Page 38 of Always Almost You

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Less than a five-minute walk. Cross the street, walk straight to Touro Street, and you’re there.”

“And the shops? The wharf?”

“Take Thames Street south. You’ll find everything.”

“I’m hoping to buy a warm sweater for her,” Lauren said. “We’re from L.A.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure it’s much colder here. Newport is very dog-friendly. You’ll have several options.”

“Anywhere I can get lunch to go?”

“There are plenty of places. And while state law doesn’t allow dogs inside restaurants unless they’re service animals, if the restaurant isn’t busy and the dog is well behaved …” He leaned in slightly. “Managers tend to look the other way.”

“Really?” Lauren asked, delighted.

He nodded. “Arrive outside the mealtime rush and you’ll be fine. This girl looks like a model citizen.”

Pumpkin, sitting quietly at Lauren’s side, swept her tail neatly across the floor.

Lauren laughed. “I’m expecting my suitcase to be delivered by the airline today. Where will the hotel store it if I’m out?”

“I’d be happy to place it in your room,” he said.

“I’d really appreciate that.”

“If you leave your phone number, I’ll text you when it arrives.”

She gave it to him, struck again by the consideration of the staff.

“They’re predicting wind later,” he added. “It’ll feel colder once the breeze comes off the water.”

“Thank you. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

She handed him a tip and tucked her hands into her coat pockets.

Together, she and Pumpkin descended the stone steps into the bright, snow-kissed charm of downtown Newport. The air was crisp, the sky impossibly blue, and the day wide open before them.

The pair crossed Mary Street and stepped onto the narrow brick sidewalk of the residential lane opposite the hotel. Overnight snow that had looked like powdered sugar on the uneven brick was now melting into rivulets that traced the mortar lines. The air held the clean scent that comes after a storm. A brass placard stood at the entrance to the street, etched with outlines of homes listed on the National Historic Register, along with descriptions of their architectural styles and a brief history.

Pumpkin waited patiently as Lauren read each one. There were examples of Federal, Queen Anne, Georgian, and Colonial architecture. They strolled slowly so Lauren could study each home. She had memorized these styles in design school, sketched them in charcoal, and labeled their cornices and pediments in exams. But she had never lived where they stood shoulder to shoulder, not as museum pieces, but as someone’s everyday life.

Each home bore signs of Christmas. Evergreen wreaths fastened with satin bows hung on every door. Pine boughs and red berries filled the window boxes. Garland wrapped the lanterns. Freshly cut Christmas trees glimmered inside bay windows, their lights glowing even in daylight.

She paused before a Georgian home with symmetrical shutters and a perfectly centered door. When these houses were built, she thought, families warmed themselves by the fire and read by candlelight. Now, somewhere inside, someone was probably streaming a holiday movie. The juxtaposition delighted her.

Pumpkin tugged at the leash, reminding her that this was not an architectural tour. They crossed Touro Street and entered Eisenhower Park. The Old Colony House loomed over them on the eastern edge. Its balanced façade, formal red brick exterior, and grand clock beneath the small rooftop tower stood serene and stately against the winter sky. Garland wrapped the iron fence surrounding the grounds, and oversized red bows adorned the gates. A large wooden sign near the entrance read:

Welcome to Newport — Merry Christmas

Lauren stood still, absorbing it all. Pumpkin did not. With sudden enthusiasm, she strained and pranced at the end of the leash. Then, in one nimble maneuver, she slipped free.

“Pumpkin!” Lauren spun, heart lurching. Her pup raced across the snow toward a yellow Labrador bounding in their direction like a golden freight train.

The larger dog’s owner followed, laughing.

The dogs collided in joyful chaos—rolling, tumbling, paws flinging powdery snow into the air.

“I’m so sorry!” the man called out in a distinctly New England accent. “Ollie thinks every dog in Newport is here specifically to see him.”