The Lost - J. D. Robb [66]
Blah blah. I didn’t want to hear this.
“Listen—Benny didn’t say anything to you about a fight, did he? At school? When he was over there this afternoon, he didn’t . . . I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t have known myself if . . . No, he’s okay; he’s fine. Some kid named Doug. Apparently he said something—”
Don’t tell her! Don’t you dare tell her!
“Kid stuff, nothing really . . . Yeah. I know. Right, I’m sure he’s bottling up a lot of anger and frustration . . . Right. Right.”
Right, right. Shut up, Monica, nobody wants to hear your amateur child psychology.
Finally she got to the point. “A picnic?” Sam said, brightening a bit. “Sounds good, we’re free all weekend. Which is better for you? Sunday, then, fewer people than on Labor Day, yeah. Good. Sonoma, too? Great, she’ll love it.”
Thanks for thinking of me.
“Okay, you bring that. I can do—Right, drinks, snacks . . .”
More blah blah about the portable grill, whose cooler was bigger, did they want lemonade or pop or both. I made myself not imagine it, not romping around with Benny and the twins in some beautiful woodsy, meadowy place, some sylvan spot alive with squirrels and chipmunks, maybe a lake or a stream. Have a great time. Without me. In a negative way, self-pity is very motivating. So long. I slunk toward the door.
“Patuxent Hills Park? No, we’ve never been there. Sounds good.”
Patuxent Hills Park? Patuxent Hills Park? I sold a house near there, in Brookville, south a little ways on Route 97. The park is only a mile from Hope Springs! As the crow flies—as the dog walks, it’s probably two. Two miles! Through woods and rural lanes and sleepy, high-end housing developments. With sidewalks!
Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God. I collapsed at Sam’s feet—my knees were too weak to hold me up. Gratitude turned my bones to jelly. I rolled over and showed him my belly.
All I had to do was wait till Sunday. Reunion day.
DOGS MUST BE LEASHED AT ALL TIMES
Why couldn’t things ever be easy? No alcoholic beverages, no dumping, no loud music, we close at sundown—I could live with those, but LEASHED AT ALL TIMES was going to be a problem.
So was mud, although not for me. The sun was peeping out between clouds now, but it had rained every day since Thursday and the park was saturated, even the picnic tables under the wooden pavilions. They could’ve postponed until tomorrow—I was afraid they would—but the kids were so wound up, they’d have exploded if the grownups had canceled. Sam said a little rain never hurt anybody, and here we were.
The first order of business, after claiming one of the many empty tables and setting up all the picnic stuff, was a walk. This was my chance—except the person on the other end of the leash was Sam, not Benny or one of the twins. Or best, Monica, whom I’d have had zero guilt about bolting from, preferably with violence. Sam was another story. He was strong, for one thing, but also—this is hard to explain—as pack leader he was someone I had a hard time disobeying. Believe it or not. I’d always thought of us as equals, or if one of us was a tiny bit ascendant, it was me. Not true as man and dog. Sam was alpha.
The river was narrow here, really more of a stream, and swollen from all the rain. This little park fit in an inlet the river made on its way northwest, bisecting two counties. A main trail to the left and a rougher, secondary one to the right followed the water’s twists and turns. We took the main one because it was wider and not as mushy, but even so, sometimes we had to detour into the woods around puddles or stretches of mud. I wanted to run ahead with the children, but I was stuck with Sam and Monica. Plod, plod, stop and look at this, plod some more, shout at the kids to quit doing something or other, plod, plod, stop and look at that. Absolutely no fun at all. Once we ran into two guys coming the other way, and I had to sit down to avoid the rude attentions of their irritating male Shih Tzu. Sometimes, frankly, I didn’t mind that sort of thing, but today was not one of those times.