My life changed, irrevocably, when she rang the doorbell. I was out and Burt, my tenant, has been known to snore through tornados, garbage truck collisions, and Mrs. Barnstable’s practice sessions for her opera lessons. But as an EMT working the midnight shift, he’s conditioned to always respond to bells.
Fate could have been thwarted by some incisive questioning when Burt brought up his angelic visitation, but I decided to be humorous instead. “Describe this celestial being.”
“She had glossy black hair and the most heavenly blue eyes,” he murmured dreamily.
“And what did our special visitor want?” Convinced Burt was pulling my leg, I played along.
“She had a clipboard. I remember signing a paper.”
“No doubt you ordered angel hair pasta, Girl Scout cookies or something equally divine. Face it, pal, you dreamed up your dream girl.”
Burt frowned. “But I can still see that angelic smile ...”
The nape of my neck prickled, but as a graphic artist/painter, I have enough daydreams without analyzing Burt’s. Original Harrisons were beginning to shuffle out of the gallery which displays my work and a fall showing had been scheduled. My ambition is to become self-supporting with my brush, even if it means living in a tent.
No danger of that at the moment, however. I own a brownstone in a Chicago suburb, a gift from my parents upon their migration to Florida. Burt rents the upstairs; we share kitchen privileges. For me, the main attraction spans the back of the house, a sunroom with marvelous eastern lighting, which faces a yard enclosed by a box hedge that’s murder to keep properly trimmed.
Mrs. Barnstable occupies the house to the right. After Mr. B’s demise, his widow broadened her horizons in all directions, with opera lessons, learning to quilt, and ballroom dancing, among other pursuits.
My neighbors on the left had sold their house and moved out weeks ago. I was yet to meet the new owner as I spent every spare moment, when I wasn’t working as a freelance graphic artist, preparing for my fall show titled “City Glimpses”. My newest effort featured a wizened vendor at Wrigley Field. Using a zoom lens effect, I had focused attention on gnarled hands clutching peanut bags with the background blurred into a collage of Cub caps.
Nearly a month after Burt’s “visitation”, I was back in my studio. The sunroom’s placement and the hedges filtered out most street noises, so I was startled to hear a bark. A glance at the yard revealed only a carpet of rippling green velvet, but the yap was repeated.
Convinced I had a trespasser, I jammed my brush into a jar and stalked outside. Standing in ankle-high grass, I surveyed the yard and felt foolish. The phantom dog remained invisible; the breeze tickled my face, scented with Mrs. Barnstable’s roses. Another yip! Pasting a fresh frown on my face, I strode over to demand that my new neighbors keep their puppy quiet.
I thrust my scowling features over the hedge, pricking the underside of my jaw as my mouth dropped open. A girl sat upon the grass surrounded by what appeared to be rejects from the cast of 101 Dalmations. A noisy dispute suddenly erupted between a white mop and a black mop over a plastic carrot.
“Play with your own toy.” The girl extended a ring to the black mop.
“Is your Mom or Dad home?”
The girl rose. Hair as glossy and black as a raven’s wing (excuse the artistic license) swirled around a tanned cheek.
“You must be Harrison. I’ve met Burt.” Her smile forgave me for mistaking her for a child. “I’m Fiona Flynn.”
Pride being a besetting sin of mine, I resented that grin. “Well, Ms. Flynn, keep your yapping brats quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.”
Her smile faded. “These brats are my clients and this is exercise period.”
My turn to yelp.
She looked puzzled. “If you had any objections to a puppy day care center, you should have spoken up earlier.”
“Earlier? This is the first I’ve heard of this insanity!”
“Working people don’t have time to raise or train a puppy. I provide a vital service for them.”
I felt my whole body swell with anger. “It may be necessary, but I don’t want it next door.”
Suddenly noticing her absence, the crew stopped squabbling. They milled and whined until White Mop spotted Fiona and led the pack over to her. The yipping chorus broke out again; the pups were as glad to see her as kids who’d lost sight of their mom in a crowded store.
Fiona’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her over the din. She put her mouth near my ear and a tingle zinged down my spine. “I did bring this issue up already with the neighbors. Burt signed the petition for my home business permit!”
“But he had no right—” Heavenly blue eyes. Burt’s angel! “Was his hair sticking up and was he extremely agreeable?”
“He was very polite.” Unlike you, her frown implied.
“A document signed by a sleepwalker won’t stand up in court. Besides, he’s only a tenant.”
