The Lucky One(22)

When he’d arrived at the run-down pool hall, he’d bypassed the bar and made straight for the pool tables. He quickly identified the guys in the appropriate age group, most of whom seemed to be single. He asked to join in and put up with the requisite grumbling. Made nice, bought a few rounds of beers while losing a few games at pool, and sure enough, they began to loosen up. Casually, he asked about the social life in town. He missed the necessary shots. He congratulated them when they made a shot.

Eventually, they started asking about him. Where was he from? What was he doing here? He hemmed and hawed, mumbling something about a girl, and changed the subject. He fed their curiosity. He bought more beers, and when they asked again, he reluctantly shared his story: that he’d gone to the fair with a friend a few years back and met a girl. They’d hit it off. He went on and on about how great she was and how she’d told him to look her up if he ever came to town again. And he wanted to, but damned if he could remember her name.

You don’t remember her name? they asked. No, he answered. I’ve never been good with names. I got hit in the head with a baseball when I was a kid, and my memory doesn’t work so good. He shrugged, knowing they would laugh, and they did. I got a photo, though, he added, making it sound like an afterthought.

Do you have it with you? Yeah. I think I do.

He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the photo. The men gathered around. A moment later, one of them began shaking his head. You’re out of luck, he said. She’s off-limits. She’s married? No, but let’s just say she doesn’t date. Her ex wouldn’t like it, and trust me, you don’t want to mess with him.

Thibault swallowed. Who is she?

Beth Green, they said. She’s a teacher at Hampton Elementary and lives with her grandma in the house at Sunshine Kennels.

Beth Green. Or, more accurately, Thibault thought, Elizabeth Green.

E.

It was while they were talking that Thibault realized one of the people he’d shown the picture to had slipped away. I guess I’m out of luck, then, Thibault said, taking back the photo.

He stayed for another half hour to cover his tracks. He made more small talk. He watched the stranger with the bad skin make the phone call and saw the disappointment in his reaction. Like a kid who got in trouble for tattling. Good. Still, Thibault had the feeling he’d see the stranger again. He bought more beers and lost more games, glancing occasionally at the door to see if anyone arrived. No one did. In time, he held up his hands and said he was out of money. He was going to hit the road. It had cost him a little more than a hundred dollars. They assured him he was welcome to join them anytime.

He barely heard them. Instead, all he could think was that he now had a name to go with the face, and that the next step was to meet her.





7

Beth

Sunday.

After church, it was supposed to be a day of rest, when she could recover and recharge for the coming week. The day she was supposed to spend with her family, cooking stew in the kitchen and taking relaxing walks along the river. Maybe even cuddle up with a good book while she sipped a glass of wine, or soak in a warm bubble bath.

What she didn’t want to do was spend the day scooping dog poop off the grassy area where the dogs trained, or clean the kennels, or train twelve dogs one right after the next, or sit in a sweltering office waiting for people to come pick up the family pets that were relaxing in cool, air-conditioned kennels. Which, of course, was exactly what she’d been doing since she’d gotten back from church earlier that morning.

Two dogs had already been picked up, but four more were scheduled for pickup sometime today. Nana had been kind enough to lay out the files for her before she retreated to the house to watch the game. The Atlanta Braves were playing the Mets, and not only did Nana love the Atlanta Braves with a feverish passion that struck Beth as ridiculous, but she loved any and all memorabilia associated with the team. Which explained, of course, the Atlanta Braves coffee cups stacked near the snack counter, the Atlanta Braves pennants on the walls, the Atlanta Braves desk calendar, and the Atlanta Braves lamp near the window.

Even with the door open, the air in the office was stifling. It was one of those hot, humid summer days great for swimming in the river but unfit for anything else. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration, and because she was wearing shorts, her legs kept sticking to the vinyl chair she sat in. Every time she moved her legs, she was rewarded with a sort of sticky sound, like peeling tape from a cardboard box, which was just plain gross.

While Nana considered it imperative to keep the dogs cool, she’d never bothered to add cooling ducts that led to the office. “If you’re hot, just prop the door to the kennels open,” she’d always said, ignoring the fact that while she didn’t mind the endless barking, most normal people did. And today there were a couple of little yappers in there: a pair of Jack Russell terriers that hadn’t stopped barking since Beth had arrived. Beth assumed they’d barked nearly all night, since most of the other dogs seemed grumpy as well. Every minute or so, other dogs joined in an angry chorus, the sounds rising in pitch and intensity, as if every dog’s sole desire was to voice its displeasure more loudly than the next. Which meant there wasn’t a chance on earth that she was going to open the door to cool off the office.

She toyed with the idea of going up to the house to fetch another glass of ice water, but she had the funny feeling that as soon as she left the office, the owners who’d dropped off their cocker spaniel for obedience training would show up. They’d called half an hour ago, telling her that they were on their way—“We’ll be there in ten minutes!”—and they were the kind of people who would be upset if their cocker spaniel had to sit in a kennel for a minute longer than she had to, especially after spending two weeks away from home.