Authors: Connie Brockway
“Not us,” Charlie said, shifting toward Johanna to present a united front. “I can smell that thing from here, and there is no way it’s getting into the El Camino.”
“You could wash it—”
“And there’s even less chance he’s getting into the El Camino wet, and we are
not
sticking around until he dries off. In case you hadn’t heard, we got a long haul ahead as it is. In fact”—he checked his wristwatch—“we gotta go now. Come on, Johanna.”
With an apologetic shrug that conveyed more relief than apology, Johanna allowed Charlie to take her arm and lead her away.
“And we’re not taking it back with us,” Gerry said firmly. “We’re heading to the UP to visit Vida’s mother. If you want, I’ll take it as far as the police station in Fawn Creek, but that’s as far as he goes.”
“Whaddaya mean? You can’t take him to the Fawn Creek police. They’ll just hold him for a couple days and then they’ll take him to a vet and—” She looked down at the mangy mutt. He gazed back at her in canine concern.
“You know.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
“Well, then, drive him down to the Humane Society in Golden Valley.”
“I can’t take him in the Honda. I rented it from Oz’s kid for the summer,” Mimi said, a tickle of anxiety rising in her. She did
not
want to be responsible for this mangy little reject from the pound. “It’ll scratch the leather. It’ll stink up the car so bad they’ll never get the stench out. It’ll shed.”
“Then I guess it’ll have to be Fawn Creek,” Gerry said.
Crap. “Come on, guys,” she implored, shifting the dog higher in her arms. As though suddenly realizing its fate hung in the balance, it had gone slack. Mimi glanced down. Its hair was ropey and dull and his breath was fetid and damp. His teeth didn’t look that good, either. It was not a young dog. Double crap.
“Look,” she said reasonably. “You’ve been talking about getting Frankie here a dog for years and now fate has given you one. Look at him. Or her. He’s not a puppy, so you don’t have to worry about puppy stuff. I bet he’s housebroken. Why, with a bath he’s probably as cute as a bug’s ear.”
Vida’s gaze shifted unwillingly to Gerry.
Mimi leapt on this faint glimmer of hope. “This little guy needs someone. He needs someone to love him and someone he can love back. A dog is just a gift that keeps giving. He’ll watch out for you. I bet he’s a great little guard dog, and hey, we know he’s smart,” Mimi went on in her softest, most earnest tones. She pressed her free hand to her heart. “He or she’d have to be to survive out here alone in the wilderness.”
“Ha,” Gerry scoffed, unswayed by this gross appeal to sentimentality. “He’s survived on grilled chicken and steak for the last week. Just last night Naomi was tossing him hot dogs.”
“He needs a family, Gerry,” Mimi said. “Vida?” Despite a strong instinct to do otherwise, she lifted the dog close to her face so they could both gaze soulfully at Vida.
“Great. Congratulations on your new dog,” Gerry said.
“Yeah. You could take him, Mimi,” Vida said, suddenly and, to Mimi’s mind, traitorously aligning herself with her husband.
“What? And disturb the sepulcher emptiness of my pathetic little domicile? Why, I don’t even have a plant,” she said, noting with satisfaction Vida’s startled—and guilty—expression. Good. Vida should feel like a worm.
And
she should also take the dog.
“Oh, Mimi.” Vida took a step toward her, her arms rising. “I am
so
sor—”
“Fine. You’re not taking it. We’re not taking it,” Gerry cut in just in the nick of time. A few seconds more and Vida would be hurling herself into Mimi’s arms, begging for forgiveness and offering to do whatever necessary to make amends. Vida tended toward overt shows of emotion. “What’s it gonna be, Mimi?” Gerry went on. “Are we taking him to the police station or not?”
Shit. Vida’s guilt would have allowed Mimi to dump a dozen dirty mutts in her lap. And just a glance at young Frank’s interested expression revealed he was already more than half on board. But Gerry…Drat Gerry, anyway. Olson men were
supposed
to be malleable, to go with the flow, to accept whatever fate tossed their way, to be more like…well, Mimi. Why couldn’t Gerry be more like her? She had a premonition of her stuff in the Honda stinking like dead musk ox rolled in fish innards. But what choice did she have?
