Alice and Ed sit at the little kitchen table, their plates pushed aside, waiting for the tea water to boil. Alice keeps her finger in the book she’s reading while she waits. Ed stares off into space.

Squeak! The dog comes bounding into the kitchen, the soft orange hydrant clutched between his jaws, and he’s making it sound like it’s talking. Squeak, squeakee, squawk.

Ed makes a grab for the toy and the dog dashes madly around the room, his tail in the air, his eyes glinting with enjoyment. He drops the toy in front of Ed and stands with front legs spread wide in anticipation of the chase. Ed pitches the toy through the archway and into the living room. In a bound, the dog retrieves the toy and pushes it into Alice’s hand. She joins in the game, and in a moment, all three are playing a game of the dog’s invention.

Chapter 22

22

Ed is running the mower around the backyard when Alice goes into the garage to get another box of garbage bags from their Costco closet. She has to squeeze past the Cutlass, always a little too close to the wall—she wishes Ed would get his eyes checked—and sees the white poster board still in the backseat, along with the empty beef jerky package. It feels like he’s brought her flowers.

For Ed to give up on an errand is unusual. Ed is more the forge ahead, fight the blizzard to get to the store, damn the torpedoes kind of guy. Always has been. It puzzles Alice that Ed came home with the task unfinished, not even saying a casual word about why. Did he run out of tape? Was he turned away from hanging one at Potter’s?

The only answer she likes is one she interprets from the way the dog and man came bounding into the house, pals returning from an adventure. The dog greeted her with enthusiasm, prancing on his back legs as if he’d never expected to see her again. Ed hung the leash on a peg, then his hat, his back to her until she straightened up from petting the exuberant dog. He was smiling an old, familiar smile, the one he used to give her when they were young and every meeting was a gift. A smile that engaged his eyes, his dark blue smiling eyes now crease-framed by years of not wearing sunglasses. Ed had been smiling, but he hadn’t said anything about not hanging the posters. What he did say was, “He’s one smart dog. You should see what he can do.”

The forgotten posters make her smile, and in the reflection of the car’s back window, she sees a vestige of her old self, a ghost of the girl who smiled like that when her man came calling.