Must Love Dogs (27 page)
Just as the bus was pulling out of the driveway, we heard the angry squeal of brakes. I pulled back the cafe curtain covering the window John Anderson and I shared, recognized the Ford Fiesta pulling in beside us. “Uh-oh. Dolly.”
I leaned over John to look up the aisle at my father. He’d opened his curtain a crack and was peering out his window. “You want me to stop, Mr. Hurlihy?” the bus driver asked him.
“No, young man, I do not. I want you to put your pedal to the metal. The sooner the better, I might add.” Dolly’s horn blared repeatedly. My father stood up halfway, raised his voice. “What I mean is, let’s agitate some gravel. Now.” He looked back at us all, smiled reassuringly, raked his hair.
The driver grinded the gears, accelerated. We felt a thud, a mild rocking of the bus. More beeps, another jolt, this time with a slight metallic crunch. “I think Dolly really wants to come, too, Dad,” Austin said.
“Stop the bus,” my father said unnecessarily. All of the cafe curtains were open now, and the passengers who discovered they didn’t have a view rushed to the opposite side.
Good thing it’s not a boat,
I thought randomly. We watched Dolly back up, narrowly missing a large rhododendron with frost-curled leaves. She maneuvered back onto the driveway and parked, blocking our rear exit. She got out of her car and carefully locked all four doors.
“Why’d ya have to go and hit me, lady?” the bus driver asked over the pressurized swoosh of the opening door.
“Cool your jets, sweet stuff. That’s why God invented bus insurance.”
My father stood bravely. “Dolly, darlin’, I made these plans long before I ever met you.”
“Then I guess you had plenty of time to unmake them, didn’t you, Mr. Lying, Cheating, Good-for-Nothin’ Billy Hurlihy.”
Bob Connor stood up and walked bravely down the aisle. “Dolly, you made it!”
“Don’t Dolly me, you little sneak. And what, might I ask, are you doing here?”
“Austin and I thought we’d better get over here just in case you needed any back up.” Bob stopped a safe distance away from her. “And, by the way, those colors really bring you to your full potential.” He took another step. “Don’t waste your time on that old guy, Dolly. Come back and sit with us. We’ve been hoping another beautiful woman would show up.”
Dolly put her hands on her hips, tilted her chin up at my father. “Well, I guess you had that coming.” She turned to Bob Connor, grabbed his elbow. “Come on, Bobby. Dolly wants to meet your friends.”
*
Carol leaned into the aisle from the seat in front of us. When that didn’t give her enough of a view, she got up and walked back to our seat. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew you two would end up together.”
I covered my face with my hands. “Please make her stop,” I begged. My family would not be within ten miles of us on our next date.
“Why do you say that, Carol?” John asked. He seemed to be enjoying this. I elbowed him.
“Well, I had a pretty good idea anyway, but as soon as I saw your page on the clipboard, I knew you were the odds-on favorite.”
“Carol. Shut up. Now.” To say I was blushing would be a major understatement.
“Okay,” she said. She rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”
John and I looked at each other. “Do you think I’d die immediately if I jumped out that window or would it be long and painful, like this moment?” I asked.
“Relax, Sarah.” John reached out, put his hand on my wrist. “It’s okay. I’ll pretend I never even knew there was a clipboard.” He moved his hand until it was holding mine. “Just give me a quick rundown of the highlights of my page first.”
*
Marlene greeted us at the entrance to the first balcony. She wore a black velvet jumper over a tartan plaid turtleneck. A gold tuba pin, holly sprigs poking out of its orifice, perched over her right breast. Marlene’s brother Mark had his arm around a tall woman who looked suspiciously like the blonde on the poster at Pins and Needles. “Nicetaseeyaagain,” he said to me.
“That’s the woman from Cambridge, the singles lady,” John said calmly as we stood sipping champagne.
I laughed. “Marlene? Marlene is the singles lady?”
“I’m only speaking to you long enough to tell you,” I said to Carol in the marble bathroom a few minutes later, “that Marlene hosts singles soirees in Cambridge.” I fixed my lipstick in the mirror and waited for Carol to acknowledge my find.
