Dreams for Stones (6 page)

The return sailed past her racket, and the
man loped after it just like a blinking bloody golden retriever. He
tossed it to her.

She turned her back on him and continued to
stroke the ball at the wall, but whenever she checked, she found
him still watching. It appeared the only way to get rid of him was
to leave. But she was not,
whack,
going to let some man,
whack
, chase her away before she was ready to go,
whack
.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said,
when she finally stopped for a drink of water.

She didn’t even glance at him. “Nope.”

“Charles Larimore.” He extended his
hand.

She stood holding her racket, a ball, and
her bottle of water staring at his hand until he lowered it,
grinning at her. “You do seem a bit tied up at the moment.”

“I am.” She gave him a steady look she hoped
he would find off-putting.

“You’re single. An editor.” He closed his
eyes as if mentally reading a checklist. “Graduate degree. Against
the death penalty.”

Her eyes narrowed. Was he guessing or
stalking her?

“You still don’t remember, do you?”

She shrugged and took another drink of
water.

“Really know how to smash a guy’s ego to
smithereens.” He shook his head in what was obviously mock sorrow.
“Juror number. . . seven, wasn’t it?”

Memory stirred. Eight months ago, she’d been
summoned for jury duty and subsequently called for a panel, a
murder case. But when asked if she opposed the death penalty, she
said she did and was excused.

With that memory settled, another came of
when they’d first taken their seats in the jury box. The woman next
to her had taken one look at the prosecutor, sucked air in through
her teeth, and whispered, “Sheesh. Wouldn’t you like that coming
home to you every night.”

But Kathy had been immune to Charles
Larimore. After all she
had
been dating a man every bit as
attractive, professional, and intelligent as the prosecutor
appeared to be.

“Look, I’m not trying to pick you up,”
Charles said, jerking her back to the present.

Right. As if she believed that.

“I have a girlfriend. What I need at the
moment is a tennis partner. I was supposed to meet a friend for a
game, but he called to say he can’t make it.” He gave her what he
no doubt thought was a winning smile.

She stood for a moment, thinking about his
invitation. Maybe it would be more comfortable to play a set with
him, rather than have him continue to stand there watching her.
“Okay. You’re on.”

They played two sets which he won, but she
made him work for it. She felt better when they finished. Hot,
sweaty, and exhausted, but better.

“Here’s hoping you’re available the next
time my friend stands me up.” He gave her a sunny smile and held up
crossed fingers, before slipping his racket into its case. He
extended his hand. “So long.”

This time she shook it. “Thanks,” she said,
meaning, thanks for the game and thanks for not trying to hit on me
afterward.

The head of the reappointment, promotion and tenure committee
stopped by Alan’s office.

“Thought we might chat about your
situation,” Grenville said, smoothing one hand over his thinning
hair. “Professor Hilstrom has made her position quite clear.” He
cleared his throat with a harsh noise. “Deuced inconvenient.”

Grenville’s area of expertise was British
literature and, although he didn’t go so far as to assume an
accent, he did cultivate the speech patterns and grooming of an
upper crust Englishman of the nineteenth century.

Alan nodded. “Yeah. I know. No fiction, no
tenure.”

Grenville gave him a sharp look, and Alan
looked blandly back, his stomach gathering in a tight knot.

“No matter what the committee does, if your
dossier doesn’t include fiction, she’ll give you a negative
recommendation.” Grenville rolled the papers he was carrying into a
tube and tapped them on his leg. “Given she’s brand, shiny new,
unlikely the dean will oppose her.”

“Have you looked at my appointment letter?”
Alan’s tone kept his bland look company, but his calm was only a
thin veneer.

“Of course.”

“Then you know it says a good publication
record is a must, but there’s no mention of what type of
publication.”

Grenville’s eyebrow arched. “Would you
sue?”

Perfect. All the man needed was a monocle.
Alan looked steadily at Grenville. “Wouldn’t you?” It was as far as
he was willing to take Charles’s advice.

Grenville sighed. “I’m glad it’s not an
issue for me. But Hilstrom appears to be committed to her
position.”

