Too Good to Be True(27)

So, in honor of my country, I spent another hour hearing about Dave’s quest for a trophy wife, his five children by three women, the amazing AARP discount he got on his La-Z-Boy recliner and which type of catheter worked best for him.

“Well, I should get going,” I said the moment I felt my duty to America had been served. “Uh, Dave, you have some very nice qualities, but I really am looking for someone closer to my own age.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like to go out again?” he asked, his good eye glued to my boobs as his fake eye pointed in a more northerly direction. “I find you very attractive. And you said you liked ballroom dancing, so I bet you’re quite…flexible.”

I suppressed a shudder. “Goodbye, Dave.”

Julian’s class was sounding better and better.

“NO DADDY YET,” I said to Angus upon my arrival back home. He didn’t seem to care. “Because I’m all that you need, right?” I asked him. He barked once in affirmation, then began leaping at the back door to go out. “Yes, my darling. Sit…Sit. Stop jumping. Come on, boy, you’re wrecking my skirt. Sit.” He didn’t. “Okay, you can go out anyway. But next time, you’re sitting. Got it?” Out he raced toward the back fence.

I had one message. “Grace, Jim Emerson here,” said my father’s voice.

“Better known as ‘Daddy,’” I said to the machine, rolling my eyes with a smile.

The message continued. “I dropped by this evening but you were out. Your windows need replacing. I’m taking care of it. Think of it as a birthday present. Your birthday was last month, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s done. See you at Bull Run.” The machine beeped.

I had to smile at my father’s generosity. Truthfully, I made enough to pay my bills, but as a teacher, I didn’t make nearly as much as the other folks in my family. Natalie probably made three times what I made, and it was only her first year in the working world. Margaret earned enough to buy a small country. Dad’s family “came from money,” as Mémé liked to remind us, and he made a very comfortable salary on top of that. It made him feel paternal, paying for home repairs to be done. Ideally, he’d have liked to do it himself, but he tended to injure himself around power tools, a fact he learned only after getting nineteen stitches from what he still called a “rogue” radial saw.

Returning to the living room, I sat on my couch and looked around. Maybe it was time to repaint a room, something I tended to do when down in the dumps. But no. After almost a year and a half of nonstop renovations, the house was pretty perfect. The living-room walls were a pale lavender with gleaming white trim and a Tiffany lamp in one corner. I’d bought the curved-back Victorian sofa at an auction and had it reupholstered in shades of green, blue and lavender. The dining room was pale green, centered around a walnut Mission-style table. The house wanted for nothing, except new windows. I probably needed another project. I almost envied Callahan O’ Shea next door, starting from scratch.

Yarp! Yarp! Yarpyarpyarp! “Okay, what now, Angus?” I muttered, hauling myself off the couch. Opening the slider in the kitchen, I saw no sign of my furry white baby, who was usually easy to spot. Yarp! Yarp! I moved to the dining-room windows for a different view.

There he was. Crap. In a move he was bred for, Angus had tunneled under the fence and stood now in the yard next door, barking at someone. Three guesses as to whom. Callahan O’ Shea was sitting on his stairless front porch, staring at my dog, who yapped from the yard, leaping and snapping, trying to bite the man’s legs. With a sigh, I headed out the front door.

“Angus! Angus! Come, sweetie!” Not surprisingly, my dog failed to obey. Grumbling at my dog, I walked across my front yard to 36 Maple. The last thing I needed was another confrontation with the ex-con next door, but with Angus snapping and snarling at him, I didn’t have much choice. “Sorry,” I called. “He’s afraid of men.”

Callahan hopped off the porch, cut me a cynical glance. “Yes. Terrified.” At those words, Angus launched himself onto Callahan’s work boot, sinking his teeth into the leather and growling adorably. Hrrrrr. Hrrrrr. Callahan shook his foot, which detached Angus momentarily, only to have my little dog spring upon the shoe with renewed vigor.

“Angus, no! You’re being very naughty. Sorry, Mr. O’ Shea.”

Callahan O’ Shea said nothing. I bent over, grabbed my wriggling little pet by the collar and tugged, but he didn’t let go of the boot. Please, Angus, listen. “Come on, Angus,” I ground out. “Time to go inside. Bedtime. Cookie time.” I tugged again, but Angus’s bottom teeth were crooked and adorable, and I didn’t want to dislodge any.

However, I was hunched over, my head about level with Mr. O’ Shea’s groin, and you know, I was starting to feel a bit warm. “Angus, release. Release, boy.”

Angus wagged his tail and shook his head, the laces of the work boot clenched in his crooked little teeth. Hrrrrr.

Hrrrrr. “I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s not usually so—” I straightened up and bang! The top of my head cracked into something hard. Callahan O’ Shea’s chin. His teeth snapped together with an audible clack, his head jerked back. “Jesus, woman!” he exclaimed, rubbing his chin.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. The top of my head stung from the impact.