The Golden Couple(10)
CHAPTER FIVE
AVERY
I COLLAPSE ONTO THE GRASS, gasping. Romeo flops down beside me, his tongue lolling out, his stubby tail thumping the air. “You’re not even winded, are you? Show-off.”
He rolls over, exposing his pink stomach for a scratch. I comply. “Such a good boy.” I can’t help it; I’m a sucker for dogs, especially ones such as Romeo, who no longer have any reason to trust humans, but continue to do so.
It’s a crisp forty-degree day, but clumps of tourists mill around the grassy National Mall stretching between the Washington Monument and the US Capitol. It’s my favorite loop to run. For the past few months, ever since I completed the requisite volunteer training, I’ve been stopping by the animal shelter on my drive here to pick up a jogging buddy. The shelter’s director always finds me a dog who needs the activity; at first I ran with a Labrador mix, then a handsome gray dog who was part whippet. Those two were quickly adopted.
For six weeks straight, my dates have been with Romeo, a pit bull. “He’s a lover, not a fighter, which is why he was dumped here,” the shelter director told me. “But we can’t find him a home. People take one look at him and move on to the next crate.”
Romeo does look fierce, with his powerful jaws, muscular body, docked ears, and scarred face. But inside, he’s a marshmallow. My breathing slows as he leans against me, and I soak in his welcome warmth. Then I glance down at my watch and see it’s almost noon. I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.
I reluctantly stand up and stretch my tight calves, then give Romeo’s leash—the bright yellow one with the hopeful words ADOPT ME! printed on it in black letters—a tug. He dutifully pads to my parked car, slurps up the water I pour into a collapsible bowl, then hops into the passenger’s seat for the ride back to the shelter.
I’ve grown to hate having to return Romeo to his kennel, even though the shelter is a clean, pleasant space staffed by bighearted volunteers. One of them tosses a rawhide bone into Romeo’s cage when we arrive.
Romeo walks obediently inside. He curls up on his worn bed in the corner and stares at me through the metal bars with limpid brown eyes, ignoring the bone.
“Come on, that looks delicious!” I say as I head toward the exit.
I hear a little whimper.
I turn around: “I’ll be back in a week.”
He drops his head onto his paws, his gaze never wavering.
I swear I can feel the sadness of the dog who wouldn’t fight back, even to protect himself, for the entertainment of despicable people.
“This is a terrible idea.”
I go find the shelter’s director, to tell her I want to adopt Romeo.
* * *
On my drive home, I blast the Indigo Girls and make a mental list of the supplies I will need for Romeo when I pick him up tomorrow—bowls, a new leash, toys, kibble. I find myself smiling as I imagine Romeo’s nails clicking on my hardwood floors as he follows me around my house, and him snoozing by my side as I write up client notes. Then I picture him chewing on my favorite leather pumps.
As I pull into my driveway, I see my stepdaughter, Lana, sitting in the driver’s seat of her Honda, parked behind the old Mercedes that her dad used to drive.
I turn off my engine and step out as she mirrors my movements.
“Sorry I’m late.” I stretch out my arms.
“It’s okay. I just got here.”
As we hug, I notice a streak of pink paint in her hair. Lana runs kids’ birthday parties at a decorate-your-own-pottery store. “Princess theme?” I touch a chocolate-brown curl. She inherited her thick locks from her dad, along with his love of roller coasters and Monty Python and aversion to mayonnaise. Lana and her cerebral, intense father had little else in common, though.
I unlock my front door and gesture for Lana to come in. She still has a key, since Paul shared custody with his ex-wife after their divorce and Lana lived with us part-time as a teenager, but she stopped using it when she graduated from college and moved into a nearby apartment. It could have been a disastrous mix: a thirteen-year-old girl and her father’s new wife cohabitating under one roof. But Lana and I formed a bond that’s all our own.
“Want some coffee?” At her nod, I drop a pod into the Keurig and reach into the cupboard for the box of almond biscotti.
I crunch into one as I lead Lana into the living room. Two packing boxes are stacked by the fireplace, containing memorabilia Paul stored in the basement.
When my husband died, he left his generous life insurance policy to Lana, and he willed our home to me. I got rid of a few things immediately, such as his containers of medicines and the hospital-style bed that we’d set up in Lana’s old bedroom, so he could have the brightest room in the house. We’d tried to offset the grimness of all the medical supplies by erecting a trio of bird feeders just outside the windows so Paul could watch the fluttering of blue jays, finches, and soft-brown sparrows. We’d also covered the walls with family photographs of Paul, Lana, and me in happier times and brought in his vintage Crosley turntable so he could hear his beloved jazz music.
It took me a little while to box up Paul’s clothes and donate them to a homeless shelter. Now, just a few of Paul’s belongings still occupy our rooms, including his vast DVD collection of black-and-white movies, hundreds of records to go with his turntable, and books ranging from the classics to spy thrillers. Sometimes when I walk by his office, I almost expect him to swivel around in his black leather chair, calling out, “Luv?”—in the British accent that won me over the first time we met, when I went to Politics and Prose to attend his book signing.