“Of course she does. Where do you think Dad went first on Thanksgiving?”
“Jeez, Carol. Can’t I find out something before you? Just once? Dad went to a singles Thanksgiving soiree?”
“Um-hmm.”
“And is this a singles symphony soiree?”
Carol laughed, adjusted the lace collar on her long velvet dress. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Can’t you for once just have a good time?”
*
“Hi.” Phoebe walked into the ladies’ room just after Carol walked out. I was leaning in toward the mirror, attending to my lipstick with the careful concentration of a child doing paint by numbers. I was in awe of women who could find their lips without a mirror. Phoebe, of course, took out her lipstick and applied it while examining a brass-and-crystal wall sconce.
“Sarah,” she said, turning to look at me in the mirror. “I’m sure Michael’s told you all sorts of awful things about me. But I want you to know — ”
“Michael has never once said anything bad about you.” Phoebe looked at me as if wondering whether to believe it. “Really. All he’s ever said is how much he loves you. I don’t talk about you with Michael any more than I’d talk about Michael to you.”
Phoebe put her lipstick away in a small black sequined bag. “I’m surprised. I guess I thought you all sat around joking about how terrible I am. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but your whole family makes me nervous. I feel like I’m back in high school and the popular kids don’t like me one little bit.”
This was the most I’d ever liked Phoebe. “I feel that way pretty much all day long,” I said, “if it’s any consolation.”
*
“The First Noel” was mostly strings and it sounded like being in heaven. John Anderson reached over to hold my hand. “The Holly and the Ivy” turned into “Silent Night,” which made way for “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” In front of me, Phoebe put her head on Michael’s shoulder. My father whispered something to Marlene, then wove his way back toward the bathrooms. Dolly brushed off Bob Connor’s attempts at restraint and followed him.
Behind me, Carol whispered, “So, who wants to go after them?” Nobody said anything.
During the applause following “Feliz Navidad,” John Anderson leaned over to whisper to me. “Maybe I’ll go take a little look-see. Just make sure everything’s okay.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Carol leaned forward and said, “Could be serious, he’s already trying to get in good with the family. And he’s got a lot of guts, heading into Dollyworld.”
I drifted happily as Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” turned into a jazzy rendition of Duke Ellington’s “Sugar Rum Cherry,” thinking Dad would be sorry he missed this one.
*
Marlene sat down beside me. “Thank you so much for inviting us,” I whispered, sounding like an overly polite seven-year-old. I wondered if Marlene was timing my father’s absence, if I should make up an excuse for him.
Marlene smiled elegantly. “My pleasure. Billy has a lovely family. Perhaps you’ll all come to dinner one night.”
Even I knew whose turn it was to invite. “Or maybe you could come to Sunday dinner at our house?” I said, trying to convince us both I meant it.
“I’d love to.” Marlene toyed with her brass pin. “Just let me know when the Dolly coast is clear.”
“You know about Dolly?” Carol whispered from behind. She leaned her head in close.
“Of course, I know about Dolly. Although I have to admit today is my first actual sighting. Your father, by the way, is worth every bit of the commotion he causes.”
“Shenanigans. Dolly calls them his shenanigans.”
“I imagine she does.” Marlene tucked a stray wisp of hair into her braid.
*
I stood behind John Anderson in the foyer outside the first balcony. He was standing in back of a bunch of cherubs and poinsettias, spying on Dolly and my father. “Anything good?” I whispered. I stretched up to my tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. Dolly had both arms clamped firmly around my father’s waist, and her neck was arched back severely as she gazed into his eyes. My father’s head was tilted down to her, his big shaggy eyebrows raised with some emotion I didn’t want to think about.
“Well, just a minute ago, after a sizable holiday smooch, Dolly looked up at your father and said, ‘Take me to heaven, big boy.’”
“Good line. I’ll have to remember it.”
“I hope you do.” We smiled at each other. John took a step back, put his arm around me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped box. “Here, this is for you. Merry Christmas, Sarah.”
