Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy (4 page)

“In you go,” Peg said briskly, as the steward called the Open bitches into the ring. “Have fun, dear!”

Have fun? I thought grimly as I found a place toward the end of the line. Who was she kidding? This wasn’t fun, it was torture. I had to be crazy. That was the only explanation for how I’d let Aunt Peg talk me into this.

Tony lifted his hands and motioned for the line of bitches to gait around the big ring. That was relatively easy. All I had to do was keep Faith moving in a straight line and not fall down. Keeping one eye on where I was going and the other on the judge, I watched Tony skim his gaze down the line. It paused a moment when it came to Faith, then moved on. Good, I thought, we’d been noticed.

I might have been nervous, but Faith wasn’t. She’d been in the show ring a number of times by now and knew what was expected of her. Poodles are very fast learners. Add to that a natural tendency to show off and play to the crowd, and you have all the makings of a first-class show dog.

When Faith’s turn came to be individually examined, she stood like a statue. Tony liked her head, I could tell. And he lingered happily on her front end assembly. When he reached her hindquarter, I saw the first glimmering of dissatisfaction. He lifted both her hind legs and repositioned them, then had another look.

So far, so good. There weren’t any deductions for handler error; the only thing that mattered was the quality of the dog.

The judge finished his examination and asked me to move Faith down and back. I thought she gaited well as we trotted across the ring on the diagonal mat, but before we’d even made it back, Tony Rondella was already shaking his head. “You’re going too fast,” he said. “Take it slower. And I’d like to see her on a loose lead.”

We tried again. And again after that. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to make Tony happy. Finally, in utter frustration, I all but dropped the leash and let Faith find her own way. Amazingly, this time when we returned, he was smiling.

“Fine,” he said. “Now take her around to the end of the line.”

Tony quickly examined the rest of the entrants. That done, he walked straight to Faith, pulled her out of line, and sent us to the other side of the ring. The other Poodles he liked followed. “Once around,” he said, then quickly pointed.

I assume he said, “One, two, three, four,” because they always do, but in truth I’d stopped listening after the first word, because Faith was at the head of the line and his finger was pointing her way. I took the blue ribbon, tucked it in my pocket, and quickly restacked Faith on the mat. She still had to beat the winners of the earlier bitch classes in order to win the major.

Once again, Faith was great. Since the judge had asked for a loose leash earlier, I continued to let Faith guide herself, offering only minimum input. Clearly she was up to the task, and clearly Tony Rondella appreciated everything she had to offer. He wasted no time in awarding her Winners Bitch.

“Well done,” Peg whispered in my ear, as I stepped out the gate while reserve winners bitch was judged. “That’s four points. Don’t forget, Sam can use the major, too. Tony prides himself on actually judging the dogs. He doesn’t always share.”

Sharing the majors is a time-honored tradition, frowned on by the American Kennel Club and beloved of exhibitors everywhere. Since the number of points awarded is dependent upon the number of competitors defeated, it often happens that Winners Dog and Winners Bitch within the same breed will be awarded a different number of points.

When Best of Variety is judged, the Winners Dog and Winners Bitch also compete against the champions as they have yet to be defeated on the day. In addition, these two are judged against each other for Best of Winners. The one chosen BOW receives the higher number of points awarded.

Especially when a major is involved, most judges can be counted on to share the points, thus making sure that both entrants end up with the coveted win. Likewise most exhibitors, having already secured the major for themselves, don’t mind holding their dogs back so as to make their competitor look better.

All I would have had to do to make sure that Tar got the extra points was handle Faith badly. In my case, it wouldn’t even have been a stretch. Tar was a pretty puppy; he deserved to win a major. But on that day, he didn’t get one.

Sam smiled at me as we filed into the ring. That wonderful, knowing smile that reminded me of all the things we’d shared. He looked like a man who didn’t have a care in the world, and I felt like a woman betrayed.

I set my shoulders and didn’t smile back, and when Tony Rondella compared his two winners, Faith and I put on a dazzling show. Tar was a beautiful Standard Poodle, but Faith had him beaten cold on maturity and conditioning. At nine months of age, there was simply nothing the puppy could do about that.

