Skinny Dipping (24 page)

She looked at the dogs. They had just returned from a wilderness ramble. Wiley and Bill were curled in their chairs, but Blondie was standing before her, looking expectant. Ice balls drooped from her furry underbelly like heavy ornaments from the boughs of a weedy Christmas tree. The lowest had begun to melt, leaving a puddle on the hardwood floor. Blondie shivered and wagged her long tail.

With a sigh, Mimi went to get a towel.

“Look,” she said as she rubbed Blondie dry and the dog tried to lick her. “I’ll check in on you, but you’re all big, brave dogs and you can spend the nights here without a babysitter. Prescott will never know, and I’ll be able to…”
To what?
she found herself asking.
To sit in a cold, drafty old house by myself?

Yes. Because she’d come here to say good-bye to…
What? Her adolescence?

No! She willed away the sneering suggestion. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect she was being pestered from Beyond. Unfortunately, she recognized these thoughts as her own. They’d been slowly building momentum for almost a year now. But they were wrong. She had come to say good-bye to Chez Ducky, and, by God, she was going to say good-bye, and these dogs—she frowned as she worked a particularly knotty tangle from Blondie’s left ear—these dogs were not going to stop her.

What was she doing here in the home of her enemy, anyway? Okay, maybe Prescott wasn’t her actual enemy, but he did represent everything she despised about the country’s economic top one percent, stomping in uninvited and pissing all over everything they wanted, presumptuous and self-indulgent and worst of all, without one ounce of self-restraint. Just look at Prescott’s piney palace! It was obscenely large for one man, who, she had no doubt, would end up spending only a few weekends a year in it.

Fine. Maybe Prescott had thought he was saving her life. Maybe he didn’t realize what a cliché he was. Maybe he didn’t understand the impact this house was having on Fowl Lake’s middle-class society. Ignorance was no excuse. Besides, she felt better being righteously indignant about him—or rather his house—than uncomfortably obligated to him.

Nevertheless, she spent the rest of the day dutifully wearing her charges out before feeding them, hustling them outside to answer the call of nature, and then, once they were situated in what she now recognized as their usual places, slipping unnoticed out the back door. She stood in the dark listening. Not a peep.

Thus reassured, she followed the path back to the Big House, where she spent a very uneventful evening alone. Around ten o’clock, lured by the magical moonlight on the lake, she ventured outside. At once, a faint but unmistakable chorus of howls greeted her.

Horrified, she spun on her heels and rushed back into the Big House, slamming the door shut behind her. They’d survive. They were just spoiled. She stuck her ear buds in, cranked up
Disco Hits of the Eighties,
and flopped down on the big, lumpy sofa in the parlor.

Unhappily, her imagination insisted on providing what her ears didn’t, because try as she might to concentrate on a nicely torrid romance novel she’d brought with her, she kept imagining she heard Blondie and Wiley and Bill, even above Donna Summer wailing “Last Dance.” She knew this was ridiculous; she’d barely been able to hear them when she’d been outside. Besides, they’d probably given up long ago and were by now curled up snoozing—and in Bill’s case, farting—contentedly. To prove it, she’d pop outside and listen.

She unplugged herself from her iPod and stuck her head out the back door. The dogs were howling. Their muffled canine misery acted on her like nails on a blackboard. Again, she slammed the door shut. This, she thought grimly, is why she’d never had kids: guilt. She could feel herself aging as she stood there, the process accelerated by guilt and worry.

So it went. Every half hour Mimi opened a window or a door and heard the pitiful keening of despairing dogs. Around two in the morning she realized she had two choices: She could drag them over here and listen to them be miserable or go back to Prescott’s. Wrapping herself in a big old sleeping bag, she trudged back to Prescott’s to be greeted by a short (
very
short, she thought suspiciously) burst of doggy rapture followed forthwith by her formerly wretched companions flopping down and falling instantly asleep.

