Whiskey Beach Part 65

"I guess you're a pretty good dog."

The tail picked up its beat.

"Want to go for a walk on the beach?"

He didn't know the key word, or if she just understood whole sentences, but she scrambled to her feet, a gleaming joy in her eyes. It wasn't just her tail wagging now, but her whole body.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She trotted downstairs with him, gave another wiggle when he picked up the leash Abra had left on the counter, then added a happy yip when they stepped into the laundry room where Abra was unloading the dryer.

"Hey there, how's it going?" Abra set the laundry in the basket to give Barbie a rub. "Good day so far?"

"I was going to take a walk. She opted to come." He pulled a jacket off the peg. "Why don't you?"

"I'd love it, but I'm on a schedule today."

"Your boss says you can take a break."

She laughed at him. "I'm my own boss-you just pay me. Go bond with Barbie. You can have some lunch when you get back. Oh, take this." She plucked a red ball out of a basket of dog toys on the was.h.i.+ng machine. "She likes to fetch."

"Right."

She was right, too, about being her own boss, he thought. He liked and admired that about her, her ability to find and do work that satisfied her on so many levels. Once he'd thought he'd found that with the law, and his writing served as a kind of creative perk.

Now he was all in, and his life-on so many levels-depended on the reaction of a woman in New York with a colorful collection of cheaters, a broad Brooklyn accent and a sharply critical eye.

Not going to think about it, he told himself as he led Barbie down the beach steps. And because he couldn't stop thinking about it as they walked, as the dog trotted and wiggled with joy, he stopped and scanned the beach.

Technically, she should stay on the leash, but h.e.l.l, n.o.body, or hardly anybody, was out there.

He unclipped her, pulled the ball out of his pocket and winged it.

She charged, sand kicking, legs blurring. She clamped the ball in her teeth, raced back to him and dropped it at his feet. He winged it again, and again. Lost count of the number of times. When he timed it right, she was fast and accurate enough to leap, s.n.a.t.c.h the ball out of the air.

And each time she did, trotted back to drop it at his feet, they just grinned at each other.

She didn't chase the birds, thankfully, though she did give them longing looks.

He argued with himself, but curiosity and the little boy inside him won. He hurled the ball over the water to see how she'd react.

She gave a bark of sheer, unmistakable delight and roared into the sea.

She swam like-well, a retriever, he decided, laughing all the way down in his gut until he had to brace his hands on his thighs. She swam back to sh.o.r.e, red ball in her teeth, wild happiness beaming from her big brown eyes.

She dropped the ball at his feet again, shook herself. Soaked him.

"What the h.e.l.l?" He threw it out over the water again.

He stayed out longer than he'd planned, and his pitching arm felt like overcooked spaghetti. But man and dog were relaxed and pleased with themselves when they walked back into Bluff House.

On the kitchen island sat a clear-wrapped plate holding a cold-cut sandwich on a long roll, two pickle spears and a scoop of pasta salad. Beside it lay a Milk-Bone.

The sticky note read:

Guess which is whose.

"Funny. I guess we eat."

He picked up the dog biscuit. The minute she spotted it, Barbie dropped her b.u.t.t to the floor while the look in her eyes went slightly crazed. Like a crack addict, he thought, about to take the pipe.

"d.a.m.n it, Barbie. You're a good dog."

He went out on the deck and ate lunch in the sun with the dog sprawled contentedly by his chair.

His life, he decided, if you didn't count murder, break-ins and clouds of suspicion, was pretty d.a.m.n good right at the moment.

When he went back upstairs, he heard Abra singing. He poked his head into his bedroom first and, since the dog walked right in to explore, went over to see what towel art she'd left on the bed.

Unmistakably a dog, he thought. Especially since she'd fas.h.i.+oned a heart out of a Post-it. On it, she'd written:

BARBIE LOVES ELI

He glanced over, saw Abra had brought up a wide brown cus.h.i.+on. It sat on the floor near the terrace doors. Obviously, the way the dog snuggled into it, it had served as her bed before.

"Yeah, sure, make yourself at home."

He left the dog to follow the singing.

In his grandmother's bedroom, she had the terrace doors opened wide, though it was a bit cool yet. He saw the duvet clothespinned to some sort of portable pole flapping in the breeze.

And though Hester wasn't there, a little vase of wild violets stood on the nightstand.

A small thing, Eli thought. Abra was good at small things that made big differences.

"Hi. How was your walk?" She picked up a pillow, shook it out of its case.

"Nice. The dog likes to swim."

She'd noticed as she'd watched them from the terrace, and as she'd watched, her heart had simply glowed-and melted.

"It's a perk for her, being right on the beach."

"Yeah. She's in on her bed, taking a nap."

"Swimming wears you out."

"Yeah," he said again as he skirted the bed to her side. "What are you doing?"