The Escape Diaries by Juliet Rosetti Read Free Book Online Page A

wrappers in the backseat. The van was big and clunky, but
still responsive enough to be a fun drive.
                I
had a thing for vans, nostalgia arising from my days as a poverty-stricken
single girl. I’d bought a secondhand Ford Econoline my first year out of
college. I needed a roomy vehicle for my curbside scavenging. People were
constantly throwing out perfectly decent tables and chairs that needed only a
fresh coat of paint or a couple of nails to restore them to good health. I was
able to furnish my entire apartment with castoffs, since I couldn’t afford new
furniture on a teacher’s salary.
    Against the
advice of well-meaning family members who’d urged me to go into accounting
because people always needed their taxes done, I’d majored in music education.
This gave me an employability quotient of virtually zero and I accepted the
only job offered: teaching music at a Milwaukee public high school. Long hours,
low salary, unmotivated kids: what wasn’t to like about teaching?
                I
paid off the van by the end of my second year of teaching, the summer my best
friend, Gloria, got married. I was Gloria’s maid of honor. I wore a frothy pink
gown that made me look like cotton candy at the county fair, drank too much at
the reception, and in a moment of champagne-induced insanity, agreed to babysit
Gloria’s dog, Gigi, while the newlyweds flew off to Jamaica.
                There
are moments that are turning points in your life, although you don’t realize it
at the time. How would my life have turned out if Gigi had been a cat instead
of a dog, a fat, lazy tabby who demanded nothing more than being worshipped?
Unfortunately, Gigi was all dog, a sleek, slinky Afghan with attention deficit
disorder and a shoe fetish. After she’d chewed up my bedroom slippers and two
pairs of sneakers, I decided to take Gigi out for some fresh air and exercise.
I manhandled her out to my van and we drove to one of the north shore beaches,
where Gigi could work off her pent-up energy and get in some pooping at the
same time.
                It
was a warm, sunny June day and I was happy to have an excuse to be on the beach.
Steep wooded bluffs rose above, Lake Michigan shimmered below, and sandwiched
between were miles of sand, spoiled only by the occasional washed-up alewife.
                I
looked Gigi sternly in the eye. “Heel,” I said.
    Gigi looked
steadily back at me. Then she corkscrewed her skinny head out of the leash and
galloped joyfully on ahead, stopping occasionally to wee-wee or snuffle a
stinking dead fish, always slyly keeping a length or two ahead of me. We
carried on with this wonderful game for a while, Gigi lolloping along the beach
and me chasing her, yelling at her to get back here, dammit! Gigi demolished a
sand castle, snatched an ice-cream cone from a toddler, and ran up to a jogger
for a friendly sniff. She stuck her long, narrow nose in the man’s crotch.
                The
jogger turned out to be Kip Vonnerjohn, and if I’d known at the time how much
he enjoyed having strange females poke their snouts in his crotch, I would
probably have run away to join a convent and left Gigi to fend for herself.
But, since I lacked a crystal ball, I staggered up to the happy twosome,
slipped the leash back onto Gigi’s elegant but empty head, and gasped, “Sorry.
She has the manners of a pig.”
                “No
problem.” He laughed, revealing a dazzling array of white teeth.
                My
heart did a little rumba. I kept sneaking sideways peeks at the guy. Gorgeous!
Wavy hair flopping around in the breeze, wide shoulders, square jaw, clear
hazel eyes. A tan he hadn’t gotten in Milwaukee’s sub-Arctic climate.
                “She’s
a beauty,” he said, and for one egocentric instant I thought he meant me. Then
I noticed him ruffling Gigi’s long silky ears. He read her dog tag.