Mark couldn’t sleep. Nothing new. He was finding it harder and harder to go to sleep at a decent hour. The techno thriller he’d read to get drowsy had only served the opposite purpose, leaving him wide-awake and tense with their near-life correspondence to the daily TV news.
He got up, got a glass of water and looked over the bookcase under the bedroom window for something to read that might be boring enough to induce sleep. For some reason, he pulled out Shari’s wellthumbed copy of The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck. Shari had bought paperback editions of bestsellers. She’d liked to highlight, underline and make notes in the margins of books she particularly liked. She’d tried to get him to read this one. Somehow he never had.
Mark went back to bed, thumped the pillows into a bunch behind his head and settled himself in his usual methodical way.
Mark’s hands gripped the edges of the book as he read page after page. This writer knew what he was talking about. It was as though he understood Mark’s reluctance to follow his heart with Coryn Dodge. He was afraid. Afraid of being rejected, afraid of the pain that might be involved in getting to know someone, letting them know you.
Everything that makes living meaningful, rich, interesting requires putting yourself out there—being vulnerable, if you will, to whatever comes with loving. But, Peck maintained, “loving is worth the risk.”
Mark lay there holding the book, stunned. It was almost as if he heard Shari’s voice. She had liked to read aloud to him, paragraphs, excerpts from books she was excited about. Sometimes, caught up in his own book, he had only half listened. Tonight he listened.
He got up, and after a moment’s hesitation, went to the phone and dialed the Dodges’ number.
The phone rang and rang. There was no answer. Slowly Mark replaced the receiver. He realized he’d made a mistake cutting off his relationship with Coryn. Could he explain that somehow. Or was it too late? His determination strengthened. Better late than never. He’d try reaching her again tomorrow.
The phone echoed hollowly in the empty house.
Driving home through the rainy night from the airport where she had just put her parents on the plane, Coryn’s thoughts were muddled.
The windshield wipers made a squeaky sound as they swept back and forth. It had been an unusually wet spring. It had been raining for what seemed weeks. On the spur of the moment, her father had declared he had to go find some sunshine.
He had made reservations for Clare and him at the Silverado Country Club in the Napa Valley, and although invited to accompany them, Coryn had refused. She urged them to go without her. They would both feel better after a few long, lazy sun-drenched days in the valley.
The phone was ringing when she came inside the house. By the time she picked up the receiver, there was only the buzzing sound on the line that meant the party who had called had hung up.
The message machine wasn’t turned on, she noticed. A clutching sensation in her stomach reminded her of recent events, of Dr. Iverson’s warnings that things would grow gradually worse. Clare was always turning things off that should be left on, as well as doing the opposite. Coryn went around behind her mother, checking, righting these lapses of concentration. It was nerve-racking. Worse still was the realization that this was only the beginning of things getting worse.
An involuntary shudder shivered through her. It was happening, irrevocably. More missing pieces all the time. Coryn couldn’t deny it, even though she wished she could.
She wished she had someone to confide in, someone who would understand, just by listening. She couldn’t bring herself to go to one of her girlfriends. Their lives were full, happy, and they had their own problems. No one wanted to carry another’s burden. Especially this kind. The kind that ended only in tragedy.
Who had called? Coryn wondered. Could it have been Mark? It had been weeks since he had come on his sad “mission of mercy.” He had seemed-what? As if he wanted to explain or apologize for not calling. That had made her feel embarrassed. She didn’t want him to feel obligated. Yet there were so many unresolved things between them. She wondered about Ginny and the new kitten.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Face it Whatever had almost happened between them had been abruptly cut off. His choice. Obviously. Maybe it was better this way. She had nearly fallen in love with him. Correction. She had fallen in love with him. And Ginny. She had truly loved the little girl, wanted to make life more-everything for her. For a few weeks, happiness had seemed possible for the three of them. She had sensed Mark felt that, too, but…Well, she had been wrong before.
Mark sat at his desk in the newsroom of the Rockport Times. His In box was overflowing, his Out box just as full. His computer was booted up, but the monitor was blank. He couldn’t concentrate. He flipped through his notebook. He had dozens of scribbled pages of notes taken for the story he was working on. The feature the managing editor was waiting for. It looked like Chinese. He reached for the phone, dialed the number and waited. The buzz of a busy signal came. He put down the phone, waited a few minutes, tried again. The same irritating buzz.