She looked down at the unappetizing little dog. It looked back up at her with an equally unimpressed gaze. She sighed heavily. She might as well haul it down to the lake and give them both a bath before they—
“I’ll take him.”
The unexpected voice sent the Olson clan spinning around. Standing behind them, hands dug deep in the pockets of big, black, oversized dungarees was a big, oversized kid with lank black hair and a pasty complexion. His shoulders slumped beneath a baggy black T-shirt and he kept his gaze fixed on the toes of his black work boots. He had some kind of bolt through one eyebrow.
My God, Mimi realized, it was Prescott. Prescott Tierney. It was like Boo Radley had suddenly appeared amongst them. Wow.
He didn’t look like a millionaire genius. In spite of his size, he looked somehow little. Young. Definitely uncomfortable. It was this last that struck Mimi most. This painfully awkward-looking kid was sophisticated, ultragroomed Joe Tierney’s son?
“Ah.” Mimi fumbled for her words. “Ah, what did you say?”
“I said I’ll take the little dog. I’ll keep him.”
“Cool,” Gerry said and grabbed Vida’s arm. “Okay. We’re outta here. Let’s move!”
He hustled Vida ahead of him, Frank trailing behind. Just before they disappeared into the woods, Vida looked back, her expression still guilt stricken. She held her fist, thumb and little finger extended, up to her ear and mouthed the words, “Call me.”
Mimi turned back to Prescott. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll treat him well?”
The kid flushed, nodding vigorously.
“Promise?” she asked, mentally kicking herself. If she continued to act this way, he was going to become offended and withdraw his offer.
“Yeah.”
Shut up, Mimi
. “And you’re not going to do anything weird…”
“Weird?”
She stared pointedly at his bolt. “Like piercings?”
The kid’s head kicked back. “No!” he exclaimed, appalled. “God…
no.
That’s sick.”
“Just asking.”
He scowled, thinking. “I’ll send digitals to your e-mail if you want.”
“Geez. That’s not necessary—”
“No. I want to. I insist.” His manner was oddly formal, his tone stilted.
“Okay. I’ll hold you to it.” She recited her e-mail address. “Got that?”
“Yeah.”
Mimi gazed down at the mutt. It was looking around without any apparent anxiety. She’d heard dogs sensed things about people. This dog was obviously not sensing anything bad about Prescott, and she decided that was good enough for her. She’d been delivered. She held the little dog out and dumped it into Prescott’s waiting arms. “Thanks.”
The mutt really was filthy. He probably carried all sorts of diseases. A sliver of conscience pricked her. She tried to ignore it, but to no avail.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t know whether he’s rabid or not—”
Shut up, Mimi!
“I mean, he’s not frothing at the mouth or anything,” she hastily added. “I’m sure he’s fine, but you know, you might want to get him to a vet. Like, today. Just to make sure he hasn’t got fl—” She bit off the word just in time. “Anything you should know about.”
Like there was any possibility the dog
didn’t
have fleas. Still, no use rubbing Prescott’s nose in it. And speaking of noses…She caught a whiff of the animal. “In fact, if I were you, I’d run out and get some doggy shampoo right now. You know?”
Prescott regarded her blankly.
“Might even make it medicated shampoo. Or, like…flea shampoo. Just to be extra safe.”
“Okay.”
Shut up, Mimi. Turn around and leave.
She took a deep breath. Another. Started to turn. Turned back. “He might be a runner.” The words came out in a rush. “So, don’t let him go out without being on a leash.”
“Okay.”
“I really wish I could take him.”
Liar.
“But my landlord—” Why the hell was she offering excuses when he hadn’t asked for any? “So, I guess that’s that.”
She started to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“Ah…! Ah…You…” he began, flushing even deeper.
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
Huh? She touched her nose. Sometimes she got nosebleeds. Nope. She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
He was now the color of a Thanksgiving cranberry mold. “You just seem real winded, you know. And your face is really red. And you keep holding your side. You’re not having a heart attack are you? I mean…are you okay to drive?”
That did it. She was going to start jogging as soon as she got back to Minneapolis. If this overgrown, overweight kid was worrying about her health, she must really look like hell. “I’m holding my side because I have a stitch in it.” She didn’t feel she had to explain anything more. Besides, clearly sympathy had played a role in his offering to take the dog. She wasn’t about to mess with it. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Thanks. Send me those pictures, all right? I’ll be looking for them.”
