The dog Miles never intended to have slept in front of the fireplace—one of the dozen the house boasted.
The dog Miles eventually called Howl, because he did, had laid claim to Miles and the house the winter before as a stray of questionable origin and quirky manners.
Review done, Miles took his laptop, his file of hard copies, and switched off the fireplace his grandparents had converted to gas along the way. Howl opened one eye, grumbled in his throat.
Ignoring him, Miles continued out, took the back stairs down to the kitchen.
The dog, as he always did, followed. He watched, a hulk of bushy gray fur with a sweeping tail and long, floppy ears, as Miles set his laptop and file on the dining room table, switched on the dining room lights, lit the fire.
Miles walked back into the kitchen, opened the French doors, said, “Out.”
Howl plodded out onto the deck, down the steps, and into the yard, where he’d spend some time guarding the property from squirrels, rolling in the patchy snow, and howling with the wind.
Through trial and error, fits and starts, Miles had trained him to come to the mudroom door when he wanted in. And Howl had trained him to keep a supply of old towels in the mudroom or deal with tracks of snow, mulch, mud, depending on the season.
Since his mother would bring a ham, he only had to provide the coffee, soft drinks for the meeting, the wine for the post-meeting meal. They rotated the food contribution, which required another spreadsheet and a calendar, but it worked.
He made the coffee, prizing what he prized most—the silence and solitude. He loved the house, for all its size and quirks. He loved the warren of rooms even while he appreciated his grandparents’ decision to take down the wall between the kitchen and dining room to open the space. Just as he understood the practicality of converting all the fireplaces above the main level from wood-burning to gas.
Since he’d moved in, he’d changed little. Why change something when it suited you just fine? And change, he knew, rarely meant one thing. The dominoes kept tumbling.
Now he carried the coffee service, the cups into the dining room, set everything on the walnut sideboard. He poured himself a cup and stood at one of the windows watching the dog roll in a patch of snow as if it were a summer meadow.
But he also saw buds forming on the trees, swaths of green—anemic yet, but green—spreading on the ground. Before long, maintenance would switch from snow blowers and shovels to lawn tractors and fresh mulch.
Which the dog would roll in.
The trillium would burst color in the woods and along the hiking trails. The redbud would show its neon blooms before leaves unfurled back where, long before he was born, his father and grandfather had built a tree house.
Jamesons built to last, he thought, then heard the voices and footsteps of his parents—first arrivals—who’d come in while he’d been daydreaming.
“You can smell spring coming,” his mother said as his father set the big platter on the kitchen island.
“I smell ham.”
At home, his mother slid baking dishes into the ovens, set them on warm.
“It does smell good, but spring lasts longer.”
“Where’s that dog?” Rory held up a rawhide bone the size of a redwood.
“Outside, getting wet and dirty.”
“As a dog should.” Rory set down the bone before taking his wife’s coat. He hung his and hers in the mudroom. “Want coffee, babe?”
“No, thanks. Hi, stranger.” She gave Miles a hard hug. “I hardly saw you all week.”
“Busy days.”
“Don’t I know it.”
While Drea set up her laptop and files, Rory wandered to the door to look out. Tall, lean, he stood with his hands in his pockets. He wore a red corded shirt Miles assumed his mother had picked out, and jeans going white at the knees, his usual when lawyer garb wasn’t required.
His hair had gone gray at the temples, and a few stray strands wandered through his thick brown hair.
“How long’s that dog been out there?” he asked Miles.
“Oh, two or three days. I let him fend for himself.”
Rory sent a look over his shoulder.
“Maybe ten minutes, and he likes it out there. Obviously.”
“He likes it in here, too. I’m going to let him in. I’ll wipe him down, Mr. Fussy.”
“He misses Congo,” Drea murmured when Rory went into the mudroom to call the dog.
“I know.”
If he’d had the choice, Rory would’ve taken the old Boston terrier to court with him. As it was, he’d taken the beloved Congo into his office every day as his Silent Partner.