The Obsession

  “What was the offer?” Kevin wanted to know.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “She just can’t help it.” Jenny glanced at Naomi, apology in her eyes. “She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just a little clueless.”

  “Did she do any harm?” Xander wondered.

  “Not to me.” Naomi lifted her margarita, sipped. “But then, she didn’t make me an offer.”

  “Ha. She’s hoping Kevin will tell Chip she did—”

  “Which I wouldn’t.”

  “No, but she’s hoping you will, and that would rile Chip up enough he’d go by her place, and they’d fight about it, have pissed-off sex, and she’d kick him out again after.”

  “That’s about it,” Kevin agreed. “They have a strange relationship. He wouldn’t come after you with a hammer because he knows you—and you’re a bud.”

  “Add in, Chip’s sweet,” Jenny claimed. “I know he’s punched a couple people over her, but she pushed him into it. He’s a sweet man.”

  “She doesn’t think she wants sweet. She’d be wrong about that,” Xander added. “But that’s their problem. You guys want another round? I can let Loo know.”

  “Another glass of wine and I’ll be a wild woman. What the hell?” Jenny decided. “It’s Friday night, and we’ve got a sitter.”

  “I’ll keep up with her,” Kevin said.

  “Not for me. I’m driving, and I really should go.”

  “Stick around.” Xander sent her a lazy look. “Make a request—something on your playlist. Come on, play stump the band.”

  She considered. “‘Hard to Explain.’” A choice, maybe because it had played in her ear right after he’d walked out of her bedroom the other day.

  He grinned, pointed a finger at her, then walked off.

  “I don’t know that one,” Jenny commented. “But I bet Xander does.”

  He sent over another round—water for Naomi.

  And she didn’t stump the band, who played the Strokes’ old classic as if they’d rehearsed it that morning. She stayed for most of the second set, then realized if she didn’t slip out, she’d end up staying until they closed.

  “I’ve really got to go. Thanks for the drink—and for talking me into coming out.”

  “Anytime. See you Monday.”

  “I’m going to come by soon,” Jenny told her. “If you’re busy, Kevin will show me around.”

  She left with a slow, simmering cover of Clapton’s “Layla” following her into the night.

  She decided the sex dream with Xander with throbbing bass and mad guitar riffs while the house burned around them was inevitable.

  Maybe it left her a little edgy, but she had plenty to do to work off the beginnings of sexual frustration. She wasn’t ready to be sexually frustrated, and far from ready to take care of it.

  A weekend of quiet, of work, of sun and soft evening rain polished the edges away. As promised, she took morning coffee out on the deck—she would buy a better coffeemaker—and soaked in the silence and solitude.

  When she FaceTimed New York on Sunday, her mood was high and light.

  “There she is!” Seth, sporting the trim goatee he’d decided he’d needed on his forty-fifth birthday, beamed through her iPad screen.

  “Hi, handsome.”

  “You talking to me?” Harry moved into view, draping an arm over Seth’s shoulders. The rings they’d exchanged in Boston in the summer of 2004 glinted on their hands.

  “Two scoops of handsome.”

  “Make it three. Guess who’s here for Sunday dinner?”

  Mason slid on-screen just behind them and grinned at her.

  “Why, it’s Doctor Agent Carson.”

  Just look at him, she thought, so tall and—yes, three scoops of handsome now. And best, happy. He was on his way to doing and being just what he’d set out to do and be. “How’s the FBI?”

  “That’s classified.”

  “He just got back from upstate,” Seth told her. “He helped on a kidnapping, helped bring a twelve-year-old girl back home safe.”

  “It’s a living. What’s going on with that crazy house you bought?”

  “Crazy? Take a look.” She panned the tablet, slowly circling the kitchen. “Who’s crazy?”

  “Naomi, it’s beautiful. Look at that range hood, Seth! You went with the Wolf.”

  “I listen.”

  “Forget the range hood,” Seth said. “The cabinets are fabulous. Why are they empty? Harry, we need to send her some dishes.”

  “No, no, I’ve got a line on that. I’ll send you the link to what I’m looking at. I’m taking you upstairs. I want you to check out the master bedroom walls—which I painted myself.”

  “You?” Mason snorted.

  “Every inch of them. I may never pick up a paint roller again in my life, but I did every inch of this room.”

  “And how many rooms in that place again?”

