HE NEXT DAY, I found myself once again sitting in the bosom of my family—Margs, Natalie and the sexpot formerly known as my mother were dress shopping at Birdie’s Bridal.

Well, Mom and Natalie were dress shopping. Margaret and I were drinking strawberry margaritas from a thermos Margs had thoughtfully brought along as we sat in the dressing room, waiting for Natalie to emerge in another dress. Actually, dressing room was a misnomer. Dressing hall, really, because Birdie’s had couches, an easy chair, coffee table and a huge, curtained area for the bride to try on dresses before coming out to dazzle her entourage.

“You’ve earned this,” Margaret muttered, taking a slug herself straight from the thermos.

“I really have,” I agreed. Mom and Nat were behind the curtain, Mom fussing away. “A little tuck in here, move your arm, honey, there…”

Mom seemed so normal today. I wondered if she was thinking about almost shtupping Dad at Jitterbug’s last night. Blecch. Or perhaps she was remembering the day she and I went wedding dress shopping. Margaret had had a deposition, Nat was still at Stanford, so it was just Mom and me, and we’d had a lovely time. Granted, I bought the first dress I tried on…not really the princess bride–type, to be honest, and one white dress looked about as good as another. (I’d kind of been hoping for a hoop skirt, sort of like the one Ms. Mitchell described Scarlett wearing in Chapter Two of Gone With the Wind, but Mom’s look of incredulity had squashed that one.) I barely remembered what my actual wedding dress really looked like, aside from being white and simple. I’d have to sell it on eBay. Wedding dress: Never been worn.

“Ooh, that one’s pretty, too!” I chirruped as Nat emerged from behind the curtain. She looked like a bride should…flushed, beaming, eyes sparkling, sweetly modest.

“The first one was better,” Margaret said. “I don’t like those froufrou things along the neckline.”

“Froufrou’s out,” I seconded, taking another slug of my drink.

“I don’t know,” Natalie murmured, staring at herself. “I kind of like froufrou.”

“It’s nice froufrou,” I amended hastily.

“You look beautiful,” Mom announced staunchly. “You could wear a garbage bag and you’d look beautiful.”

“Yes, Princess Natalie,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. “You could wear toad skins and you’d be beautiful.”

“Sack cloth and ashes, I was thinking,” I added, earning a gratifying snort from my older sister.

Nat grinned, but her eyes were distant. “I don’t care what I wear. I just want to be married,” she murmured.

“Blecch,” said Margaret. I grinned.

“Of course you do,” Mom said, patting her shoulder. “I felt the same way. So did Margaret.”

“Did I?” Margaret mused.

Mom, belatedly aware that perhaps there were other feelings to be considered, glanced at me with a nervous smile. I smiled back. Once, yes, I’d felt that way about marriage. Once, being married to Andrew was all that I’d wanted, too. Nights of movies and Scrabble games, weekends spent antiquing or on the battlefield, leisurely sex on a bed strewn with sections of the New York Times. A couple of kids down the road. Long summers spent vacationing on Cape Cod or driving across country. Yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah.

And sitting here, admiring my sister, I could finally see that, even back then before Andrew’s revelation, all those imaginings had felt a little…thin. I’d pictured that future with a determination that should’ve clued me in. It was all too good to be true.

“How was your overnight in the city, Grace?” Natalie asked, snapping out of her daze.

I glanced at Margaret, who’d been clued in before. “Well, I’m sorry to say that Wyatt and I are—” I paused for regretful effect “—taking a break.”

“What?” Natalie and Mom chorused.

I sighed. “You know, he’s such a great guy, but really, his work is just too demanding. I mean, you guys never even got to meet him, right? What does that say about the kind of husband he’d be?”

“Crappy,” Margaret announced. “Plus, I never thought he was all that.”

“Quiet, Margaret,” Mom said, coming to sit at my side to administer a few maternal pats.

