a legacy of foster care or a military mindset, but Persephone Morgan was always on time. I plucked at Babette’s sleeve. “Maybe we should register or something. I think some other people plan to join us.”
Magdalen bit her lip, almost as if she were frightened. She slowly rose and pointed toward the entryway. “You’d better check in with Dr. Fergueson. They have all kinds of rules around here, and she’s a stickler. Knows chapter and verse.”
I felt strangely protective toward this elderly sprite even though we had never met before. Somehow, a bond had been forged between us, a connection made through our mutual love of dogs. I signaled Keats and Poe and rose to my feet. “No problem. I understand bureaucracy all too well. We’ll find Dr. Fergueson and see you later.”
“Nice meetin’ you, Magdalen.” Babette beamed another ray of sunshine. “Let Irene know I’m comin’ her way. We’re gonna have a real good time.”
We entered the common room, a pleasant open space decorated with wing chairs and sofas arranged in conversation areas. A massive mahogany bookcase and assorted end tables tied the look together. The soft colors of green, yellow, and blue added a soothing touch.
“Hey, this is nice,” Babette said, casting a weather eye around the room. “I was worried it would be a downer, but not so far.” She lowered her voice. “And it doesn’t smell.”
“Babette!” Sometimes she went too far even for me.
“Oh Perri, chill. I mean that institutional odor. You know, like bleach or ammonia.”
I was glad to see that several other members of our group had arrived. Safety in numbers, as the saying goes. Kate Thayer, a stocky matron with a ruddy complexion and a ready wit, was one of my favorites. Her Labradoodle, Gomer, as goofy as his name suggested, joined my boys for playdates whenever possible. Kate called herself a recovered librarian, although that was a vast understatement. Expertise in antiquarian books made her a sought-after resource for both universities and collectors from around the world. She was a talented musician and singer as well, and was seldom seen without her guitar. As Kate ruefully explained, none of her passions paid much, but they reaped big psychological benefits. The residents apparently enjoyed singing songs from their youth and tapping their feet along with Kate and tail-wagging Gomer. I was partial to music myself and looked forward to the sing along.
Although we’d never discussed finances, I assumed she had saved enough to live in relative comfort. Real estate prices in the Cleveland Park district, where Kate lived, were among the highest in the nation, and most properties there had listings well into the upper six-figure range. Pruett owned a town house just around the corner in Georgetown, another stratospherically priced residential area that was way too rich for my blood. I presumed through inheritance, divorce, or just plain good luck, Kate had managed to hang on to her homestead. She limped into the room, guitar in hand, leaning heavily on a cane. Today was a special day at the Falls. Once a month, special song requests were welcome, and following the performance by our dogs, residents would gather in the sunroom for a sing-along.
By Kate’s side was Rolf Hart, one of my least favorite people. I’m fairly easygoing and try hard not to nurse grudges, but as in all things there were exceptions. Rolf’s snarky rants against the military and those who served made an indelible, very negative impression on me. He was definitely an example of a pleasing book cover with inferior contents. There was nothing about Rolf’s appearance to suggest the venal soul within. Tall, fit, blond and blue-eyed, he immediately registered on most women’s radar. Initially, I even considered him attractive—until he opened his mouth. Real estate was Rolf’s game, and despite his views, he apparently was very successful at it. According to him, he’d made his first million by age thirty and hadn’t looked back since. Naturally, Babette had scoped him out, but quickly abandoned the hunt. As she later observed, people of means seldom bragged about it or even mentioned money. To do so was considered déclassé, a sign that Rolf was a social climber.
“Perri!” Kate beckoned to me from across the room. Gomer joined in greeting us by wagging his curly tail nonstop. Rolf’s Borzoi, Portia, a lovely girl with class, manners, and a soft cream coat held her ground, staying friendly but aloof. She was the perfect counterpoint to her owner’s brash ways and the only thing I gave him credit for. Even a hideous creature like Rolf might be redeemable through canine love. In view of his dog’s name, I’d once asked him if he was a Shakespeare fan. To my surprise, he actually responded. Apparently, he had played Shylock in a college play and loved the experience. Against all odds, Rolf the Philistine was a season ticket holder who attended every presentation at Washington’s Shakespeare Theater.
We four had been assigned the Falls as our Therapy Dog project. Babette and I were novices, but both Kate and the unlovely Rolf were the team’s veterans. I had hoped for a school or library slot, but they were the plum posts that went to those with seniority. As with most endeavors, one had to wait patiently for any promotion.
“Wonder where the brass is,” Kate muttered. “Gomer’s raring to go.”
Before Rolf could take charge, I offered to check things out. Helpfulness is my middle name, but I also relished the opportunity to thwart his macho need to dominate.
Babette followed me, pointing to a discreet sign that directed us toward an office complex. We stopped at the spot marked “Director, Dr. Fergueson,” and knocked. Actually, Babette pounded on the door rather than knocked. The trappings of bureaucracy had exhausted her small store of patience. “Not the reception I expected,” she huffed. “After all, we’re doin’ them a favor. What is this place anyway, a ghost town?”
I patted her arm to calm her down. Secretly, I hoped that some snafu would send us packing. Despite the thick carpeting and upscale décor, the Falls had a regimented feel that gave me the creeps. Perhaps it was the silence, overwhelming and almost oppressive, or the fear that I was confronting my own future. Fortunately, our dogs were not fanciful and showed no trepidation. All of them behaved with a dignity and decorum far superior to their human caretakers.
Eventually, a mountainous female wrenched open the door and stared us down. She wore a utilitarian white uniform and a frilly nurse’s cap at variance with her no-nonsense manner. Her name tag read, “Carole Ross, RN.”
“Yes?” Nurse Ross stared down at our dogs as if her eyes deceived her. For their part, all three canines went on alert, watching her through unwavering eyes.
Babette was either transfixed or ossified. Her bravado of a few seconds before had thoroughly deserted her, and she turned to me in mute appeal. I knew from experience that the way to deal with a bully was to confront her head-on. Nurse Ross might respond to that technique.
“We’re here to see Dr. Fergueson,” I said firmly but politely, dispensing with social niceties. “We have an appointment. Persephone Morgan and Babette Croy. You know, the Therapy Dog group.”
I stand five feet, nine inches tall, but Nurse Ross topped me by at least four inches and fifty pounds. Babette had a mighty spirit but was vertically challenged. She angled away from the door and cowered behind me.
“Oh,” grunted the nurse. “Wait here. I’ll check.”
The anteroom contained several soothing seascapes and a framed diploma certifying that Joan Fergueson had earned a doctorate in Philosophy from Westport University. The name of the institution was unfamiliar, but that was no surprise. With my humble, hard-won bachelor’s degree, I was scarcely an expert on graduate education.
“She has some nerve,” Babette whispered. “Do we look like kidnappers or somethin’?”
I
