Larkspur Dreams

Ten


The phone rang, making her jump. Again. That’s it. I’m going to turn down the volume on that thing.

She decided not to rush to the phone but instead let the answering machine pick it up. But when she heard Skelly’s panic-stricken voice, she jumped up from the couch and sped to the phone. In doing so, her left heel caught on the hem of her gown. She knew she could either let it rip or fall hard on her hands and face. In a split second decision, she righted herself, letting the silk rip. What an unhappy sound. Lark cringed.

By the time she’d gotten to the phone, Skelly had hung up. But she’d heard enough of the dilemma. Her beloved pet, Picasso, was out on the loose again, like a fugitive duck, nourishing Skelly’s garden without his permission. Picasso was a true escape artist. She should have named him Houdini. Okay, so what could she do now?

Better assess the damage on my dress first. Not bad. Fortunately, she had some tiny safety pins to fix it with. As she reached into the kitchen junk drawer she got an idea. Just a little idea. But it had potential. I could just lift up my gown, go out on my driveway, and call to Picasso. I’ll bet I can get him to come back in with just a gentle reprimand.

Since she’d once shamed Picasso back into his pen with a shake of her finger and a scowl, she felt confident of her plan. She swung open the front door, and sure enough, there was Picasso happily scurrying away from Skelly as he tried to coax him in the other direction.

Okay, I can do this. Lark raised her skirts and headed outside, scuttling like a crab in her high heels. No need for a coat. She’d only be out for a minute.

Even though it was already dark outside, the streetlights illuminated the whole area. Once she’d made it to the end of her driveway, she decided to try the soft approach first. “Picassooo. Sweeety. Come on in now. You’ve had your fun outing.”

Picasso got one glance at Lark and headed toward Timbuktu. He quacked and waddled down the street so swiftly, he’d be out of sight before long. And just when I’m about to have the date of my life. Oh well, it can’t get any worse.

“Oh, all dressed up,” Skelly hollered. “Hate to get your pretty duds all messed up. I can chase after him.”

Skelly’s face appeared flushed as if he’d been trying to corral Picasso for some time.

“No, please don’t. You know what the doctor said about your heart.”

But in spite of her cautions to him, Skelly marched down the middle of the street, his elbows swinging as he called out Picasso’s name.

Then she remembered a trick she’d used with her first pet duck. Yes. She needed the convincing boom of the megaphone she’d used in her college cheerleading days. It was at least worth a try. She clattered on her heels back up to the house, found the megaphone on the bottom shelf of the entry closet, and clopped back down the driveway. Lark flipped the switch on the horn, and it squeaked to life. Suddenly like magic, she remembered the roar of the crowd from high school—the students she’d revved up to a feverish pitch. The rush of winning. She wondered if she still had it in her. She lifted the megaphone to her mouth and announced, “Okay. Picasso. This is Lark speaking. Let’s bring yourself on home now. You can do this, Picasso. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go!”

As if on some unexplainable cue, Picasso stopped in mid-waddle in the center of the street. He turned around, lowered his head, and began his descent from rapture. Skelly turned around, shrugging his shoulders at her. Then he laughed until his whole body quaked.

Hey. Kind of fun, but I hope Everett isn’t watching. Probably wouldn’t come off too romantic, all gussied up in velvet and rhinestones while hollering at a duck through a megaphone.

When Picasso toddled up to her, she reached down to stroke his neck. He felt as soft as her velvet. “Okay, little guy. Come on. I don’t know how you got out of your cage again, but you have got to stop this. Your home is so nice and woodsy.” Lark continued to murmur soft assurances as she lured him into the backyard. “It’s full of your favorite treats. Isn’t that right?” She reached inside the backdoor and flipped on all the backyard lights.

Picasso looked back at her with a darling expression. Ducks are so cute. She was such a sucker. But Picasso knew the fun ride was over. “Yes, sweetie. Time to go home.” She closed the gate and secured it with extra heavy wire. There. Mission accomplished.

But somewhere in leading Picasso to the backyard, she’d forgotten to keep the flowing silk of her skirt draped over her arm. She hesitated, but knew she’d have to make an assessment. Slowly she moved her gaze downward. Some of the trim of her gown was splattered with muddy snow and white gooey duck drippings. “Picasso! You scalawag! You have ruined my first, and now probably my last, date with Everett.”

As if knowing his guilt, Picasso began quacking anxiously around in his home.

“It’s okay,” Lark said. “Well, no, it isn’t.” She lowered her head, wondering how things could have gone so wrong so quickly.

The wind had picked up, and as always she had no coat on. She shivered as she trudged back toward the house. She could always put on another gown and shoes. But it wouldn’t match her jewelry and eye shadow. Get a grip, Lark. You’ve never cared about that sort of thing in your life. Guess I need to call Calli and have her slap me around to knock some sense into me. It’s what friends are for after all.

Okay. Focus. Another gown? What time is it? With lightning speed, she hurried into the kitchen and looked at the clock. Six twenty-nine. She had sixty seconds. Oh dear.

The doorbell rang. She popped in the powder room to look in the mirror. Yikes. She winced. Her hair looked like she’d been riding on the back of Jeremy’s motorbike. For hours. She slogged to the door, opened it, and waited to hear how many creative excuses Everett could come up with as to why their date should be postponed. . .forever.