I clamped my mouth shut and plastered on a smile, but inside I was doing a slow burn.
I’d met with Ellie twice before and there’d been no sign of a physical disability, nor was any mentioned in her file. If I’d known about whatever injury or ailment now had her in a wheelchair, I could have trained Nugget accordingly.
Jack killed the engine and let the skiff drift toward the narrow beach near the pier. “Can the dogs get a little wet?” he asked.
Now he asks, Ms. Snark commented, after they’ve been lying in brine.
I kept the fake smile in place. “No problem. Buddy loves water.”
My boy was already standing, peering down at the water and quivering all over.
“Go on,” I said.
Buddy jumped out of the boat and splashed to shore. Nugget and I waited until the bottom scraped sand, then we followed at a more sedate pace, my sandals dangling from my fingers. Jack brought up the rear, with the duffel bags.
I stopped to slip my sandals on. Buddy shook all over and trotted over to me. I swear he was grinning.
As we approached Ellie, a movement in the shadowy woods behind her startled me. An older woman stood back several feet, a sour expression on her face.
Despite my fake smile, Ellie must have picked up on my displeasure. She struggled to a stand. “I only use this occasionally.” She pointed to the chair.
The older woman stepped forward. “Ellie?” Her tone was half questioning, half censoring.
Ellie waved a hand in the air, then winced. “I feel much better than I did this morning, really.” But her smile seemed forced. “Hi, Nugget.”
The dog looked up at me. Even though she wasn’t on duty, I gave the release signal. Her red-gold tail waved in the air, and she bounded over to her new owner.
Ellie leaned down, her movements stiff. She scratched behind the dog’s ears and crooned softly to her. Nugget ate it up, her whole back end wiggling.
I watched indulgently, stroking Buddy’s head as he sat beside me.
“Come on up to the house.” My hostess turned and wobbled a bit.
“Might as well ride, Ellie.” Jack’s tone seemed slightly impatient. “I gotta wheel the chair up there anyway.”
“You need to take it easy,” the older woman said, with a slight accent I couldn’t place. The words were solicitous, but her expression belied that. She looked like she sucked on rotten lemons on a regular basis and enjoyed it.
Ellie sank into the wheelchair. “This is Greta, our housekeeper.”
Jack dropped the smaller of my duffels in her lap. With the heavier one slung over his shoulder, he stepped behind the chair. He shoved it none too gently toward the house, which I could see, now that I knew it was there.
Its facade was mostly hidden behind several ancient live oaks, but I got an impression of rough wood siding—cypress, maybe—painted a medium gray with white trim, and a slightly lighter gray metal roof.
And as Ellie had said, when trying to convince me to stay with them, it was huge. Three stories, with a wide porch on the first floor and several sets of French doors along the second and third, each with its own small balcony. It was positioned at a slight angle, so that both the front and one side had a river view through the trees.
It was a handsome house, but also a little creepy looking.
That’s your imagination, Banks, I told myself.
Still, a slight chill ran down my spine as we entered the shaded area around the house, and I gazed up at its massive facade.
The house was elevated about five feet off the ground, resting on a cement block foundation that I doubted was part of the original construction.
Ellie turned her head, following my gaze. “It used to be on stilts, in case of flooding, but my father-in-law added the blocks years ago, to keep the wind from getting under the house in a hurricane.”
“Do you get many of those hitting here?” I said, mostly to make conversation.
“Five, in the history of the house, but none a direct hit. It was built in 1919. My husband’s great grandfather had made a fortune manufacturing parts used in the early automobiles.”
We’d stopped at the base of the porch steps as Ellie gave her spiel. Jack lifted my bag from her lap.
“Then he fell prey to a con man who sold him a ‘glorious island,’” she made air quotes, “that could easily be converted into a luxury resort for the wealthy who liked to winter in Florida. He had visions of an elegant hotel, similar to the Ponce De Leon in St. Augustine. But when he arrived in Dahlia, the last few miles traveled on dirt roads at the time, he discovered that, one, the town had a grand total of eighty residents, mostly fishermen, and two, his island was one of the outermost of the Nature Coast Keys, with no way to access it except by boat.”
She paused and grinned. “I wish I’d known the old man. Instead of bemoaning his fate or filing a lawsuit, he built himself this house and declared that it was his objective all along to retire to a beautiful and secluded island.”
I smiled my first genuine smile since landing on Haasi Key. “If life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”
“Exactly.” Ellie pushed herself out of the chair and grabbed the wrought-iron railing.
We all watched, me with bated breath, as she hauled herself up the steps on shaky legs. She stopped at the top, breathing heavily.
I let out air.
