Praise for JUDY BAER

“I can totally see why author Judy Baer’s books are award winners and bestsellers! Million Dollar Dilemma is a fabulously rockin’ inspirational romance. Fans of inspirational, chick-lit and contemporary romance will enjoy this book.”

—CataRomance Reviews

“Million Dollar Dilemma is a million-dollar treasure you must read!”

—Armchair Interviews

“Million Dollar Dilemma is sophisticated in structure and story, but sweet and accessible.”

—NBC10.com

“Whitney Blake…becomes not just a fictional character, but a ‘girlfriend’—so much so that readers might have to remember they can’t meet her for a cup of coffee. This is…real life, good and bad…subtle nuggets of wisdom.…Experiencing life with Whitney does offer a sense of camaraderie…fun twists and witty lines…Baer’s writing is fresh and imaginative as she seamlessly weaves diary entries into a story many will relate to and enjoy.”

—Christian Retailing on The Whitney Chronicles

“Just like Bridget [Jones]…chick-lit readers will appreciate all the components of a girl-friendly fantasy read. Quirky characters…flashes of genuine humor keep even the poignant segments…from becoming too heavy.…the results are genuinely enjoyable.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Whitney Chronicles

“Bridget Jones’s Diary for evangelicals.…This is romance…and it’s often amusing. Baer [brings] poignancy to the plight of the good girl who is growing older.”

—Booklist on The Whitney Chronicles

“The Whitney Chronicles is a wonderful new addition to the genre and a refreshing look at a life of faith and commitment to God. The story is not preachy, and it is a true glimpse of the everyday lives of regular people who walk God’s path with not only determination, but the courage to stumble once in a while. The Whitney Chronicles is a wonderful novel that isn’t afraid to present spirituality and faith in factual and realistic scenes, and I highly recommend this book as a leader of a new generation in romance.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“The Whitney Chronicles is chick-lit fun for the Christian set—and anyone else looking for a breezy, heartfelt read!”

—Kristin Billerbeck, bestselling author of A Girl’s Best Friend

“When Whitney Blake grabbed a Snickers bar, I knew she was my kind of girl. In The Whitney Chronicles, Judy Baer nailed the chick-lit voice and created a delightful, quirky cast of characters. She’s now on my very short list of great chick-lit writers.”

—Colleen Coble, author of Dangerous Depths

Norah’s Ark
Judy Baer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sandy Dehn—our walk and talks are precious to me

and your faith and wisdom are a shining beacon.

Thank you for being my friend.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

WELCOME TO NORAH’S ARK

HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR IGUANA TODAY?

Norah Kent, owner-operator of Norah’s Ark Pet Store and Doggie B and B—Bed and Biscuit

I stood back and studied the sign I’d placed in the window. Creative marketing for a pet store has its own unique challenges. It’s hard to know, really, if an iguana will lend itself the same “isn’t that cute” factor as my Cuddle A Puppy Tonight! campaign had. It would help if I had an extra dime to spend on professional advice, but I usually have at least a hundred and fifty extra mouths to feed and that adds up. Granted, the fish and birds don’t take much, but the mastiff puppies I’m currently housing make up for it.

“New Monday-morning promotion, Norah? What will it be next, Grin At Your Guppy or Tickle Your Toad?”

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Joe Collier from the Java Jockey, the coffee shop and hangout across the street from my pet store.

“What do you think?”

“Makes me think I’d rather hug you.”

“Get a grip, Joe, this is important business.” I didn’t turn around to look at him because I knew he was serious and didn’t want to encourage him. Joe’s been pursuing me ever since the day my menagerie and I moved into the storefront near him two years ago.

I left a perfectly nice, secure, decent-paying job managing a veterinary clinic and being a veterinarian’s assistant to pursue a dream of owning my own business, and not even hunky, persistent Joe is going to derail me now.

“When are you going ease up, Norah? Norah’s Ark has as much walk-in traffic as my coffee shop. You do as much business as anyone on the street.”

I turned around to look at him. Joe is six feet two inches tall, has curly black hair, pale blue eyes and the best muscles a lifetime membership at the sweatiest gym in town money can buy. He always wears a white, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms, jeans and loafers without socks. That’s no easy feat in Minnesota during the winter, but Joe’s a guy for all seasons.

“There’s no time for a small business owner to ‘ease up.’ You know that.” I waved my arm, gesturing at the rows of businesses housed in quaint, former Victorian homes flanking both sides of Pond Street. Pond Street was named, tongue in cheek, because it runs directly into Lake Zachary, one of the largest, most populated and popular boating lakes in the city. In fact, every street in Shoreside runs directly toward the lake, like spokes on a bicycle. The avenues, which would normally run in the opposite direction, are more in an every-man-for-himself pattern. The slightly rolling terrain and difficulty of finding one’s way around town only made it more appealing to people. Over the years, Shoreside has become an exclusive and trendy—if confusing—place to live.

“None of us would be here if we ‘eased up.’” The summer traffic here is great but winters can be slow. We have to work when the sun shines—literally.

“So just slip out for a couple hours this Saturday night and I’ll introduce you to this great Italian restaurant I know. Think of it as an opportunity to pay tribute to my maternal ancestors. What do you say?”

Joe has a smile so beguiling that it can melt ice cubes. If I don’t give myself some space to think, I succumb to it every time.

“I’ll let you know later.”

“Not much later, I hope,” he teased. “I have a whole list of other beautiful women to ask out if you turn me down.” His dimples dimped—or whatever it is dimples do—but I still resisted. “I’ll tell you after I close the store tonight, okay?”

“You’re a hard sell, Norah. Maybe that’s why I like you.” He chucked me under the chin as he does my dog Bentley, a mixed breed Staffordshire terrier, beagle and who-knows-what-else, and sauntered back to the coffee shop.

If he thinks my hard-to-get persona is attractive, that means that saying “no” is only going to fuel his fire. I’ll have to think of a new tactic to keep him at bay.

It’s not that I don’t like Joe. I do. Almost too much. The problem is that I’m just not ready for Joe. He wants a serious girlfriend, someone with marriage potential who is ready to settle down, and I’m not that girl—yet. Sometimes I worry that he might not be willing to wait.

Still, I love owning my own business and being independent and I want to have that experience for a while longer. I’m a throw-myself-into-something-with-total-abandon kind of girl. When I marry, I’ll be the most enthusiastic wife and homemaker ever, but right now I am focused on the shop. Besides, although I’ve never admitted it to another living soul, I’m waiting for bells to chime, to feel the poke of Cupid’s arrow as it lands in my backside or sense a shimmery-all-over feeling that I imagine I’ll have when I fall in love. It’s my personal secret. Everyone thinks I’m a sensible realist. Hah! Nothing could be further from the truth.

I decided to leave the iguana sign up for a day or two to test the response and was about to reenter the store when Auntie Lou came out the front door of her store to sweep the sidewalk. Surreptitiously, I watched as she tidied up the front of Auntie Lou’s Antiques. Her name is actually Louella Brown and her age is—well, somewhere over a hundred and fifty, I think. Auntie Lou is the oldest antique in her shop, cute as a bug and wrinkled as a raisin. She also dyes her hair a fire-engine red-orange that makes Lucille Ball’s and Carrot Top’s tresses look anemic. This morning her distinctive hair was tucked under a cloche hat and she wasn’t wearing her upper plate so she looked especially raisinlike. Still, I found her smile appealing when she waved me over for a visit.

“How’s my pretty today?” Auntie Lou asked. She always says that. When she does, I immediately flash back to Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. If I had a dog named Toto, I’d grab him and run.

“Great, how are you?”

“Arthur kept pestering me all night and Ruma-tiz, too. Those boys are pure trouble.”

Translation: her arthritis and rheumatism are acting up again.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, to be young and pretty like you!” Auntie Lou reached out and touched a strand of my long, dark hair, which is currently in one of its wilder stages.

I inherited my naturally curly hair from my mother who, no matter how hard she tries, can’t get those kinks and waves to settle down. Mom’s blond and beautiful and has settled for an upswept do that tames it fairly well. I, on the other hand, have let my dark hair grow as long as it will and usually harness it in to a whale spout sort of ponytail that erupts from the top of my head and hangs to somewhere between my shoulder blades. People—especially kids—always want to touch my hair to see if it’s real.

My mom also has remarkable gray-green eyes which, happily, I also inherited. As a child, I would look into her eyes and feel as if I could actually see her tender heart enshrouded in that smoky gray-green haze. My dad says I have the same eyes, “only more so.” He insists I actually wear my heart on my sleeve and it’s my entire soul that is on display in my eyes. It’s an interesting concept but I try not to think about it. I’m not sure there’s a good mascara sold to enhance one’s soul.

I am a big softy. This much is true. I’m a total pushover for children, the elderly and anyone who is an underdog or down on his luck. I am also a complete and total sucker for anything with four feet, fur, gills, wings, claws, tails or webbed feet. I volunteer as a willing midwife to anything that gives birth in litters, broods or batches. I love tame and wild, pedigreed and mutt alike. I’ve been this way since the first time I grabbed our golden retriever Oscar by the tail as a tiny child and he licked my face instead of giving me the reprimanding nip I deserved.

My parents still remind me of the Christmases I’d cry when I saw a doll under the tree instead of stuffed animals and the bucket of oats and toddler swimming pool I kept filled with fresh water in the backyard “just in case a pony came by.” I rode the back of our velvet floral print couch like it was a bucking bronco until my plastic toy spurs shredded the pillows and I was banished to pretending to ride a horse around the backyard. I must have looked deranged, now that I think of it, whooping and slapping myself on the butt to make myself go faster. Good thing I didn’t own a riding crop or whip.

My dad is a veterinarian and my mom a nurse, so there was usually something with wings or paws bandaged up and living at our house while it mended. In fact, I assumed that everyone had a pet snake until I took mine to my friend’s house to show her mother how pretty he looked now that he’d shed his old skin. That, I was quick to discover, was a very bad assumption. She did forgive me, however, as soon as the paramedic revived her.

Anyway, I’m a softy for all the unique characters on Pond Street, too.

“You got a good mouser over there?” Auntie Lou inquired. “I’m in need of a shop cat, a working feline. How much will it cost me?”

“Not much. I’ll drive you to the animal shelter tonight and we’ll find something perfect for you. I think a calico kitten would be a great accessory for your antiques. He’d sleep on that soft cushion on the platform rocker in the window….”

“How do you make a living, Norah? I want to buy a cat from you.”

“Let’s adopt a kitten and I’ll sell you a kitten bed, food, toys, catnip and a scratching post instead.”

Auntie Lou shook her head helplessly.

“And I’ll make you sign a paper saying you’ll buy him a lifetime supply of food from my store, if that will make you happy.”

“Done, you silly child.” Auntie Lou patted me on the cheek and turned to reenter her shop.

