What the Dog Ate (18 page)

Maggie stood on the steps of MAMA
waiting for Helen, her date for the museum’s annual fund-raising gala. She had
fantasized earlier that week that her date this evening would be some wonderful
man she’d met at the speed-dating session, but, of course, that hadn’t worked
out. She was irritated with herself now for even entertaining such a silly idea
and irritated with Helen for being over fifteen minutes late. When Maggie
called her cell, she got voicemail.

“Where are you? I’m gonna be a big
girl and go in by myself. Call when you get here.”

The museum looked beautiful.
Delicate white lights wound their way around the pillars and staircase
railings, huge Asian-style floral arrangements stood at either end of the
appetizer-filled table in the foyer, and a projected spray of constellations
danced across the ceiling.

Maggie said hello to Vanessa, the
volunteer coordinator, and a few of the other volunteers and went to the bar to
get a drink.

In addition to the usual beer, wine
and champagne, there was a martini bar. Maggie chose a blood-red pomegranate
concoction, reasoning that the antioxidants would counter the negative
nutritional effects of the alcohol, and wandered through the halls to revisit
some of her favorite works while waiting for Helen. She’d wandered into a room
displaying the work of a new artist, who happened to be an elephant, where she
overheard a woman describing to her companion how she could truly feel the
artist’s angst.

Good grief.
Some of these people are too much. Obviously she didn’t read the panel
explaining these were painted by a pachyderm
. She rolled her eyes, then
snuck a peek at the woman who droned on. She saw an older woman with a perfect
hairdo, tailored black designer suit and chunky turquoise necklace. The woman
had a face only money could buy: porcelain forehead, eternally surprised
eyebrows, and oddly elongated upper lip.
Ohmygod, she’s
been youth-anized
. Maggie bit her lip to keep from snorting out a laugh
at her joke. The woman posed like a Grecian statue, only with an Appletini
where a vase or cluster of grapes should have been.

