Ferguson left his station at the grill and stalked Matt's hot dog.
Lizabeth watched a pack of kids run across the yard. "If I stopped playing Monopoly with you at night, would you go home?"
"Nope. I'm protecting you from the flasher."
"I think the flasher's retired."
"Why do you want me to go home? Elsie likes me. The kids like me. Ferguson likes me." He reached out and tenderly ran his fingertip along the line of Lizabeth's jaw. "I think you like me too."
"Oh yeah? What makes you think I like you?"
"You did my laundry yesterday."
Lizabeth shrugged. "I had nothing better to do, I got home from work early, and I thought I'd clean up the laundry room."
"Yes, but you bleached my sweat socks, and you used fabric softener on my T-shirts."
A smile spread through her before she could catch it. He was right. She'd actually stood there yesterday, fondling his socks, wondering if they were soft enough and white enough.
"Four days ago you told me you loved me. You said every day you loved me a little bit more. Is that still true?"
Lizabeth sighed. "Yes. But that doesn't mean I want to get married. We've been all through this."
"I keep hoping one of these times I'll understand. So far it hasn't made much sense to me." He set his hot dog on a plate and helped himself to potato salad. Ferguson moved with lightning speed and grabbed the frankfurter. "That dog is going to need his stomach pumped before the day is over."
"He's just a puppy."
"He weighs a hundred and thirteen pounds."
Lizabeth was distracted by a man on the far side of the dessert table. She didn't know his name, but his face was familiar. He was one of those people you periodically run into in the supermarket or at the dry cleaner. He reminded her somewhat of Paul, with his bland, pleasant smile and calculated postures. A lawyer, she decided- probably trust. He wore new docksiders, khaki slacks, and a white button-down shirt. He was in his early thirties, she thought, and a little soft around the edges. He acknowledged Emma and Al Newsome, poured himself a glass of soda, said hello to the Hoopers, and continued to move through the crowd. The whole while he moved, his eyes kept returning to Lizabeth.
An uneasy feeling rolled in her stomach. It was the flasher. If someone had asked her how she knew, she wouldn't have been able to tell them. She simply knew. She waved and he waved back. A small, hesitant wave with just his fingertips. They stared at each other for a long, embarrassed moment. Now that she'd seen him she was dying to ask him why. Why would he do such a weird thing? Why had he chosen her? Why had he stood there in the rain? She should confront him, she thought, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. He'd always seemed remote and harmless in his paper-bag mask, standing in a small circle of light on the other side of her window. Now that she saw him as a person she admitted Matt had been right. She knew nothing about this man. He was real. He had thoughts and obsessions and problems. He could be crazy. He could be mean. He could be dangerous.
She Instinctively moved closer to Matt. He was a safe place in a crazy world. He was the friend she could always count on. He had common sense and strong arms, and he loved her. She took a step backward, coming in contact with his big, hard body. "'Oops," she said. "Sorry." And then she blushed, because she'd intentionally bumped into him.
Matt brushed his hand along the nape of Lizabeth's neck. There hadn't been any lovemaking since Elsie and the boys had returned, and he ached to touch Lizabeth. Her skin was warm and silky, her hair caressed the back of his hand, and he suddenly felt choked with desire. He didn't care about Ferguson or potato salad. He cared about Lizabeth. And he wondered about the man on the far side of the dessert table who kept staring at her. "You know that guy?"
"No."
"He waved to you."
"Mmmm. Well, that's because I waved first. I've been trying to find the flasher. Checking out everybody's wave."
"And?"
"He waves like him… but I don't know." It was an innocent fib, she thought. If she told Matt the man was the flasher he'd punch him in the nose, or he'd break all his bones. Maybe he'd do both.
Matt slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. "He's the right size. And he's the right age."
"Mmmm." Lizabeth let herself relax into him. They were at a party and they were supposed to be married. And she wanted to indulge herself, even if It was just for a moment. She'd kept him at arm's length for the past few days, but her heart wasn't in it. The truth is, she wanted Matt Hallahan like she'd never wanted anything in her life, and she was feeling downright deprived.
"Doesn't look like a flasher, though," Matt said. "He looks kind of wimpy."
Lizabeth smiled. "What does a flasher look like?"
"He looks like a crazed maniac. He's a man obsessed. He drools and his eyes get big as duck eggs and bulge out of his head."
"I don't see anyone here who fits that description."
Matt gave her a squeeze. "Another week of sleeping on your couch, and I'm going to be the most crazed maniac anyone has ever seen."
"Just what this neighborhood needs-another maniac."
He kissed the back of her neck. "So what about you? Are you feeling maniacal yet?"
"Nope. Not me."
"Liar."
Elsie came over. "Who's the wimpy yuppie behind the brownies? He keeps staring at you two."
"He's staring at Lizabeth," Matt said. "She waved to him."
"Oh yeah? He wave back? He don't look like a pervert, but then you never know. Maybe I should go have a talk with him."
A wave of new guests arrived, bringing more potato salad and brownies, and someone brought a ham. It was semi-boneless in an orange glaze, dotted with pineapple slices and maraschino cherries. It was placed on the potato salad table, and before the first piece could be sliced away, Ferguson galloped in and snatched the entire ham.
Elsie, Matt, and Lizabeth saw the whole thing. "Ferguson!" they shouted in unison.
Ferguson dashed through the crowd with the ham firmly stuffed into his mouth. He dodged Matt and sprinted past John Gaspitch. He knew where he was going. He always took the same escape route. Down Gainsborough to the Wainstock house, then through the Wainstocks' backyard to the patch of woods between Gainsborough and High Street.
"Get that dog!" Elsie shouted.
A dozen children ran after Ferguson.
Ferguson loped across the side yard, ran between two cars parked at the curb, and bolted into the street. There was the sound of screeching tires, and a yelp, and then there was silence.
"Oh God," Lizabeth whispered. She was running, without thinking. Matt was ahead of her.
She reached the road and Jason threw himself into her arms. "Mom! We were chasing Fergie, and he got hit." Tears were streaming down his face, leaving smeary tracks In little boy's grime. He buried his face in her chest and sobbed, and she looked past him to the inert form lying on the road.
"Oh Fergie," she whispered. He was just a puppy. Big and foolish and homely. And she'd loved him.
Children sought out parents. Everyone stood in hushed knots, waiting.
Matt and Billy were bent over the dog. Billy's voice wobbled. "He isn't going to die, is he?" he asked.
The dog was unconscious. Blood was clotted on his hind leg. Matt stroked the dog's shoulder. Damn stupid dog, he thought. More trouble than he was worth. Stealing food, ruining soccer balls. "Jeez, Ferguson," he said, "why did you have to run off with the ham?" He swallowed back the emotion clogging his throat and burning behind his eyes.
Billy huddled closer to Matt and repeated his question. "He isn't going to die. Is he?"
Matt took a deep breath and pushed the possibility of death away. "Are you kidding? Ferguson's too ornery to die. Hell, this dog is strong. He can eat a whole pot roast. We're going to take him to the vet. You stay here and keep him quiet while I go get the truck." He found Lizabeth standing on the curb. "Get a blanket. We're taking Ferguson to the vet."