There was no leash on the man walking the brindle, though he did have a guitar bag slung across his back. By human standards of attractiveness he would have qualified as appealing, though he was likely in his thirties and not his twenties. He was barely well-groomed and attired enough for people to see that he was not a vagabond, though in Los Angeles and in Newport in particular, neither was a clear indicator of someone’s status. The perfectly dressed human with the two-hundred dollar haircut might be an impecunious hopeful while the apparent beach bum, the CEO of a billion-dollar gaming company. In Greater L.A. more than most regions, one had to be careful not to jump to conclusions based on appearance.

  Another problem dogs didn’t have.

  “Stuart! Stop pulling so hard! Easy!”

  Her admonitions fell on deaf, if exceedingly cute, ears as Stuart continued to half lead, half drag her toward the terrier and her human. Every time she would bark a command to slow, he would pull that much harder, and every third step forward she threatened to trip. It was not that she was weak. For a human female she was in excellent shape. It was just that Stuart’s motivation to push forward exceeded her determination to slow him down.

  “Hey, look out!” Ahead of her, the guitar-packing man and his Boston strolled blithely onward.

  Run or stumble. It was a choice Jen’s body made, even if her mind wasn’t wholly onboard with the decision. As they neared the man and dog directly in front of her, her own eyes widened. Perhaps not quite as much as Stuart’s. Her expression suddenly resembled that of a body surfer who realizes they are about to go “over the falls”, that there is nothing they can do about it, and that within a second or two they were going to be physically helpless and mentally stressed.

  “Left, left!” Since “Slow down!” wasn’t working, it was the only command Jen could think of in hopes of staving off looming disaster. The command wouldn’t stop a surfer from going over the falls, and at that moment it didn’t work with Stuart, either. Dogs are great at responding to human directives. Except when they don’t want to.

  Directly ahead of her and all too near now, the man with the guitar bag abruptly halted and stooped to pick up an empty bottle. His intention was to place it in the recycling receptacle he had just passed. Turning, he saw the barrel and Jen at about the same instant. Lacking the reaction time of a good dog, he was unable to move as Jen, desperately trying to change course to any heading except the one she was on, slammed into him. They both went down, with Jen on top of him. The accident and the supine position that resulted left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Though dazed, he wasn’t quite as disappointed. Meanwhile both terriers, now loosed, took off side by side into the park, trailing their leashes behind them.

  As Jen struggled to catch her breath she simultaneously thought to call out to Stuart while making embarrassed apologies. It was the latter that emerged first.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I was trying to tell you to look out. Didn’t you hear me yelling at you to…?”

  Before she could finish, the man beneath her reached up to remove first one, then another ear bud. Faint music from both suffused the air.

  “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” As he spoke, he twisted slightly to one side. While she didn’t play linebacker for the Rams in her spare time, Jen was no featherweight. As he adjusted his position a loud crack sounded from behind him.

  Startled, Jen hastily scrambled clear and stood. Brushing herself off, she then offered him a hand up. He accepted without hesitation. Her expression one of genuine concern, she leaned to one side, trying to peer behind him.

  “Was that your back? Are you okay?”

  “No,” he muttered. “My neck.”

  The brief moment of possible enjoyment Jim had experienced with Jen lying on top of him proved fleeting, propelled on its way by the splintering sound that had greeted his attempt to turn and rise. After placing the ear buds in a pocket his expression sank as he fumbled to bring the bag he was carrying around to his front. Unzipping it, he removed the guitar it had held. That is, he removed the guitar neck, which had been divorced from the body of the instrument. Or rather, pieces of the body. Strings dangled loosely, hunting in vain for the bridge.

  “My—guitar,” he mumbled, adding a few choice adjectives under his breath.

  Looking at him, she lowered her gaze. “You play guitar?”

  There are times in every person’s life when they say something out loud that they immediately wish had remained unspoken. Because said something instantly defines the speaker as a blithering idiot. It was Jen’s misfortune to presently be experiencing such a moment.