Tony judged dogs, and he didn’t share the major. I accepted the blue-and-white ribbon with a greedy grin that probably revealed volumes about my own maturity level and strode out of the ring without looking back.

“I guess we need to talk,” Sam said when he’d caught up to me back at the crates.

“I guess we do,” I agreed.

The satisfaction I’d felt had been short-lived; already I was beginning to regret my childish display of pique. Even with a good dog, majors were never easy to come by. No matter how annoyed I was at Sam, I shouldn’t have responded by depriving Tar of his shot.

“So talk,” I said.

All right, I admit it. I was dying to hear what he had to say. Besides, we even had a modicum of privacy, as Davey and Aunt Peg had gone off together from ringside. It would have been nice to think that Peg was being discreet; but knowing her, it was more likely they’d gone to search for food, preferably something sweet.

“Sheila is part of my past,” said Sam.

“I guess so, if she’s your ex-wife.”

He looked exasperated. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you won’t listen.”

“I’ve been listening for two years, and apparently it didn’t help because Sheila never came up.”

I knew I sounded snippy. Worse, I wasn’t even sorry. I hopped Faith up onto her table, let her lie down, and began the process of taking apart her elaborate show ring hairdo. Across the aisle, Sam was doing the same with Tar. I could see him take several deep breaths before speaking again.

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he said finally.

He had to be kidding. I peered at him closely. He looked serious enough. I took that as a bad sign.

“I’m upset because you lied to me.”

“No, I didn’t. I’ve never lied to you about anything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Sheila?”

“She wasn’t important.” Sam shrugged. “It always seemed like we had better things to talk about.”

“She was important enough for you to have married her,” I pointed out.

“That was a long time ago.”

Spraying conditioner into Tar’s topknot, Sam angled his body away so I couldn’t see his expression. Was it my imagination or did his tone sound wistful? “Tell me about her,” I said.

Any woman in the world would have known better than to head into those treacherous waters. Not Sam; he plunged right in.

“Sheila was a firecracker,” he said. “ She had mercurial ups and mercurial downs. When she liked something, she was passionately devoted to it. When something didn’t please her, she wanted no part of it. I was twenty-three when we met, and I’d never known anyone like her.”

I’m human, okay? I was waiting to hear something uncomplimentary. Hearing Sam call his ex-wife a passionate firecracker wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. My eyes narrowed. Come to think of it, he’d never complimented me on my passion.

“How did the two of you meet?”

“In business school. Second year. She was majoring in marketing, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. She could sell dog collars at a cat convention.”

I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging way. I wished he’d hurry up and get to the part about the disagreements, the acrimony, the divorce.

“So we got married,” said Sam. “Big wedding, huge cathedral, white dress, the whole works.”

I waited—it wasn’t like I wasn’t busy—a full five minutes for him to continue. Surely that couldn’t be where he intended to end the story.

“That’s
it?”
I asked finally.

“Pretty much.” Sam nodded. Tar had less hair than Faith, and he was almost finished.

What about lawyers, and papers, and divvying up assets? I wondered. What about sleepless nights and assigning the blame? Obviously Sam had a talent for glossing over major details.

“You
did
get divorced, didn’t you?”

“Of course. It happened six years ago. Like I said, it’s all in the past. None of it has any relevance to my life now.”

Right. Sheila had had enough relevance to make him drop what he was doing—which, as I recalled, was talking to me—and run across the room to see her. And the story he’d told about their life together had holes big enough to drive a truck through.

“Look what we got!” Davey came skipping down the aisle. He was holding up a sugar-coated doughnut.

“What about lunch?” I asked. Noon had come and gone while we’d been in the Poodle ring.

“This is my lunch,” Davey informed me. “I’ve had two already. Aunt Peg said I could.”

I gazed at Peg, who smiled benignly. “I guess you haven’t read any of those studies about the effects of good nutrition on growing children.”

“Pish,” she said. “He’ll grow. I’ve always had a taste for sweets and look at me.” Nearing six feet tall and built along the sleek lines of a Borzoi, Peg was a glowing advertisement for good health. Something only an idiot would have attributed to her diet. “Did you and Sam manage to get things sorted out?”