Jack carried the wheelchair up, and Ellie sank into it. She smiled back over her shoulder. “Lunch is in an hour. Greta will show you your room so you can get settled.”
“Okay, um, I’d like to do some training after lunch.” Considering her weak condition, I felt almost guilty bringing it up, but it was why I was here.
“Sure.” Ellie said, then she and Jack disappeared into the house.
Greta made a harumphing sound in the back of her throat. “Wait here while I get some towels.” She walked briskly away, around the side of the house.
She returned after a minute and helped me dry the dogs off. Then she climbed the porch steps. The dogs and I followed. She led the way into the house.
The front door opened into a large living area that reminded me of a hunting lodge. A half-dozen seating arrangements around the room were furnished with sofas, loveseats and overstuffed armchairs, of varying vintages.
Greta kept moving toward a wide stairway that rose up from the center of the room. Its steps were covered with soft burgundy carpet, its railing polished mahogany. The second-floor hallway was the width of a medium-sized room, with glistening wooden floors partially covered by Persian area rugs.
Greta started up another less elegant set of stairs. It led to the third floor and a narrower hallway with a bare oak floor. It was also polished to a high gleam, however.
She turned to the left and opened a door at the end of the hall, then stepped back to let me go in first. The dogs pushed past her, unwilling to be separated from me in a strange environment. Greta scowled.
I held out my hand and lowered my palm toward the floor. Both dogs dropped to their bellies.
Greta’s expression became somewhat less sour. I think I might have impressed her, but couldn’t be sure.
The room was really more of a mini suite, with a sitting area as you first entered and a queen-sized bed over by the French doors. The furniture was vintage, most of the pieces probably worth more today as antiques than they originally cost. Bric-a-brac was scattered on a small set of shelves against one wall and on a polished end table.
Next to one end of the settee—its velvet upholstery the ugliest shade of eggplant purple I’d ever seen—sat a plastic and metal mesh contraption, posing as another end table.
Good. Ellie had remembered to purchase a dog crate.
I sat in the chair that was the same purple as the settee. Despite the unfortunate color scheme, it was a comfortable room. I let out a sigh as I pulled my phone out of my pocket.
Greta fussed around, plumping pillows on the bed and checking the attached bathroom.
I texted Will. The message didn’t go through. I frowned at the phone.
“Cell service is not very reliable, I’m afraid,” Greta said.
“Do you all have internet?”
She nodded. “Ya, Bruce had a satellite dish installed.”
German. That was her accent.
“Good enough. I’ll email folks to let them know I’ve arrived safely.”
Jack entered through the open door, dropped both duffels on the floor and left again without saying a word.
“Let me know if you need anything, Miss Banks.” Greta lowered her head, a cross between a nod and a bow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d clicked her heels.
“Please, call me Marcia.”
She lowered her head again and left the room.
I got my laptop case out of my duffel bag and booted it up. The wi-fi network needed no password. Of course not. Who was going to steal their service way out here—the seagulls?
I chuckled to myself and sent off three quick messages to my mother, my best friend Becky, and my neighbor Sherie Wells. She would spread the word around our small town of Mayfair that their prodigal daughter was safe and sound.
Then I wrote a longer message to Will. I reported my surprise that Ellie was in a wheelchair and described the house and the staff.
I’ve yet to meet Ellie’s husband, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if he turned out to be Herman Munster… LOL. I feel like I’ve been dropped into a Gothic novel.
I added a smiley face and a heart and hit Send.
The distant tinkling of a bell summoned me to the dining room for lunch. Ellie was standing at the antique walnut sideboard, plucking items from various dishes lined up buffet-style.
The wheelchair was shoved into a corner.
“So, you’re, um, feeling better?” I said.
She glanced my way and gave me a smile. “Yes.”
If anything, she looked even thinner, more waif-like, than she had earlier. I realized it was because the breeze was no longer billowing her too-loose white tunic out to the sides.
“Help yourself.” She stepped back and waved a hand at the buffet.
My stomach growled as I grabbed a plate from a small pile on the end of the sideboard. I loaded food onto it—crustless sandwiches, a green salad with cherry tomatoes, fruit salad, and mac and cheese.
Yum, one of my favorites, although this version seemed to be made from white cheddar. Not my preference but still… I couldn’t wait to dig in.
Don’t be a pig. My mother’s voice inside my head.
I mentally stuck out my tongue at my inner Mom. I was starving.
Once Ellie and I were seated, her at the end of the table and me to her left, she pointed to the wheelchair. “Might as well address the elephant in the room.”
I could only nod, since I’d just stuffed one of the sandwiches into my mouth, a triangle of whole-grain bread with no crust and something rich and slightly fishy inside. It was delicious.
