Bride & Groom Read online

  There was nothing phony about Judith’s greeting. “Congratulations! Somehow, after all the work that goes into a book, it’s still a surprise to see it as a physical object for sale in a store.”

  “Your books and mine are hardly comparable,” I said. “But thank you. And you’re right about the surprise.” Then I introduced Steve to Judith and said, “We’re getting married at the end of September. And you know Rowdy and Kimi.”

  As if demonstrating that acclaimed literary novelists can be platitudinously conventional, Judith said, “Married! I hope you’ll be very happy. And of course I know your beautiful dogs.” As she reached into the pocket of her pale gray jacket, I noticed that despite her leanness, she had the muscular arms and hands of someone who lives with big dogs. Producing two dog cookies, she said, “May I? The recipe is from your book.”

  I smiled. “In that case, yes. I’m flattered.”

  “You write clearly. And it’s more about training with food than about cooking.”

  “My publisher hoped that no one would notice.”

  “You can’t fool another writer.” Glancing toward the back of the store, she said, “The manager’s setting things up. Mac’s around somewhere. We have Uli with us.”

  “Mac told me never to show up at a signing without a dog.”

  “I wish I had your excuse. Signings can be lonely events. Not that this one will be.”

  As if to prove Judith right, what felt like a delegation from the Cambridge Dog Training Club entered the store: Ron Coughlin, Diane D’Amato, Ray and Lynne Metcalf, and a few other members. Steve and I trained with the club. We’d served on the board and helped out at the club’s obedience trials. As I was thanking people for coming, my cousin Leah arrived with Lieutenant Kevin Dennehy of the Cambridge Police. With her masses of red-gold curls and her voluptuousness, Leah was wildly eye-catching, but not to the point of requiring a police escort. Kevin was here in his personal capacity as my next-door neighbor and friend. His hair was even redder than Leah’s. Especially because of his monumental build, they looked spectacular together, but certainly weren’t a couple. Leah was an undergraduate at that ivy-choked institution down the street from my house, whereas Kevin was in his mid-thirties and was attracted to women in his own age group. His girlfriend, Jennifer Pasquarelli, was his junior, but not by enough years to make it biologically possible for him to have fathered her.

  “Jennifer’s sorry she couldn’t make it,” Kevin said over the woo-wooing of my dogs. “And my mother—”

  Mrs. Dennehy was a Seventh-Day Adventist. This was her sabbath. “Of course,” I said. “Please don’t—”

  Leah interrupted me. “Aren’t you supposed to be signing books? What are you doing hanging around here like a regular customer?”

  I handed her Rowdy’s leash. “Make yourself useful. If there’s food anywhere, don’t let him steal it.” Before she could grumble that she already knew that, I lowered my voice and said, “And don’t let Kevin buy my book. I have a copy for him at home, and it feels wrong to ask my friends to spend money to be here. But you do need to buy Mac’s book. Have him sign it for you. I’ll reimburse you.”

  “I don’t want it. All it says is to buy a crate and lock your dog in it forever. If he were writing about children, he’d tell you to forget school and lock them all in jail.”

  “Leah, what I’m telling you,” I whispered, “is, buy the book! We’ll discuss this later. And if you have any comments to make about Mac’s book or, for that matter, anyone else’s, do not make them here.”

  Leah’s voice carries. Fortunately, all she said was, "Pride and Prejudice. I loved it.”

  “Anyone living.”

  Steve extricated me from the discussion with Leah by saying, “Holly, you’re wanted at the back of the store.” With Kimi on leash, he headed there, and the rest of us followed.

  “Have you ever noticed that you’re a natural leader?” I asked Steve. “People trail after you. Animals love you. It’s revolting. I’m jealous.”

  Ignoring my remarks, Steve said, “They’ve done you proud.”