I opened it slowly, wiggling off the gold ribbon first, then slicing the Scotch tape with my fingernail so I wouldn’t have to tear the paper. Resting on a bed of cotton was a gold navel ring, studded with a tiny, sparkly white jewel at either end. I blushed. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s beautiful.” I kissed him on his cheek. “How did you, um, know?”
“Carol called me to make sure I’d been invited today. I guess my number was on the clipboard.”
“Great.”
“Anyway, we just got to talking.”
“And my navel happened to come up? Is there anything you don’t know about me now?”
“You mean like how Kevin wasn’t good enough for you? On his best day?”
“Never mind. Let’s change the subject.” We both smiled. John put his arm around me and we walked back toward our balcony. “Guess what?” he asked.
“What?”
“Well, I was hoping to get your opinion before I make the final decision, but I’m pretty sure I’m getting a puppy.”
“Aww, a puppy? What kind?”
“Well, there was a bit of a surprise in my building. Clementine gave birth to a litter of four last week. Turns out her rotten disposition was partly gestational. We’re pretty sure they’re half Yorkie, half greyhound. Long and skinny with big noses, kind of curly, scruffy fur. I was hoping you’d like to help me pick one out. Or I was even thinking two might be better, so they won’t get lonely.”
Despite myself, I felt hope rising somewhere in the general vicinity of my heart. John stopped walking and turned to me, and we kissed. A sweet kiss, with a promise of something more. It was as terrifyingly close to optimistic as I’d been in a long, long time. I tried not to jinx myself by wanting things too much. “You know,” I said, “this probably isn’t going to work out.”
“The puppies?”
“No, us.”
“Well, even if that’s true, I think we should suspend our disbelief as long as possible.”
“Okay,” I said. At least I think it was I.
*****
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Excerpted from Wallflower in Bloom by Claire Cook. Copyright © 2012 CLAIRE COOK. All rights reserved. Published by Touchstone, an imprint of Simon & Schuster.
Chapter 1
Who will buy the cow if you give away the milk for free, yet once you get a taste of the milk, who can resist coming back to the cow?
My brother was dazzling, as usual. “Do. You. Have. Passion?” he roared. His white teeth gleamed. His elegant hands beckoned. His bedroom eyes twinkled. The sold-out mostly female audience drooled.
My brother’s eyes were a big part of his It Thing. You couldn’t look away. They were blue. Endless blue. Deep, glittery blue, like the ocean when the setting sun hits it just the right way.
Of course, luck of the gene pool and all that, my own eyes were wallflower brown.
I watched my famous brother scan the room, somehow appearing to make contact with each and every set of seeking eyes in the audience. “The Ancient Greeks asked only one question at a person’s funeral: Did. He. Or she. Have. Passion?”
When he lifted his palms to the heavens, his crisp white tunic exposed just the right amount of muscular forearm. “Find yours. See it clearly in your mind’s eye. Design the life your passion desires. And remember, passion doesn’t sleep. It is always there, waiting for you.”
Everywhere I looked, people were scribbling in notebooks. Some of them were surreptitiously videotaping with cell phones and tiny flip cameras, even though they weren’t supposed to. The whole point was to get them to buy the videos. But the world was changing at lightning speed, and now we were even posting our own video clips on YouTube and Facebook in the hopes they’d go viral. I mean, on one hand, who will buy the cow if you give away the milk for free, yet once you get a taste of the milk, who can resist coming back to the cow?
Ohmigod, I was starting to sound like my freakin’ brother.
He was really getting into it now. “The voice of passion. Is. Not. A book. It’s not a feature film. It’s short and direct, like a haiku straight to your heart.”
You could hear a cliché drop. Some people were nodding, but most were leaning forward in their seats, waiting for The Answer.
“But if you start from a place of self-criticism, of self-rejection, you’ll never hear what it’s saying to you. Accept yourself. Start where you are. And the voice of passion will speak to you. It will come like a bolt of lightning. And you’ll know. Your. Life’s. True. Purpose.”
When I stood up and dimmed the fluorescent lights from the back of the room, preselected audience members rose to light candles circling the front lip of the stage.
