Chapter 30
THIRTY
KARL
Nancy waits in the car with the dog while I go knock on the Dennison’s door. I’d rather she not meet them right now. I doubt she’d give the dog back if she did.
“Hore,” Norman Dennison slurs through the screen door.
“Norm,” I greet with as much pleasantness as I can muster for the old crud of a man. “I think I’ve got a dog that belongs to you.”
“Eh? Do you really?” His dull gray eyes flick over my shoulder.
“Border collie, old gray collar.”
“Ain’t got a dog,” he growls, slamming the interior door, leaving me standing there in shock.
Norman Dennison is a genuine piece of shit. A crappy father, a selfish farmer, and I can only assume a nightmare of a husband. I shouldn’t be shocked by his response, but I am all the same.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asks, concern pinching her forehead when I slam the truck door shut.
“Nothing,” I grumble, my eyes trained on the Dennison’s house as I throw the truck into reverse. Gravel flies off the tires as I speed down the laneway. The faster I can put distance between us and that man, the better.
“Karl.” Nancy says my name in a way that lets me know she isn’t going to accept nothing as an answer.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as anger courses through me. “He’s a piece of shit. Claims he doesn’t have a dog.” I don’t even know why I’m mad. This feels like a gift. Maybe I’m annoyed that the dog could have died and that asshole couldn’t care less.
“Didn’t you say he was his daughter’s?”
“Was being the keyword there. Remember that dog you wanted?” I peek over at her while turning back onto the main road.
“Rings a bell,” she says.
“Well, Nancy, meet our dog. Dog, meet your new favorite person.”
Back at home, I watch Nancy and the dog bound toward the cottage together before I have even opened the door. Reaching under the back bench seat, I pull out the bowls I purchased for our future dog. Nothing in this relationship has taken long to develop, so this shouldn’t seem out of place.
“We’re going to need so much stuff,” she huffs as I walk in and hold up the bowls.
“We can get everything else we need right now from my parents. Then we’ll go into town this weekend for any other supplies you think the dog needs.”
“Definitely a new collar,” Nancy says, looking at the frayed gray thing around the dog’s neck with derision. “What about a name? Did the guy even say that?”
“Nope. But I’m pretty sure he wouldn't have used it even if he did know it,” I grumble, dropping in the chair next to her and reaching down to pet our nameless dog. “Any ideas?”
She shrugs alongside a sigh. “I’m used to everything coming with a name. All our horses were like…” She tips her head back in thought. “Newlas Next Best Thing.”
“That sounds like a slogan,” I scoff.
“Horses are expensive. You don’t end up with sixteen million dollars in equines without sponsorship. And sponsors love to have their brand included in the horse’s name. They do all have barn names, but my mother hates when we use those.”
“How about Dairy Farmers of Ontario Jack?”
Nancy laughs, and the sound tickles all the feel-good neurons in my brain. “How about just Jack?”
“Less prestige, but I guess it’ll do.” I take Jack’s head between my hands. “How’s that sound? Should we call you Jack?”
His answer comes in the form of a lick to my nose.
“Definitely likes it,” Nancy confirms, rocking into me.
“I hope naming our first kid is that easy.” I sigh, slipping my arm around her and resting my lips on top of her head.
“I guess it depends on which brand wants to pony up the most dough,” Nancy says, wrapping her arms around my middle and snuggling in. “I was going to make a nice dinner tonight,” she huffs.
“Oh yeah? What were you going to make?” I ask into her hair, breathing in the smell of the shampoo I’ve been using for as long as I can remember. I’ve never appreciated the smell until now. It’s ten times better when it’s on her.
Her body shakes, and I pull away, expecting to see her crying, but I’m relieved to see her laughing.
Jack wanders away from us, sniffing around the cottage, while my focus remains on Nancy. Her shoulders rise and fall, and her laughter intensifies.
“I have absolutely no clue. I may as well have bought birdseed and alfalfa chunks.” She peers up at me. “I don’t think I’m any good at this wife thing, Karl.”
She’s not laughing now. The tears that had shone in her eyes from laughter give way to the kind of tears it pains me to see.
