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The Dog Park
A couple’s best friend?
Stylist Jessica Champlin knows it takes more than a darling goldendoodle to save a marriage. She and her ex-husband, investigative journalist Sebastian Hess, had too many irreconcilable differences for even their beloved dog, Baxter, to heal. So they’ve agreed to joint custody, and life has settled into a prickly normalcy.
But when Baxter heroically rescues a child and the video footage goes viral, Jess and Sebastian are thrown together again, and her life takes some very unexpected twists. The line of dogwear she creates becomes wildly successful, and suddenly she’s in the spotlight with everyone watching—the press, the new guy she’s seeing, Sebastian and the past she never imagined she would face again. Soon there’s only one person by her side—and it’s the person she least expected. She’s willing to open up to a new normal…just as long as Baxter approves.
www.LauraCaldwell.com
Praise for Laura Caldwell’s contemporary romance novels
“[A] comical roller-coaster ride…
All the characters add vibrancy to a story that explores
how we live with the mistakes we made, how we correct
the ones we can and how love forms an unfailing bond.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Night I Got Lucky
“Snazzy, gripping…gives readers an exciting taste of life
in the fast lane, exposing the truth behind the fairy tale.”
—Booklist on The Year of Living Famously
“Caldwell’s winning second novel
puts an appealing heroine in a tough situation
and relays her struggles with empathy.”
—Booklist on A Clean Slate
“You’ll need an exotic drink and some sunscreen while
you enjoy Burning the Map. I thoroughly recommend this
purely entertaining look at friendship and love.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Praise for Laura Caldwell’s
romantic suspense novels
“Claim of Innocence is guaranteed to claim
your weekend, while securing plucky lawyer heroine
Izzy McNeil a place straight at the top of your reading pile.”
—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Red Blooded Murder aims for the sweet spot
between tough and tender, between thrills and thought—
and hits the bull’s-eye. A terrific novel.”
—Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Caldwell’s taut, enjoyable thriller hits the ground
running… Caldwell’s plot moves smoothly, juggling
a number of perspectives without losing steam.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Good Liar
The Dog Park
Laura Caldwell
This book is for those who love their dogs
more than just about anything.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part III
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Part I
1
“Jess, enough with this, okay?” Sebastian said in a “weary trending toward cranky” tone. He held out a small bag that read Neiman Marcus. My divorced mind ruffled through a few statements and questions—What is it? He never used to shop at Neiman Marcus. Judging by the size of the bag it would have to be an accessory. Jewelry? For me?
But the tone of my ex-husband’s voice had pretty much eliminated the possibility that it was a gift. Also, Sebastian hadn’t bought me jewelry in a long while, and except for my engagement ring, Sebastian never bought jewelry in the United States. Always it was when he was overseas, on a story. Like the beaded chandelier earrings from a country in Africa I’d never heard of and the vintage Iraqi headdress that I wear as a necklace.
Baxter—our blond, fluffy dog—was in my arms. I kissed him on the head. “I missed you, Baxy,” I said. “I missed you so much.”
He licked my chin, and his butt squirmed as he wagged his tail. Baxy’s fifteen pounds of dog against my chest was the most comforting weight in the world to me. When I finally put him down, he tore into my bedroom where he had toys stashed under a chaise lounge, which he hadn’t seen in a week while Sebastian had him.
As Baxter rounded the corner, I looked in the bag. I laughed.
“It’s not that funny,” Sebastian said.
“Oh, c’mon.” I lifted from the bag Baxter’s blue collar and leash that I had sewn gold stars onto—stars that had come from an old Halloween costume of Sebastian’s.
The party had been Harry Potter–themed, and as much as Sebastian would normally have dismissed it as ridiculous, it had been hosted by a journalist he had always emulated. And so Sebastian had been a wizard, dressed in a purple robe with stars and a pointed hat. It’s not that he hadn’t pulled it off, I just liked to needle him when I could. I also liked the idea of a guys’ guy like Sebastian having to walk around with a dog in bedazzled gear. Or maybe I hoped the goofy collar could lessen the pain of our weekly exchange—Here’s the dog back. It’s your turn to take care of this thing we both love like a kid, the dog we got when we were trying to keep our marriage intact.
“I mean, why would you even spend your time doing something like that?” Sebastian asked.
“You know that’s what I do, right?” I said. “I’m a stylist. I style.”
Sebastian said nothing.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” I said. “It’s not like you ever took my job seriously.”
“Jesus, Jess, that’s not true. Why do you say that?”
“I’m a stylist. You’re a journalist. You’re the legit one.”
“You’re saying that. Not me. I never said that.” Sebastian scoffed and shook his head.
Here we were again—in the ruts of a much-treaded argument.
