Gone With the Woof Read online

  It’s not as if that lowered the intimidation factor any.

  “Will there be pictures in your book?” asked Davey.

  “I should think so,” Aunt Peg told him. “What good is history without illustrations?”

  Sam nodded in agreement.

  Did you hear that? “My book,” Davey had said. And nobody had argued with him. Not even me.

  That thought was enough to goad me back into the conversation.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not even sure there’s going to be a book.”

  “Of course there’s going to be a book,” Aunt Peg informed me. “That’s already a given. With or without your help, Edward plans to write his memoirs. All we’re discussing now is your participation . . . or lack thereof.”

  “Something like that would be pretty time consuming,” I mentioned. Was I grasping at straws, or did it just feel that way?

  “I’m sure it will be. I’d imagine that Edward would require a proper commitment from you. But since you currently have neither a job nor even a single dog in hair . . .” Aunt Peg swept an eloquent gaze around the room. “Really, Melanie, what do you do with yourself all day?”

  Sam, that traitor, was laughing quietly. He’d angled his body away, but I could see his shoulders shaking.

  “If I agree to do this, it means that you’re going to be spending more time taking care of Kevin,” I said to his back.

  The threat of extra baby duty wasn’t nearly enough to sway him back to my side. Sam just shrugged. “Fine by me.”

  “Good,” said Aunt Peg. “Then it’s settled.”

  “Yay, Mom’s going to write a book!” cried Davey.

  On the floor, several of the Poodles lifted their heads and cocked an ear, wondering what all the excitement was about.

  Nobody seemed to want to hear my vote.

  “I guess that means I’m in,” I said.

  It all sounded so simple in theory.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before reality reasserted itself. Less than three days actually, starting when Monday arrived and Davey’s school reopened for the new semester. And we got four more inches of fresh snow.

  Aunt Peg’s call came just minutes after Davey’s bus picked him up at the end of the driveway. I hadn’t even had time to pour a second cup of coffee. Sometimes I think she must have our house bugged.

  “You’re all set,” she said. “I told Edward to expect you at nine thirty.”

  “This morning?”

  I knew Aunt Peg worked fast, but even for her, this was warp speed. And would it have been too much to ask for her to have checked with me first?

  “Of course this morning. Edward’s eager to get started. I assumed you would be, too.”

  Peg tends to be enamored with her own version of the truth. I bet she even said that with a straight face.

  “Kevin has Gymboree this morning. We go every Monday.”

  “He’s a baby, Melanie. I’m sure he doesn’t know what day of the week it is. You can take him tomorrow instead. He’ll never know the difference.”

  “I’ll know the difference, and so will the teacher. Our class is today, not tomorrow.”

  “Really.” Peg exhaled in a huff. “As if a baby should even have a schedule.”

  Yet another reminder that Aunt Peg had never been a mother.

  “Gymboree?” Sam stuck his head out of his office door.

  He designs computer software and works for himself. Most days that’s a blessing. Today, not so much.

  Frantically, I waved him off. Blithely, he ignored me. “I can take him.”

  “That man is an angel,” said Aunt Peg. “You don’t deserve him.”

  There were moments when I was quite sure that I didn’t deserve either one of them.

  Edward March lived in Westport, a cosmopolitan Connecticut town about fifteen miles up the coast from Stamford. Financially speaking, Westport has the same kind of profile as Greenwich, but the money there is quieter. Celebrities move to Greenwich when they want to be seen. They move to Westport when they want to enjoy the pastoral peace and privacy.

  March’s estate was on the north side of town. I took the Merritt Parkway and followed Aunt Peg’s directions from the exit. Luckily, the trip took less than half an hour, because I’d gotten off to a late start.

  Trust Aunt Peg to think that in a house with a husband, two children, and five big dogs, a half hour’s notice would be enough time for me to get everything squared away before heading out for the morning. I used up ten minutes just folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher.

  At least the tight schedule didn’t leave me much time to worry about the fact that I was on my way to a new assignment for which I felt conspicuously underqualified, and which also involved working for an eminent person whom I’d never even met.

  Sure. No butterflies there.

  I navigated the last mile of the trip with care. March’s quiet country road hadn’t been plowed since the overnight addition of new snow, and a thin sheet of ice coated the shallow ruts left by previous travelers. My Volvo handles adverse conditions like a champ, but having lived in Connecticut my whole life, I’ve learned to give ice and snow the respect they deserve.

  There was a tall wrought-iron gate at the end of March’s driveway, but the intent seemed to be more decorative than functional, since it was sitting open. From the road, all I could see of the house were two brick chimneys, visible in the distance, above the treetops. Acres of rolling meadowland, snow covered and glistening with the soft sheen of the morning sun, extended outward on either side of the driveway and ended at a distant tree line.

  The house was a traditional Colonial, two stories tall and built symmetrically square, painted white, with black shutters. It wasn’t as large as I might have expected from the grand approach; most likely, it had been built before land values in Fairfield County had soared into the stratosphere.

