“Well, hello there, Daniel.” She patted her bottle-blond hair that had been sprayed into place like the top of a soft-serve ice cream cone. “How’s a man doing today? I’m Susan, in case you don’t remember.”
He felt like he needed to say howdy. “ ’Afternoon.”
“You looking for lottery tickets?”
“No. I’m here for—”
“Because you look like a lucky man.”
“Do I?” He only tossed that out because he sensed there was a quota of back-and-forth required before you could buy anything. “I’m not sure I have an opinion one way or the other about my luck.”
Liar, he thought to himself.
“Maybe that’s why you’re lucky,” she said.
“How so.”
“Luck is like a cat.” Susan wagged her forefinger at him, as if she were correcting a child who should know better. “The more you go after it, the more it eludes you. You can chase what doesn’t want you, but you only catch what chooses to be in your palm.”
In his mind, he remembered that wolf stroking its fur on Lydia’s outstretched hands, her fingers tangling in its thick coat, her beautiful face luminous with the sadness she felt over a man who had probably deserved her love, but hadn’t gotten it.
Daniel was willing to bet she was blaming herself, like if she’d felt differently the vet would still be alive. Even though none of it was her fault.
“Or your wallet, as the case may be.”
He came back to attention. “What?”
“Your wallet is where you’d want that luck.”
“You’re right.” He pointed behind her, but not to the scratch offs that gleamed with foil details. “I’d like a pack of Marlboro reds.”
“Soft or hard?”
“Doesn’t matter—actually, make that two? And I need a lighter.”
“Does the color matter?”
“I need the reds. Not the light packs—”
“No, on the Bic. I got blue, green, yellow, red—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Susan chose a red one and swung back around on her stool. Instead of giving him the forty coffin nails and the flint flicker, she held them against her chest—in a way that made him look at her clothes. She had on a casual sweater that was pink and white, and pale blue jeans, and a tiny little silver watch that seemed too dainty for the rest of her. With her hair all coiffed, she was like someone who was going to a prom, but hadn’t changed into their flouncy dress yet.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
Daniel blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Look, I sell a lot of cigarettes to a lot of people. And the ones who have quit and are going back to ’em always buy two packs and a fresh lighter. If you were a constant smoker, you’d have plenty of half-filled Bics in your house, your car, all your pockets. And you’d be buying a carton. Or if you just needed something to tide you over until you got home? You’d only buy one pack and no lighter. But here you are—”
He put out a twenty dollar bill. “Will this cover it?”
“See? This is my point. If you were a regular smoker, you’d know how much they are. And no, it won’t.”
He took out another twenty. “This will cover it, then.”
Susan stared across the counter at him. “And if you were starting out, you’d sneak them from someone else.”
But at least she took his cash and gave him the cigarettes.
Daniel left before she could hand him his change.
Back at the WSP, Lydia gave the wolf a final stroke down his back and then she told him that she’d return at five to fix him dinner and make sure he was okay—as if he spoke English. Yet as she was reclosing the door, she met his eyes … and he knew. He knew she was not leaving him forever.
Then again, wolves were like that.
“Soon,” she promised. “You’ll be back out there very soon.”
Shutting things up tight, she locked the knob—
“Is it true, then?” a quiet voice said.
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment. Then she turned around to Candy. The older woman looked every bit her age, her face drooping, her hands worrying the collar of her button-down. Then the knit cuff of her sweater.
“Yes,” Lydia answered. “He’s gone.”
Candy’s composure was immediate, a mask of reserve settling over her features. Yet it was impossible not to reach out and put a hand on that shoulder. But what could Lydia say to make any part of it better?
She cleared her own throat. “I just …”
Where could she start? With what happened at the chain-link fence? Or maybe what it was like to go into that study and see Rick’s running shoes sticking out behind that desk.
How about the gunpowder smell? The blood?
“I don’t know what to say,” she sighed with defeat.
“He was a good vet,” Candy said.
“That’s just what I was telling the wolf.”
Candy broke away and went to the Plexiglas window to look into the pen. “Is he going to live?”