“Burt was asleep?” Fiona laughed, a chime of celestial bells. “Nice try, but you’ll have to think of something else. I’ve spent too much money buying and converting this place.”
“I refuse to live next door to a nursery!” My shout silenced the clamoring horde.
“Good luck finding a new place,” Fiona said, giving me a sweetly triumphant smile. “Come, children, nap time!”
Round one to Fiona. The pack didn’t watch my dignified retreat, instead they chose to waddle after their favorite person.
I didn’t have the cash or the stomach for hiring an attorney, so after a cooling off period, I resolved to try to get along and make the best of the situation. But Fiona and her flea circus did their best to make their presence felt. I struggled to complete “The Vendor” but it was always feeding time, play-time, or just plain noise time next door.
Each morning, relays of cars brought the pooches while I hovered by my front window, drinking coffee and glaring. The regulars soon became familiar and, if pressed, I’d have to admit a liking for a perky terrier with a wiry salt and pepper coat.
Once having made a stand, however, I determined not to back down, no matter how lonely my perch. My sense of isolation was heightened when Mrs. Barnstable had Burt and I over for supper and I had to listen to a bass and contralto duet singing Fiona’s praises.
While passing out napkins folded into swans, my hostess divulged that Fiona had left veterinary college to care for her dying mother, had never married, and adored children.
“All right, she’s a saint. An angel!” I sent a sour look in Burt’s direction. “But I doubt whether she can make a living babysitting mutts.”
“She charges $80-$120 per week per pup, Harrison, depending upon the training package.”
I drew a mental sketch of the group and counted wet noses. “She’s got at least twelve dogs—probably a grand a week! It took me over a year to sell $1,000 worth of paintings!”
“A lovely girl. So sweet, so kind,” Mrs. Barnstable gushed and I wondered whether she’d taken up matchmaking as a new hobby.
If so, Burt would have hired her in a minute. He spent more and more of his time off over at Fiona’s while I grappled with my illusive muse and fumed.
The crisis occurred a miserably hot afternoon several weeks later as I stared at The Vendor, gripped by the conviction that my creative juices had dried up completely.
As a background to this self-castigation, I heard Fiona’s clear voice drilling the troops. “Sit, Bugs. No, honey, I said sit—not wet. Try again. Halifax, put down that stick. Tree bark makes you sick. Bugs, sit!”
In frustration, I hurled my brush against the wall, leaving a jagged blue check mark. Jumping off my stool, I shoved open the sliding screen door. I had a bone to pick with the ruler of those bone gnawing mops.
Fiona sat tailor fashion on the grass. The sun’s bright fingers picked out the blue-black highlights in her hair, reminding me of a grackle’s plumage.
Canine pupils surrounded her, some dozing on the grass, others quarrelling over toys, while Bugs, a pop-eyed bull dog, did his best to please. As Fiona gave the command, he lowered his head until his jaw rested on the grass and squinted up at her hopefully.
“Wrong end, baby.” Fiona scooped him up and tickled him behind the ears. “But I’m proud of you.”
He drooled happily as she cuddled him. My own eyes popped as I realized how much I envied Bugs!
The terrier sounded an intruder alert and Fiona raised her head. “Quiet, guys and gals! The Grinch is back.”
She strolled over while I attempted to maintain the appropriate expression of an Outraged Artist. “What’s the complaint this time?”
“I can’t work!”
“Surely, you don’t blame me for high unemployment rates.” Her smile was wickedly demure. “We’re staying on our side.”
“But the noise isn’t.”
Her smile became penitent. “I’m sorry. I try to keep it down to a dull roar. They’re quiet at nap time.”
“I can’t make a living painting an hour or two a day!”
Fiona looked troubled. “I’m afraid that I’m used to the country and no near neighbors. Why don’t we discuss this over some freshly squeezed lemonade?”
Part of me—let’s face it, 98%--wanted to hurdle the hedge and rush into the house with Fiona, slamming the door in the pups’ faces. But pride held me back with a firm grip on my shoulders while jealousy clutched at my ankles. She’d already conquered Burt with that smile; a Harrison was made of sterner stuff. Besides, if I weakened, the prospect of my fall show might dissolve, along with my dream.
“If any of your critters sets a paw in my yard, I’ll swear out a nuisance complaint and close you down, Ms. Flynn.”
It didn’t take Fiona’s stricken expression to tell me I’d gone too far, and all I had left was my pride.
