Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy Read online

  This week when we met again, we were still at square one. It had been Sally Minor’s idea to dig up Honoria’s portrait and hang it in the teachers’ lounge where we were meeting in the hope that it might prove to be an inspiration. Sally had been at Howard Academy for more than a decade and was a prime source for all sorts of interesting snippets of past history.

  “It’s just a ratty old painting,” she said. “I’m sure nobody’d care if we borrowed it and stuck it up in here.”

  “Except maybe the other teachers who’d have to look at it all day.” Ed Weinstein smirked. He taught upper-school English and always seemed to be laughing at some private joke that he declined to share with the rest of us.

  “I don’t think anyone would mind.” Rita Kinney was shy and soft-spoken, possessing a quiet beauty that she did nothing to enhance. She taught fourth through sixth grade history, and this was the first time she’d volunteered a thought. “I vote for giving it a try. It can’t hurt.”

  Being the newest staff member in the group besides Michael, our leader, I’d been dispatched to hunt down the painting. “There was a bit of a problem,” I said.

  “I guess there would be. I’ve never seen so much junk.” Michael lifted the painting free and laid it back against the couch. “This place is a pit, isn’t it? Your basic testament to the excesses of private education. Do you suppose they ever threw anything out? Or even thought of using it twice?”

  He picked up the burgundy-velvet curtains I’d folded and tossed the heavy bundle on top of a similar pair in a faded shade of hunter green. A cloud of dust rose, then settled, around them. “Russell promised me free rein with the drama department, such as it is. I can see the first order of business better be cleaning this room.”

  “After we come up with a theme for the pageant,” I said firmly. “Did the committee think of anything after I left?”

  “Lots of things, none of them useful. We did manage to pass a rule prohibiting smoking at the meetings.”

  “Ed?” I ventured.

  “Ed. He seemed to think that if he stood next to the window when he lit up, nobody would mind. Sally changed his mind about that pretty quickly.”

  “She would.” I grinned. “Do you really think we ought to take this monstrosity back and hang it up?”

  “The committee voted for it.” Michael squatted down in front of the painting. “I’m happy to bow to majority rule. Who’s the artist anyway? Is there a signature?”

  “Just initials.” I’d already looked. “R.W.H., whoever that is.”

  “Maybe an artist with too much taste to want his name associated with the finished product? Hey, what’s this?” Michael read the plaque on the bottom of the frame, then looked at the dog in the lower corner of the picture. “Poupee? Silly name for a rather silly looking dog.”

  “It’s a Poodle,” I told him. “Probably a small Standard. Even though they were originally bred in Germany, lots of people still think of them as French Poodles. I would imagine that’s how he got the name. As to the silly looking trim, that’s not his fault. In those days, it was called a lion trim. Now we use a variation called a continental in the show ring.”

  Michael stood up and dusted off his hands. “How do you know so much about it?”

  “I have a Poodle at home that looks quite a bit like that one. My aunt breeds Standard Poodles. She’s shown them for years, and now she’s got me doing it, too.”

  “I have to admit it’s a pretty distinctive look, with the hair long on the front and all shaved off in back. Maybe we could use your dog in the pageant.”

  “Doing what?” I asked, surprised.

  “She could play the part of Poupee.” Michael saw the expression on my face and grinned. “Hey, don’t knock it. That’s probably the best idea we’ve come up with all week.”

  Somehow, that wasn’t a comforting thought.

  By the time we got back to the teachers’ lounge, the rest of the committee had grown tired of waiting for us and gone home. Meetings held at the end of the day on Friday are never popular, especially as Howard Academy has early dismissal so that everyone can get a jump on their weekend plans. Some of my students would be heading north with their parents to ski; others, south, in search of sun. At least one had theater tickets for Broadway and another was planning to go fox hunting.

  As for me, I was heading home to let out the dog and meet my six-year-old son, Davey’s, school bus. We’d have milk and cookies together, and he’d tell me about his day. After that, I had to give Faith a bath as she was entered in a dog show that weekend where I had high hopes of picking up some much-needed points toward her championship. I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone.