  “Shut up, Mason. Now be honest—does the color work?”

  Upstairs she did another slow pan.

  “Pretty and restful,” Seth declared. “Now why don’t you have an actual bed?”

  “It’s on the list.” The really long list. “Really, I just finished the paint, and I finally set up a temporary mat room. I have a ton of stuff I’ve been processing and printing.”

  “You work too hard, too much,” Seth objected.

  “You worry too hard, too much. I went out with friends Friday night, had a drink, listened to a local band.”

  “Seeing anyone?” Harry prompted, and behind him Mason rolled his eyes—mouthed, Better you than me.

  “I see lots of people. The crew’s here eight hours a day, five days a week.”

  “Any good-looking, single men in that crew?”

  “Are you looking for one?”

  Harry laughed. “Got all I can handle.”

  “Me, too, right now. I want to hear how you’re all doing. How’s the restaurant? What’s for Sunday dinner? Is Mrs. Koblowki next door still entertaining gentlemen callers?”

  She didn’t distract them—she knew better—but they let it go, and for the next fifteen minutes they talked about easy things, funny things, homey things.

  When she said good-bye and turned off the tablet, she missed them like a limb.

  She worked in the mat room for an hour, tried to settle down at her laptop. But the contact with family left her restless and blue.

  Time to get out, she told herself. She’d yet to take real pictures in town, real studies of the marina. What better way to spend the rest of a Sunday afternoon? Then she’d come home and cook something besides scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich in her gorgeous new kitchen.

  Pleased with herself, she drove into town, dumped her car, and just walked. No errands to run, no chores to deal with. Just walk and study and compose shots.

  The sailboat called Maggie Mae, its paint white as a bridal gown and its sails lowered, its shining brightwork. The cabin cruiser decked out with balloons for a party, the fishing boat of dull gray that made her think of a sturdy old workhorse.

  All the masts naked and swaying into blue sky, and reflected blurrily in the water.

  And farther out, a couple zipping along on Sea-Doos, their busy speed a perfect contrast to the dreamy waiting of the docked boats.

  She treated herself to an orange Fanta—a staple of her teen years—and climbed back in the car with plans to spend the evening working on the prints.

  She rounded a turn. Slammed the brakes.

  It wasn’t a deer this time, but a dog. Not in the road, but limping on the shoulder. She started to drive on—not her dog, not her deal—but it took another couple of steps, then just lay down as if hurt or sick.

  “Damn it.”

  She couldn’t just drive away, so she pulled over, even as she asked herself what the hell she was supposed to do.

  Maybe it was rabid, or vicious, or . . .

  It lifted its head when she got out of the car and gave her an exh
austed, hopeful stare.

  “Oh well. Okay, hey boy. Nice dog—I hope to God.”

  Because he was pretty big, she noted. But thin—she could nearly count his ribs. Big, thin, and filthy, a big, skinny, dirty brown dog with shocking blue eyes that looked so painfully sad.

  And damn it again, the blue against the brown made her think of Harry.

  She didn’t see a collar, so no tags. Maybe he had a chip. Maybe she could contact the vet or the animal shelter—she could find the numbers on a quick search with her phone.

  Then he whimpered, bellied toward her. She didn’t have the heart to leave him, so she walked closer, crouched, and gingerly held out her hand.

  He licked it, bellied closer.

  “Are you hurt?” Filthy, he—or she—might have been. Naomi gently stroked his head. “Are you lost? God, you look half starved. I don’t have anything to eat on me. How about I call somebody to help?”

  He laid his head, all floppy eared and dirty, on her leg, didn’t whimper so much as moan.

  She took out her phone, then heard the sound of an engine—motorcycle—heading out from the direction of town.

  She lifted the dog’s head, set it gently back on the shoulder of the road, and stood to wave down the rider.

  The second she spotted him—long legs in jeans, lean torso in black leather—she thought, of course. It would be. Even with the smoked-glass visor of the helmet, she recognized Xander Keaton.

  He cut the engine, swung a leg over the bike. “Did you hit him?”

  “No. He was limping along the side of the road, then he just lay there. And I—”

  She broke off as he was already hunkered down, running those big, guitar-playing hands over the dog as gently as a mother stroked her baby.

  “Okay, boy, just take it easy. I don’t see any blood, any wounds. Don’t feel any breaks. I don’t think he’s been hit by a car.”

