One More Time (23 page)

“Now, please, be really careful with your Grandmother’s car.” Annette glanced over in time to see her mom shake her head. “I can’t imagine that we can afford to get it fixed if you even ding it. And we might have a hard enough time getting along while she’s staying here without a wounded luxury car in the driveway.”

Annette felt her eyes widen. Her mother had clearly been abducted by aliens and a sophisticated robot, who looked a lot like her mother but didn’t know all the rules and limitations, had been left in her place.

And this robot was sometimes funny.

“Okay,” she said and got out of the car before the alien robot could change its mind.

Her grandmother’s sleek silver Jaguar convertible was parked at the curb, the witch standing beside it expectantly. Annette’s mouth went dry and her fingers sweat on the keys she held. What would Scott Sexton think if he saw her driving this car? Annette would have bet her last buck that he would talk to her then, if only to get a ride.

The witch opened the door with what seemed to be unnecessary care, then two big dogs leapt out of the backseat. “Champagne!” Beverly shouted. “Caviar!” The dogs made a beeline for Annette, their leashes trailing behind them across the snow.

“Poodles!” Annette cried with joy.

“God’s blood!” her mother said.

The white one barked happily, the black one sniffed Annette’s hands, and they both wagged their tails so hard that Annette thought they might fall off. They circled her, one after the other, moving so fast that they were hard to watch.

The witch had dogs! Annette had always wanted a dog, but a stuffed puppy had been the sole result of her attempt to persuade her mother that she was right.

She laughed with delight as the two bounced around her, then the white poodle leaned against her leg. When Annette rubbed behind its ear, it let out a sigh of satisfaction and seemed to grin at her. The black one, which appeared to be more cautious, then leaned against Annette’s other side and looked up expectantly.

She patted them both. They had such pretty eyes. And their fur was so soft and curly. And they weighed a lot—she could tell by the way they leaned against her leg—though she didn’t care.

Dogs! The witch had
dogs
!

Not just dogs: poodles! Annette knew a great deal about dogs, given her lifelong fascination with them, her ardent desire to have one, and her mother’s persistent refusal to have one in the house. She had done projects on dogs at school; she had read book after book on dogs and dog care; she was a veritable encyclopedia of dog lore. She had scored a stuffed puppy toy for these endeavors, despite dropping hints every Christmas and birthday since she could talk.

But poodles, big poodles had always been her favorites.

“Beverly, are those your dogs?” Annette’s mom asked, her words a bit strained.

Annette ignored her mom, who had never liked dogs, who had refused to let Annette ever have a dog, who just didn’t do the pet thing. Annette was busy, anyway, completely enchanted with these two affectionate poodles. The white one licked her ear.

“Actually, I’m more their person.” Beverly came over and picked up the ends of their leashes, brushing the snow from the black leather. “The girls certainly seem to think that they’re the ones in charge.”

“They’re poodles,” Annette informed her, forgetting that the witch must know what kind of dogs she had. “They’re the smartest dogs.”

“So they say,” the witch—who was seeming a lot less wicked—acknowledged with a smile. “They seem to have me figured out already.”

“Do you walk them?” Annette asked with awe. Maybe she’d rather have Scott see her walking these two dogs.

“Probably not as far as they’d like to go or as often as they’d like to go.” Beverly sighed. “But we have had one walk today. They leave no doubt of their desires.”

“But I don’t understand,” Annette’s mom said, as she slowly drew closer. She kept a wary watch on the dogs, which were no more dangerous than ladybugs. At least she watched the dogs when she wasn’t watching Annette. “How long have you had dogs, Beverly?”

“Since this morning. An old friend of mine passed away and left her girls to my care.”

“That’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? I mean, did you know about this responsibility ahead of time?”

“No, it was a complete surprise.” The witch paused for a beat. “As was the trust fund that the dogs inherited. Technically, I’m their guardian and they’re my wards.”

“They’re
rich
dogs?” Annette’s mom asked.

The witch laughed. “Very rich.” She shook her head a little. “Very very very rich.”

So that was why the witch had taken them on. Annette patted the dogs even as she formed a scheme to save them from the witch who only wanted them for their money.