“And the lady does like getting her way.”
Alan felt a brief pang of sympathy for Hilstrom’s husband.

Grenville harrumphed. “Deuced woman is even
putting the screws to those of us with tenure. Says we’re resting
on our laurels. Has absolutely no comprehension of current market
conditions.”

Grenville had published a single novel, an
obvious and tedious tribute to Jane Austen, shortly before he was
granted tenure. As far as Alan knew, he hadn’t tested market
conditions since.

Grenville continued to tap the rolled papers
against his leg. “You may win a battle or two, old chap. But, if I
were you, I’d be prepared to lose the war.”

It was what kept Alan awake nights—that
possibility. And now Grenville’s words had added weight to those
fears.

Alan opened his closet and pushed his clothes out of the way in
order to get at the box in the back corner. Reluctantly, he pulled
it out and opened it.

Inside lay the manuscript pages, computer
disks, and research material he hadn’t looked at since packing it
away after Meg’s death.

As he lifted out a portion of the
manuscript, the pages slipped from his hands onto the floor. He
stared at the mess as Hilstrom’s words played in his head:
F
iction is our future
.

Yeah. At one time that was what he’d thought
too. That fiction was his future. Along with Meg. The two of them
chasing their dreams. Together. Hers to paint, his to write.
Nothing impossible.

And now. . . ?

There was music in words. Music he no longer
heard. But he could fake it, couldn’t he? Take Charles’s advice.
Look at all the pages he’d written. All he needed to do was find
the right disk, pop it in his computer, and print a fresh copy to
submit as an attachment to his dossier. Highly unlikely anybody on
the committee would even look at it. They’d just check the
heft.

He stared at the jumble of pages, knowing he
couldn’t do it.

Not even to get tenure.

As Alan and Charles left the restaurant after lunch, they were just
in time to see a car streak toward them, followed by the screech of
locked tires and a thump. In the aftermath, a border collie lay
shrieking in pain by the curb. Alan’s heart kicked into a gallop,
even though he knew the dog couldn’t possibly be his Cormac.

A woman bent over the dog, her voice melding
with the animal’s cries of pain. “
Ay Dios mío
, Blackie.”

Charles rushed to the woman’s side, leaving
Alan standing alone, the scene freezing in front of him. Then
Charles was back.

“Alan. You have to help. You’re the one who
knows about animals.” And everything began to move again as he
followed Charles into the street.

He bent over the dog and automatically began
to murmur. “That’s okay. Take it easy, boy. We’ll take care of
you.” He smoothed his hand over the long fur on the animal’s neck
and, after a moment, the dog stopped struggling and subsided,
whimpering. The woman continued crying, her words a mixture of
Spanish and English. Behind him, he could hear Charles talking to
someone.

The dog’s left hind leg was gashed and was
bleeding heavily, but more worrisome was the fact the animal
couldn’t seem to move. Alan swallowed, clamping down on sudden
nausea. “He needs a vet. You have a car?”

“
Sí
. At home. I live on Albion.”

Too far
. He turned to see Charles
talking to the man who had hit the dog.

“Get my car, will you?” Alan handed his keys
to Charles and pointed. “It’s around the corner.”

“Stupid dog came out of nowhere.” The man
who spoke was dressed like Charles, in a dark suit, white shirt,
and conservative tie. He drummed his fingers on the hood of the
silver Lexus angled into the curb near the dog. “Ran right in front
of me.”

You were speeding, and besides, if you
had a heart, you wouldn’t blame the dog
. Alan bit down on the
words, turning away in disgust as the man leaned over, apparently
checking for damage to the front of his car.

“You seem to have this under control.” The
man cleared his throat. “I, ah, have an appointment.”

When Alan continued to ignore him, the man
climbed into his car and backed away. A moment later, Charles
pulled Alan’s Forester into position.

While Charles cleared a space in back, Alan
worked his coat under Blackie to make a sling. Then Charles helped
him lift the dog into the car.

Charles put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “I
have to be in court in half an hour, or I’d hang with you.”