I like to consider myself an adoption agency, not a pet store. I place animals in homes. I spend time with prospective pet owners helping them decide what type of pet is best for them and then help them find the perfect one. I’ve even considered adding “pet consultant” behind my name. Dad says I’m nuts, but I actually make a great living selling all the pet accessories people need for their perfect pet. I have a very loyal following—all people as nutty about animals as I am. I also run the Doggie B and B—Bed and Biscuit—out of the back of the shop for loyal customers who want to travel and have their pets in a safe and familiar place. The business keeps growing, especially now that I include all pets, not just dogs, and have begun serving homemade birthday cakes to those who celebrate their special day away from family. Once a customer caught me and his beagle wearing paper birthday hats and howling out an eardrum-splitting rendition of “Happy Birthday To You.” Needless to say, I got a huge tip and a lifetime fan. Only animal people understand these things.

Of course, I do have the usual pet store animals in my store—at least two of everything just like Genesis 7:8. “Of clean animals and of animals that are not clean, and of birds, and of everything that creeps on the ground, two and two, male and female, went into the ark with Noah, as God had commanded Noah.” Except the rabbits, of course. I always start with just two, but, well, they are rabbits after all. Anyway, if it was good enough for God and Noah, it’s good enough for me.

I’ve been a Christian since I was ten years old. As a child, I was drawn to all the verses of the Bible that refer to God’s four-legged creatures. Even the most lowly, a donkey, for instance, held significance for Christ. When He rode into the city of Jerusalem, he didn’t do so on a chariot. Instead, he came humbly, a serene, peace-desiring king on a donkey’s unbroken colt. “Go into the village ahead of you…you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden: untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it….’” The commonplace becomes exceptional when God is involved.

Everyone, it seemed, was having a difficult time staying indoors on a beautiful day like this. Next out of her store was Lilly Culpepper, our local fashion maven. Lilly and I moved onto Pond Street and opened our little shops within a few weeks of each other and have ridden the up-and-down rollercoaster ride of small business ownership together ever since.

She runs a funky clothing store called The Fashion Diva next to Norah’s Ark and is a walking advertisement for the things she sells in her shop. Today she wore a long, red Santa Fe–style crinkle-pleated skirt, a short boxy sweatshirt the color of old mushrooms, high-heeled black boots and a gray felt fedora. And it looked good. I wonder how many hopeful shoppers leave her store with similar outfits hoping that they’ll look like Lilly when they get home and put their new clothes on. And I wonder how many of those shoppers realized that at home, those same clothes look like the pile of wrinkled, mismatched laundry they already have lying on their closet floors.

What Lilly doesn’t—and can’t—sell is her style. She looks good even in a gunny sack and a pair of galoshes. I know this for sure because one year we went to a costume party as a sack of potatoes and potato fork. She looked great and I looked like I’d been wrapped in brown crepe paper and had a set of pronged antlers strapped to my head. Next time I get to be the vegetable.

“Joe asking you out again?” she greeted me with no preamble. Though she came nearer, she didn’t walk toward me. Lilly doesn’t walk, Lilly sweeps.

Anyway, as she swept toward me, I said, “Good morning to you, too.”

“If you’d say the word, he’d get down on bended knee and ask for your hand in marriage.”

“My hand isn’t much good to him without the rest of me.”

“You could do worse,” she advised me. She fingered the chunk of jewelry at her neck. It was a hodgepodge of beads, colored cubes, macramé lumps and various ribbons. That, too, looked fabulous on her. On me—or 99.9 percent of the world’s population—it would have looked like a terrible blunder from the craft factory. No doubt she’d sell at least two or three today to people who admired it on her.

“Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “That little waitress at Tea on Tap has been eyeing him lately.”

“What’s the tea lady doing in the coffee shop? Scoping out the competitor?”

Lilly gave me one of those pitying looks she saves for when she thinks I’m being particularly obtuse. Usually I get them when we’re talking fashion.

“What else is happening on Pond Street? I seem to be out of touch.”

“It’s all those animals you surround yourself with. It doesn’t give you enough time for people.” She studied me with a surgical glare. “You need a date that doesn’t have four legs and a tail.”

“Shh. Don’t say that too loud. Bentley might hear. You know how sensitive he is.”

I was only half kidding. I rescued Bentley from a shelter. He’d been abused in his former home and, in my professional opinion—such as it is—Bentley has serious self-esteem and confidence issues. These may also stem from the fact that, due to his indiscriminate parents’ genetics, he’s not the most intimidating presence on the block. Or in the pet store. Or anywhere. He may be stocky but his heart is pure powder puff. I’m sure I saved Bentley from extinction. Nobody else would have been crazy enough to adopt a dog like him. He knows that and has committed the rest of his life to loving me—what a great swap.

Happily, Lilly ignored me and began to fill me in on the latest from the rumor mill on Pond Street.

“Belles & Beaus is adding another masseuse.”

Belles & Beaus is a day spa located in a huge restored Victorian up the street. It started out as a hair salon with two stations and a lot of out-of-date magazines, but has rapidly become a very chic and stylish spot. Then again, everything along Pond Street is becoming that way. The Bookworm now has author signings and poetry readings, the Drugstore’s old soda fountain is the place for kids to hang out and you can—much to Joe’s dismay—buy a latte at Barney’s Gas Station right along with your unleaded premium.

Someday I’m hoping that Barney will realize that his sign, Barney’s Gas, isn’t quite specific enough. I’ve had more than one person come into my shop laughing and ask what kind of gas Barney has anyway. I usually leave that question alone. It’s an explosive issue.

“The store beyond Belles & Beaus has been sold to someone who’s planning to open a toy shop.”

“Cool.” A toy store—my kind of people.

“And guess who said hello to me when I was at the Corner Market today!”

“Sorry, I left my mind-reading kit at home today.”

“Connor Trevain, Commander Connor Trevain.” She said it in the tone of an awestruck groupie.

“Back for a visit, huh?” Commander Connor owns the fleet of cruise boats that sail Lake Zachary, although he’s never spent much time in Shoreside. He actually was a commander in the Navy, a graduate of the Naval Academy and served as a ship’s captain. It was well-known that he “came from money” as Auntie Lou would say. The fleet has some fabulous boats, the largest, the Zachary Zephyr is regularly rented for weddings, anniversaries and class reunions. The food and service are amazing and the surroundings romantic. It’s a très chic place to be married. The smaller boats take tourists sightseeing around Lake Zachary, sometimes stopping at Ziga’s, a supper club the Trevain family owns on the far side of the lake.

“No. That’s the best part!”

“I thought you said you saw him.”

“Not that. The best part is that he’s not here for a visit. He’s here to stay!”

That made about as much sense as wearing Bermuda shorts to shovel snow. Last I’d heard he was suffering away his time with some boating venture in Hawaii. “Why?”

“He’s decided to be ‘hands on’ with the business. Isn’t that exciting? He plans to captain the Zachary Zephyr.”

“Well, shiver me timbers, think of that.” I put my hands on my hips and stared at my friend. “So what?”

“So, he is rich and handsome and single, that’s what!”

The sun came out and the fog in my brain cleared. “And you have your eye on him?”

“Both eyes. He’s going to make the scenery around the lake more spectacular than ever.”

“Are you interested in dating him?” I asked, never quite sure what direction Lilly is going in with her rambling conversations. She’s a smart girl but fixated on clothes and, occasionally, men.

“Are you kidding? Of course, but he won’t look at the likes of me.” She grabbed my hands. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he asked me out?”

Her eyes got wide as two saucers. “I have to check to see what’s on order for the store. I’ll need new clothes. Who knows when I might run into him!” She eyed me up and down like a disapproving school marm. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get something new, either.” With a swirl of red, she shot back into her shop, where, I knew, she’d spend the rest of the day poring over fashion magazines and doodling with her own clothing designs.

I love Lilly. She’s funny, beautiful and my polar opposite. For every fashionista outfit she has, I have a pair of denim jeans and a sweatshirt. Of course, she doesn’t haul fifty-pound bags of dog food, change litter boxes or deal with untrained puppies in her business, either.

“And…”

I spun around to see Lilly poking her head out the door again.

“…the new cop is on duty. We can all sleep well tonight.” Then she disappeared again around the doorjamb and didn’t return.

Whew. Feeling as though I’d just been through a windstorm of trivia, I shook myself off and went back to tending to the only business I should be minding anyway.

Chapter Two

“Do you, Samantha Renée, promise to love and to care for this new member of your family? Do you promise to change his litter box, give him fresh water every day, be kind to him and protect him from harm? If so, answer, ‘I do.’”

“I do,” came a breathy little whisper.

I tried to stifle a smile as I looked at the pair across from me—a little girl with blond curls, pink overalls, a ruffled blouse and a white Persian kitten. Samantha held the kitten’s paw in the air with her hand and they both seemed to nod solemnly. I make sure everyone takes the Solemn Oath of Adoption seriously. Samantha’s parents stood behind her grinning widely.

“I now pronounce this adoption proceeding complete.” I whipped an embellished computer-generated adoption certificate off the counter and handed it to the little girl. Her blue eyes grew as wide as saucers at the official-looking paper to which I’d attached a gold seal, a few stars and a photo of the kitten. I always feel like the Wizard of Oz when I do my adoption spiel, like I’m handing out bravery, a heart, a brain or, in this case, a friend for life.

Then I began taking pictures with the Polaroid camera I have for just such auspicious occasions and doled them out to all the proud participants.

Samantha and the kitten, which she’d already named Squish because of the shape of his face, followed her father to the car to stow the litter box, litter, food, scratching post, toys and various and sundry necessities mandatory for a fourteen-ounce ball of fur to take over an entire household. Samantha’s mother hung behind.

“I can’t thank you enough.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it. “I’ve never seen our Sammie so excited…or so eager. I believe she is really committed to caring for that kitten. I may have to remind her of her responsibilities sometimes, but now she knows that kitten is hers. That ‘adoption’ ceremony makes it so real for her. What a brilliant concept!”

“That’s the idea,” I said modestly, although I, too, believed I’d thought of it in one of my more inspired moments. I did everything in my power to make sure the pets I sold were well cared for. The little adoption proceeding has been a clever and effective tool. Now parents drive across town to buy a pet from “the lady who makes my kid take it seriously.”

I can’t help it—taking animals seriously, I mean. It’s a direct command from the Big Book itself—right up front. “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over all the wild animals of the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.’” We are all His creations, and as those created in His image, we as humans have responsibility for His other creatures and handiwork. It’s way cool, of course, but also a big task and sometimes I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of it. If we were, every creature would be fat and happy and we wouldn’t have a need for rescue shelters. Until that happens, I’m just going to hang out here at Norah’s Ark and do what I can.

That thought reminded me that I’d promised Auntie Lou to help her find a kitten. She doesn’t care about pedigrees—“Pedigree, smedigree” she’d said once. “You love a pet ’cause it’s yours, not because you’ve got a list of its ancestors.” That means she needs to adopt the cat and buy only the trimmings from me rather than the other way around.

Auntie Lou is a bit of an anomaly on Pond Street. She lives above her store in a cozy little apartment. She doesn’t drive a car and I doubt she ever has. She’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Joe speculates that when she began selling things in her store, they weren’t actually antiques yet. Pond Street is home to Auntie Lou and we shopkeepers are her family. She never talks about having any other relatives and it’s assumed she has no one else. She’s a real throwback in this material world and that’s why I’m so fascinated by her.

