Wild in the Field

hand. By then, her heart was thumping like an alarm clock under water, a loud thud thud thud that she couldn’t ignore. She was well aware she didn’t have an immediate way to pay for all this-except with savings she could ill afford, while she was still out of work. But sometimes a woman had to invest in her future.

She’d failed to do that before, she realized.

She had one more stop to make before driving to Pete’s house, and it was something that had to be well thought out and couldn’t be rushed. Then, all her clothes and purchases had to be stashed in the trunk to make room for the ninety-pound present parked in the back seat. It wasn’t a present she would have chosen for just anyone. In fact, it wasn’t a present she’d normally give to her worst enemy. But these were unique circumstances.

As she drove the final mile to Pete’s house, she had to swallow every few seconds because her throat kept drying up. It wasn’t that easy to build up her courage. She kept thinking of all the messages he’d given her that she’d been too self-centered to hear. He thought she’d only wanted him for sex. He had no idea how much she valued him-no idea what she felt for him at all.

Now-when it was obvious, and could be too late-she realized that’s what a man would think whose ex-wife had cheated on him.

It’s not that she’d only cared about herself. From the start, she’d worried herself sick about his sons-especially that they were having a hard time trusting a woman because of their mother’s behavior. But somehow she’d failed to include Pete in that worry. He was so damned strong that it was hard to think of him as vulnerable, but he was the one who assumed a woman would walk on him, not be there for him. Not stay.

When she pulled into his driveway, she’d gotten over the first case of hiccups, but there was no one in sight. Naturally, fresh after lunch, everyone was likely to be outside doing something. Since the far barn doors were gaping open, she suspected at least someone was close by.

Hopefully, Pete. Please, let it be Pete and let it not be too late.

She climbed out of the car and then slowly, carefully opened up the back door. The bloodhound stretched out took almost the entire back seat. She was young. Barely two years. And although she opened her sad, mournful eyes when Camille bent down in front of her, she showed no inclination to budge.

“Hey, Camille!” Simon, loping out of the far barn, suddenly spotted her and came galloping over. Then stopped dead. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What happened to you?”

“Um…”

Simon had always been the more sensitive twin. Immediately he looked stricken that he might have hurt her feelings. “Look, Cam. Don’t be feeling bad. It’ll grow. You won’t always look like this. It’ll be okay.” Tentatively he patted her on the back. “Really, I know how you feel. That first haircut Dad makes us get before going back to school-it’s always a killer. You feel like a complete dork. Not that you look like a dork,” he said swiftly, reassuringly. “I’m just saying- I can still tell that it’s really you.”

“Um…”

“And look. Just because you look like a woman and all…that’s not the worst thing, you know? I mean, you could have leprosy. You could have mange. Think about it. Looking like a woman isn’t the worst thing.”

She touched two fingers to her temples. Possibly this was proof that her transformation had been successful, but conversations like this with the boys still tended to leave her speechless. “Um-”

Simon suddenly noticed the open car door and chanced to glance in. “Holy cow. Who’s that?”

She took a breath. “Where’s your dad?”

“He and Sean are at this horse place that sells Morgans. They’ll be back before dinner. And Gramps is in town, because this is the afternoon he has his blood pressure checked.”

“Okay.” Sometimes even desperate plans took some rolling readjustments. If she couldn’t immediately see Pete, she had to do something. Perhaps she’d start with taking Simon into her confidence a bit. “This is Hortense, Simon. She’s depressed.”

“Yow. I can see that.”

“Well, actually, I think all bloodhounds look depressed. But this one really is. She lost her owner about a month ago-Jerry Abrahams, you know, the cop? He adored her. She adored him. And she just can’t seem to stop grieving. Can’t seem to get her life together. Can’t seem to find the get-up-and-go to, um, get out of the back seat.”

“Yeah?” Simon reached in, and petted the dog’s floppy ears. Hortense opened her eyes and let out a gusty, soulful sigh, but didn’t move. “She is so cool.”

“I think your dad needs this dog.”

“Huh?” Simon’s jaw dropped, but then he stood up and looked at her. “Oh, I get it. Revenge.”

“No, no. I’d never put an innocent animal between me and revenge,” she assured him. “This is an honest thing. I was at the vet’s a couple days ago to get Miss Priss her shots. That’s how I heard about Hortense. But it was late this morning when I called the vet again and was thinking of your dad. The thing is, this dog is running out of chances. She’s losing strength, losing heart. Either she finds someone to help her get over her grief, or she just might not make it. And your dad, Simon… Maybe no one in the universe is better at helping someone like that than your dad.”

Simon stuck his hands in his jeans pocket. “That’s a lot of horse manure,” he said admiringly. “You’re really gonna stick my dad with that dog?”

“I am. With your help. I’d like to get her inside, where it’s cool, and get her a bowl of water.”

“Sure.”

She gulped. “Maybe this was impulsive. But I think it’s a good idea. To be honest, I thought it was a great idea. But I’ll listen to you, Simon. If you and Sean think I’m out of my mind…”

Simon quickly shook his head. “No, no. Hey, Cam, I’m totally on your side. So will Sean be. This is the coolest idea on the planet. He’s going to love Hortense. And so are we. And we’ll all help get her heart back, you know? God. Sean’s going to be over the moon. You can’t imagine how happy this is going to make him. And Dad…”

“On your dad,” she interrupted carefully, “if he has any problem with this, you can tell him to bring me back the dog. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind leaving a message for me…tell him I’ll be having dinner around seven. He doesn’t have to come. But just tell him that I’ll set an extra plate if he wants to talk.”

As she drove back home, her heart seemed to be beating harder than a shaky drum, yet she told herself nothing had gone that badly. She hadn’t seen Pete directly, but there was no immediate help for that. She’d set some things in motion that had to be. And there was one other good thing, because Simon had been totally disgusted with how she looked. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? And if Simon thought she looked bad, Sean would think she looked worse. So that was extra heartening.

Back at the cottage, she put up with Killer and Miss Priss whining about her absence, but after petting them, she immediately headed for the house. Thankfully Violet was knee-deep in customers in the Herb Haven, so there was nothing stopping her from raiding the house. She carted two armloads of goodies back to the cottage. In the kitchen, she started a simmering French stew with a dash of lavender, baby carrots, sauterne and pearl onions. It was a little too early to make a fresh salad, but she put together a chocolate dip with fresh strawberries.

The clock seemed to be ticking so fast. She dragged the table outside, where it’d be cool and shady in the early evening. She whisked on a blue-and-white tablecloth, then two settings of her mother’s silverware and her grandmother’s silver candlesticks. Last, she added white lilacs, setting them in jars in the kitchen and living room and on the table.

She checked on the food, glanced at the clock, then ran for the bath. Both animals seemed to think she wanted company in the bathroom. They supervised her entire bath, from the face mask to the shaving legs routine. They fled a safe distance during the pedicure and manicure, but homed back in while she was choosing clothes from her shopping expedition. Last came makeup-and there was a time she’d been pretty darn good with face paints.

By then Miss Priss had leaped up on the sink to insure she didn’t miss any of the exciting action, whereas Killer had dropped down to all fours and was snoring from boredom.

“He may not come,” she told the cat.

Miss Priss batted at the mascara, tipping it off onto the floor.

She picked it up. “I don’t know if he’ll understand the message, about the dog. She was like me. Grieving so hard that she stopped living, stopped wanting to live. It’s Pete who shook me out of that, you know. Not all the people who were so kind. Pete. Who wasn’t kind.”

Miss Priss found the lip liner, and jumped down from the sink with her prize between her teeth-at least until