Finding Home (8 page)

The ringing of the phone saved her from more wallowing, but then her heart began to pound. What if it was this Sarah Buchanan again? Cursing herself for being too budget-conscious to splurge on Caller ID, she held her breath until the machine picked up.

“Hey, it’s me.” Andrea’s voice Þ lled the room and Natalie exhaled in relief. “Where are you? Pick up.”

Natalie snatched up the handset. “I’m here.”

“You’re screening? That’s new.”

“Yeah, well, I just walked in.”

“I’m coming over. What do you feel like on your pizza?”

Forty-Þ ve minutes later, they sat in Natalie’s tiny living room, stufÞ ng themselves with a mushroom-and-green-pepper pie and replaying Sarah Buchanan’s answering machine message.

Andrea grimaced. “Maybe it’s not him.”

Natalie blinked at her.

“Okay, okay. It is him. Those ears are a dead giveaway.

But…it’s been three months.
Three months
. And remember what kind of shape he was in when you found him.”

“I know. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“How do we know she’s not abusive to him? I mean, how do we know
she’s
not the one who starved him? Maybe she’s some whacko, animal-cruelty person.”

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“Anything’s possible.” Natalie studied Chino as she chewed her pizza. He dozed contentedly on the braided rug at their feet.

“He doesn’t even beg. He’s so good.”

“He is.” Andrea rubbed her bare toes over his silky fur and he sighed.

“He sits, he lies down, he shakes hands, he comes when he’s called.”

“He’s a miracle doggie.”

“My point is somebody trained him. Somebody—probably this Sarah Buchanan—spent time and energy teaching him. Does that sound like an abusive person?”

Shifting on the futon so she faced her, Andrea stared at her for several long beats. “You know what sounds abusive to me?

Leaving your beloved pet in the hands of an idiot stupid enough not only to allow it to run away, but then not be able to Þ nd it.

Given all the technology and animal rights activists today willing to help, don’t you think they could have looked a little harder for him?”

Natalie scratched at her forehead. She knew Andrea was trying to help. She also knew Andrea loved Chino as much as she did and was unwilling to give him up. When she Þ nally spoke, her voice was soft and pained. “What kind of person does this make me? If I keep this woman’s dog from her, what does that make me?”

“Sweetie, look at me.” When Natalie obeyed, Andrea continued. “It makes you somebody who cares about the welfare of this animal. He was starving, Natty.
Starving
. He was Þ lthy.

His leg was gashed open. He was terriÞ ed. He’d been on his own for a long time. You rescued him. You
saved
him.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“He loves you. You deserve him.”

Natalie wasn’t sure she looked totally convinced and Andrea conÞ rmed that by jumping up and crossing the room to the answering machine. With one swift push of a button, the machine’s robotic voice announced, “Message erased.”

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FINDING HOME

“Andrea!” Natalie’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

Lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug, Andrea responded,

“There.”

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Now you don’t have her number and you can’t call her back.

She probably won’t call you again, so it’s done. Everything’s Þ ne. Okay?” She returned to the futon and plopped down. “Have some more pizza. You shouldn’t be skinnier than me. I had cancer, remember?”

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FINDING HOME

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sarah’s feel-good attitude lasted slightly longer than a week. Work had become nuts, and she always found herself the most depressed when she worked late and came home to a dark and empty house. It never failed to cause an ache in the pit of her stomach and send her scrambling to the liquor cabinet to mix herself a Bombay and tonic. It had happened almost every night this week.

On Saturday, Sarah slammed the phone down, annoyed by her own annoyance and trying not to notice that her temper seemed to be getting shorter and shorter by the day. She was starting to feel like her old self—and not in a good way. She wanted to be able to control everything around her and she couldn’t, and it was driving her crazy.

Who the hell does this Natalie person think she is anyway?

She’d left Þ ve messages for the woman—named Natalie according to her answering machine—who had posted the ß yer about the dog she’d found. Five messages in less than a week.