  “I used to.” He turned the now open bag in her direction. The condition of the instrument formerly recognizable as a guitar revealed itself.

  Her mouth parted in a little “O” of horror. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do, he was pulling me so hard. I couldn’t stop.”

  Glancing in the direction the two dogs had fled, his expression turned wry. “Yeah, I sympathize. Those Boston terriers, they’re monsters. Pull like Clydesdales.” He turned sharply back to her but she didn’t flinch.

  “Well, Stuart, his strength can surprise me sometimes.” She nodded toward the guitar bag and its traumatized contents. “Now, about your instrument….”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He feigned a show of indifference. “It’s just a limited edition Taylor anniversary model. There’s always next year.” When she didn’t immediately react he added, “For another anniversary. Model. Anniversary model.”

  “Oh. Oh, right.” She essayed a little smile. It came out slightly crooked, which was not the effect she was trying for. Hoping to make things better she added, “Thank God it’s not a Fender.”

  He listened, and did not quite grin, and shook his head sadly. Desperately desiring to make things right Jen struggled with her bag until her fingers closed around a stray business card. This she managed to hand to him without dropping it.

  “Again, I’m really sorry. Here’s my card. I’m Jen. Let me get you a new guitar. I insist.”

  He squinted at the card, hard to read in the bright shoreside sunshine. “The ‘Pet Friendly Realtor’?”

  She looked away, slightly embarrassed, sure he was going to laugh. Why the reaction of a stranger should bother her she could not have said. Breaking his guitar; that was reason for embarrassment. Nothing else ought to have mattered. But it did, and it unsettled her that it should. She had just met the guy, probably would never see him again (did she want to see him again?), and should not have given a lump of dried kelp what he thought about her or her business card. What she actually said was….

  “My mother’s idea. The ‘Pet Friendly Realtor’ thing.”

  “I like it.” This time when he smiled there was not a hint of sarcasm attached to his expression. He sounded as well as looked wholly genuine. “I’m Jim.” Turning, he pointed to where his dog and Stuart were playing happily, gamboling in the grass and exchanging face licks. Leading the way, he indicated his own pet.

  “And that’s Sweetie Peters. What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Stuart. Stuart Louis.” Upon reaching the spot where the pair of terriers were playing, she squatted and smiled at the female. “I think Stuart really likes you, Sweetie Peters.”

  Her new acquaintance (the two-legged one), crouched down beside her.

  “Hi, Stuart Louis.” Turning, he met Jen’s gaze. “I think she likes him, too. Licking is a more positive reaction than biting.” He grinned.

  Jen thought to respond to his comment directly, immediately thought better of it. Her decision was confirmed by the sight of another, very attractive woman waving at them from across the park. Since she didn’t know the woman she assumed that Jim did, and vice versa. The faint bubble of possibility that had formed in her mind popped. She had work to do and it was time to move on. Time to put the awkward encounter behind her. She straightened.

  “Well, gotta go! I wish I could say it was nice meeting you. Under different circumstances, of course. Let’s get you a new guitar asap. Call me.”

  If she expected him to say “Forget about it”, she was disappointed. If she expected him to say anything else, that was also a disappointment. It didn’t matter. The collision and fall was just a forgettable incident in an otherwise ordinary day. One that had cost her a few minutes out of her schedule. If she were going to walk Stuart, which was the reason she had come to the park in the first place, it would be elsewhere. Away from this kindly if slightly scruffy guitar player and away from his admittedly well-groomed dog.

  Stuart had other ideas, of course. This time she was the one doing the dragging, with both hands on his leash. He fought, he struggled, he whimpered, his gaze fixated on the female of his own breed. But this time he was no match for his owner’s determination. Or her weight. Jim the guitar man headed off in the opposite direction with his own terrier trotting along beside him. As he was swallowed up by the crowd and the landscape she put him and their awkward encounter out of her mind.

  Her friends offered welcoming smiles as she joined them at their table. Never one to mince words and as curious (which sounds better than “nosy”) as she was straightforward, Wanda was the first to speak, nodding in the direction from which Jen had come.

