Must Love Dogs Read online

  Must Love Dogs

  by

  Claire Cook

  Table of Contents

  Dear Reader

  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

  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

  Read an excerpt of WALLFLOWER IN BLOOM

  More novels by Claire Cook

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  About the Author

  Must Love Dogs. Copyright © 2002 by Claire Cook.

  * * *

  This ebook was produced with http://pressbooks.com.

  Dear Reader

  Dear Reader,

  I think of Must Love Dogs as my gateway novel. Every week, year after year, at least a handful of new readers email me or post on my Facebook wall or Tweet me a message to say that the Must Love Dogs movie, which still plays all the time on the movie channels, led them to the novel, which in turn led them to my other novels, and then to me! It is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

  I’ve written seven and a half(!) novels since Must Love Dogs, and still not a phone chat or Skype visit with a book club goes by without someone asking two questions: What was my movie experience like? And how cute was John Cusack?

  I’ll answer them in reverse order. First, very cute. Actually, John Cusack felt like someone I might have gone to high school with – down-to-earth, fun, just a nice guy. I remember him taking the time to hang out with the extras during his breaks. I remember him casually eating a burrito while his makeup artist applied foundation to his hands around it. I remember yakking with him so often on the set – politics, the fact that his mother used to summer in the beach town where I live, writing stuff – that it suddenly hit me that if I kept it up he might ask security to get that stalker author away from him. So the next time he walked by I pretended to be cool and looked in the other direction. He put his face in mine and said, “Claaai-re” – just like we’d gone to high school together!

  Quick impressions of the other actors: Diane Lane was such a good mom and was thrilled that her best friend in real life, Elizabeth Perkins, was playing her sister in the movie. Christopher Plummer was so charming and debonair – once when I entered the room, he gave an exaggerated bow and announced, “The author is here!” And Dermot Mulroney (pretty cute himself!) kept bringing in pictures of his (also cute) son to show me.

  Speaking of kids, my own son was a senior in high school the year the movie was made, and his Honors English teacher told him she’d give him an A if he got her John Cusack’s autograph. He did, but I don’t remember if she came through.

  My daughter was a senior in college. She flew out to meet us at a fancy party for the cast and crew at a Hollywood mansion. I’d already met them but she hadn’t, so John Cusack walked over, stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m John.” Dermot Mulroney stepped up beside John, stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Dermot.” And my daughter, so hip, so confident, at that stage of life when she just knew it all…forgot her own name! “I’m uh, uh,” she stammered. She pointed to me. “That’s my uh…uh….” I smiled sweetly. “Mother?” I said.

  At the table read, the first time the cast reads the script together, my husband was asked to read a date scene with Diane Lane – the high stress experience of his life! And because John Cusack had already played a John to a Sarah in Serendipity, he asked Gary David Goldberg, writer/director/producer/my hero, if he would consider changing the name of his character. So for the movie, John was renamed Jake, after my real life husband!

  And as a surprise, the entire cast autographed a director’s chair for me. I refused to check it with my luggage at LAX – I carried it right on the plane with me. It sits in my dining room now, and I like to think of it as my throne, because the entire Must Love Dogs movie experience felt like being queen for a day on that old game show.

  My family and I walked the red carpet at the Must Love Dogs Hollywood premiere. (It was actually a green Astroturf carpet with fire hydrants and adoptable dogs!) Gary David Goldberg stood up and told the packed, celeb-studded audience (Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Brooke Shield, Henry Winkler!) that none of us would be here tonight without Claire Cook and her wonderful novel, and that he started out as a fan of my work but we’d since become close personal friends and I was one of the few people in his life he could count on to always give him the truth in the kindest way possible.

  So that’s my movie story! And now I hope you enjoy the book that started it all!

  xxxClaire

  Chapter 1

  I decided to listen to my family and get back out there. “There’s life after divorce, Sarah,” my father proclaimed, not that he’d ever been divorced.

  “The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be” was my sister Carol’s little gem, as if she had some way of knowing whether or not that was true.

  After months of ignoring them, responding to a per­sonal ad in the newspaper seemed the most detached way to give in. I wouldn’t have to sit in a restaurant with a friend of a friend of one of my brothers, probably Michael’s, but maybe Johnny’s or Billy Jr.’s, pretending to enjoy a meal I was too nervous to taste. I needn’t en­dure even a phone conversation with someone my sis­ter Christine had talked into calling me. My prospect and I would quietly connect on paper or we wouldn’t.

  HONEST, HOPELESSLY ROMANTIC, old-fashioned gentleman seeks lady friend who enjoys elegant dining, dancing and the slow bloom of affection. WM, n/s, young 50s, widower, loves dogs, children and long meandering bicycle rides.

  The ad jumped out at me the first time I looked. There wasn’t much competition. Rather than risk a ge­ographic jump to one of the Boston newspapers, I’d decided it was safer and less of an effort to confine my search to the single page of classifieds in the local weekly. Seven towns halfway between Boston and Cape Cod were clumped together in one edition. Four columns of “Women Seeking Men.” A quarter of a col­umn of “Men Seeking Women,” two entries of “Women Seeking Women,” and what was left of that column was “Men Seeking Men.”

