“Patsy, do you know the Perkins family?” I asked. “Sounds like they don’t get along with Angus. I thought I might pay them a visit.”
Patsy shook her head. “Be careful, Daisy. You don’t want to mess around with that crowd. They’re a bad lot.”
“I heard they run a farm supply and feed store outside of Sheepville?”
“Yeah, the Perkins boys own it. Well, they’re not really boys anymore—they’re in their late twenties—but we’ve always called them that. They were a couple years behind me at school. I could tell you some stories that would curl your hair.”
Patsy glanced over at Claire and arched her back.
“Ow. Come on kid, let’s go practice. Five, five, ten, ten, twenty, twenty. Daisy, see you later. Sarah, I’ll call you about going out.”
Chapter Five
That night when we got home, Joe was putting the finishing touches to a bouillabaisse, a traditional French seafood stew full of cooked fish and vegetables. A wonderful feast, but not a cheap dish to make, by any means.
As I dropped my bag on the kitchen table and kicked off my shoes, I tried to stop adding up the cost of the ingredients in the giant cooking pot. One whole lobster, a pound of shrimp, sea bass, and some fresh mussels and littleneck clams. That must have cost a pretty penny.
Stop it, Daisy.
The yellow-haired dog sat in an ungainly stance behind Joe, one back leg straight, one sprawled out the way some puppies sit, in rapt attention at the saffron-and-fish-scented mist swirling through the kitchen.
Joe disappeared down the basement steps and came back with a bottle of 2009 Montrachet, a very nice white burgundy. We’d bought it a couple of years ago on a trip to our favorite wine shop, in Lambertville, New Jersey, just across the bridge from New Hope, Pennsylvania, and it had been gathering dust ever since.
“I thought we were saving it for a special occasion,” I said beneath my breath. Sarah was engrossed in her cell phone as usual.
“It is. Our daughter came home.” He set it down on the butcher block table that was well over six inches thick and pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket with a flourish.
I looked at him, in his blue-striped apron, a faint flush on his high cheekbones from the heat of the stove, and the excitement in his dark eyes, and wondered why I couldn’t be as uncomplicated. Dear Joe.
“You know what? You’re right. Let’s open it!”
Sarah and I watched as he set three goblets on the table and poured an inch or so of the golden liquid into each one.
“Buddy chewed up Daddy’s slippers today,” Sarah said, sliding a glance at me.
Joe chuckled and handed us both a glass. “That’s okay. I needed a new pair anyway.” He reached down and ruffled the puppy’s ears.
I stifled a pang of guilt for working so much and not paying the dog enough attention, but hey, it wasn’t even my dog. And for all his laissez-faire treatment, he seemed content enough.
Joe touched his glass to mine. “You worry too much,” he said, smiling.
Third person today.
I took a slug of the gorgeous wine because I didn’t feel up to dying from a stroke right now.
“So. How did you come up with the name Buddy for him, Sarah?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Had to call him something, and I haven’t had time to think of anything else.”
I looked down at the happy-go-lucky dog, whose tail immediately starting waving when he sensed my appraisal. “He reminds me of a history professor I once knew called Jasper Weckert. He was so exuberant, so full of life, and yes, a little annoying sometimes, but you couldn’t help but like him.”
“Hey, Jasper!” Joe slapped his knee.
The dog wagged his tail even harder.
Sarah nodded. “He likes it. It’s cool. And a more stylin’ name than Buddy anyway.”
After dinner was cleared away, we played a game of Monopoly, just like the good old days, and as usual, Joe spent his money first. I bought railroads, and Sarah ended up with Park Place. She built a row of hotels on it and bankrupted her parents.
I sipped my wine and watched the candlelight dance up the exposed brick wall in the kitchen and tried to let it all go. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I did worry too much.
I’d color my hair tomorrow night.
*
“The next morning was Wednesday, visiting day again for Angus’s section of the prison. I woke up without the alarm, got dressed in a hurry, and arrived in the parking lot of the correctional facility at a few minutes before 8 a.m.
Angus came into the room, his hands bandaged and his hair neatly combed, but his expression somber. I rushed up and hugged him. Angus gave the best hugs. Kind of like hugging a friendly bear, or a live boulder.