How could it stay busy so long? He slammed down the receiver, frowning. He keyed in a header, typed “by Mark Emery.” That’s as far as he got He reached for the phone again. This time he stayed with it even though it still gave off the busy signal. Forget it. Get to work. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all, to try to reach Coryn. Maybe he’d burned his bridges with her. Maybe…
But maybe there was still a chance. He picked up the phone and dialed again. This time it rang!
Good! He tapped his pencil on the desktop, waiting. Waiting. There must be someone there. It had been busy only seconds ago. Why didn’t someone answer? Frustrating.
Abruptly he replaced the receiver. Turned off the computer. Stood, grabbed his jacket, shrugged into it and walked through the room humming with other reporters’ activity. Someone must be at home at 183 Chestnut Hills Drive. He’d take a chance it was Coryn.
There was something wrong with Ranger. For a few days he had hardly stirred from his pillowed basket in the utility room.
The morning after her parents left for Napa Valley, Coryn opened the door from the kitchen and looked in. Ranger lifted his head, his tail wagged feebly. At once she was kneeling on the floor beside him, stroking his head. “What’s the matter, old fella?”
At the sound of her voice, he raised clouded eyes adoringly. She touched him gently and he struggled to move, but could not. Coryn let her hand smooth down over his body, his hind legs, to see if he was in pain anywhere. He did not seem to be. He simply could not get up.
Worried, Coryn refilled his water dish then brought it back and placed it within easy reach. But he did not make any effort to drink. Should she call the vet? Or try to take him to the animal clinic? Hands shaking she looked up the number in the phone book and called.
When she explained her concern and described Ranger’s condition, the vet’s secretary said, “Well, our records show he is fifteen, Miss Dodge. That’s quite an age for a dog.”
Coryn felt instant resentment. What was that supposed to mean? The dog was sick, not dying…then she felt herself tremble, or was he?
“If you want to bring him in…” The crisp voice on the other end of the line sounded dubious, “We can schedule him in at three-thirty this afternoon.”
Eight hours from now! Anything could happen before then. She hung up numbly and went back to Ranger. She sat down beside him, feeling helpless, infinitely sad. Ranger gave a long shuddering sigh that quivered the length of his body. Automatically she scratched behind his ears, smoothed his fur. After a while he shut his eyes and seemed to sleep. Coryn got up, tiptoed into the kitchen. She poured herself coffee, tried to swallow it over the hard lump in her throat.
She stood looking out the kitchen window. Ranger had been a large part of her life ever since the day her father had brought the silky black, wiggly Lab puppy home for her. They had run, romped together, he wheeling, jumping and barking when she used the swings in the backyard or threw balls into the basket over the garage door. He was always waiting for her at the gate when she got home from school. Her mother said when Ranger heard the school bus, his ears jerked up and he went to the door barking to be let out to run to meet her.
When she came home from college for vacations, he seemed ecstatic with happiness. He was always eager to go with her, walking or in the car…until this time. Coryn felt guilty that when she was in L.A. she had hardly thought about him. She had been too preoccupied with Jason…
She turned and went back where Ranger lay. His breath was coming in slow trembling sighs. He’s going, Coryn thought. He’s going to die. Oh, Ranger. She stifled a sob.
She heard the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway and hurried to the window in time to see the Sanders Landscape Service truck pull to a stop in front. Her parents employed Joe Sanders to take care of the lawn, to keep the hedges trimmed and the flower beds weeded. Her father didn’t have time anymore. She saw Joe get out, pull his tools from the back of the truck.
It was comforting somehow to see Joe, the solid, steady strength of him out there while she kept her vigil inside. It wasn’t long. When she went back to sit beside Ranger again, he had stopped breathing. He had died quietly. Coryn let the tears pour down her cheeks.
She covered him with an old soft blanket then went outside to where Joe was pruning the branches of the pyracantha bushes.
Her voice shook as she told him what had happened. “I’m going to bury him up on the hillside behind the house,” she said. “But I’ll need your help to lift him and get him up there.”
