"You tell that girl not to worry for one second. She's a sweetheart. Brought me homemade chicken soup after I had my hip surgery."
She leaned forward and put a hand to the side of her mouth, like she was trying to keep somebody from hearing what she was saying. Since she and I were the only people in the room, I wasn't sure why, but I bent down toward her.
"Don't tell her she puts too much pepper in it. Those Irish people never quite know how to spice things, do they?"
Irish people?
I looked around in a futile attempt to figure out what to say. The only other inhabitant of the room, an ancient beagle, lay on his back next to the fireplace, all four legs up in the air. I watched him for a second, but he didn't move or even seem to breathe.
He might, in fact, be dead.
Some dogs had weird reactions to me, as if they knew a predator lurked beneath my skin, but I'd never actuallykilledone by just walking into a room.
"Is your dog okay?" I blurted out.
"And anyway, it's not Tess's fault stuff keeps happening to her. It's just been a crazy year. Now, how about some cookies?"
"I … sure. But your dog?"
"Oh, Mister Rogers is fine. He likes to sleep like that. Warms his belly. Now come on into the kitchen and have some cookies."
"Okay, but I can't stay long."
But she was already marching off toward the kitchen. I took a quick second to check on the dog. His fur was almost entirely gray, and he may have been the oldest dog I'd ever seen.
He was still alive, though, so I called it a win and strode off to the kitchen.
"This is a beautiful home, ma'am," I said sincerely. The interior was as lovely as the exterior, filled with antiques and art.
"Thank you, young man. Now eat some cookies. And take some with you. I'm off to my bridge club, but you can take these to go." She pushed the entire platter of cookies toward me.
"Oh, no, I can't take all this. You'll need some for your next visitor," I protested. But then I took a big bite of a walnut-chocolate-chip cookie, and I may have moaned a little.
"These areamazing."
She beamed. "What a nice boy you are. I'm glad you and Tess found each other. Now you go on. Just bring the plate back to me when you're done."
"But I—"
She wagged her finger at me.
I might be a foot and a half taller and fifty years younger, but I knew when I was outmatched. I took the cookies.
"Yes, ma'am."
Before I knew it, I was back on the street with my cookies, and she was walking down the street to her neighbor's house, where a half-dozen women on the porch chatted and stared at me. I waved with the hand holding a cookie, balanced the platter in my other hand so I could open the truck door, and carefully placed the treasure trove of sugar on the passenger seat.
Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
After that, there was nothing to do but stop over at Lauren's Deli to pick up sandwiches to take with me to see the boys in the swamp.
She packed up my order in three large paper carrying bags—twenty each of sandwiches, bags of chips, and bottles of water—and rang me up.
"Thanks, Lauren. See you tonight for pizza at Tess's?"
She grinned. "I'm looking forward to it. We can discuss the ongoing dueling Santa saga."
"There'smore?"