“Oh, Grace,” Natalie said, biting her lip. “He sounded so wonderful. I—I thought you were madly in love. You were talking about getting married a little while ago!”

Margaret choked on her drink. “Well,” I said, “I just don’t want a husband who can’t really, um, be devoted to the kids and me. You know. Running off all the time to the hospital was getting a little old.”

“But he was saving children’s lives, Grace!” Natalie protested.

“Mmm,” I said, taking a sip of margarita. “True. Which makes him a great doctor, but not necessarily a great husband.”

“Maybe you’re right, honey. Marriage is hard enough,” Mom said. I forced myself not to picture last night, but of course, it was seared onto my eyelids, Mom and Dad…bleccch!

“How are you taking it, Grace?” Margaret asked, as she’d been instructed in the car ride here.

“You know, I’m actually fine with it,” I answered blithely.

“You’re not heartbroken?” Natalie asked, kneeling in front of me, a vision in her white dress.

“No. Not even a little. It’s for the best. And I think we’ll stay friends,” I said, getting an elbow in the ribs from Margaret. “Or not. He might be transferring to Chicago. So we’ll see. Mom, how’s your art coming along?” A subject guaranteed to take the focus off my love life.

“It’s getting a little dull,” Mom said. “I’m thinking of going male. I’m tired of all those labias and ovaries. Maybe it’s time for a good old-fashioned penis.”

“Why not flowers, Mom? Or bunnies or butterflies? Does it have to be genitalia?” Margs asked.

“How are we doing in here?” Birdie of Birdie’s Bridal bustled in holding another dress. “Oh, Natalie, honey, you look dazzling! Like an ad in a magazine! Like a movie star! A princess!”

“Don’t forget Greek goddess,” Margaret added.

“Aphrodite, rising from the waves,” Birdie agreed.

“That would be Venus,” I said.

“Oh, Faith, here’s your dress,” Birdie said, handing me a rose-colored, floor length dress.

“It’s Grace. My name is Grace.”

“Try it on, try it on!” Nat said, clapping her hands. “That color will be gorgeous on you, Grace!”

“Yes, maid of honor. Your turn to be super special,” Margaret growled.

“Oh, get over it,” I said, rising from the couch. “Try on your dress, Margaret, and behave.”

“Yours is right here,” Natalie said, swatting Margaret on the head. Birdie handed Margs a dress a few shades paler than mine, and Margaret and I went into separate dressing rooms to try our garments on.

Behind the curtain I went. I hung the dress on a hook, slid out of my jeans and T-shirt, glad for the new bra and panties set that kept me from feeling like a total slob. I slipped the dress over my head, freed my hair from the zipper and managed to rescue my left breast from where it got stuck in the bodice. There. A tug here, a push there, and I was zipped.

“Come on, let’s see!” Natalie called impatiently.

“Ta-da!” I said gamely, coming out to join my sisters.

“Oh! Gorgeous! That is really your color!” Nat cried, clapping her hands. She’d put on another wedding dress, a shimmering white silk creation with a demure neckline, a snug bodice that glistened with beads and huge, puffy skirt. Margaret, fast and efficient at everything she did, was already waiting, looking sulky and gorgeous in her pale pink.

“Come on, Grace,” Mom said. “Stand with your sisters and let’s see how you look.”

I obeyed. Stood on the little dais next to cool, blond, elegant Natalie Rose. On Nat’s other side was Margaret, her reddish gold hair sleekly cut into a stylish bob, sharply attractive, thin as a greyhound, cheekbones to die for. My sisters were, simply put, beautiful. Stunning, even.

And then there was me. I noticed that my dark hair hadn’t taken kindly to the weather today and was doing its wild-animal thing again. A few dark circles lurked under my eyes. (Who could sleep after Mom and Dad’s foreplay?) In the past few months, I’d managed to gain weight in my upper arms, courtesy of all that quality time with Ben & Jerry’s. Based on the one picture we had of her, I looked like my great-grandmother on my mother’s side, who’d immigrated from Kiev.

