Who Do You Love? Read online

  “Don’t make that sarcastic face, honey. It doesn’t look pretty.” He pecked a small kiss on her mouth. “See you later. I’ve got a golf date.”

  Chapter Three

  She didn’t know much about animals. And Warren was pretty clear that he wasn’t going to give Wiley one minute of his attention, so he was no help. And anyway, he’d gone to play golf with his boss, so Gena was on her own. But she knew enough to know Wiley needed to be walked. She could improvise a collar and a leash with some string, but that seemed so pathetic. Like a homeless person, holding up his pants with a piece of rope.

  She carried Wiley down to the doorman’s desk in the lobby. It was Saturday, so Seferino was on this morning. Sef was a sweet guy and she knew he’d help if he could.

  “Sef, you sometimes walk dogs for people in this building. What are the chances you might have an extra collar and leash for this animal? I have to take him out and I don’t have either.”

  “You have a dog now, Ms. Shaw? That’s nice.”

  “He’s homeless. I found him. He’s just temporary.”

  “Let me look.” He went into the package room, rummaged around for a minute, and appeared carrying a spare collar and leash. “Here you are, Ms. Shaw. Will this this do?”

  “You’re a peach, Sef.” She slipped a couple of dollars into his hand. “You always come through. Thanks a bunch.”

  The day was lovely: sunny and warm, with just that teeny bit of soft breeze that makes you glad you’re alive. And Gena was dressed perfectly for this perfect day. She’d left her long hair loose, and she was wearing comfy sandals and a little flowery sundress. “Warren doesn’t approve of this dress,” she said to Wiley as they walked out into the sunshine. “He says it’s too short.” It was true; Warren thought it was too short and that it didn’t sufficiently conceal her “beanpole” legs. But Warren was off with his boss and she could wear what she liked.

  She walked with Wiley in the park, basked in the glorious day, nodded to other dog owners out with their pets, smiled at the professional dog walkers with their multiple charges on multiple leashes. She discovered a population of New Yorkers she’d never noticed before, a population of dog-walking, dog-owning, dog-loving people, and she felt as though she had inadvertently joined a club, as though her identity had been expanded just by having Wiley with her.

  “See, Wiley?” she said to him, pointing to a family out with a fluffy, frisky little white dog. “You can have hundreds of friends here in New York.” She bought a hot dog from a vendor and sat down on a bench to eat it. She fed a bite to Wiley, who hadn’t had any breakfast. “I usually put sauerkraut on my hot dogs, but I wasn’t sure you’d like that.” Wiley was silent on the subject, which showed her he was an excellent listener, the kind who pays close attention to every word and doesn’t interrupt. On her way home, she bought a Good Humor ice cream and left enough on the stick for Wiley to finish. She wondered if ice cream and hot dogs were okay for dogs. “I hope I’m not making you sick,” she said to him. He had those wonderful brown eyes fastened on her, and she was sure he was telling her he was okay, that ice cream and hot dogs were fine with him.

  On East Seventy-Second Street, just west of Lexington Avenue, they passed a brownstone building with a bronze plaque beside the front door. Funny, Gena thought. I’ve passed this building hundreds of times and never noticed this place before. The plaque read:

  AARON ZWEIG, D.V.M

  VETERINARY MEDICINE

  open 24 hours, every day

  Wiley was sniffing around the iron railing in front of the entrance. “What do you think?” she asked him. “Maybe instead of the Humane Society or the ASPCA—?”

  Wiley offered no objection.

  “Okay, let’s see what Dr. Zweig says.”

  Dr. Zweig turned out to be big and burly, like a large bear. About sixty-five, she judged, with kindly brown eyes, a graying beard, and an easy smile. He was wearing a white coat and escorting a woman with a cat in a carrier to the front door. There was no one else in the waiting room.

  “Come in, come in,” Dr. Zweig said, holding the door open for her. “My receptionist ran out for a few minutes, so it’s just me. There’s paperwork she’d give you, but you can do that when she gets back.” He led her to an examining room. “So, who is this little guy?” He picked Wiley up and put him on the examining table.

  “I call him Wiley. I brought him in because I’m not sure what I should do.” She explained how she’d found him and said, “He had no collar or tag or anything, and I was thinking I’d take him to maybe the ASPCA, but we were just walking by and I thought maybe—well, I wasn’t sure—” She paused and then added, “My boyfriend hates him. He thinks he’s ugly.”

