Take a Chance on Me (41 page)

"Just one last time."

Emma felt a wave of failure and loss wash over her, so black and airless that she nearly drowned in it. It took every bit of strength she had to put an end to the encounter. She squared her shoulders.

"I'll give you one last deal, Aaron. Take it or leave it. I won't call in all your outstanding IOUs if you leave right now and swear you'll never come back. I don't ever want to see you again. That's worth ten thousand to me, easy."

Aaron said nothing, just glared at her a moment before he turned back to his car. He opened the door and began to lower himself inside but stopped. He turned to her, and cocked his head.

"You have no idea what you've just done," he whispered, the corners of his mouth turning down, trembling. "Take good care, Emma."

The big engine rumbled awake and she watched him race down the lane, an angry cloud of gravel and dust spewing into the air behind him.

Emma stood without moving for a long while, feeling the numbness spread to her limbs, her heart. Then she walked toward the east pasture, folded her arms along the fence, and propped a foot on the lower rail.

The warmth of the evening sun hit her back, and for a moment it felt like somebody was stroking the tension out of her shoulders, like someone's gentle caress. But it was her imagination, and it made her feel so alone.

Right then, it all came crashing down on her—the scene with Leelee that morning, the shameful sting of Thomas Tobin's rejection, and now Aaron's latest attempt to use her. It was too much, and it squeezed powerfully at her chest, wrung out her heart, and she started to cry.

Emma turned her head and rested her cheek on her folded arms. She felt the tears run downhill and tickle her wrist.

Here she was trying to show a young girl how to successfully deal with life, when she'd totally screwed up her own! Who in the world said she was fit to be a mother? Why was it that she had to pass a grueling three-day board examination before she could care for a Schnauzer yet didn't have to demonstrate any aptitude whatsoever to hold the life of a human child in her hands?

Emma swallowed back a sob and shook her head. The look in Leelee's eyes that morning had been such a raw mix of fear and vulnerability that it nearly broke Emma's heart. She knew all too well how it felt to grow up without your mother there to guide you. It was scary as hell. And she didn't have any magic answers for Leelee. In fact, Emma was quite aware she had no idea what she was doing—she was making it up as she went along.

She sniffled and turned over onto the other cheek, blinking back another round of tears.

Then there was Thomas Tobin. How stupid could she have been? It amazed her that she'd actually thought there was something special about that man, that there had been a connection between them. How had she made the mistake of thinking he was interested in her?

The truth was that he was a conflicted jerk and she didn't want anything more to do with him—not that she'd been given much of a choice in the matter.

She knew that at the core of it, the Thomas Tobin two-step was nothing but a typical case of fear-based aggression. In her mind, she pictured him as a big yellow Lab who'd been teased and hurt one time too many, who'd turned mean in an attempt to protect himself.

He had all the classic signs. He answered many of her questions in an indirect manner. He limited his eye contact. He tried not to reveal emotion. He was uncomfortable with physical contact. And he tried to puff himself up with all that stupid macho rugby garbage in an attempt to insulate himself from future hurt. It was his way of saying to the world, "Back off! You really don't want to mess with me!"

Issues? You bet your ass he had issues!

On Monday, she'd have Velvet transfer Hairy's follow-up care to someone else.

She wiped her eyes and thought of that little dog. Poor Hairy. Of all the animal's problems, the biggest was that he was now owned by an emotionally impaired idiot.

Emma straightened up and looked down at herself—a few pieces of hay clung to the old denim shirt straining at her ample chest. Dirt smudged the thighs of her jeans. Horse manure was packed into the thick treads of her barn boots. She laughed out loud at her own foolishness—why of course Thomas Tobin found you attractive, Miss Horse Offal! How could any man resist such beauty, such panache!

Such a joke!

The ground rumbled beneath her feet and Emma looked up to see Vesta racing toward her, all glossy muscle, speed, and fire. She stopped at the fence, snorted and tossed her head.

Vesta stayed long enough to let Emma briefly stroke the white blaze between her huge, dark eyes. Then she was off again.

