The Feeding Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Feeding

  About the Author

  Bella Books

  Synopsis

  Chile knows something’s off about Lena even though she can’t quite put her paw on what it is. Maggie, her human, usually trusts Chile’s judgment but she’s so smitten with Lena that she won’t listen! How can she keep Maggie’s attention long enough to warn her?

  The Feeding

  by

  Karen F. Williams

  Copyright © by Karen F. Williams

  eBook released 2016

  Bella Books

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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  The Feeding

  The mid-August day had been hot and humid, but now the air was quickly cooling and with the drop in temperature came a fog advisory. It was the crepuscule—another term for dusk or twilight, as Maggie taught her graduate students—and already a white steam was rising from the sun-warmed soil, obscuring the grass and flowers and vegetable garden, so that the log cabin seemed to be floating on a cloud. The crickets chirped so loudly that Maggie couldn’t hear much above the cacophony. Chile, on the other hand—or other paw as it were—could hear plenty. She was a dog. Her hearing, her entire sensory experience, at times even her intuitive intelligence, was far superior to Maggie’s.

  On the planked floor of the screened porch the small dog sat on a braided rug, a rawhide bone held loosely between her paws. At twenty-eight pounds she was sturdy and compact, with rusty fur and copper eyes and a white pinstripe that ran from her forehead to the tip of her pale nose. Seeing her running in a field, white feet hidden in the tall grass, anyone might have mistaken her for a red fox, but when she was on the agility course or hiking trails with Maggie, people mistook her shorter legs and wider girth for those of a Corgi. All Maggie knew for sure was that Chile’s mother, at least, was a Shetland sheepdog. The mother and her two pups had been abandoned at the university where Maggie taught environmental science. She adopted Chile, convinced her colleague, Dr. Blanche, to take the brother, and Professor Cole from the animal science department adopted the mother.

  Every two weeks for the past five years, rain or shine or snow, all six of them faithfully met for lunch and a hike. But those regular and highly anticipated get-togethers had abruptly stopped. Chile missed her mother, Zoe. She missed her brother, Dexter. She missed rolling with them in a field of wildflowers after a high-speed chase, winded, panting, tongues lolling. Each and every day she made at least one concerted effort to stare intently at Maggie and telepathically ask why they hadn’t seen them. Come to think of it, Chile hadn’t seen anyone since Maggie met the pretty French lady almost three months ago.

  Chile took the bone in her mouth again, trying furiously to gnaw away the stress. But it was useless, her efforts half-hearted as she alternately gnawed and glanced over her shoulder at Maggie. Lost in thought, Maggie swayed back and forth in a wicker rocker, her dark eyes as worried and burdened as her dog’s, her shoulder-length hair spilling forward as she stared between the empty cappuccino cup in her hands and the full cup waiting for Lena. It was cold and untouched. Lena had been gone too long. She’d gone for her usual after-dinner walk to the lake, but tonight she hadn’t returned.

  Maggie’s anxiety had been building all week, and now every swallow seemed an effort, as if all the mounting doubts and suspicions had finally solidified and lodged in her throat. Chile could smell Maggie’s stress hormones and she was glad for it. Come on, Maggie, she wanted to say, you’re a smart girl—hurry up and figure it out, put the pieces together, because the faster you do, the faster we can get the heck out of Dodge!

  Most people could care less about a dog’s opinion, but not Maggie. She respected Chile’s opinion, paid careful attention to her dog’s canine perspective. Truth be told, the two were simpatico. At times they could read each other’s mind. But since falling for Lena, Maggie had lost her mind. She wasn’t paying attention to much of anything except her new lover. Of course, if she had been paying attention, they wouldn’t have ended up in this awful mess, for the problem was not that they feared for Lena’s safety; they had begun to fear Lena.

  Adding to fear was the burden of guilt, for it was Chile’s fault they had ever met. Why, if Maggie didn’t have a dog, she would never have laid eyes on the young French woman. And that’s all it took—just one look—for Maggie to fall head over heels in love with Lena.

