“Like not getting food off the table.”
“Or out of the trash, or anywhere else they see it, which can be a real challenge, especially for a Labrador retriever. The dog learns not to chase cats around the house, not to jump up on people, not to get on the furniture—”
She cleared her throat. “Ah, I hate to tell you this, but there appears to be a large black dog lying smack in the middle of your love seat.”
He laughed. “Don’t ever tell anybody, please, or I’ll get fifty lashes with a wet noodle.”
“You wouldn’t get in trouble for that?”
“No. Once we are partnered with a dog, that dog becomes ours. The only time a school might step in and remove a dog from a handler is if they suspect abuse. And I personally am not aware of anyone ever doing anything to warrant something like that.”
“Feather doesn’t get on the furniture?”
“Feather,” he said, “is not about to leave my side. She’s never been interested in sleeping on the couch or the bed.”
“I noticed she went into the kitchen with you and came right back out when you did.”
“Feather’s having a hard time adjusting to retirement.”
“Do they have to retire at a certain age? She still looks pretty chipper.”
“She is pretty chipper,” he said, “for a family pet. But she’s almost ten and she’s getting arthritis. She was starting to have trouble walking as much as I needed her to. And she was starting to hesitate.”
“Hesitate?”
“Lose her confidence. She didn’t want to cross the street, even when it was clear. One day she stopped in the middle of a crosswalk and wouldn’t move. I still don’t know if it was fear, if she was in pain or if she just lost focus. But that was the day I realized I was going to have to get a new guide.”
“That must have been hard.”
“Very.” He still found it difficult to talk about, and he had to clear his throat. “We were partners for more than eight years. I hated it. Felt like I was pushing her aside. I’m sure that it felt that way to her.” He sighed. “Some people keep their retired dogs, some let them go back to the person who raised them. Some are adopted by a family member or friend or someone approved by the training school. I thought it would be too hard to let her go. But now…now I’m not so sure.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. TMI, I’m sure.”
“It’s not too much information at all. I find it very interesting.”
He heard the ice clink in her glass as she took a sip. “Have a cookie,” she said after a moment, when he didn’t go on. “They’re always best when they’re still warm.”
“Twist my arm. Where are they?”
“On the coffee table. Ah, sort of to your right—”
“Think of the hands on a clock,” he said. “If I am facing twelve, where would the plate be?”
“Are you in the middle of the clock or at the six?”
He had to grin. It was a legitimate question. “The middle.”
“Two o’clock,” she said promptly.
He reached out, gauging the distance down to the coffee table, and was gratified when his fingers encountered the edge of a plate. It had little ridges around the edge, and…there. He picked up a cookie and brought it to his nose. “I’m not sure I can bring myself to eat this. I might just sniff it for the rest of my life.”
“I can give you the recipe,” she pointed out. “It’s not like you’ll never see them again.”
Instantly he could tell that she realized what she’d said. There was a short, horrified silence.
“Oh, cuss,” she said with feeling. “I am so sorry. What a thoughtless comment.”
“Cuss?” He was struggling not to laugh aloud. Most of the people he knew didn’t bother to censor their language.
Again he suspected that she shrugged. Then she said, “It’s a nice satisfying mix of consonants to mutter when I’m mad. I don’t like to use—or hear—strong language.”
“Cuss.” He said it again. Kendra hadn’t liked foul language, either. It was one of the little things he’d loved about her. “Works for me.”
Thinking of his former fiancée made him realize that he hadn’t thought of her in a long time.
“Anyway,” Lynne said, “I was in the middle of a major apology.”
“Unnecessary apology. It’s just an expression like ‘I see.’ You don’t have to censor your vocabulary.”
He made a show of taking another bite of his cookie and miming pleasure, hoping to get past the awkward moment. Since he’d lost his sight, the only woman he’d gone out with was Kendra. And after they’d broken up, he’d stayed as far away from the dating scene as possible for a while. In recent years, he’d dated some, but it had never seemed right; something within him just hadn’t been interested enough to pursue a relationship.
“I’m glad you like the cookies,” she said. “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? There are more where these came from.”
“Thank you, but no.” His refusal was automatic. He might have almost mastered the art of eating without seeing his food, but he had a serious dread of making a fool of himself. “I have the dogs and—”
“You’re welcome to bring them. A little dog hair is not going to ruin my home.”
“You really don’t have to do that.” She felt obligated because she’d tripped him up in the hallway; he already could tell she was the kind of person who would take something like that to heart.
“I want to,” she said. “I know virtually no one here. You can tell me about the town.”
Well, hell. He could think it, even if he wasn’t going to say it aloud. Without telling her an outright lie, there was no graceful way to get out of it. “All right. What time?”
“Is six-thirty okay?”
“Yes.”
“Any special requests?”
“No spaghetti, please.”
He could tell he’d startled her. Then she laughed. “I guess that is a bit of a problem food, isn’t it? Okay. No spaghetti, I promise.”
He couldn’t place her accent. The way she’d said, “a bit of a problem” had sounded almost British. But every once in a while he thought he detected in her drawled syllables a hint of the South as well. Maybe tomorrow night he could steer the conversation in her direction. It would be a nice change from his usual routine of answering questions about his vision issues