My brother reached behind the curtains at the back of the stage and pulled out a battered acoustic guitar. He plugged it into the amplifier, straddled a high wooden stool, crossed one distressed jean–clad leg over the other.
And then he actually sang “O-o-h Child,” that old ’70s song by the Five Stairsteps, the one about how things are going to get easier. And brighter.
Mine were the only dry eyes in the house.
“Hold the fort,” my father had said before he and my mother left me to babysit the concession table while they took their usual place in the front row. My parents stood up now, flicked on matching Bic lighters, and waved their arms high while they rocked side to side in time to the music. From the back, in their tie-dyed T-shirts that proclaimed tag! in fluorescent green, they could have been twins, except that my father’s gray curls dead-ended just over his ears, while my mother’s continued up to the top of her head.
My brother getting famous was the best thing that had ever happened to them. They’d been recreational Deadheads since the ’60s, and once my sisters and brother and I were born, they just threw us into the car whenever there was an outdoor Grateful Dead concert anywhere within striking distance. I grew up thinking summer vacation meant standing in a field somewhere, jumping up and down to “Sugar Magnolia.”
My parents took it hard when Jerry Garcia died. They’d been counting on becoming full-time Deadheads in their retirement. For a few years they followed tribute bands like Dark Star Orchestra halfheartedly, then they took up bowling. No one was happier than they were when my brother became the family rock star a few years ago.
Like everything else in his life, the whole guru thing had pretty much landed in my brother’s lap. One minute he was just another guy playing his guitar, with a gift for inspirational gab between sets. Then a fan put a snippet of one of his over-the-top motivational orations up on YouTube, and a week later a producer from The Ellen DeGeneres Show was on the phone booking him. And of course, my brother being my brother, he was a big hit. And the rest is history.
I yawned and stretched and got ready for the onslaught. Once my brother did his thing, his followers would buy anything that wasn’t nailed down. My parents handled this end of things, both online and at events like this one, and earned a retirement-friendly commission on every item sold. I straightened a pile of T-shirts packaged in little boxes shaped like guitars. I moved the CDs and DVDs a little closer to the books because they were blocking the energy beads.
A short group meditation was followed by deafening, mountain-moving applause. My parents hurried back and slid next to me behind the table.
My mother adjusted the No. 2 pencil behind her ear and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I think that was his best job ever,” she said, like she did every time.
“That’s my boy,” my father said. He alternated this with “way to go.”
“How’d I do on the lights?” I asked.
My father laughed. “What a card,” he said, as he swung his arm over my shoulder. I noticed we were almost the same height now. Either he was shrinking, or I was having a vertical growth spurt to match my horizontal one.
I kissed my father on the cheek and ducked out from under his arm. I had to make my way up to the front fast so I could herd my brother to the signing table before his rabid fans waylaid him.
“Single file,” my mother was saying to the people already approaching the table as I walked away, “and no pushing. We’ll start when you’re ready.” There was no mistaking my mother’s former profession. She still had that fifth-grade teacher’s vibe going on, and everybody always obeyed her and funneled right into a single line. Two security guys from the hotel crossed their arms over their chests for reinforcement.
I entertained myself by turning sideways and chasséing through the crowd, homing in on Tag by the booming, melodious sound of his laugh. “Excuse me,” I said when someone wouldn’t get out of my way, and when that didn’t work, I used a discreet elbow.
“Unbelievable,” I heard my brother say. “What a blast from the past! What are you doing in Austin?”
I worked my way up to him, fully expecting to see some woman he’d once slept with and whose name he was frantically trying to remember. I knew the drill. I’d stick out my hand and introduce myself so she’d have to tell me her name. And then my brother would pretend he’d known it all along.
“Dee,” my brother said, turning to me. “You’ll never guess who showed up. Steve Moretti. I went to UMass with him.”
I swallowed back another yawn. The more famous my brother became, the more old friends came out of the woodwork.
“Steve,” my brother said, “this is my sister Deirdre.”
And then the Austin crowd parted to reveal the guy who’d last seen my underpants.