The Lost - J. D. Robb [57]
He called back faster than I expected. Spoke very softly; I couldn’t hear a thing. Sam kept apologizing, trying to make him feel better. “Geez, I’m sorry. I don’t know how it could’ve happened. So even though he could put a stop-payment on it, he doesn’t . . . ? Honest to God, it’s not here. I’ve looked several times, gone through the whole . . . Well, hell, it’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s okay, we’ll just start over. Forget it, Ron, I mean it. It’s just one of those things. It’s a mystery.”
Maybe it was my guilty conscience, but after he hung up I thought Sam looked at me strangely. Suspiciously. I thunked my tail and grinned at him. We had a staring contest, Sam’s gaze squinted and searching, mine blinky sleepy and innocent. I won.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, standing up. “Want to go for a walk?”
Outside, I noticed a new spring in his step, a lightness on his end of the leash. It wouldn’t last forever—Ron Lewis was too good a salesman—but for the time being, there would be one less thing for Sam to feel sad about. Because of me.
Good dog.
In the week that followed, escape was the last thing on my mind. Instead I was a model of courtesy and decorum. I sat, lay down, and shook on command, I came when called, and at all open doors I halted, ostentatiously waiting for an invitation to proceed. Butter would not melt in my mouth. By Sunday, Sam’s trust had rebounded so completely, without a second thought he granted me the thing I wanted most: permission to attend Benny’s birthday party. Free, untied, walking around in the yard just like another guest. Only furry and better behaved.
The afternoon was perfect. Good thing, because eight sugar-saturated six-year-olds stuck in our small living room on a rainy day would’ve been a disaster. (We learned that last year, on Benny’s fifth birthday.) The theme was crazy hats—everybody had to wear a crazy hat, and sweet Benny’s was the red and white striped stovepipe from Dr. Seuss. He looked adorably goofy. He was—and I was not one bit prejudiced—absolutely the cutest, most adorable child at the party. But strangely—I liked them, of course, but I’d never been indiscriminately wild about other people’s children—strangely, on this day I found myself in love with all of them. I can say I’ve never had as much fun in my life as I did running and chasing and romping and playing with Benny and his friends. I loved being mauled, tackled, yanked on, ridden. It was as if we were all six. Or all dogs. I don’t know, but I’ve never felt such a sheer blending of—of creatures, just species-l ess beings intent on nothing but delight.
Lunch at the picnic table was a judicious mix of healthy foods disguised as junk and junk, and the games afterward were fun but also thoughtful and creative, the kind you read about in parenting magazines but never quite pull off in real life. Sam deserved some of the credit, but it was clear to me who the real brain behind this party was. Not that it took a genius to figure it out. Monica had arrived an hour early with bags of tasteful party decorations and a homemade—what else?—three-l ayer yellow cake with chocolate ganache and toffee chips spelling out BENNY. Sam set the table, and Brian Kimmel’s mother stayed to help out with the present-opening, but at my son’s sixth birthday party Monica Carr was obviously the co-host. And official photographer.
“Boys and girls! May I have your attention? Let’s come to order, people!” That didn’t work, so she picked up the whistle around her neck and blew it. “Everybody, we need to take our seats at the table again! So the show can begin!”
The show? Ah, so that’s what that curtain thing was—I thought it was for some new educational game. It was a circular, upright contraption, like a very small shower enclosure, surrounded by a colorful patterned curtain made from a sheet.