Nearlyweds (4 page)

I
had just finished ringing up Mrs. Adelman’s purchase—fifty-five cans of cat food for her ever-growing band of ferals and strays—when Dr. Porter’s new wife walked in. We hadn’t actually been introduced, but the whole town had been buzzing about her ever since Dr. Porter had proposed with the gigantic diamond that Taylor and Marissa swore cost them their future inheritance.

Dr. Porter had gotten married over Labor Day weekend—the same weekend as Nick and I—and rumor had it his new wife was a ruthless, gold-digging, material girl whose CEO father was embroiled in the biggest corporate scandal since Enron. Since he’d split with his first wife, Brenda, ten years ago, Dr. Porter had dated steadily, but all of his previous girlfriends had been a little less flashy…and a little more age
appropriate. So when he’d finally popped the question to a poor little rich girl half his age, everyone in town practically got whiplash rubbernecking at the impending scandal. There were at least two active betting pools going at the Blue Hills Tavern—one on how long the marriage would last (the current over-under was eighteen months) and one as to how long the citified Ms. Porter could hack it out here in the sticks (the smart money said she’d force a move to Manhattan by Memorial Day.)

But with her long, shiny black hair, milky skin and huge blue eyes, Stella Porter didn’t look ruthless. She looked like a younger version of Jennifer Connelly. You couldn’t help staring—girls like her just didn’t
live
in Alden, Massachusetts.

She stood stock-still in the store’s doorway for a moment, her face frozen in a tentative half smile. I wasn’t sure if she was confused or just “making an entrance” in her red wool coat and spotless black boots before she deigned to come in and let me serve her.

Then those clear blue eyes locked on mine.

“Excuse me,” she said in a small, shy voice. “Is it all right if I bring a dog in with me?”

“Sure.” I jerked my head toward the sign in the corner of the front window reading Pets Welcome.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “A big dog?”

“Sure,” I repeated, losing patience as the arctic November wind blasted in. “But do me a favor and shut the door, okay?”

“Oh. Right.” She hurried inside, dragging a dog behind her on a filthy, fraying leash.

I’d pegged her for a Havanese owner. Maybe a bichon frise or a poodle. But the dog on the other end of this leash was no pedigreed, pampered puppy. It was, well, a behemoth.

“The lady at the shelter said he’s a Great Dane mix,” she explained when she saw my reaction.

“Mixed with what?” Mrs. Adelman demanded. “A Clydesdale?”

I watched the burly black blur of matted fur scrambling wildly to escape the confines of his collar and leash. “Newfoundland, probably. Maybe some Rottweiler?”

She dropped the leash as her hands flew to her mouth. “Rottweiler? Really? Do you think he’s vicious?”

The dog saw his opening and took off. His nails clicked against the tile floor as he raced toward the bags of kibble at the back of the store.

“He doesn’t seem very aggressive,” I pointed out as the dog stopped running to sniff a 30-pound bag of holistic food. “Forget what you hear about Rotties on TV—most of them are big babies.”

But Mrs. Adelman wasn’t taking any chances—she collected her bags of cat food and held her spine ramrod straight as she stalked out the door. As the cowbell hanging on the door jingled behind her, I turned back to Stella. “You got this dog from the pound?”

She nodded, her cheeks pink. “Twenty minutes ago. But, I have to tell you, I’m having second thoughts. He doesn’t even fit in my car—I had to put the top down and it’s freezing out there—and I have no idea what he likes to eat and he probably has a zillion kinds of worms and fleas…”

Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as she contemplated the ramifications of what she’d just done.

“What’s his name?” I asked gently.

“He doesn’t have one. He just had a kennel number. Like a prisoner.”

“No, I mean, what are
you
going to name him?”

She watched with dismay as the dog grabbed a bag of dry food between his teeth and shook his head back and forth.

“I don’t know. ‘Bad Dog’?” Grimacing, she wiped at the dirt the makeshift leash had left on her fingers. “Do you happen to have a tissue I could use?”