Now it was Saturday and not one of them had been acknowledged, no return phone calls, and Sarah was irritated that the woman didn’t even have the decency to call back and say, “Sorry, not your dog.”

In reality, the dog was probably not Bentley. She knew that and she wanted to be able to just leave it alone and let it go. She’d

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GEORGIA BEERS

even been checking the newspaper for ads with puppies for sale, thinking that maybe if she got another one, she could eliminate the niggling feeling about Bentley that she couldn’t explain. And maybe she could stop calling this poor woman.

On the other hand, who didn’t return a phone call like that?

There was something a little Þ shy, some kind of weird inkling that she couldn’t seem to shake, and it had been driving her nuts for several days now. Suddenly ß ashing on an idea, she took the steps of her townhouse two at a time and entered the third bedroom that she used as an ofÞ ce.

Aside from her own bedroom, this room was the one that looked the most lived in, the most comfortable, probably because she spent the most time in it. Her plan had always been to work on the rest of the house in order to give it the same warm appeal.

The ofÞ ce got a ton of sunlight, so she had several plants scattered about. The personal, cozy touches—like family photographs on shelves and throw pillows for the overstuffed reading chair in the corner—were things she wanted to spread around the rest of the place, but just hadn’t gotten to. Every time she entered the ofÞ ce, she kicked herself for not following through, it was such a snug and relaxing room in which to be.

Falling into her big leather desk chair with a sigh, she squinted at the computer monitor and moved the mouse to wake things up. Clicking to Google, she typed in the phone number from the ß yer. The information came up so quickly, Sarah blinked at it for several seconds, stunned by how easy it was to track somebody down.

Natalie Fox. 217 Monroe Avenue, Apartment 1, Rochester, NY 14607.

She was even more astounded to see the little “map” icon next to the address. She moved the mouse and clicked on it.

Within two seconds, a detailed map to Natalie Fox’s residence popped up.

“Good Lord, is it really this easy to stalk somebody?”

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FINDING HOME

she asked aloud, appalled by the facts and shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s
so
scary.”

Despite her distaste, she found herself printing the map.

Maybe she’d just go have a quick look. She didn’t want to actually knock on the door. That would be creepy and she didn’t want to frighten the poor woman. But maybe she’d just go peek, take a ride over on her bike and see what she could see about this Natalie Fox. If she got lucky, maybe she’d Þ nd the answer to why the woman couldn’t return a simple phone call. At least it would keep her occupied for a while, give her something to do on a balmy Saturday evening.

v

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sarah muttered to herself.

“What are the chances?”

217 Monroe Avenue turned out to be Valenti’s. She coasted to a stop on her bike and stood there looking at the shop, which was closed, and the small two-one-seven stenciled on the window above the glass door.

Her gaze traveled upward to the ß oor above the coffee shop.

That’s got to be where Natalie Fox lives. Okay, Nancy Drew, what
are you going to do now?
She rolled her eyes at herself.

Monroe Avenue was bustling on this weekend evening, people strolling the blocks, entering or exiting various restaurants, sitting at outside tables with bottles of beer and glasses of wine. It was a festive, happy atmosphere, as residents soaked up the too-short summer weekends. Wheeling her bicycle across the street, Sarah found an unoccupied black metal table outside an ice cream parlor. Toeing the kickstand, she propped the bike nearby, took a seat, and set her helmet on the surface in front of her, trying to ignore the fact that she was actually staking somebody out. She had no idea what the hell she was doing. Having nary a clue as to what the person looked like made spying on them

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GEORGIA BEERS

just a tad difÞ cult, but for some reason, Sarah felt the need to sit and wait. She knew it was stupid, knew she was being ridiculous and wasting her own time, but the weather was nice, the people-watching was interesting, and she really had nothing better to do.

So she sat.

When the intoxicating aromas drifting through the air from the Italian trattoria a few doors down had her worried that she might actually drool all over the front of her shirt, she scooted into the ice cream parlor and got herself a chocolate almond cone that was magniÞ cent and heavenly. She sat back down to savor the ß avor combination of the sweet ice cream and the salty nuts, and that’s when she saw them.

