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Q: What goes "tick-tick, woof-woof"?
A: A watch dog.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #115
"Miss Vanderwalk, this is—"
"Just tell me there are no tears involved, Howard," I pleaded over the sounds of raised male voices in the background. And for a second I thought I heard a yip.
"No, Miss," Howard assured me, "no tears."
"Heellooo, Lydia!" one of those male voices shouted into the phone.
I pressed a palm to my forehead, certain I was feverish in explanation of this hallucination. Hadn't I just sent Phelps home a few short hours ago? A quick glance at the kitchen clock confirmed my suspicion that it was after two.
Clearly I was not meant to sleep tonight.
"How many are there?"
"Two. The young man you returned with earlier and an older gentleman—"
"I am not old, I am distinguished!"
"—with white hair and an... unplaceable accent."
"My accent is Italian."
Even if he was not.
Howard did not respond to Ferrero's comments, remaining steadfastly professional.
When a sharp pinch to my thigh and counting to ten did not wake me from this nightmare, I relented. "Send them up."
No way I was fetching those two. Whatever the reason for their visit. Of course I wasn't going to turn my boss away from my doorstep in the middle of the night, either.
I managed three quick and painfully cold bites of ice cream before the buzzer rang. Peace of mind was not immediately attained. Giving the sugar a chance to work, I waited as long as I could to answer the door.
Even willing the sugar into action didn't work.
They started banging on the door.
"We know you're in there, Lyd."
"Please, cherie, let us in. We have a problem."
Bang, bang, bang.
I glared at the ice cream carton, knowing it was willfully denying me comfort in my hour of need. Shoving it into its new home at the
back of the freezer, I steeled myself for whatever was to come.
Whoever said
bad things come in threes grossly underestimated the persistence of problems.
Bang, bang, bang.
"Don't make us sleep in your hall," Phelps goaded. "What would the neighbors think?"
Probably that I have a pair of stalkers.
Fortified by a deep breath, I swung open the door. "What's this big prob—" I caught sight of something furry in Phelps' arms. Pointing a shaking finger at the furball, I demanded, "What is that!"
"A puppy," he answered with a smile.
"No," I backed cautiously into the apartment, away from the tiny brown fluff, "puppies are soft and round and behind Plexiglas at the pet store. That," I accused, waving my hand in an encompassing gesture, "is a rat."
"Please,
cherie," Ferrero soothed as he approached me, "give her a chance."
"H-her?" That thing was female?
Oh no, a tiny brown head popped up and a tiny pink tongue dropped into view. Big round puppy-dog brown eyes blinked against the light of my apartment. She was... she was... the most adorable thing I had ever seen.
But that didn't explain why she was here.
Unless... "No, no, no. I don't want a dog. I hate dogs, ever since Sissy Kowalchuk's bulldog trapped me up a tree when I was nine." I tried to back further away as Phelps approached, but ran into the couch. "And dogs hate me back. They bark and drool and snarl and pee on me. It's a mutual dislike. They—"
Phelps held the little furball out and she had the nerve to lean forward and lick my nose, undermining my entire argument.
"See," he waved the dog before my eyes, "she likes you already. And she's housetrained."
Ferrero approached, reverently petting the furry little head. "Take her. You were made for each other." He winked and elbowed me in the side. "I can tell these things."
I met his eyes and knew he referred to more than just the dog. If his intuition saw a blissful ever after for Phelps and me, then the dog and I were doomed.
"No, I—"
"She has no where else to go."
Phelps smiled sadly, clearly knowing he played the trump card. How could I turn away a sad little ragamuffin with no home and no one to love her?
"Why can't you—"
"My place doesn't allow pets," Phelps argued.
"And I," Ferrero interjected, "travel all the time."
I was beat, and they both knew it. Phelps held her out and I reluctantly took her in my arms. She immediately settled in, snuggling her cold nose into the crook of my arm.
Tempted as I was too coo and baby talk—despite my repulsion at the same only minutes earlier—I was not about to show my maternalistic weakness in front of them.
So I focused on business.
"Is this the problem you were moaning about?" I looked them both in the eyes, indicating my disapproval of their underhanded techniques. "Or was there something else we need to discuss at, oh, two o'clock in the morning?"
Neither had the decency to look ashamed.
"We," Ferrero spread his hands dramatically, "have a crisis."