The bell at the door stopped my musings as a tall blond man with rigid military bearing strode into the shop and glanced around with something akin to disapproval, as if the colorful parrot, a black-capped lory named Winky, who was loose in the shop, might do something dastardly to his lovely yellow polo shirt. Winky is a handsome fellow. He is primarily red but accessorized with bands of blue, green wings and a dash of yellow.

Not that my new customer didn’t have reason to be alarmed, of course. Winky is no gentleman. But instead of making mayhem, Winky decided to greet him. “Hello, Big Boy…awk…” Then Winky let out a wolf whistle that would put a construction worker to shame and the bird winked at the startled man.

That’s how he got his name, from a lady who had grown rescued him from some bad owners. She had grown too ill to care for him and had made me promise I’d find Winky another good home. I’ve been trying, but Winky has a smart mouth and ribald sense of humor, so he’s been a challenge to place. The trouble with parrots is that their life span may be longer than that of their human. I’ve suggested to more than one customer that when they write their will that they include custody instructions for their birds. That’s a great way to separate the serious customer from the casual looker.

“May I help you?” I asked, realizing someone other than Winky should be working the store.

“I…ah…no…well…yes, I suppose you can.” He didn’t really look comfortable in the pet store in those sure-to-pick-up-fur navy trousers of his. “I just wanted to greet the owner of this establishment. Is he in?”

Ohhhh. No points for that one.

“I’m Norah Kent, owner of Norah’s Ark. May I help you?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Excuse me. I thought it was Noah’s…I assumed…”

Assume nothing, I thought to myself. Especially not on Pond Street.

He shook himself free of that and extended a hand. “I’m Connor Trevain. I own the Zachary Zephyr and the other cruise boats on the lake. My current administrator is retiring and I’ve decided to be ‘hands on’ for a while. I wanted to meet the merchants up and down Pond Street and introduce myself.” He flushed a little. “I already blew it with you, didn’t I?”

I do not have the crusty shell of M&M’s. I melt everywhere. “Of course not. Welcome to Shoreside.”

He relaxed and smiled. It changed his entire demeanor. At once it made him less intimidating and more approachable. It also made him more handsome than the stern, businesslike expression he’d worn earlier. Oh, boy, was Lilly going to be excited about this.

“Have you been to all the other shops?”

“I met Joe at the coffee shop. And Barney at the station.”

“Isn’t he a gas?” I asked, testing his sense of humor.

That seemed to fly right over his head.

“I’ve also been to the Corner Market to meet Chuck and Betty.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Chuck’s name is really Olaf and that he’d been dubbed Chuck because of all the ways he could tell you to cook a pot roast. If the Barney joke went by him, he’d never get that one.

“And I’ve been at Auntie Lou’s Antiques.” A frown flitted across his features. “It’s very…crowded…in there. And she’s very…quaint.”

I could tell he was trying to be polite. Auntie Lou’s is sensory overload for the uninitiated.

“So you do have a few places left to visit.” I wondered if I could get to the phone and call Lilly before he got there so she could put on fresh lipstick.

“Yes.” He sounded so put-upon that I stared at him.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“It’s not that. This is just quite a change from my former life. It will take some getting used to.”

“We’re worth the effort,” I assured him. “Pond Street and its merchants will grow on you.”

“Yes, some of them already have. It was nice meeting you, Norah,” he said in parting.

So that was Connor Trevain. Lilly was right about one thing. He was definitely going to improve the scenery down at the dock.

“Are you sure this is the right one for me?” Auntie Lou asked as she held a fat calico cat with a purr like a 747 rumbling in her ear.

“Are you sure? That’s the question.”

“He’s pretty cute.”

“A perfect calico.”

“And he seems to like me.”

“No kidding.” The cat blissfully kneaded Auntie Lou’s shoulder with his declawed paws. “He adores you.” I crossed my arms and looked intently at her. “Then what’s the problem?”

She flushed under the bright patches of blusher—or rouge, as she called it—on her cheeks. “I haven’t lived with anyone or anything for thirty years. I don’t want to make another mistake.”

I blinked. “A mistake?”

“That’s what my husband was,” Auntie Lou admitted cheerfully. “A rascal, that fellow. It’s a wonder that he didn’t put me in the grave with him.”

This was all news to me.

“He couldn’t keep a job or didn’t care to. Lazy as the day is long.” Her expression softened. “But so charming. He treated me like a queen, you know. Made me forget that I had to support us most of the time. Then he got sick and I nearly lost my mind tending to him and trying to keep food on the table….” Her voice drifted with her memories, into the past. “I didn’t regret a moment I spent caring for him but after he was gone, I realized that sometimes it can be just too hard to love someone who hasn’t the same ability to love back.” She eyeballed the cat. “Do you think this guy is up to it?”

My heart ached for Auntie Lou. She’d loved and lost and, even with a pet cat, was afraid to love again.

“I’m sure of it. And he’ll earn his keep. The lady at the desk said his former owner told her he was ‘an affectionate animal and a great mouser.’”

“Then why did they give him up?” Auntie Lou asked suspiciously.

I checked the card from the front of the cage that held the cat’s history. “Looks like she went into a hospice program, Auntie Lou.”

The old woman’s expression softened. “So you got left behind, too, did you?” she whispered into the cat’s soft fur. The roaring purr intensified. “I suppose we belong together then, two old rejects.”

Deal closed.

Then she looked up, her eyes twinkling. “Now don’t you go lecturing me about calling myself a reject. I couldn’t be one or you wouldn’t spend time with me, you sweet girl. Now go get me some papers to sign or swear us in or whatever it is you do in your shop. I want to get this guy home before I change my mind.”

Leaving the pair looking lovingly into each other’s eyes, I went to the shelter’s desk to tell them a pet had found its home.

“Did you see him yesterday?” Lilly accosted me in front of the Java Jockey on Tuesday morning looking wild-eyed and beautiful in a lavender chiffon top and shocking purple leggings. Her hair was piled in high curls on her head and she wore shoes that looked like instruments of torture, toes so pointy that she could have had them declared dangerous weapons. She had mini chandeliers hanging from her luscious lobes and silver chains draped around her neck. Improbable, impossible and outlandish, on Lilly it was a look to-die-for.

She plopped into one of the outside chairs and put her double espresso latte with sugar-free vanilla flavoring and a chocolate-dipped coffee bean onto a table. I joined her with my decaf with soy milk.

“Whatever happened to preppy clothing? You know, wool skirts, penny loafers….”

“Another day, Norah. Wait until you see what I’ve ordered for fall.” Then she realized that I’d distracted her from her original thought. “Well, did you?”

“Connor Trevain, I presume.”

“Isn’t he gorgeous? I can just see him at the helm, driving the boat or whatever sea captains do, squinting into the mist, not knowing what dangers may face him out on the open water….” Lilly threw her head back and gazed dreamily toward Lake Zachary.

“He’ll be on tour boats, Lilly. Unless Gilligan’s Island is somewhere in the middle of Lake Zachary, I don’t think he’ll have a problem.”

“Oh, you’re no fun!” She stamped her foot and I remembered that she could probably disembowel me with that shoe.

“I’m plenty of fun. I’m just not fantasizing over Connor Trevain.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“Lilly, I don’t even know him.”

“He’s rich and good-looking.”

“But is he a Christian?”

“He can always become that. It’s harder to become rich and good-looking.”

My shoulders sagged. “Lilly, don’t you know me at all?”

She looked contrite. “Sorry, Norah. I know how important that is to you, but does it hurt for him to be cute, too?”

“Of course not. But he’ll be much cuter to me if he’s a Christian.”

Lilly and I discuss this often. She’s right on the edge of accepting Christ but pulls back every time she thinks of something she might have to give up if she accepts Him fully. So far she’s asked me if she’d have to give up wearing pretty clothes and lipstick, dancing, playing cards, drinking wine and having fun. I keep telling her that that is between her and God. Once she accepts Him and invites the Holy Spirit into action in her life, she’ll know what pleases Him and what doesn’t. Plus, it will be so much fun to please Him that if she sees something she does need to give up, she won’t mind. She can’t get her mind around that concept yet. I understand. It’s hard to comprehend how God can fill you up so that you never feel like you’re missing a thing.

“What kinds of men do you like, Norah? I blabber about this one and that and you just take it all in, never saying a thing.”

“I’m not shopping right now, Lilly. It’s hard to conjure up a list for you.”

“You like Joe. He’s charming, great-looking, nice and tall. Those things could go on your list.”

“I’m not making a list!”

“Well, you should.”

“Why?”

“What if someone comes along and he’s perfect and you aren’t prepared? He might get away!”

Lilly’s logic defies reason. Or if it defies reason, can it be logic? Lilly’s way of thinking always dumbfounds me. It’s also part of why we’re friends. I’m never bored around Lilly.

As we sat there talking, I noticed Lilly’s antennae go up. I can see it in her eyes when there’s either an interesting fashion statement or a cute guy nearby. Her posture straightens, her eyes light up and her nose twitches just the tiniest bit. She says it doesn’t, but I know. I’m an eyewitness.

Unfortunately the object of her interest was behind me and although I could hear the clink and jangle of metal on metal, I didn’t see him until he stopped at our table.

“Good morning, ladies” he said to us. I turned around and came eye to buckle with a uniform-clad police officer. He stood with legs straddled and hands linked behind his back, just like on television. He did have the impenetrable black sunglasses but was missing the crisp blue hat which would conceal all expression on his face. And…could I believe my eyes? Was that a horse standing behind him?

Chapter Three

“Well, hello. What a hunk you are!”

“Norah…” Lilly’s shocked voice warned.

I paid no attention as my gaze made its way across the most incredible horse I’ve ever seen—a gleaming chestnut with muscled flanks, high, strong withers and dark, intelligent eyes. He was drop-dead gorgeous.

“Norah!”

I looked up and blinked. Lilly’s shaken and bewildered expression slammed me down to earth in a hurry. Leave it to Lilly to think I was talking to the man, not the horse.

Without a pause, I pushed away from the table, stood and locked eyes with the massive gelding decked out in a highly buffed, supple black leather saddle and murmured appreciatively, “I wish I had one of you in my shop.”

Then, with great intention, I turned to the stony policeman. “What an awesome horse. I didn’t realize we were getting a team of police protection.”

Lilly sagged with relief once she realized that I wasn’t addressing the man’s attractiveness—which was certainly obvious. I made a mental note to talk to her later and convince her that not every woman views the world the way she does—by noticing the men first and only later seeing the scenery.

The cop, a hunk in his own right, with square shoulders, a broad, solid body that tapered to narrow hips and an unreadable, impassive face, nodded slightly.

“Nick Haley. I’m Shoreside’s new police officer.” He didn’t offer his hand or make any effort to smile. His face—the part I could see below the low hat and mirrored sunglasses—was worth studying anyway. Very nice, if you like strong jawlines, golden tans and lips that were probably very good at everything they did, from smiling to kissing….

“That is so awesome!” Lilly blurted, trying out her ingenue persona on him.

It didn’t work. Not even a twitch of a smile.