  “But you’re thinking of keeping him?”

  “Well, I don’t know—”

  “I‘ll just check him out. Sometimes owners have an electronic chip implanted so he can be identified.”

  “Oh, I guess we should do that.” She practically bit her tongue saying it, hoping there’d be no chip.

  Dr. Zweig reached behind him and took a small scanner from the drawer under a counter. “Takes just a moment,” he said, and he held Wiley gently in place and passed the scanner over his back, between his shoulders, then around his shoulders and over the tops of his legs. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing’s showing up. So it’s up to you. Have you decided? Are you going to keep this little guy?”

  She looked at Wiley. And in that moment, she and Wiley came to a silent agreement.

  “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. How could I not? Even if my boyfriend hates him. Even if he makes fun of him.” She was feeling all fizzy inside. “Look at that sweet face. And he’d have died out there in the rain, so far from everything. He really would have, he was so cold and so skinny. Of course Wiley can have a home with me.” She felt a thrill as she said those words, as though something important had just happened in her life.

  “So what do I do now?”

  In twenty minutes, Dr. Zweig had given him his shots, checked him all over for ticks, lumps, bumps, et cetera, pronounced him healthy, given her some brochures and explained her legal obligation to try to find the owner, and prepared to send her away happy. But not before he said, “Your boyfriend should learn something about this breed.”

  “This breed?”

  “Oh, yes. You didn’t know?” He was obviously surprised. “This dog you found is a classic Chinese Crested. Probably purebred. He wouldn’t have had any trouble finding a home. Lots of people like them. They’re sweet dogs. And very smart.”

  “But he looks so funny. So odd.”

  “That’s an interesting thing about this breed. They often win ugly dog contests—such an injustice to the breed, I think, for they can also be very elegant. Look at him. Look at that sleek build, the long legs. The very erect ears.” Dr. Zweig looked fondly at Wiley. Then, gently, as if to encourage her to be pleased with the dog’s appearance, he said to Gena, “It’s all in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Four

  She had her iPhone out as soon as she was back on the sidewalk, and she was Googling “Chinese Cresteds” as she walked Wiley to the corner and waited for the traffic light to change.

  By the time it turned green, she’d learned about hairless Cresteds, like Wiley, and the Powderpuff variety, which are not hairless. By the time she reached the pet supply store on Lexington, a little boy had pointed at her and made fun of her “icky looking dog”; a woman stopped her to say, “My daughter has one just like yours, dear, and I think they’re lovely, no matter what anyone says”; and a homeless man called to her from a doorway, “Does he speak Chinese?” At the pet supply store she bought a collar and a leash, a box of bright blue, environmentally friendly doggie poop bags, a couple of chew toys, a furry, stuffed, green-and-yellow-striped “snake,” and a bag of specially prepared dried dog food. Also a book “all about” Chinese C
resteds. At the desk in her building, she returned the borrowed collar and leash to Seferino, and in the elevator on the way up, still Googling, she learned that Chinese Cresteds are not at all Chinese—maybe originally African, or else Mexican.

  With Warren away for the rest of the afternoon, Gena was free to curl up on the sofa and get herself educated about her dog. Wiley spent the afternoon exploring his new home. From room to room, into every corner, getting to know the spot in the kitchen where Gena had set up one bowl of kibble and another of fresh water, playing with his new toys and shaking the snake, snapping it whip-like in an effort, apparently, to break its neck. Fortunately, the snake was resilient. It became the object of a game in which Gena tossed it off to a distant spot across the living room floor and said, “Get the snake, Wiley! Get the snake,” and Wiley, sharp as a tack, was soon bringing it back to her, with an expression that plainly said, like an eager child, “Again, again!”

  By four o’clock, they were both worn out. After all, they’d both been through a lot over the last couple of days, and when Warren came home after his day of golf, he found Gena curled up on the sofa, sound asleep, and Wiley curled up against her, also sound asleep.

  “God-damn!” He was laughing. “You brought that thing home with you.” Gena opened up a sleepy eye. So did Wiley. “I thought you were taking him to a shelter. That’s what you said before I left this morning.”