  “Who’s the cute guy you leveled?”

  “How should I know?” A quick glance behind her showed that man, guitar bag, and female terrier were now well out of sight. The dogs on the grass nearby belonged to her friends and she recognized them immediately. Reasonably sure that it was now safe to do so, she unbuckled Stuart from his leash. For an instant she thought he was going to take off back the way they had come, but he was only swerving as he headed toward his canine acquaintances. Before she could explain further, her friend Cindy helpfully spoke up.

  “Just some new park guy,” she informed Wanda. “Seen him a few times. Don’t know him, either.”

  “His name’s Jim,” Jen told them. “He’s also got a Boston, named Sweetie. Stuart went nuts chasing after her. Almost killed me.”

  Nina chuckled softly. “Yeah. We saw you tackle him. I wish I’d filmed it with my phone. You need to let me know in advance the next time you plan to flatten some strange dude.”

  “Not funny. I feel bad enough as it is,” Jen shot back. “I smashed his guitar.”

  “Ouch.” Cindy winced. “Money.”

  “I told him I’d buy him a new one. I don’t have any choice, since I’m the one who ‘tackled’ him.” Time to change the subject, she decided. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you guys Arthur wants me to meet him for dinner tonight.”

  The Greek chorus replied as one. “Oh, where?”

  “That’s the thing.” Jen paused for effect. “He wants to meet at Pompeo’s”.

  Wanda let out a soft whistle. “’Pompeo’s’? That’s serious. One drink there is thirty bucks.” A huge grin spread across her face. “I smell a big fat ring coming.”

  Next to her, Cindy was nodding knowingly. “It’s about time. You got seven years invested in this guy.”

  Nina was panting almost as vigorously as Stuart. “You gonna say ‘yes’?”

  Staring off into the distance, Jen pretended to be pondering anything other than the subject at hand. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Of course she is,” Cindy put in. “The guy’s not bad looking. Also, he’s loaded. And as far as anyone knows, he hasn’t killed anybody. In L.A. that’s a pretty good resumé.”

  Their laughter was interrupted as every mutt in the vicinity started barking wildly. Attention shifted away from Jen and each other to their respective dogs. The reason for the sudden explosion of yapping shot across their field of view. It was small, gray, super fast, and familiar. Identification was immediate.

  “There goes Freddy,” Wanda declared with obvious delight. “That is one crazy squirrel. Look at him tease those dogs. If there is such a thing as an insane rodent, he’s it.”

  “Or else’s he’s just stupid,” Nina put in.

  “Or suicidal,” Cindy added.

  It didn’t take long for several of the dogs to get fed up with just barking. They launched themselves in the squirrel’s direction. Freddy’s response was basically the squirrel version of “Eat tail!”. A nearby tree provided immediate refuge and the added opportunity to tease the pursuing dogs that much longer. They clustered around the base of the bole, leaping and barking, while the squirrel peered down at them utterly unperturbed. The leader of the yapping, semi-hysterical pack was unmistakable. By now the commotion had attracted the attention of several other park visitors. It was becoming a bit much.

  “Stuart!” Jen rose from her chair.

  “Gizmo!” Nina was not far behind her friend. “Ven para acá!”

  Cindy was a little slower than her companions to take action. “Cupcake! Don’t you run off! I’m not chasing you today. Do you hear me!”

  Wanda brought up the rear, her tone practical and no-nonsense. “Marley! You’re too old for this! You’re too old to be chasing anything except the food in your dish!”

  Together, the three of them strode toward the encircled tree. A few passing pedestrians looked on before turning away. This was Newport Beach, and unless one of the barking dogs suddenly grew wings and flew up into the squirrel’s face, it was scarcely worthy of notice. Even then, the uber-sophisticated strollers would doubtless have figured they were witness to some kind of cinematic special effect. In the L.A. basin it was often hard to distinguish one from the other.