She thought about finding the linens and making up the guest bed, but it was almost three o’clock and the sofa was comfortable and for one or two more nights (because that’s what she had decided “a while” constituted), she’d just as soon not make herself at home here, in the Temple of Conspicuous (but ecologically friendly) Consumerism.

“Move over,” she grumbled to Wiley, wedging herself between the back of the sofa and the sprawling dog.

Three days later, Mimi was still sleeping on Prescott’s couch.

So was Wiley.

Mimi opened the door to the garage and looked inside. Last night, the fifth night she’d been holding down the fort at Prescott’s, they’d run out of pizza. As pizza was the hands-down favorite amongst all those currently residing at Prescott’s Piney Palace (a sobriquet she’d arrived at after deciding Prescott’s Erection was simply not what she wanted to call a place in which she was living, no matter for how short a time), she needed to go to town. She was a teeny bit disappointed to discover all four stalls empty except for a hybrid Toyota Prius. Despite her unswerving disdain for Prescott’s conspicuous consumptionism, just out of curiosity she’d have liked to know what it felt like to be behind the wheel of a Bentley or a DeLorean.

As soon as the garage door started sliding up the tracks, she heard the dogs scrambling across the living room floor. Then Blondie and Wiley bolted past her as she stood in the doorway leading into the garage, almost knocking her off her feet as they dashed headlong toward the Prius, clearly expecting to go for a ride. What the heck. She wasn’t in the mood for a battle of wills. Besides, the dogs—or more specifically Bill—always won those.

“Okay,” she’d said, flinging open the back door. “It’s not my car. Be my guests.”

Wiley and Blondie jumped in and settled as primly as little debutantes on the backseat. They did not wrestle. They did not tear at the seat belts. They did not hop around. They simply waited, eyeing her expectantly. Bill, who’d wandered outside the garage, had taken up a position sitting on the snow-covered sidewalk leading to the front door, his dumpy little body askew, his stubby little back legs sticking out to one side.

“Get in, Bill. Get in there, or I swear to God I’ll leave you. You know you want to come.”

The little bastard. If she made any move toward him, he would just take off. That’s the way it worked between them. Their relationship was defined by her failure to appreciate any of his charm and his complete disregard for her role as pack leader. She got into the car and closed the door, starting the motor. Bill yawned. She backed up. Bill scratched.

If it wasn’t below zero, she’d have left him out there. But she couldn’t. He’d die and thereby, in some inexplicable way, win the battle of wills raging between them. She flung open the door and got out of the car, stomping toward Bill. “Why you miserable little piece of—”

The sound of a car approaching cut short her tirade as a big black BMW 540i emerged from the woods and rolled to a stop in front of her. The driver turned off the engine. She eyed the car’s shining, lacquered surface and knew at once who had to be in it.

Sure enough, Joe Tierney opened the door and stepped out, his long black cashmere coat rippling in the wind, a graphite-hued scarf tucked beneath the lapels. He glanced up at her, pulling on a pair of gloves.

“You must be the dog-sitter,” he said. Yup. Same voice: smoky ice. “I’m Joe Tierney, the homeowner’s father.” His voice trailed off. Had he been one iota less self-contained, his mouth would have dropped open.

“You.” For a few seconds she could have sworn his gaze warmed, but no, that wasn’t warmth, it was suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“Gold digging,” she said. “What else?”

“Very funny,” Joe said.

The surge of warmth he’d felt upon realizing that the bag lady hollering at a small, despondent-looking mutt was Mimi Olson didn’t fade even in the face of her obvious hostility. Her words simply added an element of sheepishness to the mix, which was, he told himself, flat-out stupid. As he’d reminded himself more than once, he had nothing to feel sheepish or guilty about. It was bizarre how this small, rumpled woman in her drab, lumpy coat and hideous fur-lined bomber’s cap kept knocking him off balance and making him blurt out whatever was uppermost in his mind.

And what was she doing here? Why was she even up here? From the glances he’d had of it, Chez Ducky didn’t look like the sort of place that was fit for subzero dwelling. Something else was going on.

