Just My Joe

“Yep,” Robert said, smiling. “Isn’t that a hoot? No ordinary canned dog food for that pooch. Today she’s having custom-made dog food and a few thin slices of medium-rare steak. Do you think she’d notice if I ate the steak?”

“She’d notice,” Nancy said. “Don’t you dare take one bite of that meat when it arrives.”

Catered restaurant meals for a poodle? Polly thought incredulously. How many of Joe Dillon’s students had ever had thinly sliced steak, or eaten in a place fancy enough to serve it? She’d never even dined in an establishment like that.

If the students at Abraham Lincoln High School knew about Pookie’s culinary delights, Joe would probably have a riot on his hands.

“Don’t...don’t you think that this nonsense about Pookie’s food is a bit much?” she asked.

Robert shrugged. “The Hendersons can afford it. Pookie is like a child to them. They never would have boarded her if it wasn’t for a family emergency back east. They’ve already called twice to check on their little darling. Once from the airport and then from the plane, thirty thousand feet up in the clouds.”

“Oh, good grief,” Polly said.

“I think it’s sweet,” Nancy said. “We see our share of abused and abandoned animals. The Hendersons love Pookie and have no qualms about letting it be known how they feel about her. There’s no harm in that.”

“But...” Polly began, then stopped speaking and pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. “Forget it. I have a killer headache, my mind is mush, and the events of this morning are a nightmare I intend to erase from my memory bank.”

“Go to lunch and take extra time,” Nancy said.

“Yes, all right,” Polly said. “I’ll get my brown bag from the refrigerator and go eat in the park. That ought to fix me right up.”

“Give me the bird, Joe,” Jazzy hollered.

“Oops,” Robert said, lifting Jazzy’s cage from the counter. “You’re going out of sight, Jazzy. Polly definitely has murder on her agenda in regard to you. Come on, I’ll give you a piece of apple.”

“Apple,” Jazzy repeated. “Apple and a bottle of beer.”

Robert left the reception area with the chattering bird.

“Polly, are you really all right?” Nancy asked, frowning. “You’re awfully pale.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, managing to produce a small smile. “This morning’s adventure was rather unsettling, that’s all. After some food and bit of peace and quiet in the park, I’ll be as good as new.”

The bell over the door chimed as someone entered the office.

“Oh, here’s Pookie’s lunch,” Nancy said.

“I’m gone.” Polly hurried away in the direction of the back room where her packed lunch was waiting in the refrigerator. “Thinly sliced steak? Cripes, I’m having peanut butter and jelly.”

Three

The next morning, Polly sat at the round wooden table placed in front of the windows at one end of her narrow kitchen.

Sipping from a mug of hot tea, she willed the brew to infuse her with energy, render her wide-awake and ready to face the new day with vigor and enthusiasm.

It didn’t work.

She plunked her elbows on the table, nestled her chin in her hands, then closed her eyes.

She was so-o-o tired, she thought. She’d hardly slept last night, had tossed and turned for hours. When she did manage to doze off she’d dreamed about Joe Dillon, the rotten bum.

In one of her dumb dreams, Joe had been decked out in a tuxedo and was waltzing with a six-foot macaw wearing a top hat. The bird was the same colors as Jazzy and she knew, just knew, that the trouble-making creature had been in subconscious cahoots with Joe to rob her of blissful, peaceful slumber.

But then the scene had shifted to a misty clearing in a wood. The trees had leaves of glittering silver that shimmered like a million stars.

Joe was still wearing the tuxedo, but this time she was his dance partner, emerging from the ring of magical trees in a gorgeous, full-length dress to step into his embrace.

Polly sighed wistfully as she allowed the dream to replay in her mind like a movie.

What an elegant couple they made as they waltzed to music that was floating over them from a source unknown.

Even now, in the light of the new day, she could remember the heat of passion that had suffused her in the dream, and could vividly recall the desire radiating from Joe’s compelling brown eyes as he kept his gaze riveted on her.

He’d dipped his head and she’d known, and gloried in the fact, that he was about to claim her lips in what would be a searing kiss.

Closer and closer his lips had come to hers. Closer and closer and then...

“I woke up,” Polly said, opening her eyes and smacking the table with the palm of one hand. “Drat. No, forget it. I wouldn’t want to kiss that grouchy, opinionated man anyway.”

Joe Dillon was a menace. He was totally disrupting her peace of mind. Granted, her quiet lunch in the park yesterday had soothed her jangled nerves regarding the angry outburst from the students at Lincoln high.

She understood why she’d upset those kids, although she still felt it wasn’t her fault. She should have been coached about what to say, or not say, before being thrown unprepared on the mercy of the Abraham Lincoln Grizzlies.

So, live and learn, and put the disastrous morning behind her. Fine. But as she’d left the pretty park to return to the office, the image of Joe came with her and refused to budge from her mental vision for the remainder of the day.

And the long, long hours of the night.

“Darn him,” Polly said.

She sipped some more tea, then swept her gaze over her small apartment. From where she was sitting she could see the living room, with its sofa, easy chair, rocker and television set. Out of her view was the bedroom and bathroom.

The sofa and chair were a splash of vibrantly colored flowers. The rocker was the one her mother had used to lull her babies to sleep.

This was usually one of her favorite times of the day in her little abode, she thought, with the morning sun streaming in the sparkling clean windows, touching everything with a warm, golden glow.

But not today.

Not with Joe Dillon still haunting her, seeming so close, so real, she might as well offer him a cup of tea.

Why? she thought, aware of a bubble of anger growing within her.

Why couldn’t she dismiss Joe Dillon, along with the memories of the fiasco at the school?

Why could she still feel that incredible heat that had suffused her when their hands had brushed against each other?

Why could she hear that rumbly, sexy chuckle of Joe’s, see those fathomless fudge-sauce-colored eyes, his wide shoulders, muscled legs and that—shame on her—gorgeous, tight tush?

Why was Joe Dillon having such a lingering, disturbing, sensual, ridiculous impact on her?