3
“Sounds like she’s nuts,” Babette said. “Maybe ole starchy drawers Fergueson was right about Magdalen after all. Too bad. I really liked her. Magdalen, I mean, not the dragon lady.”
Buoyed by the success of our dogs and their program, we left the Falls in high spirits. A round of musical chairs, tricks, and meet and greets received a warm welcome from the residents. Once again, I was awed by the power of the canine-human connection. Outwardly timid ladies hugged and kissed our dogs with a zeal they never would have shown to strangers. A few reminisced about beloved dogs and cats that had shared their own lives. In the face of that reaction, my prior reluctance to participate felt petty and mean-spirited. I was now a true believer. Even the songs Kate had shared with the group gave me a warm, family feeling that, as an orphan, I had missed out on.
Babette and I sat in my living room, sipping cider and awaiting the arrival of Wing Pruett. I’d phoned and sketched out the basics for him, and to my surprise, he was intrigued enough to change his plans and pop on over. That inspired Babette to order pizzas from her favorite gourmet spot and brew barn burners, a lethal mixture of cider, brandy, and whiskey that tasted harmless and kicked like an entire mule team.
“How are things going between you two?” Babette asked. When it came to romances, particularly mine, no area was out of bounds for my pal. Privacy was an overrated barrier in Croyland. She ignored my frown and plunged in immediately. “Any hint of wedding bells? I’ll need to make arrangements, you know. Give me plenty of notice.”
I chose to ignore my ill-mannered but well-intentioned pal. “Things are fine between us. Don’t you dare mention wedding bells when he gets here. He’ll think I put you up to it.” Actually, that topic was verboten in my household. I’m a self-sufficient, single woman, thirty-two years of age, with eyes firmly fixed on my future. Whether that future included a certain investigative hottie and his darling daughter remained an open question, one that I was reluctant to broach. Three years ago, when my fiancé, Dr. Pip Hahn, succumbed to cancer, I banished all thoughts of romance. The pain of that loss still haunted me, and the wound was remarkably raw. No sense in mentioning it to Babette, the ultimate pragmatist. Her response—which she frequently voiced—was simple: get over it. Pip’s gone, so live your life. What she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand was my refusal to obliterate him from my heart. His memory sustained me and kept Wing Pruett’s less-desirable habits at bay. It was a complicated and occasionally painful dilemma.
“Phooey,” Babette said. “That man adores you. He’s obsessed with you. Trust me on that. I can tell. All he needs is a little push.” Her smug smile raised all sorts of danger signs.
“Back off,” I said as forcefully as I could. “Focus on your own love life for a change. Last time I looked you were still single.” It was a low blow, but an effective one. Since her divorce from the perfidious Carleton Croy, Babette had lived the single life. It was not to her liking. Carleton, Babette’s husband number four, was no prize package, but she frequently bemoaned the loss of marital benefits and his abundant physical assets. Whenever she launched a paean to his manly parts, I used every trick in the book to block it out. Selective memory was a tricky thing. From her three elderly spouses, Babette had derived material comfort and big bucks. She was fond of saying that they died smiling all the way to eternity. Not so with Carleton, a faithless wretch who shared his splendor with most of her friends, berated her, and had no money at all.
“I know you mean well,” I said, “but Pruett and I understand each other. Don’t push it. You’ll spoil everything.”
Tenacity was one of Babette’s strengths and she didn’t yield easily. Fortunately, an unearthly screech from the barn distracted her and announced our visitor’s arrival. Zeke, an irascible pygmy goat, had very few virtues, but he rivaled a particularly piercing air raid siren as a noise alert. I always suspected that his vigilance had more to do with sheer selfishness than any protective instinct, but it served a useful purpose. Zeke was another rescue project who had absolutely no allegiance to me. Fortunately, since adding Raza, an Arabian mare, to my little brood, Zeke’s boorish behavior had improved. Maybe loneliness had caused his antics and exasperating refusal to act civilized. It was a reason, but not an excuse. Luckily for that shaggy pygmy, I overlooked his misdeeds in Pip’s honor. Like it or not, Zeke was mine for the duration.
After a perfunctory rap on the door, Wing Pruett bounded into my home. No doubt about it, he had an aura that intimidated men and captivated any sentient female within a fifty-mile radius. It wasn’t just his physical presence, although that was considerable. Not many men possessed the body beautiful, perfectly molded features, and mounds of thick black hair, especially in our nation’s capital, where power, not sex appeal, was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Some wag had termed Washington, DC, “Hollywood for ugly people,” but a man like Wing Pruett could hold his own any place in any crowd. Why else would the Washingtonian dub him the sexiest man in Washington? As soon as I saw him, I deliberately powered down to neutral. Truth was tricky, my feelings for Wing Pruett complicated. When he said that he loved me, I wanted desperately to believe him, but common sense dictated that such a sultry superstar would probably move on to greener pastures someday. No need obsessing about that. Long ago I’d resolved to live in the moment and enjoy every second of his company. I maintained a cool, slightly bemused façade when our eyes locked. No sense in feeding that aura of entitlement that immersed Pruett.
“Hey, ladies.” Pruett neatly evaded my dogs, planted a kiss on my cheek, and squeezed Babette’s hand. He was a work in progress when it came to animals, but with my help and the able assistance of his daughter Ella, Pruett had made great strides. You’ve got to love a man who acknowledged and conquered his worst fears.
“I come bearing gifts. Got dessert for you,” he said, presenting a neatly wrapped box of treats from Georgetown Cupcakes. Immediately, Babette’s eyes widened. Sweets placed second only to sex in her personal pantheon. In view of her previous escapades it made sense to me. Sugar was much more accessible and less problematic than many of her romantic partners. Cupcakes never cheated on her, demanded alimony payments, or required a prenup. My pal swore that although the ecstasy of a sugar high was short-lived, it was well worth the glucose slump that followed. With Pruett around, I preferred to save the calories and go for the real thing.
Babette immediately leaped up to play hostess. It was an automatic reflex even when she was in someone else’s home. “How about a barn burner, Wing? They’re my specialty, you know.”
Pruett slid next to me on the couch, close enough for our arms to touch. I tried to forestall a full body flush by sipping cider, but it didn’t work. He pretended not to notice, although I was positive he had.
“Sounds great,” he said. “I’ll just help Ms. Perri relax a bit.” His fingers nimbly unfastened the pins in my hair, causing it to cascade down my back. “Much better,” he murmured. “Your crowning glory unleashed.”
Who could argue with a move like that? My hair was the one point of vanity I allowed myself. His touch didn’t transform me from a stodgy professional to a wanton woman, but I relished the contact. Somehow that relatively innocent act elevated my senses more than anything else he could manage in public view. I caught the satisfied glint in Babette’s eyes and looked away. Knowing her, she was already planning our honeymoon itinerary.
Before getting down to business, we spent a few moments in companionable silence sipping our barn burners. I had to admit that the potent liquid warmed the cockles of my heart and several other spaces too personal to mention. Finally, Pruett put down his mug and retrieved his notebook. Even in the age of electronic gadgets, he preferred to go old-school when pursuing a story.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me your take on Magdalen Melmoth. Delusional or merely complex?”
I hesitated,
