ADAM PULLED INTO THE FIFTH PARKING LOT OF THE day, and we walked into the fifth Must Love Dogs location. My breath caught in my throat: there was Griff behind the counter. He was remarkably large, like a walking teddy bear, especially since his facial hair had grown in more. His hair was on the long side and was either wet or just greasy. His name tag said: Griffin ♥ Dogs.
“Picking up or dropping off?” he asked. “I don’t see a dog, so I guess that’s picking up.”
“Neither,” I told him. “I think Vera from Belmont may have called you?”
“Oh yeah, she just did.” He knocked himself in the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “How’d I forget that already? She said someone was coming because I knew their sister.”
“My sister,” I said.
“Right, right . . . What’s her name again?”
“Talley Weber.”
Griff’s eyes glazed over for a few seconds, and then he blinked and shook his head vigorously. His hair was greasy enough to not flop around. “Nope, there aren’t any Talleys in the ole memory bank. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Don’t think I knew her.”
“But you did know her,” I said. “I have a photo of you guys.” I pulled up the photo of Griff’s face covered by Talley’s hands, and turned it toward him. He took my phone from me to look closer.
“You’re right—I did meet this girl.” His face had broken into a grin. “Oh, man, she’s your sister?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, man,” he said again. “I totally remember her. She sent you here?”
“Sort of,” I said. “When did you meet her?”
“That day,” Griff said. “In the park. It was only for a few minutes, but sometimes there are minutes with a person that stick with you, you know?” I nodded; yes, I knew. Particularly minutes with Talley, I knew. “She had a different name, though,” Griff said.
“Natalie?” I guessed.
“No, that’s not it,” he said. “But names don’t matter. They don’t make the man. Your parents pick ’em, and then you’re saddled with someone else’s idea of who you’re supposed to be, but it’s not you. I say parents should leave a blank space for their kids’ name on the birth certificate, and let their kids fill it in when they’re old enough to write. If you’re old enough to write, you’re probably old enough to know yourself, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “So—”
“Then again, I probably would’ve named myself after Pikachu when I first started writing, so maybe you can have a placeholder name when you’re like five or so, and then you can change it again when a better name strikes you. Maybe that’s what your sister did.”
“What?”
“Picked a better name when it struck her.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Can you tell me anything else about Talley, or whatever she called herself?”
“She was with another girl,” Griff said.
“Do you remember her name?” Adam asked.
“Sure don’t. But I can tell you that they were making these flower things.”
“Daisy chains,” I said.
“Right. Those. They had a dozen of them,” Griff said. “I was watching them. They kept walking up to people, saying something, and then they’d put the flowers on their heads. I wondered what they were saying. I was trying to read their lips—some people can do that, you know.”
I did know. Juno was pretty good at it. Whenever she was talking to someone, she liked to face them, because then she could read their lips and fill in the blanks of whatever she couldn’t hear.
“But I couldn’t tell,” Griff went on. “Then your sister came over to me. She told me she was always on the lookout for people she could help, and she could help me by adding a daisy chain to my life. I bent down and she put it on my head. This other guy was walking around with a camera, and asked if he could capture the moment.”
“His name is Rafe,” I supplied.
“Okay, cool, he didn’t tell us at the time,” Griff said. “He just said he had some kind of assignment—NHL photo revolution.”
“You mean revelations?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. He asked if he could take a picture, and I said sure, why the hell not? I think he sensed it was one of those moments that you want to preserve. Though I don’t really believe in photos. Make a memory, they last longer, as the saying goes.”
Actually, it was the opposite of what the saying was: take a picture, it lasts longer. But I didn’t correct him. “Did you—” I started.
The phone behind the counter started ringing. Griff said, “Hold that thought,” and answered. “Must Love Dogs. How may I help you?” There was silence and then, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You can bring Diamond in, no problem.” He hung up and turned back to Adam and me. “Sorry ’bout that,” he said.
“Did you and my sister talk about anything else?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But there was something there. A moment of shared energy. You ask her. I bet she’ll tell you the same thing.”
I nodded as if I were able to ask her, and she’d be able to tell me, and I swallowed back the lump in my throat because the last thing I wanted to do was start crying here at Must Love Dogs in front of Griff.
“And the girl who was with her,” Adam said. “Did she say anything?”
“Hang on,” Griff said. He’d closed his eyes and had placed a hand against his forehead. “I’m feeling something.” He drummed his fingers on the counter and mumbled, “Diamond. Diamond, Diamond. Da da in the sky with diamonds . . .” His eyes popped open. “I’ve got it. The caller just now has a French bulldog named Diamond. Names don’t matter to me, but songs sure do. There’s a Beatles song called ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ Your sister said her name was Lucy.”
“Oh, wow. Lucy and Ethel,” I said.
“Ethel was her friend!” Griff said.
“Griff!” came a call from the back. “Did you give Mr. Shivers his worm medication?”
“Negative,” Griff called back. “So,” he said to us. “That it?”
“Just a couple more questions,” I said. “Did you guys watch a sunset together?”
“Nope, it was the middle of the day.”
“What did Ethel look like?” Adam asked.
“She was taller than Lucy. Talley, whatever you want to call her. Ethel was taller. Like yea high.” Griff held a hand up to just below his nose. I’d guess that meant Ethel was at least five foot eight, given how big Griff was.
“Anything else? Hair color?”
“I don’t know. She was wearing a hat.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“She told me to sit on the bench so Talley could reach my head to put the flowers,” Griff said. “Mostly she talked to Talley, not me. She was cracking her up. They were cracking up each other. They seemed very close. I asked Talley for her number. I didn’t tell you that before—but that was the end of our convo, and she declined to give it to me, so maybe that’s why. But I’ll tell you something.” Now he was looking at me again. “I felt something between us, a spark of something. Tell your sister I’d love to take her out sometime. Even if it’s just as friends, if that’s more her bag. I like to surround myself with good people who have good energy. Your sister had the good energy of a dozen good people.”
Now I was going to cry. “I can’t give her the message. She died. Talley died.”
“Aw, man,” Griff said. “I am sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that. That’s just . . . you meet a person like that, and they’re frozen in that moment. You never think anything bad could happen.”
Adam rested a hand on the small of my back, and I was grateful for the square of heat, like a palm-shaped blanket.
“Would it be all right if I texted you my phone number?” I asked Griff. “I know you only spent a few minutes with Talley, but if you remember anything else—anything at all—I’d love to know it.”
“Of course you can text me,” he said.
He recited his digits, and I sent a text: This is Sloane Weber, Talley (Lucy’s) sister.
“And if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “could you text me that photo of your sister and me? I have the memory, but sometimes it’s nice to have the picture, too.”