“And you intend to stay here with them?” Annette’s mom asked, her tone revealing what she thought of that.

Not much, but Annette could have predicted that. She had fought the battle over a dog in the house a thousand times—never mind two dogs—and lost, but she couldn’t leave this be.

“Mom, you have to let them stay. Poodles are nice dogs, and they’re affectionate, and they don’t even shed. They won’t bother my allergies at all. Kids at school with allergies get poodles as pets all the time.” She sounded like a little kid and didn’t even care. The dogs watched her with complete trust. “Please, Mom, please.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Annette. We’re out a lot and dogs need company, as well as exercise.”

“I’ll walk them,” Annette volunteered impulsively. “Twice a day, as far as they should be walked. And I’ll feed them, and I’ll give them water and I’ll brush their hair...”

“Fur,” her mom corrected.

“No, it’s hair.” Annette insisted. “Poodles have hair; that’s why they don’t shed.”

“I’m not sure about this...”

To Annette’s surprise, the witch intervened. “I don’t see the harm in giving it a try, Leslie. The girls are well-trained, at least from what I’ve seen so far. And I’ll be out less than you.” She smiled at Annette, who dropped to her knees to rub the dogs. The white one licked her cheek, then the black one followed suit. “And Annette has always wanted a dog. This would be a good chance for her to see what such a responsibility involves.”

It figured that adults could only see the merit of the dogs staying because she might learn something from them. Annette knew better than that, but she played along. “You’ll see, Mom. It will be perfect!”

“I think I’ve been out-numbered,” Annette’s mom remarked, keeping her arms folded across her chest so the dogs couldn’t sniff or touch her hands.

That didn’t last. The witch handed off the leashes so imperiously that Annette’s mom had no choice but to take them. “We’ve got to move the car,” she said, then winked at Annette.

Annette stood with reluctance, telling the dogs to sit until she came back. They did exactly as she told them, which thrilled her no end. And they stayed, sitting with front paws together, chests out, ears perked up and eyes locked upon Annette.

“They look like statues,” Annette whispered. Her mother was holding the leashes as if they were made of toxic waste. The dogs ignored her, maybe sensing that she wouldn’t be converted to the cult of poodle worship anytime soon, and kept their gazes fixed on Beverly and Annette.

“They do,” her grandmother acknowledged. “So, am I doing better as a grandmother? I mean, you always wanted a puppy, but this is close, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. And Mom can’t really say no this way, since they’re still yours.”

“Sounds like a perfect solution to me.”

“Me, too.” Especially as Annette was going to figure out a way to keep those dogs for herself forever. She didn’t say that, though, just let the witch believe that they were a team.

As if.

Beverly pointed at the floor, her fingernail catching the light. “That left pedal is the clutch...”

* * *

Sharan’s house in Algiers was a glorified corridor, a shotgun house, called such because you could fire a gun at the front door and the bullet would come out the back door.

Provided you could shoot straight.

One room followed another. From the front porch—which was wooden, shaded and painted a giddy yellow—a visitor went through the front parlor or living room, a spare bedroom, the dining room, the kitchen and Sharan’s bedroom. The bathroom was notched out of one corner of the kitchen. Only the relatively new bathroom was a closed-off space.

Mercifully.

What was particularly striking about the house was the flamboyant use of color. The exterior, for example, was a brilliant cerulean blue, the exact color of the Mediterranean on a sunny summer afternoon. And the porch was yellow, the front door lime green. There was a bougainvillaea climbing the side of the house, covering a good part of it in fuchsia flower bracts.

Matt had had a general sense of the house being vividly hued when he had arrived the night before, but when he’d returned this afternoon to find it in full sun, his eyeballs had nearly melted.

Inside was much the same. The living room walls had actually been gilded, as far as he could tell, for they gleamed the gold of the actual metal. The drapes there were crimson velvet, trimmed with gold fringe, and so elaborate that they made him think of old movie theaters.

