Cupid Cats Page 13

  Chloe chatted nonstop as they went on their search. Within a few minutes Edith had learned Chloe was five and was starting kindergarten this coming fall; she had three aunts, two uncles and one “part-time uncle,” six boy cousins and two girl cousins, all older than she; her daddy and she had moved into a house with a swing set but no microwave; and Chloe liked Polly Pockets, Bratz, and Hannah Montana. Unfortunately, Edith had no idea who these last three were, though she did have a vague recollection of a female character named Montana in a Kurt Vonnegut novel and so assumed this must be to whom Chloe was referring. She found that fascinating. Even to Edith, Kurt Vonnegut seemed advanced for a five-year-old. But then, she realized she found much about Chloe fascinating.

  Though she knew the desire to be based on a biological imperative, she’d always wanted a child. But with the end of her engagement five years ago, she’d put all thoughts of motherhood on hiatus. She had not precisely given up on the idea of being a mother—adoption and single parenthood being viable options—it just made no sense to waste time ruminating over something not in her foreseeable future. But being with Chloe awakened those dormant urges.

  The shelter was not very big, as most of the animals were fostered, so it didn’t take long before they found Ishy in the Meet and Greet room, a small room in the back of the shelter outfitted with a sofa, a cat tree, and a window box where potential adopters could meet the cat they were interested in without the distraction presented by the other animals.

  The old cat was roosting in the center of the raggedy orange and gold tweed sofa. Without a word, Chloe climbed into one corner and sat down cross-legged, swiveling to face the cat while Edith took a place on the other end, Ishy splitting the distance between them. She was staring unblinkingly at a blank wall. Occasionally, the very last two inches of her tail would twitch and she would make an odd sound deep in her throat.

  “What’s she looking at?” Chloe asked after a few minutes, her voice hushed so as not to disturb the cat’s Zen-like focus.

  “I have no idea,” Edith admitted.

  “I think she’s looking at something only she can see,” Chloe said, glancing at Edith.

  “The possibility has some merit,” Edith agreed. “Especially in dim light. Cats’ eyes have a structure called the tapetum lucidum, which reflects light back into the eye, enabling it to see motion in near darkness much better than humans can.”

  Chloe sighed. “What’s that mean?”

  Edith frowned. What did it mean to a five-year-old? “It means if there’s a bug on the wall, she can see it when we can’t.”

  “Oh,” Chloe said, her face clearing, then added, “I don’t think she’s looking at a bug. I think she sees something only cats can see, like a fairy. Or a unicorn. Or a ghost.”

  Oh, dear. Edith understood that fantastical thinking was considered a normal part of a child’s psychological development, though she herself had been a more concrete thinker. She also recognized that people were very sensitive about when and how their children’s fantasies were dispelled. Take, for example, the Santa Claus debacle of her fourth year. Who could anticipate Gary Knutson’s mother would take such umbrage at her son’s being informed that Santa Claus was not real? Gary had been six if he’d been a day.

  So now, Edith considered her options. She did not want to be responsible for destroying yet another child’s illusions.

  “I think she sees a ghost,” Chloe whispered.

  Edith mumbled noncommittally.

  “Don’t you?” The little girl turned her gaze up at Edith. Her eyes were the same bright blue as her father ’s.

  She didn’t believe in lying, even to children, so she avoided the issue altogether. “Hey. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s really most admirable that you want to adopt an older animal.”

  As a distractive ploy it worked, although Chloe’s reaction was not what Edith expected. She expected Chloe to say thank you. Instead, the little girl scowled, concentrating, then asked, “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah,” Chloe said seriously. “Why is that so great?”

  Edith shrugged. “Most people don’t want old cats. In fact, many shelters consider them unadoptable.”

  “What’s unadoptable?”

  “It means something about the cat makes it unlikely anyone will want it.”

  “Like what?”

  Edith appreciated Chloe’s interrogation. She would not be satisfied until she had an answer that made sense to her. She reminded Edith of herself—and not just at five.