“No,” I whisper, taking her face in my hands.
“Cooking isn’t what makes you a good wife.
I told you I’ll cook, or we’ll cook together.
Early days. Let’s figure out the husband and wife thing first, eh?
Everything else will come with time, and I don’t know about you, but I plan on getting a lot of time with you. ”
Those pretty blue eyes shine up at me while a tiny smile forms on those lips I can’t imagine ever getting tired of kissing.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” I ask, running my thumbs across her cheeks, drying her tears.
“Say the right thing?”
“Do I?”
Her lips quirk to the left, and I drop a kiss at the corner. “I think you know you do,” she sasses, turning so her lips move against mine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur, standing and pulling her up with me.
“I’m winging all of this,” I say, needing to get the words out but hating that my lips have to leave hers to do it.
“Maybe you make it easy,” I suggest, hauling her against me so her legs wrap around my hips, clinging to me while I walk us to the bed.
“Maybe I’m throwing things at the wall and hoping they’ll stick. Maybe—”
“Karl?”
“Yes, beautiful?”
“Stop talking,” she breathes as she releases her arms and falls backward onto the bed, leaving me no choice but to follow her down.
“I’ve never had this,” Nancy says around a bite of Kraft Dinner.
I stop chewing and stare at her. “Really?”
“Mmhmm. I’m pretty sure the great Claire Walker would have a coronary if she knew I was eating it now.”
“She probably expects it after you married the barn riffraff.”
“I’m quite fond of the riffraff, as it happens. I’m also pretty fond of this stuff. I’m not even done, and I already want more.”
“That’s how they get ya. I think I’d had it five times in total prior to going away to school.
My mom makes mac and cheese from scratch.
Wasn’t really interested in doing that while I was away, but this neon stuff did the trick.
” I smile down at my bowl, where five noodles stubbornly cling to the sides, refusing to bond with my spoon.
“What was it like?”
“School?”
“Yeah.”
I set my spoon down and lean back in my chair, studying her. Everything about her screams “university track.” She’s from old money. Old money goes to post-secondary school. Or at least that’s what I always thought.
“I don’t know… good, stressful, ridiculous, confusing. Is it something you wanted to do or want to do?”
She honestly looks like she’s never been asked the question. Like her life was planned out for her, and she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. The thought of her not being given a choice stokes anger deep in my gut.
“I thought about it but never too seriously.”
“What did you think about studying?”
“Business admin or something like that. My future may not have been in the show ring, but it likely would have been in the family business. Making decisions about where to get feed from and hiring and inevitably firing grooms because they didn’t live up to my sister’s standards.
All while my mother, who I assume will one day retire, watches and judges my every move.
” She sets her bowl next to mine and rests her chin in her hands.
“I honestly haven’t spent that much time dreaming of a life outside of the world I was brought up in.
How pathetic is that? Who doesn’t have dreams for their future? ”
That’s a good question. I don’t think I know a single person who didn’t have some kind of idea of what they wanted to do.
At school we were told that in order to be successful, we had to get a degree.
Like Nancy, I was expected to carry on with the family business, but I was still encouraged to expand my knowledge base beyond cows.
“If you decide you want to study something or take courses, say the word. I’m behind you one hundred percent.” She stares back, like she can’t process what I’m saying. “What?” I ask when she doesn't look away.
“I assume one day we’re going to argue. Probably fight and call each other some ridiculous names. But right now, I can’t imagine it.”
Laughing, I reach across the table and take her hands. “You want to imagine us fighting?” I ask, running my thumbs over her fingers.
“I don’t…” she says slowly. “It’s just that my parents never argue.
It doesn’t seem natural. I know my father doesn’t always agree with my mother, but he always goes along with what she wants.
I guess what I’m trying to say is no, I don’t want to fight.
But I also don’t want you to just go along with everything I want because you don’t want to rock the boat. I want you to rock the boat.”
“I’ll rock whatever you want me to. Your world, preferably.” I wink, causing her to laugh into her bowl of neon orange noodles.