“Why
are
you up here?”

One of her brows lifted. “Because,” she said, “
I
am the dog-sitter.”

So he’d gathered. “But how did you get the job?”

“How? Just call me lucky. I happened to be here during Prescott’s time of need.” Then she grudgingly added, “In case you have forgotten, the Olsons are selling Chez Ducky. I wanted to spend some time here before people like your son bulldoze it over and slap up their own monster erections ass cheek to ass cheek along the entire shore.”

She had a way with words, he’d give her that. A vulgar way, but then she felt strongly about the subject. See? He could be objective where she was concerned. Obviously he was over whatever spell this small unkempt female had cast on him, a spell that had followed him to China and had had him thinking about her at odd and inconvenient moments throughout the last three months. But now, looking at her chapped lips and the dark smudges under her brilliant eyes and the straight-backed precision with which she held that small frame, he was thinking quite clearly. He was in command. He was himself again.

And this urge to reach out and tuck a wild and glossy coil of dark hair back under her hat? Not an excuse to touch her. He liked things tidy was all.

“What are
you
doing here?” Mimi asked.

Tit for tat. “Someone from the insurance agency called to tell me about Prescott’s accident. I spoke to Prescott’s physician and came as soon as I could. I was in China.” He paused a second or two. “Did you get the roses?” he asked apropos of nothing.

“Roses? Oh. Yeah. I got ’em.”

“From your tone, I guess there isn’t any reason to ask if my apology was accepted?” He knew he sounded stiff.

“Was that an apology? I thought it was an excuse,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Touché. He didn’t have a riposte.

“So, why are you
here
?” she asked.

“The surgeon said Prescott will need someone to be with him for a while after he is released from the hospital.”

“And you didn’t just hire a nurse? I thought you said Prescott was a ‘dick.’”

“He’s still my son.” Joe flushed. He
had
considered hiring a nurse, but after seeing Prescott in the hospital yesterday, still semi-gorked-out on pain meds, truculent, employing his usual winning ways with strangers and looking so damn unhappy, a brainstorm had seized Joe. He could help his kid in and out of a wheelchair, microwave some meals, let the little mutt out. For the first time since Karen’s death, Joe had a role to perform in Prescott’s life. A real role.

True, home aide wasn’t a role he’d ever seen himself in, and he wasn’t precisely sure what he could do that a paid worker couldn’t do better, but he was a competent man. More important, he
wanted
to do this. It would give him and Prescott a chance to…do more than occupy different corners of the same room.

He’d suggested it to Prescott, but, again not unexpectedly, Prescott resisted the idea. Strenuously. Joe had thought it was because Prescott saw the offer as a sacrificial duty, which, again, made Joe feel like that was exactly what it was. But oddly, rather than making him back off, it only cemented Joe’s resolve to do this for Prescott. He wasn’t going to argue with him, though, so he’d just smiled, said good-bye, and rented a car and driven from Duluth, determined to have the place handicap ready for Prescott’s arrival after they released him, which, owing to an elevation in his white blood count, and concerns of infection, would still be a few days. He would also pay the dog-sitter.

But now, realizing Mimi must be the person Prescott had assured Joe “was taking care of everything,” Joe had a different take on Prescott’s unwillingness to accept his help. And how the hell had he talked Mimi into doing this in the first place? Mimi Olson hated Prescott’s house. “They’re releasing Prescott from the hospital this weekend. I’m going to pick him up.”

“Have you spoken to Prescott about this?” she said.

“No. I was going to…surprise him.”
Because if my being here is a fait accompli, there’s a better chance he’ll let me stay
, he thought, but he did not say aloud. “Why? Do you have a problem with that?”

“You bet,” she said. “You’re thwarting my plot to infiltrate Prescott’s inner sanctum, using his weakened condition to make myself invaluable to him,” she said. “Curses. Foiled again. I guess I’ll just have to go home and think up some other way to get to him.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he answered, honestly surprised that he really hadn’t been thinking that and possibly should have been. Damn.

