The Choice

“White and Black. Like Mr. White, the guy who owns the tire store. And Mr. Black, our third-grade teacher. Or even Mr. Green from the game Clue. But you never hear of someone named Mr. Orange or Mr. Yellow. It’s like some colors make good names, but other colors just sound stupid. You know what I mean?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.”

“Me neither. Not until just a minute ago, I mean. But it’s kind of strange, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Laird finally agreed.

Both men were quiet for a moment. “I told you it wasn’t importan

t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Was I right?”

“Yep.”

When little Josie had her second temper tantrum in a fifteen-minute span—it was a little before nine—Allison scooped her into her arms and gave Laird the look, the one that said it was time to go so they could get the kids in bed. Laird didn’t bother arguing, and when he stood up from the table, Megan glanced at Joe, Liz nodded at Matt, and Travis knew the evening was at an end. Parents might believe themselves to be the bosses, but in the end it was the kids who made the rules.

He supposed he could have tried to talk one of his friends into staying, and might even have gotten one to agree, but he had long since grown accustomed to the fact that his friends lived their lives by a different schedule from his. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Stephanie, his younger sister, might swing by later. She was coming in from Chapel Hill, where she was working toward a master’s degree in biochemistry. Though she would stay at their parents’ place, she was usually wired after the drive and in the mood to talk, and their parents would already be in bed. Megan, Joe, and Liz rose and started to clean up the table, but Travis waved them off.

“I’ll get it in a while. No big deal.”

A few minutes later, two SUVs and a minivan were being loaded with children. Travis stood on the front porch and waved as they pulled out of the driveway.

When they were gone, Travis wandered back to the stereo, sorted through the CDs again, and chose Tattoo You by the Rolling Stones, then cranked up the volume. He pulled at another beer on his way back to his chair, threw his feet up on the table, and leaned back. Moby sat beside him.

“Just you and me for a while,” he said. “What time do you think Stephanie will be rolling in?”

Moby turned away. Unless Travis said the words walk or ball or go for a ride or come get a bone, Moby wasn’t much interested in anything he had to say.

“Do you think I should call her to see if she’s on her way yet?”

Moby continued to stare.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. She’ll get here when she gets here.”

He sat drinking his beer and stared out over the water. Behind him, Moby whined. “You want to go get your ball?” he finally said.

Moby stood so quickly, he almost knocked over the chair.

It was the music, she thought, that proved to be the clincher in what had already been one of the most miserable weeks of her life. Loud music. Okay, nine o’clock on a Saturday night wasn’t so bad, especially since he obviously had company, and ten o’clock wasn’t all that unreasonable, either. But eleven o’clock? When he was alone and playing fetch with his dog?

From her back deck, she could see him just sitting there in the same shorts he’d worn all day, feet on the table, tossing the ball and staring at the river. What on earth could he be thinking?

Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on him; she should simply ignore him. It was his house, right? King of the castle and all that. He could do what he wanted. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he had neighbors, including her, and she had a castle, too, and neighbors were supposed to be considerate. And truth be told, he’d crossed the line. Not just because of the music. In all honesty, she liked the music he was listening to and usually didn’t really care how loud or how long he played it. The problem was with his dog, Nobby, or whatever he called him. More specifically, what his dog had done to her dog.

Molly, she was certain, was pregnant.

Molly, her beautiful, sweet, purebred collie of prize-winning lineage—the first thing she’d bought herself after finishing her physician assistant rotations at the Eastern Virginia School of Medicine and the kind of dog she’d always wanted—had noticeably gained weight during the last couple of weeks. Even more alarming, she noticed that Molly’s nipples seemed to be growing. She could feel them now whenever Molly rolled over to have her tummy scratched. And she was moving more slowly, too. Add it up, and Molly was definitely on her way to birthing a litter of puppies that no one on earth was ever going to want. A boxer and a collie? Unconsciously she squinched up her face as she tried to imagine how the puppies would look before finally forcing the thought away.

