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“Not that kind of conjugal visit. He just thought it would be a good idea to see her and make sure she and the pups-to-be were okay.”
Mary shook her head, astonished but charmed.
She glanced back to Uncle Brock, who was holding Cyn’s hand and reciting poetry to her, of all things. Cynwasn’tinanyhurrytoreclaimherhandfromthis holder.
The dogs rumbled in unison toward the pantry at the far side of the kitchen. A head popped out and ducked back in.
“What’s the professor doing in the pantry?” Mary whispered.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s afraid of the dogs.”
“He wouldn’t be afraid of these dogs unless he did something he shouldn’t have done. They don’t growl like this for no reason.”
Uncle Brock switched poets. It was Keats now, if Mary was any judge.
It was more than the professor could stand. “How dare you, sir?” he sputtered from the safety of the pantry. That robbed his protest of some of its effect. “Your warblings cannot compare to my reading of Keats. And you, Madame, display your dubious discernment in listening to his codswallop.”
Cyn glanced toward him and sniffed. She turned rapt attention back to Uncle Brock.
Uncle Brock declaimed on as though no one had spoken. “Love its boon has sent — If I die and wither, I shall die content!”
Breckenridge, forgetting his fear of the dogs, leapedtowardtheoffensetohisears.Lancelotthrew himselfintheway.Theprofessorswungbackhisfoot to kick the four-legged obstacle.
Itwasn’toneoftheprofessor’ssmartermoves.You can’t kick without standing on one foot, and balance, it became clear, was not his forte.
Even if it had been, there was Guinevere. Ridiculously gentle Guinevere, but she had her limits. She shouldered her way between Breckenridge and Lancelot.
Lancelot was having none of that. The stalwart fellow slipped under Guinevere’s baby-bump belly and threw his brave little body at the Breckenridge foot still connected to the tile floor.
The professor tumbled forward. Guinevere ducked gracefully out of his way — well, maybe not gracefully — and woofed happily. Once the man thudded to the floor, she stretched her bulk, which had been considerable even before her pregnancy, across his back to keep him there. Breckenridge’s breath whistled out of his chest.
He wasn’t getting near Cyn and Uncle Brock if the dogs had anything to say about it.
The objects of the defense, still gazing into each other’s eyes, showed awareness of nothing except each other. Uncle Brock stopped reciting, but only to raise Cyn’s hand to his lips.
Wow. This was one for the family history books. Mary had never seen her uncle smitten.
Uncle Brock had fallen in love when he was nineteen. His sweet sixteen-year-old had died in one of those senseless accidents, drunk driver. Ever since, he’d loved to have women around, but he never took them too seriously.
He’d dated occasionally as he headed toward middle age and beyond, and his women always came back,andback,andbacktofamilygatherings,butas friends. The way Mary saw it, Uncle Brock’s women spentalotmoretimewithhiminhispracticalkitchen sneakers than in bedroom slippers.
Had Uncle Brock ever gone through a nasty break-up with a serious lover? If he had, he’d kept it calm and quiet.
Things weren’t at all calm or quiet at the moment.
Uncle Brock dropped Cyn’s hand to — Huh? Wrestle with his shoe? He frantically tried to unknot the laces and pull the scuffed white kitchen wear off his foot.
His struggle dislodged his chef’s hat. It billowed toward Lancelot.
The Basset Hound acted as though this was a fine, fun thing, an alluring object loaded with interesting smells. He glanced toward Guinevere, as if to make sure she had the squashed professor under control. She nodded at her canine love. He snuffled and whuffled and inched his nose into the hat and hunkered down to enjoy his own little piece of olfactory paradise.
Uncle Brock finally got his shoe off. He rubbed his big toe and smiled.
Cyn laughed gleefully. She picked up his foot. She placed it in her lap. She rubbed his big toe for him. His smile vanished. An expression of sheer bliss spread across his entire face.
Well, wouldn’t that fruit-loop you on Sunday.
Mary recognized the ecstatic expression on Uncle Brock’s face. As a teenager, she’d snuck up on Cousin Sadie and her beau one midnight when they weresayinggoodnighttoeachotherinthebackseat of his Oldsmobile. When he stroked her elbow, the action turned X-rated.
