Page 113 of Save the Date
Jack turned the truck onto East Forty-sixth Street and pulled alongside the curb in front of his brother’s Craftsman bungalow. “Porch railing looks good,” he said, nodding toward the house.
“Yeah, it worked out okay,” Ryan said. He gathered his tools and stepped out of the truck. “See you in the morning. Remember, I don’t need you to pick me up.”
***
As soon as he’d dropped his brother off, Jack headed north, toward downtown. He found himself smiling, and whistling. Mister Happy Face, Ryan had called him. Maybe he was. Maybe he had something to smile about these days.
He found himself cruising slowly past Bloom, on West Jones Street. It was nearly seven, but Cara hadn’t brought in the garden cart full of plants she kept outside the shop. He halfway considered stopping and offering to help her bring it in, then, glancing down at himself, thought better of it. Maybe he’d go home, shower, then call and ask her out to dinner. Between all the weddings she always had on weekends, and his amped-up timetable for the Strayhorn project, they still hadn’t had what he considered a real date.
He picked up his cell phone and tapped her number. It rang three times, and then went to voicemail. Jack frowned. She must be working on something. He knew she had a wedding over the weekend, and that her assistant was slacking off.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said. “I just rolled past your place and it looks like you’re working. How about I take you out to dinner tonight? I’m headed home to shower. Call me, okay?”
Jack thought about the matter that had put a smile on his face earlier in the afternoon. He’d almost confided in Ryan. He and his brother were close, best friends, if you got right down to it. But then he’d decided it wouldn’t be fair to Cara.
He hesitated, then tapped her number.
“Me again,” he said ruefully. “Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you. Maybe we can talk about it over dinner.”
When he got to his block of Macon Street, he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. A pair of bright yellow sawhorses were pulled across the street, and city work crews were busily tearing up the pavement.
“What the hell?” he muttered, taking a left turn down the lane. He had a single narrow parking space in back of his cottage, but he preferred parking on the well-lit street out front, since he still hadn’t taken the time to install a motion-activated light in the backyard as a deterrent to thieves.
Grumbling, he shoehorned the truck into his allotted space between two sets of garbage cans. He got out of the truck, locked it, then went around to fetch his heavy tool kit. No way he’d leave it in the truck for any passing thugs to steal.
He had to set the toolbox down while he sorted through the keys on his ring to find the small one that fit the back-gate padlock. Finding it, he unlocked the gate, stepped into his ill-kempt back garden, and locked it again, tugging hard on the padlock to make sure it was secure. He wasn’t taking any chances on Shaz making any more great escapes.
Although, come to think of it, the last time she’d gotten out, things had worked out okay.
“Shaz!” He looked around the yard, expecting to see the big white furball come bounding full-speed at him. He wasn’t the only one at this address whose mood had improved lately.
Since he’d started taking her on regular walks, and even out to the job site some days, Shaz was a different dog. She was lively, playful, energetic, what you expected from a puppy.
But where the hell was she? He’d put her out in the yard before leaving this morning, being careful to make sure she had fresh water in her bowl, food, and chew toys. He’d bought a dog door that would allow Shaz access to the kitchen when he was gone, but hadn’t had time to install it yet.
He peered around the yard, checking to see if she was nestled in the shade beneath the garden’s only tree, a large water oak that desperately needed limbing up. No Shaz.
“Shaz!” Jack was starting to worry. Had she somehow managed to get out some other way? He scanned the fence line, but there was no sign that she’d managed to burrow beneath it, and there was no way she could have jumped the six-foot-high stockade fence.
His pulse raced as he considered the alternatives. Could somebody have broken in and taken the dog? How? The gate had been locked. He hurried to the back porch and tried the door. Locked. He turned the key and stepped into the kitchen, hoping, against logic, that Shaz had magically figured out a way to get inside.
“Shaz!”
“Wowf!” The dog raced into the kitchen and planted her paws on his chest, her tail wagging a mile a minute.
“Damn, girl, you scared me. How the hell did you get in here?”
“Jack?”
For a moment, he could have sworn his heart nearly stopped from a combination of shock and fright.
A woman’s voice. Faint, but distinct, and it was coming from the front of the house.
“Jack, is that you?”
46
She was curled up on the sofa, dressed only in a bra and panties, drinking one of his Dos Equis beers. Her blond hair was lank and she wore no makeup, and there were dark circles under her eyes. A pair of battered Mexican leather sandals sat on the floor, along with her oversized pocketbook.