“Oh?” she said disbelievingly. “Gee. Sorry, I misjudged you.”

“Ah,” he said, refusing to let her goad him. “Irony. Very good.”

“Thanks,” she chirped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get my wallet out of Prescott’s car and my stuff from Prescott’s house and be on my way. That’s right,” she said as he glanced toward the Prius and the two mongrels sitting patiently in the backseat. “I’ve been making free with Prescott’s hot wheels all week. Man, I’m gonna miss that bad boy. Cruising the strip, mackin’ on the Frosties, picking up ’bilers. It’s been sweet.”

“You know, if you’re going to mock someone, it’s most effective if you do so in their native tongue. Would you care to translate?”

Unwillingly, her mouth curled into a smile. “Mackin’ on, making out with. Frosties are people from the city who come north for winter sports. ’Bilers, as in snowmobilers. Man, you are old.”

“What’s the strip?”

“I made that up,” she said unapologetically. “There is no strip.” She swaggered past him and opened the Prius’s door. A pair of dogs, one some sort of fluffy retriever mix and the other a gray, slat-sided cross, leapt out and started jumping around, biting at Mimi’s mittens and the tassels on her oversized boots. She swatted at them ineffectively, like this was routine, then ducked into the car and rummaged around inside. She backed out hauling a sloppy-looking tote with her. Then, slinging it over her shoulder, she headed up the walk toward the front door.

The dogs romped after her, except for Prescott’s dog, the dumpy little creature who’d been sitting on the walk. He continued watching Joe with an unnervingly direct stare. Mimi started opening the door. The dogs started trying to push their way past her.

“You’re not going to let your dogs inside Prescott’s house, are you?” Joe asked.

She looked around and started to smile. Even from a distance it wasn’t a nice smile. “You mean, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“These”—she pointed at the two dogs wrestling at her feet—“are not my dogs.
These
are Prescott’s dogs. And now they’re yours.”

“But Prescott is very allergic to dogs.” Even as he spoke, he realized how absurd he sounded.

“If you don’t believe me, and there’s a lot of that going around, call him yourself.”

“Are you ever going to let it go?” he asked. “I apologized. I wrote a note. Would you like me to say I’m sorry again?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not accepted.”

“I was wrong.”

“Well, that had to hurt,” she said, eyeing him. Her chill expression seemed to thaw a little. “The dog in front of you is Bill. One of these”—she pointed at the two dogs rolling around at her feet—“is Merry. I can’t remember the other one’s name.”

“Which one is Merry?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It was late at night, the ambulance guy was giving me heat, Prescott was moaning, and I was thinking about other things. I blanked out on the names. I call that one Blondie and that one Wiley. As in coyote. Like the cartoon?”

He really didn’t care what she called the animals. He was more interested in something else she’d said. “You were here when Prescott had his accident?”

“Actually,” she said, “I was down there.” She indicated the lake. “I was…taking a walk when I saw Prescott come out and fall.” Her cheeks turned pink but she met his eye defiantly.

She was clearly lying. She didn’t even do it very well, either, which had the odd effect of both heartening and disturbing him. Heartening him because as a seasoned con artist she wouldn’t have any trouble lying, so she obviously wasn’t a seasoned con artist—further substantiating what he’d already guessed—and disturbing him because she was lying about something. What?

“I gotta get my things inside. Is that okay?” she said, flinging the front door open. The pack of dogs exploded inside and disappeared amongst a racket of clattering nails and growls.

Mimi kicked off her boots and padded down the hall. Joe followed her into the great room overlooking the lake, but the arresting view didn’t attract his eye. He was too busy staring at the homeless shelter someone had set up in Prescott’s living room. Lap rugs and blankets tangled together in the center of the scarlet sofa, and a pillow without a pillowcase had slipped off one end. Crumbs were sprinkled on the surface of the big copper coffee table, along with books, magazines, half-completed crossword puzzles, and an iPod.

