She fired back that their friends all had dog walkers or stay-at-home moms. She explained that it would be cruel to the dog. Left alone during the day, its outside would consist of controlled visits to the postage-stamp-size park where you were required to pick up its poop. Did either Max or Daisy feel like walking around behind a dog in the rain, picking up its poop? That effectively shut down the arguments.
“Max and Daisy,” she said aloud, setting down the puppy and snatching up her phone. Her thumb was hovering over the keypad when she noticed the time—6:47 a.m. Too early to call. Setting aside the phone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back of the door.
“Lovely,” she muttered. “I’m channeling Blanche Dubois.” It was a combination of her negligee and the fact that she had just rolled out of bed. After a night of hard sleep, even the Dior negligee looked cheap. And skimpy. Sophie’s salon-pampered hair was rumpled, her eyes still blurred with sleep. She had long favored skimpy nightgowns, a secret, decadent indulgence.
It wasn’t as if she bought them to impress a man. She and Greg had been in college when they met. College boys tended to like anything with boobs, so she didn’t need lingerie—a team T-shirt would do. She loved the luxurious feel of lace and silks, though. The lingerie was the last bastion of femininity and youth. Giving in to flannel granny gowns would be an admission of defeat.
She refused to become a flannel granny.
But good heavens. It was cold this morning. Shivering, she looked around the room. This was an older house with tall ceilings and braided rugs on wood floors. She was in an old-fashioned bedroom with fading quilts on the bed, a marble-topped washstand, chintz curtains on the windows. Everything here had a sense of permanence, yet there was an ineffable air of neglect, as well. The faint cedary smell of the bed linens suggested that this room didn’t get much use.
She had a luxurious cashmere robe, but it was in her other bag, still in the trunk of the rental car. So were her slippers. She examined her boots, finding one of them stained with dried blood. She wiped it as best she could with some damp tissues. Then she zipped on her high-heeled boots, which made a bold statement combined with her skimpy nightgown. Just give me a whip and a chain, she thought, and I’ll be the dominatrix you’ve always dreamed of. She tugged a soft, hand-crocheted throw from a rocking chair and drew it around her.
The puppy let out a yip and peed on the floor.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sophie regarded the dark wetness spreading on the braided throw rug in the doorway. Now she remembered why she didn’t do puppies. She loosely rolled up the throw rug. Holding it gingerly, she made her way downstairs, passing faded cabbage-rose wallpaper and a leaded-glass window at the landing. The puppy loyally followed, jumping from step to step down the stairs and nearly crash-landing at the bottom. It seemed completely unhurt, though, and stayed focused on Sophie, as though imprinted like a duck. She couldn’t help smiling, despite the rug. The accident was her fault, really. The dog was a baby. Its bladder was tiny. She should have taken it out immediately to do its business.
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