Two Good Dogs Read online

  “I know I’m a little early for the continental breakfast, but I was hoping I could prevail upon you for a cup of coffee.”

  I’d taken the two-cup coffeemaker out of number 9 to replace a broken unit in another guest room and never given it another thought—a rookie mistake. “Of course.”

  “Chance and I are early risers; we’ve been up since dawn. What a beautiful sunrise coming over the hills. It was spectacular, just like you said it would be, and I’m really glad that I didn’t roll over when I woke at first light, but hauled myself up.”

  “Not as good as higher up, on the Mohawk Trail itself, but not bad.” I can’t seem to stop myself from being an apologist. “I mean, it’s lovely here and lots of folks stop by just to take pictures.”

  Adam moves to the window. “So, where’s the lake?”

  “Lake?”

  “This is called the LakeView, so I kind of assumed that, well, there’s a lake.”

  “There used to be a view of Lake Hartnett, but the trees between us and the lake have grown up over the past century. The Conservation Commission prevents us from cutting them.” The omission of that minor detail from the real estate offering was only the first of the surprises I got once the key was in my hand and my signature was on the life-altering loan docs.

  I hand Adam a ceramic mug, one of a mismatched collection found in thrift shops. This one is a souvenir from Tanglewood—a place I have yet to go. “Help yourself to the breakfast. I got it started early today. It’s a school day.”

  “How old is your daughter?” He depresses the plunger on the bold roast airpot. The coffee sputters out and he has to pump it again.

  “Fourteen. Fourteen going on three.”

  “I know the age.” He gives up on the faulty airpot and moves his mug to the airpot with the medium roast.

  “So, you have kids?” I open the faulty airpot, also a thrift store find, pull out the plunger, and tap it.

  “One. Fortunately, she grew up. Ariel.”

  “Like the mermaid?”

  “No. From The Tempest. Spirit of air and fire.”

  I replace the plunger, test the pot, and a proper stream of coffee comes out. I offer him a new mug, but he shakes his head, keeps the one he has. “Did you weather the storms?”

  “Mostly.” Adam reaches out to the dog, who is sitting at his side. “The storms kind of kept changing.” A shadow crosses his face, a tensing of his cheek muscle, which has a fine line of scar running along it. “Right, Chance?” The dog bumps his big head against Adam’s knee. “Her mother and I were divorced about then. My fault entirely.”

  “That’s hard on kids.”

  “It can be.”

  “Cody’s father and I were divorced while she was a toddler. Maybe that’s better. I don’t know. She still resents me.” I don’t mention Randy’s wasted life. The fact that he’s dead.

  “They say that what’s important is unconditional love and a sense of security. I’m sure Cody knows she has both. She’ll grow out of it.” Adam smiles at me over the rim of his mug.

  I point out the selection of fruits and cereals, where the English muffins are and the condiments. Adam March adds a little half-and-half to his mug, then stirs it slowly while looking out the window. “You’re absolutely right: The view is astounding.”

  * * *

  Adam had been rewarded for his early rising with the sight of the red-gold disk of sun as it emerged through the mist, floating up from behind the distant dark hill, less rising than simply burning through. He wished he could remember the name of the Greek god associated with the sunrise, or maybe it was Roman god, the one pulling a sun-filled chariot. Apollo? Phoenix? He wished that Gina was beside him. She would have loved the view, loved standing on that porch gazing over God’s creation, and would have remembered the name of the lowercase god. He could almost feel the squeeze of her fingers through his, and he clenched his fist against the sensation. Gina’s appreciation for all things Nature might have meant that he never saw meat in his own home, but he delighted in it. If she were here, she would lean her head against his chest and sigh with pleasure at the sight of so much beauty. Instead, he felt the very solid bump of a canine’s thick skull against his kneecap.

  The coffee is a little weak, but it will have to do for now. The homely version of a continental breakfast holds no charms for him. It’s still early—his meeting doesn’t start until nine-thirty—so Adam thinks that he’ll go find a breakfast place in North Adams. Hopefully, someplace with outdoor seating so that Chance can enjoy himself, too.