As Emma watched the horse, she took a deep breath and made a promise to herself. From here on out, she wasn't going to waste another minute worrying about why she couldn't find a good man to love. Instead, she was going to be like Vesta, and just appreciate having the pasture all to herself, the wind in her hair, making the trip under her own power.

If the right man never materialized, so be it.

And if—miracle of miracles!—he showed up on her doorstep someday, her heart would know him in an instant. He'd be normal. Honest. Kind. He wouldn't lead her on or try to use her to support his bad habits.

He'd be sweet to her. He'd love her just the way she was. He'd respect her.

Emma decided right then that she'd waste no more energy pining for some man to sweep her off her feet—because clearly, once the sweeping part was over she'd end up sprawled on her butt!

She watched Vesta out in the middle of the field, still cavorting and throwing her head in joy. It made her smile to think that maybe she had worked miracles with that horse.

Maybe she could do the same with her own life. Maybe she really was an eternal optimist.

* * *

Hairy tugged at the leash as he sniffed eagerly around the base of a newspaper box. Thomas gave a few nervous glances around the street. He couldn't believe he was walking down a public sidewalk with a dog in a sweater. Dear God, there couldn't be a single thing more humiliating in this entire world.

Unless, of course, Hairy had been out here in his maxi pad. Thomas sighed. Walking around the house with that thing tied around his waist, Hairy had looked like a—well, he'd looked like an ugly dog in a Kotex.

Thomas had laughed his ass off at first, but soon discovered the crazy scheme had saved him about three cleanup jobs in one evening alone.

Emma had been right.

Thomas suddenly groaned in discomfort and stopped to press a hand into the small of his back while he stretched, giving Hairy just enough time to skitter around in circles and tangle the leash around his ankle.

"Damn, Hairy. What have you done now?" Thomas reached down to unravel the mess and a hot streak of pain raced up his back. He was locked up. He couldn't move. Un-fucking-believable.

"Are you all right, young man?"

Thomas raised his eyes to see the familiar face of the elderly lady from three doors down. He had no idea what her name was—he'd never said a word to her. Obviously, that was about to change.

"Fine, ma'am. Just a little stiff."

"Well, I certainly know all about that." She made several "tsk tsk" sounds with her tongue. "Sometimes you just have to jerk up real quick and face the pain." She gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "I'll give you the number for my chiropractor, Dr. Feldman. He's wonderful. He—"

"No. Really. I'm fine." Thomas heaved himself to a stand and watched black patches of agony pulsate on the surface of his retinas.

"I'm Mrs. Sylvia Quatrocci, by the way. I'm a widow." The lady scrunched up her mouth and examined Thomas from head to toe, then wagged an eyebrow. "We've never officially met. You've always seemed too busy to talk before, always so serious."

"Uh-huh." The pain was so bad Thomas feared he would faint. Meanwhile, Hairy had managed to nearly hang himself on the leash and was making wretched gagging sounds.

"Here, let me help you with your little friend." Mrs. Quatrocci bent effortlessly and unhooked Hairy's collar from the leash, then yanked the thin cord of nylon out of Thomas's hand.

"It's an unusual-looking little thing. What is it?"

Thomas stood stunned and annoyed. A little old lady had just rescued him. The last time he checked, it was supposed to be the other way around.

"It's a dog," he said.

Mrs. Quatrocci laughed heartily and looked into the animal's face. "Well, no kidding. But what kind?"

"A Chinese Crested—want it?"

Her face widened in horror. "Of course I don't want it! I was just curious. Here." She shoved Hairy into Thomas's arms. "Be a little more careful with that leash. So what's your name again?"

There was no again about it. "My name is Thomas Tobin."

"Well, Mr. Tobin, it was a pleasure. I suppose we'll see each other around, the way we've been doing for the last five years. Maybe now we can exchange pleasantries the way real neighbors do."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Quatrocci was about to continue her evening stroll but suddenly remembered she had another meddling question. "So what's her name?"

