Creola's Moonbeam (13 page)

“Thank you!”

We wheeled away. Tears of hope flooded my face. Butlar shouted, “Yahoooo!”

One traffic light held us, then another. “Change light, change!” we chanted.

Green! We were free!

Taking a deep breath, I tried to plan how we’d react upon finding our traumatized pet.

“Butlar, that women said the dog they saw was disoriented. We must try to act calm. If not, we’ll spook poor Nestle. We certainly don’t want her to bolt and run away from us.”

“I understand, Mom. But do you really believe we’ll find her?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve believed that from the first night.” Just as I had done for the past four days, I was trying hard to convince myself as well as to convince my son. “Butlar, call your Daddy’s car phone and tell them where we are. I just have a hunch.”

“Yes ma’am!”

“Drat! Another light.”

Suddenly, Butlar screamed, “Mom! Look over there. It’s her!”

Our dazed dog stumbled out from behind a long bank of cypress trees. In her bewildered state, sweet Nestle was staggering farther and farther east and away from our home.

Butlar and I leapt out of the car and ran toward her. Waving our arms, we shrieked her name, “NESTLE! NESTLE, GIRL, come! Nestle, Nestle!” Both of us were hysterical with relief. So much for our strategy of the cool, calm, and slow approach!

Nestle stopped. She tucked her tail. Butlar and I grabbed our precious bedraggled animal and tackled her to the ground. About that time, Beau and Mary Catherine drove up. They rushed over and collapsed into our jubilant reunion. We five rolled around on the median as Nestle panted and licked her very relieved family. People in their cars stared at us. Some honked and others applauded.

Nestle was alive!

We helped her into the car. Butlar honked my horn in celebration all the way home. He hadn’t been that excited since the Atlanta Braves won the pennant. The exhausted dog lay shaking quietly on the back seat. She was confused and oh-so-weak. Her paws were raw and bloody; the pitiful pup was terribly dehydrated. Once safely in our kitchen, Nestle collapsed on the cool tile floor. I propped her chin on her water dish and she drank two bowlfuls without a pause.

Beau drove to the yogurt shop. He returned with a quart of Nestle’s favorite flavor, golden vanilla. He sat on the floor beside the dog and fed her yogurt spoon by spoon. Her parched but eager tongue licked clean every bite.

Nestle was home.

Butlar begged to take the dog to his graduation, insisting that the ceremony was to be held outside in a football stadium. “Who would care?”

I agreed with our son, but Beau thought better of our idea. Butlar’s grandparents, Aunt Mary Pearle, his cousins, his sister, Beau and me, and an enthusiastic contingent of friends would be audience enough for the occasion. But Beau was adamant. “Nestle will be just as happy to attend Butlar’s party, afterwards.”

“With lots of yogurt!” said Butlar.

“
And
no fireworks!” I added.

I sighed at the sweet memory of Nestle’s homecoming as I waded out into the water and splashed my face. My eyes filled with tears. Just that past May, Nestle had to be put to sleep. A good old girl, she would have turned fourteen the following October.

Nestle no longer greeted every visitor at our kitchen door, nor did she nap on the deck or on the rug in the family room. No longer did she wrestle with Butlar when he dropped by, nor did she follow me to every room in our house. Our beloved pet was buried in the far corner of Beau’s garden. Her favorite toy, a hot dog that squeaks, marks the spot.

A white miniature poodle scampered down the beach toward me.

“Hey, puppy,” I said, and waved at the owner. I petted the dog. He licked me in return. His tongue seemed so tiny in comparison to Nestle’s. I wondered if the poodle liked yogurt. Nearby, a feisty red dachshund frolicked with a beach ball twice his size. I called out, “That little puppy has no idea she can’t get the ball in her mouth.”

“That doesn’t keep her from trying,” grinned the old gentleman who accompanied her. “Would you like to pet her? Her name is Hildebrand Von something or other. My wife knows the whole high falutin’ deal. I just call her Hildy.”

I jumped at the chance. The dachshund rolled over on its back and let me rub her stomach. “So soft! You’re such a cutie, Hildy!”

“Madame, you’ve made a friend for life.”

When Mary Pearle and I were growing up, we had a little dachshund, a female, the only girl dog we ever had. Shortly after Creola took us to see the movie, “Peter Pan,” Mother surprised us with the puppy. The film fresh in my mind, I insisted we name the dog “Tinkerbell.”

Tinkerbell loved to eat and we took great pleasure in feeding her. The poor dog got so fat that Daddy changed her name to “Cowbell.” Eventually, the name “Bellie” stuck. It suited her well.

Beau knew well my love of red dachshunds. When Nestle died he offered to replace her with a puppy just like Bellie. I declined. It was dear and sweet of him, but for me, there’d never be another dog.

“Bye, bye, Hildy.”

I walked on. An older couple was headed my way. They never failed to greet me, he with his hearty, “Good morning, young lady,” and she with her sweet smiles. The two also never failed to be dressed in matching shirts. They were always holding hands. Not once had I seen them unmatched or unattached. I assumed the couple held hands not for safety’s sake, but because it came naturally.