  “He’s so thin, and—”

  “There’s some water in the saddlebag. Get it, will you? Thirsty? I bet you’re thirsty. Plenty hungry. Been on the road awhile, right? Been traveling.”

  As he talked to the dog, stroked it, Naomi poked through the saddlebag of the bike, came out with a bottle of water.

  “Let’s see what we can do here.” Xander took the bottle, gestured Naomi down. “Cup your hands.”

  “I—”

  “Come on, come on. It won’t kill you.”

  She did as he asked, cupping them in front of the dog’s muzzle. He lapped at the water Xander poured, panted, lapped, then laid his head down again.

  “We need to get him off the road. I’ll put him in the back of your car.”

  “Where should I take him?”

  “You should take him home.”

  “I can’t take him home.” She sprang up as Xander slid his arms under the dog, lifted him.

  She saw that the dog was definitely male—unneutered male. “He belongs to somebody.”

  With the bone-thin, tired, filthy dog in his arms, Xander stood, boots planted, and gave her a long look out of deep blue eyes. “Does this dog look like it belongs to anybody? Open the back.”

  “He could’ve gotten lost. Somebody might be looking for him.”

  “We’ll ask around, but I haven’t heard about anybody losing a dog. He’s full-grown. Mutt. Maybe some husky or Australian shepherd in there with those eyes. Alice will know—the vet. If somebody lost a dog, she’ll know. Meanwhile she’s closed on Sunday.”

  “There must be an emergency number.”

  “The only emergency I see is a dog who needs a decent meal, a good bath, and somewhere to rest.”

  “You take him home.”

  “On that?” He jerked his head toward his bike.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “You found him.”

  “You’d have found him two minutes later.”

  “There you go. Look, take him home, and I’ll go pick up some supplies for him. You get him to the vet tomorrow, I’ll split the bill with you. You’re not taking that dog to the shelter. If they don’t find the owners—and I’m betting they’re long gone—they’ll probably put him down.”

  “Oh, don’t say that.” Turning a frustrated circle, she gripped fists in her hair. “Don’t say that so I feel guilty and obligated. Wait, wait—he’s filthy, and he smells amazing.”

  Naomi grabbed the old blanket she carried in the back, spread it out.

  “There you go. You’ll be all right. I’ll run back, get what you need. I’ll meet you back at your place.”

  Trapped, as Xander strode back to his bike, swung on, kick-started it to a roar, and zoomed away, she looked back at the dog. “You just better not get carsick.”

  She drove slowly, eyes flicking to the rearview, but didn’t hear any sounds of sick dog.

  When she pulled up in front of her house, she wondered if the most excellent work she’d done that afternoon had been worth dealing with a stray, starving dog for a night.

  She got out, walked around to open the back. “Yes, that’s an amazing smell that will potentially take weeks to dissipate. Not entirely your fault, of course, but you smell disgusting. I don’t guess you could just jump out on your own.”

  He bellied over a little, tried to reach her hand with his tongue.

  “Never mind. You’re skinny enough I could pick you up and probably carry you a half a mile without breaking a sweat. But you’re just too dirty and smelly. We’ll wait for Xander. Stay there. Just stay.”

  She dashed into the house, filled a plastic cup with water, grabbed some flatbread crackers. Best she could do.

  When she dashed out again, the dog was whining, sniffing at the edge of the back. “No, no, just wait. A little refreshment, that’s all. Here, here’s a cracker.”

  He all but inhaled it, and six others, then slurped and lapped the water from the cup.

  “That’s a little better, isn’t it? He’s not going to be long. He really better not be long because every minute you’re in there is another week it’s going to take to air out the smell.”

  This time when she broke down to pet him, the dog turned his head, nuzzled her hand. “Yeah, I guess that’s a little better.”

  She went back into the car for the orange Fanta, then followed impulse and pulled out her camera.

  “We can make flyers for the vet, for the shelter, for whatever.”

  She took several photos while he stared at her with those strange blue eyes, so strongly colored against the dirty brown—and felt ridiculous relief when she heard the sound of an engine.

  Xander, now in his truck, pulled up behind her.

  The dog’s tail thumped.

  “Fancy crackers?”

  “I didn’t have kibble handy.”

  “We got some. Better feed him out here in case he sicks it up again.”

  “Good thinking.”