  As always, Faith was waiting by the door when I got home. She whined softly as I fitted the key to the lock, then launched herself into the air in a frenzy of greeting as the door swung open. Standards are the largest of the three varieties of Poodles. Faith stands twenty-four inches at the shoulder and weighs more than forty pounds. Catching her in full flight requires both strength and dexterity, but I was used to the task by now.

  Margaret Turnbull, Faith’s breeder and my Aunt Peg, would have been horrified to see one of her dogs exhibit such a lack of manners. The Cedar Crest Standard Poodles are an illustrious line, well-known throughout the dog show world for producing generation after generation of eye-catching champions. Each of Aunt Peg’s dogs is impeccably trained, and she never allows anything less than the best behavior.

  Unfortunately for me, it’s a standard she also applies to her relatives.

  Since Aunt Peg wasn’t around to see, however, I gave Faith a hug and ruffled my hands through the long black mane coat on the front half of her body. Poodles have long been one of the most popular breeds in the world and, as an admittedly biased owner, it wasn’t hard for me to see why. Beneath the highly stylized show clip, Faith was a dog of uncommon intelligence and dignity. She understood my moods and most of what I said, and had a marvelous sense of humor. In short, she was the perfect companion.

  It didn’t surprise me that Honoria Howard had chosen to include her Poodle when she’d had her portrait painted. Poodle owners tend to think of their pets as members of the family. No doubt she’d felt the same way about Poupee as I did about Faith.

  I’d just let the dog out into the fenced backyard when the squeal of air brakes signaled the arrival of Davey’s bus. My son never does anything at half speed. As I headed toward the front of the house, I could already hear the front door opening.

  “Hey!” called Davey, slamming the door behind him. “Where is everyone?”

  I reached the hall and saw my son standing just inside the door. He looked like he’d grown an inch since I’d sent him to school that morning. A new gap had appeared between the hem of his jeans and the tops of his sneakers. Luckily for the sake of warmth, it was filled by gym socks, currently an indeterminate shade of muddy brown. They’d been white when he’d left.

  Davey dropped his backpack and jacket on the floor. “Where’s Faith?” he asked. She was usually the first to greet him.

  “Outside in back. I just got home. Do I get a hug?”

  He shied away and made a face. Six years old and already cynical.

  “Pick up your backpack,” I said. “And hang your jacket in the closet where it belongs.”

  “I should have hugged you.” Davey sighed. “It would have been easier.”

  I’ve always been a sucker for logic like that. I held out my arms. “There’s still time to change your mind.”

  “Okay.” He allowed a brief embrace. Thank goodness Aunt Peg wasn’t there; no doubt she’d have complained about the way I was training my dog and my child.

  Not that I tend to pay much attention to things like that. For most of Davey’s life, I’ve been a single mother. Though Davey’s father had recently reappeared, and we were now on good terms (albeit from opposite ends of the country), I was still accustomed to doing things my own way.

  All that was due to chan
ge soon; several months earlier I’d gotten engaged. Sam Driver and I have known each other for nearly two years. Not unexpectedly, we’d met over a dog, a stolen Standard Poodle that each of us was pursuing for a different reason. By the time we got things sorted out, it was clear to both of us that our initial attraction was also worth investigating.

  Sam’s the kind of man women fantasize about but never expect to find. I had no idea how I’d gotten so lucky, but I wasn’t about to question my good fortune, especially as Davey and Sam adored each other. Even the notoriously picky Aunt Peg approved, though the fact that he was a fellow Standard Poodle breeder had obviously swayed things in his favor. We’d be seeing Sam and his new puppy, Tar, at the show the next day.

