No Kids or Dogs Allowed Page 7

  “One and a half on overseas sales,” said Steve.

  “Good God,” said Elizabeth, marveling. “I thought writing was easy money. How do you manage?”

  “I write fast.”

  “You must...you’re eating.” She shivered. “Is there anything you can do about that heater? I’m freezing.”

  Freezing. But only on the outside. New discovery: it was not possible to quit thinking about sex with the object of your desire less than three feet away, with his hand lying across the back of the seat and his fingers playing with your hair.

  “Not until the engine’s hot. How far is it to the carpet place?”

  “Ardmore Square. Right there.”

  Steve pointed. “On the corner? They don’t look open.”

  “That,” she said, sliding the car neatly into a small space by the curb, “is why there’s a place to park.”

  He laughed. “You’re so pragmatic. The perfect accountant. What shall we do while we wait?”

  “You think of something,” she said. “You’re the one with all the imagination, which makes you the perfect writer.” She sighed. She almost wished he could read her mind. But if he could, there wouldn’t be time to buy a napkin, let alone a carpet.

  “The perfect writer for the perfect accountant,” said Steve. “A natural fit, my sweet. You’ll see.” His words were light, but his voice had dropped and slowed.

  “Will I?” she said, trying not to sound breathless. Maybe he could read her mind.

  “Oh, yes.” He tugged at her hair. “Look here at me.”

  There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. All Elizabeth’s Main Line inhibitions ran gibbering about in her brain. Broad daylight, it’s broad daylight. There are people walking down the street, and they can see in the car and what would my mother think?

  She reached for the door latch.

  “Wait,” said Steve, smiling. “Don’t get out yet.”

  There was laughter, damn it, in his voice.

  “Why not?” She knew why not.

  “I’m waiting for the windows to fog over.”

  “They won’t fog,” she told him. “The car’s still cold.”

  He cupped his hand around her shoulder.

  “They’ll fog. We’ll see to it.” He turned her gently toward him. “Come here.”

  “It’s broad daylight,” she objected, but she moved across the seat and into his arms.

  “I’ll kiss you twice tonight, to compensate for the trauma of public exposure.” He brushed the curly hair away from her face and looked deeply into her clear green eyes. “Put your arms around my neck.”

  She did. “All those people outside can see us.”

  “Won’t they be jealous, though,” he murmured, and he put his lips to hers.

  She didn’t know any of those people on the sidewalk. Who cared what they thought, anyway?

  Chapter Four

  When Elizabeth finally opened her eyes, the windows were definitely fogged. The people passing outside were no more than shadows falling on frosted glass.

  “The world looks out of focus,” she murmured.

  “Ignore the world. Focus on me,” said Steve, snuggling her head under his chin.

  A few minutes later she reluctantly pushed herself away from him. “You don’t think I should focus on a rug for the kitchen?”

  “Oh, yeah. The rug. I forgot.” He tapped her chin with his forefinger and smiled. “You look like you’ve just been kissed, did you know that?”

  She tilted the rearview mirror and took a look for herself. She did, indeed, look kissed. Her lips were red and full and moist; her cheeks and chin were scratched a little from his beard.

  She loved it. “Can I go shopping like this?”

  “If you get out of the car really, really fast, you can,” said Steve. “Otherwise, we aren’t going to buy a rug today.”

  “We have to buy a rug. We’ve done all we can do in this car.”

  “Oh, no, we haven’t,” Steve told her. He leaned toward her and beckoned. “Come here and I’ll show you a few of the other things that are possible.” His grin was positively devilish and his intent was clear.

  “I think not,” said Elizabeth regretfully.

  “Better go look at rugs, then,” said Steve.

  A rush of cold air enveloped them as they stepped onto the sidewalk. The sleet had turned to soggy snow, and big wet flakes lumped over the ice pellets to make a slippery slush underfoot. They picked their way to the carpet showroom and hauled the door open against the wind.

  The quiet inside the building was a pleasant contrast to the turbulence outside.