I slunk back to my easel, but The Vendor no longer excited me. Other images invaded my brain, filling my head with swirls of color, and I recognized the symptoms of an “art attack”, a period when I’m racked by a fever that won’t let me rest until I capture, on canvas, the pictures crowding into my mind.
Propping The Vendor in the corner, I stretched a fresh canvas and arranged it on the easel. When Burt came home the next morning, he found me, unshaven and bleary-eyed, frantically trying to capture the vision which oppressed me.
He hovered in the doorway, his voice concerned. “Another art attack? You’re going to kill yourself. One day I’ll find you lying dead in a pool of Vermillion #2.”
I said nothing, willing him to leave.
“Just one question, old buddy, closed or open casket?”
“Out!” I slung a paint-smeared rag in his direction.
Hours later, I unclenched my death grip on the brush. In the midst of City Glimpses would be my masterpiece: “Summer Interlude.” Drinking in the heady colors and delicate brush strokes, I became aware of a persistent scratching noise and turned.
The Cairn Terrier pup peered in through the screen door. “Lost, little fella?”
Various muscle groups saw fit to remind me that they’d been locked into the same position for nearly twenty-four hours. Stifling a groan, I slid open the door. The pup trotted in and flopped down, resting his head on my sneaker with a gusty sigh.
“Harrison, Fiona’s lost a pup.” Burt halted in the studio doorway.
Fiona ducked around him and burst into my sanctuary. “You found Kirby! I was so worried.”
Kirby’s stubby tail wagged a greeting, but he didn’t move.
“Bad Kirby! I’ve told you not to go near the hedge. I’m sorry, Harrison. He must have tunneled under—” Fiona broke off. “Are you all right?”
I suddenly realized I’d been able to concentrate despite the noise. Fiona, not the pups, had been responsible for my painter’s block. My knees turned to jelly.
The angel visitant caught sight of the painting and froze. “Harrison!”
She stared, open mouthed, forcing me to stagger unaided over to a chair. Humming, “I’ve Got a Date with an Angel,” Burt disappeared.
I studied my newest work of art, which depicted a woman seated on the grass. Her hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes a heavenly blue, she smiled down on the pups surrounding her. A pop-eyed bulldog had its rear end coyly elevated while a rough-coated terrier leaned trustfully against its mistress.
“Harrison, I’ve been guilty of disturbing you. I’m so sorry. I guess I never realized what a talented artist lived next door.”
I could only smile at the compliment. Unshaven, exhausted and blissfully happy.
Fiona crouched beside me. She smelled of sunshine, grass, and summer breezes. “I didn’t think you liked me or the dogs! But this, this was painted with such love—”
As she spoke the last word, our eyes met and she blushed. “I think I should get Kirby back to his buddies.”
“One of your dogs set a paw in my yard, Fiona.”
She gazed at me blankly until remembrance of my threat to close down her school colored her face rosy pink. “Harrison, if you call the police, I’ll, I’ll ...”
“You’ll what? Set Kirby on me?”
The beast thus referred to licked my outstretched hand.
Fiona sighed. “I should have boarded attack dogs.”
Lust has never been as pure as the desire I felt for my companion. “In return for my tolerance, you must pay a forfeit.”
“A forfeit?”
I placed a kiss on the lips I had so meticulously reproduced on canvas. The ensuing embrace progressed nicely until needles sank into the flesh just above my shoe.
“I think Kirby’s jealous,” Fiona apologized as she pried the puppy off my ankle.
“Such an interesting hypothesis. Shall we conduct further tests?” Rejuvenated, I moved toward Fiona, but she retreated, that adorable blush coloring her face again.
“Oh, dear, I’ve got to get back before my mob of fuzzy hooligans breaks into the cookie jar and gets sick from eating too many puppy treats.”
“We wouldn’t want that, darling Fiona. But would you consider going out to supper with me tonight?”
Her answering smile was as divine as the blue of her eyes.
“I’ll be over at seven o’clock.” I limped after her to the front door. “Will all the mutts be picked up by then?”
“All except Kirby. He’s mine.” Fiona stood on tiptoe to bestow a butterfly-light kiss on my cheek. “But I’m willing to share him. See you at seven. We’ve got fences to mend in our relationship—starting with that escape tunnel Kirby made under your hedge.”
Then she was gone, leaving me gaping after her on the doorstep as Burt must have done the morning of our first otherworldly visitation. My angel with her own guardian imp.
I hobbled back inside. If Kirby didn’t mend his manners when I tried to steal another kiss, I knew of one picture in my fall show that would have a certain terrier painted out of it.
THE END