs.

Darcy knew he should have seen the van coming. He'd forgotten he was in a parking lot, but he'd smelled other dogs—he'd
heard
other dogs—and he'd wanted to say hello. He'd wanted to bark and share his happiness with new friends. He'd wanted to play. Sam should have reminded him to watch out for traffic, but Sam had his hands full with his cup of coffee and box of doughnuts. Sam was sad. He'd been playing Johnny Cash songs again, something he did whenever he felt bad about something.

It had been, as Sam would say, “a close call.” Football talk for “luck,” the dog knew. Darcy tried to stop shaking, especially after Sam called his name. He barked as loud as he could at the van when he heard dogs barking their complaints from inside of it, but he didn't move off the grass. Not until Sam grabbed his collar and assured himself that his hairy best friend was okay. Then Sam swore under his breath and Darcy found himself shoved into the car and told to “stay.”

It wasn't one of his favorite words, but he knew by the look on Sam's face that he'd better do as he was told.

Besides, he had a box of Krispy Kremes to keep him company.

 

“S
TAY
!” S
AM SHUT
the most disobedient mastiff in Virginia in the car and hurried across the parking area to the maroon van, whose front end had collided with a Dumpster. Bad enough to have escaped a ruined wedding, but now he seemed to be dragging mayhem with him wherever he went. Sam couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the doughnut shop hadn't burst into flames or collapsed within itself.

But the barking coming from the van drew his attention back to the problem at hand: Darcy had just caused someone to drive into a Dumpster rather than hit a dog. Sam had just turned to call him back to the
car when Darcy had loped toward the van. Fortunately the driver had missed the dog;
unfortunately
the van hadn't missed the Dumpster piled high with construction materials from something that was being built next door.

“Hey!” he called, hoping like hell that no one was hurt. He saw a woman's delicate profile in the window and when she turned to face him he saw that she was young, maybe midtwenties. Clouds of light blond hair framed a pretty, heart-shaped face.

Not that he was interested in women—pretty or not—right now. In fact, he intended to join an all-male gym, hang out in sports bars and take up smoking cigars to guarantee he would no longer be exposed to those strange creatures who could turn a man inside out with one look.

He was done with women. It would be a long time before he'd let another one tie him in knots and talk about honeymoons, wedding rings and whether to redecorate his apartment or hers.

The driver of the van rolled down the window, which intensified the barking sounds coming from inside the car and revealed pale skin, large blue eyes and lips that were turned down as if she was in pain. She said something he couldn't hear, so Sam stepped closer.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, louder this time.

“I spilled my coffee,” she said. “There was a dog—”

“Mine,” he admitted.

“I tried not to hit him.”

“You didn't. He's fine. But you hit a Dumpster.”

“I know. This isn't exactly my lucky day,” she said over the loud yapping of dogs he still hadn't seen. She turned to the back seat. “Quiet! It's okay!” The barking stopped for about ten seconds before resuming.

Several people came over to the van to look at the damage and to assure themselves that the driver wasn't hurt.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Sam asked again after telling two elderly ladies and a cable television installer that everything was fine, the driver wasn't drunk and the dogs were not barking from pain but from excitement.

“It's just some spilled coffee,” the woman said, wiping her denim jacket with a wad of paper towel.

“Can I give you a lift home?”

“I'm not from around here. I was trying to get the van to Richmond to either get it fixed or fly home this weekend.”

“It was broken before this?” He stepped back and helped her open the door to climb out of a van he guessed to be about fifteen years old.

“We were limping along. I guess I shouldn't have pushed my luck and stopped for something to eat.”

“Lady,” someone said, “looks like the radiator's leaking fluid.”

Sam walked with her to the front of the van to look
for himself. If she'd been driving a sedan, things might not be so bad, but the blunt-nosed van had taken the brunt of its collision on a corner of the Dumpster. Whatever problems the Ford Windstar had before, they were now a hell of a lot worse.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I guess this is as far as the van is going to go for a while.”

“We can get it towed,” he offered. “We're right outside of town, so you shouldn't have any trouble getting someone to look at it for you.”

“Maybe it's not as bad as it looks.”

“Maybe.” He had to admire her optimism, but anyone with eyes could see that the old clunker deserved a final resting place in a junkyard.

“You must be on your way to something important,” the woman said. She wore jeans and thick-soled boots. Her blue jacket was open to reveal a stained brown sweater and a figure that would make most men drool.

Not him, though. She wasn't his type. He was through with women, whether they were sleek and elegant like his former fiancée, or voluptuous and covered with dog hair.

“Important?” He looked down to realize he still wore his tuxedo. The bride hadn't thought so, but in all likelihood she'd change her mind next week and call to reschedule. Like a wedding was a dentist appointment. “No,” he said. “It's over.”

The little blonde gave him a curious look, but was
interrupted by a state trooper who pulled into the driveway and turned his flashing lights on before he stepped out of the patrol car.

“Sam Grogan?” The trooper shook his hand. “Steve Betts. I was in the stadium the day you caught that seventy-four-yard pass and sent the game into overtime.”

“That was a good day,” Sam said, wondering how many years ago that was. “Back in ninety-six?”

“Yeah.” Steve looked as if he wanted to ask for an autograph, but then he caught sight of the jeans-clad blonde and turned toward her instead. “Ma'am? What happened?”

She explained, and Sam agreed that the woman had swerved to avoid hitting his dog. He even showed the mastiff to the trooper, not that the man wanted to get too close. Darcy wagged his tail and tried to thrust his head out of the car door as soon as Sam opened it, but Steve Betts, Washington Redskins fan, backed off and talked to the woman again.