  “Maybe we should just stay here until spring,” said Elizabeth. “Roll up in a rug and hibernate.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Steve. “Make sure there’s room for two.” He looked at the confusing mounds of oriental carpets on the floor, the racks of Berbers on swinging arms, the tables of carpet samples. “How are you going to pick one out of all these?”

  Elizabeth examined an off-white Berber carpet with an intricate weave. “I thought I wanted a braided rug, but now I don’t know. This one’s pretty.”

  “Spaghetti sauce,” said Steve. “Ketchup. Mustard. Red wine. Grape juice.”

  Grape juice? Elizabeth jerked her fingers from the carpet as if she’d been burned.

  “Could I see something with brown in it?” she asked a saleswoman. “And green. Dark green.”

  The saleswoman pulled out a mottled shag which looked exactly like a forest floor—decaying leaves, pine needles, toadstools and all.

  Elizabeth viewed it with great distaste. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” she said. The understatement of the year. “We’ll just look around for a while, if that’s all right.”

  “Get something with red in it,” said Steve.

  “Cheerful in the mornings, these dark days,” the saleswoman agreed.

  Steve touched the glossy hair streaming over the collar of Elizabeth’s coat. Red would be a wonderful color for her, he thought. He could see her at the breakfast table, in a red wadded-silk robe, with her coffee and a pen and the crossword puzzle. Could see himself, sitting across from her, looking at her hair, still tousled from sleeping in his arms, and her lips, still red from his early-morning kisses.

  Could see the girls slopping cornflakes onto the oak, glaring at each other across the table.

  He had to woo and win Cara as well as Elizabeth. He wondered with a sigh how he would ever be able to do it. Cara was the least woo-able little character he’d ever seen. He didn’t think she was in the least susceptible to either blandishment or honest admiration. His lips twitched upward—he certainly could provide honest admiration. Cara reminded him of a feisty little terrier, all fuss and fluff, with that terrier conviction that she could fight the world and the world would give up and let her have what she wanted.

  Steve enjoyed being a father. He’d loved the baby smell of Melody, the feel of having her scrunch her drowsy little body up in his arms and snuffle into his neck while she slept. Loved having her cling to his forefinger as she took her first steps. Loved the baby babble and the spate of clear speech which followed. Loved the guiding and the teaching and the confident unthinking trust in his love and support which would give Melody the confidence to conquer any world she chose. It would be so easy for his heart to expand enough to tuck Cara in beside Melody.

  If she’d let him.

  A few minutes later, when he and Elizabeth were sifting through a pile of the braided rugs she’d come in to see, she asked, “What kind of mind could design that green horror, do you think?”

  “A cave dweller,” said Steve, still somewhat melancholy from contemplating his problems with Cara. “Who dines on insects. That carpet probably comes with its own supply of beetles.” He slipped a rug from the stack. “Here’s one. It’ll look great on that gray slate floor.”

  It was an oval braided wool, in narrow-banded shades of red, cream, dark green and navy.

 
“It’s beautiful,” said Elizabeth. She looked at the tag. “A thousand dollars! I can’t afford a thousand dollars.”

  “You can get the beetle one for 400,” Steve told her.

  “Oh, very funny.” The rug was perfect. Except for the price, which ran about 100 a linear foot.

  “Says on the wall there you can try it out for a few days.”

  “You really think I ought to buy this thing,” Elizabeth marveled. “Aren’t you the man who caviled at a three-dollar tip?”

  “I was wrong. You should always indulge your whims,” said Steve. He beckoned to the saleswoman. “May we bring this back if it doesn’t fit our kitchen?”

  “Whose whim are we indulging now?” Elizabeth asked, liking the rug better with every look. She took a charge card out of her wallet and handed it to the clerk. “Okay. I hope you’re satisfied. That’s a tenth of Cara’s tuition.”

  “So get a second job,” he said. He began to roll the rug like a sausage. “Here. Take one end.”

  The rug had looked normal on the floor. Rolled, it looked a block long and as big around as a submarine.