I managed not to roll my eyes at her princess routine. She was going to be the kind of pet owner who bathed her dog in noxious floral-scented toxins every weekend and screamed bloody murder if he dared place a single paw on the couch. Forget Great Danes—this chick should’ve gotten a stuffed animal.

“Thanks,” she said as I handed over a paper towel. “I’ve really screwed up this time. I guess it goes to show, you should never go to the pound when you have a fight with your husband.”

“I guess,” I said neutrally. “’Cause when the fight ends, you’ll still have the dog.”

She nodded. “How long do Great Danes live, anyway?”

“Not that long, by dog standards. Eight, maybe ten years.”

“Ten years? Seriously?”

“Sure, if you keep them healthy. But Great Danes and Newfoundlands are tricky breeds. You really have to stay on top of all the medical and nutrition stuff. Big dogs have a lot of joint problems. They’re prone to hip dysplasia and arthritis, not to mention bone cancer, bloat…”

“Bloat?” She wrinkled her nose. “That sounds gruesome.”

My reply was drowned out by a sharp ripping sound as the dog tore open the bag. Dry kibble pinged across the floor like BBs.

“Oh God. Sorry.” She knelt down and started scooping handfuls of food back into the bag while the dog commenced gorging himself. “I don’t…this dog…I didn’t really think this through.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” I grabbed a red nylon Martingale collar from the display rack, along with a thick leather leash, and headed toward the dog.

Stella rocked back on her heels and looked up at me as I looped the collar around the dog’s neck. “This was a huge mistake.”

“What? Getting a Great Dane?”

“Everything. Just…everything. Hey, do you want him?”
she offered hopefully as I scratched the dog behind the ears. He closed his eyes, leaned back into my hand, and luxuriated in the affection.

“Nope. My apartment doesn’t allow dogs. Besides, I have two cats, and they wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to have a canine roommate.”

“Then I guess he’ll have to go back in the shelter.” She resumed scooping up dog food.

“Back to the shelter?” My eyebrows shot up to my hairline.

“Yeah. I can’t possibly…I don’t know the first thing about taking care of dogs. Especially giant ones.”

I glared at her. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

She wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Well. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog to—”

I jerked my hand up and launched into one of what Nick referred to as my “spirally eyed animal-rights rants.” “Listen. Stella—”

“How did you know my name?”

“Everyone knows who you are. You’re the nanny who married Dr. Porter.”

She looked stricken. “Oh no. You’re friends with Taylor and Marissa, aren’t you?”

“Not really, but this is a small town. Word gets around. So listen, Stella. Perhaps this little detail has escaped your notice, but dogs? They’re living creatures. They’re not like shoes or handbags. You can’t just get buyer’s remorse and re
turn them. And I have news for you: no one else is going to adopt this dog.”

“But…” She blinked back what appeared to be tears. Give me a break. “But
I
did. Maybe somebody else will see him and—”

“You take him back to the pound, he dies,” I said bluntly. “And it’ll be your fault. Simple as that. He’s a big, black, male dog. Three strikes against him. This time of year, people are looking for fuzzy little puppies to stick under the Christmas tree. They want ten-pound yorkie mixes that won’t shed too much or eat them out of house and home. Not a shaggy, untrained oaf who’ll knock over their toddlers.”

Tears spilled down onto her cheeks. She was one of those freaks of nature who managed to look beautiful even while crying. No red, puffy eyes. No runny nose.

“I don’t have a toddler,” she whispered, all tortured.

“Well, then, you’re perfect for this dog,” I snapped.

“I’ll never have a toddler.”

“Great. You’ll have plenty of time to take him to obedience classes.”

Her slender body shook as her crying intensified, and just when I was about to weaken my resolve to hate her and offer the poor kid another paper towel, the cowbell on the door jingled again.

“Casey Nestor, tell me you’re not making your customers cry again.”

I waved as Erin Maye, the new pediatrician in Dr. Lowell’s office, strolled past the chew toy display, still wearing her white doctor’s coat under her puffy green parka.

