A Very Perry Wedding by Marie Landry
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Have you recovered from our Thanksgiving adventures?”
“I feel as if I should be asking you that,” Jasper says. “I’m used to the Perry chaos.”
I laugh. ‘The Perry chaos’ pretty much sums it up. The rest of Thanksgiving was just as loud and hectic as the beginning was. That didn’t stop the pang of sadness when Gwen and Evan said it was time to leave, though. Despite knowing they wanted—and needed—a proper day off to themselves, I couldn’t help wishing we were spending one more night in Toronto. Even if it meant having to sleep on Jasper’s couch.
Now it’s Wednesday, and Jasper and I are heading for our mystery destination. Gwen and Evan are doing some last-minute wedding prep stuff and will be joining us later this afternoon for Jasper’s surprise.
“I thoroughly enjoyed myself,” I tell Jasper. “Although I did sleep in until almost noon on Monday, which is pretty much unheard of for me.”
“I slept in too,” Jasper says. “Hadley startled me awake checking to see if I was still alive.” Lips twitching, his eyes leave the road for a second to look at me when I let out a snort of laughter. “I expected everyone to leave after the three of you set out for Bellevue. Malcolm and Sherée were in no hurry, though, and even Lina was quite content to stay. It was wonderful having them there. Having them want to be there.”
My heart swells at the hint of wonder in his voice. Casually hanging out with his siblings must have been a dream come true for him. “That’s great, Jasper.”
He smiles, keeping his eyes on the road now. “I actually wanted to thank you.”
“Me? What for?”
“Well, for so many of our conversations these last few weeks, but especially the one we had Saturday night. Sharing my worries about things changing and my family distancing themselves lessened the fear. And it better prepared me for a conversation my siblings and I had on Sunday night…”
He trails off and I give him a minute. By now, I know he occasionally needs time to collect his thoughts and figure out the best way to say something.
“Somehow the topic of Christmas came up,” he says. “I think I must have tensed up because Malcolm and Sherée shared a look with each other, then with my sisters.” He takes a deep breath and gives his head a little shake. “I’ll give you the short version: Malcolm said that while they still want us to spend Christmas together as a family, they don’t think it’ll be feasible to go away this year with Elizabeth being so young and them wanting to stick to a routine. They’d also like to start some new traditions of their own, while staying true to the overall Perry traditions. He also pointed out Gwen and Evan will be newlyweds and might want some time on their own over the holidays. He suggested we do all the things we’ve always done, but spread them out over the month of December. He was inspired by Evan and Gwen’s pre-wedding plans: smaller, more flexible events rather than one big affair.”
“That sounds fun.” I say it cautiously because his tone and expression have remained neutral, not giving away how he feels about this development.
“It does.” He turns to me briefly, giving me a glimpse of the bright smile overtaking his face. “It really does. Spreading it out means getting to see more of my siblings, and that’s something I’ve always longed for.”
“I’m so happy for you, Jasper.” I want so badly to reach out and touch him. To lay my hand on his shoulder or thigh, give a gentle, affectionate squeeze. I clasp my hands in my lap to keep them to myself.
“I’m happy too,” he says. “I’ve been so rigid in wanting things to be a certain way. Despite all the changes with my siblings in the last year, I feared the growing closeness was fleeting, especially as most of them move into new phases of their lives. But change is a part of life, as you said. It’s necessary for growth; I see that now. You’d think I’d have learned that lesson before the age of forty, yet here we are.” He laughs softly, shaking his head.
My left hand develops a mind of its own, breaking free from where it’s clasped in my lap, and settling on Jasper’s forearm. At first, his only reaction is a barely-there twitch of his lips. Then his left hand releases the steering wheel and moves to cover mine. He squeezes my fingers, meeting my eyes for a second before returning his attention to the road and his hand to the steering wheel.
About an hour and a half into our trip, we stop at a Tim Hortons for a bathroom and coffee break. We’ve been heading steadily north and, since I’ve never ventured in this direction, I have no idea where we are. The drive has been beautiful so far: endless stretches of fields and farmland mixed with quaint villages, all of which boast a plethora of trees donning their autumn best. I’ve had to stop myself at least a dozen times from begging Jasper to pull over so I could take pictures. I do snap a few shots of the nearby forest before we hop back in the car and get moving again, though.
“Do I get any hints yet about where we’re going?” I ask as we return to the highway. This isn’t the first time I’ve posed the question, although Jasper has remained tight-lipped every time.
“Nope. But I can tell you we’re a little over halfway there.”
“And you won’t even give me a hint about what we’re doing? Shouldn’t I be prepared if I’m going to help you?”
“Nice try, Ms. Stewart. We’ll have plenty of time to set up before my brother and Gwen arrive. In fact—” His words cut off abruptly and his arm flies out across my chest as he slows the car. I brace myself for impact, my gaze flying from him to the road. But there’s nothing in the road. Not a car in sight.