  “Pick it up? I don’t think so,” protested Elizabeth. “Let’s have it delivered.”

  “Nonsense,” said Steve. “Don’t wimp out on me.” He maneuvered the carpet onto one broad shoulder. “We can manage this. Let’s take it now. Pick up the other end.”

  “It’s started raining. My rug will get wet,” she said, trying again.

  “Oh, no,” said the clerk cheerfully. “It’s been treated—sheds water like a duck.”

  “Thanks a lot,” muttered Elizabeth. She struggled to heft the short end of the roll. The weight of it made her knees buckle. She hauled it onto her left shoulder. It was only slightly less heavy than a barge full of gravel.

  “Why are we doing this?” she gasped. “Do you just hate delivery vans or what?”

  Steve started for the door, with Elizabeth staggering after him, panting and clutching her burden. “I want to see what it looks like on the floor right now. I don’t want to wait for three days.”

  “This is stupid. My piano weighs less than this,” she said. “It’s giving me spots in front of my eyes. I’m sure it can’t be good for me.”

  “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, remember?” He shifted the rug forward so that he bore most of its weight. “Your grandmother told you that. Don’t you believe it?”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Only in the abstract.”

  Steve maneuvered the rug so that he could open the door of the car, then squashed its mighty bulk into submission in the back seat.

  “Now,” he said, with the air of a man who has settled things to his satisfaction. “We get to go home and do it all again, in reverse.”

  The words our kitchen echoed in Elizabeth’s head all the way home. The heft and savor of them as she formed them with her silent tongue were deep and weighty and delicious. Our kitchen meant much more than mere joint possession. She was just beginning to learn what it was like to have a man for a companion. The day-to-day confidences and sharing of concerns magically increased her comfort and decreased an isolation she hadn’t realized, until lately, that she felt.

  Thus she said, “Our kitchen?”, after they’d wrestled the rug into the house and had it in place under the table.

  “Just trying out the idea,” said Steve imperturbably. “To see how it sounds.”

  It sounded wonderful. Our kitchen, our kitchen, our kitchen sang in Elizabeth’s head like a symphonic melody. She could hear the tinkling of china, the clear ring of wineglasses, the huffing of boiling stew, hum of conversation—all the noise and commotion and laughter which composed a normal family life.

  And throbbing inexorably beneath the theme was an ominous discord orchestrated by Cara and Melody. She managed to put that out of her mind by backing against the far wall of the kitchen to view the full effect of her new purchase. The kitchen was transformed. The rich colors of the braids glowed against the old gray slate. Even the dark cabinets and woodwork seemed to take on a new energy, shining with a fresh luster under the peacock spell of the rug.

  “I’m in love,” said Elizabeth. “It’s the most gorgeous rug I ever saw. I adore it.” She gazed around the vast old room. “I’m definitely going to have the woodwork painted.”

  “Good,” said Steve. “I know a painter. Now, drive me to my car so we can poke Sammy out of his chair and take him to Lin’s.”

  “We can go in mine.”

  “You probably wouldn’t like that. I keep washing his feet, but they seem to stay muddy.”

  “I wish it would quit raining,” she said, gazing out the window at the gloomy sky and soggy landscape. “And snow instead.”

  She definitely needed Christmas.

  * * *

  Elizabeth had seen a couple of Airedale terriers, neatly and sleekly trimmed, except for their legs and mutton chop whiskers. Very elegant looking dogs, with their black saddles and red-tan curls. Big dogs, but not gigantic. More Cary Grant than Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  This memory served her well until they started up the front steps of Steve’s house, and Sammy’s basso-profundo bark shook the foundations of buildings half a block away.

  He sounded like an earthquake.

  Steve emptied his mailbox and opened the door.

  “Sit,” he said to the bouncing dog inside. He tossed the mail onto his couch and reached to pat the dog’s huge muzzle.

  Sammy sat, and sitting, his nose touched Elizabeth’s belt. He was mammoth and as furry and curly as a Scots Highland ram. His eyes twinkled up at her from his enormous head, and his tongue, which looked as long as a table runner, lolled good-naturedly out of the side of his mouth.