Or rather, that’s when she saw Bentley.

He came walking out from around an alley that apparently led to the back of Valenti’s. He was on a leash and was walking with two women who were chattering to each other and had smiles on their faces.

Standing up so fast that her ice cream rubbed against the front of her and left a long, brown streak on her shirt, Sarah race-walked across the street, narrowly avoiding getting ß attened by a FedEx truck, the driver of which laid on his horn for an unnecessarily long beat. Glancing over her shoulder, she was painfully aware that her bike was unlocked, but she couldn’t stop. People had turned to look when the horn honked, including the women walking Bentley. As Sarah got closer, she recognized one of the women, and her feet faltered as if trying all on their own to stop her progress.

The counter girl from Valenti’s—the one with the pink streak—looked uncertain and then smiled. “Oh, hey,” she said, furrowing her brow, probably at Sarah’s agitated state as well as the chocolate ice cream on her chest that must have made her look like a Þ ve-year-old. She cocked her head to the side and began to ask a question. “Are you o—”

“That’s my dog,” Sarah blurted, pointing at Bentley.

The kind expression slid right off the girl’s face as if made of

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FINDING HOME

wet paint, and suddenly changed to worry and near panic. Before she could respond, her companion stepped directly in front of her, eyes glaring, nostrils ß ared. She was taller than the coffee shop girl, and she waved her on.

“Keep walking, Natty.”

Natalie did as she was told, albeit hesitantly, coaxing Bentley along with her, glancing over her shoulder more than once with an apprehensive grimace.

The taller woman suddenly Þ lled Sarah’s vision, preventing Sarah from following by using her body as a roadblock. The way she protected the coffee shop girl and turned on Sarah made her seem even bigger and broader than her slender frame suggested.

Despite her attractive features, everything about her screamed
Back off!
and her casual Abercrombie and Fitch outÞ t seemed more like body armor. The look on her face actually made Sarah pull up short. Not one to be easily intimidated, Sarah simply blinked at her in confusion.

“That’s my dog,” she said again, trying to keep her voice steady, even though she felt a weird combination of joy, panic, anger, and fear.

“I don’t think so.” The woman’s voice was a near growl.

“You certainly don’t deserve to have him. Do you have any idea what kind of shape he was in when Natalie found him? Do you?”

Her dark eyes ß ashed with fury and she spoke through clenched teeth, her voice low enough so passersby couldn’t hear her, but vicious enough to keep Sarah rooted to her spot on the sidewalk.

“I was away,” Sarah said. “Overseas. For work.” She sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

“Yeah? Well while you were away? Overseas? For work?

That dog was on the street. He was starving. He had no water. He got in Þ ghts. His hair was missing in clumps. His leg was sliced open. He was afraid of people. And did I mention the starving part?”

Sarah swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said, her voice like a small child’s. “I…my

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brother…” Her voice trailed off. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said again, this time with even less conviction.

“It was somebody’s. Natalie found him. She fed him. She nursed him back to health. She loved him. She put up ß yers to Þ nd his owner. And you know what happened? Nothing. And tthree months have gone by and now? That is
her
dog. Her. Dog.

He’s happy with her and
she
deserves him.” Stepping another inch closer, she poked Sarah in the chest as she snarled, “You leave her alone.” She turned and left so quickly that Sarah wasn’t sure she’d even seen her go. She was just—not there anymore.

Head spinning, Sarah stood on the sidewalk, ice cream all over her shirt, hair matted from her bike helmet, and watched as the taller woman jogged to catch up with Natalie and Bentley.

Both woman and dog glanced over their shoulders as they continued on. Both looked worried.

What the hell just happened?

It was the only thought in Sarah’s head. Her feet seemingly fused to the cement, she could do nothing but stand there like an idiot and shake her head in disbelief.

What the hell just happened?