  “Oh, for example, if a cat is malformed. That means there’s something different about how it looks or how it acts. For instance, it might have one leg shorter than the rest or it might be blind or it might not be able to meow. Or it might be morbidly ob—” She cut herself off. Small words. “It might be really, really fat. Or it might not be well socialized.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It isn’t used to being around people. And sometimes cats not used to being around people are so scared and nervous around them that they might bite or scratch.”

  “Ow.”

  “Yes. So you can see why someone might not want them.”

  “But when they get used to being around people, they won’t bite,” Chloe asserted hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” Edith allowed. “But even if these unsocialized cats don’t actually bite, they may never become as cuddly as most people want their pets to be.”

  Chloe had nothing to say to this because, Edith supposed, she was one of those who preferred cuddly.

  “And sometimes,” Edith continued, “people don’t think a cat is adoptable if it’s too old. They want a young, playful cat or at least one that will be with them for a long, long time.”

  “Oh.” Chloe fell silent a long minute, studying Ishy. Then, with the ability to commit that only the very young enjoy, she said, “I don’t care. I still want Pixie.”

  Edith didn’t even bother correcting her this time. Chloe’s ability to believe what she wanted to believe was a wondrous and formidable thing.

  They continued sitting on the sofa in companionable silence for a while longer before Chloe said, apropos of nothing Edith could discern, “My daddy likes you.”

  Edith didn’t know how to respond, so taking her usual course, she didn’t. But Chloe seemed as unconscious of social delicacy as Edith. “Do you like my daddy?”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot?”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “More than you like Pixie.”

  “What makes you think I like Pix—Ishy?”

  “Because you let her live here.”

  “That might only mean I don’t know what else to do with her.”

  Chloe gave her an exasperated look. “Well, do you like Pixie?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot?”

  “How much is a lot?”

  For a second, Chloe stared at Edith, her brows dipping toward each other in obvious confusion. Then, suddenly, abruptly, her expression cleared, and she laughed, a sweet, chuckling roll of a laugh. “As much as you like my daddy.”

  Edith grinned, charmed. “What makes you think I like your daddy?”

  “Because you let us come here.”

  “That might only mean I don’t know how to get rid of you.”

  Chloe burst into louder giggles, and Edith joined in just as Jim Curran appeared in the doorway. “Hey. What’s up?”

  Chloe popped off the sofa and dove at her father, wrapping her arms around his legs and peering up at him, her face shining. “Edie doesn’t know how to get rid of us!” she crowed as if this were the best thing in the world.

  Jim, hands resting lightly on Chloe’s shoulders, looked over her at Edith. Heat climbed into her face. “It’s not as it sounds. We were . . .” She sought an appropriate term.

  “Being silly!” Chloe suppli
ed.

  “Yes,” Edith said. “We were just being silly.”

  “Ahuh. Apparently.” Jim nodded and swung his daughter up in his arms. “Sorry I took so long.”

  Edith shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize. I enjoyed it.”

  Jim smiled at her, right into her eyes, and her heartbeat fluttered unevenly in response. His smile didn’t mean anything personal. Of course he’d smile, she chided herself. She’d just complimented his progeny. People liked having their offspring approved of; it reflected on their mentoring and breeding abilities.

  “We’d better get going, Chloe,” Jim said. “Dinner’s going to be way late as it is.”

  Dinner. She’d forgotten about dinner.

  “Can we take Pixie with us?”

  Jim glanced at Edith.

  “You can try,” she said. “But you mustn’t be disappointed if she doesn’t go.”

  Chloe nodded, her dark curls bobbing as she let go of her father’s legs and skipped back to the old couch. Carefully, she collected Ishy in her arms and then, very slowly, walked out of the Meet and Greet room and down the narrow corridor toward the lobby. The cat purred, nuzzling her head up under the little girl’s chin. Edith and Jim trailed after her.

  They made it all the way to the front door of the shelter before Ishy started struggling. For a second, Chloe clutched her tighter, her face betraying frustration and hurt, but then she bent over with a gusty little sigh and released the old cat. Ishy didn’t run away. She only sauntered off a few feet, sat down, and began patiently grooming a shoulder.

