Page 40 of Save the Date
That did make Cara laugh. “He showed up pretty glassy-eyed tonight. And I’m assuming that high-pitched giggle that he kept breaking into during the ceremony isn’t part of his day-to-day persona?”
“As I said, we weren’t really friends,” Jack said. “Austin missed his senior year at Country Day because his parents enrolled him in what was billed as an ‘alternative school’ out in Oregon.”
“Rehab,” Cara said.
“Exactly,” Jack agreed.
There was an uneasy lull in the conversation. Cara found herself wishing he’d go away and simultaneously hoping he wouldn’t.
Jack Finnerty made her nervous. He’d made her nervous every time she looked out the window of the shop over the past week and caught a glimpse of him running past, with Shaz trotting alongside. It made her nervous to realize how much time she spent gazing out that same window, hoping for a glance of him. And it made her desperately anxious when she found herself driving past his hovel on Macon Street, telling herself she was simply taking a shortcut to the Kroger, which was actually not a shortcut to the grocery store.
Jack Finnerty was taking up way too much space in her head. He’d looked so remotely elegant and reserved—and unbearably snotty—in his tuxedo the previous Saturday. And then when she’d opened her door Sunday and found him all sweaty and buff, standing on her doorstep with that look of chagrin on his face.
And now, damn him, he’d turned up here tonight, in his stinking seersucker suit, striking just the right note between hopelessly preppy and effortlessly casual. He was just a guy, one of these obnoxious Savannah guys who knew everybody and fit in everywhere without even trying.
He had to know the effect he was having on her, standing so close she swore she could see a bit of sawdust clinging to the lapel of his jacket. It was all she could do to keep herself from reaching out to dust it off. She could even see a place on his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving, a tiny dot of dried blood standing out from the dark stubble. She clasped her hands behind her back, just in case.
“How’s the dog?” Jack finally asked.
“Poppy? She’s fine. Happy to be home.”
“Any more accidents?”
He was being deliberately annoying. Cara frowned. “I told you, she’s housebroken.”
Which wasn’t completely true. If Cara left her alone for more than a few hours, Poppy would sometimes stand by the door, waiting for her to come home, even though there was a dog door that would let her out into the courtyard. Sometimes, Bert told her, Poppy would lie down in front of the shop door, staring at it, as though willing her to come back through it. Cara believed Poppy peed on the floor as revenge, or out of separation anxiety.
Was she really raising a neurotic puppy?
She gave Jack a sharp look. “How about your dog. Shaz? I’m guessing she hasn’t run away lately?”
“No,” Jack said. He leaned in even closer, his breath tickling her face. She took a half step backward. “Listen. Let me ask you something about Poppy. Would you say she’s moody?”
“Moody? No.” Cara laughed. “Why, is your dog moody?”
“She’s just not very… peppy. I thought all puppies were kinda bouncy and off the wall and crazy. But that’s not Shaz. She’s pretty quiet. Seems to sleep most of the day. And when I come home from work, she kind of looks at me. Like, ‘What? You’re back? Who cares?’ When I get ready to go out for a run, I almost have to drag her out the door. I was thinking maybe it has something to do with the breed.”
For just a moment, she was tempted to suggest that maybe it had something to do withhim. But no. He seemed seriously worried about Shaz, and she was touched by his concern.
“I don’t think goldendoodles are particularly moody. I mean, yeah, Poppy sometimes lets me know she misses me when I’m working late, or not paying her proper attention, but mostly, she’s a happy camper. And if I don’t walk her at least twice every day, she lets me know I’m being a slacker.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Is there a chance Shaz is depressed? I mean, has anything changed in her routine that would make her want to run away?”
***
Jack took a long swig of his beer. Hell yeah, he wanted to tell her. Everything had changed in Shaz’s routine. His, too. The minute Zoey walked out the door, it had all changed. He would have liked to have left, too. But he had bills to pay, and obligations to his brother, and their business. Anyway, where would he have gone?
It wasn’t that he actually missed Zoey that much. They hadn’t gotten along for months before she left. They quarreled constantly. Zoey couldn’t understand why they couldn’t travel, cut loose, have some fun. Couldn’t he get a real job in a real office, instead of coming home late every night, dirty and sweaty, his hands and hair spattered with paint, his clothes leaking sawdust with every step he took?
He couldn’t really blame her for resenting him. He’d had a good job as an insurance broker when they met a year previously. He drove a new BMW 750, had a sleek glass and chrome loft in a new development down by the river. He’d walked away from all of it, only two months after Zoey moved in, selling the loft to buy the crappy little freedman’s cottage on Macon Street, trading in the Beemer for a used F-150 pickup, leaving behind his slick suits for painter’s pants and a tool belt when he and Ryan started their historic-restoration business.
Jack had bedgrudgingly accepted Zoey’s crazy designer dog, christened with a name he couldn’t even spell. And then she’d taken off, leaving him and Shaz trying to figure out where it had all gone so wrong.
He glanced over at Cara’s empty glass, deciding to save her the dismal details of his dismal home life. “Is that champagne? Can I get you another? Or maybe you wanna dance?” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. In fact, he halfway hoped she’d tell him no. Then he’d have an excuse to go home and drink some real liquor. Maybe he’d even think about hanging some doors, or finishing the tile in the hall bathroom.
“After Torie’s wedding, I didn’t think you liked to dance,” Cara said.
