Lee Nichols - Hand-Me-Down

“That’s not all you’ve raised, Polliwog.” He called me that sometimes—his special love name for me, for reasons I refuse to divulge. He nuzzled my neck and put the money on my dresser. “Let me buy a gift with you. You know what Charlotte likes.”

I decided not to tell him I was already splitting a gift with Emily and that going three ways wouldn’t work, Emily being Emily. “I know what she likes,” I said. “And she has all of it.”

“Yeah?” he said, touching me. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a little something, myself.”

Rip left for work thirty minutes later, leaving me drowsing in post-coital contentment. I lay there a while, then went to open the kitchen door and release Ny. He followed me back to the bedroom, his claws clicking across the wood floor. I collapsed into bed and he eyed me dolefully.

“Don’t blame me,” I told him.

He stares when I have sex, intent and focused as a canine Kasparov trying to outthink Big Blue. I don’t mind—he’s just a dog, for God’s sake—but men seem to find it unnerving. I think they think he’s judging. Of course, Ny’s hardly in a position to judge, as the only action he gets is with the has-sock in Charlotte’s family room, but I still lock him in the kitchen when things heat up.

“It’s your own fault,” I said. “Pervert.”

He hopped onto the bed and licked my face.

The day was still bright and warm, and the next time I got out of bed, I smiled. No reason to live in paradise and not enjoy it. I had the morning off and plenty of time to walk Ny before shopping for Charlotte—for both the gifts I was splitting.

I showered and dressed and gulped two stale cups of the coffee Rip had brewed. He’d put the dinner dishes away, too, and probably would’ve made my bed if I hadn’t still been in it. He’s sort of terrific. But six months was scary—had it really been six months? We were closing in on my record.

“I dunno, fatboy,” I told Ny. “Maybe me and Rip are meant for each other. What do you say?”

Ny eyed me for a long moment, then farted. He craned his neck around, peering dubiously towards his tail, like, what was that?

“That was you,” I said. “Thanks for your input.”

We got in the truck and drove through the upper village in Montecito. We passed the Pharmacy, and I considered stopping for some scrambled eggs—it’s not just a pharmacy, it’s also a celebrity-magnet coffee shop. The story goes that one morning Michael Keaton looked up from his paper at the corner table, and caught Dennis Miller’s eye—he was at the counter—and the bell at the door jangled and in walks Michael Douglas. They all looked at each other and started laughing. They were the only three people in the store.

But if that’s true, who told the story? If celebrities meet in a forest, do they make a sound? Plus, there must’ve been someone working behind the counter. I guess he doesn’t count. Nothing like celebrity to render the non-famous invisible.

Ask me, I know.

So I didn’t stop. I drove up to Cypress Road and parked by the wooden fence. Beyond the fence, there’s a patch of woods and hill known only to dog-walkers, set behind and above the houses. It’s an unofficial off-leash trail, a one-mile loop. At the top there’s a view of the ocean, and although it’s a bit of a climb, the property is stunning. It would be a phenomenal place to build a house—or a whole neighborhood—and I figured the only reason it hadn’t been developed was because it was the forgotten edge of someone’s sprawling estate, or county land of some sort.

I opened the door and Ny leapt from the truck and anointed the wooden fence and the manzanita tree beyond. There was a rocky gully to the right, with olive-green live oaks, a few blooming yucca, and a halfhearted blanket of magenta ice plant.

Ny startled a scrub jay, and barked happily as it flew away. An answering bark sounded from up the trail, and he cocked his head for a moment before bolting out of sight.

I followed the path around the hill and saw him playing with a yellow Lab named Tag. I knew the dog—and her owner. But I didn’t know Tag’s owner’s name, even though we met at least once a week and knew intimate details of each other’s dog’s lives. He was a middle-aged man with a long, patrician face who always seemed slightly surprised.

“Mornin’,” I said.

He glanced at the sky. “Beautiful day.”

“Sure is.”

We watched the dogs play for a minute. “Did you see the sign?” he asked.

“What sign?”

“Down at the bottom. For Sale. They’re selling the land.”

“This? Here? They can’t be!”

“Already on the market.” He seemed to take gloomy satisfaction in the bad news. “Lot for sale. Nine acres.”

“I didn’t even know it was private property.”

“A shame to see it go.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s what the sign said. Villa Real Estate.”

I knew the name—a Montecito-based company we hadn’t worked with much. They were a small office, just a broker and two agents, who mostly did commercial stuff.

I glowered. There weren’t many places in Santa Barbara for off-leash dogs. It was a pretty anti-dog town, which made me gnash my teeth. I mean, all the Santa Barbara dog owners I knew were religious about poop-scooping. There were even two guys who went around with extra bags to pick up strange dog-poop, which I believe in many countries is illegal.

“There’s always Butterfly Beach,” he said sadly.

“Not at high tide.”

Tag and her owner said goodbye, and Ny and I continued through the purple and white wildflowers lining the trail. The colors were often muted from dust, but it rained last night, leaving the world fresh and clean. At the top of the trail was a messy meadow with wild lavender and a riot of California poppies, and it was vibrant this morning. A hawk was circling above and bees were busily feeding, and Ny was adorable romping among the flowers and tall grass. I loved spring in Santa Barbara—way better than summer. I walked to the edge of a small overhang. The ocean sparkled in the distance, like it was winking at me.

Ny flopped at my feet, his spotted tongue hanging three feet from his mouth, like a cartoon wolf ogling a woman. I said, “Cool down, sailor,” and fed him some water and caught myself gibbering baby-talk at him. I glanced furtively toward the meadow, but I was alone. Thank God. Nothing’s more embarrassing than being overheard declaring your undying love to your dog. And was it normal that the only males to whom I’ve ever said “I love you” were my father and my dog?

Was it normal that I could neither commit to a man or a career?

I used to think I was missing the ambition gene, but actually it’s the success gene. Specifically the “fame and fortune at a young age” gene which my sisters got in such abundance. One famous for her beauty, the other for her brains. I wasn’t as beautiful as Charlotte or as clever as Emily—though I was prettier than Emily and smarter than Charlotte. So what was left for me—to be famous for my spirituality? Sports? My personality?

Great. My idea of spirituality is a chocolate éclair, my only sport is dog-walking, and my personality is composed of one part sibling rivalry and two parts vague dissatisfaction.

Ny barked and startled me from my self-indulgent gloominess. I was standing on a California mountain overlooking the ocean on a beautiful morning. I had a good man, a steady job and a loving family. It was time to stop whining about Charlotte and Emily.

Well, except I had to pick up Charlotte’s gifts and be back to work by noon. Maybe I’d stop whining tomorrow.

Tazza Antiques, scourge of all things new and improved, was located in El Paseo, a slightly old-world marketplace downtown. Traditional Spanish architecture and winding adobe hallways led to quaint gift shops and jewelry stores. It was old-world meets tourist trap. There were a few good restaurants, though—the always-delicious Wine Cask, the cheesy-but-fun Mexican restaurant—and a couple gift stores worth the visit, plus a scattering of offices on the second floor. Natives rarely entered the place, but Emily and Charlotte had stopped at the Wine Cask to buy a few bottles of wine, and had window-shopped the antiques store as they passed.