  One of two banquet-sized, cloth-covered tables held bottles of mineral water and white wine, disposable wineglasses, platters of cheese and crackers, a bowl of strawberries, paper plates and napkins, plastic forks, and a sheet cake with white icing that read, in bright pink, CONGRATULATIONS HOLLY AND MAC. The words floated above the head of a perky-iooking pink dog. Attractively arrayed on the second long table were a respectable number of copies of 101 Ways to Cook Liver, a great many copies of Mac’s previous book, and so many copies of Ask Dr. Mac that The Wordsmythe’s order alone had probably required Mac’s publisher to do a second printing. Mac himself sat on a folding chair behind the table. He looked exactly the way he did in the poster in the store’s window and on the covers of both his books-—tan and robust, with an expression that remained warm even when he was discussing unhappy veterinary subjects, such as cancer and euthanasia. I knew Mac’s exact age because I’d looked him up on a web site called AnyBirthday.com. Although he could have passed for forty-eight or fifty, he was fifty-eight. His appearance of youth stemmed, in part, from his obvious health and fitness, but also from a genetic quirk that had kept his hair almost completely free of gray. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a little white at his temples and a few strands of white amidst the brown, I’d have suspected him of touching up the color with some product that gave remarkably natural results. His eyes were a clear, almost flat, blue.

  Mac had a gift for making close contact with people. His books were popular not only because he promoted them, but because his readers felt that he was talking directly to them about their dogs. In person, too, he felt like an ally. He made good eye contact and had a habit of reaching out, sometimes with a hand, always with his voice. At the moment, he was engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation with a wiry blond woman who was standing next to him with her head lowered. She seemed intent on catching every word he said. Considered individually, her features were unattractive. She had small, narrow eyes and a weak chin. Even so, the woman was pretty in an exceptionally lively, wired way. Her short curls seemed to spring energetically from her scalp.

  It was Mac who broke off the tête-à-tête. Rising to his feet, he greeted me with a smile and said, “Holly! Take a seat! You have fans waiting. You know Claire Langceil, don’t you?” He pronounced it Lang-seal. “I’ve just had some terrible news about someone I used to know. I was telling Claire. But take a seat and get to work!”

  My memory of the next half hour is somewhat blurred. I remember signing books while people told me about their dogs and said flattering things about my Dog’s Life column. It took all the concentration I had to pay attention to the people while trying to write legibly and to make sure that I spelled all the human and canine names correctly. Dog writers do not, of course, merely autograph books in the barren fashion of what I should perhaps call mainstream writers: “To Harvey” or “Best wishes.” Rather, a typical dog-book inscription goes something like, “To Linda, Nikki, Tipsy, Bounder, Lulu, and Zippo,” or “To the beautiful Golden Retrievers of Halomyst Kennels,” or “To American/Canadian Ch. Perfectly’s Wediditagain, CD,” or, in the case of my inscriptions, “To Peter, Sasha, Chinook, and Katy—Woo-woo-woo from Rowdy and Kimi.” As an afterthought, I scrawl my own name. Anyway, I spent about thirty minutes in a daze of listening and signing and introducing people to Rowdy and Kimi, who were capably handled, respectively, by Leah and Steve, capability being defined as effectiveness in preventing the dogs from leaping onto the food table, gobbling up every single thing on it, including the paper plates, and then getting into a tussle about the crumbs.

  Once the crowd of strangers thinned, I had time to chat with friends who’d come to congratulate me about the book and, to my embarrassment, to buy it. Kevin Dennehy, who doesn’t own a dog, made me sign five books that he insisted were for fellow cops. Mac and Judith’s daughter, Olivia, had me sign a book. I knew from Mac that Olivia was in
her late twenties, but she looked younger—about eighteen. Her light brown hair fell to her shoulders, and her loose chambray dress reminded me of a pinafore. Olivia had Judith’s cheekbones and her air of elegance as well, despite what was unmistakably Mac’s athletic vigor. When she heard that Steve and I were getting married in late September, she asked where, and I had to confess that we had no idea. Olivia had been married for only two months and had apparently had a big wedding. Although I insisted that Steve and I wanted a small wedding, she was horrified to learn that we’d not only failed to select a place to get married and hold a reception, but hadn’t lined up a caterer, a florist, or, worse yet, someone to perform the service.