Clutter surrounded the sofa: a pair of mauled rubber flip-flops, a shredded T-shirt, disemboweled stuffed animals, and, my God, it looked like there was a cow’s bone under one of the club chairs. Make that
two
cows’ bones.

He didn’t want to look in the kitchen, but he couldn’t help himself. It was more of the same, only with empty food wrappers. A backpack balanced precariously on the edge of the island’s granite countertop right next to a pair of rubber-soled moccasins.

“There are shoes on the kitchen countertop,” he said numbly.

“Oh? Oh,” Mimi hustled past him and swept them up. “Yeah. I had to put them up there so the dogs wouldn’t get them. You can see what they did to my T-shirt. Or rather Wiley did.”

“Ah-huh.” Okay, Mimi wasn’t merely eccentrically and exotically tousled, she was a bona fide slob. Four stoneware plates lay in the sink. “You’ve had company?”

Mimi followed the direction of his gaze. “Huh? Oh.” She gave a little laugh. “No, one of those is mine and the others are the dogs’. I didn’t know where their dishes were and I didn’t want them to have to eat off the floor.”

“Why not? No, don’t tell me. You just washed it.”

“No, I…” His sarcasm found its mark. Her gaze narrowed. “Listen, Joe. I am not Prescott’s maid. I am,
was
, here doing him a favor.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to live like a squatter.”

“A squatter?” She made an encompassing gesture. “The place just looks lived in.”

“No,” Joe replied with commendable calm. “The couch looks lived in. As in, you slept on it, lounged on it, ate from it—Dear God. Is that a toothbrush on the coffee table?”

She scooted over and snatched up the toothbrush, shoving it into the pocket of her jacket. “People come up north, Joe, to escape the tyranny of vacuum cleaners, clothes dryers, and curling irons. I was supposed to be on vacation up here. And I
did
sleep on the couch.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know what to do about the dogs. I didn’t want to mess up a bedroom—”

He started to make some smart-ass comment, but her hard, swift glare stopped him.

“I didn’t want to mess up another room,” she repeated, “and since I’d already slept on the sofa once, I just kept sleeping there. Besides, the dogs don’t like being locked out of rooms and I didn’t know if Prescott would like them on the beds.”

“Probably just as much as he likes them on the sofa,” Joe muttered, noting with disapproval the dog fur on all the upholstered surfaces. He couldn’t believe Prescott didn’t have a vacuum cleaner somewhere.

He looked around. Bill and Blondie were racing each other around the room, skittering across the hardwood floor, leaping over the back of the sofa, and bouncing off the walls like pinballs. The one she called Wiley had fallen with near feral glee upon Mimi’s T-shirt and was proceeding to shred it to pieces.

“Why didn’t you just tell them to stay and shut the door?”

“Ha!” Mimi said. “That shows what you know about dogs. Look at them. Do they
look
like they’d obey a command like ‘stay’?”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Plenty of times. As well as ‘come,’ ‘come now,’ ‘please come,’ ‘damn it, come’ and ‘get the hell over here!’ All with the same results. None.” She turned her head and abruptly bellowed, “Stop that!”

The dogs ignored her. She gave Joe a “told ya so” look.

“You’ve completely lost control,” Joe said.

“What?”

“You have lost control of the situation, the household, the dogs, quite possibly more than that.”
Like your life.
He didn’t say this, though; he had finally found a job for himself in Prescott’s life, and one at which he excelled: putting order to chaos, cleaning up the mess, pulling the brake on this runaway train.

She raised one straight dark brow at him.

“I find that a calm, assertive tone produces better results than a stridently demanding one.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. “I possibly should have couched that in different terms.”

“No, no,” she declared, sounding patently insincere. “I appreciate your interest and I’m ready to sit at the foot of genius and learn.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Teach me,
sensei.
”

“You’re being truculent.”

“No. Please. Give it your best shot, Joe.” She adjusted the angle of her arms. The dogs ran amuck. Joe hated things running amuck.