Sometimes I felt that Malcolm went a little too far in his attempts to be helpful. Apart from the broken collarbone, I was a healthy, independent woman, and I liked doing things for myself.
In just four more weeks, I could. As soon as the sling was off, I’d be able to cook a proper meal, bake something more complicated than oatmeal cookies, and dress in clothing with buttons and zippers instead of shapeless elastic-waisted pants and pullovers. I’d be able to fix my hair properly, and prune the hedges, and mulch the vegetable patch.
Of course, Malcolm would have gladly handled the pruning and the mulching if I asked. He loved gardening as much as I did and had a particular talent with hostas. Only the day before, he’d ordered some miniature varieties that he felt would do particularly well in the shady bed under the front window. I’d never had much success with that planter before and could hardly wait for the new plants to arrive. The week before that, he’d raked out all the rotted winter leaves. I was so grateful.
I wanted the garden to be in tip-top shape for the ball, and spring cleanup was always such a big chore. But not being able to do it myself was frustrating. Even so, I knew I would miss Malcolm’s company once I was out of the sling. Funny how quickly I’d gotten used to having him around.
“What?” Malcolm asked, giving me a curious look when he opened the car door.
“Nothing,” I said, quickly shifting my gaze. “I was just thinking how much I appreciate your help. You’re good company, Malcolm.”
“Well, thank you,” he said with a matter-of-fact little nod. “So are you.”
The bells on the pet shop door jingled to announce our entrance. Sylvia, who was kneeling down on the floor, stocking a shelf with kitty litter, got up to greet us.
“Just in time,” she said. “I was going to call you later today.”
She walked behind the counter, opened the register, pulled out two envelopes, and handed them to me.
“What’s this?”
“The first one is a check for one hundred forty-five made out to the rescue, proceeds from the sales of eight dog jackets.”
“Oh. We only sold eight?”
“Only? Nan, this is a very small shop. That’s about a thirty percent increase for my jackets sales in the same month last year. My customers, few though they are, love your dog jackets.”
“You’re right, Sylvia. Every little bit helps, doesn’t it? But it’s a good thing the Dogmother’s Ball is coming up. I don’t think we can balance Rainbow Gate’s budget by selling dog jackets.”
“The ball will be a big success,” Sylvia said confidently. “Good thing you brought more flyers, we went through the first batch so quick. A few of my customers said they’re planning to come. That other envelope has two checks for tickets. One is from the Olneys, sweet old couple, but they don’t have a computer so I said I’d give you their reservation. Mine’s in there too.”
“That’s great, Sylvia. I’ll add three more tickets to the list. Or is it four?”
“Oh, no,” Sylvia said. “Just three. Unfortunately, I’m between boyfriends. Have been since . . . let me see now.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “I believe it was the Reagan administration. But, hey, if any nice, single, animal-loving guys of a certain age show up without a date, feel free to seat them next to me.”
“Will do.”
Sylvia laughed. “I’m just joking. I’ve been alone so long that if you actually did find me a date, I doubt I’d know what to do with him. At this point, I’ve decided that dogs are better company than most men—so much more obedient. I never could train my husbands to sit, let alone stay. Should have had all three of them fixed on day one.”
She laughed again and closed the drawer on the cash register.
“What about you, Nan? Do you have a date to the ball?”
“A date? Me? Oh, no—”
“She does,” Malcolm said, heaving a twenty-five-pound bag of kibble onto the counter. “She’s going with me.”
* * *
Leaving the pet shop, we drove a good two miles before I worked up the nerve to say anything.
“Malcolm, when you told Sylvia that we were . . . going to the ball together. I was—” I cleared my throat. “What exactly did you mean by that?”
Malcolm glanced toward me with an amused expression, like he was someone waiting for the punch line of something he’d just figured out must be a joke.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I meant we were going to go together. You are going to the ball. And I am going to the ball. And, this being the case, it only makes sense that we’d go together. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
I stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to state the obvious instead of forcing me to spell it out. He didn’t.
“Malcolm,” I said, “you know what I mean. There’s together, as in two people being at the same location at the same time, and then there’s, you know, together.”
“Ahh . . .” He looked over his shoulder before moving into the left turn lane. “I see. Well, I was thinking we could go together,” he said, mimicking my emphasis and intensity. If I wasn’t so flustered, I might have thought it was funny.
“Oh, I see.”
Frowning, Malcolm glanced at me again before making the turn. “Is that a problem? I’ve really enjoyed your company and getting to know you better over these last few weeks. I assumed you felt the same. But if I misread the situation—”
“No, no. But, well . . . It’s like Sylvia said. I haven’t been involved with a man since the Reagan administration—in a romantic
