Lost and Found

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

“Sometimes walking around this lake is no different than walking around downtown,” Flynn grumbled. “It’s just as crowded.” His gaze roamed over the relatively bucolic setting of Green Lake Park, with its pine-tree and mountain-studded views, its glassy greenish-blue surface, and its hordes of strollers, runners, rollerbladers, and bikers along its crowded trail. He stepped aside to let a spandex-clad gaggle of young moms with running strollers pass by.

Clara rejoined him on the path after stapling yet another “Lost Dog” poster to yet another tree. Flynn had done all the design work, so Clara insisted on doing all the legwork. “Yes, but it’s my exercise—for the week.” She giggled.

“You know you’re going to need to do more than this to burn off those pancakes we’ll have later.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about burning off anything!” Clara argued. “Look at me.” She twirled in front of him.

And Flynn did and was amazed once more at how dainty she was. One thing he’d always liked about his best friend was her ability to put food away. She could eat like a lumberjack with no regard for low carb, vegan, low fat, or, really, for any healthy alternatives. Clara’s loves included, but were not limited to, bacon cheeseburgers from Red Mill (with a milkshake and a side of onion rings), Top Pot doughnuts (maple long johns a particular favorite), pies from A la Mode over in Phinney Ridge (the Bourbon Butterscotch was top on her list), and hot turkey sandwiches with french fries, all smothered in gravy, at the Mecca in lower Queen Anne. The woman and food had a running lifelong love affair, and the thing was—it worked. Flynn had to laugh every time he shared a meal with Clara, not because she ate so much, but because she was so tiny. If Clara ever topped one hundred pounds, Flynn would have been stunned to hear it. She was all of five feet tall, and Flynn guessed she weighed somewhere around ninety-eight pounds. Her hair was the biggest thing on her—a black upsweep reminiscent of girl groups of the 1960s or, more recently, the late Amy Winehouse. She favored heavy eye makeup and vintage dresses she found in thrift stores and consignment shops. She said she liked to think of her fashion sense as “modern-day Bettie Page.” Worst of all? The most exercise she got, Flynn swore, was lifting a fork or a cocktail glass to her mouth.

Flynn loved her just the same. Even if he had to run five miles a day and watch his carbohydrate and sugar intake just to maintain his one hundred and sixty-five pounds.

Clara’s eating and exercise regimen was what, Flynn suspected, made her unpopular with her fellow females. None of whom seemed to be able to stand her, despite her being as “sweet as pie,” as she herself was quick to say.

They’d made their way almost around the entire nearly three-mile circumference of the lake and hadn’t seen “Mike” or even a beagle, for that matter. Clara had been great about tacking up posters and even handing them out to cute guys she encountered on the trail. Flynn knew she was allowing him to focus on looking for his dog. It would be awful if Mike and Hamburger strolled by while he was tacking a notice to a tree.

As they slowed at returning to their starting point, dejection overcame Flynn. Outside he’d scoffed at Clara’s prediction he’d find Barley today, but inside, a soft part of him, a child really, wanted to believe. That little boy clung to the hope.

There’d been so many dogs passing them too! It was a sunny morning in July, and one of Seattle’s favorite spots for dogs and their humans to congregate on weekend days like this one—when the sun was a big butterscotch candy in a blue sky free of clouds—was Green Lake. He and Clara had passed mutts, boxers, French bulldogs, Boston terriers, Maltese…They’d seen just about every breed, Flynn thought, recognized by the American Kennel Club. They’d been off leash and on. Shy and aggressive. Relieving themselves with impunity. Chasing after ducks.

But there hadn’t been one beagle and certainly no Barley. The other day now seemed like a dream to Flynn. Had he just made it up? Was the meeting with the redhead and the beagle a hallucination, born of Flynn’s deep-seated desire to be reunited with his furry best friend?

Today it didn’t seem so hard to believe that his hungry imagination had simply conjured up a soothing scenario.

No. Of course he hadn’t imagined it. But maybe imagining he had imagined it made it easier to bear the disappointment of not seeing Barley again at the scene of the crime, as it were.

“We’ll find him,” Clara repeated. She’d fed him the same line at least half a dozen times since they’d met up in the parking lot across the road an hour and a half ago.

Flynn felt bitter. He wished he hadn’t offered to go to brunch with Clara. He just wanted to go home and, like a dog, lick his wounds. “Oh, what do you know?” he snapped.

Clara took a step back. Her face crumpled a bit. In spite of the brazen look she cultivated, she was a little girl inside, easily hurt. Flynn knew this and yet hadn’t censored himself. He felt like a heel. He reached out a hand to gently touch her arm. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean that. I’m just, I don’t know, disappointed. In spite of the odds, I really thought we’d find him. I believed it, like you told me to.”

Clara pulled away and smiled uncertainly. “Well, I didn’t guarantee it would happen this morning.”

Flynn thought she had, in actuality. But he wasn’t about to mention it.

They crossed the road toward their cars. Clara said, “Can we just walk to the restaurant? It’s such a beautiful day.”

“You know it’s a bit of a hike from here?”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to walk.”

Clara started away from him, and Flynn watched her. Although his desires went in the opposite direction from hers, he couldn’t help but be struck by her beauty. He felt this image of her, in a slightly yellowed white lace dress and sandals, tendrils of black hair blowing behind her as she headed toward Green Lake Road, would stay with him for a long time.

It crossed his mind that the image would stay with him because he so wanted something important to happen that morning.

It couldn’t, could it? That would be too easy. The real stuff—the important stuff—only happened after lots of effort and hard work. Right? His parents had endlessly reminded him of that fact growing up.

Flynn hurried to catch up.

Sure, Clara was right. He would find Barley and the man who’d appropriated him again one day. But it wouldn’t be by chance. It would only happen after hours of hard detective work on his and—if she was willing—Clara’s parts. Running down leads. Haunting shelters. Hanging out at various dog parks on the north side of town. Keeping an eye peeled, ever vigilant. That was how the world worked. That was how one got results.