Teresa Rhyne - The Dog Lived

Copyright 2012 by Teresa J. Rhyne

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CONTENTS

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Because Im a lawyer, I worry about protecting the innocent (and sometimes that means me and my publisher). Therefore, some names, identifying characteristics, and places in this memoir have been changed. Some characters in this book are actually composites of a few people, and some scenes are composites of different events, combined for the sake of story and my sanity. Conversations and events are rendered accurately to the best of my memory, but please remember my brain has been through chemo.

For Chris, who keeps my glass not only half-full, but topped offand helps me see it that way as well.

Markus Pierson

PART I

Chapter 1

BAGGAGE

I should not have asked him to pick me up at the airport. Was I that lonely and desperate already? I grabbed my carry-on from overhead luggage. Too late now. Hed be there waiting, appropriately enough for me, in baggage claim. Or not.

Now a new fear charged through me. It was embarrassing enough that Id emailed him from an Internet caf in Ireland admitting that I missed him and asking him to pick me up, but what if he didnt do it? What if no one was there to greet me? Cab fare home would not be nearly as expensive as all the therapy it would take to get over that psychic wound. I walked down the narrow aisle of the plane, moved along by the impatience of my fellow passengers, who, I imagined, all had someone there in the airport happily awaiting their arrivals, holding signs and flowers and ready to sweep them off their feet in enthusiastic embraces. No wonder they were rushing.

I love your scarf, by the way, the flight attendant said, smiling and fresh-looking even after a twelve-hour flight.

I looked down at my long, flowing, brightly colored, hand-knitted scarf. Oh, thanks. I actually bought this at my cousins shop in Athboy outside Dublin. Maybe if I engaged in a long conversation with the flight attendant, Id never have to get off the plane. Maybe shed be able to give me a ride home when the inevitable happened.

Was it McElhinneys? she asked in the same Irish brogue as my cousins.

Yes. How funny that you knew that, I said as the crowd surged forward, moving me past her.

Lovely shop. Such beautiful things. And you look smashing. Her grin seemed sincere. Bye-bye.

But the compliment did not comfort me. Me looking smashing was not a good sign. Long ago my friend Stacey had told me that she always could tell when my life was falling apart because Id look so pulled together. If I was perfectly dressed and groomed and presenting well to the world, she knew I had on my armor and was suited up to, as it were, tilt at my own windmills. If I looked smashing, it was because some aspect of my life was being smashed to pieces.

I was on this flight home after Id gone to Ireland with my brother and a cousin, ostensibly to celebrate their fortieth birthdays but mostly to escape my lonely household following my second divorce and the death of my two old dogs, all in the past six months. So, by Staceys analysis, yeah, I should look impeccable.

My trip had been wonderful, though, and it had mostly served its purpose of getting me out of my own head and on toward a new life. And Id have been in a much better mood if I hadnt so foolishly asked a man Id only been dating a few months to pick me up at the airport. For gods sake, I wasnt even supposed to be dating. Id sworn off dating. Id sworn off men. I had my life all carefully planned out now, and relationships were a thing of the past. No future involvements. None.

As I approached the escalator, I immediately saw Chris standing at the bottom. Even from that distance his bright blue eyes were noticeableheck, his eyelashes were even long enough to be noticed. He was tall, with a head of massively thick salt-and-pepper hair that also made him stand out. And he was wearing his light blue plaid button-down shirt. My favorite shirt. He looked handsome.

I couldnt help but smile. I had missed him. And I had so many great stories to tell him that I knew wed laugh overright after a hot bath together, a bottle of wine, andwell, the stories might have to wait. As would my carefully laid-out life plan, apparently. I stepped off the escalator and into his arms.

After all those cold days traipsing around Ireland, this feels really, really good, I said, sinking farther down into the bathtub, both for the soothing wash of hot water and to keep my middle-aged body covered by bubbles. My townhome had the largest bathtub I had ever seen. The depth of the tub allowed me the modesty I still feltthe bubbles came up to my collarbonebut it was more than that. The grand tub stretched out over six feet in length and nearly four feet in width, taking up two-thirds of the bathroom. Thus, despite how tall we both were, Chris and I easily fit in the bath together facing each other. There was also plenty of space on both sides for a champagne bucket and candles.

Feels good to me too, and I havent been traveling. Are you tired? Chris asked, refilling my glass with champagne.

A little. But I slept pretty well on the plane. And it would be better for combating jet lag if I stayed awake a few more hours.

I can help you with that, Chris said, leaning in for a kiss.

I returned the kiss. Im sure you can.

Chris raised his eyebrows in a playful leer. He leaned back. Tell me about your trip.

I loved that he loved my stories. And I had certainly brought a wealth of them home from Ireland, where Id been visiting my grandfathers family. I told Chris about one family member in particular whod kept me laughingmy second cousin, Seamus. I knew hed make Chris laugh, too.