“Mounted police, what a great idea,” I said, delighted at the thought of having another animal—a huge and beautiful one—in the neighborhood. I had to drag my attention away from the gleaming sorrel shifting in the sun, his neck and flanks shiny and new as a freshly minted copper penny. His ear twitched as an audacious fly tried to land on its tip.

“Mounted only part-time,” he corrected me. “I work with several local police departments at community events. Because Shoreside hosts so many outdoor parades and events Sarge will be rotating in and out. Your mayor and city council decided that they wanted a police presence able to move in the crowds around the lake and one that wasn’t quite so…”

“…intimidating as a police car?” I finished for him.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat and began to scratch the magnificent animal on the neck. “This is my first day on the job. I want to stop by with the horse and meet each of the business owners. This is Sergeant Thunder.”

“He’s a real sergeant in the police force?” Lilly gasped. “I didn’t know they did that. Do horses have to go to the police academy or something?”

The officer’s finely drawn lips twitched. “Sergeant Thunder is the name given to him before he was recruited by us. Purely a coincidence. I call him Sarge for short.”

“Oh.” Lilly sat back to digest that. Lilly isn’t big on animals. She doesn’t hate them, but she doesn’t pay much attention to them, either—except Winky, who gives her a lecherous wolf whistle every time she enters Norah’s Ark.

“My name is Norah Kent. I own Norah’s Ark. This is Lilly Culpepper of The Fashion Diva. Welcome to Shoreside.” His handshake was warm, firm and rough with calluses. They were a working man’s hands like those of my grandfather, a farmer. I had the sense of being protected even as Nick and I shook hands. Perfect vibe for a policeman to emanate. Still, a smile would have been nice, too.

Lilly dropped Valley Girl and went straight for Queen Elizabeth. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she murmured huskily as he took her hand. Lilly is always adopting personae other than her own. They’re like clothing for her. She tries something different for whatever mood she’s in. She slides in and out of movie star guises like other people change T-shirts. Personally I like her best when she’s being Barbara Walters or Kelly Ripa. If Lilly is wearing a tailored suit and a hat, it’s Margaret Thatcher every time.

I reached out and touched Sarge’s flank. It twitched and rippled as if my finger were an unwelcome fly but he made no other movement. Neither horse nor rider was going to let you see them sweat.

“It was a pleasure to meet both of you. Now if you’ll excuse me…” The officer made a clicking sound with his tongue and Sarge obediently backed off. They were a team, all right.

After they moved away, Lilly squirmed excitedly in her chair. “What a dream!”

“The horse is great,” I agreed.

“Not the horse, silly. The man!”

“Did you even notice the horse, Lilly? The one that was twelve hundred pounds heavier than the guy leading him?”

“What if you met a guy someday who was perfect for you but didn’t like animals?” Lilly said exasperatedly. “Then what would you do?”

“A guy who didn’t like animals couldn’t be ‘perfect’ for me. It’s like that policeman and his horse, or Bentley and me, we’re a pair, a team, and that’s all there is to it. I’m in no danger of falling for a man who won’t have anything to do with God’s furry creatures.”

“You and your animals. One of these days you’re going to have to start looking at men, Norah, or you’ll end up one of those crazy cat ladies whose house smells like a litter box and has kittens born in your bed.”

My first notion was to gross her out and tell her that it didn’t sound like such a bad life to me, but I know what she means. I don’t want to live forever with a parrot with a ribald mouth and a dog with more emotional issues than he has fleas as my only companions.

We didn’t have time to debrief the advent of the new police officer any further because at that moment Joe walked out of the Java Jockey and headed for the lake. He turned briefly to wave at us.

Lilly pointed to Joe’s broad, muscular retreating back as he sauntered down the sidewalk. “Maybe you should marry Joe. He’s handsome, successful and crazy about you.”

“There’s only one small problem, Lilly. I don’t want to get married right now.” I slapped the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Oh, yes, silly me. There are two problems. I’m also not in love with him—not that way, at least not yet.”

“But you like him, don’t you?”

“Of course, but…”

“Has he asked you out lately?”

“We’re going out for Italian food on Saturday.”

Lilly clapped her hands and leaped to her feet. “I’ve got just the dress for you.”

“Dress? Lilly, when was the last time you saw my legs?” Granted, I do wear a skirt to church on Sundays—but it isn’t my usual uniform. That’s anything with a Norah’s Ark logo on it.

“Exactly my point.” She grabbed my hand and tugged until I reluctantly followed her across the street into The Fashion Diva.

The Fashion Diva has every bit as much élan as Lilly does. My friend is an artist at putting items of clothing together in unexpected ways. Today she had a beach-party theme on her wall, a collage of summer clothing—shorts, halter tops, flowing skirts—that appeared to be worn by invisible bodies playing volleyball. She’d tacked a scrap of webbing and two sticks to the wall to indicate the net, deflated a volleyball and arranged it as if it were sailing midair.

“Cool wall,” I managed before she shoved me into a dressing room and began flinging clothes in behind me.

“Lilly, I can’t just walk out of my store and leave it untended.”

“You try these on. I’ll watch for customers. If anyone comes to buy one of those gargantuan puppies you have, I’ll call you.”

“They are mastiffs. They’re supposed to be gigantic.”

“They grow up to be Volkswagen vans. Why don’t you sell miniature poodles, the kind people can carry in their purse? Such a trendy look right now.”

“Animals are not accessories, Lilly.”

A big sigh came from outside the door. “Okay, okay. How does the skirt fit?”

“Like a collapsed canvas mainsail.”

There was a long silence outside the dressing room door, then another sigh. “Let me see.”

I trudged into the painful light of day. The skirt she’d given me was actually canvas-colored, with rivets, stitched pockets and a slit on the side which was probably supposed to show off my long, shapely leg. Instead, it made me look like one of the concrete foundation footings they were pouring for the new bank being built down the street.

“Oh, dear. Maybe we can’t do this quickly after all.”

“Exactly. To entertain yourself, put together a couple outfits that will make me look human rather than like squat, ugly buildings. I’ll try them on later just to satisfy you. No promises I’ll buy, though.”

“You are my newest crusade, Norah, even if I have to order clothes made of denim, flannel and sweatshirt fabric, I will make you a representative of Fashion Diva style.”

Terrific. Being Lilly’s pet project is always a pain because she’s relentless in whatever she sets out to do. The only one she’s ever had to admit defeat on is Auntie Lou whose style can be best described as a Civil War combined with consignment store chic.

Why, I wondered as I hurried back to feed the animals, didn’t she just advertise on the side of a bus rather than make me, a cute but admitted sow’s ear—fashionwise, that is—into a silk purse?

At noon, I jogged up to Belles & Beaus to make an emergency bird feed delivery. They’ve installed a large cage in the foyer and I filled it with peach-faced lovebirds to greet their customers. I love a lovebird—makes sense, doesn’t it?—because they are playful and energetic and yes, can be taught to give kisses. Though it’s a completely up-to-date spa, the main floor has been kept to look like the Victorian house that it is. Lush pinks, lace, teacups, ornate furniture and all the things the Victorians loved are accounted for in this place. It would make me wacky to have to work in such sensory excess, but it’s popular with its clientele. I admit I can stand it quite nicely, however, for as long as it takes to have a facial or a pedicure.

On the way back to the Ark, I stuck my head into the open door of the building that was to be the new toy shop. The man and woman stripping wallpaper in the back of the room jumped as if I’d fired a rifle when I knocked on the door.

“Not open until next week,” he yelled.

“I don’t want anything except to welcome you to the neighborhood.” I took a step inside the door. “I’m Norah Kent, from Norah’s Ark pet shop.”

Reluctantly, as if they were walking in cold molasses, the couple moved toward me. They were in their midfifties, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes.

Something had gone awry in these people’s lives. I could see it in the deeply etched frown lines bracketing his lips and the deeply cut wrinkles making her forehead nearly as furrowed as the Shar-pei puppies I sometimes sell.

These people, with their grim expressions, didn’t look like they belonged on happy-go-lucky Pond Street. Neither did they look like owners of a toy store. Or maybe I’d confused them with the cultural image of Santa Claus. Toy store owners didn’t have to have round bellies, pink cheeks and perpetually be saying, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“I’m Franklin Morris and this is my wife, Julie.” He reluctantly stuck out his hand for a shake.

Franklin and Julie. Simple, commonplace names for ordinary people. What kinds of monikers had I expected? Big Bad Wolf and Cruella De Vil?

“Looks like you still have some work to do before opening day.” The fellows who built the pyramids didn’t have to work any harder than these guys would to get this place done in a week.

“Yes,” Franklin said tersely.

“Are you hiring any help?” My voice was beginning to sound falsely chipper—annoying even to my own ears.

“No.”

“Doing it yourself, then?”

“Yes.”

Well, don’t talk my ear off!

“We’re in a little over our head. The building is in poorer shape than we realized.”

Overwhelmed. Now that I can understand.

“If you need help, holler. We treat each other like family here on Pond Street.”

Franklin and Julie exchanged glances, their expressions indicating that they weren’t sure if this was good news or not. Then Julie rallied. “Thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll visit your pet store after we get settled.”

I had to be content with that. First Connor, then the policeman and now the new toy store owners. Suddenly there were a lot of strangers on Pond Street.

I hadn’t noticed Auntie Lou sitting in the shade in a big balloonlike hanging wicker basket chair left over from the late seventies until she accosted me with her broomstick. She was so short that her feet didn’t touch the ground and the chair all but gobbled her up. She was still wearing her cloche hat but did have her teeth in now which smoothed out a few wrinkles. Occasionally Lou’s choppers clatter when she talks so it’s fifty-fifty which is actually better—teeth in or teeth out. Sometimes it sounds like she’s playing the castanets when she talks.

“How’s the cat doing?” I looked around but didn’t see him in her window.

“Big slug is sound asleep on my bed. Eat, purr, sleep. Eat, purr, sleep. That’s all he does.”

“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?”

“What about mousing? A batch of field mice could set up shop right next to him and he’d never blink,” she said with a smile.

“Give him time, Lou. He’s just getting settled in.”

“Settled-schmettled. He’s just as lazy as my former husband.”

And, I realized, that the backhanded statement had somehow been a compliment for both the cat and the man.

“Can you sit awhile?” Auntie Lou asked hopefully.

“Not now, but I’ll come over later and pin up that dress you need hemmed.”

“You’re a good girl, Norah. What would I do without you?” Auntie Lou patted my hand with such gentle affection I felt tears coming to my eyes.

Chapter Four

My place is a townhouse situated on Lake Zachary that I purchased from my father, who’d once owned it as investment property. I’d renovated it and made it my ideal retreat. After work I hurried there for Bentley, who had opted for a morning at home over a day at the shop with me. Bentley enjoys his peace and quiet but he’s not immune to getting lonesome. Especially for moi.

How do I know my dog likes it quiet? At Norah’s Ark, every time Winky starts whooping it up or a batch of puppies start squealing, he flops on the floor and manages to get his front legs and paws up over his ears as if to say, “Turn down the volume.” When my television is too loud, Bentley stands in front of it growling at the screen until I adjust the sound. Bentley definitely needs his quiet time.