With Ferrero, there was always a crisis.
Last month it was the color of the hangers Barney's was using to display his ready-to-wear collection.
The month before it was the number of stitches per inch on the lining of one of his men's coats.
Naturally, I was not overly concerned.
"You are going to the suburbs this weekend," he accused.
"Yes, my parents—"
"And you are taking your young man with you."
I was starting to wonder whether the man could remember his
own name. "Yes,
Phelps is going with me."
"This is a disaster." Ferrero collapsed onto the couch.
Phelps looked to me, brows raised in question. I shrugged and shook my head, not understanding myself why my parents'
bon voyage party was a disaster when it hadn't even happened yet. And my mother would never let a party at her home be a disaster.
"And," he continued, his accent growing stronger with each successive word, "he does not even own a trench coat."
Rather than give in to the temptation to fling a pillow at his head, I sat in the chofa, facing him, and calmly asked, "Why is this a disaster?"
Phelps, choosing to squish in next to me on the chofa rather than have a whole cushion to himself on the couch, also took the calm approach. "I have a parka. Can that work?"
"No. You are going away this weekend. Next week we prepare for Milan and the following weekend we go." Ferrero pleaded with his eyes. "I have an inspiration that requires two days of sketching and a trench coat. If I do not manifest this inspiration soon I will lose it. And the world will never see this wonderful design."
"What the—"
I elbowed Phelps in the ribs before he could blurt out what we were both thinking. Ferrero was off his rocker. But I was not about to lose my job by pointing out that my boss was a nut case.
"What can we do to help?" I knew that solving Ferrero's crises usually required only a little effort and imagination.
Like last month when we got Barney's to tie feathered hair clips to all the hangers. Made Ferrero happy, and every customer got a little extra accessory.
"This weekend," he lamented, shaking his head, "would have been the perfect time. But since you're going away..."
He trailed off and I knew what the answer to the first part of the crisis was.
"Why don't you come along? I'm sure my parents would love to have you."
His face lit up.
One down, one to go.
"And I can take Phelps shopping tomorrow for a trench coat." Especially now that I had no official duties left to take care of at work. "Then this weekend you can have him in a trench coat"—why did that sound like a dirty fantasy?—"without the distractions of the city."
Phelps hadn't said a word since I shushed him, but he sat there wide-eyed at our interchange. Surely he'd worked with temperamental photographers and models before. Or maybe he was a temperamental model.
One look at Phelps dispelled that notion like yesterday's trend. The man was a conglomeration of hard-earned muscle and salt of the earth. He might wear Armani and have the face of an angel, but there was nothing temperamental about him.
Astounded, yes, but not temperamental.
"Does that work for you?" I asked Phelps, purely out of courtesy and knowing he would say yes.
When he started to form the word
no, I silently added a
please.
"Sure," he said, though his eyes said I owed him one, "sounds great to me."
"Perfecto." Ferrero clapped his hands before jumping up from the couch and pulling out his wallet. "Now, show me this workshop your young man was telling me about."
This time Phelps had the decency to look embarrassed.
As Ferrero headed off in search of my workshop, I whispered in Phelps' ear, "We're even."
Phelps and Ferrero finally left at three thirty. I crashed the instant they left, not regaining consciousness until the phone—which I was seriously considering unplugging permanently—rang at seven thirty.
How Phelps had not only the nerve but also the energy to call me that early to go shopping was beyond me.
Still, I managed to drag myself into the shower and get some orange juice and toast down by the time he called from the lobby. Grabbing my purse and keys, I was almost to the door when I heard a plaintiff whine.
Dyllie.
Darting into my bedroom, I peered into the makeshift den I had made for her from a cardboard box and an old blanket. I was not relying on Phelps' assurance that she was housebroken.
She hadn't piddled in the box, which I took as a good sign, but that meant she needed to go out.
I had no leash, no collar, and no idea where the nearest green spot was.
We would just have to wing it.
Plucking her meager five pounds from the box, I tucked her into my purse with the promise that we would get a dog carrier before the day was out.
"Morning sunshine," Phelps greeted as I stepped off the elevator in the lobby.
He looked fresh off a full night's sleep, blue eyes bright and glowing above the fitted black t-shirt that spread sculpturally across his chest. His hair was as tamed as those thick curls ever could be and he looked delicious enough to eat.
I glowered. "Let's go."
