It’s still daylight when Adam pulls into the parking lot of the LakeView after his meeting. Half a dozen cars are nosed up to the cement porch and the drapes in most of the upper-level rooms are pulled back for guests to take in the view. A few visitors are lounging on the plastic Adirondack chairs, and conversations drift down from above. It’s nice to see Skye getting some traffic. Even nicer to see a couple of dogs in residence, besides his own, of course.
Cody is sitting on the edge of the porch, her skinny legs bared in Daisy Dukes, a midriff-baring crop top completing the ensemble. The early May day is all of sixty degrees, hardly warm enough for this outfit, and Adam has to stifle the paternal urge to order her back in the house to put on some clothes.
Seeing his car pull into the parking space, Cody rises, tugs a little at the frayed edge of her shorts, and comes down the steps, reminding Adam of a filly, all long legs and pretend confidence. Should he mention those sketches to Skye, or just try this time to keep his nose out of her business? Oh, Gina, where are you when I need you? She’d know exactly what was appropriate, would tell him that he’s making too big a deal out of it; or that he should act. Adam was never a shrinking violet when it came to action. He made a career out of good, big, quick, emphatic decisions. But when his life changed, his ability to react faltered. One moment’s wrongful act undermined his confidence completely.
He opens the back door and Chance hops out of the car and immediately greets Lucky, as if they have been separated for days instead of a couple of hours. The pair of them make a run around the building, heading for the cabins. Adam slips off his jacket, tosses it onto the backseat, forgetting that the seat is covered in dog hair. He takes a deep breath, and even his inadequate human nose can detect the luscious scent of frying burgers, Skye making dinner, no doubt. Another reason the dogs have scampered off to the cabins, such chowhounds.
“He was a good boy, Mr. March. We took a walk to the lake.”
Adam slips a five out of his wallet, hands it to Cody.
She thanks him and slides it into her back pocket, scampers off herself.
* * *
I missed you so much, I say to my friend Lucky. He missed me, too, but he’s redolent of the exciting scents abounding in this place. Water and mud and creatures and newborn grass. And girl. He’s been chumming up to that sad girl. Sometimes she’s not sad. Sometimes she’s kind of like my man, a little pissed off. Sometimes more than a little. With Adam, I cure that. With Cody, I don’t have to, but I want to. I wriggle and act like a much younger dog, and the anger or sadness leaven. I don’t know what she does about it when I’m not around. I have to say that when Lucky is with her, which is something we’ve been doing more over the past few visits, she is quite cheerful. Like me, Lucky has that innate sense of when to override a human’s mood, supersede the negative vibes with a positive approach. Or a joke. Like threatening to chew something a little inappropriate, like a slipper or a chair leg. My favorite dodge is to grab a ball or a stick and entice Adam to play. It was one of the very first things we did together and is still my favorite. Except for my work. Since being educated in therapeutics, I love saving Adam from himself best of all. Like today. That Mosley fellow was getting under Adam’s skin, as he most always does. Immediately upon sensing the disturbance, I got up from my place at Adam’s feet and pushed my head underneath his elbow so that he had to stroke my head. Within seconds, the tension was gone and I was given a fabulous back scratch as a reward. All without a word, all without Mosley’s even being aware that a crisis had loomed.
The girl, Cody, gives me a nice pat, too. And I notice that Lucky has done well keeping her company today. She seems content. Although I detect a sense of something quite deep that isn’t entirely perfect. It’s always there, this vibration, what I would consider nervousness if she were one of my kind. They are everywhere, the dogs who cannot relax because of some history that keeps them vigilant. Like them, she’s never still.
* * *
The veggie burgers cook too quickly on the gas grill, becoming hockey pucks the minute I take my eye off them. I start to throw them out, then see Chance come along, tail wagging, panting in the still-warm air, looking like an appetite on legs. “Here, boy. You like soy?” I break the burgers into small bits and offer one to the dog. I’m a little surprised at what a gentleman he is about picking the morsel off my hand. For the size of his satchel mouth, you’d think he’d take my whole hand to get at the bit. “Want another?”
The other dog, Lucky, appears, his tongue hanging over the side of his mouth, looking more silly than fierce. His red nose pokes at me, as if to say, Don’t forget me! Cody shows up, dressed now in flannel pajamas and a nubby knit pullover.