“What was this poor girl’s crime?” Erin lifted an eyebrow toward the quivering waif surrounded by kibble. “Did she feed her dog the wrong kind of food? Forget to add daily digestive enzymes?”

“She’s dumping her dog at the pound. And it’s Casey Keating now,” I corrected. Like Stella, Erin was a recent transplant from the big city (Boston), but unlike Stella, she was no-frills and down-to-earth.

“This dog?” Erin held out her hand for the Great Dane to sniff, which proved to be an unnecessary formality—the dog tackled her like a linebacker and licked her ear.

“I am not dumping him at the pound!” Stella insisted, her blue eyes flashing.

I just rolled my eyes at Erin and mouthed the words “drama queen.”

“Erin, this is Stella Porter.”

“Oh really?” Erin eyed Stella with renewed interest. “I know your husband—I’ve seen him around the hospital.”

“Erin’s a doctor,” I explained.

Stella crossed her arms. “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” I scoffed.

“No one’s looking at you.” Erin dismissed her with a wave
of her hand and reached into her leather briefcase. “Did you get a letter last week?”

“A letter? What kind of—” I broke off, staring at the book resting on top of Erin’s files. “What is that?”

“I know.” She smiled grimly.

I reread the book’s title.
“Embracing Tradition: The Wife Within?”

“An early Christmas gift from Renée. It was waiting on our kitchen table, all gift-wrapped, when I got back from my medical conference in Philadelphia last week.”

My eyes widened. “You gave Renée a key to your house?”

“Of course I didn’t. But mere locks cannot keep her from her sainted son.”

“Who’s Renée?” Stella peered over my shoulder at the book while the dog gave it a cursory sniff.

Erin rubbed her temples. “My mother-in-law. Anyway, Casey, did you happen to get any interesting mail last week?”

I shrugged. “Just the usual—wedding bills, vet bills, and heating bills. Why?”

“Because David and I got a letter from the county clerk—we aren’t legally married. Pastor Rick died before he signed and filed our marriage certificates. Can you believe that?”

“What?” I frowned. “How did that happen?”

“I have no idea, but his wife found a stack of unsigned documents on his desk last week when she cleaned out his office.”

“Well, can’t you just send it in without him?” I asked.

“No; I need his signature to make it legal, and since he’s dead, I won’t be getting that any time soon.”

I swallowed hard. “But Nick and I—”

“I know.” Erin nodded. “He presided over three weddings that weekend: me and David, you and Nick, and one other couple. And apparently, we’re all still technically single.”

“But
we
signed the marriage certificate!” I exclaimed. “And what about our witnesses? We have a whole churchful of people to back us up!”

Erin shrugged. “Yeah, well, the State of Massachusetts doesn’t want to hear it. We have to go down to the courthouse and do the whole thing over.”

“But…” I paused. “I didn’t get a letter.”

“Then you might want to give the county clerk a call.”

“So Nick and I, we might not really be married? After all that?”
After he almost stood me up at the altar?

“Hey, maybe the four of us can go to city hall together.” Erin smiled. “Have a double wedding.” She waited a few seconds for me to react. “What?”

“Nothing.” I struggled to maintain a poker face. “I’m just shocked, you know?”

“Tell me about it.” Her wry, world-weary doctor routine kicked into overdrive. “You drop tens of thousands of dollars on a wedding, you’d think you could trust the officiant to do his job correctly. I mean, what is this, amateur hour?”

I nodded dumbly, barely registering a word she said.

“You’d think
someone
at the church would’ve caught this earlier, but no.” Erin was really getting fired up now. “I say we explore our legal options. We deserve compensation for our pain and suffering. David’s cousin is an attorney in Lexington; I’ll give her a call and ask if we have a case. A trio of brokenhearted brides; what jury’s gonna say no to that?” She finally stopped to catch her breath. “But it’ll be more sympathetic if all three of us band together. Do you know who the other bride was?”