“I look like Great-Grandma Zladova,” I commented.

Mom’s head jerked back. “I always wondered where you got that hair,” she murmured in wonder.

“You do not,” Natalie said staunchly.

“Wasn’t she a washerwoman?” Margaret asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Great. Nat is Cinderella, Margaret is Nicole Kidman, and I’m Grandma Zladova, laundress to the czars.”

Ten minutes later, Birdie was completing the sale, Mom was fussing over headpieces, Margaret was checking her BlackBerry, and I needed a little air. “I’ll meet you outside, Nat,” I said.

“Grace?” Natalie put her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry about Wyatt.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

“You’ll find someone,” she murmured. “The right one will come along. It’ll be your turn soon.”

The words felt like a slap. No, more than the words was…damn it, my eyes were stinging…the pity. In all the time since Andrew and I broke up, Natalie had felt sympathy, and guilt, and a whole lot of other feelings, no doubt, but she’d never pitied me. No. My younger sister had always, always looked up to me, even when my chips were down. Never before had she given me the kind of look I was getting now. I was Poor Grace once more.

“Maybe I’ll never meet someone,” I said tartly. “But hey. You and Andrew could use me as a nanny, right?”

She blanched. “Grace…I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure,” I said quickly. “I know. But you know, Nat, me being single isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s not like I lost a limb.”

“Oh, no! Of course not. I know.” She smiled uncertainly.

I took a deep breath. “I…I’ll be outside,” I said.

“Okay,” she chirped. “Meet you at the car,” she said, then went back to our mother and her wedding dress.

WHEN I GOT HOME FROM DRESS shopping, I was limp from the effort of all that damn fun. Dinner and drinks had followed the dress shopping, full of good cheer and talk of the wedding. We were joined by a few other female relatives—Mom’s sisters and, alas, Cousin Kitty, Queen of the Newlyweds, who gushed and beamed about how wonderful it was to be married. For the third time, that was…numbers one and two hadn’t been so great, but that was in the past, of course, and now Kitty was an expert on Happily Ever After.

In just a few weeks, Andrew and Natalie would be husband and wife. I couldn’t wait. Seriously, I just wanted to be done with it. Then, finally, it’d seem like a new chapter of my life could start.

Angus clawed at the kitchen door to be let out. It was raining now, thunder rumbling distantly in the east. Angus wasn’t one of those dogs who feared storms—he had the heart of a lion, my little guy—but he didn’t like being rained on. “Come back soon,” I said.

The minute I opened the door, I saw the dark shape against the fence at the end of my property. Lightning flashed. A skunk…damn it! I lunged after my dog. “No, Angus! Come here, boy!”

But it was too late. My dog, a blur of white ferocity, streaked across the backyard. Another flash of lightning showed me that the animal was a raccoon. It looked up in alarm, then was gone, under the fence in a hole that Angus had probably dug. A raccoon could do serious damage to my little dog, who wasn’t smart enough to know better. “Angus! Come! Come, boy!” It was no use. Angus rarely obeyed when in pursuit of another animal, and just like that, he, too, was gone, under the fence, after the raccoon.

“Damn it!” I cursed. Turning around, I ran back into the house, grabbed a flashlight then ran back outside, into Callahan’s yard to avoid having to climb over the back fence in my own yard.

“Grace? Everything okay?” The back porch light came on. He was back.

“Angus is chasing a raccoon,” I blurted, running past the deck without stopping, tearing down Cal’s yard to the woods, my breath coming in gasps already. Visions of my adorable little dog with his eye torn out, with slash marks down his back, blood staining his white fur…Raccoons were fierce, and this one could very well tear up my little dog. It had looked much bigger than Angus.

“Angus!” I called, my voice high with fear. “Cookie, Angus! Cookie!”