Actually, what Bentley really needs is therapy. I rescued him from a shelter nearly two years ago. One day I saw the Humane Society sign and turned in to the lot as though someone else was driving the car and I was simply along for the ride. The car parked itself, expelled me from the driver’s seat and my legs, under no direction from my mind, walked inside.

I’ve never been able to go into a Humane Society without coming out with a pet or two—or three, if you count that ferret—that’s why I regularly mail my donations rather than deliver them in person. Someone other than me should have a chance to save the entire animal kingdom. But that day, maybe because I’d just moved into my home and tripled my living space, I’d felt a giddy sense of freedom.

That same lack of restraint kicked into high gear as I heard myself say to the receptionist, “I’d like to see the dog here that needs rescuing the most.”

Without a blink, she led me to a cage at the back of the dog room holding a pathetic black-and-white creature. Mangy and flea-bitten, with mud up to his belly, his head was drooped so low that his nose nearly touched the floor. But as we neared, the pup’s head came up, his deep brown eyes connected with mine and zing, Cupid’s arrow—Lilly says it was actually Stupid’s arrow—hit me right between the eyes.

That “love at first sight” thing? I’m not sure it happens with humans, but it does with dogs. Bentley and I started a love affair right then and there.

“A bath might help,” the woman said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown him to you until he was cleaned up, but you asked….”

“Any story on him?” His eyes never left mine.

“Not that I know of. He’d been showing up at some garbage cans behind a restaurant, waiting for someone to drop something he could eat. Apparently the staff started ‘dropping’ more food than the manager liked, so he called us. Our vet thinks he’s part beagle, part Staffordshire terrier and maybe a dribble of pit bull, although you’d never know it by his disposition. We’ve nicknamed him Romeo because he’s so eager for love.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been abused because he’s nervous,” she continued. “But he’s also a survivor, no doubt about that.”

I stared at the little mixed package. His head, ears and soft eyes recalled a beagle, but his solid, stocky body and thick, shiny hair were reminiscent of a Staffordshire. His physical look reminded me of Sylvester Stallone of Rambo fame. His personality? Pure Rodney Dangerfield.

Of course, as Paul Harvey says, it’s easy to guess “the rest of the story.”

Bentley has come out of it beautifully—physically, that is. He’s black-and-white, with a black eye patch, one black ear and one mottled gray one. He has the stocky body of a strong dog thanks to that dash of pit bull in the soup, most likely. His nose is one great big black licorice dot and his expression is sweet. He’s all bark and no bite, although he can growl fiercely from the pit of his stomach if he’s frightened. He frightens himself quite regularly by looking in my full-length mirror.

But while Bentley has physical bearing, he’s a neurotic canine. He’s allergic to loud noises, most men and cheap dog food. At first, even my dad couldn’t get close to him without Bentley planting his feet firmly and rumbling from somewhere deep in his belly. A street dog has to learn to fight even if its true nature is more Romeo than Rambo.

When Dad finally got sick of all the dog’s posturing and took two steps toward him, Bentley dropped to the floor and rolled on his back, belly exposed for scratching, panting happily. Bentley has a highly ineffective force field of protection. Talk about being all bark and no bite.

Anyway, Bentley was at the door to greet me with the giddy, I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-because-I-thought-you-had-abandoned-me act he does—a series of flips and circles, frantic running to and fro across the living room floor making excited woo-wooing sounds and finally, a dramatic collapse into a heap at my feet.

If I could ever affect a man that mightily—sans the running across the floor, of course—even I would get married.

Then, as I stepped from the foyer into the large living-dining area, my ears were assaulted by a nerve-jangling screech, a “Well, hello, baby!” and the excited flapping of wings. Again, if a man were to greet me with as much enthusiasm as Asia, my mynah bird—Asia, as in Asia Mynah—my heart would go pitter-patter.

As it is, the only pitter-patter I ever hear is the one making its way across my hardwood floor—my Flemish giant rabbit, Hoppy, coming to see what the fuss is about. He sat up and twitched his nose at me and gave me a look that said, “Lettuce, I must have lettuce”—I always imagine he’s speaking in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice—before bounding, as much as a fourteen pound rabbit can bound, to the kitchen to sit in front of the refrigerator and wait for me to do his bidding.

Fortunately rabbits get along quite well with dogs if introduced properly. Besides, Bentley believes that Hoppy is the Alpha dog in the family and the epitome of the canine species. Hoppy is also litter-box trained, a patience-trying process that involves ever-ready alertness and nimbleness—on my part. See Hoppy raise her tail, see Hoppy relax her ears, see Norah run for the litter box, see Hoppy train Norah…and so it goes.

Bribery is actually a very good way to train rabbits—children, too, I’ve heard, but that could be an urban legend. That’s why Hoppy’s box is always sporting a toy and a slice of apple or a sprig of parsley to make it the pièce de résistance. It’s also why I pet and praise her there for jobs well-done. It’s no wonder that she sits in the dumb thing just for fun even now that she’s got complete house-rabbit ranking.

I scratched Bentley, moseyed to the kitchen, gave Hoppy a piece of lettuce and was about to start supper for myself when the telephone rang.

It was my father. “Your mom and I are taking a few days off. We’re going up to the North Shore. She’s found a bed and breakfast she wants to try. If you need me, I’ve got my cell phone.”

They’ve been on a perpetual honeymoon for as long as I can remember. They hold hands, steal kisses, hug, and especially when I was a teenager, kicked up my gag reflex on a regular basis. Still, that’s what I want my marriage to be like, too. If…when…

After I’d gotten the details of the trip and had started to grill myself a cheese sandwich I realized that the theme of my entire day had been “I’d get married if…” Now what’s that about?

I took my sandwich and a cup of tea to the deck and ate it while staring out at Lake Zachary. Maybe Lilly was finally getting to me, making me worry that true love—the kind with bells—would never happen to me. Dating is one thing but finding a soul mate is quite another. Maybe that’s it, my soul is lonely—lonely for someone I can share my faith with as well as my life. Joe’s a churchgoer, there’s no doubt about that, so maybe…

A gull dive-bombed me, startling me out of my reverie. It had to be Lilly’s influence or Joe’s insistence that our relationship be allowed to grow more serious that caused this particular train of thought and brand of misery in me today. “When You want it,” I said, tilting my head back and imagining the God of the Universe caring about trivial little me. Comforted, I returned to the kitchen to dig into the refrigerator to see if I had any other food which hadn’t met and surpassed the expiration date on its packaging.

“Vavavoom!” Joe commented as I opened the front door. “Great look.”

I suppose it’s great if you’re going for the Electrocuted Idiot theme, but I didn’t say that. Instead I waved him into the house. “It was all Lilly’s idea. She thinks I should wear my hair loose and my slacks tight instead of the other way around. I feel like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”

I referred, of course, to my unfettered hair which, unrestrained, floats like black seaweed around my face. The slacks, also Lilly’s idea, were black, slender and cropped just above the ankle. She’d insisted I wear a red silk blouse with a mandarin collar, ornate black frogs and a delicate design stitched in gold thread. The best thing about the getup was the fact that she’d “allowed” me to wear black thongs on my feet so that, although I felt like a poster child for an Asian import company, my feet didn’t hurt.

Joe, looking incredible as always, sockless and in a white shirt and dark trousers, cupped my face in his hands and pressed a kiss on my forehead. “Maybe we should find a sushi bar instead of eating Italian.”

“No, thanks. This is a tribute to your ancestors, remember? We’ll eat pasta until we almost burst and then spoon spumoni and tiramisu into the crevices. Then we’ll roll home groaning and saying we’ll never eat that much again. But on the way we’ll run into a Baskin-Robbins and eat some more. It’s your family’s way, I’ve seen them in action.”

More than once, actually. Joe invites me to all his family’s get-togethers and I often join him. Other times, on holidays, when I know Auntie Lou is alone, I cook a big meal and invite her and, as Lou puts it, other “human strays” I can find to join us. Once, by putting it out there that I would be home for Thanksgiving, I ended up entertaining not only Auntie Lou, but an out-of-town pet food salesman, Barney of Barney’s Gas, Lilly, a courier who came to my door with a package from my parents, a new neighbor in my complex and three people from church who said they didn’t have plans and were going to go home and open a can of soup.

“But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed….” God invites everyone to His party. He doesn’t believe in exclusivity and neither do I.

“You aren’t as ill-suited for Lilly’s attire as you’d like to think. Frankly, when you aren’t in a sweatshirt and jeans you’re…”

The way Joe was looking at me, I was afraid his next word might be “delicious,” so I hurried to interrupt. “Care for some appetizers? A soda?”

“We’d better get going. I made reservations for seven.”

Joe drives a Jaguar XK convertible, elegant yet sporty, just like he is. He’s also charming, funny, generous, smart and a whole host of other good things. Maybe, I thought, as we careened, top down, toward his favorite little Italian restaurant, I’ve held too tough a line where Joe is concerned. Some women would saw off an appendage to claim he was theirs and here I am, fending off his advances and trying to be his friend when he wants more.

It must have been the top down on the convertible that scrambled my brain because I decided that, for the night, I would play with the idea of spending the rest of my life with Joe. I’ve spent so much time pushing him away, that it seems only fair that I give him at least a chance at proving he’s the one for me.

If I were rating him on good manners, looks, charm and the ability to order great Italian food, he’d get an A+.

I was still picking at my tiramisu when Joe asked, “What is Lilly doing tonight?”

I leaned back and nearly purred, like a kitten sated on warm cream. Actually, most everything we’d eaten—shrimp pizza in white sauce, ravioli, fettuccini—has been made with pure cream, so the metaphor wasn’t that far off.

“Lilly? She had a date.”

“With that engineer she was seeing?”

“Oh, no, as far as I know, he’s history. You aren’t keeping up.”

“I don’t have enough time to do that and run my business,” Joe joked.

It’s true. No one does. Lilly plays dating “catch and release.” Like the fishermen who populate Lake Zachary, she wants the thrill of the catch, not the fish itself. We tried to count one day, just how many men Lilly had dated in the past two years and even she couldn’t remember. Lilly depends upon the cliché “there are always more fish in the sea” and she’s always on the lookout for a new variety.

“I think Lilly has her eye on Connor Trevain,” I commented as the waiter poured me another cup of coffee.

“He’d be an exotic catch if there ever was one.” Joe pinioned me with his gaze. “Is that what you want, Norah? Someone exotic?”

“Me?” I squeaked. “Do you think he likes jeans, sweatshirts covered in dog hair and eau de parfum of Fish Food? I don’t think so.”

“But what do you want in a man?”

I felt an earnestness descend over Joe. The conversation was going in a direction I hadn’t expected. Still, I had promised myself I’d give Joe this chance, so I didn’t brush him off.

“You can almost guess, can’t you? He has to be a Christian and love animals as much as I do, for starters. And he has to dote on Bentley. That’s a given. Anyone who fills those qualifications has potential.” I tried to keep my voice casual, but the thickly curtained, muted booth in which we sat seemed to suck up the lightness and made me sound grave.