  “He’s sort of a cross between a sheepskin coat and a Shetland pony,” said Steve.

  “Mrrmpph,” Sammy said, looking winsome. He held up his right paw, decided that was all wrong, and switched to the left one.

  “He’s irresistible,” announced Elizabeth, by now completely captivated by the big dog’s charm. She reached out a hand to scratch behind a fuzzy ear, which was the approximate size and shape of a shovel blade. “No wonder Melody talks about him all the time.”

  Sammy pushed his head against Elizabeth’s fingers and groaned with ecstasy. Elizabeth, thus encouraged, plunged both hands into his curly pate and kept scratching. He leaned his head against her hip and relaxed against her, bit by bit, until his weight pushed her off-balance. She stepped backward and Sammy folded, boneless, to the floor. His wounded expression of disappointment, when he opened his eyes to see what had become of her, was comical.

  “Grin, Sammy,” said Steve.

  Sammy grinned. His lips stretched happily open to reveal two rows of gleaming white teeth.

  Steve took Sammy’s cheek and pinched it like a doting aunt. “Good dog,” he said.

  Sammy knew he was a good dog. He wriggled onto his back. His paws flopped. “Aowrrr,” he said, suggesting that someone scratch his tummy.

  “I’m in love,” said Elizabeth, dropping to her knees.

  “I thought you were in love with the rug,” said Steve.

  “A bagatelle. This is real love.” She leaned forward so Sammy could lick her chin. “Where in the world did you ever find a dog like this? Did you have to fight fifty families to get him for yourself?”

  “Actually, no. I got him from one of the Airedale Rescue people.”

  Elizabeth looked up. “What do you mean, rescue?”

  “I mean that some Samaritan found him on the road and picked him up and called a vet who called the rescue people.”

  “Arrmph,” Sammy complained. Steve squatted and resumed scratching where Elizabeth had left off.

  “You should have seen him,” Steve continued. “His hair was all matted, and he had on a collar he’d outgrown, skinny as he was, with a piece of rope still tied to it. He could hardly breathe and had a hard time swallowing. I’ve spent a lot of time hoping that the people who hurt him came to no go
od end.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t believe it. “But why would anybody give him up?”

  “Some people just aren’t willing to give Airedales the time they need to make good pets.” Steve shrugged. “And they’re big dogs. They act like puppies nearly forever—at least three years. Sometimes they never outgrow it, like this big doof. Most of ‘em are really smart, and they’re notorious hardheads. They can be a lot of trouble—too much trouble for people who just want a dog that snores by the fire. Especially when they’re young.”

  “So he acts like a puppy. So what?” Elizabeth crooned to Sammy, speaking in baby talk. Sammy had found a champion.

  “The so what is,” said Steve, standing up, “if they’re bored, they find some way to entertain themselves. Mostly you won’t like what they find. Sammy, for instance, goes through the house opening drawers and cabinets until he locates something interesting, then he takes it and drops it down the stairs.”

  “He can open drawers?”

  “He can open anything. That’s why I have dead bolts. He can open doors. He turns the knobs with his teeth.” Everybody had quit scratching his tummy. Sammy wheedled; no response. He whined; no response. He lumbered to his feet and stuck his nose in Elizabeth’s face. She kissed him.

  Steve grinned. “Get away from her,” he said to Sammy. “She’s mine.”

  Sammy wouldn’t.

  “Want a bagel?” said Steve.

  Sammy ran to the kitchen. When Elizabeth and Steve arrived, he was barking at the refrigerator. Steve got a frozen bagel and defrosted it in the microwave.

  “This is the flop side to the ‘lot of trouble.’ They’re natural comedians and they like company.” He fed the bagel to Sammy, who was slavering at his side. “It’s hot,” he said to the dog.

  Sammy dropped the bagel and poked at it with his nose.

  “Let’s get you those books and get out of here,” said Steve, leading the way to his office. “You can pet him all the way to Lin’s. Grab that mail for me, will you?”