Free A Pedigree to Die For by Laurien Berenson Page B

“Excuse me. Do you have a minute?”
    â€œJust about,” she said. “I haven’t picked up my number yet. What can I do for you?”
    I watched as she broke the last bit of pastry in two pieces, ate one herself and fed the other to the Poodle. Carefully she cupped her hands under the dog’s chin so that no sugar would spill into the gorgeous mane of hair.
    â€œI’m looking for some advice actually. I have a Standard Poodle bitch that I’d like to breed, and I’m looking for a stud dog for her.”
    The woman leaned down and rummaged through a well-stocked cooler, coming up seconds later with a cold can of soda. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I don’t keep a stud dog. I’ve got five bitches, you know what I mean? You might want to try Louise.” She pointed toward the little woman with the big white dog.
    â€œI was hoping to find a black. That’s what color my bitch is.”
    â€œThen you’re looking for Margaret Turnbull,” the woman said firmly. “She’s got the best blacks in the area. That’s her there, the tall lady. Give her a try. I’ll bet she’s got a dog for you.”
    My first dead end. “Thanks,” I said, ambling away. “I’ll ask her.”
    The next person I spoke with asked about my bitch’s pedigree. Dutifully I recited as many ancestors as I could remember. It was, I thought, a stellar performance, and the woman seemed suitably impressed. The bubble burst a moment later, however, when once again I was directed to Aunt Peg.
    Suddenly things weren’t looking as simple as I’d thought they’d be. Finally, two tries later, my luck began to change. A slim man, sporting a black goatee as beautifully groomed as the coat of his Poodle, glanced up from his scissoring and said, “Why don’t you talk to Crawford Langley? I hear he’s got a new stud he’s been raving about.”
    â€œWho’s Crawford Langley?”
    The man stared as though he couldn’t believe I wouldn’t know, but I let the question stand and finally he explained, “Langley’s a handler. Just about the best in Poodles. He’s got a stud dog for everybody.”
    That sounded promising. What could be easier than to add one more stud dog to a kennel that was already full of them? “Where would I find Mr. Langley?”
    â€œYou won’t be able to talk to him now. He’s much too busy. Those are his assistants down there.” He pointed toward one of the large setups I’d noticed earlier where two young men with a row of Poodles and tables spread out between them seemed to have taken the assembly line approach to grooming. “They stay here and do all the work, then Langley takes the dogs into the ring. Come back when the judging is over. I’m sure he’ll be around then.”
    I was debating where to try next when I felt the unmistakable tug of somebody’s gaze upon me. Aunt Peg, I guessed, probably monitoring my progress and far from satisfied with the way things were going.
    I spun around, fully intending to give her the glare she deserved, only to find myself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I had to blink twice before the rest of the picture came into focus, but it was well worth the wait. Along with the eyes came rugged features, sandy blond hair, and a body that belonged on a Hollywood billboard. My stomach didn’t exactly plummet, but I have to admit it did drop a notch or two.
    Sam Driver. It had to be.
    Perhaps because Aunt Peg had described him in movie star terms, I’d pictured him that way—pretty, but two-dimensional, like a slick magazine cover with a story that could be flipped through at will. In my mind, I’d relegated him to the ranks of the bit players, someone who’d be no problem at all to get around.
    But while the looks were certainly there, she’d somehow completely