  I brought Faith in from outside, gave her a biscuit and put out a glass of milk and plate of cookies for Davey. While they were both munching, I set up Faith’s grooming table and hair dryer in preparation for her bath. Showing a Standard Poodle is no small undertaking, and Faith was now nearly two years old and in full bloom. Her correctly textured coat was long and dense; the bath and blow-dry that followed would take several hours to complete.

  Faith’s continental trim is one of two approved show clips for adult Poodles, and the one in which the majority are shown. The previous evening I’d clipped her face, feet, and most of her hindquarter and legs. In addition to her mane coat, she had pom pons on her hips, legs, and at the end of her tail, all of which needed to be carefully scissored.

  The job is an exacting one requiring an educated eye and a steady hand. Fortunately, I’d be able to count on Aunt Peg’s help at the show the next day to pull everything together. For much of Faith’s show career, Peg and I had been competing against each other as she’d kept Faith’s sister, Hope, from the same litter. Thanks to my aunt’s experience and superior handling skills, however, her Standard Poodle had sailed through the process, completing the requirements for her championship before Christmas. Hope was now retired from the show ring, and Peg had promised me her expert assistance.

  With that in mind, I allowed myself to hurry through Faith’s blow-dry. After her bath, I blotted the excess water from her hair with several big, fluffy towels, then didn’t redampen the areas of her coat that had air-dried before I was able to work my way around to them—a cardinal sin among people who show Poodles professionally.

  Then again, I reminded myself, the pros were paid to do this job. I was a mother first, a teacher second, and a Poodle exhibitor third. And sometimes, something had to give. I brushed quickly through Faith’s now crinkly bracelets, and declared the job done.

  The Poodle seemed pleased by my speedy performance. I know I was. I packed up my grooming equipment, leaving it ready to go to the show in the morning, then went upstairs and fixed dinner for my son.

  Saturday’s show was in New York, just on the other side of the Hudson River. Over the years, it has become harder and harder to find locations suitable for holding dog shows; and any venue which proves to be both practical and profitable tends to see a lot of action. Rockland Community College was one such site, and I’d been there several times over the last year.

  About a third of the large room where the show was being held had been set aside for grooming. Each entry, from the smooth coated hounds to the labor intensive wire haired terriers, would have been bathed, clipped, plucked, and brushed to the point of perfection. But despite the preparations that were done at home beforehand, there was always something left to do just before entering the ring.

  The professional handlers, who travel with strings of dogs and work from dawn ’til dark on show days, had already staked out their space. Aisles were defined by their stacked crates and rows of grooming tables. Making our way through the congestion, Davey and I looked for familiar faces. Usually, Aunt Peg saves me a spot, but today she wasn’t showing a dog. Sam was, but I wasn’t sure he’d be there yet.

  “Look!” cried Davey, waving enthusiastically. “There’s Terry.”

  Terry Denunzio was assistant to prominent professional handler Crawford Langley. He’d been a part of the dog show scene for less than a year, but he and I were already buddies. I changed course and headed in his direction.

  “Air kiss,” Terry said, offering his cheek for a smooch. “I don’t want to mess your makeup.”

  “Nor yours.” I cocked a brow. Terry was gay and deliciously good looking. He knew it and he flaunted it.

  “Nasty, nasty. Are you looking for the hunk?”

  Terry calls them like he sees them, and that was his pet name for Sam. Sam hated it. I thought it was kind of cute.

  “Yes, is he here yet?”

  “Just unloaded, and went to park his car. That’s his stuff.” Terry pointed to a table and crate at the end of the row. “I’m sure you can squeeze right in next to him. Especially since the two of you like to be cozy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, ignoring the innuendo because I knew Terry was dying for me not to.

  I set up my things, put Faith in her crate, left Davey under Terry’s watchful eye, and went back outside to park my car. When I returned a few minutes later, Sam was back as well and Aunt Peg had arrived. In my absence, she’d taken the liberty of releasing Faith from her crate and putting the Standard Poodle up on the grooming table.

  “Did you actually use a hair dryer on this bitch last night?” Peg asked. “Or did you just blow on her a few times and hope for the best?”

