As it turned out, I found someone much more interesting to talk to.
I arrived at the dog park enclosure just in time to see a few of the wine club members, quite literally, turn their backs on Ardine Smalls.
She stood, unmoving, her hands shoved into the pockets of the camel hair coat she must have owned for decades, her head with its nest of wiry hair bowed against the cold.
I let Jasper off his leash and he bounded joyfully into the center of the pack. I moved over to stand next to her. “Which one is your dog?” I asked.
She looked around for a split second, almost comically, as if sure that I must be addressing someone else. Up close, her skin was pitted by years of long-ago teenage acne, and a dusting of dandruff powdered the shoulders of her coat.
“That one.” She pointed to a scruffy terrier type whose bottom teeth stuck out, making him look like a miniature boar. “He hates me.”
I glanced at her in surprise.
“He’s horrible, but I can’t get rid of him. He belonged to my mother. She passed away two years ago.”
She showed me the scars on her hands from bite marks. “I’m really scared of him.”
My lips thinned as I watched the nasty little brute. This dog needed some serious discipline. He snapped at Jasper, who danced away, taken aback by the unexpected aggression. Jasper was a bit like my husband, who’d never met a living thing that didn’t instantly adore him.
I recognized the two wine mooches, sour-faced Ginny Axelrod and floppy-haired Bobbie Zwick, sitting in the chairs among the array of coolers. There was another, matronly woman wearing a headband, long denim skirt, and red golf shirt. I bet the golden retriever belonged to her. The schnauzer with the permanent scowl was probably Ginny’s, and the two shih tzus had to be Bobbie’s, if the old adage that dogs looked like their owners was true.
Ruthie wasn’t here today, and neither was Bettina. A younger woman in tennis whites arrived towing a giant poodle, and an aristocratic older woman joined in with a pair of pugs.
Again, I was reminded of the cliques in high school. Me, Ruthie, and now Ardine were definitely not the cool kids.
As I watched Jasper gallop around, sticking his nose up everyone’s butt, I winced. If dogs’ personalities also matched their owners, then I was somewhat goofy and more than a little intrusive.
“I’ve brought some cider,” Ardine said, gesturing to the plastic bag she carried. “Would you like some? I don’t drink much myself.”
“Well you don’t have to drink in order to bring your dog here, you know.” I smiled at her as I held out my hand. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m Daisy Buchanan. I don’t think we’ve met. But I did see you win the dollhouse competition on Saturday. Congratulations.”
Ardine was wearing purple mittens with woolen balls hanging off the cuffs. “Were you there? Wasn’t it so exciting! I’m just sad that Mother wasn’t around to see me finally win.”
When Ardine talked, it was like the top of her mouth was fixed and immovable and the bottom half could hardly move either.
Her bright expression dimmed. “Although even if she were around, she would say the only reason I won was because Harriet Kunes wasn’t in the competition.”
“Well, I thought your dollhouse was terrific.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I saw Harriet’s Tudor mansion. Rather gaudy. I know you would have won anyway.” I didn’t know that for sure, but if it made her feel better, it was worth it to see the big smile reappear. “I’m refinishing a dollhouse myself at the moment. For a little girl’s birthday present. It’s an 1860s Victorian.”