That was Charles for you. Just like Tom
Sawyer, he sucked you into helping, then left you holding the bag,
not to mention the dog.

With his other hand, Charles handed Alan a
thick wad of bills.

“What’s this?”

“Vet bill. Courtesy the turkey in the Lexus.
He insisted.”

Right. And Alan didn’t need a crystal ball
to know how Charles had managed that. No doubt words like district
attorney, legal suit, and accident report had been bandied about,
obviously to good effect. Alan stuffed the money in his pocket and
got into his car.

The woman climbed into the backseat and
leaned over it to calm her dog. She gave Alan directions, and he
drove, taking care with corners and avoiding bumps. He pulled into
the curb in front of the vet’s and slid out, saying he’d get
someone.

As Blackie was carried inside, Alan realized
his hands and shirt were sticky with blood, the thick metallic
scent of it overpowering the waiting-room odors of urine and
disinfectant.

He was directed to the bathroom where he
cleaned up, and when he returned to the waiting room, he found
Blackie’s owner rocking back and forth, her arms clutched around
herself.

He’d seen the look on the vet’s face, and he
knew it would be a lie to tell her Blackie was going to be okay.
“Your dog’s in good hands.”

“
Es mi culpa.
I wasn’t paying
attention.” The woman’s voice was thick with tears. She looked up
at him, wiping her eyes.

He tried to find words to ease his exit.
He’d done enough. More than Charles had. Or the Lexus driver. She
could handle it from here. It was her dog after all.

“Accidents happen. You mustn’t blame
yourself.
Está bien
.” He clamped his mouth shut to cut off
the flow of platitudes. They’d never done him any good, why inflict
them on her? He took a breath to tell her he was leaving, but just
then the vet’s assistant appeared and beckoned the woman into the
examining room. She stood and touched his arm. “
Por favor
.
Please. Can you come with me?”

He tried to say,
I’d like to, but I have
a class
. A lie. Two lies, actually. Maybe that was why he
couldn’t force the words out.
If you’re in for an inch, might as
well go the mile.
One of his father’s favorite sayings. He must
have inherited the gene.

In the examining room, Blackie lay on a
stainless steel table. When the woman touched the dog’s head and
spoke softly in Spanish, it opened an eye and tried to lick her
hand, but its tail lay limp and motionless.

“I’m sorry,” the vet said. “Blackie has
extensive internal injuries, and his spinal cord has been
severed.”

“No.
No es posible
.” The woman’s
voice wobbled, and a sob escaped. “You can’t. You just can’t.
Please. Delia loves him.” As if Delia’s love should make all the
difference.

And if she thought that, she didn’t have a
clue how things really worked.

The vet spoke firmly. “You know it’s the
kindest thing.”

The woman trembled. Feeling awkward, Alan
laid a hand on her shoulder.

“
Está
bien
, it’s okay.” Alan patted.
“Blackie knows you love him.”

It must have been the right thing to say,
because after a moment, the woman stopped weeping and smoothed
Blackie’s head with a small hand. The dog sighed and closed its
eyes.

The assistant came in carrying a syringe,
and Blackie’s owner nodded at the vet. While she continued to
stroke the soft fur and murmur in Spanish, the doctor injected the
contents of the syringe.

Enough already.
Alan turned abruptly
and walked out. What had he been thinking to let Charles pull him
into this? And once pulled in, why hadn’t he simply returned to the
restaurant and called the police to help the woman?

When he reached the waiting room, the
receptionist motioned him over, handed him a plastic bag containing
his jacket and told him he better move his car to the back parking
lot before he got a ticket. Almost out the door, he remembered the
money. He pulled it out and handed it to her. “Appreciate it if
you’d use this for Blackie’s expenses.”

The girl took the money and flipped through
it quickly.

“Will it be enough?”

“There’s over four hundred here. That will
more than cover it.”

Alan nodded. “Good. Just give the lady any
change.”

He walked out, relieved it was over. The
woman could take a bus home. It wasn’t far.

Then he remembered those small shoulders
shaking in grief. Instead of leaving, he pulled in behind the
building, parked, and walked back into the clinic.