More than once, I almost stopped them so we could talk. I wanted to get to know them. I yearned to hear their story, their stories, to learn the secrets of such tender love and obvious devotion. I never followed through with my plan because it seemed intrusive.

Rather, I delighted in making up fairytales of the couple’s life together; about how they had worked hard but happily toward their mutually determined dreams, and now, how they looked forward to every break of dawn.

I knew they must surely appreciate music of every kind, along with literature, the classics for certain, and poetry, too. He likely tinkered with tools, woodworking perhaps? She, or better, the two of them, painted pictures of the shore. It was a given that they kept a garden.

I fantasized that they had moved around the country, finally settling into a charming retirement cottage by the Gulf of Mexico, one overflowing with music, art, photographs, books, and fresh flowers.

Creola whispered to me.
Honey, you lazy girl, always making up stories are you! You should be writing
.

As if on cue, Beatrice strode up behind me. “Well, hello there!”

I halted, startled. “And how are you today?”

“I’m just fine, as fine as a fiddle, particularly because my darling Jennings is set to arrive anytime now. But, you Harriette, how are you?”

“How could I be anything but happy on such a beautiful morning?”

Beatrice looked at her watch. “Agreed! It is a gorgeous day, my new young friend, and I can see that I have exactly the perfect amount of time for a walk with you. What do you say we take a pleasant chat-walk?”

“Chat-walk? Oh, I see. Sorta like a cat walk but with words?”

“A clever play on words, dear. Off we go!”

We strolled up the beach. “So Beatrice, what are your plans for your son’s visit?”

“Well, I’ll just have to wait and see what he wants of me. Usually the poor boy is so exhausted when he arrives that he simply collapses on the porch in order to rebuild his energy and his creativity. Jennings is a starving artist, you see. Actually, he’s not starving. He works as an accountant in corporate America by day. Mercifully, he feeds his soul by night with his writing. I eagerly await someone’s discovery of him, a great talent is my Jennings.”

I didn’t hear the last part; I was hung up with
that
word. “Writing.”

Beatrice stopped, picked up a shell, and said, “Now, dear, take a look at this shell. Here’s a curious mystery for us to ponder. Don’t you just have to wonder what kind of interesting creature lives inside this lovely house?” She put the shell to her eye. “Anybody home?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the shell was empty, that a seagull had probably eaten the inhabitant. This wise old beachcomber was idealistic in so many ways, ways that endeared her to me.

Beatrice sighed at my smiling silence. “Sometimes I speculate that my house is but a shell, too. And one of these days a giant will come along and pick it up to peek inside. Most assuredly, that fellow will amuse himself with the lifestyle of a certain Beatrice!”

“Will the giant find you at home?”

“But, of course; I couldn’t bear to miss such an event!”

“Beatrice, I’m very curious about your shell. I doubt you are among us ordinary condo dwellers.”

“No, I’m not, but I do know how
divine
those condos are. Actually, they hadn’t begun to build condominiums when I started coming here. I came by ship with Ponce de Leon!”

“You must have discovered the Fountain of Youth.”

“Harriette, you are a honey.”

“Okay, now I know you must be a psychic! My friends call me ‘Honey.’ My real name is Honey Newberry. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you that in the first place. Harriette is my given name.”

“Bully then,
Honey
it is. I must add that you look more like a Honey than you do a Harriette. A Harriette would have to be stiff and superior, and most definitely, if you will excuse me, she might even be rather homely.”

“You’ve described perfectly my Aunt Harriette, the woman for whom I was named!”

“Oh dear me, I do apologize,” said a suddenly red-faced Beatrice. “I AM so sorry!”

“No offense taken.”

“My dear, I
meant
that I am sorry for your aunt, that poor, dear woman!”

The two of us giggled like teenagers.

“So, please, Beatrice, if you will, please tell me more about your home. I’m a house person myself and relish finding out about my friends’ habitats. One’s home says so much about a person’s spirit. My curiosity is a bizarre and rather rude habit, but I can’t help myself.”

“It’s not rude at all. I’m pleased that you’re interested. Mine is a cottage, one built around the turn of the century. That’s the LAST century, you understand! We bought it in the 1960’s or 70’s; I don’t really recall other than to admit I’ve come to this area for decades. My home is a mumble-jumble of mismatched furniture, the artwork of friends, books, and treasures from my travels. So crammed with precious memories is it that were the house a boat, it would surely sink.”

“Sounds fascinating to me. One of these days, I may surprise you and pop by.” The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted my brazenness. It was not at all like me to invite myself somewhere.

Beatrice put her hands on hips. “Jolly well, how about joining me for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on Monday morning? We can enjoy the juice and visit after our break-of-dawn constitutional.”

Back-peddling, I stammered, “Gracious, I’ve never been quite so forward. Please excuse me!”

“Forward? Sounds to me more like you’re being honest and interested. Honey, I like a lady with spunk. We’re set for Monday, then?”

“I suppose so.”

“Besides, I’ll need company after Jennings departs. His exit always leaves me feeling rather glum.”

We walked quietly for a minute. Suddenly she said, “I see a gorgeous diamond on your left hand. Should I assume there is a Mr. Newberry?”