“I know you wouldn’t take a second look at someone who didn’t share your faith, Norah, but an animal lover like yourself? Do other people as passionate as you exist?” He was smiling a little, half curious, half amused.

“I hope so. I believe I was put on this planet to care for God’s vulnerable creatures, Joe. I can’t turn my back on that.”

“I’m a Christian and I like animals. Especially Bentley.” He said it so softly that I barely heard his words. “Where does that put me?”

My hand moved of its own accord to his cheek. “It puts you in a very select group of my precious friends, Joe.”

“Just friends?”

Oh, oh. Here we go.

“I know I’ve been pushing back whenever you try to approach this, Joe. The shop, the renovations in my home, the business decisions…”

“Norah…” he chided.

“Okay, so I’m scared.” I crossed my arms over my chest feeling suddenly very vulnerable. “How’s that for honesty? Finding a life-partner is a big deal. What if I make a mistake? What if my choice is bad? Then what?”

He looked at me so gently that I felt like crying. “Where is God in this process?”

I felt a warm rush of humiliation spurt through me. Some big talker I am! All this stuff about meeting a man who loves God and yet I really hadn’t consulted Him about it other than a drive-by prayer or two.

“Hypocrite in the room, I admit. It just seems so permanent. I know I can’t have anyone in my life that doesn’t understand how I feel about—” I paused, feeling a pun coming on “—the underdog!”

“Are you scared of me, Norah?”

I certainly am when he looks at me like that, I thought. My defenses start crumbling like Hoover Dam being hit by a nuclear weapon.

“Okay, okay. I get your point. No more playing games with my emotions—or yours. I’ll quit stuffing it when I’m attracted to someone—even you.”

“Even me? What a romantic you are, Norah.” A smile played on his beautiful lips and his eyes twinkled. “I’ll take these as words of hope.”

I punched him in the arm. “Just because I promise not to play games with my emotions doesn’t mean anything will come of it, you know.”

“I’ll take that chance.” He picked up my hand and gently kissed each knuckle.

When he dropped me off at my front door and drove off, I stared after Joe for a long while.

“Well,” I muttered as I let myself in and prepared to have Bentley slam into my kneecaps in a frenzy of glee, “we’ll see what comes of this.”

It wasn’t until I was snuggled into bed with Bentley under the covers with me—he has his own pillow which he uses just like humans do—that I began to think about the ramifications of my conversation with Joe.

Then Bentley began to snore beside me and I was reminded that there wasn’t anything to worry about. It would have to be one very special man who’d be willing to share his bed with my dog—and that was a requirement I didn’t plan to bend easily.

Chapter Five

My phone rang at six on Monday morning. Fortunately I was up, showered and making myself a cappuccino to go with my bagel. The animals have no concept of “sleeping in” so they’re training me to get up earlier and earlier. Someone once asked me if I’d ever consider having a rooster around the Ark. No way. If I want another alarm clock, I’ll go to Target.

“Hi, Dad,” I said as I picked up the receiver. He’s the only one I know who keeps ridiculous hours like these.

“It’s me, Norah.”

And it was certainly not my father. “Auntie Lou? Is that you? You sound funny.”

“Nothing funny about it.” Her voice was fuzzy. Or maybe she just didn’t have her teeth in yet. “Are you coming to work soon?”

I eyed my bagel. “I’d planned to leave in fifteen or twenty minutes, after I eat breakfast and skim the paper.”

“Could you stop over here first?”

Odd. Auntie Lou likes to sleep late because she often stays up late into the night watching old movies and doing crossword puzzles. The doors to her shop never swing open before ten-thirty.

“Sure, I’d be glad to.”

“If you don’t have that extra key to my store at home with you, my key is under the pot with the artificial geraniums in it. You might have to dig a bit as I laid some stones on top of it, too.”

“You won’t be up to open the door?”

“If I could get up, I wouldn’t be calling you, dearie.”

I felt a wash of panic run through me. “Are you sick?”

“Not so’s you’d know it.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Oh, Arthur pushed me out of bed this morning and Rhuma-tiz helped him,” she said obliquely.

“You fell out of bed?” I translated.

“More of a bad slide, but I ended up on the floor just the same. Fortunately I grabbed my cell phone on the way down. All I need is a little help up, dearie. I hope I didn’t bother you too early.”

I was already wrapping my bagel in a napkin and pouring my cappuccino into a carry cup as I answered. “Auntie Lou, how long did you wait before calling me?”

“Oh, not long. I got a chance to see the sun come up through my bedroom window. Pretty.”

“I’ll be right there.” Leave it to Auntie Lou to find the good in falling out of bed and lying on the floor half the night.

“No hurry. I’ll be here when you get here.”

No hurry? What am I going to do with that woman? Independent and free as a bird, stubborn as a mule and patient as a saint, she’d no doubt waited until it was convenient for me before calling. I wanted to hug her and shake her all at once.

Fortunately I’m walking distance from Pond Street. I was on my knees pawing in the dirt under the fake geraniums when I heard someone clear their throat behind me. I glanced sideways at a pair of polished black leather boots and four equally glossy hooves. On their way, no doubt to the art fair in the park. I found the key and rocked back on my heels to look at Officer Haley and Sarge. Sarge, even more imposing from this angle, shifted restlessly and the metal rings on his headstall and bridle jingled faintly.

“Anything wrong?” Nick Haley inquired mildly.

If I hadn’t been so rattled, I might have taken time to appreciate the melodic timbre in his voice. Instead, I just got annoyed.

“Do you ever take those things off?” I asked, referring to his mirrored glasses. “And if you do, I wish you’d do it right now. I need you to come upstairs and help me.”

His eyebrow arched over the frame. Then, slowly, he pulled the glasses off, revealing a strong, handsome face with unexpectedly blue eyes, long dark lashes and high cheekbones. Whoa. Eye candy.

“I got a call from Auntie Lou asking for help. She’s fallen out of bed and can’t get herself up, sort of like the television commercial, I’m afraid. Though she didn’t admit it, I’m sure she lay there most of the night so as not to disturb anyone’s sleep. She’s small but solid. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

He tied Sarge in a quick release knot, took the dirty key from my hand and opened the door. Together we ascended the stairs to the second floor of Auntie Lou’s shop and entered the small, cozy but cluttered apartment where she’d lived for as long as I—or anyone else on Pond Street—could remember.

If the shop was fascinating, her apartment was mesmerizing—full of charming bits of Auntie Lou’s history and favorite things that had come into the shop and been squirreled away in her personal stash. She loved old hats. A dozen of them were perched on hat forms around the room sporting plumes and feathers or intricate beading and competing for space with hand-painted vases, antique books and statues of dancing figures.

But this wasn’t a museum and we weren’t on a tour. I headed for what I knew was her bedroom and opened the door.

Auntie Lou lay on the floor in a puddle of sunlight. She’d put a hand across her eyes to keep out the sun and the big calico cat sat sentry over her. Her nightgown was pure Little House on the Prairie and the cane she’d taken to using lately lay on the floor out of reach.

“I hope you didn’t hurry on my account, dearie,” she managed. Her throat was dry and her voice cracking.

“I certainly did. How long have you been lying here? And is anything broken?”

“Only my pride, child. Only my pride.”

Without speaking, as if we were reading each other’s minds, Officer Haley and I braced ourselves and lifted Auntie Lou to her feet. Her knees buckled a bit and she sank gratefully onto the bed.

Officer Haley moved into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water which she sucked down with gusto.

“Should we call a doctor?” he inquired gently.

“Mercy sakes, no! There’s no medicine for being old and silly. I don’t know what made me think I could hop out of bed for a drink of water like I was a teenager. Arthur is a bad bedfellow, that’s all I can say.’

Officer Haley looked at me over her head, puzzlement in his beautiful eyes.

“Arthur. Arthritis. Auntie Lou and Arthur have a marriage of inconvenience,” I explained.

“Now you two run along and don’t tell another soul about this. I feel so foolish that my face must be red as a jar of beet pickles as it is!”

“No promises, Lou,” I said sternly. “We’re your family here on Pond Street. We can’t look after you if you never tell us what’s wrong.”

“Nothing subtracting forty or fifty years from my age wouldn’t help.” The calico was rumbling like a diesel truck and rubbing his head on Lou’s arm. “Now go away, both of you. I’ve got Silas here to help me get dressed.”

Lou chuckled at the expression on Nick’s face. “Silas is my cat. Named him after my dear departed husband. Both sweet, useless layabouts.”

“Are you sure…” he began.

“Sure as can be that you aren’t the one to help me get dressed, mister. You, either, Norah. Go rescue a gerbil or something. I’m fine.”

With that, she grabbed the cane Nick had propped by her bed and waved it at us threateningly. Our rescue mission was obviously over.

Back out in the sunlight, we found Sarge snacking contentedly on a patch of grass.

“Officer, I’d like to thank you…”

“Nick. Call me Nick.”

“Oh, well, yes, thank you,” I said, sounding vaguely dimwitted. I wish he’d put his sunglasses back on. Those eyes of his rattled me as though they X-rayed my soul. Instead, he stood there, tapping the bow of the glasses against his leg, making the coins in his pocket jingle.

“Tell me, has this happened before?”

“No. She sometimes complains that she’s so stiff she needs a hoist to get out of her chair, but when I suggested a lift chair so she could stand more easily, she huffed and puffed and said she didn’t want to be expelled from a chair like a bottle rocket and that was that. As far as I know, Auntie Lou has never had a major health issue. She’s just old.”

“How old?”

“She says she went to grade school with Methuselah and junior high with seven of the Apostles, but other than that, I have no idea.”

Finally, he laughed. “Okay, so it isn’t a recurring event. I’d just like to know in case…you know.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to watch out for Auntie Lou. I am, too. And everyone on Pond Street would notice if she didn’t show up at the shop for a day or two. Maybe I can convince her to go to the doctor for a checkup.”

“Does she have any family?” he inquired.

“None that she’s ever mentioned.” I felt my chin come out defensively. “We’re her family. I’m her family.”

Although I’d never thought about it like that before, I knew it was true.

We’re stewards, after all, responsible for the earth and creatures God gave us and for those who can’t care for themselves. “Care for the orphans and widows in their distress….” What can love and gentle care hurt? Absolutely nothing.

“Then she’s very fortunate to have you.”

“Fortunate to have me? I’m fortunate to have her. Auntie Lou is a treasure, Nick. Just wait until you get to know her. You’ll see.”

I reached out and stroked Sarge’s neck. “He’s beautiful. Have you always ridden horses?”

“For the police? No. I was a narcotics agent for several years. Then I had a little—” his voice faltered “—accident and I needed a change, an assignment a little less…dramatic. That’s when I backed off narcotics and went back on the force. When they needed someone part-time for the mounted patrol, I applied. I rode a lot as a kid and that was actually what I’d intended when I originally joined law enforcement. It seemed a natural choice. Now, as you know, I do crowd control for special events as well as normal police work. Shoreside has enough events around the lake, parades and fairs to keep me busy.”