  “I decided to keep him.” She sat up, getting herself awake. “I think he’s cute.”

  “Cute? He’s weird. Look at him. He’s all sharp edges. Nothing cuddly about that animal.” Warren went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of water. “Only you could think he’s cute. And what’s that hunk of hair on his head? He looks like someone started putting him together and then lost interest.” He stared at Wiley for a moment, then laughed. “I bet you gave him a name.”

  “I did. His name is Wiley.”

  “He looks like a very tall rat.”

  “He does not. Stop it, Warren.”

  “You two are a pair. A pair of beanpoles.”

  That one really stung. Back in high school, calling her “beanpole” was a good way to make her mad. That, and “giraffe girl.” And “whooping crane.” And anything else that made fun of her tall, skinny frame.

  “That’s enough, Warren. I like this dog. I’m keeping him.” She was up off the sofa now, collecting Wiley’s leash. “I think it’s a good time to take a walk. Just Wiley and me. Alone.”

  “Well, that’s fine with me. Any walking of that dog gets done, you’re doing it. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I wouldn’t even want to be seen with him.”

  She put the new leash on Wiley.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. He’ll be totally my dog. I just hope you’re not going to be making fun of him forever.”

  “Ah, come on, honey. Don’t be mad.” He came over to her to give her a make-up kiss. “I was just kidding.”

  But as he got close to Gena, Wiley started to bark. It was a bark that had a message in it, and he bared his teeth and growled a low and menacing growl and Warren backed off awkwardly, banging his leg against the coffee table.

  “Oh, now that’s just fine,” he said, bending to rub the sore spot and looking warily at Wiley, who had his eyes fixed intently on him. Gena started to laugh.

  “You think it’s funny?” Now Warren was mad. A banged shin really hurts.

  “No, of course not.” She was still laughing. “I’ll have to teach him not to bark at you. But right now, I’m taking him out.” She didn’t say it, but she liked Wiley’s being protective of her. “Maybe you should come along with us after all. You two should be friends.”

  “No way. That dog is all yours.” And as she walked out the door he called after her, “Don’t forget: We’re having dinner with Dan and Viv. Seven o’clock at Galba’s.”

  Chapter Five

  Galba’s was a terrific little neighborhood place just around the corner, somewhat dark, comfortably intimate, and a favorite spot for casual, impromptu dinners. Nick Galba watched over his customers like a grandpa, and the wait staff knew to be friendly but not annoying, efficient but not officious. Gena and Warren ate there often. When they arrived that night, Viv and Dan were already at their usual table, a semicircular banquette in the corner. They’d already started on a bottle of a nice Italian red wine and were nibbling at the antipasti.

  “You’re late,” Dan said. He had his phone in his hand. “I was just going to call.” He scooted over to make room for Gena to sit next to him.

  “We got a little sidetracked,” Warren said as he pulled out a chair and sat facing them. “Gena’s fault. You tell ’em, Gena.” But before Gena could open her mouth, Warren took over. “No, listen, everyone. As of today, without anyone asking me for my opinion, we are now the owners of—wait for it—a dog!” Gena made a gesture of irritation, but he went right on. “She found this thing in the woods somewhere, and she brought it home—and it’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. I bet even its mother didn’t love it.” He turned to Gena with a bright idea that had just occurred to him. “Maybe that’s why he was all lost in the woods. Abandoned, poor thing. Even his mother didn’t want him.”

  “Oh, stop it, Warren.” To her friends she said, “He’s not like that at all. I don’t think he’s ugly, not a bit. But yes, he is unusual looking. And I like him. I found him when I was driving back from Connecticut. I was up there yesterday on that story I’m doing for Lady Fair. I told you, Viv, the one about Romy deVere. It was raining and—”

  Warren broke in. “And he’s so pathetic. He doesn’t have any hair on him except what’s on the top of his head—he looks like Woody Woodpecker. So weird looking. A skinny little dog on these skinny long legs, like he’s on stilts. I can see why Gena likes him—he’s a beanpole like her. Right, honey? Did you recognize a kindred spirit? Two peas in a skinny pod?”

  “Warren’s mad because the dog doesn’t like him. He barked at him, wouldn’t let him near me.”

  Dan chuckled. “Sounds like the dog has good taste.”

