Every now and then, one of the wives would get up to check on the kids. Laird, Joe, and Matt, on the other hand, reserved their child-rearing duties at times like these to periodically raising their voices in hopes of calming down the kids or preventing them from teasing or accidentally hurting one another. Sure, one of the kids would throw a tantrum now and then, but most problems were solved with a quick kiss on a scraped knee or a hug that was as tender to watch from a distance as it must have been for the kid to receive.
Travis looked around the table, pleased that his childhood friends not only had become good husbands and fathers, but were still a part of his life. It didn’t always turn out that way. At thirty-two, he knew that life was sometimes a gamble, and he’d survived more than his share of accidents and falls, some of which should have inflicted far more serious bodily injury than they had. But it wasn’t just that. Life was unpredictable. Others he’d known growing up had already died in car accidents, been married and divorced, found themselves addicted to drugs or booze, or simply moved away from this tiny town, their faces already blurring in his memory. What were the odds that the four of them—who’d known one another since kindergarten—would find themselves in their early thirties still spending weekends together? Pretty small, he thought. But somehow, after hanging together through all the adolescent acne and girl troubles and pressure from their parents, then heading off to four different colleges with differing career goals, they had each, one by one, moved back here to Beaufort. They were more like family than friends, right down to coded expressions and shared experiences that no outsiders could ever fully understand.
And miraculously, the wives got along, too. They’d come from different backgrounds and different parts of the state, but marriage, motherhood, and the endless gossip of small-town America were more than enough to keep them chatting regularly on the phone and bonding like long-lost sisters. Laird had been the first to marry—he and Allison had tied the knot the summer after they graduated from Wake Forest; Joe and Megan walked the aisle a year later, after falling in love during their senior year at North Carolina. Matt, who’d gone to Duke, met Liz here in Beaufort, and they were married a year after that. Travis had been the best man in all three weddings.
Some things had changed in the past few years, of course, largely because of the new additions to the families. Laird wasn’t always available to go mountain biking, Joe couldn’t join Travis on the spur of the moment to go skiing in Colorado as he used to, and Matt had all but given up trying to keep up with him on most things. But that was okay. They were all still available enough, and among the three of them—and with enough planning—he was still able to make the most of his weekends.
Lost in thought, Travis hadn’t realized that the conversation had lapsed.
“Did I miss something?”
“I asked if you’d talked to Monica lately,” Megan said, her tone letting Travis know he was in trouble. All six of them, he thought, took a bit too much interest in his love life. The trouble with married people was that they seemed to believe that everyone they knew should get married. Every woman Travis dated was thus subjected to subtle, though unyielding, evaluation, especially by Megan. She was usually the ringleader at moments like these, always trying to figure out what made Travis tick when it came to women. And Travis, of course, loved nothing more than to push her buttons in return.
“Not recently,” he said.
“Why not? She’s nice.”
She’s also more than a little neurotic, Travis thought. But that was beside the point.
“She broke up with me, remember?”
“So? It doesn’t mean she doesn’t want you to call.”
“I thought that’s exactly what it meant.”
Megan, along with Allison and Liz, stared at him as if he were just plain dense. The guys, as usual, seemed to be enjoying this. It was a regular feature of their evenings.
“But you were fighting, right?”
“So?”
“Did you ever think she might have simply broken up with you because she was angry?”
“I was angry, too.”
“Why?’
“She wanted me to see a therapist.”
“And let me guess—you said you didn’t need to see one.”
“The day I need to see a therapist is the day you see me hike up my skirt and crochet some mittens.”
Joe and Laird laughed, but Megan’s eyebrows shot up. Megan, they all knew, watched Oprah nearly every day.
“You don’t think men need therapy?”
“I know I don’t.”
“But generally speaking?”
“Since I’m not a general, I really couldn’t say.”
Megan leaned back in her chair. “I think Monica might be on to something. If you ask me, I think you have commitment issues.”
“Then I’ll make sure not to ask you.”
Megan leaned forward. “What’s the longest you’ve ever dated someone? Two months? Four months?”
Travis pondered the question. “I dated Olivia for almost a year.”
“I don’t think she’s talking about high school,” Laird cracked. Occasionally, his friends enjoyed throwing him under the bus, so to speak.
“Thanks, Laird,” Travis said.
“What are friends for?”
“You’re changing the subject,” Megan reminded him.
Travis drummed his fingers on his leg. “I guess I’d have to say . . . I can’t remember.”
“In other words, not long enough to remember?”
“What can I say? I’ve yet to meet any woman who could measure up to any of you.”
Despite the growing darkness, he could tell she was pleased by his words. He’d learned long ago that flattery was his best defense at moments like these, especially since it was usually sincere. Megan, Liz, and Allison were terrific. All heart and loyalty and generous common sense.
“Well, just so you know, I like her,” she said.
“Yeah, but you like everyone I date.”
“No, I don’t. I didn’t like Leslie.”