  As Stuart and his colleagues in the canine choir continued to bark furiously at the squirrel, it stuck out its tongue at them. There was no mistaking the gesture: Jen saw it for herself. Just coincidence, of course. While Stuart was unlikely to hurt himself, enough was enough. Dogs could suffer heart attacks as readily as humans and he’d already had enough excitement for one morning. When she scooped him up in her arms his attention immediately shifted from squirrel to Jen and he began licking her face excitedly. As she turned away and tried to slow him down they were joined by a much more senior newcomer.

  Nobody in the group knew exactly how old Mrs. Walley was. “Eighty, or somewhere in that vicinity”, was Cindy’s guess. Her hair was white and her Lhasa Apso, Angel, blind. The dog might be slow but her owner was not, although dear Mrs. Walley could sometimes be caught out not firing on all cylinders. Pausing beneath the tree wherein the chirping four-legged irritant known to everyone in the park as Freddy had safely ensconced himself, she squinted up into the branches and shook her head.

  “That squirrel had to be Jesse Owens in a past life. Well-mannered little critter, though. Used to eat nuts from my Harold’s hand. That was ten years ago. Any dog that catches Freddy should get a gold medal.”

  Jen forbore from mentioning that squirrels almost never lived beyond five or six years in the wild. It would only serve to confuse Mrs. Walley, who regardless of the subject under discussion never failed to mention her departed husband.

  “Never gonna happen, Mrs. Walley. He’s still too fast.” She nodded in the direction of the ocean. “We’ll find him dead under a tree, from a stroke or something. We’ll put him in an empty Planter’s Peanut can, family size, set it on fire and push it out to sea at night when no one’s looking. A Viking squirrel funeral.” When Mrs. Walley eyed her blankly, Jen sighed and changed the subject to something more familiar and comprehensible. “How’s Angel?”

  The older woman looked down at her dog and grunted. “Still blind as a bat.” At this the Lhasa promptly walked into a trash can, shook his head, and gingerly eased its way around the unseen but smartly felt barrier. Jen didn’t say anything. Harold Walley was gone but their dog remained.

  It was one thing dogs were for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Townsend Realty was a busy place. Which was not surprising. If you’re going to sell cars, sell expensive ones. If you’re going to sell jewelry, sell expensive stones. If you’re going to sell clothing, sell on Rodeo Drive. If you’re going to sell Orange County real estate, sell in Newport Beach. Competition was fierce, with commissions often approaching those in such rarified corners of Southern Cal as Beverly Hills and Brentwood. Despite being an independent, Townsend managed to hold its own. The number of awards in the lobby attested to the success of the company and its agents.

  One secret to that success, and a very California one, was allowing its agents as much freedom and individual leeway as possible. As long as you delivered, as long as leads were developed and sales were closed, you could come to work in a pirate costume or wearing clown shoes. No one had—yet.

  Some agents would show up with their pets. In Southern California, virtually every pet is a “service animal”. One agent regularly brought in her scarlet macaw, Bacall. The name derived from one of the bird’s favorite call-outs. In contrast, a younger gentleman, excellent agent though he was, was constrained from placing his pet python Goomba on his desk while he worked the internet. Tolerant though they were, his co-workers drew the line at having reptiles in the office that weighed more than fifty pounds.

  So common was the sight of animals in the various cubbies that no one so much as blinked when Jen and Stuart entered side by side.

  “Hi, Ms. Jensen.” The girl at the front desk flicked a glance downward. “Hi, Stuart.”

  The terrier acknowledge the greeting with a nod of his head. Of course, Boston terrier heads are always nodding, or at least bobbing, so it was hard to tell if Stuart was responding to the salutation or just chilling as he stood there.

  They passed another agent. New, young, eager, efficient, he offered an identical greeting. “Hi, Ms. Jensen.”

  She halted. The terrier beside her feet peered upward, nubby tail wagging like a metronome set on allegro. The office had suddenly gone silent. Confused, the new agent became aware that everyone was looking in his direction. In front of him, Jen tugged her sunglasses down to peer over them.