1-5161-0935-X
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To all those who further the human-canine bond with kindness and compassion.
Chapter 1
Call me grateful. Not a do-gooder and certainly no philanthropist, but someone who firmly believes in giving back and doing my part. Sounds crazy, I know, and pompous as well. My small share of Great Marsh, Virginia, was trivial in comparison with the mansions, estates, and megahomes of my affluent neighbors. That was fine with me. To an orphan, foster child, and army veteran, stability and self-sufficiency were the gold standard, priceless proof of beating the odds in a tough world. Every day I counted my blessings—Creature Comforts, a thriving business crafting leather products for dog and horse fanciers, and a host of pets and good friends to sustain me. Add in a jaw-dropping partner, Wing Pruett, and his darling daughter and my life was full. Unlike some of the moneyed malcontents haunting the local boutiques, I thanked heaven every day for those blessings.
Life was good for Persephone Morgan. Those good feelings left me vulnerable. When my pal, Babette Croy, dragooned me into joining a therapy dog program, I was powerless to resist. She had her ways. Babette, a socialite and local activist, used a cunning mixture of guile and guilt to manipulate gullible chumps like me into doing her bidding. Why else would I abandon my work, skip the morning gallop with my mare Raza, pack up my dogs, and trek twenty miles to an assisted living facility oddly named the Falls? Guilt and guile—you can’t beat them.
My dogs, Keats and Poe, were perfectly trained and easily passed every test required by the Alliance of Therapy Dogs. Proper temperament was the key ingredient, and my boys were the poster canines for that. Still, Babette insisted that they accompany her and her border collie, Clara, to formal classroom sessions and be officially designated as Canine Good Citizens. Only then, after being observed at three events, were we cleared for full certification. Those three sessions, a school, a library, and a children’s hospital ward, were a piece of cake. My spirits were buoyed by the plaudits my guys earned for their impeccable manners. I felt virtuous and a tiny bit smug at my good deeds. Somehow, I had never factored assisted living facilities into the plan.
I parked my weathered Suburban and was immediately assailed by doubts. Not about my dogs. Keats and Poe were beautifully behaved Malinois war heroes with the medals to prove it. They were bred to herd sheep in Belgium, although the breed was more often seen now guarding military and police installations. Unlike me, they adjusted seamlessly to any human from cradle to rocker. Providing comfort to people in difficult situations was the official mission of the Therapy Dog program, and I envisioned my boys continuing to do just that at schools or somewhere equally innocuous. Our new assignment threw a spanner in the works. I vowed to try my best, but seniors were foreign territory to me. I’m an orphan who’d been deprived of the grandparent experience. Who knew if I could up my game enough to actually mix and mingle with the aged residents at the Falls and bring comfort instead of conflict?
There was no sign of Babette on the premises, or anyone else for that matter. I paused, confident that any moment the shiny red Mercedes would swing into the drive with Babette and her faithful border collie in tow. These excursions were tailor-made for Babette, a woman who never met a stranger. How I envied her ease with all kinds of people. Even though I’d faced bombs and brawls in Afghanistan, the prospect of confronting a group of pensioners was oddly unsettling. Lose the pity party, I warned myself. Not everything is about you.
I focused on the surroundings. The Falls was a gracious, multistoried complex set on a verdant site with glimpses of distant mountain peaks. If any institution could be termed “homey,” this place would claim the prize. The architecture mimicked old Georgian construction, replete with generously proportioned windows and clapboard exterior. Wheelchair ramps were discreetly placed toward the back of the residence, affording any onlooker an unobstructed view of gracious living absent the painful reminder of infirmity.
On this breezy autumn day, the rocking chairs dotting the porch were vacant, so I signaled to the Mals and settled in. The slow, rhythmic pulse of the rocker soothed my spirits, lulling me into a light, languid sleep. I awakened with a start to find a tiny, birdlike woman of a certain age staring down at me. Hers was a smiling visage, impeccably turned out in a neat shirtwaist and patent-leather flats. Abundant white hair was piled on top of her head in a style reminiscent of another day.
“Caught you, didn’t I?” she said with a sly grin. “Don’t mind me. I do that all the time. Napping, that is. Soothing, isn’t it?” She extended her hands palms up, speaking in a low, soft voice to my boys. “Beautiful creatures. What breed?”
“Malinois, a type of Belgian shepherd. There’s a town of that name in Belgium. Don’t worry. They’re very gentle. Meet Keats and Poe.”
She shook her head. “No worry. I love dogs. All animals, actually. They seem to sense it, don’t they? That’s one thing I really miss being in this place. Having my own pet.” She grinned again. “Pardon my manners. I must introduce myself. My name is Magdalen Melmoth.”
“Persephone Morgan. Perri, actually.” For some odd reason I felt compelled to state my formal name, as if it were a validation, a type of credential.
Magdalen gingerly perched in a rocker adjacent to me. Her complexion was remarkably smooth despite her age, although the spots on her hands told a different tale. Bright blue eyes bored into me as she took my measure. “Persephone. Your parents must have been fond of the classics, dear. Your namesake was a great warrior.”
I flushed, reluctant to admit the truth. What woman warrior flinched at the word “orphan”? After all, it was nothing shameful and certainly not my fault. Before I responded, an unlikely savior sped to my rescue. Babette Croy, swathed in designer denim and trailed by Clara the border collie, appeared on the scene.
“Well, I see you made yourself comfortable,” she said. It was no accident that Babette had been voted Miss Congeniality on the pageant circuit and head cheerleader in college. Her glacier-melting smile and air of good cheer were infectious. She quickly introduced herself, Clara, and our mission.
“We’re part of the Therapy Dog program.” She plucked a paper from her capacious handbag. “Let’s see. We’ve each been assigned a resident. Mine is Irene Wilson and Perri’s—well, what do you know? You’re Perri’s partner, Ms. Melmoth. Isn’t that something? Kismet or what?”
Few people could resist the onslaught of Croy charm. Magdalen’s eyes twinkled as she surveyed my friend. “I understand it’s a lot of work—getting your dog certified for that program. How kind of you to do it.”
Babette shrugged in a failed attempt at modesty. “It truly is. Most people don’t grasp that, Magdalen. Why, my Clara had to pass basic obedience, canine good citizen, and therapy training before they would even consider her. Perri’s dogs were war heroes, so it was easier for them.”
I forgave Babette for minimizing the accomplishments of Keats and Poe. She was a good-hearted soul who meant no harm even on the days when she tried every bit of my patience to the max. The general public was so accustomed to watching therapy dogs in action after national tragedies that many assumed any dog or well-intentioned owner could simply step right in without training. Au contraire. I recalled several duos who had started the program with us, flubbed the final test, and hadn’t made the cut. Most pet parents didn’t take that well. Not every dog or owner was suitable for therapy work, but rejection on any level was painful, particularly when it involved a volunteer assignment.
I
