Home > Return to Virgin River (Virgin River #19)(10)

Return to Virgin River (Virgin River #19)(10)
Author: Robyn Carr

“I’m sorry that the only thing I seem to be able to talk about is how much I miss my mom,” she said to Janette.

“That’s okay, cookie. It won’t always be like that but while it is, I’m here to listen. I listen for a living, you know. Now tell me a story. Tell me about the book.”

“Which one?”

“Are you working on more than one?” Janette asked, surprised. She knew Kaylee hadn’t been writing much since her mom was diagnosed.

“Well, the one that’s due, that was due before Christmas, is a suspense novel, and right now the suspense is whether or not I am ever going to finish it. It is two and a half chapters in length. It’s boring and disjointed and I have very little interest in it. But I had a wild idea about a woman starting fresh in a small town. She’s working for a local movie producer. She rents a small house from a man who trains dogs and of course, she’s afraid of dogs.”

“Kaylee, what’s that story for?”

“For me. It’s alternative journaling. Fictionalizing my experience while I make sure to add a few legitimate feelings and thoughts. I won’t do anything with it.”

“That’s brilliant,” Janette said. Janette, as it happened, was a counselor. A marriage and family therapist. “I sometimes recommend that to my clients. But why don’t you just keep a diary? I bet in ten years it would be really interesting.”

“You have no idea how not interesting that would be,” Kaylee said. “I went to counseling after my divorce and at the insistence of the counselor, I kept a journal. I read through it about six or seven years later and found it so embarrassing, I destroyed it. It’s a terrible experience—expose all your deepest, darkest feelings and emotions and take a clear look at them later. Oh God, that is humiliating. It’s much better to make up a story without naming names.”

When she was dead and gone and someone unearthed these stories, they might see some similarities between her and her fictional heroines, but they’d never be entirely sure. And she was writing down her real experiences and feelings, which the counselor said never hurt. She didn’t advocate mailing the vitriolic letters Kaylee wrote to people like her ex, her estranged father, women friends who ultimately turned out to be crappy friends. But giving all of them new names and faces and exposing them secretly inside a novel... There was a real satisfaction in that.

One of Kaylee’s writer friends kept killing her ex-husband in book after book. He never went easily. He suffered. It was delicious. Kaylee had a little fun with the demise of her ex as well. It was kind of irresistible.

* * *

The next day, Gerald Templeton called Kaylee. Bonnie had been sick. That was why Kaylee hadn’t heard from them. Bonnie was feeling better, but not good enough to take a big road trip. In another week, if she was up to it, they were going to come up and have a look at the fire damage. Their oldest son, Rick, lived in Oregon, and he was hoping to meet his parents there.

“That reminds me, Gerald. I met a man named Paul Haggerty. He said he knew you and to please remind you that he’s a builder. He’s hoping you’ll consider him when you get around to repairs and renovation.”

“I remember Paul,” Gerald said. “Did you get his number?”

“I have his card,” she said, happy to be assisting in some small way.

Kaylee had been there a couple of weeks, wandering around by day, calling friends and writing in the evenings. She was a frequent visitor at Jack’s Bar and often had dinner there. Sometimes Mel would drop by and they stole a little girl time. She walked the roads up, down and around the mountain near her rental house. Given the elevation of this little mountain town, the weather was not as hot and steamy as those towns in the valleys. Right now Sacramento would be simmering. But in the mountains, it was so pleasant. She discovered that on the side of Landry’s house there was a large garden and if it weren’t for the frequent barking around his property, she might have taken a closer look. She did see Landry from afar now and then. He could usually be found having his morning coffee on the porch or maybe watching the sunset or, most often, working with a dog or two in the yard.

She bought her own bear repellent, a can so large she had to wear a backpack to carry it. And the upside of that—it was too heavy and bulky for her to run. It would bang her in the back. Thank God, she thought. No running or even jogging.

It was early evening, the sun just starting its downward path, when she was returning from her second walk of the day. As she passed in front of his house, raising a hand in hello, the rug beside him appeared to jump up. The dog.

“Hey, Kaylee, how’s it going?”

She froze. She’d seen this dog from a distance. This was the closest she’d been to it and it was a very big dog. He was there on the porch with Landry. There was no fence and, of course, no leash. She couldn’t move. She imagined the dog would leap off the porch and fly like a torpedo toward her and take her down.

“How about a beer?” Landry said. “Or maybe a glass of wine?”

She was speechless. Didn’t he realize there was a monstrously large dog standing beside him, glaring at her?

“Kaylee?”