After observing the woman for a
moment, Maggie noticed she was surrounded by what seemed to be nothing but
wealthy museum patrons. And all of them in couples. She tugged at her $30 cocktail
dress. She’d been so excited when she’d gotten such a deal. And even though she
thought the dress flattered her figure, she felt that the mannequin-matrons
around her knew she’d gotten it at Target. She might as well have been a modern
day Hester Prynne, only with the trademark red bull’s-eye on her chest. She
wanted to say aloud to anyone who would listen, “It’s designer. Isaac Mizrahi.
And I paid full price for this pashmina.” She’d treated herself to the gorgeous
pale pink cashmere shawl to celebrate the deal on the dress and the fact that
her stock’s price had gone up after the Fast Track news. But instead of baring
her soul and dress label to the room, she sighed and headed for the rooftop
deck. She could hide there while waiting for Helen.

~~~

“I see I’m not the only one who had
this idea.”

Maggie turned to see a nice-looking
man with dark blond hair in a crisp, white shirt and navy blazer. She smiled as
he walked over to where she stood looking at the city lights, her martini
resting on the wall that ran around the rooftop patio.

“It’s a bit stuffy inside,” she
lied. She couldn’t tell him the real reason she’d escaped to the roof.
“I’m socially inept and intimidated by the thought of a little
cocktail party banter.”

“I know what you mean. Some of those
folks are definitely stuffed-shirts.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, I wasn’t accusing you of
anything. I just needed a break; running low on witty repartee.” He flashed a
warm smile, a lone dimple creasing his left cheek, and set his own clear
martini next to hers. It was a man’s martini; its olive turned a disdainful red
eye on her decidedly girly drink. She guessed he was not the fruity-concoction
type. It struck her as sexy; but, lonely as she’d been, she had to admit that,
similar to Kona and his definition of “edible,” she had a wide definition of
sexy these days.

“Me too.” She returned his
infectious smile and hoped there was no stuffed mushroom in her teeth.
Oh, is he cute
. He was fairly tall, probably six feet,
with a hawkish nose balanced by his firm jaw. His hair, thinning on top, made
Maggie wonder about his age. He looked familiar, but she figured she’d remember
meeting such a handsome man.

“I’m Brian.”

“Maggie.” They shook hands, and
then both leaned into the wall and admired the view. They agreed it was a
beautiful night. The museum was only three stories tall, but sat on a hill at
the outer edge of Balboa Park, with a view of downtown, sparkling a short
distance away.

“So, do you work at the museum?” He
asked.

I must not look
like a rich art patron
. “No, I’m a volunteer,” she said. “I started a
couple of months ago. What about you?”

“I just started recently as well. I
mean, working here though, not as a volunteer.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” “That’s nice.”
So lame. You weren’t lying about being out of witty conversation.
Besides, you’re pathetic. A minute ago you wanted to leave, but now here you
are, all happy just because a cute man is talking to you
. She was about
to ask what he did at the museum when he beat her to it, asking what she did
for a living.

“Well, I’m trying not to define
myself by my work at the moment.” She was about to add “but I’m an accountant,”
when he spoke first.

“You know, I think you have the
right idea. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their work in this country.” He sipped
his drink. “So, if you’re not defining yourself by your work, how are you
defining yourself?”

“That’s the hard part. I’m trying
to figure that out,” Maggie played with the pendant on her necklace. “Actually,
that’s part of why I started volunteering here. I’d sort of turned into a... a
workaholic I guess, but now I’m trying to figure out what I really want to do.
What my passions are.” She shrugged.

“Ah, our passions. They make life
worth living.”

“Yeah, that’s why I really need to
find some.”

“What sorts of things are you
interested in? What do you love?” He stressed the last word and pantomimed
squeezing something in his hands.

“I love art and music. I’m not
creative though. I don’t have talent for those things; I just enjoy them. I
love food; I used to cook a lot. Although now about the only ‘cooking’ I’m
doing is blending smoothies and nuking Lean Cuisines. And, honestly, I prefer
the eating over the cooking.”
Dream job idea: ice cream
taste tester. That’d be great. Probably not a lot of call for that though, and I’d
weigh three hundred pounds
... Maggie had started mentally trying on
various occupations in her quest to find her ideal second-career. “Oh, and I
love biking and I love dogs.”
Dog walker? Definitely don’t
want another office job; it would be great to be outdoors all the time. But,
no. Too much poop, too little pay
.

“We have a lot in common. I love
art as well. I guess that’s obvious since I work here. And food; what’s not to
love? Music too—classical is my favorite. I haven’t been on a bike in ages,
though. I prefer running, although I cannot say that I love it. But, dogs. Dogs
are the best.”

“Do you have a dog?” Maggie asked.

“I do.” He didn’t volunteer any
further information.

“What do you have?”

“I have a Chihuahua.” He looked at
her as though he’d admitted he would have preferred an Appletini.

“Oh.” She tried not to sound
surprised. “How cute.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, no really. I’m not thinking
anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re thinking, why
