Dogs and Goddesses Read online

  She walked past Bun and Gen sunbathing on the green, dressed in matching bikinis, and for the first time, Abby had no doubts at all that she was looking at the incarnations of Fertility and Pregnancy, cheerful and fecund.

  “Hey, Abs!” Bun said, feeding a Cheeto to her tiaraed dog. “Where are you going?”

  “You guys have any idea where Christopher Mackenzie lives?” Abby asked, while Bowser held a muted conversation with the elderly Baby, making polite inquiries about her health and digestive system.

  “Of course I do,” Gen said, peering up from behind her oversized sunglasses. “He’s my cousin.”

  Bun rolled her eyes and giggled. “Professor Mackenzie is scary as shit, and he’s wrong. You and I are just alike and I suck at math.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Gen said, giggling, too. “But Christopher isn’t scary—he’s just, you know, reserved. And he’s a great teacher.”

  “Now that surprises me,” Abby said. “I would have thought his students would bore him.”

  “He loves math,” Gen said. “I mean, he really loves math, and he loves it when other people get it. Anyway, Cousin Christopher isn’t nearly as whacked as some people”—she cast a pointed look at Bun—“think.”

  But Bun was oblivious, shoving another Cheeto at Baby.

  “Damned things give me gas, but I love ’em,” Baby muttered to Bowser, who made sympathetic noises.

  “You going to see him, Abs?” Gen asked.

  “I needed to tell him something,” she said dismissively. “Uh, how long has your family lived here?”

  “Forever. Just like Bun’s. Our families were here when the town was founded.”

  “The first families,” Bun said. “Seven of them. You’re one, too. My mother says you should come to dinner.” She smiled up, cheerful. “Don’t. My family is nuts.”

  “Hmmm. So that makes Christopher a descendent from one of those families?”

  “I guess so,” Gen said, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead to look at Abby. “Why?”

  “Just putting pieces together.”

  Gen grinned at her. “You like him, don’t you?”

  Abby could feel the color rise in her face. “Certainly not. Bun’s right—he’s cold and unfriendly.”

  “Oh, I’m never right,” Bun said genially.

  Gen nodded. “You do like him. Good. He needs someone.”

  “He doesn’t need me!” Abby protested. “I just want to tell him something.”

  “O-kay.” Gen drew the word out with appropriate skepticism. “He’s in the old house at the edge of the quad.” She pointed, her flower-stenciled fingernails sparkling in the sunlight. “Say hi for me.”

  Abby and Bowser started across the green. “I bet you think I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said to him. “But he needs to know he’s not crazy.”

  “Very noble,” Bowser growled.

  “You know, nobody likes a sarcastic dog,” Abby said.

  “Know you too well,” Bowser said.

  It was a muggy day, and Abby was wearing nothing but a thin sundress. Maybe she should have put on something a little less revealing, she thought as they crossed the street, moving toward the old house. Christopher had already said she wasn’t what he wanted, and he certainly was a far cry from her heart’s desire, no matter what the fucking cookies tried to tell her, but something a little more demure might have been a good idea.

  She started up the cracked sidewalk. Professor Mackenzie’s house was straight out of a Gothic nightmare. It looked about a hundred years old, with leaded windows, dark shingles, a slate roof missing several pieces, and wildly overgrown landscaping. It looked about as welcoming as a funeral home, and Abby and Bowser both faltered on the front steps.

  “Maybe I should have called first?” she said. “Maybe I should have stayed home?”

  For once Bowser wasn’t talking. He padded up the front steps beside her, his huge presence at least some source of comfort, and waited beside her while she knocked on the door.

  She was half-hoping he wouldn’t be there, but the door opened with suspicious speed, and Christopher Mackenzie stood there, looking none too pleased to see her. He was wearing jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His glasses were pushed to the top of his head, and he looked dusty, sweaty, and bad tempered. He should be the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t even eaten cookies in a couple of days. So why was she feeling this sudden ache inside her, which only he could fill?

  “Well?” he said, after a minute. “Are you just going to stand there staring at me? Or did you come for a reason?”

  “Such a lovely welcome,” she said. “I was momentarily dazzled by your charm and beauty.” Unfortunately, that was only half a lie. “I came to talk to you.”

  “All right,” he said, opening the door wider.

  “We could talk on the porch,” she said, suddenly nervous.

  “And have half the student population of Summerville College watch and conjecture? I don’t think so. If you want to talk to me, you can come in. Otherwise go home.”

  So much for errands of mercy. She was half-tempted to turn on her heel and stomp away, except you couldn’t stomp very well in sandals, and she could see the troubled darkness in his eyes, and that treacherous softening inside her pushed her forward. “Okay,” she said, stepping inside the cool, dark house.

  Bowser hadn’t moved, sitting down on the peeling front porch. “Aren’t you coming?” she said.

  “Your dog is welcome,” Christopher said.

  “Staying here,” Bowser growled. “Waiting.”

  “I thought you didn’t like dogs,” Abby said to Christopher, hesitating in the open doorway.

  “I like dogs,” Christopher said, and the admission seemed almost painful. “I’ve never had one, but I like them.”

  That was enough to shock her. “Never had a dog? Even as a child?”

  “My foster parents were allergic. And we didn’t have the time to care for a dog.”

  Bowser had collapsed onto the porch with a peaceful sigh, clearly determined, and she gave up trying and followed Christopher into the darkened hallway. He closed the door behind her, and for a moment it felt like they were floating in the shadows. A stained-glass window let shards of colored light splintering the darkness, and the house smelled of dust, old books, and fresh coffee.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, forcing herself to stay on task. “Even if they worked full-time you could have taken care of a dog.”

  “I worked full-time, too.”

  “Child labor?” she said, disbelieving.

  “Child prodigy,” he replied. “We had government grants, research. I spent my childhood in a laboratory.”

  “What about school?” she asked, appalled.

  “I didn’t need conventional schooling. My foster mother took care of the basics. By the time I got my second Ph.D., it really didn’t matter.”

  “And how old were you at that point?” No dog, no school, no real family. It was little wonder that he seemed like an antisocial pain in the ass, when in truth he was nothing more than a sad little boy, and she wanted to put her arms around him.

  He’d probably run screaming if she tried it.

  “I was seventeen. Did you come to talk to me about my peculiar childhood or did you have some other pressing reason?” he said, clearly impatient.

  “Why did you have foster parents? What happened to your real ones?”

  He let out a long-suffering sigh, sounding bored. “My mother died young, and my father wasn’t equipped to raise a child with my … talents. He put me in the care of people who could properly train me. Unfortunately, I never learned the gift for small talk. Why are you here?”

  “It’s never too late to learn,” she said, at least some of her nerves vanishing. “When someone comes to visit, you invite them into the house; you offer them a place to sit and something to drink. And you don’t bully them.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. “This way,” he finall