Page 98 of Years in the Making

There aren’t enough rescues willing to take this many dogs. Some would end up in high-kill shelters, and we both know it. “I need to talk to Nellie.” I finally say.

“He said you’d say that.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

NELLIE

I read a book once about a vampire that turned the woman he was in love with into one, with her consent of course. They became obsessed with one another to the point it was dangerous to be around anyone else. She could sense he was on his way home from fifty miles away and started getting all hot and bothered, then she’d be ripping the door off the hinges the second he pulled into the driveway. He’d be equally agitated and they’d collide with such a force that would have killed them if they were human. In short, they were addicted to one another, and that’s how I feel right now. When Teddy is gone, I become agitated. I have a hard time focusing on the kids who have questions or adults looking for a recommendation. All I want is for Teddy to pull in so I can jump him.

It took me a while to realize that our December reunion was essentially us colliding after too long apart. And then three nights ago in the garden, another collision after far too many months of teasing. It feels like I was only fighting the inevitable, and you know what they say about inevitabilities: it’s only a matter of time. I felt this way yearsago, but it feels more intense now. This doesn’t feel like a honeymoon stage anymore, it feels like a triumph after reaching the summit.

“Al’s wife loved this book,” Midge says, holding up one of my mom’s more popular releases.

“Oh yeah?” I shake off my Teddy withdrawal and walk over to the display she’s standing by.

“The Ghost of North Bakers Lane. She read it so many times the pages were practically falling out.”

“I’ll let my mom know,” I say nonchalantly.

Midge stares down at me as if I’ve just said something insane. “Why would you tell your mom?” she asks slowly.

“Because she wrote it.”

“Your mother is Jean Woodcroft?”

“She is indeed.”

“Oh, Natasha would have loved to meet you. She would have loved to meet you anyway since you brought more books. But her favorite author’s daughter. Oooeee.”

I wonder how close Midge was to George’s wife. “When did she pass?” I ask.

“Oh, let’s see. Stewart died six years ago, which means Natasha died eight years ago thereabouts.”

I gasp. “That’s not why you call George Grumpy Al is it? Because he was grieving?”

Midge looks taken aback. “What kind of heartless bitch do you take me for? I started calling him Grumpy Al the first time I met him, which was twelve years ago.”

Twelve years. She met George the same year I met Teddy. Wild.

“But why?” George is the farthest thing from grumpy.

“I walked into this little station to pay for gas, and when I walked in, he got all grumbly because I’d interrupted his penny counting. I smacked down a twenty and turned right backaround but not before calling ‘Night, Grumpy Al,’ over my shoulder.”

“When did you find out his real name?”

“Natasha dragged him over the next afternoon to welcome us to the neighborhood. When he saw me, he got all aggravated, and after explaining who I was, Natasha told me we were going to be best friends. Al said, and I quote, ‘Over my dead body.’ Turns out he’s never been good at threats because not only is he still here, he encouraged the friendship.”

I’m momentarily distracted when a truck pulls in. Disappointment must show on my face when it’s not Teddy because Midge pats my arm. “It’s nice to see that you two have repaired whatever had been broken.”

“Hmm?” I glance down at her.

“You and Teddy. There was clearly some barrier between you two when you arrived, but it seems it’s been removed?”

There is absolutely no point in trying to lie to this woman; she’s a bloodhound. Whether it’s getting to the bottom of someone’s love life or detecting which grandkid tracked muddy footprints through the kitchen, she will find it out.

“I think so,” I say slowly. “Early days yet.”

“What are you worried about?” She takes me by the elbow and guides me to one of the chairs, sitting me down before sitting next to me. “Pretend they aren’t here.” She gestures to the three kids sprawled on the rug, one sitting on a big bean bag chair one of the residents had dropped off.

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