Killer Summer by Lynda Curnyn (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

phone, but even that was becoming hopeless. Maybe I would run into him. He did live near this park, as did I, which was probably why I’d agreed to meet with Adelaide at the run on such short notice. But right now I had more important things to worry about than Adelaide and her dog tribe. Besides, she was starting to become a bit obsessive about this documentary. I had given her what I had thought were the final edits last week only to receive a call from her yesterday— she felt we needed more footage of the dogs “frolicking,” as she put it, in the dog run.

“Zoe, we’re reeeaaadddy!” came the now familiar trill.

I looked up to see that two more women had joined them in the run. And three more dogs. All King Charles spaniels. So much for variety, I thought, studying the women as I approached, camera in hand. They all looked to be sixty or over, and they were kinda dressed alike in pastel sweater sets paired with skirts or, for the more daring of the set, capris. Maybe this was some kind of club.

Adelaide gave me a brittle smile as I stepped before the group. Not that she was mad at me. I’ve since learned it’s the only smile Adelaide knows how to give. Could be the lipstick job—a soft pink that exceeded the lipstick line. Or the facelift. I could practically see the scars beneath that blue-gray salon coif of hers.

But she was all class, that Adelaide. Old money. The brown-stone-on-the-park level of money. “Zoe, dear, it appears everyone is here now. We can begin,” she said, her dark eyes gleaming at me, as if this news should excite me as much as it apparently did her.

She raised one sweater-clad arm gracefully, gesturing to the small crowd she had assembled. “Everyone, this is Zoe Keller.” Then she went around the circle and introduced all her friends, as well as their dogs. I noticed one of the women—Beatrice, I think her name was—lift a worried hand to her cheek as she looked at me, her expression pained. I’d been getting that look for days, despite the fact that the burn had simmered down somewhat. I lifted the camera in front of my face, more to hide than anything else, as Adelaide instructed everyone to let their dogs off the leash and “act natural.”

As I watched the women flutter about, snapping off leashes and cooing at their dogs and each other, I wondered if that was possible.

What a crowd. Whoo-hoo. Let’s make a movie. I turned the camera on, but things didn’t get any better on my viewing screen. We needed more dogs—like other kinds of dogs. This film almost seemed politically incorrect, in terms of equal opportunity for canines. No wonder Adelaide had wanted to come to the dog run in the middle of the day when no one else was there, dog Nazi that she is.

After about ten minutes, I knew I had enough footage of the dog run for about ten documentaries. Still, I kept filming, if only not to hear Adelaide complain.

Where was Adelaide anyway? I thought, realizing that all her friends stood clapping and cooing at their dogs in the run, but that Adelaide was somewhere off-camera.

I heard a muffled sob behind me and, lowering the camera, I turned around.

To find dear old Adelaide standing behind me, an embroidered handkerchief crushed to her mouth and tears rolling down her face.

“Adelaide?”

She waved a hand at me dismissively. “Have you got enough?”

“I think so.” I stepped closer, reaching out to touch her arm, until I remembered what a tough old bird Adelaide was. But she didn’t look so tough now.

“Adelaide, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, despite the fresh tears that rolled down her softly wrinkled cheeks.“I just didn’t expect this to be so hard. Seeing all these dogs, so much like my Fifi.”

She muffled a sob and finally I did put an arm around her.

“It’s just so hard letting go,” she said into her handkerchief.

I gave her a comforting squeeze. Didn’t I know it.

Much as I wanted to sit in the falafel shop all day, there was no way I could eat another falafel. I hadn’t even been all that hungry for the first one, I’ll admit. But the falafel here are so good, and I needed something comforting after my harrowing afternoon in the dog run with Adelaide.

Of course, I had finished my falafel a half hour ago and had now resorted to reading the specials posted on the wall. Okay, so maybe the only reason I was sitting for almost an hour in this tiny little restaurant on Thompson Street was because two stories above me was Myles’s apartment.

He had to come down some time, right? Besides, he loved falafel. We ate enough of it together when we were at his place.

Maybe he had gotten a job. That would explain why he wasn’t around on a Tuesday afternoon. But Myles was waiting on a job in the Manhattan D.A’s. office, and that position wasn’t due to open up until fall. He was a shoo-in for the job, considering he had graduated this past spring from NYU Law with high honors and had interned last summer in the Suffolk County D.A.‘s office. When we broke up, he had been planning to take the summer off.

Of course, he’d also been planning to forgo a share at the beach. So what did I know?

With a sigh, I stood up, grabbing my knapsack and waving to the sole owner and falafel maker at the back of the store. “Take care, Ahmed.”

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

Well, at least Ahmed was still talking to me.

Once I stood out front of the restaurant, I slid my knapsack on my back and looked up, seeking out Myles’s window on the third floor.

Was he even up there?

“Zoe?”

I startled, turning to find Myles standing next to me, looking tan and adorable in a T-shirt and jeans, and a bit surprised.

As