“No,” I said firmly, just as Sam answered, “Yes.”

“Pity about that major,” Aunt Peg mentioned, just to throw some gas on the fire.

“There’ll be others.” Sam seemed remarkably composed about the loss. Peevishly, I wondered if that was because his mind was on other things.

“We met Mrs. Vaughn,” said Davey. “She’s nice.”

I dropped my comb. It landed on the floor with a clatter. “You did? When?”

“Just now. Aunt Peg and I went over to say hello.”

“Welcome to the East Coast,” said Aunt Peg. “That sort of thing.”

I bent down to pick up my comb. Knowing Peg, a what-are-you-doing-here sort of inquisition seemed more likely.

“I think that should be Ms. Vaughn,” I corrected Davey. “Unless she’s gotten married again?”

“Nope,” Davey said cheerfully. “Aunt Peg asked.”

She would, I thought. For once, my aunt’s curiosity seemed like an endearing trait. I waited avidly for my son to continue.

“She told me to call her Mrs. Vaughn. She said she liked being a missus.” Davey studied all sides of his doughnut before finding one he liked and taking a big bite. Blithely he talked and chewed at the same time. “Mrs. Vaughn said we’ll probably see her at some of the other shows around here because she’s working in New York until summer.”

“Really?” I pushed the words out with effort. “How nice.”

“She has Pugs. Their faces are all wrinkly, and sometimes they snort. She let me pet one. Her name was Tulip.”

It was a good thing Davey was in a talkative mood because all the adults in our little group seemed to have been struck dumb.

Sam was busy with Tar. Having finished working on his hair, he stood the big puppy up, let him shake, then put him in his crate. Aunt Peg was munching on a brownie. No one else but me seemed unduly concerned about this sudden turn my life had taken.

“I guess you’ve known about this for a while,” I said to Sam.

“What?” he asked over his shoulder as he tossed equipment in his tackbox.

So help me, I wanted to smack him. Could he possibly have any doubt what we were talking about?

“Sheila. Her job in New York. You know . . .” I finished vaguely. It seemed like a better idea than outlining the specifics, like the fact that Miss Fourth of July was about to be living in our backyard.

“No, I had no idea until I saw her here this morning. Sheila and I haven’t kept in touch.” He said this last part slowly, as if I were a small child, and he wanted to make sure I understood.

My hands moved methodically as I continued to work on Faith’s coat by rote. All at once, I found myself wondering if Sheila had divorced him for patronizing her.

“Where will she be staying?” asked Aunt Peg.

“She’s leased a house in North Salem,” said Sam. “As I’m sure you can understand, she needed space for her dogs. She’s just settling in, and there are some minor repairs she’s been struggling with. I told her I’d stop by this afternoon after the show and have a look.”

“This afternoon?” my voice squeaked. Faith, who’d been lying quietly on the grooming table, lifted her head and looked at me. It’s a pity when your dog is better at sensing your feelings than your fiancé.

“Sure. That’s okay, isn’t it? I didn’t think we had anything planned.”

He was right, we didn’t. But by now our lives were so intertwined that we didn’t usually bother to make plans. Since both of us were busy during the week, we’d fallen into the routine of spending most of our weekends together. Even though Sam and I hadn’t spoken about it, I’d just assumed that he’d be coming home with us after the show.

“You’re right,” I said brightly. My smile felt as phony as a nine inch topknot on a six-month-old puppy. “We didn’t have any plans.”

“Good.” Sam nodded. “This shouldn’t take long. Sheila mentioned something about a piece offence that’s sagging and a faucet that drips all night. How about if I call you when I’m done?”

“Good idea,” I said, as he loaded his crate, table, and tack box onto a dolly and prepared to leave. “You do that.”

Aunt Peg, the buttinsky who’d brought us together in the first place, was surveying the situation with a worried frown. If Sam had had any sense, he’d have been worried, too. But obviously he was too intent on his upcoming rendezvous with Sheila to hear the chill in my tone.

“See you later, sport.” Sam gave Davey a hug. “You take good care of your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” Davey echoed. “See you later.”