  I didn’t even try to mount a defense. Aunt Peg hated excuses, even good ones, which I didn’t exactly have. She’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday in the fall and, to nobody’s surprise, outlasted all of us on the dance floor. She was brash and blunt, and knew everything there was to know about dogs.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said instead.

  Aunt Peg harrumphed and gestured toward Sam’s nine-month-old Standard Poodle puppy, who was standing on his table. “Look at Tar. There isn’t a single curl in his coat.”

  She was right, there wasn’t. Not much I could do about that. Tuning out the complaint, I walked past Peg and greeted Sam with a kiss.

  I had to stand up on my toes because, at six-foot-two, he’s a good eight inches taller than I am. He’s broad through the shoulders, but his chest and hips taper, giving the impression of strength, not bulk. His eyes are cornflower blue, and they crinkle at the edges when he smiles, like he was doing now.

  “Maybe Sam had more time,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Maybe I had more patience,” said Sam, who knows perfectly well how frustrated I get with the process of correctly straightening the Poodle’s coat with a blow-dryer.

  I’d taken a step back, but his hands were still resting lightly on my shoulders, so I felt his reaction when Sam’s body stiffened. He was staring off into the crowd gathered at ringside with the oddest expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, turning to have a look.

  “Sheila.” The word slipped out on an indrawn breath. I wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a curse.

  By this time, Aunt Peg was frowning, too. Even Terry had tuned back into our conversation. I scanned the faces in the crowd but still had no idea who might cause such a reaction.

  “Who’s Sheila?” I asked.

  Sam swallowed heavily before answering. “My ex-wife.”

  Three

  Ex-wife?

  I must have heard wrong, I thought. Sam didn’t have an ex-wife, at least not one that I’d ever heard about. And considering the length and depth of our relationship, it seemed rather late for a tidbit of information like that to be popping up.

  “Ex-wife?” I repeated the words aloud to see what sort of reaction they’d bring. I was half hoping I’d get a denial. It didn’t happen. Indeed, Sam didn’t even seem to hear me.

  “Sam?”

  He glanced at me fleetingly. “Excuse me a minute, would you?” He strode away, cutting quickly through the crowd.

  Left behind, Tar paced unhappily on the top of his table. All show Poodles are train
ed at an early age to stay when placed on a grooming table, but Tar was a puppy, just beginning his career. The combination of his master leaving without a reassuring word and the swirl of activity around him made him nervous.

  I wanted to watch Sam and see what happened next. Instead, I found myself catching an armful of flying Poodle when Tar launched himself into the air and attempted to follow Sam into the crowd. Puppy or not, Tar was nearly full grown, and packed with muscle. I staggered backward into a crate and spit out a hank of dense black hair. For his age, Tar had a topknot to be proud of.

  “Here,” said Terry, whisking the puppy out of my arms and putting him back where he belonged. “I’ll take care of him. You go do what you need to do.”

  Much as I appreciated the thought, I realized I had no idea what to do next. Should I storm after Sam and demand an explanation? Maybe introduce myself to Sheila and invite her to our wedding? Or should I stay here and start brushing Faith as if nothing was wrong and let Sam come back and tell me what was going on when he was ready?

  When he was ready? Hah! With news like this he should have been ready a long time ago.

  I decided to stay put and picked up a pin brush and comb. Terry looked disappointed; no doubt he’d been hoping for fireworks. I did, however, sneak a peek at Sheila as I laid Faith on her side and started to brush.

  Sam’s ex-wife was tiny, so petite I could only see her as the ringside crowd shifted and eddied. She had shiny dark hair bobbed just below chin length and pale, flawless skin. Her full lips were outlined in a rosy shade of pink that matched the one on her long fingernails. As she spoke, she waved a hand gracefully in the air.

  Whatever she was saying, Sam seemed mesmerized. I felt my stomach muscles clench. The coffee I’d drunk earlier was suddenly burning a hole in my gut.