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Prospects in thePark
I
T TOOK VAN THREEdays to see his aunt, despite the possibility of running into Brock again. He finally decided that wouldn’t be so bad as long as Mr. Kazinski and his cane weren’t there. He straightened his tie, squared his shoulders and knocked on the door of the apartment he had signed over to his aunt and his new uncle as a wedding present.
“Van! What are you doing here?” His aunt’s smile widened as her surprise drained away.
“I know. I should have called first,” he managed to say. “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in.”
“Come in, dear. Come in.”
“I know you’re not too happy with me.” He hung back.
Aunt Cynthia took his arm to drag him inside and closed the door behind him. “I’ll be very happy with you again when you regain your senses about Mary and go after her. But I love you even if you’re an idiot.”
She tugged him into the living room. Since she and Brock had married, the room had sprouted a rich, brown, overstuffed couch and two man-chairs gathered around the fireplace. Brock half-knelt there, enthusiastically prodding the fire into crackling flames.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“Not at all,” Brock said. “I turned on the air conditioning. Terrible for the environment. I try to not to do it too often, but there’s nothing like a fire to relax around.”
Relax. What a word. What a feeling. What a long time it was since Van had experienced it.
“What can I get you, dear? Coffee, tea — ”
Van checked his watch. Five after five. What a relief. “Scotch would be great.”
AuntCynthiaraisedhereyebrows.Brock,however, transferred the target of his exuberant grin from the firetoVan.“Greatidea.Makethattwo,honeybunch.”
Honeybunch? Brock called Aunt Cynthia honeybunch? Next thing Van knew, she’d be calling Brock Snookums.
Van settled himself into one of the man-chairs as Brock took the other. Aunt Cynthia came back with a tray, two tinkling glasses and a delicate cup of what was undoubtedly tea.
“Here you go, Van.” She handed him a glass and turned to Brock. “Here’s yours, Snookums.”
Van was grateful he heard that before he got any liquid into his mouth.
Aunt Cynthia sat down and curled up on the sofa.
Curled up. That was different too. Imagine. Aunt Cynthia in any posture other than graciously ramrod straight. Look what marriage could do to a woman. For a woman. Maybe people did change, if the circumstances were right.
Van barely got over that surprise when another trotted in. Lancelot, wagging his whole body and whining for happy.
He took a flying leap into Van’s lap and plastered his body against Van’s chest, tucking his nose between Van’s suit jacket and vest, sniffing deeply and sighing in ecstasy. He pulled his head out long enough to lick Van’s chin, then ducked back into his favored spot.
Van’s heart lurched. It leaped. Before he could stop himself, he folded his arms around Lancelot and hugged. “What’s he doing here?”
“Well,” Aunt Cynthia said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before. Now I’m glad I borrowed him back from Mary for some pictures I wanted to take for my Veterans With PTSD fund-raiser.”
Van scratched Lancelot under one of his floppy ears—thedogmoanedinhappydelirium—andtook a long pull on his drink. “I’m glad to see him. And I might be thinking, saying or doing a lot of things for the first time lately. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
“How interesting, dear.”
“You asked me about a dog you said I had when I was a kid.”
Her face creased into worry line upon worry line. “Yes, dear?”
“I’ve remembered that dog.”