  The driveway circled around in front of the door, and there was a parking area off to one side. I pulled over there, turned off the car, and gathered up my purse and notebook. Really, an actual notebook. The kind with pages.

  Running out the door that morning, I’d had no idea what sort of writing tools a potential coauthor might be expected to supply. I hadn’t wanted to arrive empty-handed, but I didn’t want to appear overeager, either. Just because Aunt Peg had nominated me for this position didn’t mean that Edward March was going to agree with her choice.

  The deep, sonorous tone of the doorbell had barely finished echoing before the front door drew open. A young woman, dressed in a chunky turtleneck sweater and faded blue jeans, greeted me with a smile.

  “Good. You’re here. Mr. March appreciates punctuality. Please come in.”

  After the cold outside, the house felt wonderfully warm.

  “I’m Melanie,” I said as she shut the door. I was already unbuttoning my coat and unwinding my scarf.

  “And I’m Charlotte,” the young woman replied. Her handshake was as firm as my own. She hung my coat and scarf on a rack tucked in a corner behind the door. “I’m Mr. March’s assistant. He’s waiting for you in the library. If you’d please follow me this way.”

  Charlotte’s formal way of speaking was at odds with her college coed looks. Blond hair, straight and shiny, swung around her shoulders as she proceeded down the wide center hallway. Dangly earrings, one to each ear, swayed in time. Her makeup had been applied with a light hand, and her unpolished nails were bitten short.

  “I know Mr. March is looking forward to meeting you,” she said, stopping in front of a dark wooden door. “This project is dear to his heart, and he’s been very anxious to get started.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to help.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will. Mr. March can be a little, um . . . disorganized. But he has so many wonderful stories to tell. All he needs is someone who’s willing to listen and then figure out how to make order out of chaos. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  Her belief in my abil
ities was quite touching, I thought. Especially considering the fact that we’d just met.

  “Besides . . . ,” Charlotte confided in a low voice as she drew the door open. Her hand at my back ushered me forward into the room. “You look like you’re made of much stronger stuff than the last two candidates.”

  Last two candidates? I spun around in surprise, only to find the door closing in my face. Having delivered that unexpected news, Charlotte was gone.

  Briefly, I closed my eyes and wondered if Aunt Peg had been aware that her friend had already attempted—and failed—to begin writing his book with two previous applicants. Knowing my aunt, that was just the sort of incendiary information she’d have been tempted to keep to herself.

  “Don’t just stand there.” Edward March’s voice was an imperious growl. “Come over by the light so I can get a look at you.”

  Once I’d turned and had my first look around, it was easy to see why March had summoned me to join him by the window. The room was only dimly lit, and there wasn’t anywhere else to sit down. The expanse of the library between us was impossibly cluttered.

  A suite of overstuffed leather furniture was covered with cartons, books, and periodicals. Two file cabinets, a world globe on a massive frame, and a glass-fronted cherrywood cupboard all vied for floor space. I was pretty sure I even saw a wooden rocking horse tucked away behind a couch.

  March himself, standing just in front of his expansive desk, was a large man with a stern look that matched the growl he’d just uttered. He had a full head of white hair and broad shoulders that stooped forward, causing his frame to look as though it was collapsing inward. The effect made him no less intimidating. March’s left hand, fingers gnarled with age, grasped the top of a wooden cane.

  No wonder the previous two candidates hadn’t lasted long, I thought. I was half tempted to make a run for it myself. Then my gaze slid back up, and I saw the calculating look in March’s eyes and realized that was exactly what he was expecting.

  “Well?” he demanded. “How long are you going to keep me standing here? Do I look like I have all day?”

  Begin as you mean to go on, I thought and walked with a determined stride across the room.

  It was like navigating my way around an obstacle course. I didn’t give March the satisfaction of looking down to see where I was going. And I didn’t so much as wince when I stubbed my toe on the damn globe.

  “My name is Melanie Travis,” I said.

  “I know that. Margaret called and told me to expect you.”

  Margaret? I’d never heard anyone call Aunt Peg by her full name before. Intrigued, I filed that tidbit away for further consideration.

  He peered at me closely. “You don’t look like a teacher.”

  “Really? What do teachers look like?”

  “Skinny. Buttoned up. Like fun is out of the question.”

  “You don’t look like too much fun yourself,” I told him.

  “You should have known me when I was younger.” His laugh was a dry, wheezing cackle. He patted a nearby chair that was angled toward his desk. “Come over here and take a seat. Tell me how someone as pretty as you got to be a teacher.”

  Wonderful. A man who was twice my age was flirting with me. I wondered if this was why his assistant, Charlotte, had been in such a hurry to leave the room.

  “I thought we were going to talk about you,” I said. “My Aunt Peg tells me that you want to write a book.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  When March moved around behind his desk and sat down, I stepped forward and took the chair he’d pointed out. I folded my hands primly on the edge of the desk and settled down to listen.

  “I’ve lived a long life. I have a lot to say. I need a good scribe, someone with a decent head on her shoulders to write things down for me. Do you think you could manage to do that?”

  “Quite possibly,” I said. “What happened to the last two people who tried?”