None of the wives had liked Leslie. Matt, Laird, and Joe, on the other hand, hadn’t minded her company at all, especially when she wore her bikini. She was definitely a beauty, and while she wasn’t the type he’d ever marry, they’d had a lot of fun while it lasted.
“I’m just saying that I think you should give her a call,” she persisted.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. He rose from the table, angling for an escape. “Anyone need another beer?”
Joe and Laird lifted their bottles in unison; the others shook their heads. Travis started for the cooler before hesitating near the sliding glass door of his house. He darted inside and changed the CD, listening to the strains of new music filtering out over the yard as he brought the beers back to the table. By then, Megan, Allison, and Liz were already chatting about Gwen, the woman who did their hair. Gwen always had good stories, many of which concerned the illicit predilections of the town’s citizens.
Travis nursed his beer silently, looking out over the water.
“What are you thinking about?” Laird asked.
“It’s not important.”
“What is it?”
Travis turned toward him. “Did you ever notice how some colors are used for people’s names but others aren’t?”
“What are you talking about?”
“White and Black. Like Mr. White, the guy who owns the tire store. And Mr. Black, our third-grade teacher. Or even Mr. Green from the game Clue. But you never hear of someone named Mr. Orange or Mr. Yellow. It’s like some colors make good names, but other colors just sound stupid. You know what I mean?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.”
“Me neither. Not until just a minute ago, I mean. But it’s kind of strange, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Laird finally agreed.
Both men were quiet for a moment. “I told you it wasn’t importan
t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Was I right?”
“Yep.”
When little Josie had her second temper tantrum in a fifteen-minute span—it was a little before nine—Allison scooped her into her arms and gave Laird the look, the one that said it was time to go so they could get the kids in bed. Laird didn’t bother arguing, and when he stood up from the table, Megan glanced at Joe, Liz nodded at Matt, and Travis knew the evening was at an end. Parents might believe themselves to be the bosses, but in the end it was the kids who made the rules.
He supposed he could have tried to talk one of his friends into staying, and might even have gotten one to agree, but he had long since grown accustomed to the fact that his friends lived their lives by a different schedule from his. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Stephanie, his younger sister, might swing by later. She was coming in from Chapel Hill, where she was working toward a master’s degree in biochemistry. Though she would stay at their parents’ place, she was usually wired after the drive and in the mood to talk, and their parents would already be in bed. Megan, Joe, and Liz rose and started to clean up the table, but Travis waved them off.
“I’ll get it in a while. No big deal.”
A few minutes later, two SUVs and a minivan were being loaded with children. Travis stood on the front porch and waved as they pulled out of the driveway.
When they were gone, Travis wandered back to the stereo, sorted through the CDs again, and chose Tattoo You by the Rolling Stones, then cranked up the volume. He pulled at another beer on his way back to his chair, threw his feet up on the table, and leaned back. Moby sat beside him.
“Just you and me for a while,” he said. “What time do you think Stephanie will be rolling in?”
Moby turned away. Unless Travis said the words walk or ball or go for a ride or come get a bone, Moby wasn’t much interested in anything he had to say.
“Do you think I should call her to see if she’s on her way yet?”
Moby continued to stare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. She’ll get here when she gets here.”
He sat drinking his beer and stared out over the water. Behind him, Moby whined. “You want to go get your ball?” he finally said.
Moby stood so quickly, he almost knocked over the chair.
It was the music, she thought, that proved to be the clincher in what had already been one of the most miserable weeks of her life. Loud music. Okay, nine o’clock on a Saturday night wasn’t so bad, especially since he obviously had company, and ten o’clock wasn’t all that unreasonable, either. But eleven o’clock? When he was alone and playing fetch with his dog?
From her back deck, she could see him just sitting there in the same shorts he’d worn all day, feet on the table, tossing the ball and staring at the river. What on earth could he be thinking?
Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on him; she should simply ignore him. It was his house, right? King of the castle and all that. He could do what he wanted. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he had neighbors, including her, and she had a castle, too, and neighbors were supposed to be considerate. And truth be told, he’d crossed the line. Not just because of the music. In all honesty, she liked the music he was listening to and usually didn’t really care how loud or how long he played it. The problem was with his dog, Nobby, or whatever he called him. More specifically, what his dog had done to her dog.
Molly, she was certain, was pregnant.
Molly, her beautiful, sweet, purebred collie of prize-winning lineage—the first thing she’d bought herself after finishing her physician assistant rotations at the Eastern Virginia School of Medicine and the kind of dog she’d always wanted—had noticeably gained weight during the last couple of weeks. Even more alarming, she noticed that Molly’s nipples seemed to be growing. She could feel them now whenever Molly rolled over to have her tummy scratched. And she was moving more slowly, too. Add it up, and Molly was definitely on her way to birthing a litter of puppies that no one on earth was ever going to want. A boxer and a collie? Unconsciously she squinched up her face as she tried to imagine how the puppies would look before finally forcing the thought away.