“What just happened?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“My apologies,” he says, slowing the car more and pulling onto the gravel shoulder. “I didn’t mean to startle you. There was…” He peers into the rearview mirror and then jerks around to look out the back window. Movement catches my eye in the side mirror and I turn to see a short-legged, floppy-eared dog loping toward the car.
“Is that a basset hound?” I ask.
“I believe so,” Jasper says. “It was running in the middle of the road.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. The dog has reached the car by the time Jasper gets around to the back. “Hello there,” I hear him say through the open door. “It’s poor form to go running down the middle of the highway, you know.”
Stifling a laugh, I get out of the car and join man and dog. The dog—who appears quite elderly and is so fat his stomach almost brushes the ground—gives a deep ‘woof’ as Jasper bends to pet him. When he spots me, he abandons Jasper and comes over, plopping down on my booted feet.
“Your new friend there doesn’t have any tags,” Jasper says.
“He’s too well-fed to be a stray, wouldn’t you say?” I ask, stooping to run my hands over the dog’s long, silky ears.
Jasper makes a sound of agreement. He turns in a slow circle, shading his eyes from the early afternoon sun. “No houses on this stretch, unless they’re set way back from the road. I suppose we could put him in the car and drive until we find a house, see if they know where this guy belongs.”
“And if they don’t know?” I ask.
Jasper shrugs. “We’ll figure that out if the time comes.” He goes around to the back door on the passenger side and opens it. I expect the dog to hesitate or maybe make a run for it, but he follows Jasper and clambers into the backseat. Jasper closes the door, murmuring something about dog hair all over his nice clean car and hoping the animal doesn’t have fleas. He opens my door and waits for me to get in before going around to his side.
Since the highway is currently deserted, Jasper drives at about half the speed limit, scanning the wooded area for hidden driveways or houses peeking through the trees. Despite attempting to help, I’m distracted by the dog, who has stuck his giant head between our seats and is alternately snuffling in my ear and trying to lick my face.
“Looks like Maynooth has a friend,” Jasper says.
“Who? What?” The dog has scrambled into the front seat and is now attempting to settle in my lap. I peer around him to see Jasper squinting at the road as he pulls the car over again.
“Since the dog doesn’t have a nametag and we’re currently in Maynooth, I thought it was a fitting name for him. And the ‘what’ is up ahead.”
I wrap my arms around the dog and make him sit so I can see over his head. And what I see is a nearly-identical dog bounding toward us. “Did I fall asleep after we left Tim Hortons and slip into the most bizarre dream ever?”
“I’m afraid not.” Jasper winces when a truck whizzes by us, causing the car to rock slightly. “Can you open your door? The traffic is picking up and I don’t think I can open mine safely.”
Gripping Maynooth tightly so he won’t leap out of the car, I open the door. The other dog is already waiting on the shoulder. He gives me a doggy smile and, without any prompting, hops into the space at my feet, settling on my boots and greeting me and his pup pal enthusiastically.
“No tags on this one either,” I tell Jasper.
The traffic is much heavier as we pull out onto the road once more. I give both dogs lots of pets and affirmations of love, trying not to think about the fate they might have suffered if we hadn’t found them. This highway is full of twists and bends, and it would be easy to miss a dog running in the road until it was too late.
Jasper points ahead at a break in the trees where there’s a barely-visible gravel driveway. He flips on his turn signal and slows the car, pulling into the lane and creeping along the tree-lined path. Once we’re past the thickest part of the trees, we can see a bungalow up ahead. There’s a man in the front yard chopping wood; he turns at the sound of the car approaching. With a whack that makes me jump, he embeds the ax in the tree stump he was using to cut logs and strides toward the car, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt.
“Neither of the dogs is reacting, so I’m guessing this isn’t their home,” I whisper. Jasper nods in agreement as he lowers his window.
“Can I help you folks?”
“Yes, good afternoon,” Jasper says, ever Mr. Manners. “We found these two dogs running down the highway just now. We were wondering if you might happen to know where they belong?”
The man bends to peer into the car, squinting at the dogs. “Oh yeah, those are Al Willis’s dogs. They’re always runnin’ around.”
Jasper’s jaw clenches. I have a feeling he wants to ask the same thing I do: ‘Near a busy highway? With no tags?’ He clears his throat and I imagine him literally swallowing the words. “Would you be willing to share Mr. Willis’s address so we can return his dogs safely?”
The man gives us directions to head left when we leave here—back in the direction we came from—and drive about a kilometer until we come to Beaver Creek Lane. “There are only houses on the north side of the street and Al’s is the second one in,” he tells us. “Can’t miss it. Looks like a big ol’ junkyard.”
After thanking him, he directs us further up his driveway where we can turn around in a large grassy area so we won’t have to back onto the busy highway. Jasper’s jaw remains clenched as he performs the u-turn and we bump along the gravel path to the highway.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re contemplating a dognapping?” I ask.
One side of his mouth curves up. Maynooth leans over and nudges Jasper’s arm with his nose. Since cars are still whizzing by and there’s no hope of us pulling out yet, Jasper turns to the dog and gives him a thorough scratch behind both ears. To me, he says, “Don’t tempt me. It would be far too easy.”
