She exhales with a whistle. “Phew.You must be so relieved.”
“Yes, very,” I lie, because I’m afraid I might cry if I start to talk about it. “Did Jacob tell you what the surprise was?”
“Yes—that he got you a puppy. Holy banana pants!”
I reach for my bathrobe on the back of the chair and pull it on. “I know, right? His name is Scooter, and he’ssooocute. Wait till you see him. But Jacob didn’t get him for me. He’s your brother’s dog. I’m just helping out.”
Becky laughs. “Sure. Just don’t let him rope you into cleaning out the crate.”
“I can’t make any promises. Scooter’s pretty hard to resist. He’s even cute when he’s pooping.” I glance at my watch. “But listen, I really have to go. I have a class at eight thirty. Can I call you tonight?”
“Don’t forget this time,” she says.
“I promise I won’t.” I hang up and hurry to get in the shower.
A short while later, as I stand under the nozzle and shampoo my hair, I ponder, at length, what my life is supposed to look like from this day forward. Clearly a baby isn’t in the cards, at least not this month, which is probably for the best because I still want to be an interior designer, and Jacob needs to finish his degree. I tell myself that we have plenty of time to build our lives together. We’re only just getting started.
But as I step out of the shower and dry off, I experience a strange twinge of apprehension that prickles through me. Or is it a premonition? A sense that I may not always be in total control of my destiny? You’d think the past twenty-four hours might have taught me a lesson about that, but clearly they haven’t. I still want what I want—a fulfilling career, children, a dog, and a nice country house in the valley, which I’ll share with Jacob until death do us part.
Chapter Two
Cape Split
January 1999
“Scooter, come!” Jacob picks up the leash and dangles it temptingly.
Scooter—now ten months old, fifty pounds, and clumsy on enormous paws—jumps off the sofa and gallops toward the door.
It’s our first weekend back at school since Christmas vacation, and the weather is unseasonably mild. Earlier this morning, my mother called after church and referred to this as the “usual January thaw,” but I cannot remember any day, in the dead of winter, when people walked around in shorts. It’s an anomaly. What should have been snow over the last forty-eight hours had turned to rain, and the snowbanks along the streets melted and caused minor flooding in the ditches.
But today, the sun is out, and the weatherman is calling for record temperatures until Monday, so Jacob and I have decided to forgo an afternoon of studying in the library and go hiking at Cape Split.
“Do you have the backpack?” I ask as I finish wrapping our tuna sandwiches in cellophane and place them in the lunch bag.
“It’s right here.” Jacob tries to hook the leash onto Scooter’s collar, but he spins wildly in a circle. “All right, all right. Hang on, buddy—we’re going.”
“He’s so excited,” I say, laughing.
Jacob opens the front door. “Let’s bring that old beach towel in case he’s dirty later.”
“Good idea.” After the rain, it’s bound to be muddy on the trail, so I suspect that all three of us, together, will be one big hot mess.
The hiking trail at Cape Split begins at the inlet of Scots Bay. It’s a pleasant and picturesque thirty-minute drive from the university, through the historic valley towns of Port Williams and Canning, past dykelands, cornfields, and apple farms. Naturally, it’s less lush in the winter months. Today, the landscape is a soft palette of grays and browns. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel there’s something special about this January day when we can drive with the windows down and feel the sun’s warmth. Scooter is making the most of it in the back seat with his head out the window, the wind in his face, his tongue flapping like a ribbon on a kite.
We find a place to park not far from the trail entrance, and I get out, hook the leash on to Scooter’s collar, and watch him jump out of the car. His tail wags while Jacob slings the backpack over his shoulder and locks the car doors.
“Let’s go,” Jacob says.
Scooter charges ahead, and I stumble forward. “Slow down, you rascal! You nearly pulled my arm out of the socket!” I turn to Jacob. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s deaf. He doesn’t seem to hear a word I say.”
“He’s just half husky,” Jacob replies, in jest.
“Mush, mush!” I shout, and Scooter drags me harder and faster.
Jacob jogs ahead, grabs hold of Scooter’s collar, and speaks firmly. “Scooter, stop. Sit.”
Scooter’s ears press back, and he immediately plants his bottom on the ground.