She didn’t waste any time leaving.
Prescott watched Mignonette Olson disappear back into the woods. It was obvious she didn’t want to leave the little dog behind. Bravely, she didn’t even look back. Not once.
He tucked the little animal closer, his eyes already starting to itch and water. Despite his mother’s long-remembered admonition not to introduce chemicals into his system, he would have to risk the potential side effects of antiallergens, because he was not going to give the little dog up. His mother would have been appalled at his being so cavalier with his health, but he couldn’t let Mrs. Olson down.
Prescott had been up in the tower room, gazing a little forlornly out of the window. Over the last few days all the Olsons had slowly been trickling away, and each night fewer of the little cabins were lit from within. This morning most of the rest of the clan had left. Soon, everyone would be gone, and she’d leave, too. And he’d be alone.
Why this should bother him was a mystery. It had never bugged him before. But ever since Joe had taken off last Monday, he’d been feeling a little low. Not because he missed Joe’s company, but because he had an unpleasant inkling he’d been unfair to Joe and an even worse inkling that Joe hadn’t noticed he’d been unfair to him, which was the ultimate patronization, wasn’t it? When a man was being unreasonable someone ought to at least notice it. Especially his family.
Family. Ha.
As he’d been thinking about this, Mrs. Olson had stumbled out of the woods hot on the heels of some creature. He’d moved to the other window just in time to see her hurl herself and a blanket at it. She stumbled to her feet, gasping and choking, one hand pressed to her heart, the other clinging with a mother’s fierce protectiveness to the little bundle.
She was so valiant. But Prescott, who’d watched her for weeks, could tell she was in pain. She was, after all, a sensitive and fragile woman, clearly unwell and just as clearly bravely hiding her distress from her family. He worried about this, wondered whether he should call down and ask if she needed any help. But a moment later other Olsons arrived, though they were not as winded and were soon to prove themselves not nearly as compassionate as Mignonette—Prescott allowed himself the familiarity of thinking of her by her Christian name. He knew this because he’d cracked open the window to listen.
“He needs someone to love him and someone he can love back. A dog is a gift that keeps giving. He’ll watch out for you,” she’d been telling the others.
The blond giant had scoffed at her next words before saying something more to her. What, Prescott couldn’t say; he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching Mrs. Olson, hearing her words, feeling her anguish. And an idea was forming.
“He needs a family,” Mrs. Olson had gone on.
A family
. Prescott hadn’t needed to hear any more. He was already moving down the stairs, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it.
He’d take the dog. He’d give it a family. He understood his decision wasn’t based solely on helping Mrs. Olson. It didn’t take a genius to figure out motives as obvious as his. If he took the dog, he’d have a connection to her and the rest of the Olsons. In a limited way—okay, a
really
limited way—he’d be part of their extended family. Because he’d have her dog.
True, he’d never owned a dog. He’d never owned any living creature. He was allergic to most of them, and those he wasn’t tended to be cold-blooded. But that had changed the moment he’d arrived on the scene, a white knight saving the damsel—okay, the damsel’s dog—from the Fawn Creek lockup.
And now he had a dog.
He looked down at it; it looked up at him. He sneezed. Now he had a dog he was horribly allergic to but that he could already tell was going to bring a lot to his life. He never would have believed he would voluntarily touch what was without a doubt a tremendously germ-infested creature, but the potential for great rewards often called for great sacrifices. Besides, he had lots of disinfectants in the house.
In the meantime, he felt better than he had in days, weeks, maybe even months. He had things to do, a series of dog-related tasks to perform,
a family
. The thought brought with it a flopping sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Prescott didn’t have many friends. He didn’t belong to any groups. For all practical purposes, he didn’t even have peers. Even among his fellow professors at MIT he was an outsider. Mostly because they were all a good deal older than him but also because they were completely immersed in their research. They lived and breathed their work. Which was fine. But Prescott didn’t. He didn’t live and breathe anything other than, okay, a perhaps marginally obsessive interest in the works of J. R. R. Tolkien, and that had garnered only snickers or looks of amused superiority from his coworkers. He’d once overheard an eminent researcher tell another that if Prescott could just make it through adolescence, he might not be so annoying. Of course, it was just jealousy speaking. Still, it hurt. Because, damn it, he
was
a kid. Kind of. But then again, he’d never
really
been a kid, not like the other kids in his neighborhood.