  “Find everything?” Skye is back from getting Cody up for school. She’s got a newspaper under her arm and she slips it out from its plastic wrapper, hands it to Adam. It’s the regional paper, out of Pittsfield, The Berkshire Eagle. Nonetheless, it does have a sports section, which he extracts, handing back the rest of the paper.

  “Everything’s great. Thanks again for taking us in last night.” He doesn’t mention that he’s fully aware that he was the only guest.

  Skye tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It immediately falls back across her cheek. Adam notices that her eyes are a nice hazel, but beneath them is the faint bruising of sleepless nights, of stress; however, she wears a crisp white shirt, a neat pair of black trousers. He imagines that she has a closet full of these garments, the uniform of a concierge, a hotelier. On her left wrist is a man’s old-fashioned big-faced watch on a black leather strap.

  From somewhere outside, a door slams. Moments later, the daughter bangs open the office door, comes in, grabs a plastic-wrapped bear claw, pours herself juice from the pitcher, and walks out, leaving the door open. Not a word to her mother. No acknowledgment of their guest. Chance takes advantage of the open door to trot outside. Adam sees him go, but he doesn’t call him back, confident that the dog won’t go far.

  * * *

  I catch up with her at the side of the road. The girl has the sticky bun in her hand. The wrapper is on the ground and I sniff at it, take a lick. Not bad.

  Hey, leave that alone.

  When I look up at her, the thing sticks to my nose. She puts out a hesitant hand, then removes the plastic wrap from my face, stuffs it in her pocket.

  I wag my tail. She still has a good chunk of the bun left. As if reading my mind, she hands it to me. I’m a gentleman; I ease it out of her hand.

  You should go back. Your master will be worried about you. She tosses the rest of her sharp-smelling juice onto the gravel, crushes the cup in her hand.

  Master. There’s a word I’d never apply to Adam. I wag my tail again. Step closer and take an exploratory sniff. Interesting combination of girlie potions, the sort I am familiar with from having had Gina in my life, and something else. Yes. I know that scent, one of my least favorites. Cigarettes. On her skin and in her backpack. In my mind, those objects will always be associated with men and bad habits. Sometimes bad men, sometimes just bad habits. Finding that scent on a girl is new for me.

  Go on. Get away. She steps back. I keep sniffing. I’m not proud of it, but once I’m in the sniff mode, I have a hard time calling it quits. I suck in another good cell-filled breath. Yes, yes. Something else going on here. Not physical, although I’m pretty sure she’s coming into that human female version of heat. My olfactory powers go deeper than mere skin, breath, and effluvia. I detect something I can only call a disease of the soul. I’ve encountered this in Adam, especially now.

  I hear the labored roar of the school bus and leave off my exploration. I sit and wait while the girl mounts the steps ever so slowly, as if going to her doom. As if there is no one inside this bus she wants to see.

  I put my nose to the air that puffs out as the doors close. Yes, absolutely. This is one unhappy girl.

  * * *

  I’m cleaning up the dribs and drabs around the untouched breakfast area. Two cups of coffee and the missing bear claw that Cody substituted for the breakfast bar I’d left on the table for her are the only disturbances to the array. In my fan
tasy of owning a boutique hotel, I had imagined that eventually I’d have a commercial kitchen and be able to offer a full breakfast to my guests. Not a bed-and-breakfast per se, but a restaurant-quality operation that might even draw nonguests to the LakeView of a Sunday morning. Ah, well. That unrealistic notion has died an easy death. Murdered by the immediacy of other, more pertinent concerns. Like dry rot.

  Shaking off that unproductive train of thought, I lock the office door and hang the little cardboard sign that says BACK IN ONE HOUR. IF YOU NEED ME, CALL … It has my cell number on it. Then I head to the rear of the property, where Cody and I share a tiny two-bedroom cottage, a leftover from the days when the LakeView had guest cottages as well as the main hotel, a better day, when the Mohawk Trail and environs attracted folks who would spend whole summers camped out in rustic discomfort and love it. I’ve got plans for the other three cabins, renovation and long-term rentals, but that plan, like the full breakfast, is a back-burner plan for now.