Maybe that was where they had come from. There were a lot of candlesticks in that room and not much furniture, some cushions on the pine floor in luxurious fabrics. There were also a couple of creepy wooden sculptures, shoulder-high figures with chipped paint and gilt that must have been saints from churches. One offered her eyeballs on a tray, like hors d’oeuvres.

Maybe she’d been shocked at the color of the house, too.

Either way, Matt wasn’t a fan of the living room.

The dining room was full of canvases, many large ones stacked against the walls. They were turned to face the walls and embellished with a good layer of dust. Matt didn’t want to pry by looking at them, but they made him realize that none of Sharan’s work was hanging on the walls.

In fact, it didn’t look as if she’d been painting lately. A jar on the sill filled with brushes had clearly been there for a while: the turpentine had evaporated, leaving a ring on the jar and a bunch of dried misshapen brushes within it.

Once, Sharan had been fastidious about her tools. Matt guessed that there was a story behind her decision to get a job, and maybe a story he didn’t want to know. He was concerned about these signs, because one of the reasons he’d sought her out was because he’d been sure she’d understand.

He’d thought she could show him how to live a comparatively normal life while following a crazy creative dream. He’d thought they would be kindred spirits now that he had the drive to create himself, but that dried-out jar of turpentine made him wonder.

The spare room was spartan, a cast-iron daybed on one side, a kitchen chair on the other. Clouds had been painted on the ceiling, but the room was otherwise unadorned. There were four hooks in the wall beside the chair. Matt left his suitcase there, the one he had retrieved from the hotel, along with his briefcase.

He wasn’t going to make assumptions about where he would be sleeping. Funny but now that he was so far from home, he found himself thinking about Leslie, not Sharan. Funny how he didn’t seem to know what the heck he wanted anymore, when once it had been so clear.

Or maybe it wasn’t funny at all.

One thing was as clear as crystal. He thought of his novel, secured in the basement ceiling in Massachusetts, and felt the rush of pleasure it always brought him.

His luck, the house would burn down while he was gone.

Matt grimaced. He was tired, that was for sure, and unsettled from that interview with Zach. And he was getting too sober for comfort.

That must be why he was so tempted to call Leslie. He’d missed the sound of her voice earlier, though it had been good to talk to Annette. He could call back.

One more time.

Because only a loser would lead his wife to believe that more was possible than was really the case.

This was where he belonged.

So, why didn’t he feel as if he fit here?

Matt retreated to the kitchen, which was easy to identify and even easier to like. It had a terracotta tile floor that was cool under his feet and the appliances were small and vintage. The cupboards were old and piecemeal, bits and ends snagged from different places and all painted a creamy yellow. The tile backsplash was red and yellow, the tiles making up larger patterns by the way they came together. There was an old fireplace still in one exterior wall, fascinating because it was so high and narrow. Sharan didn’t seem to use it: dried palmetto fronds were arranged in front of it.

He liked the unexpectedly generous expanse of counter, which seemed bigger because there was no clutter. He liked the deep enamel sink, and the old wooden kitchen table with its mismatched chairs. It was funky and artistic. Sharan seemed to have bought most of her kitchen equipment from restaurant supply companies, which suited Matt just fine. Her knives were impossibly dull, but she had a stone and he hadn’t really expected much different from her.

He hung up his suit on a hook in the spare bedroom, put on some shorts and a T-shirt, and went barefoot into the kitchen to get to work. It was reassuring to sharpen the knives, more reassuring to grant himself a shot of tequila.

Matt was chopping cilantro when the screen door opened and slammed. The ceviche was chilling and he was moving on to the main course. He jumped at the slam of the door, having lost himself in the reverie of food preparation and almost forgotten that he soon wouldn’t be alone.

“Hi!” Sharan waved, her face alight with pleasure at the sight of him.

“Hi.” Matt smiled in return, but it was a dutiful smile and he knew it.

“I had the worst day,” Sharan said and he heard her kick off her shoes. “I couldn’t believe how many palm branches they need for this crewe’s float. I mean, really, you’d think it was Jesus riding into Jerusalem that they were staging or something. Every time I’d get done, they’d come down with another armload to paint. Boring!” She drew this last word out to a paragraph.