  “She almost got through the door with me,” Chloe said. “I think she really wanted to, but she got scared.”

  “Possibly.”

  Chloe gave a little sigh. “I can come back tomorrow, can’t I?”

  “Of course you can,” Edith said, trying to hide her eagerness.

  “ ’Fraid not, Chlo-Schmo” Jim said.

  “Why not?” Chloe demanded, echoing Edith’s own thought.

  “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Spaghetti night at your aunt Susie’s.”

  Chloe’s brow furrowed over a mutinous expression. “But I wanna see Pixie tomorrow!”

  “Family first,” Jim said, a note of iron creeping into his matter-of-fact tone.

  “Ishy’s not going anywhere,” Edith said, trying to forestall the tantrum she saw threatening in Chloe’s mulish expression. “She’ll be here the next time you visit.”

  “Pixie!” Chloe glared at her, tears starting in her eyes. “Her name is Pixie!”

  She stomped her foot in frustration.

  “I’m sorry,” Jim told Edith, taking a firm hold of Chloe’s hand.

  “Why?” Edith asked, ignoring Chloe’s thunderous expression. She’d begun trying to yank her hand free. “Emotionally, children are primitive creatures, reactive rather than proactive. While not incapable of delaying gratification, they are still extremely resentful of having such a necessity imposed upon them. Chloe is simply acting like a five-year-old.” When she’d thought she would be a parent in the near future, she’d done some research into child psychology—just light reading.

  “Almost six!” Chloe shouted.

  “A five-year-old,” Edith said, pleased Chloe had been listening.

  “Five or six, she’s not coming tomorrow. She may not be coming the next day, either, if she keeps this up,” Jim added.

  Chloe, looking from Edith to her father, decided he meant it. With a gruff little sigh of capitulation, she stopped yanking at his hand and contented herself with staring accusingly at Edith as if she had been somehow responsible for Tuesday-night spaghetti suppers. “Promise she’ll be here?” she demanded.

  “I promise.”

  “Next time I bet she comes home with me.”

  “We can only wait and see. In the meantime, I have a litter of kittens coming in tomorrow evening. Perhaps you’d like to see them? Not as a replacement for Pixie, but to help me name them.”

  Chloe’s face lightened up. “Can I?”

  “I’d appreciate it. I never seem to come up with very good kitten names,” Edith said. “Every kitten people adopt from me ends up with a different name from the one I give it.”

  For some reason this seemed to amuse Jim. He grinned broadly. “You mean people don’t want cats named Ishmael?”

  “No. Or Ovid. Or Damocles. Or Macbeth.”

  “Imagine.” His blue eyes were sparkling, and the long dimple in his lean cheek had deepened. For a second she felt a little light-headed. Pheromones weren’t supposed to cause light-headedness. At least, she didn’t think they were. She’d have to do some research.

  “Come on, Chloe. Let’s get some grub,” Jim said, swinging his daughter up into his arms. All was apparently forgiven, for Chloe wrapped her arms around Jim’s neck with a confident familiarity that sent a ping of yearning through Edith. What would it be like to embrace someone so publically and without the slightest hesitation because you knew you wouldn’t be rejected?

  “Hey, Edie, have you had dinner?” Jim suddenly asked.

  “Ah, no.”

  “Why don’t you come and have dinner with us?” He bounced Chloe in his arms, and she giggled.

  “Oh. No. I mean, no, thank you. I—I have to clean up here.” Dinner? With Jim Curran and his Chloe. The idea confounded her.

  “We could go home, get things ready, and you can come over when you’re done here. We took up your evening. The least we can do is make you dinner. It won’t be anything fancy, but . . . ,” he said, trailing off enticingly.

  She wanted to. Lord knew she wanted to, but . . . but . . . “No. I . . . No,” she finished, hoping he wouldn’t press her, yet hoping he would.

  He looked openly disappointed, but he did not press her. Damn. “Okay, but you’ll be missing out on some spectacular ground turkey glop.”

