Norah's Ark

“We…Bryce…needed to start over…another school district.” She looked pained. “He got in with a bad crowd. We felt it would be a good idea to move someplace farther out of the city. You understand, of course, that we don’t want this to be public knowledge. He’s a good boy, really. A kind heart.”

I squeezed Julie’s hand and silently determined to put the Morrises at the top of my prayer list.

Connor was sitting at a small table in front of the Java Jockey, sipping espresso from a small china cup and staring toward Lake Zachary. When he saw me, he waved me over, jumped to his feet and gestured toward a wrought-iron chair.

I hate the cliché “Curiosity killed the cat.” Violence of any kind toward animals is abhorrent to me. But I figure curiosity isn’t going to get me without a fight, so I pulled up the chair and sat down.

“Funny, but even now I can’t get enough of the lake—or any water for that matter,” he said. “Sitting here, looking across it is still a delight to me.”

“It couldn’t hurt that you have six luxury cruise boats moored at the dock.”

He smiled and his even white teeth flashed in the sun. Tucked as they were into a handsome face with a perfect golden tan, it was quite a sight. I understand why Lilly hears wedding bells when she looks at him.

“Have you taken one of my cruises, Norah?” He said it so casually he might have been asking if I’d ridden one of his bicycles.

“A few times, for weddings.”

People around here often rent cruise boats for anniversary and wedding receptions. It’s a perfectly self-contained, no worries, floating restaurant. Only one time did I see a problem with having one’s wedding reception on board. We were sailing nicely around the lake celebrating the nuptials of our friends when someone realized that the bride and groom had not made it to the dock. They had become so lost in each other’s eyes that they also lost track of time and, literally, missed the boat. By the time the captain had turned the ship and sailed back to pick them up, the bride, still in her white dress, and the groom, looking like that little banker, Mr. Monopoly on the board game, appeared pretty dismal. She had tears tracking down her face while her groom was obviously trying to answer that age-old question of newly married men—What have I gone and done? Fortunately, a standing ovation, striking up the band—okay, string quartet—and a buffet cheered them considerably.

“I’d like to have you join me sometime. As my guest. Would you consider that?”

“How generous of you! I’d love to….” My brain went into gear two beats behind my mouth. Recalling Lilly’s building infatuation with this guy, I wanted to make sure she got the attention, not me.

Although he is probably asking me just to be sociable, Connor’s reputation for enjoying beautiful women precedes him. And I’m no doubt worrying prematurely. Look at Lilly and then look at me. Unless he gets a thrill out of women wearing their hair in an aquatic animal imitation—my whale spout of a ponytail—I’m not in danger of holding his attention for long.

“Will there be many of us from Pond Street on board?” I asked innocently, hoping he’d get the hint.

I could read nothing in his well-bred features. His tone was pleasant. “What a fine idea. A party. Brilliant. That would be a good way for all of us to get acquainted.”

A high, sharp sound coming from my shop caught our attention. Bentley stood in the doorway of Norah’s Ark holding his dog dish in his mouth, making the high-pitched squealing noises and staring accusingly at me, eliciting guilt in me from every pore. Little stinker.

“Looks like your dog is hungry,” Connor pointed out unnecessarily. “And who is minding the store?”

“Annie. Sometimes she works at the Java Jockey. Joe and I share her.”

“You love what you do, don’t you?” Smile lines crinkled pleasantly around Connor’s eyes.

“I do. I grew up knowing that I wanted to live with a menagerie around me and the more the merrier. Especially dogs. Norah’s Ark is perfect for me.”

“I felt the same way about the water,” Connor admitted. “I couldn’t get enough. I was sailing things in the bathtub before I could talk. It’s as though I was—” he fumbled for a word “—created to sail.”

“We’re all created for something,” I agreed affably, “there’s no doubt in my mind about that.” I glanced toward the store. Bentley was now lying on his back, legs straight in the air playing dead doggie, bowl still clutched in his teeth.

“I suppose I should take the hint and go feed my dog before rigor mortis sets in.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come running over here to get you.”

“Bentley? Oh, no. He’d never do that. He doesn’t like to cross streets.”

Connor looked at me incredulously. “A dog that refuses to cross streets?”

“It must have had something to do with his life before I got him. Bowled over by a car, maybe. A near miss of some kind. Of course, Bentley doesn’t like a lot of things.”

