Free Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page A

pleasure.
    _____
    When it was almost dark I called Sorrow from a foxhole he had his nose stuck into and went inside to find my message light blinking. Couldn’t be Dolly—I didn’t expect to hear from her for a while. Maybe Bill, with an assignment. Maybe one of the magazine editors. I could use the money in case this book editing thing didn’t come through. I needed some new jeans without holes at the knees and back pockets. If I didn’t cut back on the mashed potatoes at EATS I was going to move up to a bigger size. That’s what I was thinking about as I pushed the play button: a bigger behind.
    A woman’s voice said, “Emily, this is Madeleine Clark. I finished going over your material and love your changes. The novel works beautifully now—those poor elderly women. Awful thing that they couldn’t be left alone to enjoy their small pleasures out in the woods. Could you please call me? We’ve got to talk before I begin sending the book out …”
    There was a slight hesitation as if she waited for me to pick up, then a sigh and the phone went dead.
    I took a deep breath, holding on to the edge of the desk, gulping a couple of times. Madeleine Clark wanted to represent me. I had an agent. What did she want to talk about? Probably if I had any thoughts about publishers. Maybe if I had any thoughts of a second book. I’d heard that always got a publisher’s attention.
    I dialed the number she’d left. A woman, who must have been Madeleine Clark’s assistant, said Ms. Clark was gone for the day. I left my name and promised to call in the morning. I hung up and took a deep breath.
    Tomorrow then. Early. What time did agents get into their offices? No earlier than ten, I was certain.
    Okay. So ten o’clock.
    Oh, no! I’m fishing in the morning.
    Okay, okay, okay—when we get back.
    Well, after we can the fish. Then. Shouldn’t be too late.
    She’ll think I’m not excited, that I’m not a professional writer.
    Oh no, she’ll probably want to scrap the whole thing.
    Okay. Right after fishing, before we start canning.
    I’ll call her then.
    Maybe we won’t catch any fish and I won’t have to worry about canning.
    I’ll starve next winter.
    Yuck. I probably wouldn’t eat canned fish anyway.
    I heard the roll of thunder off to the west. From the sound of it, the storm was close. I smiled. It was like someone clapping for me, or a cheer from heaven, or fireworks to celebrate.
    All I had was my no-longer-frozen turkey dinner to microwave. A glass of wine. A couple of extra Milk Bones for Sorrow.
    A grand celebration for my dog and me.
    Until the electricity went off, thunder shook the house, lightning scored the sky like crazy strobe lights, and Sorrow and I went off to sit in the bathtub until it was over.

All the storm did was clear the sticky air. The morning was hot. I picked Harry up at six-thirty sharp. He stood outside his crooked house waiting with two fly-fishing rods, a cooler, a slouch hat with flies hooked to the brim, and a pair of waders for me, folded and sitting on the cooler. I took one look at him, in his fishing hat and dark green waders, and knew I’d made the right choice. If it cost me that editing job—so be it. The day ahead, fishing with Harry, would be priceless.
    _____
    Quiet fishing rivers running through close trees and steep banks have a smell all their own, and a presence. It was very much as though Harry and I intruded, being where the water rushed on, leaving behind the feel and odor of coolness. There was a sense of something—a watching thing, or a sentient breath-h olding—as we stepped into the current, waders up to our arm pits, lines flicking out and back through the thick air, the tiny splash of contact, and then out again and behind us. Over and over.
    I sensed mustiness beneath the clean scent of early morning dew and the feel of heavy damp on my skin. I’d