My flashlight illuminated the raindrops and dripping branches of the state forest. As I crashed forward, twigs snapping in my face, a new fear lanced my stomach. The river. The Farmington River was a hundred yards away, full and dark from the spring rains and snow melt. It was more than strong enough to sweep away a small and not-very-bright dog.

Another light flashed next to mine. Callahan, wearing a slicker and Yankees cap, had caught up.

“Which way did he go?” he asked.

“Oh, Callahan, thank you,” I panted. “I don’t know. He went under the fence. He tunnels. I usually fill them in, but this time…I…I…” Sobs ratcheted out of me.

“Hey, come on. We’ll find him. Don’t worry, Grace.” Callahan slipped his arm around my shoulder, gave me a quick squeeze, then aimed his light overhead into the canopy branches.

“I don’t think he can climb, Cal,” I said wetly, rain and tears mixing on my face as I looked up.

Cal smiled. “The raccoon can, though. Maybe Angus treed him. If we find the raccoon, maybe we’ll find your little dog.”

Smart idea, but after five minutes of shining our flashlights into the branches, we had found neither the raccoon nor my dog. There was no sign of him, not that I was a tracker or anything. We were closer to the river now. That which had once sounded sweet and comforting now sounded menacing and cruel…the uncaring river rushing past, carrying anything along with it.

“So where have you been the past few days?” I asked Callahan, shining my light under a fallen branch. No Angus.

“Becky needed me to do a quick job down in Stamford,” he answered.

“Who’s Becky?”

“The blonde from the bar. She’s an old friend from high school. Works in real estate. That’s how I found this house.”

“You could’ve let me know you were going out of town,” I said, glancing at him. “I was worried.”

He smiled. “Next time I will.”

I called Angus again, whistled, clapped my hands. Nothing.

Then I heard a distant, sharp bark, followed by a yelp, that sickening surprised cry of pain. “Angus! Angus, buddy, where are you?” I called, tripping forward toward the direction of the cry. It came from upriver. In the river? I couldn’t tell.

It was hard to hear over the noise of the rain and flowing water. Images of Angus when I first bought him, a tiny ball of shivering, coconutty fluff…his bright eyes staring at me each morning, willing me to wake up…his funny little Super Dog pose…the way he slept on his back with his paws in the air, his crooked little bottom teeth showing. I was crying harder now. “Angus!” I kept calling, my voice harsh and scared.

We came to the edge of the river. Usually I thought it so beautiful, the rushing, silken water, the stones beneath, the flashes of white where the current collided with a rock or branch. Tonight, it was sinister and dark as a black snake. I guided my beam over the water, dreading the sight of a little white body being swept along.

“Oh, shit,” I sobbed.

“He probably wouldn’t go in,” Cal said soothingly, taking my hand. “He’s dumb, but he’s got some instincts, right? He wouldn’t drown himself.”

“You don’t know Angus,” I wept. “He’s stubborn. When he wants something he just doesn’t stop.”

“Well, if he’s chasing the raccoon, the raccoon would have enough sense, then,” Cal said. “Come on. Let’s keep looking.”

We walked along the river, through the woods, farther and farther away from home, calling my dog’s name, promising treats. There were no more yelps, just the sound of the rain hissing through the leaves. I didn’t have socks on, and my feet were freezing inside my plastic gardening clogs, which were covered in mud. This was all my fault. He dug all the time. I knew this. Usually, I checked the fence line on weekends for just this reason. Today, I hadn’t. Today, I’d been dress shopping with stupid Natalie.

I didn’t want to picture life without my dog. Angus who slept on my bed after Andrew left me. Angus who needed me, waited for me, whose little head popped up in the living-room window each and every time I came home, overjoyed at the miracle of my very being. I’d lost him. I should’ve filled in that stupid hole, and I didn’t, and now he was gone.

I sucked in a ragged breath, tears, hot and endless, cutting down my rain-soaked face.

“There he is,” Cal said, shining his light.