Though his tone was pleasant, it felt as though he’d strung barbed wire around a certain topic he’d mentioned—an accident, his accident. Ask me about the horse, he hinted silently. Don’t ask me what happened to get me here.

“Well, I think he’s magnificent. There aren’t many jobs I could enjoy more than the one I already have except those involving horses or dog training or…”

“Give me horses any day,” he responded quickly. Sarge shifted restlessly and the creak of his saddle and the clank of stirrups reminded us how patiently he was waiting.

“Thanks for helping me with Auntie Lou,” I murmured. “I know you must have more to do than…”

“Anytime. And I’ll keep an eye out for her, too.”

Feeling grateful and a little giddy, I went to open Norah’s Ark and fed the masses.

At 10:00 a.m., two of my favorite Bed and Biscuit clients arrived. Winslow Cavanaugh galumphed into the store, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He’s a lovable galoot, pampered as much by his owner as Bentley is by me. A few steps behind, Cassia and Adam Cavanaugh entered. Adam was carrying a lurching pet carrier with feral sounds and hisses emanating from the breathing holes.

Winslow and Pepto have been coming to my B and B for several months now. The Cavanaughs travel a lot—overseas, I think—and the happy-go-lucky dog has made himself right at home in the back of the store. Pepto, a cat with the disposition of a viper and personality of an evil dictator of some small, suffering nation, has only deemed to grace us with his presence because he has no other option. I’ve made it my goal to win over the big, ornery cat and we’re making some headway. I love a challenge. Especially a furry one.

Once I got them settled, I returned to the front of the store in time to see Lilly sweep in and gracefully receive her admiring squawk from Winky. Today she was wearing something chiffon and mustard-yellow, a dress perhaps, although it looked as though it had been put together with safety pins. She had matching knee-high, lace-up boots, a vibrant orange ribbon woven through the blond curls she’d piled on top of her head and a necklace and earrings made out of more safety pins. On her, stunning. On me? Stunned.

“Don’t you look like a ray of sunshine?” I greeted her. Or a yellow paint spill.

“You like it?” She twirled and the chiffon floated around her in a gauzy cloud. “I thought I might run into Connor Trevain again today and I wanted to look, you know, nice.”

“Nice? You look like lemon sherbet. Delectable, mouth-watering even.”

“That’s what I was going for.”

“Trevain is still in your sights, is he?”

“He hasn’t been out of them since the day he arrived.” A small pout formed on her lower lip. “But he’s been so busy with those boats of his, he’s hardly had time to stop in to say hello. Did you come to work early today?” Lilly inquired as she picked up a piece of lettuce and fed it to the iguana.

“Earlier than I’d planned.” I gave her an abbreviated version of Auntie Lou’s arthritis and left out the help I’d received from Officer Haley. I didn’t want anyone to get the idea that Auntie Lou was incapable of caring for herself. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have others watching out for her just in case she fell in her shop.

“Maybe she’s too old to be running that place all alone. When my grandmother was her age, she moved into a retirement home.”

I ignored her implication. Auntie Lou is not Lilly’s grandmother. She’s unique and can’t be compared to anyone else. I studied Lilly for a moment. “Something’s different about you today, Lilly. What’s up?”

She looked at me coyly, as if I’d caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. “I’ve made up my mind about something.”

“Tell me more.” Lilly prides herself on being flexible. To make up her mind—and stick with it—is definitely an occasion to be curious about.

“I’m getting married.”

I felt my jaw drop and my eyes bug out with shock.

“You don’t have to look so surprised. I’m almost thirty, you know. It’s time.”

“But, but, but…” I made a noise like a sputtering engine. “Who?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t know about it yet.” Lilly fluttered her eyelashes and I saw her perfectly painted lids. “But he will soon enough.”

“Who…why…how…”

“Connor, of course. Why? Because he’s handsome, charming, wealthy, debonair and perfect for me. How? I’ll be as charming and wonderful as I can, that’s how.”

Lilly can be plenty charming and wonderful, but I’m not sure she’s picked a viable target with this one. “What if he’s not interested in being married?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’ll worry about that later. For now I just want to go out with him.”

“More than once?” I thought of her serial dating and short attention span where men are concerned.

“Of course more than once! A lot.” She put a polished finger to her lips. “You’re the only one I’m telling because you are my best friend.”

“Shouldn’t you mention it to Trevain?”

“Of course not. He has to figure it out for himself.”

“Lilly, what if he doesn’t want to get serious with someone right now?”

“That’s what love is about, Norah—the unexpected. Affairs of the heart cannot be decided by logic alone.”

I have to grant her that. And it made her intentional plotting even more ridiculous.

“I know how you are about love and marriage, Norah,” Lilly added. “It needs to be blessed by God and all that, but this will be okay—really.”

Blessed by God and all that?

It was more than just a toss-off matter for me. God’s blessing is the key to the whole thing, as far as I’m concerned.

Lilly has been trying to play hide-and-seek with God. Sometimes she tries to avoid Him completely. Other times she asks a hundred questions about what it’s like to give one’s life to Him. She’s got some ideas from childhood about a judgmental God and it’s got her hung up. She forgets that the same God who sees our sin and judges it as wrong, is the One who has the ability to forgive the sin, wash it away and forget it ever happened. He doesn’t keep a tally of wrongs like some humans do. He forgives and forgets “Far as the east is from the West.” When Lilly’s ready she’ll jump in—Gucci-clad feetfirst—I just know it.

Chapter Six

Now that Lilly had announced her new project—the unsuspecting Connor Trevian—it was time for me to get back to work.

“Sorry I don’t have time to help you plan your wedding, but I have a tuna fish cupcake to make. It’s Mr. Tibbles’s birthday today and he’s coming to stay a few days.”

“You mean that pompous black cat, the one that acts like he’s Winston Churchill?”

“That’s him.”

“You’d rather do that than plan my wedding?” Lilly said incredulously.

“Let’s just say that I know for sure that Mr. Tibbles is coming. I’m not so sure Connor is going to go willingly down the aisle.” I met Lilly’s gaze with my own. “What’s up with you, anyway?”

Lilly pouted a bit, threw her blond hair back from her face, stomped in her high-heeled butter-colored boots to a chair behind the counter and sat down. Her starlet persona, no doubt about it. “Do you think I’m flighty?’

Uh-oh. Trick question.

“Ah, well, it depends on your definition of the word flighty.”

“Airheaded, dizzy, short attention span, blonde jokes, erratic, unreliable, capricious.”

“If you know the definition of capricious you probably aren’t flighty.”

“Be honest, Norah. You’re the only one I can rely on to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

“First I need to know who called you flighty.”

“Oh, that accountant I’ve been seeing. He says we can’t continue a relationship because I’m much too erratic and impulsive.”

No wonder Connor is looking so good.

“In that case, you are flighty. Look at how you are dressed. You strive for erratic and impulsive.”

“And cutting edge fashionwise,” Lilly defended, already looking a bit happier. “You’re right. I like what I am. If he doesn’t, he’s not the man for me.” She jumped up and gave me a hug, swathing me in the fragrance of lavender and something mossy. “I’m so glad we’re friends, Norah. I can trust you. You tell me the truth and never go behind my back. Thank…thank…”

“…God?” I finished for her.

“Yeah. Him.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “If you’re the kind of product He turns out, then I do want to get to know Him better…someday.” Then she threw her head back and swept out of the store like a runway model. No wonder she’d made her accountant nervous. Lilly was a full five fingers, a definite handful.

So she was watching me, looking for God in me. My grandmother said I might be the only sermon someone like Lilly ever hears. That should keep me on my toes.

When I pad around in my pajamas and big white bunny slippers, Hoppy goes crazy. She thinks she’s got company and keeps returning to my feet to sniff them. Her little nose practically vibrates with excitement. I’m thinking of getting a second rabbit so she’ll have some company. It’s easier to put two does together than two bucks, so I’ll have to get another female. If I introduce a male, within weeks, I’ll have way too much company in the house.

I leaned down to touch her soft fur. “You bunnies are just like humans, aren’t you? Two women can get along fine, but put a man in the mix and—poof!—there’s trouble.” We eyed each other soulfully, human and rabbit, and for a moment, I was sure Hoppy knew exactly what I meant. Then she tried to bite off my slipper’s nose and I snapped out of that daydream.

When my doorbell rang, my attack powder puff, Bentley, slid off the couch, rolled on the carpet, staggered to his feet and took what he thinks is an aggressive stance. It might be aggressive, if he’d ever learn to stop wagging his tail. Bentley, for all his former woes, is an optimist. “Sure,” his posture says, “I’ll protect my mistress even if she is wearing stupid slippers, but, no matter who you are on the other side of the door, I’d rather just lick your face.”

Then he must have gotten a whiff of pizza, because he raced to the door wriggling like an otter on a waterslide.

Lilly was on the other side of the door with a double pepperoni and cheese pizza, bread sticks and a liter of soda. She walked in without invitation and plopped the food down on my table. “Girl’s night,” she announced. “I’ll get the plates.”

Never one to turn away a delivered pizza, I gathered glasses and napkins and settled into one of the cushioned chairs in my dining room.

“What’s up?” I finally got around to asking as Lilly doled pizza onto plates.

“Oh, nothing. Want a bread stick?” She waved them under my nose.

“‘Nothing’? You brought a family-size pizza for ‘nothing’? Lilly, we could solve the world’s problems over this thing. What’s wrong?”

“I saw Connor after work.”

I watched a piece of mozzarella make a tightrope between my mouth and a slice of pizza. “And?”

“And he’s perfect for me, Norah. Absolutely perfect. I love the way he looks, the sound of his voice, his aftershave….”

Smitten. Deeply smitten. Besotted. Love-struck even. I reeled in the cheese with my teeth and tongue.

“…but I’m not sure how to get him.”

“‘Get’ him?” There was a tone in Lilly’s voice that I hadn’t heard before, especially where men are concerned. Anxiety.

“You know. Make him realize I’m the one for him.”

“Lilly, you do that all the time. You can do that unconscious! You’re sweet, beautiful, funny….”

“I can be,” she agreed, “but not this time. This time it feels like I’m a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the football team. I can be all those things because I haven’t really found anyone I want to spend my life with. Now, when it counts, I’m scared stiff!”

Lilly, scared stiff, is a sight to behold. Her blond hair was in a loose halo around her head, she wore snug designer jeans, high-heeled boots, a frothy peasant blouse and a thick, silver-studded belt that nipped in her slender waist. Her earrings matched her belt which matched the chain around her neck, which matched her thick silver bracelet…scared stiff looks great on Lilly.

“I really care this time, Norah, and as a result, I’m like a clumsy, unsophisticated kid who doesn’t know what to do with her knees and elbows, let alone the rest of her!”

“Sounds quite charming to me.” Sometimes I wonder if Lilly only likes guys who don’t initially show much interest in her. I sprinkled red peppers on the pizza and then surreptitiously slipped Bentley a piece of crust. “Maybe Connor likes that kind of woman.”

“I don’t think so.”

Something in her tone made me look up sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, he’s nice to me, it’s not that, but I don’t feel any spark coming from him.”

“‘Spark’? As in lighting a fire?”

