Bride & Groom

five dogs: my Rowdy and his India, Lady, and the beautiful-to-die-for malamute puppy, Sammy. Kimi, normally the biggest bed hog in the pack, was holding a sphinxlike pose on the floor.
    “If Kimi breaks that down-stay and goes for India, it won’t be my fault,” I said.
    After getting myself a glass of red wine, I rejoined what I was learning to think of as my family. After dislodging a couple of dogs, I managed to squeeze in next to Steve. The Sopranos episode was one we’d both seen before, one of the ones about Tony’s Russian mistress, so I felt free to tell Steve about my wedding epiphany.
    He took the revelation calmly. When Paul told people about what happened on the road to Damascus, they probably stayed pretty cool, too: Gee, that’s nice. And how was the rest of your day?
    “We never intended to leave the dogs out,” Steve said. “They were always part of our plans.”
    “It’s the remainder of the plans that I’ve been neglecting.”
    “We agreed to keep it small,” he said. “Have you changed your mind about that?”
    “No. Not at all. Not in the least. But we do need a guest list.”
    Looking from Tony Soprano to me, he said, “You’re not inviting what’s his name, are you?”
    Enzio Guarini. Steve knew the name as well as I did. So did everyone else in Greater Boston.
    “We really have to,” I said. “And we’d better ask Carla to do the flowers, too. If we don’t, she’ll be hurt.”
    Guarini’s wife, Carla, ran a flower shop. Guarini ran… well, Guarini ran a lot of enterprises, some legitimate, some otherwise. The principal “otherwise” was the Mob. I’d worked for Guarini off and on, but only in the blameless role of dog trainer. Guarini’s own behavior was open to criticism, but thanks to me, his Norwegian elkhounds were model citizens.
    “He’s your client, too,” I pointed out. “And he’s very fond of me. We can’t leave him out.”
    “We can’t invite every client I have,” Steve said. “Just my staff.”
    “And their husbands. Wives. Significant others. We can’t invite half of a couple and leave out the other. Anyway, we need to make a list for Gabrielle. With addresses. She’s doing the invitations. Thank God my father married her. But she can’t do invitations until we know where we’re getting married.”
    “Anywheres fine with me,” Steve said. “Did you and Rita have a good time?”
    “Yes,” I said, without mentioning the one bad part of the shopping trip, namely, my having seen his evil ex-wife.
    “Did you have a chance to mention the third floor?”
    The third floor of my house was sunny, airy, and, if anything, more attractive than the second floor, where Rita now lived.
    “No. I couldn’t find a tactful way to work it in, except that we did talk a little about Artie. I think they should get married. Rita loves him. I think he loves her. They have a monogamous relationship. They’re very companionable and compatible. At a minimum, they could live togther. I don’t know why they don’t.”
    “Willie.”
    Willie was Rita’s Scottish terrier, a feisty character who had a passion for human ankles, including mine. To the best of my knowledge, Willie had never broken skin, but he did voice his desires. I didn’t mind—on the contrary, I liked Millie, whose ankle fetish struck me as a kink that he had the self-control never to act on and the honesty never to lie about. Artie felt otherwise.
    Steve continued. "We’d better give it some time. Rita’s not dumb. She’ll work it out for herself. She’s been a real good friend to both of us. The last thing we want to do is make her feel pushed out.”
    The Sopranos episode had ended. Steve switched to the local news on TV. The murder of Dr. Laura Skipcliff got a brief mention. The victim had not been sexually assaulted. Her purse, found at the scene, had contained credit cards and two hundred thirty-two dollars in cash. The report ended with a platitude: Authorities were pursuing the investigation.
    “You didn’t use the garage at the mall, did you?” asked Steve.
    I hadn’t. Still, after dinner, Rita and I had hurried across the parking lot as fast as her high heels had allowed. I’d pretended that Rowdy was on one side of me and Kimi on the other. Ahead of us paraded Sammy. For all I knew, Dr. Laura Skipcliff, too, had owned big, beautiful dogs. For all I knew, she’d drawn strength from their imaginary presence until the moment of her violent death.
     

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