“Pick a spot in the southern half of the country. It gets danged cold above the Mason-Dixon line.”
Again her smile was weak. “I kind of like cold.”
“Says the woman who’s lived all of her life in the South. Spend a winter in Wyoming. It’ll change your mind.”
“Where did you grow up?”
He offered her the last slice of pizza, then, when she shook her head, moved it to his plate and sprinkled it with mozzarella and red pepper flakes.
“Here and there. My mother was restless. She’d wake up one morning and say, ‘Start packing, kids. We’re going someplace new.’ I was born in California, went to four grade schools in Arizona and New Mexico, two middle schools in Louisiana and two high schools in Texas.”
“Makes it hard to put down roots.”
He shrugged. “My family is my roots. Mom lives in Alabama now, and Marnie and I both wound up here. She’ll stay. Me, I don’t know. When I came, it was only supposed to be for four months, but I’m still here.”
“What about your father?”
“He never left California. He wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t stay.” After a moment he ruefully added, “Like Sloan and me.” He took one last bite, then offered the rest to Scooter, who removed it delicately from his hand. “He still asks about her every time we talk. He wants to know if she ever wanders back to California.”
“So he can try to win her back? Or so he has sufficient time to go into hiding?”
“I don’t know.” Stephen wiped his hands on a napkin then leaned back comfortably. “I got over wanting them to get back together a long time ago, but I think he actually misses her. He never remarried, never seemed at all interested in another woman.”
A security light at the far side of the backyard came on automatically, drawing Macy’s gaze outside. The settling dusk had escaped her notice, but now a faint shiver rippled through her. It was okay, she counseled herself. So the sun had set. No big deal. Dangerous things were dangerous, whether it was daylight or midnight.
Stephen stuffed the used napkins into the pizza box then crushed it in half as he stood. “I’d better head home. You must be tired or ready to get some sorting or packing done.” He went into the kitchen, automatically opening the cabinet under the sink to toss away the trash, then pulled his wallet from his hip pocket as he turned to face her again.
“‘Home’ is the first house to the north. It’s the one with the fence that can’t keep Scooter in.” For a moment he hesitated, then held out his hand. “And here’s my card. It’s got my cell phone number on it. If you need anything…”
Macy accepted the card, murmuring thanks for the dinner and everything else as she walked with him and the dog to the front door. As soon as they reached their car, she locked the door, set the alarm, then leaned against the door frame. Slowly she uncurled her fingers from the white cardstock and stared at it.
Stephen Noble, DVM.
As the emptiness of the house closed in around her, she felt a little bit safer. A little bit less alone. Just a little, but she would take what she could get.
“Dr. Noble, if you have a minute, Peyton’s here. She’s got something to show you.”
Stephen looked up from the chart he’d just finished, automatically checking the clock on the wall. Five minutes to eight, and he’d already seen five patients. “I always have a minute for Peyton. Tell her I’ll be right out.”
He’d learned early in life that there were four kinds of people: those who liked dogs, those who liked cats, those who liked both and—the ones he couldn’t relate to at all—those who preferred neither. Peyton was definitely in the first group.
So was Macy Howard.
Not liking animals was a deal breaker for him. Not that he was looking for anything with Macy. She was pretty, sure, but she had a child. She had been recently widowed. At least, a year and a half seemed recent to him. Not nearly enough time to deal with the emotional upheaval.
But she wasn’t still in love with her husband.
Before he got any further with that thought, he walked into the lobby, where nine-year-old Peyton was waiting. Her face lit up and she called, “Dr. Noble, did Penny tell you I had a surprise?”
He didn’t need a guess to identify it as the dog standing beside her wheelchair. He crouched in front of her. “A surprise, huh? Do you have new glasses?”
“No.”
“New sweater?”
“You’ve seen this before,” she chided. “It’s my favorite sweater. I wear it all the time.”
He pretended to study her, from the top of her blond curls all the way down to the toes of her sneakers, then raised both hands in surrender. “I give up. You’ve stumped me.”
Laughing, Peyton leaned over to lay her hand on the dog. “I got my service dog! Her name is Sasha, and she’s just for me, even though she has to be friends with everyone. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The golden retriever turned gorgeous brown eyes on him as if understanding the question and waiting for the compliment. “She is,” Stephen said. “Almost as beautiful as you. Has she learned all your lessons?”
“Yup.”
“Have you learned all her lessons?”
Peyton’s head bobbed. “Mom and I spent two weeks at the center where they trained her. And I wasn’t scared of her at all. Not even the very first time we met.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be. Has she gone to school with you yet?”
“Today’s the first day. All the kids in my class are gonna be jealous because Sasha can come and their pets can’t. But their pets wouldn’t behave, and Sasha will be a very good girl ‘cause she’s been taught.”
“And if we’re going to be on time, we need to go now.” Audrey King, Peyton’s mother, left the counter where she’d been chatting and joined them. “Thanks, Dr. Noble. This is going to make a big difference in her life.”
“No need to thank me.” All he’d done was locate the service dog group. Audrey and Peyton and generous donors had done the rest.
“We’ll bring Sasha back so you can get acquainted,” Peyton announced as she wheeled her chair around. “After all, you’re gonna be her new doctor and her new friend. See you.”
Two new friends in two days. He was on a roll. Would Macy mind being categorized with a retriever? He didn’t think so. She wanted a puppy for her daughter, and she’d been very tolerant of Scooter. She hadn’t barred the door to him or objected to his sharing their dinner.
Was her daughter as pretty and delicate as Peyton? Did she have her mother’s blue eyes, her mother’s silky brown hair? Was she friendly or shy? Did she have any comprehension of the fact that her father was dead?
No, not at three. At eighteen months, she would have known Daddy, but now she wouldn’t have any memory of him. She wouldn’t know that he had played with her, fed her, rocked her to sleep—if, in fact, he’d done any of those things. Judging from Macy’s remark last night, he hadn’t left her many fond memories. Even if he’d loved his daughter, that knowledge was gone forever for Clary.
At least Macy had her daughter. When he and Sloan had split, everyone had told him how he was lucky they hadn’t