The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay by Kelly Harms Page B

of home, I would describe this place as uninhabitable.
    â€œMake yourself at home,” he says warmly while I am taking all this in. I look down at the floor, wondering, Should I sit? I am standing on a piece of wet, filthy cardboard that seems to be serving as protection for subflooring.
    â€œThe secret is to not look too closely,” he says before I can ask. “You’re right in the middle of a construction zone.”
    â€œI see that,” I say, and I hope it doesn’t come out snappily. It shouldn’t. I mean, since when do I care one whit how someone lives? I had cinderblock bookshelves in my apartment. And I wasn’t doing construction, so I had no excuse. “You’re in the middle of a remodel?” I ask, to try to soften my tone.
    â€œYou could say that. I guess that implies that I’m actually working on remodeling.”
    I smile with what I hope is compassion. “I assume it would be hard to work on much in the middle of winter.”
    â€œHarder still when I don’t know what I’m doing. I bit off more than I could chew when I moved into this house. I saw all this potential and forgot that I would be the one tasked with bringing that potential to life.”
    â€œI get that,” I say, thinking again of my fantasy life, where I get control of my finances, command respect from my friends, get some vague semblance of commitment from my boyfriend, and am left in peace to make my art without getting evicted.
    â€œAnyway, I think by spring I’ll have a better handle on what to do next.”
    â€œThat’s a long time to live without walls.”
    He smiles. “I live alone. What do I need with walls?”
    As if intending to make a liar of him, a knee-high brown-and-white mutt wanders into the living room. The dog is fluffy and rotund, maybe part basset? Definitely part spaniel. He makes for that horrible leather sofa and hops up. I think again of the yellow Lab I saw this morning, purebred and dignified. The rugged log-hewn lodge I passed on the way here. Those are part of the North Woods life I could have imagined Ben Hutchinson would have. Not this.
    â€œI see you’re not entirely alone,” I say with a smile. “Who’s this?”
    â€œOh, this gentleman is Steve. Steve the dog. He doesn’t need walls either. He needs little more than space to bound in and a wrecked leather sofa. And the occasional slice of roast beef.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Steve,” I say. Steve inclines his head. He’s ridiculously cute for someone quite as wild looking as he is. He almost makes me want to approach the sofa.
    â€œHere,” says Ben, and goes into his jeans pocket and pulls out a hard little dog biscuit. “He’ll love you forever.”
    I take the biscuit and slowly approach the pup, sidestepping a wrench, a stack of two-by-fours, a case of beer in cans. Ben trails behind me and I hope he is not seeing his house through my eyes. My heart goes out to this man I know so little about. In glitzy Las Vegas the stars were all out for him. Here in the North Woods, it seems his star has fallen.
    When I get near the sofa, fluffy, gentle-looking Steve knows something is up. His tail starts to thump on the couch and then he can’t lie down anymore and sort of pops up on all fours, like a trundle bed. I give him a little smooching sound, kiss kiss, and he flies down off the couch and to my heel. “Steve,” I say, “sit,” and he does. “Lie down,” I add, with an open hand pressing toward the floor in that universal dog language, and he does that too. I lean over and give him the treat and a good petting and he gobbles it up and then looks up at me for instructions and I say, “Good dog,” and he releases and goes back to the sofa, chomping all the way.
    â€œNow, that’s a gentleman,” I say to Ben. He is watching me, his head inclined in much the same expression Steve the dog