Will would be celebrating his thirty-second birthday next month, yet people still saw him as a boy. It had never bothered him before, but now it didn’t sit so well. His old school buddies were all married; most had kids. That guaranteed weekends spent mowing lawns and taking kids to Little League, neighborhood barbecues and friendly softball matches stretching into the summer evenings. And nights curled up beside a woman who loved you. In truth, most of his old friends had found a contentment that had always eluded Will.
He and Frank were a lot alike—lonely bachelors—although Will hadn’t yet resorted to driving around with a farm animal in his front seat for company. The town’s population numbered over two thousand, but the pool of eligible men the judge might date—if she ever dated—was small. Provided his brother Adam didn’t move back anytime soon. The career-oriented judge was sure to be impressed by a dedicated, overmuscled firefighter.
Will put that unwelcome thought out of his mind and concentrated on Frank. He and Mrs. Carmichael, the florist, had been high school sweethearts. She’d gone off to college in Denver and eventually married and settled there. Widowed many years later, she’d come home to Spruce Lake and opened a florist shop. But the former sweethearts had barely spoken to each other since her return.
“Here we are, boy.” Frank jolted Will from his musings as they pulled up outside the Twilight Years.
Frank turned in his seat and held out a wad of money.
“What’s this for?”
“The Save Our Buildings fund,” Frank said. “I had this in my mattress. I was figurin’ maybe we could raise money for the town to buy back the old buildings. Like the judge suggested.”
Will was touched. “Thanks, Mr. F., but I doubt there’s enough money in the whole town to do that.” His hastily devised plan during the protest was simply to raise funds to fight the development company in court and convince them to rethink their demolition of the buildings.
“You’d be surprised how much money there is in this town,” Frank was saying. “Folks just don’t have nothin’ worthwhile to spend it on.” He proffered the wad of cash again.
Will held up his hands. “Ah, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t feel comfortable walking around with all that money. Let’s open an account down at the bank, okay?”
Frank considered his words, then nodded. “Good idea.”
A thought occurred to Will. “Mrs. C. has a donation tin on her shop counter, but this is way too much to leave in there. As SOB treasurer, I know she’d be over the moon with a donation like this. You should be a cosignatory on the account with her.”
“I doubt Edna would want to sign anything with me. We don’t exactly get along. In fact, you could say she hates me.”
Poor Frank, he had it bad, Will surmised, observing his trembling lip. “I’m sure if you worked together on the campaign, she’d see a side of you that will please her beyond measure.”
“You think?”
Will climbed out of the Caddy. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your generous donation to our cause,” he said, giving Louella’s head a scratch.
He was positive that Mrs. C. would appreciate the donation. He wasn’t so certain she’d forgive Frank for whatever wrong he’d committed forty years earlier.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Will was walking old Miss Patterson’s five dogs, who were a real handful. Planning moves on the development company, how to sweet-talk Luke into holding a barbecue at the ranch and walking a pack of dogs didn’t mix.
Miss Patterson had never married, nor had children of her own, but she was well-loved around town. The dogs were her life and Will always enjoyed visiting with the cheerful octogenarian and her “boys” whenever he was home. She not only made the world’s best chocolate chip cookies and was an accomplished watercolor artist, but possessed a vast knowledge of the Spruce Lake area and its history.
During the protest, as she’d bravely faced the demolition vehicles charging toward her, she’d asked Will if he could help her find good homes for the dogs. At the time, he feared it was because Miss Patterson thought she was going to be run down and killed. But she’d explained that the dogs were getting to be too much for her and wanted them adopted into loving homes.
“Whoa there, boys,” he warned as the dogs dragged him along Main Street. Dermott the Irish setter, Dugald the Scottish terrier and Henri the toy poodle were attached by their leashes to his left hand. Edward, the Old English sheepdog and Charles the bull terrier’s leashes were clasped firmly in his right. No wonder Miss P. needed a hip replacement, Will mused. The dogs were nearly tearing his arms out of their sockets and his feet were planted so firmly in the snow he was practically skiing behind them.
The toot of a car’s horn had all of them pricking up their ears. When they spotted Louella sailing past with her snout stuck out the window of Frank Farquar’s Caddy, they took off after her. Five dogs and a man became a blur in the shop windows as they shot along Main Street in pursuit of Louella, squealing her approval out the window.
“Shut up, Louella, you idiot pig!” Will yelled as he yanked on the leashes with all his might, while pedestrians scattered like snowflakes before them. His command had little or no effect on Charles who continued racing down the street, dragging Edward and Will.
Frank turned at the corner of Main and Jefferson, the Caddy fishtailing on the slippery street. Now the car was out of sight, Dermott forgot about Louella and slowed to a trot, while Dugald spotted a fire hydrant to relieve himself on. Henri, exhausted from the effort of keeping up with the much larger dogs, dropped to his stomach. Edward flopped down, too. His considerable weight had the effect of bringing everyone else to a standstill, although the forward motion of Will’s body took a moment to catch up.
Trying to avoid treading on tiny Henri, Will leaped into the air, twisted sideways, collected a potted Christmas tree complete with decorations, then fell backward over Edward. His head hit the snow-covered sidewalk with such force he saw stars. He lay on his back staring up at the sky through the Christmas tree branches, with Edward breathing Old English sheepdoggie breath on his face.
JUDGE BECKY MCBRIDE witnessed all this from the courthouse steps.
After a long day, exacerbated by Louella getting up to further mischief, she’d escaped the courtroom madhouse only to find more animals misbehaving outside.
Will O’Malley saw her and scrambled to his feet. “Afternoon, Your Honor,” he said and attempted to unwind himself from the mass of dogs, their leads and, she noted curiously, a bedraggled Christmas tree laced with silver tinsel. Finally free of the leashes, he gave a couple of commands to the dogs and they walked with their heads held high toward her.
Fond of Scotties, she bent to pat the Scottish terrier. They seemed to have hardy, courageous temperaments. The other dogs nuzzled her hand eagerly. Becky laughed, delighted by their antics.
“Hello! Aren’t you gorgeous?” she told the dogs and scratched behind their ears, but the Scottie was the most insistent about getting her attention.
“That’s Dugald,” Will O’Malley told her. “He’s very bossy and a good watchdog. This is Edward—” he indicated the Old English sheepdog “—he’s a lazy lump and eats too much, but he makes a nice footrest in front of the fire on cold nights. Dermott’s the setter. He’s got no brains whatsoever, but he loves children. Charles needs psychotherapy—” he pointed to the bull terrier “—because he’s in love with Louella Farquar. And Henri’s convinced he’s related to Louis XVI and doesn’t much care for walks.”
“He’s wearing fur-lined booties and a fur doggie coat,” she said. “The question is why?”
“Seriously, he thinks he’s related to royalty—hence, the fur coat. Fake fur,” he pointed out. “And the booties are to protect his dear little feet from the cold.”
Becky