Outside Phelps stopped me before I could hail a cab. "The Artist sent us his car."
Following the direction of his inclined head, I saw a beautiful black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of my building. My morning improved dramatically.
"You ready?" I asked.
He waggled his brows. "For what?"
I grinned and climbed into the back seat, settling in to soft gray leather. "For Bradford's."
"Never been."
He shrugged and shut the door behind us. As the driver pulled into traffic, I stared at him with unabashed shock.
"You've
never been to Bradford's?" I watched him shake his head as if it were no big deal. No big deal. This was Bradford's. Mecca to shopaholics and socialites alike. This was Saks for the serious label hound. How could a man who sported Armani on a daily basis never have been to Bradford's? "Where do you buy your clothes?"
"I don't." Again he shrugged, like he couldn't fathom what I thought the big deal was. "I get to keep the samples from shoots and shows."
That explained the couture wardrobe.
"What do you do with all the money you make? Clearly you don't spend it on housing or clothing."
"I'm saving."
"For something special?"
He scratched thoughtfully at his jaw before answering. "For—"
My purse wiggled off my lap, sending Dyllie and all my belongings flying across the floor.
"—um, is that a dog in your purse or are you just happy to see me."
"Come here, Dyllie bean," I cooed, scooping her off the floor with one hand while trying to corral the contents back into my purse with the other. "Don't let the mean man make fun of you."
Before I could argue, he was half kneeling on the floor, gathering my scattered things and setting them back in my purse.
"I think we need to make a stop first," I announced.
The whole day would go smoother if we got Dyllie's needs out of the way first. I had done my research last night and found the best pet store in the city.
"To Puppy Love," I instructed the driver. "We need a leash."
Phelps handed me my purse with that cocky grin on his face. "Does this mean you're keeping her?"
Dyllie circled around on my lap until she found just the perfect position and plopped down and promptly fell asleep. For someone who had such a bad history with canines, I had fallen for this one quickly. I credited my turnaround to the fact that she didn't really look or act like a dog. She looked like a mini teddy bear—or the dog in all those calendars that looks like a toy—and acted like a house cat.
By the time we got to Puppy Love, Dyllie was awake and whining like she needed to do a number one.
"Hold on, girl. We need to get a leash first."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Phelps smile as I nuzzled her nose. Grabbing my purse, I tucked her safely back inside and silently prayed to the gods of new dog-owners that her bladder held out.
Inside, I wandered the aisles of pet-related goodies with an awe usually reserved for a new candy store. Who gets paid to think up things like the "Pooper Picker Upper" and "Wilderdog Rain Booties"?
"Think this is what Ferrero meant?"
I turned to find Phelps holding a tiny doggie trench coat on a tiny doggie hanger. It was camel colored with original Burberry plaid lining and a matching plaid belt. Sickeningly adorable.
Dyllie would never be subjected to such humiliation. "No, thank you."
"Admit it, this is cute." He flipped up the bottom hem to reveal a bright red ruffle.
Clutching at my purse, and the whining furball inside, I shook my head vehemently. "Put it back. We have serious shopping to do."
"You shop," he agreed, "I'm getting this."
He jogged off to the front of the store, tiny doggie trench coat clutched in his hand, and left Dyllie and me to find our necessities. When we made our way to the front of the store, Phelps stood chatting with the cute clerk, a perky twenty-something smile and matching perky twenty-something breasts.
Stalking to the counter, I flung the black microfiber leash and collar and matching doggie tote down on the melamine surface.
"Good morning, Ma'am," Perky greeted. "How are you today?"
"Fine." As if I needed to feel any older. Especially around twenty-something hunks with eyes for perky redheaded clerks.
My personal history with redheads is not good.
Mental Post-it: Next time a redhead says "Hi," run the other way.
Dyllie poked her wet pink nose out the top of my purse as Perky slid the items across the scanner.
"Oooh," she cooed, "what a cute puppy. What's her name?"
While I tried to decide whether I could ignore her question without looking like a capital witch, Phelps supplied, "Dyllie. She's a Yorkie."
Was that what she was? Better than furry brown rat, I supposed.
"Hi precious." Perky reached beneath the counter and pulled out a doggie treat and held it out.
Dyllie, against my strongly broadcast mental wishes, leaned out and gingerly took the offered treat.
"What kind of diet do you have her on?" Perky asked as she placed my purchases in a large plastic bag covered in wrestling puppies and kittens.