  As I was explaining that we’d been engaged for only a few weeks and as Olivia was offering to share everything she’d learned about planning a wedding, Judith joined us and went on to second the offer. I was still sitting behind the table of books, as was Mac, who now had Uli with him. The Bernese mountain dog has an average life span of seven or eight years. Uli was twelve. He showed his age. He was bigger than my Rowdy, who weighed eighty-five pounds, but both dogs had the sturdy build and heavy bone typical of working breeds. Bernese mountain dogs have long, silky coats and are tricolored: black with rust and bright white. Uli’s markings were symmetrical. He had the desirable “Swiss cross” white mark on his chest and a white tip on his tail. The expression in his dark, clouded eyes was soft and loving. Although Uli was with Mac, those gentle eyes kept seeking out Judith.

  As Olivia was suggesting that Steve and I inquire about a wildlife refuge in Lexington that was a wedding site especially suitable for a veterinarian groom and a dog-writer bride, a familiar voice spoke a name I’d never heard before. “Nina Kerkel!” said Ceci Love. Then she said it again. “Nina Kerkel!”

  The younger sister of my elderly and revered friend Althea Battlefield, Ceci never settled for just two words; it was inevitable that she’d immediately babble hundreds more, as she rapidly did. “Nina Kerkel! I haven’t thought of her for years. To think she’s dead! I wonder if Greta knows. That’s Greta Kerkel, whose son Hal married that Nina it must have been thirty years ago, although I must say that Greta—well, no, on the contrary, I mustn’t say it, must I? Not with the poor girl dead. What did she die of? Holly, did you like the cake? I see that the dog is still left, the picture on the cake, not Rowdy and Kimi, naturally they’re still left. Althea is so terribly sorry that she couldn’t be here even though it would have been impossible given her age and condition, but you are our favorite honorary niece, now that I think of it, our only one, and we decided to send the cake, do you like it? Althea wants you to know that I am fully authorized to represent her here and to convey her congratulations on your delightful book, which it is— delightful—it’s obviously a book, isn’t it? And there was something from Sherlock Holmes that Althea made me promise to quote to you, but I’ve forgotten what it is.”

  Ceci was, as usual, a vision in champagne. Her hair was tinted that shade, and she wore a pale linen suit with matching pumps. Her actual age was not public knowledge, as I know for certain because I’m the person who had it removed from AnyBirthday.com. I’ll tactfully report that Ceci not only could have passed for sixty-five, but frequently did, especially when she had a say in the matter. According to Althea, Ceci’s daintiness and lifelong prettiness were, in part, responsible for her apparent frivolity. Also, Althea claimed that Ceci had been indulged first by their father and subsequently by the doting man she’d married, Ellis Love, who was already dead by the time I met the sisters. For whatever reason, Ceci continued to indulge herself in the matter of her appearance and also in the matter of her chronic babbling, which grated on her sister’s scholarly nerves. Althea was a devoted student of the entire Canon of Sherlock Holmes. Ceci, in contrast, was a successful student of Messieurs Dow and Jones; her late husband, a stockbroker, had trained her in investment strategies. No one, however, had ever succeeded in training Ceci to apply her intelligence to speaking simply and coherently.

  After excusing myself to Judith and Olivia, I hugged Ceci and thanked her for the cake. After repeating her congratulations about my book and offering an unnecessary explanation of why Althea wasn’t there, Ceci returned to the topic of the newly deceased Nina Kerkel and the horror felt thirty years before by her friend Greta Kerkel when Greta’s son had married a person Ceci consistently called “that Nina.” Ceci, I might mention, could pack more damnation into the word that than most other people expressed with dozens of explicitly denunciatory terms; I hoped that she never had reason to refer to me as “that Holly.” She and I were now standing by the refreshment table, where I was sampling the cake. As she continued talking in her usual jumbled fashion about Nina Kerkel, the cake, her elderly Newfoundland, her sister, Althea, Althea’s wheelchair, and my wedding, we were joined by Mac, Judith, Olivia, and some people I didn’t know. A few were evidently friends of Mac’s. Some were customers of The Wordsmythe. With typical warmth and friendliness, Mac approached Ceci and introduced himself. He’d obviously heard her speak Nina Kerkel’s name, but missed what she’d said about that Nina. He said, “You knew Nina? I’m still reeling. We worked together at Meadowbrook. Meadowbrook Veterinary Hospital. This must’ve been twenty-five years ago. Nina was the receptionist.”

