Buddy knows that he needs to break this tense silence with some action. Even a good dog can lie on occasion, and Buddy decides that there is a trespasser—or a squirrel—lurking in the backyard. The rabid barking and growling get the people up from their chairs, and suddenly Buddy is hopeful that for once they’ll release him to chase whatever is out there, even if it is only in his imagination. They don’t, but they do open the slider, letting him out onto the deck, which Ed has recently gated. He barks some more, then gives up the pretense. The people linger on the deck with him, although they don’t sit on the chairs or water the plants. They are talking quietly, and this is better than the silence, so he feels pretty chuffed with himself for getting them to move.

“Hey, Buddy. Go for a ride?”

Buddy barks an enthusiastic yes and dashes in to get his leash.

Chapter 50

50

Mitch, the first-chair violinist, doesn’t play Vivaldi; he plays Mark Knopfler and Sting. I think he does that for me. We’re on the road by nine and, unlike the day I went to find Artie, the drive is smooth sailing—no delays, no traffic, a Sunday, not a busy weekday. We chat. We are quiet with our thoughts. We hold hands every now and then. My heart thumps with excitement every time I think that by the end of the day, I’ll have my dog back. I can almost feel the tickle of his fur beneath my chin, the weight of his little thirty-pound body in my arms, the wriggle of his happiness as we are reunited.

My heart thumps when I glance at Mitch, who’s tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel to the percussion-heavy music. I try not to think that he’s the first decent guy I’ve hooked up with in a long time. Maybe forever. I try not to think of it as “hooking up.” I try to simply enjoy the feeling. For now. After all, all we have is the now. I know this feeling all too well; the sense of novelty and romance inevitably grows contentious and regretted.

I’ll never follow another guy. Not even this one. I learned my lesson the hard way.

Then Mitch takes hold of my hand again and squeezes it gently. Violinist’s hands, and they played me last night like a virtuoso.