Characters in Laurie

Bernadette, the hostess, was particularly taken with her. “That face,” she always said, as if that explained everything. She would kneel beside Laurie, which gave Lloyd an excellent and always appreciated view of her cleavage. “Oooh, that face!” Laurie accepted this attention, but did not seem to crave it.

Some things never changed. “Pack your bags,” he said, “we’re going on one of Beth Young’s all-expenses-paid guilt trips.” She shut the fridge and came back into the living room. The puppy glanced at her, then resumed her inspection of Lloyd.

Seeing Don Pitcher hunched over his fancy mahogany cane and hauling at his truss always gave Lloyd a small but unmistakable frisson of mean satisfaction. The man was a jukebox of tiresome political opinions, and also an unapologetic gore-crow. If anyone in the neighborhood died, Don knew it first.

“Because of the dog?” “Yes. Mostly that.” “You should call your sister and thank her,” Albright said. Lloyd thought that was a good idea. He called her that evening and did so. Beth told him he was very, very welcome. Lloyd took Laurie down to the beach and walked her.

For Don it was Christmas or bust. Evelyn came out on the Pitchers’ back deck. She was wearing a misbuttoned pink wrapper, there was some kind of whitish-yellow cream smeared on her cheeks, and her hair was every whichway.

They sat in the kitchen, and the warden, whose name was Gibson, accepted a glass of iced tea. Laurie enjoyed smelling his boots and pants cuffs for awhile, then curled up under the table. “We caught the gator,” Gibson said. “You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Sunderland.

“Absolutely not. Jim’s allergic.” “Bethie, you have two cats. He’s not allergic to them?” “Yes. He is. And the cats are enough. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll just take that puppy to the animal shelter in Pompano Beach. They give them three weeks before they euthanize them.

“Laurie.” “Why Laurie?” “I don’t know. It just came to me.” “Well,” she said, “that’s all right.” Laurie followed them into the kitchen. Waddling.

… months after his wife of forty years died, Lloyd Sunderland’s sister drove from Boca Raton to Rattlesnake Key to visit him. She brought with her a dark gray puppy which she said was a Border Collie–Mudi mix. Lloyd had no idea what a Mudi was, and didn’t care. “I don’t …

… her six-month checkups—very proactive in all things, was Marian Sunderland—but the tumor that first robbed her of her intelligence and then killed her had been beyond proactivity. It hatched too deep inside. A glioblastoma, Lloyd thought, was God’s idea of a .45 caliber bullet. “Pretty well,” Lloyd said. “Sleeping again.