  “They were idiots.” His hand waved away the question.

  “If I don’t know what they did wrong, how do I know if I can do better?”

  “That’s not up to you to decide.”

  Maybe, maybe not. As far as I could tell, the jury was still out on whether or not March and I were going to be able to forge a decent working relationship. I sat and waited.

  March frowned. Then he scowled. He seemed to have an entire arsenal of fierce expressions at his command. Idly, I wondered if he practiced in the mirror.

  Finally, he said, “The first one . . . It turned out that she didn’t like dogs. Now, how was I supposed to work with that?”

  “Probably not very easily,” I admitted. Considering the book’s subject matter, it seemed like a valid objection.

  “You like dogs, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You see? I knew any relative of Margaret’s would have to be a dog person.”

  Luckily, March hasn’t met my brother.

  “And the second candidate?”

  “That was a problem right from the beginning. When he took notes, he wrote things down in that horrid shorthand that passes for conversation nowadays. What’s it called? Textspeak?”

  “Oh my.” My inner teacher cringed in sympathy.

  “You see? Like I said, idiots. But I can already tell that this is going to work.” March leaned toward me across his desk. His hand slid along the polished surface, grasped my fingers in his, and gave them a squeeze. “You and I are going to get along famously.”

  Gently, I disentangled my hand and put it down in my lap, out of reach.

  That remained to be seen, I thought.

  Chapter 3

  There was a soft knock at the door, and Charlotte let herself in. She was carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, milk and sweetener, and a plate of sugar cookies. Even so encumbered, she maneuvered her way through the crowded room with ease.

  Charlotte eased the tray down onto the desk, between March and me, then leaned across and whispered something in his ear.

  “Tell him not now,” March said shortly.

  “But he said—”

  “I don’t care. He’ll have to wait.”

  Charlotte glanced my way. I did my best to look as though I wasn’t listening. I probably wasn’t very convincing.

  “Please help yourself,” she said. “The cookies are Mr. March’s favorite.”

  They looked good, but the coffee smelled heavenly. I picked up one of the cups and topped it off with a dollop of milk. March followed suit, then added sweetener as Charlotte let herself out.

  I waited until the door had closed behind her, then asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. That was nothing, just family business. Let’s get back to my book.” March looked up from stirring his coffee. “What do you know about Irish Setters?”

  I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Big Red.”

  I had discovered the classic book in grade school and had read it numerous times. In my dog-deprived childhood, it had shared a place of honor on my bookshelf, along with White Fang and Lassie Come Home.

  “And, of course, I see them at the shows,” I said. “They’re gorgeous dogs.”

  March nodded. “It’s that external beauty that has been the breed’s glory, but also its undoing. Irish Setters are sporting dogs first and foremost. The first ones imported into this country were valued above all for their ability to work in the field.”

  March had slipped into lecture mode, and his enthusiasm for his breed was infectious. I was happy to sit back and be educated.

  “As bird dogs, they’re bold and tenacious, and they can work all day. But, of course, their appeal doesn’t stop there. They’re also charming, and happy-go-lucky, gentle, and loyal to a fault. Quintessentially Irish, you might say. Those traits, coupled with their good looks, have positioned them as the ideal show and companion dog.”

  “They sound wonderful,” I said.

  “They are.” March was firm in h
is opinion. “There’s not a better dog to be had.”

  I bit back a smile. Everyone feels that way about his own breed. Which isn’t surprising, because every breed of dog has its charms. Let’s face it. They’re all pretty terrific.

  “Speaking of Irish Setters,” I said, “do you still have any of the dogs that you used to show? I’ve been told that your Russet setters were famous, and justifiably so.”

  “Indeed, they were.” He sounded pleased with himself. Clearly, getting March to open up and talk about his achievements was not going to be a problem. “But I haven’t been in the show ring except as a judge in more than twenty-five years. Now the Russet name lives on solely as a foundation bloodline for other breeders who were fortunate enough to appreciate its merits and put them to good use. I have just one dog left, Russet Red Robin. She’s with Charlotte. I asked my assistant to keep her out of the way this morning so that we could meet without distraction.”

  Most dog people I know love to be distracted by their pets. That’s the whole point. But as I was quickly learning, Edward March made up his own rules. Maybe that was why he and Aunt Peg got along; they both believed in bending the world to their will, rather than the other way around.

  “So your book will be mostly about Irish Setters,” I said.

  “Certainly not.” March selected a sugar cookie from the plate, dunked it into his coffee, then popped it in his mouth whole. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I thought that was what we were talking about.”

  “Oh, no, indeed. We’re just getting better acquainted. Discussing a mutual interest, you might say.”

  If the interest was supposed to be mutual, we ought to be talking about Poodles, too, I thought. Yet another subversive notion best left unspoken.

  “Are you thinking about something with a broader focus, then? Maybe a definitive history of dog showing in America?”

  March propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers beneath his nose. He stared at me thoughtfully. “I suppose if anyone is eminently qualified to attempt such a tome, it would be me. But no, that isn’t what I have in mind, either.”