Lucy held the cell phone away from her face and looked at it in disbelief. Bringing it back to her mouth, she said, “Of course not. I don’t go out with other people’s boyfriends or husbands.” Unable to resist, she added, “That’s your other daughter.”
“Lucy,” her mother said on a note of gentle scolding. “Dad and I were planning to visit Alice next week—I’m going to change our flights so we can come out earlier.”
“You don’t have to. In fact, I’d really rather you not—”
“I want to meet this Sam person.”
Lucy struggled to suppress a laugh at the way her mother had phrased it. “He’s a perfectly nice guy. In fact, he’s your dream son-in-law.”
“You’ve gotten that serious with him?”
“No … God, no … I’m not even going out with him. I just meant he’s the type of guy you’ve always wanted me to go out with. He owns a vineyard. He grows organic grapes and makes wine, and he’s helping to raise his orphaned niece.” As she spoke, Lucy looked out the windows behind the settee. She located Sam’s strapping form amid a group of men working with spades. Deferring to the heat of the day, a couple of them had removed their shirts. Sam was fiddling with a gas-powered tiller, doing something with the start cord. He paused to draw a forearm across his sweaty brow.
“Is he divorced?” her mother asked.
“Never married.”
“He sounds too perfect. What’s wrong with him?”
“Commitment avoidant.”
“Oh, they’re all that way until you make them see the light.”
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill fear of commitment. It’s a lifestyle choice.”
“Are his parents still in the picture?”
“They’ve both passed away.”
“Good, there’ll be no competition on holidays.”
“Mom!”
“I was joking,” her mother protested.
“I wonder,” Lucy said. Often with her mother, it seemed they were having two different conversations. Lucy suspected at least half of what she said had gone completely unnoticed. She continued to focus on Sam, who was pressing the primer button on the tiller to pump some gas into the motor. “You know, Mom, you’re asking a lot more questions about the guy I’m staying with than you are about my injuries.”
“Tell me what he looks like. Is he clean-shaven? Tall or short? How old is he?”
“He’s—” Lucy broke off, her mind going blank as Sam stripped off his T-shirt, blotted his face and the back of his neck with it, and tossed it to the ground. He had an amazing body, lean and long, muscle stacked on muscle.
“What is it?” came her mother’s voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Lucy managed to say, watching the tanned surface of Sam’s back ripple as he bent to pull the start cord of the tiller repeatedly. Having no luck at getting the motor to turn over, he released the handle and talked with one of the crew, his posture loose-limbed, hands braced on lean denim-clad hips. “Sorry, lost my train of thought. I’m still on pain meds.”
“We were talking about Sam,” her mother prompted.
“Oh. Yes. He’s … clean-cut. A little bit of a science geek.”
“That sounds like a nice change from the last one.”
“You mean Kevin, your future son-in-law?”
Her mother made a disgruntled sound. “That remains to be seen. It’s one of the reasons I’m coming up to see Alice. I have the feeling the situation isn’t as cut-and-dried as she claims.”
“Why—” Lucy stopped as she heard a strange, unearthly baying. She sat up a little and glanced around the room. Renfield was nowhere to be seen. A metallic clank, like a saucepan or a colander being dropped, was followed by whimpering and another prolonged howl. “Uh-oh. Mom, I have to hang up. I think the dog’s gotten into something.”
“Call me back later. I haven’t finished talking yet.”
“Okay. Gotta go.” Hanging up quickly, Lucy called Sam’s number, straining for any glimpse of Renfield. The dog sounded like he was being butchered. She heard Sam’s voice on the phone. “Lucy.”
“Something’s going on with Renfield. He’s howling. I think he’s in the kitchen, but I’m not sure.”
“I’ll be right there.”
For the minute that it took Sam to hightail it to the house, Lucy was tortured by her inability to do anything. She called Renfield’s name, and the dog responded with a disembodied whine, the banging and snorting and howling coming closer, until finally he careened into the living room.
Somehow the dog had gotten his head stuck in a rusty cylinder that defied his efforts to shake it free. He was so frantic and miserable that Lucy pushed aside her ice packs and began to calculate how she could reach him without putting any weight on her splinted leg.
“Don’t even think about moving off that sofa,” Sam said as he strode into the living room. Amused exasperation filled his voice. “Renfield, how the hell did you get into that?”
“What is it?” Lucy asked anxiously.
“A smudge pot liner.” Sam knelt on the floor and grabbed for the dog, who jerked and whimpered. “Easy, boy. Sit.
“What’s a smudge pot?”
“They used to burn kerosene in them to keep orchards warm when a frost was settling in.”
Renfield’s head was covered with black soot and grime that accentuated the folds and wrinkles of his face. The dog lunged at Sam in a frenzy of gratitude.
“Easy, boy. Calm down.” Sam petted and stroked the dog, trying to soothe him. “He must have gotten out the back door somehow. There’s a junk pile we haven’t gotten around to hauling off yet. All kinds of trouble for him to get into.”
Lucy nodded, mesmerized by the sight of a shirtless Sam, his sun-burnished muscles gleaming with perspiration.
“I’ll wash him outside,” Sam said, scowling at the soot-covered bulldog. “If I’d had any say, I’d have gotten a nice golden or a Lab … a
“You didn’t choose Renfield for yourself?”
“Hell, no. He was a rescue case that Maggie was trying to pawn off on someone. And Mark had fallen so hard for her, he volunteered to take him.”
“I think that’s sweet.”
Sam lifted his gaze heavenward. “Mark was a patsy for taking him. This dog doesn’t do tricks. He can’t keep up during a brisk walk. His vet bills rival the national debt, and he lies around the house in the places most guaranteed to pose a tripping hazard.” But as he spoke, his hands were gentle on the dog’s fur, smoothing his back, scratching his neck. Renfield closed his eyes and wheezed happily. “Come on, idiot. Let’s go out the back way.” Sam picked up the smudge pot liner and rose to his feet. He glanced at Lucy. “You’ll be okay while I wash him?”
With an effort, Lucy tore her gaze from his half-clad form and switched on her electronic tablet. “Yes, I have everything I need.”
“What are you reading?”
“A biography of Thomas Jefferson.”