  Predictably, Cody’s room is a shambles, and I take some comfort in this suitable teenage trait. Clothes strewn on every surface; laptop closed like a clamshell, its password protecting it from the imagined invasion of prying parental eyes. The only nod to making the room her own is her Hunger Games poster thumbtacked to the wall, Katniss Everdeen aiming her arrow at me. Not even when she was a little girl did Cody enjoy the trappings of princesses and fairies. For her, it was Shrek and Merida, not Ariel—the mermaid, not the spirit—or whoever the princess du jour was when Cody was six. No Barbies.

  I bend to pick up a discarded T-shirt, then change my mind. This is Cody’s mess, and if her clothes remain on the floor instead of making it to the hamper, tough beans. A couple of days of no clean underwear might be more meaningful than a rant from me, or always finding clean, folded clothes on top of her bureau. How’s that for tough love? I back out of the small room, look into my own. It’s nominally better than my daughter’s. At least the clothes are piled on a chair, not the floor. It’s hard to be uncluttered in a bedroom the size of a box stall.

  I’m just thinking that I might make myself a cup of tea, sit for a moment and read the paper, when my phone rings. It’s a local exchange, so not likely a potential guest. It’s also a vaguely familiar number. I’ve seen it before, but I can’t recall to mind who it is. I don’t know that many people in town, so if it’s a social call, I’ll be shocked. Like Cody, I really haven’t made any friends here in town. I just don’t have the time.

  “LakeView Hotel, Skye Mitchell speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Ms. Mitchell, this is Betty Zigler.” The voice is neither friendly nor hostile. Maybe a little weary. The high school principal.

  So much for the tea.

  * * *

  It’s so not fair. She wasn’t the one who started it. Just goes to show you that being the odd one out, the one who isn’t related to everyone else in this godforsaken town, the one who maybe knows that there’s more to life than Justin Bieber, makes you vulnerable. An easy target. Showed him, though, didn’t she? Good right knee right to the baby maker. That’s the last time that kid will ever make fun of Cody Mitchell. He’ll think twice before getting behind her in line, for sure. Whispering that nasty accusation in her ear. Just because she doesn’t swoon at the sight of his fourteen-year-old swagger, doesn’t giggle at his jokes and hide behind her hair at his approach like all the other freshmen girls, and some of the boys. Cody just doesn’t know why he’s singled her out for harassment. If she doesn’t flirt or go all shy in his presence, why is Ryan so obsessed with making her life miserable? He should meet some of the guys at her old school. They’d take him down in a heartbeat and not even hang around for her to say thank you.

  There is a code, nonetheless. And Cody just shrugs when Mrs. Zigler repeatedly asks her why she assaulted—her word—the junior varsity quarterback. “I don’t know.”

  “People don’t just knee other people for no reason, Cody.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “He’s nearly six feet tall. Your knee in”—Mrs. Zigler pauses to find the appropriate words—“a sensitive area can’t have been an accident.” She comes out from behind her desk, sits in the chair beside Cody. Cody has the sense she wants to take her hand, so she quickly drops both hands into her lap, locking her fists between her knees. “Without any explanation of your behavior, I’m forced to apply the school committee–mandated penalty for inappropriate touching. Is there anything you want to say in your own defense?”

  Cody gives the principal her most eloquent shrug. What good would it do to repeat the foul taunt to this woman? Didn’t she want to give blow jobs to the JV team? Ryan heard she was good at it. Where the hell did he get that idea? What bitch put that bug in his ear? Cody knows that it will go worse for her if she rats. If she thinks her life is hell now, this is just the shallow end of hell compared to the shit she’ll get by telling the truth. Besides, as visits to the principal’s office have become something of a routine, why shouldn’t Mrs. Zigler take the side of the boy whose only appearance in this office is to suck up by overachieving on some do-gooder project? Cody realizes she’s a known problem child and that, in the view of the rest of the school, Ryan’s you know what doesn’t stink.

  A tap on the closed door of the principal’s office, and then the secretary shows Cody’s mother in. She’s wearing that same half smile that she wears whenever she has to act all motherly. Like: Yeah, I know my kid’s a problem, but what are you going to do? On the way home, she’ll start on her favorite broken record: We have to make a living in this town. Please don’t make it any more difficult. In the next moment, she’ll be all Still like me, please! Sorry for putting her failure on Cody, she’ll suggest ice cream.