I chewed and swallowed, as she took a small bite of fruit salad. Then she put her fork down. “This…,” she waved a hand along the length of her body, “…started about four months ago. The doctors say it’s sarcopenia.”
“What’s that?” I stole a glance at my heaped plate. My stomach rumbled unhappily, but it seemed rude to eat while Ellie discussed her illness.
“Muscle atrophy,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “It’s rare and usually only seen in the elderly, often related to old injuries. I was a competitive jumper in my youth.”
My mind produced an image of a younger Ellie vaulting over a series of hurdles and sprinting toward a finish line.
“I fell off my horse a lot.”
Oops, wrong type of jumping.
Ellie grimaced. “But the doctors are still baffled that it’s happening in someone so young.”
She reached for the salt shaker in front of her, and I took the opportunity to shovel some mac and cheese into my mouth.
“You sure you don’t want some salt on that?” She was liberally dousing her own small pile of creamy noodles. “My husband’s a bit of a health nut, insists on no salt in the food, but I add some at the table. Otherwise, most things are pretty tasteless.”
I tried not to let my dismay show on my face. The mac had an unusual flavor, and the cheese tasted more like yogurt.
I took the proffered shaker and sprinkled salt on it. Only a slight improvement.
“Greta makes the noodles herself, from rice flour.”
I resisted the urge to curl my lip.
Ellie pushed her glass away. “Bruce also insists on everyone drinking grapefruit juice, because it’s high in vitamin C and antioxidants.”
There were two glasses in front of my place. One of water, and one of what did indeed look like grapefruit juice. I nudged the water glass her way. “You want my water. I’m fine with the juice.”
Another big smile. “Thanks. I used to like grapefruit juice, but you can only drink so much of it before…” She trailed off, stabbed a cherry tomato from her plate and popped it in her mouth.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Ignoring the mac and cheese, or whatever the heck it was, I gobbled down more sandwich triangles and some fruit salad. Finally, my hunger was somewhat appeased and I slowed my pace.
We both started talking at once. “Did you leave the dogs–”
“I’d like to do some–”
Her cheeks turned a little pink. It actually improved her appearance, not so pale and wan.
“You left the dogs upstairs,” she said.
“They’re kind of rattled by the strange environment. But I would like to do some training this afternoon. And I wish you had told me about the sarco…”
“Sarcopenia.”
“I could have taught Nugget some tasks that would’ve helped you, such as picking up dropped items.”
Ellie heaved a sigh. “Up until a few days ago, I was convinced I would get better. But my doctor finally broke through my denial at my last visit. This isn’t going away.” She opened her mouth to say more, than clamped it shut again.
“Well, Nugget’s a very bright dog. I may be able to teach her some things while I’m here.”
“So, where’s the best place to work?” Ellie asked.
“Outside is best when the weather’s agreeable. Gives us lots of room.”
“The lanai out back then, whenever you’re ready.”
An hour later, I had shown Ellie all the things Nugget could do, and I’d had her practice one of the simpler tasks, the Cover command. Simple for the human partner, that is. It was one of the most complicated tasks to teach the dog. But all the human had to do was remember to pay attention to the dog’s tail and ears when they were standing still, with the dog facing behind the person, literally watching their back. The dog would twitch their ears and a give a small tail thump to indicate that someone was approaching.
Folks with PTSD tend to be hypervigilant and startle easily if taken by surprise. So knowing the dogs would alert them, if someone was coming up from behind, gave them more confidence out in public.
Ellie’s shoulders were sagging. She was tiring.
I gestured toward the wheelchair. “Have a seat for a minute. Lemme show you just how bright your dog is.” I slapped my thigh. “Buddy, come here.”
He’d been snoozing under a tree. Now he bounded over.
I laid down on the ground on my side, my torso propped up on one arm. “Here, boy.” Buddy came over and stood next to me.
Nugget watched us, her head tilted to one side. She knew the drill. If I was about to do something with Buddy, I would be asking her to do it next.
“Brace, Buddy.” The dog lined himself up right next to me and stiffened his legs.
I placed a hand on his back. Since I’m able-bodied, I didn’t put much weight on him, but pretended to as I pushed myself up to my feet.
Nugget wasn’t quite as big and muscular as Buddy, but then Ellie was a slight woman. The golden retriever should be able to handle some of her weight.
After demonstrating twice with Buddy, I called Nugget over.
The first time, she laid down when I put my hand on her back. I took my hand away and told her to stand. Then I manually moved her feet so her legs were spread out a bit. “Brace.”
I put my hand on her back, but didn’t go any farther. She stayed standing. I gave her a treat from the fanny pack at my waist and praised her.
I repeated that three times. The fourth time, I pushed myself to a stand without putting any weight on her. I gave her a treat.
