Stepdog by Mireya Navarro Read Free Book Online Page B

they did under the circumstances. Everything was okay. The point of this visit was to familiarize ourselves with one another, to put faces to names. I hoped we’d have a lifetime to know one another. That night I had no expectations other than sheer success or utter failure. My friends’ kids always said I was “cool.” But winning over the children of the man you are falling in love with is fraught with danger. Would they be welcoming or would they be jealous? Would they help our budding relationship or try to torpedo it? Would they warm up easily or really make me work for it? I had no clue, mostly because loving from three thousand miles away shields you from everything except what the other person tells you. Jim was unflinchingly positive and cheerful about our bonding prospects.
    Jim lived in a two-story town house he owned deep in a canyon in ritzy Pacific Palisades, home to the likes of Steven Spielberg, Kate Hudson, and Hilary Swank. His house was in the less glamorous area of the Palisades, in a neighborhood called the Highlands that could claim only singer John Mayer as its resident A-lister (and a visiting Jennifer Aniston when she later got involved with him). But Jim’s cozy home was sun-soaked and inviting, and next to trails of the Topanga State Park system. It had space to spare compared to my eight-hundred-square-foot Manhattan apartment. Much of it was taken up by Arts and Crafts–style furniture and Japanese art and pottery that Jim had accumulated from his years in Asia. He also showed a fondness for some Japanese traditions. At his townhome, shoes were left at the entrance.
    â€œIt helps you unwind when you enter your home,” he explained.
    The place was neater than mine, very metrosexual. There was a high-ceilinged, roomy living room on the first level and a dining room overlooking the living area from a second level. Upstairs, the master bedroom was big enough to double as an office. Arielle’s bedroom was upstairs, Henry’s was off the kitchen near the dining room, and Eddie slept in a crate in the living room at street level. As the kids went off to do their thing and the adults chatted in the kitchen, Jim grilled some salmon on his postage stamp–sized patio and served it with asparagus and white rice—sticky, Japanese-style. I felt comfortable and relieved as that first evening proceeded harmoniously.
    â€œHe’s such a great guy,” my friend Rose whispered when we were alone in the kitchen. She was even happier that this romance could lead to my moving to California. That, of course, was where we were headed, since Jim was not as mobile as I was, but we were still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase. I had just met his kids and dog! My immersion in my boyfriend’s life during the next couple days was remarkable for its ease. There was no miscommunication, no discovery of annoying habits, no surprises—although that dog was a bit peculiar. He wasn’t exactly hostile, but he wasn’t friendly either. If I called him, he wouldn’t come. When he found his way to me out of boredom, he tolerated petting with no particular joy. There was no licking and only tepid tail wagging. The fireworks were strictly reserved for his master. For Jim, he jumped on hind legs and did the Mexican hat dance. He was usually confined to his crate in the living room when we left the house, so sometimes I’d do the honors of freeing him from his doggie prison. The thanks I got was a mad dash past me to Jim, who I could hear in some room talking his doggie-talk as he rubbed and scratched. I didn’t see Eddie so besotted with anyone else, until one afternoon, when the doorbell rang and I answered.
    â€œHi. I’m Matilda’s mom,” an attractive blonde said by way of greeting.
    Matilda, a mixed breed, mostly a Rhodesian ridgeback, was Eddie’s companion on his daily walks by the creek nearby. I had heard a whole lot about Mattie,