"Diet?" I didn't know what kind of stick-figure dog world Perky came from, but Dyllie was not overweight. She was a puppy for Good&Plenty's sake.
"Yes," she explained. "Diet is crucial in a puppy her age. She needs food rich in fat, protein, and nutrients to help her little body grow big and strong."
That kind of diet. I knew that.
"You're a new pet owner, aren't you?"
I nodded, suddenly feeling woefully inadequate as Dyllie's mother. What did I know about rearing a healthy and well-adjusted dog?
Perky apparently read my self-doubts. "Not to worry," she said, handing the plastic bag to Phelps and indicating I should follow her. "We'll get you all set up."
Though I was tempted to throw Phelps a please-save-me-from-perky-twenty-something-pet-shop-clerks look, I dutifully followed. I should have known to be afraid when she pushed a shopping cart in my direction and asked, "So how big is her bedroom?"
Two hours, five-hundred dollars, one full shopping cart, and a pit stop in Central Park's Sheep Meadow later, Phelps, Dyllie, and I climbed back into the limo and headed for Bradford's. I never knew a little puppy could need so much stuff.
Leash, food, and, in the city, doggie tote, I knew. I would have eventually figured out food and water bowls, too. But there were treats and treatments. Shampoos, toothpaste, and vitamins. Beds and mats.
Dyllie's new possessions filled the trunk.
Tucked safely in her doggie tote beneath my arm, she napped peacefully as we walked past the store windows and through the elegant metal doors into the world of high-class shopping at Bradford's Men.
"Outerwear is on the sixth floor," I explained as I led the way to the elegant elevator.
Everything in Bradford's Men screamed wealthy businessman. From the button-down oxford shirts on display to the warm wood paneling covering the walls. And this season, all the displays were very brightly colored. Though I couldn't imagine a powerful, heterosexual man wearing hot pink and lavender, I knew they did. Maybe because they were powerful and knew no one would question their masculinity.
Or maybe they were secretly not so heterosexual.
"Sixth floor," the elevator announced.
We stepped off into a sea of black leather and heathered tweed. A flash of camel canvas caught my eye.
"There are the trenches." I pointed to the racks of trench coats in a rainbow of neutral colors along the far wall. Apparently powerbrokers restrict the bright colors to shirts and ties.
"Lead on, captain."
Phelps followed as I wove through the pea coats and bomber jackets and Gore-Tex parkas.
"I still can't believe you've never been to Bradford's," I reflected as we came to a stop in front of a rack of London Fog. "How can a New Yorker
not come here? It's like church. Only without the preaching."
And occasionally without the guilt.
"Don't know," Phelps shrugged as he pulled a hip-length coat and held it out to look at it. "Never needed to, I guess."
I shook my head at the coat and at him. "Bradford's is not about need."
Setting the coat back on the rack, he shrugged again. "I have more clothes than I could ever ne—" He paused when he noticed my mouth preparing to repeat my last comment. "More than I could ever want. I have better things to spend my money on."
"Like trips to the Andes?"
"Nah, that was work." He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he'd been admonished not to touch anything.
"You don't spend your money on clothes or trips and you obviously don't spend it on rent." I scanned the racks from just the right coat. "What do you spend it on? Drugs, whiskey, and women?"
"Children."
I stopped my search and stared at him.
He had children? Not that I believed it wasn't possible, but he just did not strike me as the fatherly type. More like the troublemaking older brother type.
"Ch-children?" I repeated, incredulous.
He turned away, presumably to look at a rack of black leather pea coats, but I had a feeling it was to avoid my questioning gaze.
"I started a charity." His voice was flat, like he didn't care. Or was afraid to show that he cared. "A foundation to get underprivileged kids involved in their community. In making their community a better, more prosperous place."
Great Gobstoppers. He was a philanthropist.
Now that was a surprise.
"That is a noble thing," I squeaked, unable to hide my shock at his revelation.
He shrugged again, keeping his back to me. I took that as flashing neon sign to drop the topic. Reluctantly, I returned to my coat quest.
Then I saw it. The perfect, damp English night, Sam Spade trench. Knee-length camel with polished horn buttons and cashmere lining. I held it up to Phelps' back and nodded.
"This is the one."
He turned.
"Let's get it on."
The seductive look he gave me could have fried ice.
