Dr. Porter had proposed with the gigantic diamond that Taylor and Marissa swore cost them their future inheritance.
Dr. Porter had gotten married over Labor Day weekend—the same weekend as Nick and I—and rumor had it his new wife was a ruthless, gold-digging, material girl whose CEO father was embroiled in the biggest corporate scandal since Enron. Since he’d split with his first wife, Brenda, ten years ago, Dr. Porter had dated steadily, but all of his previous girlfriends had been a little less flashy…and a little more ageappropriate. So when he’d finally popped the question to a poor little rich girl half his age, everyone in town practically got whiplash rubbernecking at the impending scandal. There were at least two active betting pools going at the Blue Hills Tavern—one on how long the marriage would last (the current over-under was eighteen months) and one as to how long the citified Ms. Porter could hack it out here in the sticks (the smart money said she’d force a move to Manhattan by Memorial Day.)
But with her long, shiny black hair, milky skin and huge blue eyes, Stella Porter didn’t look ruthless. She looked like a younger version of Jennifer Connelly. You couldn’t help staring—girls like her just didn’t live in Alden, Massachusetts.
She stood stock-still in the store’s doorway for a moment, her face frozen in a tentative half smile. I wasn’t sure if she was confused or just “making an entrance” in her red wool coat and spotless black boots before she deigned to come in and let me serve her.
Then those clear blue eyes locked on mine.
“Excuse me,” she said in a small, shy voice. “Is it all right if I bring a dog in with me?”
“Sure.” I jerked my head toward the sign in the corner of the front window reading Pets Welcome.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “A big dog?”
“Sure,” I repeated, losing patience as the arctic November wind blasted in. “But do me a favor and shut the door, okay?”
“Oh. Right.” She hurried inside, dragging a dog behind her on a filthy, fraying leash.
I’d pegged her for a Havanese owner. Maybe a bichon frise or a poodle. But the dog on the other end of this leash was no pedigreed, pampered puppy. It was, well, a behemoth.
“The lady at the shelter said he’s a Great Dane mix,” she explained when she saw my reaction.
“Mixed with what?” Mrs. Adelman demanded. “A Clydesdale?”
I watched the burly black blur of matted fur scrambling wildly to escape the confines of his collar and leash. “Newfoundland, probably. Maybe some Rottweiler?”
She dropped the leash as her hands flew to her mouth. “Rottweiler? Really? Do you think he’s vicious?”
The dog saw his opening and took off. His nails clicked against the tile floor as he raced toward the bags of kibble at the back of the store.
“He doesn’t seem very aggressive,” I pointed out as the dog stopped running to sniff a 30-pound bag of holistic food. “Forget what you hear about Rotties on TV—most of them are big babies.”
But Mrs. Adelman wasn’t taking any chances—she collected her bags of cat food and held her spine ramrod straight as she stalked out the door. As the cowbell hanging on the door jingled behind her, I turned back to Stella. “You got this dog from the pound?”
She nodded, her cheeks pink. “Twenty minutes ago. But, I have to tell you, I’m having second thoughts. He doesn’t even fit in my car—I had to put the top down and it’s freezing out there—and I have no idea what he likes to eat and he probably has a zillion kinds of worms and fleas…”
Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as she contemplated the ramifications of what she’d just done.
“What’s his name?” I asked gently.
“He doesn’t have one. He just had a kennel number. Like a prisoner.”
“No, I mean, what are you going to name him?”
She watched with dismay as the dog grabbed a bag of dry food between his teeth and shook his head
Dr. Porter had gotten married over Labor Day weekend—the same weekend as Nick and I—and rumor had it his new wife was a ruthless, gold-digging, material girl whose CEO father was embroiled in the biggest corporate scandal since Enron. Since he’d split with his first wife, Brenda, ten years ago, Dr. Porter had dated steadily, but all of his previous girlfriends had been a little less flashy…and a little more ageappropriate. So when he’d finally popped the question to a poor little rich girl half his age, everyone in town practically got whiplash rubbernecking at the impending scandal. There were at least two active betting pools going at the Blue Hills Tavern—one on how long the marriage would last (the current over-under was eighteen months) and one as to how long the citified Ms. Porter could hack it out here in the sticks (the smart money said she’d force a move to Manhattan by Memorial Day.)
But with her long, shiny black hair, milky skin and huge blue eyes, Stella Porter didn’t look ruthless. She looked like a younger version of Jennifer Connelly. You couldn’t help staring—girls like her just didn’t live in Alden, Massachusetts.
She stood stock-still in the store’s doorway for a moment, her face frozen in a tentative half smile. I wasn’t sure if she was confused or just “making an entrance” in her red wool coat and spotless black boots before she deigned to come in and let me serve her.
Then those clear blue eyes locked on mine.
“Excuse me,” she said in a small, shy voice. “Is it all right if I bring a dog in with me?”
“Sure.” I jerked my head toward the sign in the corner of the front window reading Pets Welcome.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “A big dog?”
“Sure,” I repeated, losing patience as the arctic November wind blasted in. “But do me a favor and shut the door, okay?”
“Oh. Right.” She hurried inside, dragging a dog behind her on a filthy, fraying leash.
I’d pegged her for a Havanese owner. Maybe a bichon frise or a poodle. But the dog on the other end of this leash was no pedigreed, pampered puppy. It was, well, a behemoth.
“The lady at the shelter said he’s a Great Dane mix,” she explained when she saw my reaction.
“Mixed with what?” Mrs. Adelman demanded. “A Clydesdale?”
I watched the burly black blur of matted fur scrambling wildly to escape the confines of his collar and leash. “Newfoundland, probably. Maybe some Rottweiler?”
She dropped the leash as her hands flew to her mouth. “Rottweiler? Really? Do you think he’s vicious?”
The dog saw his opening and took off. His nails clicked against the tile floor as he raced toward the bags of kibble at the back of the store.
“He doesn’t seem very aggressive,” I pointed out as the dog stopped running to sniff a 30-pound bag of holistic food. “Forget what you hear about Rotties on TV—most of them are big babies.”
But Mrs. Adelman wasn’t taking any chances—she collected her bags of cat food and held her spine ramrod straight as she stalked out the door. As the cowbell hanging on the door jingled behind her, I turned back to Stella. “You got this dog from the pound?”
She nodded, her cheeks pink. “Twenty minutes ago. But, I have to tell you, I’m having second thoughts. He doesn’t even fit in my car—I had to put the top down and it’s freezing out there—and I have no idea what he likes to eat and he probably has a zillion kinds of worms and fleas…”
Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as she contemplated the ramifications of what she’d just done.
“What’s his name?” I asked gently.
“He doesn’t have one. He just had a kennel number. Like a prisoner.”
“No, I mean, what are you going to name him?”
She watched with dismay as the dog grabbed a bag of dry food between his teeth and shook his head
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