“You’re also not a risk-taking girl. It took you five seconds flat to decide to adopt Dempsey but it took you six months to research buying your new car. God willing, you’ll have Dempsey far longer than you will that Nissan. I’m hoping you get what I’m saying, so I’ll repeat, be careful. Treat Johnny Gamble like your Nissan. Do not adopt him like a member of your menagerie because they’re glad to have a home, someone to love who loves them in return. Not sure that’s what Johnny Gamble is looking for, but bottom line, that isn’t all you should be looking for from a man.”

My eyes were on the boxer mix I got as a puppy a year ago. Dempsey. He had white feet and a white flash on his chest that slid up to his white snout, the rest of him was red fawn.

He was grown up now, beautiful, all mine, and one of the reasons Kent had lost his mind eight months ago and broke down the door to my house.

The other reason was that Kent was creepy, stalkerish, pathologically possessive and possibly insane.

I’d adopted Dempsey when I was with Kent, so somehow Kent got it into his mind that when I ended things with him and refused to start them back up he should have Dempsey, so he set about taking him.

Sadly for Kent, not so much for me, Dempsey didn’t like Kent breaking down the door, shouting down the house (anytime he did that), but evidently Dempsey was fed up with it that night. To wit, Dempsey mauled the heck out of Kent’s arm while my other dog, Swirl, attacked his leg. All this as I was frantically talking to the 911 operator.

After the “attack,” Kent then tried to make me have Dempsey and Swirl put down.

Fortunately, the cops saw Kent for what he was, what with the breaking down of my door and all, thought Dempsey and Swirl were the bomb and refused to press the issue.

Unfortunately, Kent got an attorney.

Fortunately, the judge saw it the cops’ (and my) way.

Unfortunately, Kent continued to be such a nuisance, I had to sell my little house and move to Matlock.

Fortunately, it meant I had my horses not stabled elsewhere but right outside my back door.

Unfortunately, all this meant I headed into Home last night and met Johnny Gamble who I’d like to think could be someone special in my life but who might just be a really great memory.

“Izzy, are you there?” Deanna called.

“I’m not thinking I’m made out for the hook-up kind of life,” I muttered.

“Oh, baby,” she crooned. “You sure you don’t want me to come out there?”

“No, but maybe next Saturday you and Charlie can come over so I can make you something a whole lot better than chicken enchiladas to thank you for taking care of my zoo today.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes I do.”

She let that sit for a moment before she replied, “Yeah, you always do.”

Deanna and I worked together. Deanna and I met at the office. Deanna and I moved up the ranks together. Deanna and I were both directors of different departments now.

I’d been at the hospital with her after her mother had her stroke. She’d come to the hospital with me repeatedly when mine was dying of cancer.

I’d also been there when Deanna met Charlie. I had stood at her side when she married him.

She’d been there when I met Kent. And she’d stood at my side while we stood about five feet behind Charlie’s back when Charlie stood in my doorway with a baseball bat and told Kent if he showed at my place one more time he’d cave his head in with that bat.

Deanna was very black, very round, very beautiful, and even though I adored the younger one I got by blood, Deanna was also the big sister I’d always wanted to have.

Needless to say, with my life, and Deanna’s, me wanting to have it together so bad it was an obsession, her having it together naturally, there were a lot of thank-you dinners from me to her in our past and there probably would be a lot more in our future.

“See you tomorrow at work and we’ll be there Saturday for one of Izzy’s delicacies,” she told me.

“Great, doll. See you tomorrow.”

“That you will, later, babe.”

“Later, Deanna.”

We hung up but I didn’t move, watching my horses roam their space, my dogs doing it with them, Dempsey with Swirl, my old boy, the senior member of my zoo, my Bernese mountain dog mix I’d rescued about a year after I graduated from college.

I’d come to Matlock thinking, after losing Mom, after my sister married a loser, after what happened with Kent, that I’d hit this little farmhouse on three acres and hit heaven.

Johnny and Shandra.

Well, there it was. Johnny was probably removed not only because he was having a rough day, which was the anniversary of his dad’s death, but because he was remote so as not to let anyone think they were getting in there because my sense was he was that kind of guy. He might have burned a few women after Shandra, but he’d know that and in future have a mind to it. I could only guess that was true, but with his gentlemanly manner, I figured it’d be a good guess.

So it was what it was. I’d had my first hookup, which wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. That soothed the inherent good girl in me but ravaged the dreamer I wouldn’t ever let myself be.

I stared at my horses and dogs.

This was my dream.

This was mine.

This was my heaven.

It was ordered and it was pretty and it was filled with love. It reminded me of what I had with Mom and my sister, but without all the bad parts mixed in.

Would it be better with Johnny or a Johnny-type person in the mix?

Maybe.

But this was what I had now.

And it was beautiful.

So I’d take it.

And do what my mother always told me to do.

Just be happy.

I’d already exfoliated, had just ripped the charcoal strip off my nose and was about to slather the facial sheets on my skin when my phone rang.

I looked down to my bathroom counter and saw it said, Johnny Calling.

I took the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Hey.”

“No bullshit with you, rings twice and I get a ‘hey,’” was his reply.

I stared at the curlicue, ivory wire bathroom accessories on my countertop. “Sorry?”

“Nothin’, Iz,” he said, sounding amused. “Have a good day?”

I wandered into my bedroom straight to my iron bed with its acres-of-material white coverlet, large, gorgeous sage-green crocheted throw draped along the bottom, lacy white euros at the top sprinkled with dusky flower-printed toss pillows, and climbed in while answering.

“Did a recon of the kitchen because you’re getting dessert tomorrow night too. This necessitated a trip to the store in town. Came back, rode Serengeti. Got my tomato and strawberry pots sorted and planted some herbs. Looked at chicken coops. They’re not that expensive, but the ones that aren’t so expensive only allow two chickens or four bantams, so I think I need to do more research since I want at least six. Maybe eight. And I want standards. Now I’ve got the lasagna in the oven and I’m in the middle of my regular Sunday night facial. So all in all, it was really good.”

Johnny said nothing.

“So, well . . . I hesitate to ask,” I filled the silence, “but how was the rest of yours?”

“Strawberry pots?”

“They’re biggish pots with lots of little openings that strawberries grow out of,” I explained and when he made no reply, I shared idiotically, “Mine are dark blue ceramic. I have five of them.”