Adopt-a-Dad

The fear and distress changed in an instant. Her eyes searched his, and her mouth tightened to stubbornness. “No, Michael, I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Socks is not going to the pound. I’m sorry, but…”

“You’re not seriously suggesting we keep him? Jenny, that’s impossible.”

“I am keeping him.”

“But…”

“If you won’t let me move to the country, and if I have to stay with you, then I’m sorry, but he’ll have to stay with us, too.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, I know I’m being a pest and I know you don’t want me to stay, but you’re out all day. He won’t cause any trouble. You’ll see. You’ll hardly know he’s there. And it’s only for the next few weeks…while I need to stay.”

“Jenny, I am not a dog person.”

“You’re kidding.” She put her hand down and brought the dog’s face out from where it had been pressed against her breast. Gently, she raised it so those great brown eyes were looking straight at Michael. He stared down and tried to look away-and couldn’t.

“How can you say you’re not a dog person?” she asked reproachfully. “You look Socks in the eye and tell me that. He’s the most wonderful dog.”

“You know nothing about him.” Michael glared, and the dog-Socks-looked soulfully back. “He’s probably vicious.”

“Oh, yeah!” Her voice was mocking. “You see how terrified I am.”

“When he’s been fed he might have a totally different personality.”

The dog whimpered and licked Jenny’s hand. Good grief, he really was the strangest-looking mutt. His golden- brown hair was straggly and moth-eaten, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in years. But he gazed at Jenny with a slavish adoration that said if he had a choice of half a side of beef or Jenny, he’d choose Jenny any day. Vicious? Well, maybe not.

“Yeah, one sniff of red meat and he turns into Attila the Hun!” Jenny was seeing exactly what he was seeing. She chuckled and ran her fingers under the dog’s ears. The dog looked mutely at her. “I’d like to see that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Michael said bluntly, trying not to think about what her fingers were doing. Trying not to imagine what those fingers could do if they touched him. “For Pete’s sake, Jen, you’re probably catching all sorts of diseases right at this minute.”

“I must have already caught ’em,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been cuddling him for hours. He’s staying.”

“There’s a no-pets clause in my title,” he said, driven against the wall and still fighting, but Jenny shook her head. Her eyes were mischievous. Honestly, she was like a chameleon, flashing from one mood to the next.

“Nope. Nice try, though. The lady living next door to you in the very same block has a pug called Basil. I met her this evening and was introduced to Basil in person.”

“You met Mavis?” He stared at her, appalled.

“Yep. Is there anything wrong with that?”

Michael groaned. “Jenny, Mavis is the biggest busybody in the neighborhood. What on earth did you tell her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you tell her we were married?”

“Well, I sort of had to,” she confessed. “She kept asking, and what was I supposed to say? So I did, but it made me feel dreadful. Like it was an invasion of your privacy-to have some strange woman running around saying she’s your wife.” She struggled to her feet, still holding the dog, rejecting Michael’s hand as he made to help her. “No. I can manage on my own.” She took another deep breath, searching for words. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m afraid that’s the last time I’m going to say it. If I keep feeling guilty I’ll go under. So let’s forget the sorries, forget the guilts and just take Socks home and get on with it.”

“Take Socks home?”

“And me. And the bump.” She smiled, but there was lingering anxiety behind her eyes as if she was expecting to be slapped. This woman had been slapped more than once in her life, Michael realized, and the thought made him feel ill.

“Jen…” But she was still speaking.

“Take your wife, our unborn child and our dog home to bed,” she said gently. “Welcome to domesticity, Michael Lord. We somehow seem to have jumped right in at the deep end, but I’m afraid there’s nothing for us to do but to swim. Together.”

CHAPTER NINE

SWIMMING was a very good description of what came next. Michael carried Socks home. “He’s too weak to walk, and I’ll carry him if you won’t,” Jenny decreed, so he had no choice but to carry the misbegotten bag of bones. By the time they reached the front door they were both scratching. Socks, it seemed, came with friends. Jenny fed him four TV dinners, which appeared to hardly ease his hunger, and then they had no choice but to fill the tub and soak off the unwanted visitors.

Socks had agreed entirely with his dining arrangements. The bathroom plans, however, were not so much to his liking. Jenny had been right in deciding there wasn’t a vicious bone in his body, but Socks had his own way of objecting. By the time he was up to his neck in water and soaped to the eyebrows, his two new owners were soaked to the skin.

“There’s no need for you to stay,” Michael insisted, aware that Jenny must be exhausted after sitting for so long on the riverbank. “Go shower and change.”

“You can handle him?”

“Sure I can handle him.” Michael fixed Socks with a look. “Can’t I, Socks?”

In answer, Socks shook himself again, and water sprayed from one end of the laundry room to the other.

“I’ll leave you boys together then-to bond.” Jenny chuckled, and retired to her own room.

BOND. HA! The only thing bonding was dirt. Socks was filthy, with ingrained grime that looked as if it hadn’t been touched for decades. Michael used laundry soap and elbow grease, and more laundry soap and more elbow grease, and after fifteen minutes of scrubbing, he finally figured he had nice clean fleas. Too bad about the dog. Still he scrubbed on, knowing it was expected of him.

Which was truly strange. He didn’t do things because women expected him to. Did he?

Finally Jenny reappeared, flushed from a hot shower. To Michael’s amazement she was enveloped in his bathrobe and was holding a bottle of dog shampoo and a container of flea powder like trophies of war.

“How about this?” she asked gleefully, bouncing into the room. It was hard to believe she was eight months pregnant. “It’s courtesy of Mavis. I figured we needed proper stuff to kill the little suckers.”

Michael stared. He was feeling itchy and scratchy. He was soaked to the skin-he’d decided to hold Socks under until every flea was drowned-and his eyes were suddenly riveted to this bright-eyed, triumphant, pregnant waif of a woman. Wearing his bathrobe.

She took his breath away.

“You didn’t visit Mavis like that?” His voice came out sounding like a croak.

“I sure did, and I even woke her up.” Jenny’s eyes twinkled with guilty mischief. “But she doesn’t mind. Mavis hasn’t had so much excitement in years. What with your callers earlier this evening-I gather they were sniffing around asking questions-and me wearing your bathrobe and announcing we were married, I doubt she’ll get back to sleep all night.”

He groaned. “Great! It’ll be all over the neighborhood by dawn.”

“Mmm.” She cast a doubtful look at him. “Does that bother you?”

“No, but…”

“I’m not saying sorry anymore, Michael,” she said resolutely. “We’re in this together. Can I shampoo him now while you have a shower?”