Thomas nearly said "Emma," but stopped himself. "Whose name?"

"The dog's."

"Oh. It's a him. Hairy—H-A-I-R-Y."

Mrs. Quatrocci roared with laughter. "That's just adorable!" She patted Thomas's arm and smiled sweetly.

"You know, I never took you for a man with a sense of humor. Just goes to show you that you can't judge a book by its cover."

"No, ma'am. I couldn't agree more."

With that, she moved on. Thomas reattached the $10.95 green nylon leash to the matching $7.49 collar and was about to bend over and return Hairy to the sidewalk when he realized that wouldn't be a smart move. Who'd come along to rescue him next—a kid in a wheelchair?

He pondered the physics involved in returning Hairy to the ground, then gingerly leaned to one side at the waist, dangling the dog above the concrete by one hand, getting as close to the sidewalk as possible before letting go.

Hairy's legs splayed out upon impact and he yelped a bit, but nothing seemed to be broken. And they were off again.

Emma had said that Hairy's anxiety would lessen with lots of exercise. She was right about that. Hairy definitely slept better if he'd had a half-hour walk in the evening. And the medicine, lotions, and relaxation exercises seemed to be helping a little. Hairy shook less. He seemed happier. His skin looked healthier.

Emma had been right about so many things—the pustules, the maxi pads, the crate, the fact that they should be dating.

Thomas groaned, and he wasn't sure if it was because his knees hurt or because he'd just remembered what Emma looked like as he'd walked away that morning. Her smile was gone. Her chin began to tremble, like she was going to cry. Those soft blue eyes looked shocked and hurt.

Did she cry after he drove away? Did he make her cry? The thought made him sick.

Oh, God, that little patch of skin right behind her ear had smelled like summer air and warm, delicious woman. And when he'd nipped that earlobe between his teeth, she'd tasted like a dollop of hot salt-water taffy. He wondered what her other dollops might taste like. He wondered if she might ever be willing to give him another chance.

He wondered why he wanted another chance.

He wondered what was wrong with him.

"Should I send her flowers, Hairy? Do you think she's the kind who likes flowers?"

Hairy looked up at him.

"Is she the dozen-roses type, or the tulip type, do you think?"

Oh, God—just that single little taste of her and it had taken every bit of willpower he possessed not to fold her in his arms and touch her everywhere—those gorgeous breasts, that perfect, round butt of hers, the satiny throat. He'd wanted to put his mouth on hers and taste her on the inside. He wanted to cup her between her legs. He wanted to tell her she was—

"… such a darling little thing!"

Thomas nearly yelped with surprise. He had company again. Where were all these people coming from?

Was Federal Hill overpopulated? And why the hell did everyone suddenly get the urge to take a walk?

Thomas's eyes widened as he did a once-over on the man who now stood beside him. The guy was short and skinny with dyed blond hair and a silver hoop harpooned through his eyebrow. He wore a pair of black leather pants so tight that his lips should have been purple from the lack of circulation.

Then Thomas realized the man had some kind of little dog, too. It looked like a wig on four sticks, wearing what could only be described as a purple halter top and matching, crotchless hot pants. What kind of man would put a dog in such an absurd get-up?

Just then, the man made eye contact and broke out into a glorious smile, and extremely loud sirens began to wail inside Thomas's skull.

"I'm Franco," the man said, holding out a manicured hand. "This is Quiche Lorraine. I don't think we've seen you out before. I'm pretty sure we would have remembered." Franco giggled and gave his head a sassy little shake.

"I'm Thomas." He accepted Franco's hand and shook it. Real hard.

"Ooh! Down boy!" Franco laughed uncomfortably, then rubbed his injured fingers. "So. Are you new to the neighborhood?"

Thomas quickly summed up the situation. Could this nut job possibly think he was gay? And if so, why the hell would he assume something like that? Since when did he look gay? Since when did he sound gay?

Was it something he was wearing? No, he was in a real hetero pair of cutoff sweatpants and an old Orioles T-shirt. Then what could it possibly—?