Finding Home (7 page)

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for her and she wanted to sit with it a while, turn it around in her mind, really study it.

Friday was beautiful. Not too hot, not too cold, not a cloud in the sky, a great day to have off from work. Pulling her bike out of the back storage area was something Sarah hadn’t done in ages. She wasn’t even certain whether or not she’d done any riding last summer, though she had her doubts. If memory served, last summer had been spent moping, crying, and living in a general state of self-pity. She grabbed a wet cloth from the kitchen and gave the bike a thorough wipe-down, eliminating the accumulation of dust, cobwebs, and dead spiders, and feeling a strange sensation of anticipation. She’d always loved to go bike riding when she was younger because it was a great way for her to clear her head. She’d purchased this bike expressly for that reason and had hardly ridden it.
That’s about to change
, she thought with determination as she swabbed the last vestiges of storage off the metal and chrome. The deep green color of it sparkled, and she had the weird sensation that the bike was happy to see her. It could probably use a good tune-up and Sarah made a mental note to drop it the following week at the local bike shop where she’d purchased it.

Rather than allowing it to collect insect fossils like the bike, Sarah stored her matching green helmet in the hall closet. She retrieved it and strapped it on, tucking her hair in as best she could and avoiding mirrors at all costs. She knew wearing it was a necessity, especially when riding in trafÞ c. She also knew that if she caught a glimpse of her own reß ection, she’d feel like she had a salad bowl buckled to her head and take it off immediately.

After locking the front door and the back, she pocketed the key and set off for a nice, relaxing ride around town.

The location of Sarah’s townhouse complex was ideal.

Technically “in the city,” it felt more like the suburbs, with lots of trees and quiet cross streets, but she was, quite literally, ten minutes from everything. The art gallery, the George Eastman

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House, the Rochester Museum and Science Center, the Little Theater, Park Avenue, the planetarium, Cobbs Hill Park—

everything was within a quick walk or drive, and Sarah wouldn’t have it any other way. Rochester wasn’t a big city, but it had a lot to offer and access was a cinch. She’d decided to zigzag up and down some of the neighborhood streets of the Park Avenue/

Monroe Avenue area before stopping off to grab some lunch or something when the mood hit.

The houses there were old and huge and gorgeous. If she were the handywoman type, the type who could build things and Þ x things and design things, she wouldn’t think twice about Þ nding a house in the area to remodel and live in. They were so large that most were either broken into apartments or split in two so the owner could live on the second and third ß oors and rent out the Þ rst ß oor to a tenant. There were issues, of course. Most were poorly insulated and had old windows and doors, so heating and cooling could get expensive. They were old structures, so oftentimes the repairs needed to keep the houses safe could be outrageously expensive. Those that boasted garages had ones that were in serious disrepair. But these houses also had beauty and character and loads of charm, and as Sarah coasted easily up one street and down another, taking in the leaded glass windows, original chimneys, and carved wooden porch railings, she thought this was the most magniÞ cent area around, glorious and elegant.

They just don’t build homes like this anymore.

After more than an hour, when she started to feel slightly fatigued, it occurred to her that she should be sure not to overdo it. It had been a long time since she’d taxed her leg muscles, even gently, and she didn’t want to end up so sore tomorrow that she could barely move. Making a right turn onto Monroe, she decided to grab a snack and sit at an outside table to enjoy the sunshine. She locked her bike to the steel rack next to a telephone pole and headed into Valenti’s.

Cinnamon seemed to coat her like an invisible snow, Þ lling

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her nostrils with the warm, homey scent that took her immediately back to her childhood. Her mother used to make her cinnamon toast when she was a kid, and the smell of it would always remind her of those carefree days. She inhaled deeply, a sudden relaxation falling over her as she strode toward the counter.

“Hi, there.” The cute girl at the counter did a double take and then looked genuinely pleased to see her, which made Sarah smile, as she felt the same way. “I didn’t recognize you out of your business suit. Out for a ride?”

Realizing belatedly that she still had her stupid helmet on, Sarah Þ ddled with the buckle and removed the cap quickly, smoothing her hair and hoping it wasn’t too much of a rat’s nest.