  Half a year ago, Cody would have told her mother everything, let Skye sympathize with her, maybe even get all Mama Bear and go to bat for her against these stupid kids. But Cody is too afraid that any détente would jeopardize keeping the Secret. She can’t weep to her mother and keep it.

  “Cody, what am I going to do with you?” This time, Skye doesn’t try to conciliate. She’s that upset with the principal’s accusation.

  “Go for ice cream?”

  To Cody’s complete surprise, a tear trickles down her mother’s pale cheek.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I’m sorry, I do have a reservation. I called last night to cancel only last night.” Adam’s fist tightens around the dog’s leash. “Please check again.”

  “Fully canceled. I’m sorry.”

  Adam doesn’t interrogate the desk clerk as to how canceling one night has translated into canceling the whole stay that he’d booked at the Holiday Inn. He’d like to, but reason suggests that this pimply kid wasn’t on the desk last night. He should have canceled the one night by computer, but Adam had thought that the best, most efficient way to adjust his plans was over the phone, speaking to a human being. How wrong he was. “Fine. Let’s rebook.”

  The desk clerk has the distinct look of a young man about to deliver bad news. “Umm, sorry? We’re full? There’s a conference?” Since when did young men affect uptalking? What is this country coming to?

  “Okay. So, you’ve probably had those rooms reserved for some time; conferences don’t happen overnight. And my room, which was reserved for me for two nights, minus the one I canceled a mere twelve hours ago, is booked out from under me?”

  “Umm. Yes. We have an opening on Friday night.”

  The fist clenching the leash flexes. Chance, wearing his red service dog vest, casts a gimlet eye upward, as if to say, Chill out, man. Adam practices his centering breath. Touches the dog’s head. The world is made up of screwups, and he’s learned to accept the fact that he will encounter them and that there is generally nothing he can do about it. He has all the tools he needs to conquer the anger that sometimes still takes him by surprise. The one thing he doesn’t have is a hotel room for tonight. “That will hardly do.”

  The desk clerk shrugs. “Is there anything els
e I can do for you today, sir?”

  Five years ago, Adam would have roared his displeasure at this clerk. He would have shaken his fist and made unrequitable demands. He would have viewed the young man as nothing more than an obstacle to his own needs. But that was before his fall, before Adam swept the streets he’d once owned—to paraphrase Coldplay. Master of the Universe, cold, calculating, epitome of the widely disparaged 1 percent, although, he wasn’t quite in that economic category. Running a major company, brooking no dissent. Mistaking buying his daughter and his wife their every desire for showing love. Losing it all in a moment, caving into a long-suppressed loss. His was a life built on anger—at his father, his missing sister, and his childhood spent in foster care. It all collapsed, and Adam knows now that he’s the better man for it.

  Because of Chance. Because of Gina.

  Back out on the street, Adam stands in the sunshine of a perfect late-September afternoon. The desk clerk gave Adam a small local tourist guide with accommodations listed. Adam almost tossed it in the trash on his way out, then thought better of it. Leaning against his car, thumbing through the booklet, he still feels pissed off. He doesn’t want a B and B; he wants a hotel. He doesn’t want to make chitchat over a fussy breakfast; all he ever wants is coffee and quiet. But there are only three accommodations that are pet-friendly, all of them guesthouses, so he starts calling. One is booked solid and the other two are distinctly out of his budget range.

  Chance, leash dragging behind him, wanders halfway down the block.

  “Hey, get back here.”

  Chance ambles back to Adam. The dog sits, yawns audibly, flops down on the sun-warmed pavement, beats his tail a couple of times, and closes his eyes. His red vest has slipped a little.

  The service dog idea had been Gina’s. Ever since Chance’s brush with near death at the hands of a dogfighting ring, Adam had been reluctant to let the dog out of his sight. But it was more than that, it was only in the company of his dog that Adam felt secure, in control of himself. Gina knew that and knew how to ensure that he and the dog were never apart.