  Lena. Lena Bouchet. Mademoiselle Lena Bouchet, as she was properly addressed when Maggie was giving her seductive and silly Pepe Le Pew impersonation, which began with a kiss to Lena’s hand, kisses all the way up her arm, over to her neck, slowly around to her mouth. “Ma chérie…” Maggie would whisper in her ear.

  It was a glorious Saturday in May when the three first met. Maggie had put the top down on her convertible that morning, thrown a backpack in the car, and under a ceiling of blue skies and fluffy white clouds, she and Chile had driven twenty miles out of New York and into the Berkshires of Massachusetts for a hike on Greylock Mountain. After two hours on the trails they collapsed in the cool shade of a lakeside willow tree, shared a sandwich and bottle of water, then made their way back. It was still early when they reached the parking lot, the sun high and blazing, and after a brief telepathic conversation in the car, they agreed on taking the scenic route home. “What’s that you say?” Maggie asked, leaning across to the passenger seat and putting her ear to Chile’s mouth. “Yeah? You think so? Hmm…taking the scenic ride home does sound like fun. Let’s do it.”

  The leisurely drive led them through the quaint towns of Stockbridge and Great Barrington until Maggie spotted an old-fashioned ice cream parlor and on impulse pulled over to the cobbled curb. “I don’t know about you, Chile Bean, but I’ve already worked off that gelato cone I’m about to eat.” She looked over at her canine companion in the passenger seat and waited. “Well? You want ice cream or not?”

  Ice cream? She knew that word. She had an extensive vocabulary and ice cream was in the top ten. Chile licked her lips, shifted her weight expectantly and sneezed, a happy sneeze. That was a yes.

  “I thought so,” Maggie teased, rubbing her ears and patting her back. Then she leaned over, wrapped her hand around Chile’s snout and kissed her right on the lips. “Be a good girl and wait here,” she instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Obediently Chile waited in the passenger seat of the convertible, never thinking to jump out and abandon the security of the car in Maggie’s absence. Herding dogs can be a bashful sort, downright self-conscious at times, and Chile had no desire to get lost. Sweet but shy, she kept her head lowered, nervously acknowledging friendly comments from passersby.

  “Aww, how cute!” someone remarked. “Look at the dog in the convertible,” said a man to his companion. “And what a good dog—look how it just sits there,” replied the companion. “My dog would’ve jumped right out of that car,” said someone else. “Mine, too,” they all agreed.

  Chile responded with bashful glances, all the while wishing Maggie would hurry up and come back. You’re all very nice, she thought, but you’re blocking my view of that door. I must keep my eyes on that door…because if Maggie doesn’t come back I’ll need to know if she came out of that door or not…otherwise I won’t know where to find her…. and I would just die if I lost her…besides which…she has my ice cream.

  Chile was glad when the crowd finally continued on and the sidewalk cleared. Her eyes went right back to the ice cream parlor door. But in her peripheral vision she caught sight of another smiling face through the window of an adjacent store. With the glare of the sun on the glass, Chile couldn’t make out the fine details of the person’s face, but she could tell it was that of a young and pretty woman. Sporting a short, thick crop of blond hair, she stood smiling and waving at Chile through the glass, her smile brilliant, teeth white, eyes as blue as the sky. And just as Maggie came out holding a lemon gelato cone in one hand and a vanilla cup in the other, the pretty lady came bounding out of the store with the enthusiasm of a puppy.

  “Who is this adorable red-headed chien?” she said, keeping her eyes on Chile as she spoke with an accent Chile didn’t recognize—the place from where French poodles come, Mademoiselle would later joke.

  “Chien?” Maggie tilted her head curiously, looked the woman up and down. She was probably in her mid-twenties, maybe ten years Maggie’s junior.

  “Oui. Yes. Chien.” She laughed. “That is French for dog.”