At the first break in traffic, we get back on the highway. The car is quiet except for the panting and snuffling of the dogs. As we turn onto Beaver Creek Lane, I realize the man wasn’t kidding about Mr. Willis’s place being impossible to miss. We can see the junk in the yard from the turnoff, despite his house being the second one on the street.
Several vehicles are parked on the lawn, ranging from rusted shells to newer cars missing half their parts. Toward the back, there are a couple of what appear to be derby cars; they’re so riddled with dents and holes, it’s impossible to tell what was once painted on them. Tools are scattered across the brown grass and there are various bits of garbage—pop cans, chip bags, blown-out tires, and, most noticeably, a toilet lying on its side under a tree.
“I bet Mr. Willis’s neighbors just love him,” I murmur.
Jasper makes a sound of distress as he eases the car into the gravel driveway. The dogs’ ears perk up and their panting increases, with Maynooth letting out a quiet ‘woof’ as he gets to his feet in my lap. My poor thighs are going to be covered in paw-shaped bruises from this plump hound that mistakenly thinks he’s a lapdog.
Jasper eases the car to a stop and turns it off. He leaves the keys dangling in the ignition and sits back, staring at the house. I’m about to ask what he’s waiting for when he releases a gusty sigh. “I was hoping he’d hear the car and come out. I’d prefer if you wait here while I go to the door. The bent nails and other detritus in the driveway lead me to believe a tetanus shot might be required, and there’s no need for both of us to suffer.”
When he shoots me a wry look, I press my lips together to hold in a laugh. “Are you sure? This looks like the house of someone who might own a shotgun or two.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Jasper says. “But I’m sure. I’ll leave the keys in the ignition in case you need to make a quick getaway.”
Now I do laugh as he opens the door and climbs out. Maynooth hops off my lap and into the driver’s seat. His pal takes the opportunity to scramble into my lap, nearly knocking the air from my lungs in his excitement at the change of position.
Jasper is almost to the porch when the front door flies open and a man with a long gray ponytail and denim overalls steps out. I’m relieved Jasper won’t have to climb the porch stairs because, like the rest of the house, they don’t look all that sturdy. Jasper says something while gesticulating toward the car; the man, who I’m assuming is Mr. Willis, cranes his neck in our direction and gives a curt jerk of his head. Staying where he is, Jasper turns back and nods at me. I hug the dog in my lap and open the door for him to get out. Maynooth climbs over me, pausing as if for his own hug. I tell him not to run on the highway anymore as I give him a tight squeeze and then let him out to join his friend.
The dogs lope toward the house, their ears flapping around them like wings. Mr. Willis opens the front door and the dogs waddle up the stairs and into the house. With my car door still open a few inches, I can hear Jasper speaking, although I can’t make out what he’s saying. Mr. Willis lets the front door slam and turns back to Jasper, crossing his arms over his chest and grunting out a reply.
Finally, Mr. Willis goes back inside and Jasper picks his way across the grass and down the driveway, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. As he gets closer, I can see his lip is curled and his nose is wrinkled in disgust.
“What happened?” I ask after he’s back in the driver’s seat.
He glances toward the house. The door is still closed, although Mr. Willis’s silhouette is evident behind the screen. He’s watching us. Jasper doesn’t say anything as he starts the car and backs onto the road. Once we’re on the highway, he lets out a long breath and glances briefly in my direction.
“I told him we found the dogs running on the highway. No relief, no gratitude, nothing. I suggested he might want to keep them tied up when they’re outside, and that they should have collars with their information in case they get loose. He told me to mind my own business and said something about fancy big city folk always poking their noses where they don’t belong. I don’t know what came over me, but…” He pauses, glancing at me again, this time with his face scrunched up. “I said yes, I was from the big city and I was a lawyer who should perhaps get in touch with my friends from animal rights about his mistreatment of those two dogs.”
A bark of surprised laughter escapes me. “What did he say to that?”
“I’m not certain he believed me, but he did say he’d be sure to keep them in the house or tied up when they were outside with him from now on.”
More laughter spills out of me. The ridiculousness of this whole situation catches up to me and now I can’t stop laughing. A quick glance at Jasper shows him chuckling and shaking his head. “Jasper Perry, dog rescuer,” I say around my giggles. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“For all the good it likely did,” he says, still laughing softly.
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You did what you could. Who knows how many people passed those dogs on the highway and kept going? Assumed their owner would catch them or someone else would stop to do something?” As the words spill out of me, it hits me—not for the first time—what a good person Jasper is. A genuinely good, kind-hearted person who wants to help, whether it’s people he cares about or random dogs that think a busy highway is their playground. “You’re amazing, Jasper.”
A hint of color touches his cheeks. “Thank you, Willow.” He clears his throat and adjusts his hands on the wheel, his grip tightening then loosening a few times. “I’m still not telling you where we’re going, though.”
My giggles return. This man—this wonderful, kind, enigma of a man—never ceases to surprise and amaze me.