was standing a few feet away.
“Sorry to give you bad news,” Jeb said.
“It’s not all bad,” I said. “Between Abra and my mom, I’ve got two excuses to get out of here.”
However, I was too intrigued by what was happening in front of me to bolt just yet. Stevie McCoy—Director of Admissions, Recruitment, Retention, Marketing, Public Relations and Media Relations—had returned with Robin Wardrip. In the close quarters of the school foyer, Camo-Mom and Jenx were straining not to acknowledge each other. The air was suddenly thick with unspoken personal history and something that felt distinctly like sexual tension. Unless I was wildly mistaken, Anouk Gagné was enjoying the game. She slipped sidelong knowing glances at both women, amusement dancing in her dark eyes.
The press arrived at that moment in the form of three eager and attractive young field reporters with their camera crews. The lobby was now wall-to-wall humans, which was my cue to go fetch my dog. Camo-Mom seemed to be in an even bigger rush than I was to exit the building. She pushed past the press and out the door, red hot face clashing with her olive drab ensemble. I glanced at Jenx, who was in high color herself. She stared after the fleeing PTO member, an expression in her eyes that I would have described as longing, if we weren’t talking about Jenx, who was totally committed to Henrietta and had been for years. Meanwhile, Stevie was organizing the press as Bentwood whispered to Pauline, who seemed to be taking it all in stride.
“One of my former protégées,” Anouk said, following my gaze in Robin Wardrip’s direction.
I couldn’t imagine Camo-Mom loving French poodles, so I tried another direction. “Archery?”
Anouk nodded. “Her anger issues were a liability at the range. Speaking of liability, may I show you to your hound?”
Resignedly I let the energetic French woman lead me to her SUV, which I could have identified without assistance. It was the only rocking vehicle in the parking lot. Frantically jumping from one side of the crate to the other, Abra set up her spine-tingling howl. I slowed my pace, knowing full well that the instant I opened the car door, she would launch like a rocket right past me. We needed a strategy to manage the transition.
“I have a strategy,” Anouk announced. “Walk to your vehicle, and I will take it from here.”
For a second, I thought she meant I could get in my car and drive away. Alone. Then I realized that she planned to bring the bitch to my car. That was probably the next best option.
I fully expected Anouk to pull her battered Ford Explorer alongside my vehicle so that we could team-wrestle Abra from her crate into my backseat. Although we’re talking about a distance of less than four feet and a dog who weighed less than fifty pounds, lightning quick reflexes and ample upper-body strength would be required. But that was not what went down. Drawing her front bumper up to mine, Anouk signaled for me to stay in my car. She got out, disappeared around the back of her Explorer, and returned with Abra calmly heeling.
No leash and no agitation. When Anouk opened my passenger-side door, Abra entered like a lady. She even lay down in the backseat.
“How—?” I began.
Anouk handed me a green business card featuring a bow and arrow, the same logo I had noticed on the side of her green SUV. The card read:
Tir à l’Arc
Archery Instruction and Competitive Leagues
We win
followed by a phone number and email address.
“Other side,” she said.
Flipping the card, I found a whimsical sketch of a standard poodle with an amazing pompadour haircut.
Gagné Standard Poodles
Bred, Trained, Shown
We win
The text included the same phone number and email address listed on the other side.
High-school French flashback: gagné is the past tense of gagner, which is the verb “to win.” I said this aloud to Anouk.
“But of course,” she said impatiently. “I am an experienced trainer
“Sorry to give you bad news,” Jeb said.
“It’s not all bad,” I said. “Between Abra and my mom, I’ve got two excuses to get out of here.”
However, I was too intrigued by what was happening in front of me to bolt just yet. Stevie McCoy—Director of Admissions, Recruitment, Retention, Marketing, Public Relations and Media Relations—had returned with Robin Wardrip. In the close quarters of the school foyer, Camo-Mom and Jenx were straining not to acknowledge each other. The air was suddenly thick with unspoken personal history and something that felt distinctly like sexual tension. Unless I was wildly mistaken, Anouk Gagné was enjoying the game. She slipped sidelong knowing glances at both women, amusement dancing in her dark eyes.
The press arrived at that moment in the form of three eager and attractive young field reporters with their camera crews. The lobby was now wall-to-wall humans, which was my cue to go fetch my dog. Camo-Mom seemed to be in an even bigger rush than I was to exit the building. She pushed past the press and out the door, red hot face clashing with her olive drab ensemble. I glanced at Jenx, who was in high color herself. She stared after the fleeing PTO member, an expression in her eyes that I would have described as longing, if we weren’t talking about Jenx, who was totally committed to Henrietta and had been for years. Meanwhile, Stevie was organizing the press as Bentwood whispered to Pauline, who seemed to be taking it all in stride.
“One of my former protégées,” Anouk said, following my gaze in Robin Wardrip’s direction.
I couldn’t imagine Camo-Mom loving French poodles, so I tried another direction. “Archery?”
Anouk nodded. “Her anger issues were a liability at the range. Speaking of liability, may I show you to your hound?”
Resignedly I let the energetic French woman lead me to her SUV, which I could have identified without assistance. It was the only rocking vehicle in the parking lot. Frantically jumping from one side of the crate to the other, Abra set up her spine-tingling howl. I slowed my pace, knowing full well that the instant I opened the car door, she would launch like a rocket right past me. We needed a strategy to manage the transition.
“I have a strategy,” Anouk announced. “Walk to your vehicle, and I will take it from here.”
For a second, I thought she meant I could get in my car and drive away. Alone. Then I realized that she planned to bring the bitch to my car. That was probably the next best option.
I fully expected Anouk to pull her battered Ford Explorer alongside my vehicle so that we could team-wrestle Abra from her crate into my backseat. Although we’re talking about a distance of less than four feet and a dog who weighed less than fifty pounds, lightning quick reflexes and ample upper-body strength would be required. But that was not what went down. Drawing her front bumper up to mine, Anouk signaled for me to stay in my car. She got out, disappeared around the back of her Explorer, and returned with Abra calmly heeling.
No leash and no agitation. When Anouk opened my passenger-side door, Abra entered like a lady. She even lay down in the backseat.
“How—?” I began.
Anouk handed me a green business card featuring a bow and arrow, the same logo I had noticed on the side of her green SUV. The card read:
Tir à l’Arc
Archery Instruction and Competitive Leagues
We win
followed by a phone number and email address.
“Other side,” she said.
Flipping the card, I found a whimsical sketch of a standard poodle with an amazing pompadour haircut.
Gagné Standard Poodles
Bred, Trained, Shown
We win
The text included the same phone number and email address listed on the other side.
High-school French flashback: gagné is the past tense of gagner, which is the verb “to win.” I said this aloud to Anouk.
“But of course,” she said impatiently. “I am an experienced trainer
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