It had to be that man’s dog. When Molly was in heat, that dog had practically staked out her house like a private detective, and he was the only dog she’d seen wandering around the neighborhood in weeks. But would her neighbor even consider fencing his yard? Or keeping the dog inside? Or setting up a dog run? No. His motto seemed to be “My dog shall be free!” It didn’t surprise her. He seemed to live his own life by the same irresponsible motto. On her way to work, she saw him running, and when she got back, he was out biking or kayaking or in-line skating or shooting baskets in his front drive with a group of neighborhood kids. A month ago, he’d put his boat in the water, and now he was wakeboarding as well. As if the man weren’t active enough already. God forbid the man should work a minute of overtime, and she knew that he didn’t work at all on Fridays. And what kind of job let you head off every day wearing jeans and T-shirts? She had no idea, but she suspected—with a grim sort of satisfaction—that it more than likely required an apron and name tag.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t being entirely fair. He was probably a nice guy. His friends—who appeared normal enough and had kids to boot—seemed to enjoy his company and were over there all the time. She realized she’d even seen a couple of them at the office before, when their kids had come in with the sniffles or an ear infection. But what about Molly? Molly was sitting near the back door, her tail thumping, and Gabby felt anxious at the thought of the future. Molly would be okay, but what about the puppies? What was going to happen to them? What if no one wanted them? She couldn’t imagine taking them to the pound or the SPCA or whatever it was they called it here, to be put to sleep. She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t going to have them murdered.

But what, then, was she going to do with the puppies?

It was all his fault, and he was just sitting there on his deck with his feet propped up, acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

This wasn’t what she’d dreamed about when she’d first seen the house earlier this year. Even though it wasn’t in Morehead City, where her boyfriend, Kevin, lived, it was just minutes across the bridge. It was small and almost half a century old and a definite fixer-upper by Beaufort standards, but the view along the creek was spectacular, the yard was big enough for Molly to run, and best of all, she could afford it. Just barely, what with all the loans she’d taken out for PA school, but loan officers were pretty understanding when it came to making loans to people like her. Professional, educated people.

Not like Mr. My Dog Shall Be Free and I Don’t Work Fridays.

She drew a deep breath, reminding herself again that the man might be a nice guy. He always waved to her whenever he saw her pulling in from work, and she vaguely remembered that he’d dropped off a basket of cheese and wine to welcome her to the neighborhood when she’d moved in a couple of months back. She hadn’t been home, but he’d left it on the porch, and she’d promised herself that she’d send a thank-you note, one that she never quite got around to writing.

Her face squinched unconsciously again. So much for moral superiority. Okay, she wasn’t perfect, either, but this wasn’t about a forgotten thank-you note. This was about Molly and that man’s wandering dog and unwanted puppies, and now was as good a time as any for them to discuss the situation. He was obviously awake.

She stepped off the back deck and started toward the tall row of hedges that separated his house from hers. Part of her wished Kevin were with her, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not after their spat this morning, which started after she’d casually mentioned that her cousin was getting married. Kevin, buried in the sports section of the newspaper, hadn’t said a word in response, preferring to act as if he hadn’t heard her. Anything about marriage made the man get as quiet as a stone, especially lately. She supposed she shoul

dn’t have been surprised—they’d been dating almost four years (a year less than her cousin, she was tempted to point out), and if she’d learned one thing about him, it was that if Kevin found a topic uncomfortable, then more than likely he wouldn’t say anything at all.

But Kevin wasn’t the problem. Nor was the fact that lately she felt as though her life weren’t quite what she’d imagined it would be. And it wasn’t the terrible week at the office, either, one in which she’d been puked on three—three!—times on Friday alone, which was an all-time office record, at least according to the nurses, who didn’t bother to hide their smirks and repeated the story with glee. Nor was she angry about Adrian Melton, the married doctor at her office who liked to touch her whenever they spoke, his hand lingering just a bit too long for comfort. And she surely wasn’t angry at the fact that through it all, she hadn’t once stood up for herself.

Nosiree, this had to do with Mr. Party being a responsible neighbor, one who was going to own up to the fact that he had as much of a duty to find a solution to their problem as she did. And while she was letting him know that, maybe she’d mention that it was a little late for him to be blaring his music (even if she did like it), just to let him know she was serious.

As Gabby marched through the grass, the dew moistened the tips of her toes through her sandals and the moonlight reflected on the lawn like silver trails. Trying to figure out exactly where to begin, she barely noticed. Courtesy dictated that she head first to the front door and knock, but with the music roaring, she doubted he’d even be able to hear it. Besides, she wanted to get this over with while she was still worked up and willing to confront him head-on.

Up ahead, she spotted an opening in the hedges and headed toward it. It was probably the same one that Nobby snuck through to take advantage of poor, sweet Molly. Her heart squeezed again, and this time she tried to hold on to the feeling. This was important. Very important.

Focused as she was on her mission, she didn’t notice the tennis ball come flying toward her just as she emerged from the opening. She did, however, distantly register the sound of the dog galloping toward her—but only distantly—a second before she was bowled over and hit the ground.