  “Very funny. I thought he wanted to rip my throat out.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Gena said. “I thought it was kind of sweet, him being so protective of me.”

  “Yeah. Well, he better learn to behave or you’re going to have to get rid of him.”

  There was beginning to be an unfriendly tension at the table, so Viv deflected the conversation.

  “I bet I recognize the breed,” she said. “He sounds like a Chinese Crested. Skinny? Long legs? Hairless except for, like, on its head and paws?”

  “Oh, Viv. You’re so smart.” Gena was impressed. “Yes, that’s what the vet told me. And I’ve been doing some research.” Gena took a breadstick from the basket and nibbled on it. “How do you know about Cresteds? The vet told me they’re kind of rare.”

  “Rare is right,” Warren muttered. “He looks like a Dr. Seuss animal.”

  Viv ignored Warren’s snarking. “We did a design job for this couple on Park Avenue. Fabulous apartment, lots of money, twelve rooms. They were redoing their entryway. The van Siclens. Harriet and Russ van Siclen. Nice people, and they had this little dog that had masses of hair, like a sunburst of white silk, and only her sharp nose and these two pointy ears sticking out. Mrs. van S said it was a Powderpuff. She said there was also a hairless version, and she showed me pictures. That’s what your dog seems to be.”

  “I remember now,” Warren said. “I knew that dog reminded me of something. He reminds me of Sneetches. Remember Sneetches? From Dr. Seuss? Yellow, with a couple of hairs sticking up all wiry on his head? That’s what this dog looks like.”

  “Oh, he does not! Honestly, Warren!” Gena dug her phone out of her bag. “I’ve got pictures of him,” Gena said. She already had a Wiley album set up on her phone, and she was scrolling through to find the pics.
“His name is Wiley. You know, like Wile E. Coyote.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe this.” Warren’s irritation was unmistakable. “Now you’re going to start showing pictures. You’d think you’d given birth to him. For God’s sake, can we stop talking about this damn dog?”

  He signaled the waiter to come over.

  “Warren, why don’t you let Gena have a little fun with this,” Dan said. “It’s a big deal, adding a pet to a family.”

  But Warren had his own agenda, and it wasn’t about dogs. “Gena, put that phone away. With all the attention on that rat-dog, I can’t get a word in.” He sat back in his chair, looking suddenly expansive. When all eyes were on him, he said, “Listen, everyone. I’ve got some real news.” He looked briefly at the menu and told the waiter to bring him a steak—rare—a salad, and a vodka martini. “But go ahead and order. I’ll wait till you’re done.”

  And he did wait, which gave him time to savor his news while Gena ordered pasta. Viv ordered shrimp and said she’d also have some of Dan’s pizza. Nick Galba’s pizzas were famous, thin crust, and irresistible—Dan always ordered one. Except for Warren, they stayed with the red wine. The waiter collected their menus and left.

  “Okay,” Dan said. “Now you have the floor. Go ahead, Warren. What’s the news?”

  “I tried to tell Gena when I got home this afternoon, but that dog was there and there was a whole kerfuffle about him, so I got sidetracked.” Warren paused, keeping his big news to himself for another few moments. Then, when he was sure they were all listening, he announced, “So the boss asked me to come along for some golf this morning. At his club. Marlin Weggeland himself.”

  Dan’s face registered his respect for this impressive news. Gena forgot about her annoyance with Warren; this was important news. Viv just said, “Go on,” slowly, definitely attentive.

  “Well, all through our game we just talked about the course, and about the weather. And the latest from Washington, and the New York politics, the mayoral race, the latest scandal. You know—just small talk, casual. But I could feel that he was checking me out, seeing how I handled myself.” Warren’s smile was a little sly and a lot self-satisfied. “He’s a pretty good golfer, but I’m better, so it took a little doing for me to let him beat me, which I did, of course, but not by much, because I want him to respect me. The whole time, there was not one word about work or the office until we finished our game. And it was only later, when we were in the clubhouse having a drink together”—again, Warren paused, savoring the moment—“when Marlin Weggeland told me that management has been watching my work on the Isler project and they were impressed that, young as I am, I’m really on top of things and…” Warren paused again, took a deep breath, and said, “They’re putting me in charge of the whole team!”