“You’ve gone absolutely pale.”
I sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Bob reminded me that he and I used to have fun together, too. And he told me to think about that.”
“That’s not good.” Bertie shook her head. “Not good at all.”
“What do you suppose he meant by it?”
Aunt Peg and Bertie both stared at me as though I was nuts.
“I should think that’s perfectly obvious,” said Peg.
“He wants you back,” said Bertie.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Two minutes ago, he was all but drooling over you.”
“That’s just testosterone. A knee-jerk reaction. It doesn’t mean a thing. But a man who comes all the way from Texas to see his ex-wife—”
“And his son,” I interjected.
“Now that means something,” Bertie continued as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“He came for your wedding. That’s what he said.”
“And you believed him?”
“Well,” I conceded, “he is a little early.”
Aunt Peg flipped Faith over and went to work on her other side. “Six weeks early! You don’t suppose we’ll have to put up with him all that time?”
“He told me he was planning to stay with Frank.” Since Peg was busy brushing, I got out the comb, knitting needle, and tiny colored rubber bands we’d need to put in Faith’s topknot.
Bertie looked thoughtful. “Frank hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.”
“Bertie? I’ve got something for you, sweetheart!”
The voice, high-pitched and dulcet, belonged to Terry Denunzio, friend, gay guy, and assistant to professional handler Crawford Langley. He strutted up the aisle, a small blue envelope held aloft in his hand. Terry doesn’t seem to know how to walk, but he does sashay beautifully.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” he sang, inclining his face toward each of ours in passing.
“What is it?” asked Bertie. “Someone’s passing me notes now? Have we gone back to high school?”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” I said. If the note was from Bob, I was going to kill him.
“No secret,” said Terry. “It’s from Sara Bentley. She was here earlier, showing that little dust mop Tidy Bowl in obedience.”
“Titus,” I corrected.
People who show in breed often think obedience dogs are inferior specimens. People who show in obedience tend to look down on us. Go figure.
“What ever ,” Terry sniffed. “She had to leave, but she asked me to pass this along to you when I got a chance.”
“Thanks. It’s probably something about the arrangements for the wedding.”
“And since I’m here anyway,” Terry continued, “Crawford would like you to know that Wanda Francis is judging like a woman who wants to be first in line at the lunch buffet. Her ring is running early, and if your MinPin misses its class and breaks the major, your name will be mud.”
“Yikes!” Bertie grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into her tack box, then flicked open a crate door and beckoned out a small red dog. “I’m on my way.”
“As well you should be.” Terry grinned after her. There’s nothing he enjoys more than shaking things up.
Reaching down, he cupped a hand under Faith’s jaw. She gazed up at him adoringly. Like all the best handlers, Terry has a wonderful hand on a dog.
“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “Sondra likes pretty. Today’s going to be your day.”
“Don’t say that!” Aunt Peg wailed. Dog shows are the one thing she’s superstitious about. “You’ll jinx us.”
“Not a chance.” His gaze slid in my direction. “Besides you’ve been working on finishing this nice bitch for so long, even the rest of us are beginning to root for you. Ta!”
Terry sauntered off. I couldn’t decide whether his parting shot had been meant as insult or encouragement, which was about par for the course where Terry was concerned.
Between us, Aunt Peg and I put up Faith’s tight show ring topknot, using a knitting needle to part the long, silky hair, and fingers and comb to arrange the bubble of hair over her eyes.
I sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Bob reminded me that he and I used to have fun together, too. And he told me to think about that.”
“That’s not good.” Bertie shook her head. “Not good at all.”
“What do you suppose he meant by it?”
Aunt Peg and Bertie both stared at me as though I was nuts.
“I should think that’s perfectly obvious,” said Peg.
“He wants you back,” said Bertie.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Two minutes ago, he was all but drooling over you.”
“That’s just testosterone. A knee-jerk reaction. It doesn’t mean a thing. But a man who comes all the way from Texas to see his ex-wife—”
“And his son,” I interjected.
“Now that means something,” Bertie continued as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“He came for your wedding. That’s what he said.”
“And you believed him?”
“Well,” I conceded, “he is a little early.”
Aunt Peg flipped Faith over and went to work on her other side. “Six weeks early! You don’t suppose we’ll have to put up with him all that time?”
“He told me he was planning to stay with Frank.” Since Peg was busy brushing, I got out the comb, knitting needle, and tiny colored rubber bands we’d need to put in Faith’s topknot.
Bertie looked thoughtful. “Frank hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.”
“Bertie? I’ve got something for you, sweetheart!”
The voice, high-pitched and dulcet, belonged to Terry Denunzio, friend, gay guy, and assistant to professional handler Crawford Langley. He strutted up the aisle, a small blue envelope held aloft in his hand. Terry doesn’t seem to know how to walk, but he does sashay beautifully.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” he sang, inclining his face toward each of ours in passing.
“What is it?” asked Bertie. “Someone’s passing me notes now? Have we gone back to high school?”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” I said. If the note was from Bob, I was going to kill him.
“No secret,” said Terry. “It’s from Sara Bentley. She was here earlier, showing that little dust mop Tidy Bowl in obedience.”
“Titus,” I corrected.
People who show in breed often think obedience dogs are inferior specimens. People who show in obedience tend to look down on us. Go figure.
“What ever ,” Terry sniffed. “She had to leave, but she asked me to pass this along to you when I got a chance.”
“Thanks. It’s probably something about the arrangements for the wedding.”
“And since I’m here anyway,” Terry continued, “Crawford would like you to know that Wanda Francis is judging like a woman who wants to be first in line at the lunch buffet. Her ring is running early, and if your MinPin misses its class and breaks the major, your name will be mud.”
“Yikes!” Bertie grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into her tack box, then flicked open a crate door and beckoned out a small red dog. “I’m on my way.”
“As well you should be.” Terry grinned after her. There’s nothing he enjoys more than shaking things up.
Reaching down, he cupped a hand under Faith’s jaw. She gazed up at him adoringly. Like all the best handlers, Terry has a wonderful hand on a dog.
“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “Sondra likes pretty. Today’s going to be your day.”
“Don’t say that!” Aunt Peg wailed. Dog shows are the one thing she’s superstitious about. “You’ll jinx us.”
“Not a chance.” His gaze slid in my direction. “Besides you’ve been working on finishing this nice bitch for so long, even the rest of us are beginning to root for you. Ta!”
Terry sauntered off. I couldn’t decide whether his parting shot had been meant as insult or encouragement, which was about par for the course where Terry was concerned.
Between us, Aunt Peg and I put up Faith’s tight show ring topknot, using a knitting needle to part the long, silky hair, and fingers and comb to arrange the bubble of hair over her eyes.
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