Within a year of having written and MIT having copyrighted his Internet security code, the royalties had made him outstandingly wealthy. It hadn’t made him any friends, however, and Prescott had spent a long weekend assessing his life. It wasn’t the life he wanted. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he thought it might be belonging somewhere. Or, barring that, being somewhere it wasn’t obvious he didn’t belong. Like an out-of-the-way hermitage of sorts. A Walden Pond. His Walden Pond.
A few days later a student of his had been showing his classmates pictures his parents had sent of their new lake home. It was near a place called Fawn Creek, Minnesota. It was perfect. And Minnesota? Now there, had thought Prescott, was a state that embraced the different. Why, one of their governors had been an all-star wrestler.
A month later, viewing online digitals, he’d signed the papers buying his bit of the dream. Now, he thought, looking down at the little dog, he had another piece. Soon he might have it all. Prescott made for the garage, cradling the dog in one arm as he punched in the security code and the door slid silently open, revealing the Prius inside. He’d drive straight to town and get the little dog cleaned up. Afterward, he’d buy a digital camera and send Mrs. Olson the pictures he’d promised to prove he was worthy of the unique trust she’d placed in him. He sneezed again.
Then he’d make an appointment with an allergist in Bemidji.
Birgie sat in the Sun Country check-in area in the Hubert Humphrey terminal, waiting to board the flight to Fort Myers, Florida. She had already snagged the last tee time this afternoon at Eagle’s Ridge, and she had a friend picking her up at the airport with her clubs. Life, for the next nine months, would be good. After that…well, crap. She’d done what she could; she’d tried to push Mimi into taking a stand—and, no, she didn’t feel bad about it because from what she gathered from that little conversation they’d had last night before the skinny-dipping commenced, Mimi had been trying to do the same to her.
It was too bad she hadn’t been successful. But then, she’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. It would just take perseverance, some nudging, and a little emotional string pulling (or jerking, as the case may be) before (if) Mimi did the right thing and accepted the role of guardian and matriarch of Chez Ducky, leaving Birgie to enjoy her last days in peace. Or decades, she amended. She didn’t wanta jump the gun here.
In the spirit of string pulling, early, early this morning before she’d hopped in her car and left Chez Ducky, Birgie had set a trip wire at the old place. Now she just had to make sure Mimi sprung it.
All in good time, she thought as the desk attendant announced that flight 451 to Fort Myers was now boarding. All in good time.
Just north of Brainerd, Mimi’s cell phone kicked in again and Bette Midler’s “Friends” alerted her that she had voice mail waiting. She stuck the phone in the speaker dock—Oz’s kid loved his tech toys—and hit her access code.
“You have three new messages. To play your new messages, push one,” the digitalized voice announced.
Three messages in what? A month? Yup, a month, because the last couple times she’d been in Fawn Creek to do laundry she’d forgotten to bring her cell phone. She was getting more popular. She punched number one on the cell.
“Message number one delivered August third at five fifteen p.m.”
“Hello!…Mignonette…Olson,” an excited male voice greeted her. “You’ve been chosen to receive a special gift from—” She hit the
DELETE
key.
“Message number two delivered August fifth at 1:03 p.m.”
“Why don’t you get a land line installed in that place?” Oz’s voice asked. “When are you coming back to work? I miss your winsome ways. Plus Nordstrom’s is having a shoe clearance in September. And my kid wants his car back.”
It would be hard for Oz to say which of those two was most important.
“Message number three delivered August twenty-second at ten forty-five a.m.”
“This is Otell Weber, Ms. Olson. I’m going to be out of the country on other business for the remainder of the year beginning September tenth. I’ll be in touch when I get back. Nothing new to report.”
Mimi flipped the top down on the cell phone. Otell never had much to report. But then, his bills, sent monthly, were never very high. She tossed around the idea of telling him to forget the whole thing. But how? He’d left the country a week ago, and anyways, what was the hurry?
There was none. For the time being, she’d just let it slide.