Free Must Love Dogs by Claire Cook, Carrington Macduffie Page A

and never worn. They were the only backless shoes I owned. Besides two pairs of boiled wool clogs.
    I tried not to clomp on the way to the kitchen. I’d thought these shoes would make me feel as glamorous as, say, Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida, but every time I tried them on with an outfit, I’d look at my feet in the mirror and laugh. After a year or so, I gave up on them.
    I reached to the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, found the Lysol. I picked up the plastic bag from the counter, and shook out the boa until it collapsed on the floor like a dying pink flamingo. I sprayed the exposed side thoroughly, then flipped it over with the edge of the Lysol can and sprayed again. I wasn’t quite sure if I was disinfecting Mother Teresa’s drool or what my nieces and nephews would call Dolly’s cooties.
    The boa was looking a little damp and matted; the bedraggled feathers decreased its drama potential. I put it in the dryer and pushed delicate cycle then start. While I was waiting, I checked my answering machine. Nothing. Not even Carol.
    A quick tumble in the dryer did wonders for the boa. I wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth and fluff were encouraging. I held the boa by both ends and jump-roped the length of the kitchen, not an easy feat in mules. When I stopped, a few pink feathers floated in the air. I slid my hands closer together along the boa, let it fall behind my shoulders and shimmied for a bit. Added a step-kick, then a step- kick-kick. Then a long low hip circle and a couple of bumps.
    Okay, this is it, I decided. I walked into my bedroom, lit a candle. Turned the lights down low with the dimmer switch by the door. The tape deck was on the bedside table. I played John’s message, said the words along with him as I paraded around the room.
Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice.
    It had been a long time since I’d had a compliment from a man. I supposed that technically it was Carol’s compliment, since she’d recorded my message, but I decided to take it anyway. I wrapped the boa around my neck a few times, sprawled on the bed with my legs arranged seductively. I looked down at my feet, still wearing the mules. Considered painting my toenails.
    You have a terrific voice
, I repeated. Then I picked up the phone. And I called him.

Chapter 9
     
    I figured I’d go through Michael’s wife, Phoebe, to borrow Mother Teresa for a couple of hours. Less chance of word leaking out that way. Phoebe was an only child and had never developed a talent for mining sibling gossip.
    I was wearing black jeans that looked good either standing or sitting, plus a cuddly red fleece jacket that had big pockets so I wouldn’t have to think about what to do with my keys. My hair was having a good day, curling crisply rather than frizzily, for which I was thankful. I felt as if anything were possible. This was more than meeting up with a man. It was staking a claim on a life. Grabbing some gusto. Catching a wave. Well, maybe not catching a wave, but still.
    “Did Michael talk you into this?” asked Phoebe as she struggled to hook a hot pink leash onto the puppy’s matching collar. As soon as she attached it, Mother Teresa grabbed the other end in her mouth and started to walk herself out the door. “Get her! Oh my God, this dog is driving me crazy.” Now that she mentioned it, Phoebe did look slightly deranged. Her straight blond hair didn’t seem to know in which direction to fall, and her pale blue eyes looked lost, too.
    “No, it was my idea. Just thought you could use a little break. I’d offer to take the kids, too, but I really need a workout. Mother Teresa and I are going for a very long walk. Could be hours. I’ll make it up to Annie and Lainie next time.”
    “That’s fine. They have homework