He was right. About thirty yards west of the river, Angus stood next to a small house that, like mine, backed up to the state forest. He was sniffing a tipped over garbage can and looked up at the sound of my voice. His tail wagged, he barked once, then went back to investigating the trash.

“Angus!” I cried, lurching up the slight hill that separated me from my dog. “Good puppy! Good boy! You worried Mommy! Yes, you did!” He wagged his tail in agreement, barked again, and then I had him. Gathering my dog in my arms, I kissed his soggy little head over and over, tears dropping into his fur as he wriggled and nipped me in delight.

“There you go, then,” Cal said, coming up behind me. He was smiling. I tried to smile back, but my mouth was doing that wobbling contortion thing, so I didn’t quite pull it off.

“Thank you,” I managed. Callahan reached out to pet Angus, who suddenly realized that his nemesis was there, turned his little head and snapped.

“Ingrate,” Cal said, giving my dog a mock scowl. He bent down and scooped the trash back into the garbage can, then set it aright.

“You’ve been really great,” I said shakily, clutching my dog against my chest.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Cal returned.

We walked down the driveway of the house to the street. I recognized the neighborhood—it was about half a mile from Maple Street, a bit posher than where Cal and I lived. The rain gentled, and Angus snuggled up on my shoulder, doing his baby impression, cheek against my neck, front paws on my shoulder. I stretched my jacket around his little body and thanked the powers that be for the safety of my dopey little dog, whom I loved more than was probably advisable.

The powers that be, and Callahan O’ Shea. He came with me on this cool, rainy night and didn’t leave till we found my dog. Said nothing irritating like, “Oh, he’ll come back.” Nope. Callahan had stuck with me, reassured me, comforted me. Picked up trash for me. I wanted to say something, though I wasn’t sure what, but when I glanced at my strong, solid neighbor, my face burned hot enough to power a small city.

We turned onto Maple Street, and the lights of my house glowed. I glanced down. Cal and I were covered in mud from our feet to our knees, and soaked to the skin. Angus resembled a mop more than a dog, his fur soaked and matted.

Cal noticed my glance. “Why don’t you come over to my house?” he suggested. “We can get washed up there. Your house is kind of a museum, isn’t it?”

“Well, not really a museum,” I said. “It’s just tidy.”

“Tidy. Sure. Well, want to come over? It won’t matter if we get my kitchen dirty. I’m still working on it.”

“Sure. Thanks,” I said. I had been wondering about the house, what it was like inside, what Callahan had been doing. “How’s that been going, anyway? You flipping the house and all?”

“It’s going fine. Come in. I’ll give you a tour,” he offered, reading my mind.

CAL LET ME IN the back door.

“I’ll get a couple towels,” he said, taking off his work boots and disappearing into another room. Angus, still on my shoulder, gave a little snore, making me smile. I slipped off my filthy gardening clogs, pushed my hair out of my face with one hand and took a look around.

Cal’s kitchen was nearly done. A trestle table with three mismatched chairs overlooked a new bay window. The kitchen cabinets were maple with glass panes, and the counters were made from gray soapstone. Spaces gapped where the appliances would go, though there was a two-burner stove and a dorm-size fridge. I should definitely invite him over for dinner, I thought. Seeing as he was so nice to me. Seeing as he’d held my hand. Seeing as I had the hots for him and couldn’t seem to remember the reasons that I’d once thought Callahan O’ Shea made a bad choice.

Cal came back into the room. “Here,” he said, taking my sleeping pooch from me and wrapping him in a big towel. He rubbed the dog’s fur, causing Angus to blink sleepily at the strange man holding him. “No biting,” Cal warned. Angus wagged his tail. Cal smiled.

Then he kissed my dog on the head.

That was it. Without even quite realizing that I’d moved, I found that my arms were somehow around Callahan’s neck, that I’d knocked off his Yankees cap, that my fingers were in his wet hair, that I was squishing Angus and that I was kissing Callahan O’ Shea. Finally.

“It’s about time,” he muttered against my mouth. Then he was kissing me back.