“What did you do to my veggie burgers?”
“Overestimated cooking time. Sorry. Will you dig out a couple more?”
Given that she’s been granted her most recent wish, getting Mingo up here, Cody does what’s asked without comment, almost smiling.
Both wriggly dogs suddenly become still, two noses upraised, two sets of ears cocked forward, two whiplike tails stiffened and pointing east. Then I hear the whistle, and the dogs are gone. I lift another real hamburger off the platter, set it beside mine on the meat-designated side of the little grill. Two cheeseburgers is one too many. Maybe Adam is interested in a bite to eat. After all, I’ve thawed out the hamburgers and really can’t waste the meat. I’ve also got potato salad, store-bought at the Big Y, sure, but decent stuff. Too much for just the two of us, and Cody won’t eat leftovers on a bet.
Cody reappears with a new veggie burger. “I nuked it, so just let it sit for two seconds on the grill to give it a little texture.”
“Do you mind seeing if Adam wants one of these cheeseburgers?” I say it before I can think about it, as casually as I can, as if inviting hotel guests to dinner is normal.
There is a second of utter silence; then Cody trots off.
How beautiful my daughter really is. No sign yet of a feminine sashay. Her dusty blond hair is skinned back into a tight ponytail, revealing a smooth forehead, which must be the envy of those adolescents whose skin is peppered with acne. When Cody smiles, that rarest of flowerings, her whole face glows with youth, and she bares a heartbreaking resemblance to Randy.
* * *
Mr. March is sitting in the Adirondack chair, ankle crossed over a knee. He sees her coming. Before she reaches him, he turns his face away from her. “I saw the sketches of you. In Mosley’s office.”
“What sketches?” she asks, but she knows exactly what he’s talking about.
“The little five-by-sevens hanging over his desk.”
Mosley had sat there watching her as she cleaned brushes. He’d smelled of pot, and something else, something funky. When she opened the can of turpentine, the fumes filled the small space, masking any other scent. She let her hair fall into her face, gave him a three-quarter profile. She knows now about three-quarter profiles, how they make a face seem more interesting than it really is. “I’m not modeling for him, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No. Not at all.”
Cody doesn’t believe him. Mr. March has butted into her business before, and she thinks that he’s more than capable of doing it again. If he gives her mother any reason to worry that Mosley isn’t keeping to her demands, well, that would really suck. Cody pictures her mother charging down to North Adams and telling Mosley off, then making her quit for real this time. “I’m not. Modeling. He did those from memory.”
“I’m sure he did.” Mr. March stands up, pats his leg. “Come on, boys. Let’s go.”
Cody is left on the porch, watching Mr. March and the two dogs follow the path that she and Lucky have so recently traveled. Just who does he think he is? A father? Her father? Some nerve. She’s had one of those, although, mostly, Randy was hardly a father. Not the kind of dad that her friends had, worrying them to death about going to the mall, what they were wearing, why it was inappropriate. Handing out ten-dollar bills so that they could buy lunch. Making the girls promise not to keep them waiting at the mall entrance when it was time to go home. Caring about them. Randy didn’t even care that she never called him Dad. Or gave him a Father’s Day card except that once, when he barely looked at it, like he didn’t understand what it was or what it said. That he felt himself so far removed from being a father, he didn’t react to the family she’d drawn on the front of the construction-paper card: mom, dad, child.
Mr. March is a nosy jerk, mentioning those sketches. Cody just hopes that he doesn’t say anything to Skye. Mosley kind of makes her feel special, too, in his own way. Like she’s not some kid, but a serious student of art; the way he puts his hand on her shoulder when he looks at her work, gives it a little rub in approval, or squeezes it when he has to say something critical; maybe like a dad would do.
She’ll lie and tell her mother that Mr. March wasn’t around. It’s close enough to the truth.
* * *
The veggie burgers are done and I stack them on a plate, safe from ruin. Cody hasn’t come back with Adam, hasn’t come back at all. The cheeseburgers will join the hockey-puck veggie burgers if I’m not careful. I don’t know if Adam likes his burgers medium or well done. It doesn’t matter. They’re done enough for me, and it’s looking like I’ll be the only one eating. I set the cooked patties on the platter, go back into the cabin. Shut the door.