In Manhattan, I could remain anonymous. It was easy to avoid people you didn’t want to see without turning into a recluse. But here in Harrogate, there was no relief.
I pressed the button on the door’s armrest and rolled the windows down. The cold flecks of snow hit my face as I paused and waited for the gate to open.
I should have been at my office working on my pitch to investors. I never should have wasted time coming to this house. Even though I didn’t want them to, the memories came.
Hensley and I had had the big Christmas wedding planned in city hall with all our friends and family. There would be ice skating and Christmas-themed food. Hensley and I had even been practicing a swing dance. After the wedding I was going to drive her off to the house and surprise her, then our friends and family were going to show up and have an afterparty on the back terrace with ice sculptures and a bonfire in the backyard and Christmas lights strung in the trees.
And it had all burned up in an inferno of cheating.
“At least it happened before the wedding,” I said grimly. “Count your blessings.” I took a few deep breaths letting the cold air chill my lungs and add another layer of ice to my heart.
I pulled through the gate, trying to distract myself by listing the points I needed to hit in the investors’ pitch.
“Shit,” I cursed as the automatic braking on the car engaged, almost causing me to slam into the wheel. “What the hell?”
I checked the car’s camera there. In the view was what looked like a mountain lion.
A mountain lion? Here?
We were out in the country, but still.
“Woof!”
I stuck my head out of the window. A massive St. Bernard, tail wagging, limped up to my window tongue lolling out.
The ice on my heart melted ever so slightly.
“Hey, boy,” I said to the dog, slowly opening the door so I wouldn’t spook him. Maybe he had run off from some hikers. We were near popular mountain trails.
But the dog wasn’t afraid of me at all. In fact, he was acting like I was his new best friend and his chauffeur.
“Hey,” I ordered as he stepped into my car. He was so big he didn’t even need to jump up into the SUV.
After leaving snowy pawprints on my seat, the St. Bernard tucked himself into the passenger’s seat. He panted at me.
I reached for his neck to see if he had a collar under all that thick fur.
The dog gave my hand a slobbery lick as my fingers connected with a strap around his neck.
“It’s okay, boy,” I assured him. “We’ll find your owner.”
But he didn’t have a collar around his neck; he had a piece of nylon rope with a wet note:
Free to a Good Home.
“For fuck’s sake.” The anger seared through me.
People from the city liked to come out to small towns like Harrogate and dump their pets on rural roads because they thought country people had all the room in the world to take in yet another stray animal.
Horses, cats, every kind of dog, big and small, and even a large boa constrictor had been dumped off at the various estates outside of town. It was a major topic of contention at town hall meetings. And here was another victim.
It felt personal.
My parents, my sister, and my fiancée had all abandoned me, just like this dog’s previous owners had abandoned him.
“Merry fucking Christmas to us, huh,” I said to the dog. I brushed off the seat and sat in the car.
The dog put a paw on my lap. I scratched his furry, slightly damp head.