I ran through the whole process two more times, still not putting any weight on her back. She stood still, although she turned her head once to look at me, as if she was trying to figure out what this was all about.
“That’s enough for today.” I turned toward Ellie, who was watching with a rapt expression on her face. “I’ll do that again tonight, and several times each day, adding a little more weight as we go. I think she’ll have it down by the time I leave.”
Ellie nodded vigorously, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “It’s amazing, watching how you do that.”
I shrugged. “Not all that hard. You just have to break it down into little steps and reward each step.”
I patted my thigh, the non-verbal signal to Nugget to follow me, and walked over to where Ellie sat under the tree. Then I gave the dogs the release signal. Buddy flopped at my feet, while Nugget went to Ellie looking for some pets.
She got some. Ellie was grinning from ear to ear. “I hope Bruce loves you as much as I already do,” she crooned to the dog.
“Speaking of Bruce, will I meet him at dinner?”
Ellie shook her head. “He’ll be home tomorrow morning sometime. He’s on a fishing trip with a friend, on our boat. That’s why Jack had to come get you in his skiff. Sorry for the tight fit.”
“Hey, we made it okay. Do you want me to get Jack to wheel you inside?” I wasn’t at all sure I could push the wheelchair in the sandy soil, and I didn’t want to end up dumping her on her face.
“No, I can walk.” She pushed herself to a stand.
I clipped Nugget’s leash to her service vest and handed it to Ellie. “Hold out your hand like I showed you.”
Ellie did so, palm down, and Nugget touched it with her nose.
“Now she’s back on duty.”
Buddy and I gave the two ladies a head start.
Ellie was moving slow, but it seemed to me her shoulders were straighter.
Too bad that darn sarco-whatever was…. What was it doing? It sounded, from the description, like it was eating her body from within.
I shuddered as Buddy and I walked to the house.
That night, I kept Nugget in my room with Buddy and myself. It would be a few days before I transferred her over to Ellie’s care. And I wanted to work some more on the Brace command.
By bedtime, Nugget was getting the hang of it, and I had started putting a little bit of weight on her back when I rose.
I washed up and put on my jammies, then opened my laptop. Everyone had acknowledged my emails, with comments to stay safe from Mom and Sherie Wells, and to have fun from Becky. Will’s response wasn’t a whole lot longer than the others but his ended with, Miss you already.
Smiling, I closed the computer and turned out the light. Normally I don’t sleep all that well the first night in a strange bed, but it had been a long day.
Heart pounding, I opened my eyes to total blackness. Where am I?
Oh, yeah. I was at Ellie Burke’s house, on its own little island in the Gulf of Mexico.
But what had happened to the ambient light that had been filtering through the thin curtains over the French doors? Had the moon gone behind a cloud?
A low rumble from the floor next to my bed. That’s what had woken me, Buddy growling, deep in his throat.
“What is it, boy?” I whispered, as I fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. The light revealed an empty room. No intruders and the French doors were closed up tight.
But something had set Buddy off. And Nugget was standing up in her crate, whining softly. Whatever it was that literally had Buddy’s hackles up, she had heard it too.
Territorialism and protectiveness are intentionally trained out of service dogs, since they must stay on task in public around strangers. But when Buddy had started “breaking training,” at times when I needed some defending, I’d made a conscious choice to let it go. He was a mentor dog now, so it was less critical that he not bark or growl at strangers, and he still behaved himself when he had his vest on. Will and I had even been trying to teach him some new tasks, modifications of some of those used by police dog handlers.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
Buddy growled again.
I slid my feet into my slippers and walked toward the door, the dog right by my knee. I put my ear against the old wood. A faint rustling on the other side.
I leaned down and held my finger to my lips. It was the signal that Buddy was now not supposed to growl or bark. Then I held my hand parallel to the ground and lowered it.
Both dogs laid down, although Buddy seemed reluctant.
I listened at the door again. No rustling sound now.
Slowly I turned the knob and cracked the door open just enough to peek out. A thin wedge of light knifed down the hallway, ending against blackness. The rustling noise and a flash of something red in the shadows.
I jerked, accidentally opening the door wider. The blackness receded from me, and then was gone. I was staring at the third-floor hallway, empty of anything that could possible move.
It was possible I’d imagined something black moving away from me, but not the rustling sound. The dogs had heard that too, and had interpreted it as menacing.
So probably something more than mice behind the walls.
I looked down at Buddy, who was now sitting quietly next to my knee, giving me his patented what’s-up look.
“Got me, boy. I’ll check it out in the morning.”
I went back to bed, but not before leaving the light on in the bathroom.
It took me awhile to get back to sleep.