He pointed at the bag. “That stuff is not what you do with your styling business anyway. You dress people.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
Why did I do this? What made me want to bug him, to try and draw him into this crap?
Because it’s all you have left.
That was the thought that answered me, and it rang like a bell, a few loud chimes. Then the sound died into the distance, drifting away, just like we had done.
The strong muscles of Sebastian’s jaw tensed, clenched. He ran a hand over his curly brown hair that was cut extra short for the summer. “Of course I know what that means. To an extent.”
In total, Sebastian and I had known each other for seven years—five of them married, the last of them divorced—and yet we still didn’t have a handle on what the other did for a living. Sebastian deliberately withheld, and so I guess I did it, too, in retribution.
“Look, Jess—” Sebastian fake smiled “—we’re talking about the collar, right?”
I looked in the bag. “The collar and the leash.” I picked them up and jangled them together for effect.
“First of all, look at those.” Another shake of his head. “Baxter is a boy. Hell, he’s three years old. Bax is a man now.”
At the sound of his name, Baxter tore into the kitchen and dropped a white rubber ball at our feet, his tail thumping. Throw it for me, I could hear him thinking. C’mon, throw it for me.
Like a true child of divorce, Baxter always seemed to know when to deflect the situation.
I picked up the ball and threw it down the hall. He scampered after it, sliding a little on the hardwood floors.
“He’s a man who likes this collar and leash,” I said, lifting the bag a little.
“How do you know he likes it?”
“He prances around.”
“Baxy does not prance,” Sebastian said.
“You know he does.”
I both hated and loved the familiar feel of the conversation, the verbal poking at one another.
“He’s a fifteen-pound prancing machine,” I added, another jab.
“He only prances,” Sebastian pointed out, “when he’s really happy.”
“Exactly. And he prances when he’s wearing that collar. Point made.”
Sebastian just looked at me.
“Anyway...” I said, then let my words die.
“Anyway,” he repeated.
A beat went by. Baxter ran into the kitchen again, dropped the ball. He was a mini goldendoodle—a mix of golden retriever and poodle—and the golden part must have had strong genes because the dog would retrieve all day if we let him.
Sebastian lifted the ball, tossed it again.
“Baxter brought something else back,” he said, pointing at the bag.
I looked inside again. A white plastic bag was folded over and lay at the bottom. I picked it up and lifted a cellophane bag from inside. “Rawhide,” I read from the package. “Huh.” I looked at it—half-eaten. I looked back up at Sebastian. “Did you feed him this while he was with you?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows, gave a slight smile.
That mouth, with its fuller bottom lip. It still got me sometimes. There was the rest of Sebastian, too—the strong body, wide shoulders and long arms that felt so good wrapped around me. But it was that lip most of all that used to get me. I ignored it, looked instead somewhere in the area of his forehead.
“You know that’s like giving your kid a bowl of taffy?” I said. “It’s completely unhealthy.”
“He’s got to eat more than raw chicken and raw eggs,” Sebastian said.
“That was one week that I did that!” I said. “One week.”
I’d been led by our dog trainer to give Baxter a raw diet, lured by the promises of a glossy coat and exceptional health. But when you have your dog every other week, raw foods are hard to keep around all the time. (And kind of unpleasant to serve.)
Sebastian sighed a little and searched my eyes with his. But then he opened his mouth. “I’m on my way to the airport.”
Wounds, no longer old, felt jabbed, hurt again. Sebastian was a war correspondent, one of the most well respected. His job had long been our sticking point—his need to go overseas, and his agreeing to not tell anyone, including his spouse, where he was headed. I knew military spouses had to deal with that, but I hadn’t married military, and I hadn’t realized the extent of his investigative writing—the embedding with the troops, the being in the middle of the action.
So he was off once more. I knew better than to ask where he was going.
But apparently he felt some kind of duty to try and make nice. “It’s a small conflict.”
A “small conflict” could mean a bloody, ruthless battle in a small Middle Eastern territory. But “small conflict” did not mean small casualties. Sebastian himself had returned from a “small conflict” with a gash across his collarbone that looked a lot like someone had tried to cut his throat. He still hadn’t told me what had happened. I still didn’t know where he’d been because the newspaper never published his piece for whatever reason.
Baxter ran back into the foyer, a blue earthworm toy hanging from his mouth.
“C’mere, Dogger,” Sebastian said. His own nickname for Baxter. He picked him up. “I suppose you’re going to the dog park now?” he asked me. I thought I heard another small sigh.
“You know that you can still go to the dog park, right? I didn’t get that in the divorce.” I paused, made my voice kinder. “I don’t know why you don’t go when he’s with you.”