Ah, the innocence of youth.

“Sagging fence, my fanny,” I said when Sam was gone. “The woman owns Pugs. Pugs! Have you ever seen a Pug jump?”

“Actually I have—” Peg began. One look at my face was enough to silence her.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” said Peg. “But I think you’re overreacting. So Sam spends an afternoon with his ex-wife, so what? As I recall, you spent several weeks with your ex-husband last spring.”

“That was different. For starters, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Bob came to see Davey, remember?”

“And Sheila came to the Northeast for a job. The move is only a temporary one, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Sam is here.”

“Maybe not,” I grumbled. “But did he have to look so happy to see her? He called her mercurial and passionate. He said she could sell dog collars at a cat convention.”

“Why would one want to—? Never mind.” Aunt Peg choked off that thought. “What do you suppose caused them to divorce?”

“Sam didn’t say. He seemed to think it wasn’t relevant.”

“He’s a man,” said Peg, as if that it explained everything. Actually, it pretty much did.

While we’d been talking, I’d been breaking down Faith’s tight, show ring topknot and replacing it with the looser banding she would wear at home. Now I finished fixing the last of the protective wraps around her ear hair. We were ready to pack up and go.

“Maybe Sam will explain everything when he calls you,” said Peg.

“Like how a woman who was never even important enough to mention is suddenly worth devoting his free time to?”

“Something like that.” Peg sighed.

 

Perhaps Sam might have been able to come up with a good reason for the way he was acting, but as it happened, he never got the chance. Davey and I found so many things to do over the next two days that we were never home to answer the phone if indeed it had rung. When we got back from the show, we went out to the mall, then followed that excursion with dinner and a movie.

Sunday we devoted to yard work. March is the perfect time to pick up the mess that winter has left behind, and we were outside nearly all day. Once Davey thought he heard the phone ringing; but by the time he and Faith made it up the steps and into the house, the caller had given up. I guess it was just Sam’s bad luck that I’d taken the tape out of the answering machine and forgotten to replace it.

All in all we were so busy that neither Davey nor I had any time to spend wondering what Sam might have been up to on that pretty spring weekend.

Yeah, right.

By Monday morning, I’d spent two hectic days and two semisleepless nights, and my butt was dragging. It seems to be a fact of life that when I get to school on time nobody notices; and when I come barreling in the back door a few minutes late, inevitably I get caught. Luckily when you’re a teacher, you’re too old to get detention. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any easier to meet up with the headmaster.

Shedding my coat as I dashed down the hallway, I whipped around a corner and ran smack into Russell Hanover II. “Ah, Ms. Travis,” he said, reaching out a hand to steady me. “The very person I was looking for. In a hurry, are we?”

“Just a bit,” I said, reaching up a hand to run my fingers through my hair.

In truth I didn’t look disheveled, it’s just that Russell always makes me feel that way. Both his tailoring and his deportment are impeccable. I’ve never seen a wrinkle in his clothing, and though he’s in his late forties, his face is still remarkably smooth. That’s probably due to the usual lack of expression on his bland features. Russell’s hair is medium brown and thinning along his temples. He wears it short and combed straight back, and the severe cut suits him well.

“I’m told you’ve signed on as a member of our Spring Pageant Committee,” he said.

Actually I hadn’t actually signed on, I’d been conscripted. Though I suspected Russell himself had monitored the selections, I nodded as though the whole thing had been my idea.

“Excellent. Mr. Durant tells me the committee is having a bit of a problem coming up with a suitable program. Since your schedule tends to have more flexibility than some of the others, I thought you might have the time to take a look through some of our archives in the basement.”

“I’d be happy to,” I said. This was the first I’d heard of such a collection.

“It seems Honoria Howard was a bit of a pack rat.” Russell frowned slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d described one of the school’s illustrious founders in such unflattering terms. “There are several dozen boxes stored in a rather shabby little room downstairs. I’ve never had occasion to sort through them myself, but I understand they contain all manner of records: correspondence, invoices, and perhaps even some photographs that pertain to the academy’s early years. I was hoping you might come across something that would hasten the committee on its way.”