  “Hmm,” Maggie nodded. “Well, in that case, the chien’s name is Chile Bean. Spelled like the country, pronounced like the pepper… although on the agility course she goes by

  Silly-Chile-Billie-Bean. It riles and inspires her performance.”

  “Mmm…it inspires me!” the pretty French lady said, her accent heavy, her English nearly perfect. “I love to cook chili beans. And I love to eat chili dogs!” She giggled. “You Americans have such fun foods. And funny words.” She looked down at Chile. “What a lucky girl you are to have a mommy who buys you ice cream!”

  Maggie shrugged and gave a dramatic
sigh. “Well, you know, it’s not easy being a single parent.” She stood holding her cone in one hand, Chile’s cup in the other, oblivious to the fact that the sun was beginning to melt them both. “I try to make it up to her by spoiling her when I can...”

  Chile yawned, bored with the conversation. She’d sat through this single-parent-pick-up-line a hundred times. It was Maggie’s way of letting a woman know she was single. Chile stood up in her seat, paws on the door, stretching her nose toward her ice cream.

  “Everyone should be spoiled,” Lena said, following Chile’s line of vision to Maggie’s hands. “Oh, goodness. Your gelato is dripping!”

  Maggie looked helplessly between her two hands and then stared at Lena and smiled coyly. “I bet you make everyone’s gelato drip.”

  Lena blinked at the comment, caught off guard by the innuendo, but then her eyes narrowed and she smiled. “I see. I thought it was the sun, but if you say it is me, then I will take full responsibility.” Without hesitation she took Chile’s ice cream cup from Maggie’s hand and helped her with her napkins. “I manage the pet boutique here. Come inside, both of you. I will feed Chile her ice cream while you enjoy yours and look around the shop. Maybe your little Chile Bean will find something she will want you to buy for her.”

  Lena was bubbly, spirited, sensual, the language of her body as irresistible as her French accent. She found Chile irresistible, too. The moment they went in the shop she led the dog over to a purple shag rug in the middle of the store and dropped to her knees. “Come here to me, little red chien,” she cooed.

  Normally too embarrassed to take food from strangers, Chile found herself as smitten as Maggie. She licked away at her melting ice cream, politely wagging her tail as she did and peeking up at Lena every so often as if to say thank you for holding my ice cream for me…it’s very delicious!

  And when the little dog finished, Lena gently cupped the dog’s face and murmured words Chile nor Maggie had ever before heard. “So adorable you are. Vous etes si mignonne que je voudrai vous manger.” Sweetly, shyly, Chile scrunched her shoulders, lowered her face and stepped forward, offering the top of her head for Lena to pet. Lena giggled.

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Mmm…that sounds wonderful. I’ve never heard a woman speak French before. Not in person, at least—only Catherine Deneuve in the movies.”

  “Ah, so you are a Catherine Deneuve fan?”

  “Fan? I’d marry her!”

  “Marry?” Lena gave a quizzical smirk. “There would be a big age difference, no? Catherine Deneuve is as old as you are decadent.”

  “Old? No!” Maggie said in mock protest. “Haven’t you seen the movie, The Hunger? Catherine’s a vampire now. She’ll never get old.”

  Lena laughed. “You are very silly. And, oui, I will translate. What I say to Chile is that she is so sweet I could simply eat her.”

  Maggie turned away and licked her cone. “I could eat you,” she mumbled, just loud enough for Mademoiselle to hear.

  And when Mademoiselle’s eyes opened in surprise, Maggie quickly covered her mouth in feigned innocence. “Oh no, did I just say that aloud? I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please. It was meant to be a private thought. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes.”

  Chile knew what was coming next. Maggie did it all the time. It’s how she conducted her love life. Maggie wasn’t ashamed of what she was or what she wanted, and if she met a woman she liked she let it be known. Sometimes it ended with a straight woman excusing herself and disappearing in a quiet panic, but more often than not her advances were surprisingly well received. In the five years Chile had been with Maggie, Maggie had been with twice that many women. There were one or two Chile had liked, but for the most part she was happy when Maggie lost interest and life returned to normal, because normal meant snuggling up and sleeping with Maggie in the big bed—a far better arrangement than banishment to the expensive and comfortable, but nonetheless lowly dog bed whenever a girlfriend decided to spend the night. It made Chile feel cheap.