  She unlocked the front door, holding it open and standing aside so they could pass through. As they walked away, Chloe looked over her father’s shoulder and waved.

  Behind her, Ishy-Pixie yowled plaintively. Stupid cat. She wouldn’t go with them, so what right did she have to complain?

  Chapter 4

  “You’re kidding! You’re that Jim Curran? The captain of the soccer team and homecoming king?” asked the pretty, curvy blonde sitting across from Jim. She leaned forward, eyes sparkling.

  “Ah, yeah.” Jim shifted in his chair and wished the waiter would show up and take their order. High school was a long time gone. Candice—Connor? Or was her last name Connell?—was laughing, her corn silk blond bob swinging lightly against her rounded cheeks, her adorable dimples deepening. Melissa, who’d set up this blind double date, beamed approvingly while her husband, Phil, grinned, clearly enjoying Jim’s discomfort.

  “My sister-in-law was your homecoming queen!” Candice crowed. “Darry Jurovich.”

  Jim looked up, his earlier discomfort forgotten. “Really?”

  “Yeah!” Candice nodded excitedly.

  “Candice went to Hamilton High, too,” Melissa put in.

  “Sure did,” Candice acknowledged. “I was three years behind you. Still”—her eyes fell modestly to the white linen tablecloth—“I’m sure you saw me even if you don’t remember me. I captained the Pantherettes dance line.”

  He didn’t recall her, but it would be rude to say so. “Sure, I do,” he said, and was gratified to see her pink up with pleasure. She was a nice woman, pretty in a Nordic goddess sort of way—tall and buxom, with a broad smile and an easy laugh.

  “Well, even if you’re lying, I’m going to pretend you’re not. And let me say,” she declared with an impish smile, “that despite having packed on some, er, more curves over the last ten years, I can still do a mean high kick.”

  “Really?” Phil said.

  “Really. But I’m not going to give any demonstrations, so don’t ask.”

  Phil shrugged. “Talk’s cheap.”

  “No, you don’t,” Candice said, waving a finger under Phil’s nose. “Last
time I decided to show off, my shoe flew off and hit some poor innocent bystander in the forehead!”

  They all laughed at the image, Phil saying, “Ah, come on, Candy. Maybe just once in the parking lot after dinner?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “Can’t afford another lawsuit.”

  They were laughing again when Melissa abruptly said, “Candice also pitched for the girls’ fast pitch softball. And still does.”

  Most women would have been embarrassed by Melissa’s all-too-obvious listing of credentials, but Jim had to give Candice credit; she handled it with aplomb, being neither too self-effacing nor too boastful.

  “Just a city team, but we’re good. Took second place last year.” Candice smiled. “I love being part of a team, you know? I just . . . I like people.” Once again, her gaze dipped a little shyly, but becomingly so. She reminded him of someone. He couldn’t place who, but . . .

  The waiter appeared to take their orders. Candice barely glanced at the menu before smiling up at the middle-aged waiter and saying, “You have a T-bone? Back in the kitchen? Good. Medium well and, yeah, I know, it’s disgusting, but bring some ketchup. And some sort of potato. I like au gratin.”

  The waiter made an effort to maintain a neutral expression. So did Jim. She intended to desecrate a steak with ketchup? May the food gods forgive her.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have only baked or smashed with horseradish.”

  She pulled a face. “I love that they call mashed potatoes smashed now. Love it. But why do you have to mess up a perfectly lovely potato with horseradish?”

  Jim admired the waiter’s restraint. The same might be asked about steak and ketchup.

  “Couldn’t you do something about it? Please? I know I’m a heathen, but I just don’t have a very adventurous palate. Come on. Take pity on me.” She said this so winningly and with such good humor, Jim could actually see the waiter’s stiff stance relax.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You are a doll,” Candice said, and once again, Jim had a sense of déjà vu. He wondered if perhaps he did remember her after all.

  The waiter took the rest of their orders and left, and the conversation flowed on at an easy pace. They traded anecdotes and names, moving gradually away from the past to the present. Candice was comfortable to be with, natural, funny, and engaging.