“Sure, Miss Dodge, be glad to. We can put him in the wheelbarrow, that’ll make it easier.” He put down his clippers and went to his truck. He wheeled close to the back door then followed Coryn inside. Together, they carried Ranger’s body, wrapped in the blanket, outside and placed it carefully in the wheelbarrow.
“Would you want me to bury him for you, Miss Dodge?”
Fighting tears, Coryn shook her head. “No, thanks, Joe, he was my dog. I want to say goodbye to him by myself.”
“Yep. I understand. That dog was sure enough your dog.” Joe nodded. “But I can wheel him up there, can’t I? It’s pretty heavy.”
“Thanks, Joe, that would be fine.” Silently they made the journey. Coryn carrying the shovel Joe had handed her, he pushing the wheelbarrow.
He lifted the dog out of the barrow and placed him on the grass. He took off his duck-billed cap for a moment before replacing it then walked back down the hill.
Coryn began to dig. The earth was moist from the recent rains, but it was still hard work. She was breathing hard, and perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip. Ranger was a big dog. She wanted his grave to be long and deep enough for him. She dug hard. Her heart was pounding, she was panting with the exertion. She wasn’t sure how long she had been digging, when she heard movement behind her, her name spoken. “Coryn.”
Her shovel midair, she spun around and saw Mark coming up on the crest of the hill. She let the shovel drop, leaned on the handle, slowing her deep breaths. Finally, she gasped, “Mark!” Then, “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been trying to get you. Tried to call last night, but there was no answer. Then this morning, I called several times and the line was busy. I thought I’d just take a chance, come by this morning and see you.”
Coryn stared at him, bewildered. Why had he been calling her? Trying to reach her? It didn’t make sense. She glanced at Ranger’s blanket-covered body then back at Mark.
He nodded. “Joe Sanders told me what happened. I’m sorry.” He paused. “Really sorry.”
At the sincere sympathy in his voice, tears rushed into her eyes again. She couldn’t stop them, and a harsh sob thrust from her throat.
In a minute, he was beside her, arms around her, holding her close, his chin on her head She leaned against him, sobbing. “I know, I know,” she heard him whisper soothingly.
In a world of terrorist bombs, civil wars and upheaval all over the globe, to some it might have seemed almost shameful to cry over the death of an old dog. Mark had lost his wife! What must he think of this grief? But as he continued to hold her, gently stroking her hair, her cheek resting against his shoulder, Coryn had a revelation. Mark knew how she felt. By his knowing, he made it not seem foolish to grieve so for a dog. In fact, his empathy made it seem right to mourn for a dog you have loved.
After a while, her sobs had turned to long, drawnout gasps. He handed her a clean handkerchief to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Sniffling, she said, “I didn’t mean to dump on you like that”
“Not at all. I’m glad I was here. I understand.”
Coryn looked up at him and knew he did.
“Let me help,” he said quietly. He took off his tan corduroy sport coat and laid it on the ground. Then he picked up the shovel she had let drop, and began lifting large shovelfuls of dirt.
She leaned back against a nearby tree, watching him work in a smooth, even swinging movement.
At last the hole was dug, long and wide enough to gently lift Ranger and place him on a pile of leaves Coryn had gathered to cushion him in the ground. They both stood looking down at him for a minute then Coryn felt Mark take her hand in his, press it. She felt he was joining her in a silent prayer. Her heart was so full she could not voice the words. But it was a prayer of thanksgiving to God for having had Ranger as long as she had. From the time he had been a shiny, black puppy, through all the years of loving companionship. A prayer for allowing her the privilege of seeing him out of life with dignity and affection.
After that quiet moment, slowly they took turns shoveling the dirt over him, packing it down. They both searched for stones to circle the spot where he lay.
“I think Dad will want to have some kind of marker made for him,” Coryn said. “Thank you for coming, Mark. Your being here just now-well, it meant a great deal.”
“I’m glad I was here,” he said. “I want to be here for you, Coryn. That is, if you’ll let me.”
Coryn felt too worn-out, her heart too bruised to take in all that might mean. Maybe later, when she had had time to heal a little, she would remember and think about what was unspoken between them. Now it was enough to appreciate his sensitivity and compassion for what she was feeling.
Mark replaced the shovel in the wheelbarrow and together they walked back down the hill.