Brute Strength Read Online Free Page B

hummus, taramasalata, and lamejuns – Armenian pizzas – with and without meat. At about six o’clock on Sunday evening, Leah had just put a big rectangular spinach and cheese pie – spanakopita – into the oven and was cleaning up her work area. It was typical of her to invite dinner guests and then redeem herself by laboring over a work-intensive dish.
    â€˜Now Leah, remember,’ I said. ‘Do not mention Steve’s fishing trip to my father!’
    Steve mimicked me in a voice two octaves higher than his normal bass: ‘Do not mention Steve’s fishing trip!’
    In pure-bred dogdom, when your dog has a big win, or even a small one, or earns a title or otherwise accomplishes something, you’re expected to brag. Otherwise, people feel that you’re disrespecting your dog by failing to show proper pride in his achievements. In that spirit, let me say that although Steve hasn’t had a win or earned a title beyond his DVM, his existence merits a boast. He is tall, lean, and muscular, with curly brown hair and eyes that change from green to blue and back again. Also, he’s a great vet. As if all that weren’t enough, he goes out of his way not to create housework and sometimes even helps with it. At the moment, he was unloading the dishwasher.
    â€˜They’re here,’ I said. ‘So if you don’t want Buck joining you or feeling left out, don’t mention it yourself. Don’t mention Grant’s Camps. Don’t even mention the Rangeley area.’
    My father’s moose-like bellow from the back hallway heralded his arrival. Although I’ve seen moose hundreds of times, they are always bigger than I expect, and thus it is with Buck, who didn’t just enter the kitchen but expanded as if to fill it and squeeze the rest of us out. ‘Where are your dogs?’ Buck demanded. He knows perfectly well that malamutes steal food. He then compensated a little by getting India and Lady to offer their paws. Even Steve admits that Buck has a gift with dogs.
    â€˜Crated,’ I said. Then I hugged Gabrielle. She usually rebounds quickly from the trying experience of being incarcerated in a vehicle with my father, but her recuperative powers evidently weren’t yet asserting themselves. She is a remarkably pretty woman, plumper than she would like to be, but in my father’s eyes, deliciously voluptuous. The incredible bone structure of her face usually diverts attention from the damage the sun has done to her skin, but she now looked pale and tired, and the ash blonde of her hair cast grayish shadows on her eyes. For once, she wasn’t carrying her bichon, the fluffy little white Molly, who scampered across the floor to greet India and Lady.
    â€˜Are you OK?’ I whispered to Gabrielle.
    â€˜Later,’ she murmured. Her rich, throaty voice sounds beautiful even when it’s barely audible.
    Meanwhile, my father was belatedly greeting Leah and Steve, which is to say that he was booming at them. Although he sounded jovial, within minutes he was going to get after Leah for having chosen Tufts over Cornell and Penn, and either before or after that, he’d irritate me by voicing his unsolicited opinion that Sammy was a better show dog than Rowdy. As I was mulling over the question of how Buck would irk Steve, the phone rang. Instead of letting the machine pick up, I took advantage of the welcome interruption. Without bothering to check caller ID, I answered.
    â€˜Is Vinnie there?’ a man’s voice asked. Or so I thought. Although Buck had lowered his volume, there was still some background noise.
    â€˜Sorry, I’m having trouble hearing you,’ I said. ‘Who?’
    â€˜Is Vinnie there?’ he repeated.
    Vinnie was my last golden retriever. She was the most wonderful competition obedience dog who ever lived, and she was as cooperative, intuitive, and close to flawless in daily life as she was in the ring. If