Eating food from an unknown source was at best dicey, but he was hungry, and as a bachelor, he’d survived many dicey food situations. He found a bowl, helped himself to the cow’s milk, and then stood over the kitchen sink eating cereal like a heathen. As per usual.
As he munched and stared into space through the kitchen window, he noticed something moving. He leaned over the sink, craning his neck. It was Duchess, her nose to the ground, wandering around some potted plants in a neon pink collar. Had Amy not learned her lesson this morning? As he stood there watching, Duchess walked right into a stone planter. She backed up a step or two on her stubby legs, then carried on, headed for the pool.
Harrison put down the bowl of cereal, marched down the hall to the back door with the closed dog door, went outside, and scooped the dog up before she could walk into the pool. He held her under his arm like a football, which Duchess apparently liked. She licked his shirt, her tail wagging.
“Where are you going with my dog?”
Harrison turned toward the sound of Amy’s voice. Duchess’s tail wagged harder. “Away from the pool,” he said. “You seem to be determined she take a swim.”
“No, I’m not,” Amy said. She came closer, carrying a box. Her hairwas in a ponytail, and she was wearing a long skirt, a tank, and an oversized shirt tied at her waist. He’d begun to wonder if Amy was one of those people who lived in a bathrobe. He didn’t know if that was a thing in the country, as he was not a country man. One might even argue he wasn’t an urban man, either. More of a nomad. But he saw bathrobed people represented in commercials and movies, and imagined legions of men and women marching around the earth in them, and was therefore glad to see she had a change of clothes. Frankly, he was tired of wondering what was beneath a robe with a loosely tied sash. He’d seen a bit of creamy thigh this morning that had him a little more than casually interested.
This morning, she’d looked a little like she’d rolled down one of the cliffs and had encountered a cactus or two along the way. Now, she looked perkier and (dare he think it) prettier.
“Put her down.”
“And let her walk into the pool?”
“She’s not going to walk into the pool. She can smell it and knows to stay away.”
He looked at the dog he held. “Are you sure? Because she didn’t smell that planter and walked right into it.”
“Seriously. We have been back and forth to the studio several times. She knows what she is doing.”
Harrison reluctantly put the dog down and watched her trot up to Amy, then around her, and head for the planter again. But this time, she missed it. “See?” Amy said smugly. She continued walking with her boxful of stuff, brushing past him.
He still thought she should have told him about the dog. It would have been nice to have had the opportunity to review the rules for blind dogs before they’d launched right into sharing one. “Hey,” Harrison said, detecting the whiff of perfume in her wake. “You need to crawl behind the tree and turn down the volume again. I can’t get back there without knocking the tree over.”
Amy stopped. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “What were they thinking?” she asked. “I mean, seriously.Whatcould they have been thinking?”
“Right?” Harrison couldn’t help but chuckle. “I was wondering the same thing. What planning committee came up with that idea?”
Amy carried on, Duchess following loosely behind her, and disappeared down the deck steps to the studio and grass beyond.
Harrison returned to the kitchen and his soggy bowl of cereal and resumed his stance at the sink. He watched Amy make another trip, the dog following behind, missing a few steps, but always righting herself.
Amy appeared outside the window again a few minutes later, this time wrestling a large wooden easel that was almost bigger than her. Harrison thought about going out there and asking if she needed help, but remembered their no-contact policy, and simply watched.
Duchess decided not to make the trip this time. She wandered off in a different direction, her nose to the ground. Clearly, he should get used to the idea that Duchess would be allowed to roam freely, risking death while Amy blithely insisted the pup was fine.
At the top of the steps, Amy propped the easel against a planter, then stood with her hands on her waist, staring down at the studio. She suddenly charged down, arms swinging, without the easel. She was back up in a moment, huffing a little, her gaze on the easel. He could see that she was talking to herself. He laughed when she tried to hoist the easel onto her shoulder and failed. He really ought to go out there and rescue her, but he understood women didn’t like to be rescued anymore.
Finally, she began her descent, pulling the easel along behind her like a recalcitrant child. She seemed exasperated and a little sweaty.
She was cute. He liked the way she walked around when she wasn’t pulling an easel—her arms swinging, like she was in charge and had places to be. She paused halfway down the steps, scratched a boob, then dragged her hand across her forehead as if wiping away perspiration. Shesquared her shoulders, then lifted the end of the easel again, and disappeared with it bopping down the steps behind her.
He could feel a smile on his lips. Maybe these two weeks wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He rinsed his bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered, but something told him that a bowl in the sink would not sit well with his housemate.
He grabbed his phone on his way out to search for food. As he walked out onto the drive, it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought about his career since he’d come out of his room. He’d been pleasantly diverted.
5
The studio was charming and somehow exactly the she-shed Amy had dreamed about erecting in her backyard but never had the money for. It had a cot for naps, made up with a patchwork quilt, a mound of pillows, and a redHO HO HOthrow draped artistically across the foot of it. Duchess made her way there, and then whimpered for Amy to put her on the cot so she could commence the morning nap.
A small writing desk faced the windows with a view of the lake. Amy pictured herself there on a spring day, sketching out her ideas before committing them to canvas. It was too cold and windy this morning, but the image inspired her.
There was a small half bath with a mirror and an oversized upholstered chair squeezed into the corner where she would very much like to sit and read a book. Or several books. She never had time to read like she wanted—there was always a homework fire to put out, or a meal to be prepared, or a load of laundry to be done.