Sebastian shrugged, petted Baxter. “I thought I would find a park by my neighborhood. But they’re not the same. He doesn’t have his buddies.”
I stayed silent. Even when we were together, I was the one, more than Sebastian, who took Bax to the park. And even when Sebastian did, he didn’t often talk to the owners of Baxter’s dog buddies like I did. Sebastian was intent on quality time with the dog, throwing Baxy’s ball over and over, then having him sit and stay for minutes on end before he could retrieve it. He taught Baxter tricks that his father had taught their family golden retrievers over the years. We got the dog shortly after his dad died.
So it seemed obvious to me that Sebastian could continue to do those things in another park. I hadn’t expected him to miss the park that we went to, as he apparently did. But I guess change is tough for everyone, even a tough guy like Sebastian.
He stood. “I should go.”
I knew better than to ask when he’d return, because I knew the answer. When I have the story. That’s what he always said.
I used to think, Why aren’t we your story? I want to be your story.
We had made a plan—move from New York, where we were living at the time, to Chicago (his hometown) where he would work as a regular journalist. It “worked” for a little while. A year or so. But ultimately Sebastian couldn’t stop. He couldn’t explain why, but he had to be the correspondent who crossed enemy lines in the middle of the night. I encouraged him to let me in. Keep the job, I’d said. I’d get used to worrying about him, I’d told him. That was okay. But bring me into the fold, tell me what you do, what you feel when you’re there, how I can support you when you’re here.
He decided that it would be breaking confidences and so he couldn’t tell me—not about the stories he was covering, where he was covering them or who he was covering them with. I could read the pieces in the paper, usually a day or two ahead of everyone else. So I would know then, for example, that he’d been in Afghanistan, embedded with a navy SEAL team that took out a top-level terrorist. I would also read the byline and see that he sometimes had cowriters. But he couldn’t fill in any blanks. He couldn’t answer questions. And if the story had been killed and never published, he couldn’t give me any clues. Or he wouldn’t. Same thing.
His inability showed me the gaps in our relationship. I had to decide if I could live with the not knowing, the having to make a leap of faith to trust him, when the fact was I knew little about how my husband spent his professional life. And, therefore, much of his life.
I decided I couldn’t do that. Or maybe I just couldn’t live with the disappointment of not having the kind of love I wanted. I’d thought that with Sebastian I’d had the kind of love my parents had, the kind I’d felt once before. But neither turned out to be true. And eventually, with Sebastian, the ball I’d been pushing uphill for so long started to roll back over me.
Now I looked at Sebastian, said nothing, just stared into his eyes, and some bigger strength kicked in. I was past that, I told myself. I was way past it, and I was past him.
I’d started my life over once before. And under much, much, much worse circumstances. I knew I could do it again. I could survive.
Neither of us said anything. But I felt a joint sense of tiredness. We’re done.
“Okay,” I said, just to say something.
When Sebastian didn’t reply, the moment of pause gave me time to make a decision. I decided then I wasn’t just going to survive. I was going to thrive. I was going to come alive.
Right now. Those words intoned through me.
And suddenly it seemed clear what I had to do right then, how I had to conduct myself going forward. There would be no more seeing life as an endurance exercise. No more considering dates just because a software program told me I should. I wouldn’t just react to Sebastian or the lack of him. I would stop seeing everything as a reminder of the lives past. I would open my eyes and see things differently.
I would be different.
“Have a good trip,” I said, and I opened the door.
2
After Sebastian left, I put Bax in the gold-starred blue collar, clipped on the matching leash, and Baxter and I took a come-to-Jesus walk. It was the kind of walk we needed in order to get reacquainted after a week apart, in order to become Jess and Baxter again. Such walks were usually long and meandering, often around favorite places like the Lincoln Park Lagoon or the beach, but always landing at the dog park. Once we came back from such a walk, Bax and I always returned to normal. To get Baxter acquainted to the neighborhood again, I first walked Baxter down State Street, cutting up and around Goethe, Burton and Astor, letting him stop and sniff every wrought iron fence and bountiful bush that he wanted. It was a gorgeous summer day, one that was warm but not unbearable as the previous three weeks had been. Instead of huddling in air-conditioned rooms (or coffee shops or bars) everyone was outside. This was the same route Sebastian and I used to take when we first got Baxter. It was hard not to think of that time.
The decision to get a puppy had been carefully debated, test-driven. We had long thought we’d get a shelter dog. We had volunteered at rescues, had run 5K races to raise money for no-kill facilities. We regularly visited adoption places in Chicago. We dogsat and read dog books and frequented dog parks. In the end, we fell in love with the idea of a goldendoodle (no shed, hypoallergenic) and a mini one. Sebastian pointed out that a dog under twenty pounds could travel with us. We could travel. That’s what he’d said. We. And we decided we wanted a puppy, a brand-new being in the brand-new world we were creating. Or trying to create.