  I certainly had no intention of adding to the dis­heartening surplus of heterosexual women placing ads, so I turned my attention to the second category. It was comprised of more than its share of control freaks, like this guy—Seeking attractive woman between 5’4″ and 5’6″, 120-135 lbs., soft-spoken, no bad habits, financially secure, for possible relationship. I could picture this dreamboat making his potential relationships step on the scale and show their bank statements before he penciled them in for a look-see.

  And then this one. Quaint, charming, almost fa­miliar somehow. When I got to the slow bloom of affec­tion, it just did me in. Made me remember how lonely I was.

  I circled the ad in red pen, then tore it out of the paper in a jagged rectangle. I carried it over to my computer and typed a response quickly, before I could change my mind:

  Dear Sir:

  You sound too good to be true, but perhaps we could have a cup of coffee together anyway—at a public place. I am a WF, divorced, young 40, who loves dogs and chil­dren, but doesn’t happen to have either.

 
; —Cautiously Optimistic

  I mailed my letter to a Box 308P at the County Con­nections offices, which would, in turn, forward it. I en­closed a small check to secure my own box number for responses. Less than a week later I had my answer:

  Dear Madam,

  Might I have the privilege of buying you coffee at Morning Glories in Marshbury at 10 AM this coming Saturday? I’ll be carrying a single yellow rose.

  —Awaiting Your Response

  The invitation was typed on thick ivory paper with an actual typewriter, the letters O and E forming solid dots of black ink, just like the old manual of my child­hood. I wrote back simply, Time and place convenient. Looking forward to it.

  I didn’t mention my almost-date to anyone, barely even allowed myself to think about its possibilities. There was simply no sense in getting my hopes up, no need to position myself for a fall.

  I woke up a few times Friday night, but it wasn’t too bad. It’s not as if I stayed up all night tossing and turn­ing. And I tried on just a couple of different outfits on Saturday morning, finally settling on a yellow sweater and a long skirt with an old-fashioned floral print. I fluffed my hair, threw on some mascara and brushed my teeth a second time before heading out the door.

  Morning Glories is just short of trendy, a delight­fully overgrown hodgepodge of sun-streaked green­ery, white lattice and round button tables with mismatched iron chairs. The coffee is strong and the baked goods homemade and delicious. You could sit at a table for hours without getting dirty looks from the people who work there.

  The long Saturday-morning take-out line backed up to the door, and it took me a minute to maneuver my way over to the tables. I scanned quickly, my senses on overload, trying to pick out the rose draped across the table, to remember the opening line I had rehearsed on the drive over.

  “Sarah, my darlin’ girl. What a lovely surprise. Come here and give your dear old daddy a hug.”

  “Dad? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. And from one of my very favorite daughters at that.”

  “Where’d you get the rose, Dad?”

  “Picked it this morning from your dear mother’s rose garden. God rest her soul.”

  “Uh, who’s it for?”

  “A lady friend, honey. It’s the natural course of this life that your dad would have lady friends now, Sarry. I feel your sainted mother whispering her approval to me every day.”

  “So, um, you’re planning to meet this lady friend here, Dad?”

  “That I am, God willing.”

  Somewhere in the dusty corners of my brain, synapses were connecting. “Oh my God. Dad. I’m your date. I answered your personal ad. I answered my own father’s personal ad.” I mean, of all the per­sonal ads in all the world I had to pick this one?

  My father looked at me blankly, then lifted his shaggy white eyebrows in surprise. His eyes moved skyward as he cocked his head to one side. He turned his palms up in resignation.”Well, now, there’s one for the supermarket papers. Honey, it’s okay, no need to turn white like you’ve seen a ghost. Here. This only proves I brought you up to know the diamond from the riffraff.”

  Faking a quick recovery is a Hurlihy family tradition, so I squelched the image of a single yellow rose in a hand other than my father’s. I took a slow breath, assessing the damage to my heart. “Not only that, Dad, but maybe you and I can do a Jerry Springer show together. How ‘bout ‘Fathers Who Date Daughters’? I mean, this is big, Dad. The Oedipal implications alone—”

  “Oedipal, smedipal. Don’t be getting all college on me now, Sarry girl.” My father peered out from under his eyebrows.

  “And lovely as you are, you’re even lovelier when you’re a smidgen less flip.”

  I swallowed back the tears that seemed to be my only choice besides flip, and sat down in the chair across from my father. Our waitress came by and I managed to order a coffee. “Wait a minute. You’re not a young fifty, Dad. You’re sixty-six. And when was the last time you rode a bike? You don’t own a bike. And you hate dogs.”

  “Honey, don’t be so literal. Think of it as poetry, as who I am in the bottom of my soul. And, Sarah, I’m glad you’ve started dating again. Kevin was not on his best day good enough for you, sweetie.”

  “I answered my own father’s personal ad. That’s not dating. That’s sick.”

