Invitation to Provence(10)
“You’re right,” the owner said meekly. “Just do whatever is best for him.”
“I will,” she promised. “But I want you to tell me you’re going to do what’s best for you, too. You can’t go on like this, Ronnie. You have to take yourself in hand, go to Weight-Watchers, go on a diet, go to the gym, or I’m afraid Marmalade will be needing a new owner before too long.” She patted his arm and turned away. “Okay, call me in a couple of hours and I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”
Jake raised his brows, surprised. Dr. Marten was not afraid to speak her mind.
She came into the room at a trot. “So,” she said, beaming a nice-girl smile at him. “What can I do for you, Mr… .” she checked the card Lindsey had given her. “Mr. Bronson?” She fixed him with narrow eyes that were the dazzling clear-water blue of an early-summer Norwegian fiord. Her gaze was so direct, so unexpectedly candid, Jake was taken aback for a second.
“I’m new to the neighborhood. I just wanted to meet you, make sure my dog will have a good vet. You know how it is.”
She nodded, frowning earnestly. “I certainly do, and I only wish more people got to know their vet before that emergency happens. It always helps to know the man and the animal—as you probably saw from the little vignette in the next room.” She laughed, shaking her blond braid out of her neckline. “Sometimes a little honesty goes a long way. You don’t think I hurt his feelings though, do you?”
Her clear eyes clouded and Jake just knew she would hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. “You did the right thing,” he hastened to reassure her, “probably saved the owner’s life as well as his cat’s.”
Franny Marten took the time to look properly at him, as a woman and not merely as “your nice local vet.” He was attractive, offbeat, different from the usual California guys, and he was looking back at her with an intense kind of look that suddenly made her toes curl.
“That’s not my job,” she said hastily, “but Ronnie’s a nice guy, I hate to see him going downhill. Besides, I know how much he loves Marmalade. So, tell me about your dog, Mr. Bronson.”
“Jake,” he said quickly.
“He’s called Jake? Nice name.” She leaned against the steel table, arms folded across her chest, interested.
“Uh, actually the dog’s name is Criminal. I’m Jake.”
She stared at him, shocked. “You named your dog Criminal? But that’s terrible.”
“Not if you know his wicked ways it’s not,” Jake said. “But he’s the best dog a man ever had. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Franny put a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. Her eyes shone with sincerity. “I wish everyone felt that way about their pets.”
“Criminal’s no pet—he’s my best friend,” Jake said, wondering if he’d suddenly gone mad. He never opened up about his emotions to anyone, especially a woman.
“I understand,” she said softly. “And I’ll be here for you and Criminal should the need arise, though I’m still not convinced you should have inflicted that name on him.”
Then she gave him that bright good-girl smile and offered him her hand. “Just remember to bring Criminal in for his shots, Mr. Bronson. Got to keep things up-to-date, you know. And don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.” Then with a little wave of her hand she was gone.
Jake caught a brief whiff of something sweet that might have been ginger flowers, and that was it. He was just some guy checking out a vet for his dog. And she was just a vet doing her job. At least, that’s what Jake told himself later, sitting in the car remembering the feel of her slightly rough hand in his and the sweet, ginger-flower scent and the firm note in her voice as she told the fat guy to get his act together. He laughed thinking about it.
He thought Doc Marten was okay. She was no fortune hunter, no girl on the make. She was what she was, a nice woman with the most amazing eyes that he’d bet could look right through you when she was mad at you.
6
JAKE WAS STAYING at the Peninsula Hotel. He liked it because of its gardens that led on little winding paths, past jungly greenery and splashing fountains to the cottages. If he closed his eyes and ignored the dull roar of the L.A. traffic, he could almost have imagined he was somewhere in the countryside instead of right here in the middle of Beverly Hills.
Avoiding the rooftop pool area, which was a hangout for Hollywood’s young agents and wanna-bes, he went instead to the wood-paneled bar and ordered a Bud. It was quiet and he needed to think. Besides, the bartender knew him and his glass came straight from the freezer, as always. “How’s biz?” the bartender asked.
“Pretty good, thanks.” Jake sank into a leather club chair, nursing his beer and thinking how thrilled Rafaella was going to be when she met her niece. And a “nice” niece at that. Perhaps it would make up a little for those two disappointing sons who might—or more likely, might not—show up for the family reunion. He’d have to do something about that, go see Felix and try to persuade him to come home and make peace with his mother. And then try to find Alain, though Alain as always was a mystery man—no one ever knew his whereabouts. Not that Felix cared. He hated his brother with an overwhelming passion, and Jake for one didn’t blame him.