  I heard a whisper near my ear. "Thirty. Thirty years ago. And Nina certainly was receptive. It’s always interesting to note correspondences between vocation and character, isn’t it.” Turning my head, I saw that the speaker was Judith. I had no idea why she’d chosen me as her confidante. Maybe I was just the nearest person who’d read her new book.

  Although he couldn’t possibly have overheard his wife, Mac echoed a word she’d used. His tone was nostalgic. “Nina was an interesting person. Always there, always smiling.”

  “Nina Kerkel,” Judith muttered, “was a little slut.”

  “What did she die of?” asked Ceci. “I wonder if Greta knows she’s dead. That’s Greta Kerkel,” she informed Mac. “Her son Hal was married to this Nina at the time.” In Ceci’s lexicon, this was slightly less damning than that, but only slightly.

  “I remember Hal,” Mac said. “He was married to Nina when I knew her. They rode dirt bikes together.”

  “Dirt,” Judith commented sotto voce. “How reliably these little messages await the discerning eye and ear.” Oblivious to his wife’s commentary, Mac went on, but his voice became somber and low. “What I just heard was that Nina died of an overdose. It’s a shame. A loss. Her life must’ve gone badly downhill.”

  “Well,” said Ceci, “I’ll have to tell Greta. She and Nina did not get along. Even so, Greta may want to do something appropriate.”

  “Such as what?” whispered Judith. “Dance on her grave?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Steve and I hung around The Wordsmythe for a while talking to people, browsing the shelves, and letting Rowdy and Kimi ingratiate themselves with everyone. The events manager had me sign some copies of my book. When I’d finished, he affixed labels that read, rather grandly, autographed. In reality, it’s celebrities who give autographs; people like me just write our names. Still, it was the first time I’d ever signed stock for a bookstore. I knew that I was no literary star, but I began to feel like a real author.

  The glow was lingering when we got back to what was about to become our place and not just mine, the three-story barn-red house at 256 Concord Avenue in Cambridge. The back entrance, the one I usually used, was on Appleton Street, around the corner from Concord Avenue. Together with Rowdy and Kimi, and Tracker, my cat, I occupied the first floor, and Rita, my therapist friend, rented my second-floor apartment. My third-floor tenants had bought a condo and moved out. At the moment, Steve and his dogs had the third floor. When he’d first bought his veterinary practice from my old vet, Dr. Draper, he’d moved into the apartment above the clinic. Later, he’d rented a house for a while, but ended up back in his over-the-clinic quarters. Neither his place nor mine was big enough for two people, five dog
s, and a cat. Like most other residents of Cambridge, Steve and I felt convinced that moving to any non-Cantabrigian community within commuting distance of his work would instantly age us twenty years and render us stupid and uncool. Against our will, we’d find ourselves watching television instead of reading. Our Birkenstock sandals would start to grow uppers, and before long, they’d transform themselves into grown-up shoes. Looking in the mirror, I’d discover that I was wearing blue eye shadow. Steve would come to care deeply about eradicating crabgrass from our lawn. Even our animals would be hideously changed. With no Cambridge turf to mark, Kimi would abandon her radical malamute feminism and quit lifting her leg.

  To avert such grotesque transformations in ourselves and our companions, we were determined to remain in the identity-defining vicinity of Harvard Square. Also, we liked my house, which was in an interesting, diverse neighborhood and had a fenced yard, although a small one. Our long-range plan was to turn the first and second floors into one big apartment for ourselves. Rita could move to the third . floor. Or, if she married the man in her life, Artie Spicer, she’d presumably move to his house or elsewhere. I hated the idea. I’d had lots of canine siblings, but Rita and my cousin Leah were as close as I’d ever had to human sisters. I didn’t want to lose Rita.