Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

incurred.”
    The man laughed. “But no coffee, huh?”
    Prue’s hand tightened on the whistle. “Really, I’m … that’s awfully kind … but, um … my driver … that is, I have a friend waiting for me down at the conservatory. Thank you, though. That’s very nice.”
    The man shrugged, then turned and entered the shack, closing the door behind him.
    Prue waited.
    And waited.
    This was really too annoying. What did he think he was doing, anyway? It would be easy enough to prove ownership of the dog, to have this tramp arrested for holding Vuitton against his will.
    Prue considered her options: She could walk back to the conservatory and wait for her driver to return; he was imposing enough to intimidate this man into releasing Vuitton. Or, of course, she could simply call the police.
    On the other hand, why compound the nuisance by official intervention? Surely this was something she could handle on her own.
    Clutching at shrubbery for support, she made her way down the sandy slope until she reached the ledge where the shack stood. It was amazing really, this secret cul-de-sac, virtually invisible to the casual passerby, yet still within hearing distance of the traffic down below on Kennedy Drive.
    Prue strode purposefully towards the door of the shack—so purposefully, in fact, that she snagged a heel on a root and tumbled to the ground, scattering the contents of her purse. Mortified, she scooped up her belongings as quickly as possible and staggered to her feet.
    She rapped on the door.
    The first thing she heard was Vuitton’s off-key bark. Then came the sound of wood scraping wood as a homemade latch was undone.
    The door swung open, revealing the same smiling face, a face made almost handsome by high cheekbones, a strong jawline and unusual amber-colored skin. The stranger’s longish dark hair was combed neatly into place. (Had it been before?) He appeared to be in his late forties.
    “That’s better,” he said.
    Prue tried to placate him. “I’m sorry if I offended you in some way. I’ve been so anxious about my dog. I’m sure you can understand.”
    Vuitton poked his long, pale muzzle through the crack in the door. Prue reached down to stroke him. “Baby,” she cooed. “It’s O.K., Mommy’s here.”
    “You got proof?” asked the man.
    “Look at him,” said Prue. “He knows me. Don’t you, baby? His name is Vuitton. It’s on the collar. For that matter, my name is on the collar.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Giroux. Prue Giroux.”
    The man extended his hand. “Mine’s Luke. Come on in.”

Inside
    W HEN PRUE ENTERED THE SHACK, HER MIND raced back to Grass Valley … and to the tree house her brother Ben had built on the hill behind the barn.
    Ben’s tree house had been a holy place, a monk’s cell for a thirteen-year-old that was incontestably off limits to his little sister and her friends.
    One day, however, when Ben was at the picture show, Prudy Sue had climbed into the forbidden aerie and perused, with pounding heart, the secret icons of her brother’s adolescence: dirty dime novels, joy buzzers, a Lucky Strikes magazine ad featuring Maureen O’Hara.
    Today, forty years later, Prue couldn’t help remembering the surprising order of Ben’s lair. There had been something almost touching about the neat rows of Tom Swift books, the hand-sewn burlap curtains on the tiny windows, the quartz rocks displayed on orange crates as if they were diamonds in a vault….
    “I wasn’t expecting company,” said Luke. “You’ll have to excuse this.”
    “This” was a single room, about six-by-ten-feet, furnished with wooden packing crates, an Army surplus cot, and a large chunk of foam rubber which appeared to function as a couch. A rock-lined pit in the packed earth floor was filled with graying embers. On the grate above the fire sat a blue enamel coffee pot.
    The man picked up the pot and poured coffee into a styrofoam cup. “You take cream? I only have the fake stuff, I’m afraid.”
    “Uh … what? … oh, no thank you.” Prue was still absorbing the room. How long had he been here, anyway? Did the park people know about this?
    The man read her mind and winked. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Sweet ’n Low?”
    “Yes, please.”
    He cracked open the pink packet like an egg, shook it into the coffee and handed her the cup. “I thought you might like to see where your dog’s been living, that’s all.”
    Vuitton, in fact, having greeted his mistress