She was paralyzed. She held her hands clasped in front of her and took a cautious step backward.

“You okay?”

“I... Ah... I have some stuff to do.”

“Okay. But are you okay? You look a little...freaked out. Hey, are you afraid of Otis?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I have to—” She took slow and very cautious steps backward, then turned and forced herself to move unhurriedly down the road toward her house. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breath came in short gasps. She tried telling herself that Landry wouldn’t let anything bad happen, but fear was in charge.

She looked back at Landry’s house. The dog wasn’t actually all that big. Too big for her, that was for sure, but a moment ago it seemed as big as a horse, teeth bared. Now he stood relaxed beside Landry, casually wagging his tail. He almost looked like he was smiling. The place on her calf where she’d been bitten so many years ago ached. She knew that was in her mind because that was not a chronic pain she had.

She lifted her hand and gave him a wave and went inside. She leaned against the door and waited until her breathing evened out. “Sheesh,” she said, unnerved. She was shaking. She sat on the couch and concentrated on just calming down. Once she was under control, she drank a large glass of water. Then she poured herself a glass of wine. She turned on the TV.

In ten minutes, her scalp stopped sweating and dried out. Her hands stopped trembling. The voice of the news anchor became familiar and calming, even if the news was not. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, cradling her glass of wine. All she was acutely aware of was that her door was closed and she was alone. Safe.

There was a sharp rapping at her front door and she jumped in surprise, sloshing her wine. She brushed at the spill with her hand, annoyed by her jumpiness. “Who is it?” she asked, but she knew.

“It’s me. Landry. Can I have a minute?”

“Do you... Is there... Is the dog with you?”

“No, he’s in my house. He’s staying right there.”

She let out a breath. Whew. She opened the door and he stood there holding two beer bottles by their necks.

“Let’s have a beer and talk,” he said.

“Talk? About?”

“Come out and sit on the porch,” he said. “I think you just had a panic attack. About the dog.”

“I’m not comfortable around...”

“We can talk about that.”

“I don’t think talking about it is likely to change anything,” she said. “I’ve talked about it before. It’s a very old trauma.”

He lifted the beers toward her.

She sighed. “I have a glass of wine. I just poured it. Let me get it.” When she got back to the porch, he was seated on the porch swing.

He took a deep drink of his beer. “Here’s the thing. I think I told you, I’ve dealt with this before. You should always be careful around dogs you don’t know. They can be unpredictable and sometimes unfriendly. You did the right thing—you stayed still and didn’t bolt. That’s good. But Otis gave no sign of being mean or vicious. I think if you’re going to work through this, Otis might be a good place to start. He’s very gentle and he’ll take commands from anyone. Like anyone. He follows the commands of a two-year-old if necessary. He’s been a good companion to several children who are trying to get over their fear.”

“What’s the point? I’m not likely to want a dog. Not after being badly bitten. I was only six. I had to have a couple of surgeries.”

“It’s not so you can be a dog owner,” he said. “You don’t even have to be a dog lover. It’s so your heart doesn’t pound so hard you faint or throw a clot. The point is not to get you to love dogs. It’s so you don’t have to feel that terror every time you see one. If you feel better when you avoid dogs, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a question of taste, isn’t it? Probably you’re a kitty person. It’s just about getting over the fear. Not the healthy, reasonable fear. The irrational fear.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

“With the right dog, for starters. A dog you can absolutely trust.”

“Hmm,” she said, thinking she really didn’t like the idea of being around any dog. “How did you get into this?” she asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Kind of the reverse of your situation. I found a dog who had been abandoned and abused. I was just a kid of fifteen and I carried the dog home. I called her Izzy. I wanted to keep her and get her strong and my dad thought it was a bad idea. He thought the dog’s temperament might be permanently damaged, that she might get scared and attack or run off or just hide in a corner and shake for the rest of her life. But I talked him into it and then I looked everywhere for someone who could show me how to help her gain trust again. There was a trainer over in Fortuna and I went to talk to him. Then I took Izzy with me. He thought she might be about two years old and based on her physical condition, might have been used for fighting from the time she was a pup. Even the trainer said I’d probably be fighting a losing battle. I had to hand-feed her for months. I slept with her and took her everywhere but school. In six months she was the best dog that ever lived. And she was happy. I think she forgot about the abuse.” He looked at her and flashed his grin. It was an engaging, infectious grin that demanded a smile in return. “And I got hooked on training. To have a dog, especially a difficult dog, follow your commands because she wants to—it’s exhilarating. It gives you a friend for life.”

   
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