“Yeah, it’s a gorgeous day.” She felt suddenly self-conscious.

“The usual?” The girl’s rosy streak was darker than Sarah remembered the last time she’d been in, but the rest of her hair was the same light chestnut and had gotten a little bit longer. She looked good, Sarah realized, surprised by the tingle it caused.

She looked very good. The girl’s eyes searched Sarah’s warmly, waiting for a response.

“That’d be great. And I need one of those cinnamon rolls, too.” Sarah gestured to the glass case where a dozen rolls sat, their white frosting dripping slowly off the sides. They looked sinfully delicious.

“Oh, good choice,” the girl said from the coffee machine.

“Mr. Valenti just brought them out of the oven about ten minutes ago. I may have one myself.” Then she winked.

Feeling herself blush, Sarah turned away and looked around the small shop, noting that it was fairly quiet at the moment. She was used to being there at the peak of the morning rush, zipping in and zipping out, and she’d never really taken the time to check things out. It was a long, narrow space, which had worked well when it had been a deli. Tables lined the wall on the right, and the counter and bakery case were on the left. The ß oor was a durable beige tile that probably cleaned easily, and the walls

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were decorated with old signage from classic baking materials like ß our and brown sugar. It was a simple yet tasteful décor, and Sarah gave it a mental nod of approval.

“I haven’t seen you around in a while,” the girl said, bringing Sarah’s attention back to the matter at hand.

“Oh.” Sarah handed over a Þ ve. “I was out of town on business for a couple months. I just got back a few weeks ago. I guess I haven’t quite gotten back into my old routine yet.”

“Well, I missed seeing your smiling face.”

At that, Sarah did smile.

“See? Now all is right in the world.” As the girl grinned and handed Sarah her change, somebody called out something in Italian from the back of the shop. She grimaced. “Duty calls.”

Nodding at the goods on the counter in front of Sarah, she said,

“Enjoy.” And she was gone, leaving Sarah grinning like an idiot who’d just been sprinkled with fairy dust.

Balancing her coffee, cinnamon roll, and bike helmet was no easy feat, but Sarah managed to get out the door without dropping any of them. Finding an empty outdoor table, she took a seat and spent some time just watching the world go by. To say the street wasn’t busy would be an untruth, but there was deÞ nitely a different attitude in the air and it was obvious that many of the strolling pedestrians were not working today. The pace was more relaxed, the laughter was more plentiful and spontaneous, and the atmosphere was one of general happiness. Sarah sipped her coffee and chewed her cinnamon roll and marveled over how she’d never noticed such things before—mainly because she’d never taken the time to. She wasn’t really sure what had changed in her lately, but she seemed to be paying more attention to smaller things, slowing down a little bit, trying to no longer be the kind of person who wants nothing more than to get from Point A to Point B as quickly and efÞ ciently as possible.

A woman walked by pushing a stroller. A couple strolled along, hand in hand. A young man passed with his Rottweiler,

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who took a sniff in Sarah’s direction as he went by, his sleek, black fur shining in the sun. Sarah followed him with her eyes, suddenly missing Bentley and wondering if she would ever be ready to get another dog. Her gaze stopped at the telephone pole that stood near the bike rack and she squinted against the glare of the daylight. Shading her eyes with her hand, she saw the words: DOG FOUND.

Moving closer for a better look, she saw that the sheet of paper stapled to the pole was a makeshift ß yer of some sort. It was battered and faded and she wondered how long it had been there. She could make out most of the verbiage, as well as the phone number to call at the bottom. The details were vague. It basically just said this person had found a male dog and to call if you thought he might be yours.

“I suppose keeping a description a secret would keep the crazies from claiming him,” she muttered aloud. Tugging gently, she pulled the ß yer down and read it again. Her parents lived in PenÞ eld. Though it wasn’t more than a twenty-minute drive from where she stood, she found it hard to believe that there was any way Bentley could have run away from their house and made it this far. With a sigh, she folded the paper up and stuck it in her pocket anyway. She had no illusions that this would have anything at all to do with her dog, but she knew if she didn’t at least give it a shot, she’d wonder forever if she should have.