So we investigated every breeder. We visited many. We called people who’d gotten puppies from them before. It felt, joyously, like Sebastian and I were working together on one of his stories.
The day we got him felt so alive in my memory, I could almost touch it when I closed my eyes. A responsibility never felt so good before—the responsibility of deciding to take custody of a new creature, a new ball of life energy, and pledging to care for it.
We decided I would take the wheel during the three-hour drive to Indiana. Sebastian would drive the return trip while I rode with the puppy in the back, which the breeder had recommended for bonding.
We’d already been once to the breeder’s farm, run by a young family, with a red barn behind the house. So it wasn’t a surprise to walk in that house in the middle of winter and see two litters of squirming golden fluff. But what was different was that one would be ours. Ours. I loved that word.
Sebastian and I clasped hands tight as the breeder led us to the eight-week-old litter in the back—six dogs, four females and two males, one of whom was soon to be (that word again) ours.
The breeder was in her late thirties with curly copper hair that matched some of the dogs in her barn. She smiled over her shoulder at us. “Ready?”
She opened an octagon-shaped enclosure that held the litter and quickly waved a hand. “Get in before one gets out.”
We were rushed by puppies—scraps of panting aliveness crawling over us, their faces peering up at ours, pink tongues darting at our chins.
“How are we going to decide?” Sebastian asked. He laughed then, as a red-goldish puppy climbed up and stuck her tongue in Sebastian’s nose.
The hour we spent in that pen was a different world in a different time. We were suspended in between our old lives and our new, and we both knew it.
While all the pups scrambled and licked and nibbled, one boy was a ferocious biter and a jumper. I kissed him on the head. “I feel bad but we’ve ruled him out,” I told Sebastian.
“What about this one?” He held out a two-and-a-half-pound little girl, already sleeping in the palm of his hand. I took her and cuddled her to me, letting her siblings squirm around Sebastian and me, both cross-legged in the pen.
She burrowed into the crook of my neck as I held her up. “She’s one of the front-runners,” I said.
We played with each of them, trying to be systematic, which was impossible. We came up with names for them to try and keep them separate—Cutie for the sweet, sleepy girl, Biter for the ruled-out boy.
Big Eyes was what we called the other boy. He had an interesting way of observing the group, happy to sit back for a moment when it wasn’t his turn and watching the other pups and us before deciding to get back into the fray with a paw to the head of one of his sisters. He was a lover, too, kept burrowing his snout in the crook of Sebastian’s knee or under my sweater. Pretty soon, we loved him back. And Big Eyes became Baxter.
But even though Baxter was the best of dogs, beloved by us both, Sebastian and I didn’t stay together, and now we shared that soul that we’d adopted.
Baxter pulled hard on the leash, maybe sensing I was lost in my thoughts. As we made our way to North Avenue and he realized we were headed for the park, he tugged even harder, his little golden legs churning.
“Take it easy, buddy,” I said, but I smiled. As Baxter’s legs churned faster, I could see the images flying through his head—the dog friends he might see, the birds he might chase.
I looked at my watch, hoping the other dog owners we knew would be there. We were people who probably wouldn’t know each other otherwise. But our dogs were friends. Odd and simple as that. And so we had roughly learned each other’s schedules. And we shot to meet up in the late morning like now.
At this hour, during the weeks Sebastian had Baxter at his place, I really didn’t know what to do with myself. Sometimes, I would still go to the park and chat with the others, but I always felt forlorn, rubbing the mini tennis ball inside my pocket, no dog to throw to, always missing Baxter. Sometimes Sebastian.
Although any missing of the ex would stop now, I reminded myself, since I planned to come alive without Sebastian.
We reached the park and, as hoped, some of Baxter’s pals and their owners were there. Among the dogs was Comiskey—a border collie named after former White Sox Comiskey Park, but called Miskie for short—and a pug named Miss Puggles. The pug had a historical air about her, one of a heavy, corseted woman who talked in a high voice, always held an aperitif in hand, but Miss Puggles was always social and friendly. Rounding out Baxter’s pals in attendance was a tiny scrap of white fluff named Daisy. Daisy must have weighed all of eight pounds, but she had the heart of a German shepherd. She chased after the other dogs, her little legs racing doubly fast.
As we entered the park, Daisy skidded into the sandy baseball pitch after a ball. Then Baxter and Daisy saw each other, and, as always, it was all Romeo and Juliet. Daisy’s head raised, the ball dropped, and as she churned her little legs toward Baxter, he did, too—two lovers racing across a green lawn to tangle and nip at each other.