“You’ve got it. The reason I recognize his lack of interest is that I’ve given off that same vibe myself, to men I know are crazy about me but that I’m not terribly interested in.”

Ah. The root of the matter. Lilly is one of the most competitive people I know. She is unwilling to lose anything she sees as competition. She can give the off-putting vibes but she can’t take them when they’re aimed her way.

“Why don’t you give it a chance, Lilly? Connor doesn’t know you and, frankly, you don’t know him. Allow yourselves a little time.”

Lilly fluttered her long French manicured nails in front of her face.

“Who knows?” I offered. “Maybe you won’t like him as well as you think you will—and he’ll like you even better.”

I studied her and was surprised to see a glaze of tears in her eyes.

“Sometimes I get sick of being a strong, independent woman, Norah. I want to be swept off my feet and carried into the sunset. Do you understand that at all?”

Do I? Me, who’s waiting for Cupid’s arrow and shimmery shivers and wedding bells? “Of course I do, Lilly. Just don’t panic. Desperation is not a scent you want to give off, you know.”

“It’s more clear-cut for you,” she said accusingly, wiping her eye with a stiff paper napkin. “You think God’s going to clunk you on the head with a guy some day. I don’t think I want to wait for that.”

It would certainly expedite matters if God just dropped my ideal husband into my lap. No wondering if or when Mr. Right comes along. No insecurity about myself because I’d know that this man is meant for me. No wearing makeup every day of the week just to make sure I don’t scare Mr. Right off with pale cheeks and no mascara on my lashes. The idea had merit, although I was wise enough to keep that idea to myself.

Still, Lilly was feeling better when she left sometime later. Pizza therapy is one of my favorite medical prescriptions.

On my way to the post office on Tuesday morning, my step slowed as I neared the new toy store. The door was open yet I was reluctant to stop in, considering the odd reception I’d had last time I was there. But fools venture where angels dare not tread, so I mounted the steps and went inside.

What a transformation! What had been dingy and drab had been changed into a scene from one of my favorite books as a child, The Secret Garden. The walls were freshly papered in muted pink Victorian cabbage roses that gave off an aura of a musty but elegant past. There were dolls everywhere—Madame Alexander dolls, Barbie dolls, fat baby dolls and collectibles with delicate porcelain faces and bemused expressions. A huge round crib hung with thick mauve ribbon and delicate rosebuds was piled high with teddy bears. Another crib was full of jungle creatures—fat, jolly monkeys, floppy-necked giraffes, lions with wild manes. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the jungle display that I realized the room had been divided in half. Behind the area filled with dolls was the “techno” room. PlayStation consoles, video games, cars on racetracks and everything that either plugged in, used batteries or made loud obnoxious noises was displayed here.

“What do you think?”

I was so engrossed that I gave a startled squeak and spun around to find Julie Morris standing behind me. Though she looked a little strained, today she had a smile on her face.

“You’re a phenomenon! I had no idea this place could look so good.” Meeting Julie and her husband the other day, I hadn’t believed there was a playful bone in either of their bodies. Heartened, I pressed on through the fantasyland they’d created.

“Would you like to see my favorite part?” Julie asked shyly.

I wonder how a person gets so timid—especially one who intends to be a business owner dealing with the public all day long.

Julie led me to a table filled with baskets. In the baskets were tiny toys and packets of candy. Diminutive dolls, race cars so small their wheels would make M&M’s look large, little coloring books and paper dolls. My particular favorite, for a dime apiece, was fake fingernails on green plastic fingertips with hair sprouting from the first knuckle.

“I had these when I was a kid! I played an ogre in a school play in third grade.” I picked one up, popped it on my index finger and quoted, “‘I’m sure you’ll be delicious, little girl, I’ll save you for dessert.’” Why is it, I wonder, that we allow kids to read fairy tales as violent as the evening news?

Without thinking, I picked up a Chinese finger puzzle. It was the kind I could never get my fingers out of when I was a child, poked a finger in each end and recalled the panicky feeling that I’d have to spend the rest of my life with my index fingers connected by a little straw tube.

“Uh-oh, I think I’ll be buying this. Do you have scissors?”

Julie laughed, pressed my index fingers toward each other and showed me the trick to getting my fingers free. “That’s why I love this table. It has things on it cheap enough for children to buy on their own, and gadgets old enough to appeal to their parents.”

Covertly I studied her. Julie is a pretty woman, if one can see through the premature frown lines and deeply carved grooves around her mouth. She doesn’t seem a likely candidate to own a toy store but she certainly knows how to devise a charming one.

“What made you come to Shoreside and start an old-fashioned toy store?”

I felt, rather than heard her hesitate.

“We needed a change of scenery and I wanted to do something fun.”

“Well, you got that part right, I…”

The back door opened and closed again with a slam and a teenage boy bolted into the room. He wore baggy jeans with more pockets than there were in my entire closet, a black T-shirt with some bizarre figure on the front with its mouth open to reveal fanged teeth and a hairdo that spiked into needle-sharp tips embellished in orange. All he needed were the fake monster fingertips to complete his ensemble. He opened his mouth to say something to Julie, saw me and snapped it closed again. Without a word he clomped on heavy black boots to the back and up a set of stairs to the second floor. Had I not known it was a fifteen-year-old boy on those stairs, I would have thought it was a team of Clydesdales making their way up the flight of steps.

“Your son?” I ventured. The stricken look on Julie’s face told me it could be none other.

“You’ll have to excuse Bryce. He can be…difficult.”

Bryce looked as if he were born to be “difficult.” The creases and worry lines on her face began to make sense. I’d have them, too, if I had to live with an attitude like the one I’d seen in the few seconds Bryce Morris and I had been in the same room together.

I didn’t speak, sensing that there was more that Julie wanted to say.

“We’re hoping that this move to Shoreside will be good for our family. A fresh start.”

She saw the question on my face.

“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.

“You don’t think there’s a danger of something like that happening again?” His forehead creased in genuine concern.

“Oh, I didn’t say that. She’ll probably do it sometime. At least she keeps her cell phone beside her—even in bed.”

The frown went away. “Good. I’d hate to think of her lying there, waiting for help….”

“That’s very sweet of you. Is this your duty as a police officer or as a concerned neighbor?”

“A little of both. I have grandparents, too, you know.” He smiled then, really smiled and I saw how truly handsome Nick is. He doesn’t smile often but when he does…let’s just say, it’s worth the wait.

“Where did your grandparents live when you were a child?” I asked, intrigued.

“On an island in the middle of Lake Michigan. Gramps was a fisherman.”

“And you saw a lot of them?”

“I stayed on the island every summer and worked for my grandfather.”

“So you like the water.”

Nick turned to look out at Lake Zachary, still as a mirror rimmed with a frame of lush trees and lawns dotted with large lake homes. “I do. This is an ideal location for me.”

“Then I’m glad you’re here.” I surprised myself with my enthusiasm over his good fortune. I guess I’m glad he’s here, too.

We carried on a rambling conversation about the lake, the weather, favorite foods: His are prime rib, mashed potatoes and corn. Mine are milk chocolate, dark chocolate and white chocolate. And hobbies: Nick is rebuilding a 1969 Camaro in his garage. My hobbies are the same as my business—animals, animals and more animals.

It was a rather cozy tête-à-tête until Joe walked out the front door of the coffee shop and noticed us. As he walked our way, I could see that he looked troubled.

“Hey, Joe, everything okay?” I patted the seat of the chair next to me and invited him to sit down.

He accepted the offer by dropping heavily into the chair. “Just the usual. Somebody wants vacation time and I don’t have anyone to cover it so that means I’ll be working nights next week. The espresso machine is trying to express itself in ways that make me think I’ll have to have it repaired. Same old, same old.” His gaze darted between Nick and me but he didn’t say any more.

“Nick was just asking about Auntie Lou,” I offered. “About her health,” I added vaguely.

“I’m not sure she has much time left at the shop,” Joe said bluntly.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Of course not, but she’s old. Old people lose steam, that’s all. She should be somewhere she can take it easy instead of working like she does.”

“Put her out to pasture, you mean?” For some reason, the idea of Joe suggesting that Auntie Lou’s “steam” was dwindling upset me.

“Hardly that. But I worry about her sometimes.”

“She is a little frail,” Nick added, trying to bridge the gap that had broken open between Joe and me, “but she’s got lots of spirit.”

“I think it’s great that both of you are concerned, as I am, but Auntie Lou isn’t finished yet.” I pushed away from the table. “I have to get back to work or I won’t get my order in on time. Nick, thanks for the coffee.”

He started to rise, but I waved him back into his chair. Such a gentleman.

Joe cleared his throat. “Don’t forget about my niece’s violin recital on Friday.”

I crossed my eyes at him. “If it’s as bad as last time, I’m bringing earplugs.”

“My sister says she’s improved a little.”

“Only ‘a little’? Joe, I suffered hearing loss at her last recital. I’d rather listen to a bagful of cats fight than Mozart’s Adagio in E major played by a nine year old.”

He shrugged helplessly. “My sister is expecting you.”

“Only for Maria, then.” I grinned and turned my back on them, reminding myself to stop at a drugstore to buy myself some cotton balls to plug my ears. I left the two of them together to find something to talk about.

The recital was even worse than I imagined it could be. Joe’s niece blistered out a classical piece that no doubt had its composer turning over in his grave, if not trying to claw his way out to rip the violin from the child’s hands. And she was one of the better ones. Even Joe’s comforting arm around my shoulders didn’t help. Throughout it all, the music teacher sat with a blissful smile on her face, nodding and looking proud.

“Is that woman attached to reality at all?” I whispered to Joe after the wailings and screeches were done. “If I had to listen to those shrieking sounds all day, I’d be deaf as a post.”

I moved a little closer to the buffet table where the prodigies’ mothers were serving pieces from a cake shaped like a violin. Accidentally, I bumped into a tall woman who hovered over the cake plates. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean…” She turned toward me. It was the guilty party. The one who’d taught all those innocent children to play like coyotes howling at the moon, like tires squealing on wet pavement, like turkeys having their tail feathers plucked…. There should be a law against what this woman does to music.

She smiled at me with that serene, unearthly smile. As she did so, I noticed a tiny earplug protruding out of one ear. She didn’t answer but gestured me to move forward through the line. No fair! Couldn’t she be penalized for using illegal equipment? Surely wearing earplugs was frowned on by a Teachers of Musical Instruments Association or something. There’s got to be an organization to prevent cruelty to parents.

“I’ll buy you dessert to make up for this,” Joe said later. At least I think that’s what he said. I’m new at lip reading, having had to start it only this evening, after the concert.

“Bribery won’t work. You owe me more than a crummy piece of pie for loss of hearing. Don’t ever do that to me again, Joe. Never invite me to anything where your family plays, sings, acts or orates. Promise?”

Joe smiled and took my hand in his. A dark curl fell onto his forehead and his eyes were mysteriously shadowed by the light of the streetlamp. “‘Love me, love my family.’ Isn’t that what you say?”

“I say ‘Love me, love my dog,’ Joe. And Bentley doesn’t play a violin.”

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