Not that I was getting ahead of myself, of course.
I MANAGED TO GET an appointment to see Dr. McFarland late in the day, telling Carmella Landi, the longtime receptionist, that poor little Bowie wasn’t himself and I figured he should be checked out. “Got it,” she said, her voice short.
“I think he ate something weird,” I added, trying to be convincing. This was half true … Bowie ate something weird at least once a day … a sock, a chunk of wood, a bag of frozen lima beans. Once he ate one of Noah’s feet … the rubber kind that was attached to the end of a particularly ugly prosthetic.
However, as we got ready for the appointment (I’d gone home to fetch my dog, of course, and freshen up a bit), Bowie looked in fighting form, all glossy and gorgeous and yipping and singing, his unusual eyes winking at me as I adjusted my cleavage. Should I change my shirt? Yes. Pulling on a pale green short-sleeved sweater, I unbuttoned the top two buttons. Should I go for three? No, three was slutty.
“Try to act calm, at least, Bowie,” I said. “You don’t have to lie, but you don’t have to do somersaults, either.” I switched my earrings to match the sweater, added a green and blue beaded necklace, then smiled winningly at my reflection. “You’re adorable,” I told myself. “Come on, Bowie.”
Ordinarily, I’d have ridden my bike … Bowie, being a husky, was born to do one thing, and that was pull. Noah and I had rigged up a terrific little harness to hitch onto my bike, and my dog loved nothing more than towing me up the hills of our fair city. Today, however, I’d have to drive Lancelot, my green Prius. Couldn’t have my dog pull me three miles out of town if he was allegedly under the weather. I felt a pang at the untruth and said a quick prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, as well as to Balto, the legendary sled dog whose heroics had given birth to the Iditarod, so that Bowie would remain in the pink.
It was humid today, the sky an unconvincing blue, and the forecasters had predicted heat in the mid-eighties, which was about as hot as Vermont was going to get. Mosquitoes, the Vermont state bird, were out in force, so it was just as well that I was driving.
Georgebury was a typical Vermont city—well, typical for the Northeast Kingdom part of the state, where the mountains were too small and too rough for skiing and the gobs of money it infused into the economy. No, Georgebury was scruffy, and we residents liked it that way. The downtown was set into a hillside, a few blocks of shops and offices and restaurants, the aging brick architecture from a more caring age, when builders left a legacy of arching windows and intricate details, high ceilings and wide-planked floors. Green Mountain Media occupied a Flatiron-style building on the V-shaped intersection of Allen and River Streets.
I glided past the office and headed up the hill to the more upscale, residential area of town—huge Victorian homes built by the mill owners in the town’s heyday, the beautiful town green, the athenaeum and town hall, the private boarding school. Misinski’s Funeral Home was here as well, tastefully painted in shades of dark green, yellow and rust, the long awning and hearse in the driveway marking the building’s function.
Though it certainly wasn’t necessary, I turned onto Camden Street. Just sightseeing, I lied to myself, looking for a car with rental plates. Almost against my will, I slowed.
Mark’s house was a place I’d always loved, a grand Craftsman with a stone front porch and a huge copper beech tree in the back. Of course, I’d pictured myself living here. Eleven months ago, I’d spent four nights here in Mark’s house, in Mark’s bed. My chest tightened as I looked at the yard. Our kids were supposed to have played there. Not gonna happen, the First Lady reminded me. He didn’t choose you. Move on. “Right, right,” I muttered. She had a point. Besides, no one seemed to be there. Maybe Muriel was staying elsewhere. Maybe this whole seeing each other was a lot less serious than it sounded.
With a sigh, I eased past Mark’s, heading down the other side of the hill.
The vet’s office was located out on Route 2, four or five miles from downtown. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed Bowie’s leash and unclipped him from his doggy seat belt. “Let’s go, boy,” I said, trying not to stagger as Bowie lunged for the door. He adored Dr. Kumar, of course, and would often sing along as Dr. K. serenaded him. Bowie chugged right up to the counter. “Hey, Carmella,” I said. “Bowie’s here for a check.”
“Right,” she said, raising a knowing eyebrow.
“He ate something, I think,” I reminded her.
“Mmm-hmm.” Again with the eyebrow. “That seems to be going around.” She jerked her chin, urging me to look. I did.
Ruh-roh.
The waiting room was … gosh, it was pretty full, wasn’t it? And not just full. Full of women. Many of them young women. And um … you know … like me, sort of decked out, sort of shiny. Sort of single. Crap. There was Lily Butkes, who had apparently heeded Elmira’s advice, holding a very large Persian cat, which eyed me contemptuously. Aimee Wilder, who’d been a year ahead of me at school, clutched a trembling Chihuahua. “Hey, Callie,” she said, smiling. Dang it. She was quite attractive, very tall and lean and supermodelesque.
“Hi, Aimee, nice to see you!” I answered merrily. Also in the waiting room were two women I didn’t know, one with a hugely overweight terrier, the other with a ball python coiled around her arm. There was Jenna Sykes, another old schoolmate, who gave me a confident smile. A golden doodle puppy snoozed on her shoulder like a baby. Okay, that would be hard to beat. A puppy was an unfair advantage in man-seeking, especially if the man was a vet. I wondered if that was Jenna’s strategy. Not a bad idea when I thought of all the money we women invested to get a man—haircuts and color, makeup and moisturizers, minimizers, maximizers, lingerie, clothes, shoes, waxes … crikey! And all we asked in return was that they be semi-clean. At least Jenna’s investment would love her back.
“Have a seat, Callie,” Carmella said, taking out Bowie’s chart and clipping it to a board.
“Thanks, Carmella. Come on, Bowie.” I tugged and nudged my dog as he tried to sniff every square inch of floor, his curling tail wagging madly, sending clumps of husky fur through the air. “Come on, Bowie, be a good boy,” I reminded him. He sniffed the python owner’s knee, then, finding it to his liking, tried to lunge in for her crotch. “No, Bowie! Stop it! Please stop!” I commanded. “Sorry,” I said to her, reeling in my ridiculously strong dog. “He’s a people person.” She gave me a cold look from her reptilian eyes, and made a big point of brushing Bowie’s fur from her knee. You know how they say people resemble their pets? True.
“Jenna, you can go into Room 3,” Carmella said. “Aimee, Room 2.” Jenna stood up, still cradling the sleeping puppy, and shot me another confident smile. Aimee also rose, hips swinging in a passable runway walk as she strolled down the hall. I heard the rumble of a masculine voice, then Aimee’s giggle.
I sat and waited, the minutes ticking by slowly. This could work, I reminded myself. Men love us. Ball Python Woman was next, and frankly, I was glad. That snake had been staring unblinking at Bowie. I may not be big enough to eat you, the creature seemed to be thinking. Yet.
From where I sat in the waiting room—the coffee service was gone, much to my disappointment—I couldn’t see Dr. McFarland. And okay, clearly I wasn’t exactly original in bringing in my doggie for a quick once-over. But a girl had to try.
Ruh-roh. Here came Jenna, looking quite miffed as she held the now awake and squirming puppy. She scowled at Carmella as she settled the bill, then caught my eye. “May as well go to Dr. Jones in Kettering from now on,” she grumbled. “This guy’s a dick. Didn’t even give me the time of day.” With that, she stomped past me to the door.
“Bye,” I said. Hmm.
A few minutes later, Aimee came out with