Besides, what would it hurt to call?

v

The tattered sheet of paper sat on Sarah’s dining room table for most of the weekend. Every time she walked by, she glanced at it, but for some reason, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to simply make the call.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She wasn’t sure exactly what the issue was. It was nothing

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more than a phone call. Maybe she was worried that she’d get her hopes up? She had done a pretty reasonable job getting used to Bentley’s absence. She supposed she might have an underlying concern that she’d slide backward, fall back into the depression that had threatened to overtake her at the realization of her complete aloneness. It made sense. It did. She was sure any therapist worth her salt would agree.

So just make the damn call already.

With a grunt of determination, she picked up the handset of her cordless phone. It was Sunday evening and she’d stared at the beaten-up piece of paper for more than two days. It was time.

She dialed.

v

“You are such a good boy, Chino.” Natalie smiled exuberantly at the little dog, then giggled as the fur on his backside began to shake, indicating that he was wagging his nub of a tail. They had just returned from an afternoon of romping in the park, and Natalie had decided to try taking the dog off the leash for the Þ rst time. She suspected he was some kind of herding dog, judging from his coloring and his build, and she hoped he’d stick around.

Much to her delight, he’d never left her side, except for when she threw the ball for him to fetch. He brought it right back to her every time and she praised him with enthusiasm. Once or twice, he’d noticed another dog or a person who, for whatever reason, interested him, and he stopped what he was doing and focused on them. Natalie gave a Þ rm warning of, “No, Chino. Stay.” It seemed to work.

As she reÞ lled her water bottle in the kitchen sink and tucked it into the small fridge, she noticed her answering machine light blinking a bright red. She took a modest piece of beef bone from the freezer and set Chino up on a large towel on the ß oor, hoping to protect the throw rug from meat stains.

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“Here you go, buddy. For being so good today.” The dog went to town, gnawing and smacking as he enjoyed his treat, his stumpy tail still wagging furiously. Hitting Play on the machine, Natalie said to him, “I bet it’s Aunt Andrea.”

She was wrong and she frowned when she didn’t recognize the voice.

“Hi, my name is Sarah Buchanan and I saw your ß yer this weekend about the dog you found. I have no idea if he could be mine, but I thought I’d give it a shot. My dog ran away from my parents’ place in PenÞ eld about three months ago. He’s a miniature Australian shepherd, maybe twenty-Þ ve pounds. He’s a blue merle, which means his fur is a multicolor mix of white, black, brown, and gray. One ear is solid black and the other is sort of gray and sticks up a little bit. And he’s got beautiful blue eyes.”

The woman paused, seemed to collect herself. “Anyway, if you still have him and he Þ ts this description, would you please call me?” She left her name again and her number and the machine clicked, signifying the end of the message.

Natalie swallowed, a sudden discomfort settling in the pit of her stomach. She looked over at Chino, who was chewing happily across the room, and absently wondered if dogs recognized voices after long periods of time. He didn’t seem to be paying her any mind and for that, Natalie was grateful.

My dog ran away from my parents’ place in PenÞ eld about
three months ago.

“Well, how irresponsible are you and your parents?” Natalie said aloud to nobody. “I mean, seriously. Three months ago?”

She did some quick math in her head and realized that Chino would have been on his own, wandering around the city with no food or water at his disposal, for over two weeks before she found him. No wonder he was so frightened.

The smell of beef assaulted her as she stretched herself out on the ß oor next to him and stroked his fur as he chewed. After a couple minutes, he shifted slightly and adjusted his positioning so she couldn’t quite reach him, making her laugh. “Oh, excuse

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me, Mr. I’m Chewing a Bone Right Now So Don’t Bug Me by Petting Me. Forgive me for distracting you.” Becoming serious again, she sighed as she watched him, thinking how much she adored having him around, how much he’d brought to her over the past two months. She’d never had a dog growing up, and though she came from a loving home with wonderful parents, she’d never really fully grasped the concept of unconditional love until she had Chino in her life. Now she got it, got what dog lovers were always talking about. Chino didn’t care if she was in a rotten mood or had PMS or bad breath. He loved her regardless, without limits and without speciÞ cs, and she was loath to give that up, especially as she was just beginning to get used to it.