Like fireworks, staircases, heavy metal music, blenders, motorcycles, electric can openers, suitcases on rolling wheels, the doggie park or, believe it or not, fire hydrants. And those are just his more noticeable idiosyncrasies.

Living with Bentley is an adventure in paranoia. He sees himself in a mirror and goes berserk, ostensibly protecting me from himself. His phobias and suspicions are legion. Fortunately, his capacity for love is even greater.

Connor stared at me strangely. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who seems to like dogs, and every other animal, as much as you do.”

“Love me, love my dog,” I said cheerfully. Connor, who really didn’t know me very well, had no idea how serious a statement that was.

Chapter Seven

I glanced up from the paperwork I do every Wednesday—ordering leashes, fish food and cat toys—to a jingle of the bell I kept in the store’s entry. There stood a large figure in the doorway, backlit by bright sunlight. The body nearly filled the entry, a silhouette of broad shoulders, narrow hips and lean muscles. I was reminded of an action-adventure movie where the hero enters, a larger-than-life figure come to save the day.

And I wasn’t that far off. He looked so different without his uniform, spit-polished boots and mirrored sunglasses on that I hardly recognized Nick. Today he was wearing dark trousers of some soft, rich-looking fabric, a pale blue polo with a black belt and shoes. Better yet, his eyes weren’t hidden behind those distance-keeping glasses. He looked tanned, fit and, I searched my mind for a word Lilly might use—dazzling.

Then I realized that he also looked frozen in the doorway, so I hopped off my stool and went to greet him. I didn’t come close in the clothing department in my khaki shorts and standard polo embroidered with a Norah’s Ark logo.

“Welcome! Come on in.” I beckoned him in. “Do you like things with wings, scales or fur?”

His jaw was set with the same resolve I sometimes have when I go to the dentist—even though the business card says Gentle Dentistry, I don’t quite believe it. After all, my dentist’s name is Dr. Payne. “No. No pets.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” I said cheerfully. “Unless it’s me you want to see.”

“Do you have a minute?” He looked uncomfortable, as if something might attack him. Of course, Winky was giving him the evil eye and had remained silent, which usually meant he was considering parrot mischief.

“Sure. Annie’s in back cleaning the B and B so there’s even someone on duty. We had a big party last night for one of my ‘guests.’”

“You’re still talking animals, right?” He looked unsure.

“Yes. I have a cat named Pepto staying here who has a bit of an attitude problem. He made his way to the top of the curtain rods and brought them down with him.” I had to chuckle. “You should have heard the noises that came out from under those curtains. I thought the water pipes would freeze and the mirrors crack! Quite a little set of lungs that Pepto has.”

He was looking at me as if I were speaking Swahili so I gestured toward the outdoor tables across the street at the Java Jockey. “Would you like caffeine? You’re looking a little pale around the gills.” There I go, diagnosing him with a fish disorder.

He didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he brightened considerably.

“Sure, yeah. Okay. Fine.”

We took a table in the corner to avoid the bright sun. Feeling frisky, I ordered a large latte with soy and hazelnut flavoring. Talk about living on the edge. Both caffeine and sugar in the same drink, a combination that always loosens my lips.

“You’re looking purposeful,” I commented as I studied him. “Is your visit business or pleasure?” His biceps bulged and I could see veins in his forearms that hinted at dedicated muscle building. He also had long pale scars running from beneath the left sleeve of his polo shirt to his wrist. A car accident, I guessed. The healed wounds looked like they’d been carved by jagged glass.

“Actually, I wanted to see if you’d had a conversation with Auntie Lou about her fall out of bed.”

“She’s fine. ‘Meaner than ever,’ she says.” I was pleasantly surprised to realize that he was concerned for my elderly friend. Though everyone knows Auntie Lou, she doesn’t have many close friends that call on her. Everyone on Pond Street assumes I am the go-to girl when something concerning Auntie Lou comes up.

She loves music and can get a little carried away with the volume on her little old portable stereo in the store. She plays her LPs as loud as she can—until someone sends me over to tell her to turn it down. Sometimes I catch her in the back of the store, eyes closed, humming, shuffling her feet and communing with Lawrence Welk and his friends. She also likes Elvis, but people seem to get less tired of his voice emanating from the back of the shop. Mostly I’m delegated to talk to her about not feeding the gulls in front of her store or leaving mannequins bare except for elaborate hats, in the store windows.