would a big guy like him have a tiny Chihuahua?”

She laughed. “That’s not what I was
thinking. I was actually thinking about how people say dogs look like their
owners, but I can’t imagine that’s the case with you.” Her eyes played over
him, in search of Chihuahua comparison points. “What’s its name?”

“Her name is Peaches.”

She stifled a small giggle. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. That’s just so cute.”

“It’s fine. I know. Trust me, I get
this a lot. But, I’m secure in my masculinity, and I have no problem with
owning a Chihuahua named Peaches. For the most part.”

Maggie was surprised at how
comfortable she was with him, comfortable enough to tease him a bit. “So, does
Peaches get dressed up?”

“Peaches has a sweater that she
wears when it’s cold.” His voice took on the slightest edge. “But I would not
call that ‘dressing up,’ per se. She has zero body fat, so she trembles if I
don’t put her sweater on her.”

“Is that what makes you two look
alike, the no body fat thing?”

He patted his stomach and took
another swig of his martini. “No, not quite.”

His stomach looked pretty flat to
Maggie. “So, how long have you had Peaches?”

“Let’s see, we got her when we
moved to Philadelphia, so she’s two and a half now.”

Damn. There’s a
“we.” You’re so stupid, Maggie. No ring, but of course a good-looking, charming
guy like this is a “we.”

“So, does your girlfriend take her
everywhere in her purse?” She tried to sound as cheerful as she’d been a moment
ago.

“No—”

“Good. I have to admit, I hate when
people treat dogs like accessories.”

“What I meant to say was ‘no, I don’t
have a girlfriend.’ We broke up. But when we were together, she did carry
Peaches in her purse.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to say I
hate
that. I’m sure she carried her around because she
wanted to be with her all the time. I’m sure it wasn’t like a fashion statement
or anything...”
Hmmm. No girlfriend. But you put your foot
in your mouth there and now you’re rambling
.

“It’s OK. Believe me, I never liked
it either. In fact, that’s partly why I insisted I get Peaches. I think she
just wanted the dog to be trendy. She didn’t love her like I do.”

“Aww, that’s sweet. I’m sure
Peaches was happy about that.”

“Well, you know, breakups are never
easy on the little ones,” he joked.

“I know what you mean.” Maggie
hoped the conversation would veer away from breakups.

“So, I assume you have a dog that
you do
not
treat as an accessory,” he said

“That’s correct. I’ve always tended
to have dogs that a purse could fit inside, rather than the other way around.
In fact, I’m sure my pooch could eat this thing in one bite if I smeared it in
peanut butter.” She held up her tiny evening bag, big enough to hold only the
bare essentials for an evening out, which in Maggie’s case included her
driver’s license, credit card, AAA card, proof of insurance, a bit of cash,
keys, phone, and her Blistex lip gloss.

“What do you have?”

“A chocolate Lab named Kona. He’s
three. Kind of a meathead, but I love him.”

“And how is it that you resemble
Kona?”

“Well, other than the shedding and
the bad breath and the stinkiness... that’s pretty much it I guess.” They both
laughed. “OK, really, hmmm,” she thought for a second. “We both have brown
eyes. And in the summer he gets red highlights in his hair from the sun. Only
he gets them on his butt.”

He laughed again. “He sounds
lovely. Maybe we could get them together for a play date. We just moved here
and don’t know too many people yet. Peaches would enjoy a little friend. I
mean, a big friend.”

“Does Peaches like other dogs?”

“Well, it depends—” A tinny
rendition of
Beethoven’s Fifth
came from his pants
pocket.

“Oh, you do like classical.” She
thought of her own ring tone and reached into her purse to turn down the
volume. Kevin had swiped her phone one day while he still lived with her and
downloaded
The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow
. She still
hadn’t figured out how to change it back.

“Excuse me one second,” he said, as
he turned to the side.

She gazed off in the distance,
trying to at least look like she wasn’t listening.

“Yes, of course I’m still here. I’m
on the roof getting some air... OK. I’ll be right down and we’ll do this
thing.” He hung up and leaned on the wall next to her. “I’ve got to get back.”
He gestured over his shoulder and smiled his disarming smile again. “Are you
going back in?”

She was suddenly aware of a
snapshot of her senses. She saw the blue flecks in his gray eyes; felt the
rough fabric of his jacket against her bare forearm; heard the slightest noise
as he swallowed and parted his lips; smelled the musky scent of his...
aftershave? Deodorant? Lovely self? Whatever it was, it smelled good.
Let’s see, what am I missing? Oh yes, taste... I wonder...
A shiver trilled down her spine. She pulled her pashmina tighter around her
shoulders. “Um, yeah. It’s getting a bit chilly out here anyway.”

“I’ve got to do this thing,” he
explained as they walked toward the door. “But afterwards I’d like to buy you
another drink.”

Back on the main floor, a
microphone stood under a spotlight; people gathered around it.

“Will you wait for me here?” They
stopped near the bar. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Maggie nodded. She assumed he was
needed to help set up whatever announcement they were about to make. She
watched him disappear into the crowd, then saw silver-haired Mr. Van Zant, the
museum director, walking to the microphone. The staff held Mr. Vee-Zee, as they
called him, in high regard, but she knew he was retiring and a new director had
started.