  My father watched as a pretty waitress leaned across the table next to ours. His eyes stayed on her as he pat­ted my hand and said, “You’ll do better next time, honey. Just keep up the hard work.” I watched as my father raked a clump of thick white hair away from his watery brown eyes. The guy could find a lesson in… Jesus, a date with his daughter.

  “Oh, Dad, I forgot all about you. You got the wrong date, too. You must be lonely without Mom, huh?”

  The waitress stood up, caught my father’s eye and smiled. She walked away, and he turned his gaze back to me. “I think about her every day, all day. And will for the rest of my natural life. But don’t worry about me. I have a four o’clock.”

  “What do you mean, a four o’clock? Four o’clock Mass?”

  “No, darlin’. A wee glass of wine at four o’clock with another lovely lady. Who couldn’t possibly hold a candle to you, my sweet.”

  I supposed that having a date with a close blood rel­ative was far less traumatic if it was only one of the day’s two dates. I debated whether to file that tidbit away for future reference, or to plunge into deep and immediate denial that the incident had ever happened. I lifted my coffee mug to my lips. My father smiled en­couragingly.

  Perhaps the lack of control was in my wrist. Maybe I merely forgot to swallow. But as my father reached across the table with a pile of paper napkins to mop the burning coffee from my chin, I thought it even more likely that I had simply never learned to be a grown-up.

  Chapter 2

  I stayed in bed until Monday morning, venturing out only for quick trips to the bathroom or refrigerator. At some point on Sunday night or so, returning to the safety zone of my bed with the last remaining yogurt, I noticed a stale odor as I crossed the threshold of my bedroom. Not quite a sickroom smell, more the smell of days piling up. And a woman aging as her life slips by.

  The phone rang, which on Sunday night usually means one of my brothers or sisters. I looked at it. It kept ringing. Halfway through the fourth electronic jingle, my machine picked up. Hello, you have reached Sarah Hurlihy. Leave a message if you want to.

  “Sarah, pick up. It’s me. Christine. Come on, Sarah. I already talked to Dad.”

  I grabbed the phone and burrowed under the covers with it. “Oh, God. What’d he tell you?”

  “Just that you’re dating again. That’s great, Sarah. It’s about time.”

  “Come on. What else did he say?”

  There was no sound from Christine, who is seventeen months younger than I am and happily married with two perfect children. Nothing. I waited her out. Hysterical laughter, deep and infectious and really pissing me off, finally arrived.

  “Who else knows, Christine?”

  “No one.”

  “Oh, come on, Christine. Carol has to know.”

  “Why does Carol have to know? Couldn’t I, just for once, know something before she does?”

  “Not in a million years.” It drove Christine absolutely crazy that all family information filtered through Carol first. As far as I could tell, Carol’s position in the family was the only thing Christine had ever wanted that she couldn’t get.

  “Gee, thanks, Sarah.”

  “Come on, Christine. Who knows?”

  “Okay. Everyone. Except Johnny because he’s still in Toronto on business. Come on, tell me the whole story. You know Dad never gets the details right.”

  So I gave up and confessed it all to Christine, knowing it would be passed along to my other siblings and immortalized as family history. It would be told, at Thanksgiving dinner or on the beach, tweaked this way and that, nudged and kneaded, and retold
into infinity. Christine interrupted when I got to the part about Mom. “That old goat,” she said, “his blarney level is so high that he actually believes Mom is pimping for him from heaven. No guilt, ever, now or even when she was alive. The one thing you can count on with Dad is that he’ll see things the way he wants to see them.”

  Christine paused. I could hear her sipping something, and I imagined her with her feet arranged artfully on an ottoman, relaxed now that her kids were in bed. “So, anyway, Sarah. Tell me the truth. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate Dad as a date?”

  I climbed out from under the covers just long enough to hang up the phone on her laughter.

  *

  If I didn’t have a job, I might have stayed in bed until I rotted. Instead, I got up, showered and pulled a shin- length denim jumper over a long-sleeved avocado turtleneck. I stared at myself in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I hated to admit it, but the muted greens and yellows I’d been wearing were all wrong for me. From earliest childhood, and decades before having your colors done was fashionable, my mother had dressed me as a “winter.” Reds, whites and blues, mostly, to complement my pale skin, dark hair and brown eyes. I thought I looked like an American flag, and resented that Christine, with her hazel eyes and light brown hair, got all the moss greens and bark browns and sunflower golds, like a flag from a more exotic country.

  I realized that my mother was right. Sadly, I was only eight months away from being forty-one years old, and I still couldn’t dress myself. That’s why Christine had kids and a husband and I didn’t. I peeled the jumper off, switched to a crisp white cotton blouse and yanked the jumper back on. My skin was no longer yellow. Amazing. Not that it mattered. In fact, not only was there no one to notice, but now I was late for work.

  Twelve minutes later, I screeched into the parking lot of Bayberry Preschool. I had seconds to spare, but I could just hear my boss if I passed her in the hallway on the way to my classroom: “It’s helpful, Sarah,” Kate Stone would say, “when the teachers arrive before the students.”