“You should get that hand looked at,” Sam heard him say as he used his cell phone to call a tow truck. “I'll be glad to give you a ride over to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but I can't leave my dogs right now. I promise I'll see a doctor as soon as I can.”

“Ma'am.” He tipped his hat and headed toward the building for a mid-morning snack.

“A doctor?” Sam followed her back to the van. “Why didn't you say you were hurt?”

“It's just a burn.” She didn't seem interested in explaining. She dug through her purse with her left hand “Darn. It must have been on the seat when—”

“What?”

“My cell phone—”

She opened the door and leaned across the seat. The front of the van was a mess. He saw maps, cups, water bowls, leashes, papers, paper towels and a pile of old bath towels. She looked like she'd been on the road for a month.

The dogs started yapping again, but gave up shortly after they started. Sam figured they'd worn themselves out. He didn't like little yappy, hairy dogs. He hadn't exactly wanted to own one of the largest dogs in the universe, either, but his sister's husband had declared he couldn't sleep with his bride and a mastiff-mix mutt every night. The bed wasn't big enough and they were newlyweds. Sam's sister had cried, and Sam had relented, taking Darcy—named after someone in a Jane Austen novel—to his house to live happily ever after.

“I called a tow truck,” he began, watching her retrieve the phone from the floor, “but maybe you should try starting the engine, see if it turns over.”

“Good idea.” She hopped onto the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and died. “The transmission fluid started leaking this morning and a mechanic told me I needed a new one.”

“New car or new transmission?” This was start
ing to sound worse and worse, and all because Darcy had taken an uncharacteristic vault across a parking lot. The damn dog was lucky to be alive.

“Either one.” She smiled, and Sam fought the urge to take her to a car lot and buy her any four-wheeled vehicle she wanted. “Look, you don't have to stick around here. The tow truck will come and we'll be fine.”

“I'll wait,” he said. “The accident was Darcy's fault.”

“Darcy?”

“The dog you didn't hit.” He watched her fumble with the phone. “Do you have friends in Virginia who can help you?”

“Not exactly.” She left a brief message with someone named Janice before turning back to him. “I'm transporting three dogs from West Virginia to Rhode Island.”

“You're a dog breeder?”

“No.” Once again that smile, though she winced when she started to put her hands in her pockets, then quickly withdrew her right hand. “It's the Pekingese Underground Railroad. PUR for short.”

“Pur.” He repeated it the way she'd said it, “Pure,” wondering if he'd heard her correctly. An underground railroad for dogs sounded bizarre, but then again, it was that kind of day.

“For homeless Pekes,” she added, as if that explained everything. He decided there wasn't time to figure it out.

“Your hand,” Sam said, reaching toward her with his own. “Let me see.”

“It's not that bad. I'll get some aloe and—”

“You're burned,” he said, touching her fingertips carefully. Red marks covered three of her fingers and the back of her hand. “The coffee?”

“I was drinking and driving,” she admitted, giving him a small smile. “It will feel better if I put some cold water on it.”

“Go,” he said. “I'll stay here with the van in case the tow truck comes.”

She grabbed a small leather purse and hopped out of the van. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he muttered, watching her hurry toward the glass entrance of the doughnut shop. “It's not like I have anything better to do.”

 

J
ESS SKIPPED THE REST ROOM
and begged a cup of ice from one of the young men at the front counter. Her hand stung much more than she wanted to admit. If she could pretend it wasn't that bad, then maybe she could also pretend the van wasn't that broken and this particular transport wasn't turning into the journey from hell.

This was the day she'd looked forward to the most. She'd been up early, anxious to drive the remaining miles to the shelter and meet the dogs. There was the scheduled visit with Hazel, stockings to deliver, fabric waiting to be picked up. All that and
she'd anticipated beating the storm back to New England. A “slow-moving front,” the weatherman had assured Rhode Island three days ago. At least it wasn't snowing.

And at least Sam Grogan, football star, had been pleasant enough to offer to watch out for the tow truck. And she'd had no choice but to trust him. The man was drop-dead handsome, with that dark hair and those wide, wide shoulders. The expression in his green eyes had held genuine concern, though he should be more careful about his dog getting loose and jumping across fast-food parking lots. The state trooper's face had lit up when he'd recognized him. Of course, how many people in tuxedos were buying doughnuts this morning? Only the ones who'd partied late last night, Jess figured, sticking her three burned fingers into the ice. The pain eased a little, especially when she scooped ice onto the back of her hand and held it in place with a paper napkin.

She hesitated before leaving the building, wondering if she should replace the coffee that had spilled across her hand and splattered on the floor of the van, but the thought of holding a hot cup of coffee again made her feel a little queasy. She wished she'd had at least one bite of glazed doughnut before crashing. Maybe her stomach wouldn't be so unsettled if there was food in it.

Jess stepped outside and took a deep breath of cold air before she headed to the van. The football
player was inside, behind the steering wheel, sipping coffee and talking on a cell phone.

“Checking messages,” he said, when she opened the passenger door. “Or trying to. I'm still getting used to this thing. I've figured out how to call out, but I'm never sure if I've shut it off or not.” He snapped it shut and slipped it into the inside pocket of the tuxedo jacket.

“Don't let me interrupt,” she said, taking her fingers out of the ice so she could close the door. One of the dogs barked again, setting off the other two. Jess told them to be quiet and miraculously they obeyed. “Thanks for watching them.”

He turned to face her and rested one arm on the steering wheel while he held his coffee in the other. “They're a lot less trouble than a mastiff, believe me. Do they always stay in those little crates?”