Luci ducked behind her mother’s knees.
“Thank you!” Olivia said proudly. She apparently thought nothing of the fact that she was standing in the Goodwins’ formal living room surrounded by a sea of guests, any of whom could be allergic to or afraid of dogs. Like himself, for instance. “He’s Luci’s therapy dog. We take him pretty much everywhere we go.”
So the dog attended more than just birthday parties.
“And what kind of dog is… Buster?” Perry inquired.
Olivia turned to Luci, but the child said nothing. “Pure mutt,” Olivia answered.
“Huh.” Perry was no expert, but he would’ve guessed wolfhound mixed with mastiff. Or some kind of Rottweiler jumble. Impossible to insure. High incidence of bites.
Emma—unaffected by the fact that whatever the beast was, it had pressed itself against her—stroked its head absently. “We were just about to sing happy birthday. Do you like cake?” she asked Luci.
The child glanced uncertainly at her mother.
“Who doesn’t?” Olivia answered, again for both of them. She turned to Luci. “Go ahead with Emma. Mommy will be right there.”
Perry watched in horror as his wife and daughter whisked the child to the dessert table, as if there was absolutely nothing amiss leaving him standing alone with the new girlfriend and her uninsurable dog. “Would you like some cake?” he asked Olivia, unsure of what else to say. “Or would he?” Perry gestured to the dog.
Olivia seemed to find this wildly funny and tossed her head back. The trill that followed was crisp and girlish. Again, Perry was momentarily entranced.
“I’m sorry Luci didn’t answer you or Emma. She has a condition that makes it hard for her to talk in public places.” She glanced down at her shoes, which Perry saw were poppy red.
“Oh. What kind of condition?”
She glanced back up at Perry. “Selective mutism. It started when she was two. We have a counselor who specializes in speech pathology, but it really comes down to time and practice. And me.” Her voice drifted, and Perry found himself leaning in.
But suddenly there was Jake, blue eyes gleaming. He took the leash from Olivia’s hand and slid his arm around her waist. “Perry! How’s it going?” There was a lightness about his face. He turned to Olivia. “My big brother is boring you to death, isn’t he? Should I get you coffee to keep you awake?”
Again, there was that trill of laughter from her throat. “Perry and I are doing just fine, aren’t we?” She grinned at him.
“Just fine,” Perry echoed, though he wasn’t so sure. He glanced around. Amelia was so much better at these things. “You know, Nana was trying to get to the door to greet you. She almost fell.” He paused, aware that he was saying this in front of Olivia and perhaps best not. “Have you said hello to her yet?”
Jake’s tone flattened. “She was the first one we said hello to.” Already Perry could feel his little brother pulling away. He hadn’t wanted to start things off like this, but it had always been the way of their relationship. Jake did what Jake did, and Perry was left to sweep up behind him.
Olivia put her hands together. “I’d better go check on Luci. Perry, it was nice to meet you, finally.”
To Perry’s dismay, she did not take her dog but instead glided toward the dining room, where everyone seemed to be gathering. As if on cue, a large glowing cake was carried out, illuminating the faces around the table. Upon seeing Olivia, Perry and Jake’s mother waved her over, pulling her into the family fold.
Jake shook his head. “Isn’t she something?”
Perry didn’t know where to begin. “Is that an accent I heard?”
“Her father is French.”
“So she’s from France?”
“Yeah. She was born there. But she’s lived in New York for most of her life.” He frowned. “She’s American. I think.”
“You think? And her daughter…”
“Luci. Isn’t she cute?”
She was, no doubt. But that wasn’t what Perry was getting at. Before he could say anything else, Jake grabbed both his shoulders. “You can’t tell the others. But I’m going to marry her, Perry.”
“Marry her?” Perry choked.
From the dining room voices rose in a lopsided rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
“Why not? She’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Jake shouted over the singing. He tossed back the remains of his beer, handed Buster’s leash to Perry, and set off for the dining room with a look of foolish love plastered on his face.
Phoebe
It was her fault that they’d bought the musty fixer-upper. It was probably also her fault they were two months behind schedule and already squeezing the budget. And yet she’d do it all over again. If only she could get her paint samples and get the hell out of the hardware store in time to pick up the boys from preschool.
The woman in front of her in line at the paint design counter would not shut up. Phoebe checked her watch. Five more minutes—that’s all she could afford. She glanced at the color strips in her hand, trying to channel the soothing mood of her blue-and-gray palette. All right, maybe ten more minutes.
“I just love orange. Such a cheerful color. With all the horrors on the news these days, everyone needs a pop of color, don’t you think?”
Phoebe eyeballed the woman in front of her. Tan pants, gray shirt. Even her sensible shoes were of the sand-colored variety. Hypocrite.
The sales associate ignored Phoebe’s pointed gaze and nodded encouragingly at the “greige” woman. “Have you looked at our Aura line? The right shade of orange or red can be positively galvanizing.”
Phoebe would have liked very much to galvanize the woman right out of line. She could not be late again for the twins’ preschool pickup. Sweet, smiling Mrs. McAllister had not been pleased when she showed up late last Friday. Listening to Phoebe’s convoluted excuse for her delay, Mrs. McAllister had distractedly twisted her alphabet necklace until Phoebe feared it would burst. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Riley. But our school policy is that if parents are later than fifteen minutes, we have to place the boys in the extended hours program.”
Upon hearing that, the boys had leaned against Mrs. McAllister’s pillowy side and glared up at their mother. How quickly toddler alliance shifted. And from her own offspring. “I’m sorry.” Phoebe groveled. “It won’t happen again.” The problem was, she knew it would.
Finally, the woman in front of her paid for her orange paint and vacated her place in line. Phoebe surged forward. “I’d like some samples, please.”
The saleswoman smiled as she ticked through Phoebe’s choices. “Sea Salt. Tranquil Moments. Healing Aloe. Classic colors.”
Phoebe beamed. Her favorite was Healing Aloe. It conjured something warm and gooey Phoebe could smear across her face while she sprawled in a hammock.
“I love the names,” her mother, Jane, had said when Phoebe shared her paint chips the evening before at her grandmother Elsie’s birthday party. It was after all the guests had left, and the family lingered in the kitchen, picking at the remains of the hors d’oeuvre trays. Perry had winced. “Tranquil Moments? Sounds like new-age voodoo nonsense, to me.”