  Lena stared back, calculating Maggie, the corners of her mouth curling. “Hmm…it will take some time to decide if you will ever get a taste of me…but for now I will accept your indiscretion as a compliment.” Her eyes dismissed Maggie and she returned her attention to Chile, ruffling her fur, playing with her ears, kissing the top of her head.

  It wasn’t like Chile to warm up this quickly to someone new, but Chile found herself kissing Lena back, her nostrils noting the fine and private chemistry of the pretty woman’s supple skin: hormones, adrenaline, endorphins…a spicy perfume with floral notes, the banana she’d eaten several hours ago…raw fish more recently. The heady combination of smells tickled Chile’s nose. Giddy, almost dizzy, she shook her head, sneezed and offered her paw to Lena.

  Maggie stood with her mouth open, suddenly nervous and not knowing what to say. It was rare that a woman knocked her off balance. “I think my dog has a serious crush on you. She’s usually reserved with strangers.” Maggie watched them interacting, and then offered, “Would you care for some gelato? My treat. Let me run next door and—”

  “Oh, merci…no,” Lena said, patting her toned and partially exposed belly to indicate she was full. “I had sushi for lunch. There is a wonderful Japanese place a few doors down.”

  They chatted while Lena led her around the store. “Your English is fluent,” Maggie remarked. “How long have you been in the States?”

  Lena told Maggie that she had been born in Paris, raised in Provence, but because her father was a businessman her family had enjoyed considerable time in England and occasional stays in New York. Eventually she became a culinary arts student, studied in Rhode Island and at that time had an affair with an American woman who was the owner of this boutique.

  “Denise and I did not stay lovers,” Lena explained, “but we became friends. She came to visit me in France. Two years ago she met a woman in Provincetown and decided to open a second pet boutique there. You have heard of this place? Commercial Street?”

  Maggie laughed. “We’ve all walked Commercial Street. You can’t be gay in the northeast and not go to Provincetown. We all get baptized in the waters of Herring Cove,” she said. But being from Provence, France—not Provincetown—Lena missed the humor.

  “Well, Denise suggested a work visa so that I could live here and manage the shop for one year and she would not have to worry about driving back and forth so often. This way she can focus on establishing the new shop...and on her new amour.”

  “And what’s in it for you? I mean, what does a chef do in a pet store?”

  “Oh, I came to eat, to forage, to explore, to learn—not to cook. It is funny, but I remember as a little girl in history class, being fascinated by the French and Indian War and learning how my people and the Native Americans were allies. You know about this, yes?”

  “Uh, not too much. I wasn’t big on history in middle school. Maybe I was just absent that day.”

  “Well, I always—how do you say, fantasized?—about living in the woods with Indians, living off the land. I imagined hunting and foraging for edible plants and mushrooms and becoming spiritually connected to the land, becoming one with the earth. And so…” Lena opened her arms and shrugged, “I am doing that now. Exploring the woods, taking guided walks with mycologists, herbalists, identifying edible plants, visiting local farms, cooperative gardens—all of these things, you see. I have studied the culinary arts, but to be the chef I want to be, I feel I must commune with the earth that offers its bounty.”

  “Well, you’re too late for the French and Indian War, but you might be just in time to survive the apocalypse.” Lena laughed at this and then Maggie added, “I’ve never known anyone who could make the act of eating sound so visceral and spiritual at the same time.”

  Lena’s whole face lit up. “Yes. This is it exactly. Visceral and spiritual. A dichotomy it seems, but not so.” The more excited she became, the heavier her accent, so that Maggie had to struggle to understand certain words. “I am so happy to have this experience, Maggie. It is all part of my culinary journey, as Americans say.”