“I guess not. But again, thanks for inviting us in.” He begins shuffling toward the front door, with me and Dane following behind him like ducklings.
I, for one, would very much like to return for dinner, even if I’m mildly insulted that Fiona fears I will hurt her daughter.
The other Amelia must be disappointed, too, because she gives me a mournful look.
Now, I am highly aware that this isnotabout me. It is about fulfilling my duty by doing what’s best for Miguel. And everything from Fiona Foster’s bright eyes to her brilliant smile tell me that she would make a great mate for Miguel.
Or at least she will once I turn her into a dog person.
It just so happens that Fiona’s a package deal. So, you can’t blame me for wagging my nub when her child, who just happens to go by the best name in the world, grabs me before I leave her uncle’s glass house and whispers in my ear, “Don’t you worry, Harold. This isn’t the last we’ll see of each other.”
Thirteen
I don’t care what Miguel says about cities; I love Chicago. So many things to see and smell, so many people and pets! Even an old dog can have a good time in a place like this. Sure, I’m here to help Miguel find JMB—and, of course, love. And yes, I do wish the girl were here with me right now. Still, who am I to protest when Dane convinces Miguel that we should shake off our disappointment by exploring his friend’s neighborhood?
Dane’s yapping like a coyote at dusk as he guides us from this block to the next. “The area’s way different from when I lived here. I was over on North Wolcott, just off Division,” he tells Miguel, pointing down the street. “Used to be able to score drugs on all four corners of that intersection. Not that I did—but, you know, the vibe was way different.”
“And that’s how you ended up in West Haven?” Miguel asks. “I know I should know this, but it occurs to me I’ve never asked.”
“Nah, but it’s okay. I showed up for a buddy’s wedding and liked that I could see the water from almost everywhere Ilooked. Two months later, I packed up my truck and made my way to the other side of Lake Michigan.”
We’ve stopped at another intersection. “Chief, this is your show,” Dane says to Miguel. “What are you in the mood for?”
Miguel squints. “You have that list you showed me at home?”
“Sure do.” Dane rifles around in his backpack for a moment, then pulls it out.
Miguel takes it from him, then steps under an awning to get out of the sun. I stand next to him, but it’s not much help. My paws are sweating like crazy, and no amount of panting seems to cool me down. Miguel must realize this, because he looks at me and says, “Harold, should we take you back?”
I close my eyes and pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Okay,” he says, though it’s not clear if he’s speaking to me or Dane. “I say we try the sports bar, since it’s within walking distance.”
“Solid plan,” says Dane. “But, uh, what are we going to do when we get there?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”
When we reach the bar, I half expect that I’ll have to continue to barbecue myself on the sidewalk, but Dane ducks inside, then quickly returns to say I can come with them. The space is narrow and deep, with a long counter in the center and some small tables with metal chairs hugging the walls. It doesn’t look like a great spot to get writing done, but maybe JMB comes here to meet his writer friends.
Miguel and Dane sidle up to the bar and order a couple of beers. The man helping them is about Dane’s age, with dark hair and thick lines drawn over his lashes that make his eyes look like they have stingers.
“Thanks,” Miguel says when the man sets a couple of tallglasses in front of them. He’s using his bookshop voice, the one that’s calm and confident and in charge. That used to be how he spoke all the time. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Enrique,” says the man. “You?”
“Miguel. My friend Dane and I are in from West Haven, just around the bottom of the lake in Michigan. You ever been there?”
Enrique’s lips twist to one side. “That near New Buffalo?”
“Yeah, about twenty minutes north. We run a bookstore over there—Lakeside Books. You should check it out if you’re in the area.”
“I’m more of a city mouse, but if that changes, I’ll definitely swing by,” says Enrique.
“We’ll remember you if you do.” Enrique’s about to leave when Miguel adds, “Hey, I’m wondering if you happen to know someone named Jonathan Middleton-Biggs—he’s said to be a regular here? Mid-thirties, white guy, probably six foot or so, sandy hair that kind of falls into his eyes? He’s an author, so I’m guessing he typically has a notebook with him.”
Dane leans on the bar. “Or, you know, his computer.”
“Right.” Miguel lifts his pint glass and mutters, “To technology, the downfall of civilization.”