It had to be that man’s dog. When Molly was in heat, that dog had practically staked out her house like a private detective, and he was the only dog she’d seen wandering around the neighborhood in weeks. But would her neighbor even consider fencing his yard? Or keeping the dog inside? Or setting up a dog run? No. His motto seemed to be “My dog shall be free!” It didn’t surprise her. He seemed to live his own life by the same irresponsible motto. On her way to work, she saw him running, and when she got back, he was out biking or kayaking or in-line skating or shooting baskets in his front drive with a group of neighborhood kids. A month ago, he’d put his boat in the water, and now he was wakeboarding as well. As if the man weren’t active enough already. God forbid the man should work a minute of overtime, and she knew that he didn’t work at all on Fridays. And what kind of job let you head off every day wearing jeans and T-shirts? She had no idea, but she suspected—with a grim sort of satisfaction—that it more than likely required an apron and name tag.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t being entirely fair. He was probably a nice guy. His friends—who appeared normal enough and had kids to boot—seemed to enjoy his company and were over there all the time. She realized she’d even seen a couple of them at the office before, when their kids had come in with the sniffles or an ear infection. But what about Molly? Molly was sitting near the back door, her tail thumping, and Gabby felt anxious at the thought of the future. Molly would be okay, but what about the puppies? What was going to happen to them? What if no one wanted them? She couldn’t imagine taking them to the pound or the SPCA or whatever it was they called it here, to be put to sleep. She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t going to have them murdered.
But what, then, was she going to do with the puppies?
It was all his fault, and he was just sitting there on his deck with his feet propped up, acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
This wasn’t what she’d dreamed about when she’d first seen the house earlier this year. Even though it wasn’t in Morehead City, where her boyfriend, Kevin, lived, it was just minutes across the bridge. It was small and almost half a century old and a definite fixer-upper by Beaufort standards, but the view along the creek was spectacular, the yard was big enough for Molly to run, and best of all, she could afford it. Just barely, what with all the loans she’d taken out for PA school, but loan officers were pretty understanding when it came to making loans to people like her. Professional, educated people.
Not like Mr. My Dog Shall Be Free and I Don’t Work Fridays.
She drew a deep breath, reminding herself again that the man might be a nice guy. He always waved to her whenever he saw her pulling in from work, and she vaguely remembered that he’d dropped off a basket of cheese and wine to welcome her to the neighborhood when she’d moved in a couple of months back. She hadn’t been home, but he’d left it on the porch, and she’d promised herself that she’d send a thank-you note, one that she never quite got around to writing.
Her face squinched unconsciously again. So much for moral superiority. Okay, she wasn’t perfect, either, but this wasn’t about a forgotten thank-you note. This was about Molly and that man’s wandering dog and unwanted puppies, and now was as good a time as any for them to discuss the situation. He was obviously awake.
She stepped off the back deck and started toward the tall row of hedges that separated his house from hers. Part of her wished Kevin were with her, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not after their spat this morning, which started after she’d casually mentioned that her cousin was getting married. Kevin, buried in the sports section of the newspaper, hadn’t said a word in response, preferring to act as if he hadn’t heard her. Anything about marriage made the man get as quiet as a stone, especially lately. She supposed she shoul
dn’t have been surprised—they’d been dating almost four years (a year less than her cousin, she was tempted to point out), and if she’d learned one thing about him, it was that if Kevin found a topic uncomfortable, then more than likely he wouldn’t say anything at all.
But Kevin wasn’t the problem. Nor was the fact that lately she felt as though her life weren’t quite what she’d imagined it would be. And it wasn’t the terrible week at the office, either, one in which she’d been puked on three—three!—times on Friday alone, which was an all-time office record, at least according to the nurses, who didn’t bother to hide their smirks and repeated the story with glee. Nor was she angry about Adrian Melton, the married doctor at her office who liked to touch her whenever they spoke, his hand lingering just a bit too long for comfort. And she surely wasn’t angry at the fact that through it all, she hadn’t once stood up for herself.
Nosiree, this had to do with Mr. Party being a responsible neighbor, one who was going to own up to the fact that he had as much of a duty to find a solution to their problem as she did. And while she was letting him know that, maybe she’d mention that it was a little late for him to be blaring his music (even if she did like it), just to let him know she was serious.
As Gabby marched through the grass, the dew moistened the tips of her toes through her sandals and the moonlight reflected on the lawn like silver trails. Trying to figure out exactly where to begin, she barely noticed. Courtesy dictated that she head first to the front door and knock, but with the music roaring, she doubted he’d even be able to hear it. Besides, she wanted to get this over with while she was still worked up and willing to confront him head-on.
Up ahead, she spotted an opening in the hedges and headed toward it. It was probably the same one that Nobby snuck through to take advantage of poor, sweet Molly. Her heart squeezed again, and this time she tried to hold on to the feeling. This was important. Very important.
Focused as she was on her mission, she didn’t notice the tennis ball come flying toward her just as she emerged from the opening. She did, however, distantly register the sound of the dog galloping toward her—but only distantly—a second before she was bowled over and hit the ground.