Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“Oh, Roma, I’m sorry.” Maggie reached across the table to give Roma’s arm a squeeze.

“So that’s why Eddie’s decided to retire,” I said.

Roma nodded. “Yes. He had a serious concussion himself, three years ago. He’s been thinking about retiring for a while now. If this hadn’t happened I think he might have played for another year, but that probably would have been it.”

She was still playing with her shirt. I would have expected her to be happier about Eddie’s news. There had to be something she hadn’t told us yet.

“So what does he want to do?” Maggie asked. “I mean aside from stripping all the trim upstairs.” She glanced at the ceiling over our heads.

Roma got an odd look on her face. It was a mix of panic and . . . happiness?

She looked down at the table for a moment, then lifted her head and met our eyes. “He says he wants to marry me.”

11

Maggie and I both gave squeals of excitement.

“Roma, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, grinning at her. I knew she loved Eddie, and you only had to spend a few minutes with the two of them to know he was crazy about her, too.

“He’s a lucky man,” Maggie said, green eyes shining. Then her smile faded.

Because Roma wasn’t smiling at all.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“How can I marry him?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at the flowered tablecloth.

“It’s easy,” Maggie said. “Kathleen and I take you shopping for a pretty dress. We put lights and flowers in the living room the way we did when Everett and Rebecca got married, and then you say ‘I do.’”

Roma shook her head. “I can’t.”

Maggie shot me a sidelong glance.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I’m older than Eddie. A lot older.”

I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. You know he doesn’t care.”

Roma had been married young, widowed when her daughter, Olivia, was very small, and she had put herself through college. She was in her late forties now, but most people were surprised when they found that out. She was older than both Maggie and me and it had never mattered to our friendship.

“It does matter,” Roma insisted. She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, tipping her head toward me. “Look. I found a gray hair yesterday.”

I couldn’t see a single white strand among her glossy dark brown hair.

“So what if you have a couple of gray hairs?” Maggie said. “So what if they’re all gray? Eddie loves what’s on the inside.” She laid a hand flat against her chest. “Sure, he appreciates your colorful candy shell.”

I knew she was referring to Roma’s propensity for carrying a bag of M&M’s along with a roll of duct tape so she was covered for pretty much any emergency that might happen.

“But it’s your sweet inside that Eddie fell in love with.”

The whole analogy was so silly even Roma had to laugh. But then her expression turned serious again. “Eddie loves kids. I’m too old to have a baby. I’m not going to let him give up something I know he wants just for a life with me. So I can’t marry him.” She held up a hand. “And I don’t want to argue about it.”

I struggled to find the right words. “Roma, Maggie and I are with you, no matter what you decide to do,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maggie nod in agreement. “Just . . . before you make a final decision, try living with the idea a little while.” It was something my father had said to me more than once, and it was the best thing I could think of to say.

We went back to talking about Roma’s plans for the yard, but Eddie’s proposal was the proverbial elephant in the room. When it was time to leave I wrapped Roma in a hug. “Call me anytime you want to talk,” I said. “Or not talk.”

“I will,” she promised. She waved from the steps as we started down the long driveway.

We were out on the road back to town before Maggie spoke. “Roma isn’t too old for Eddie. And there are other ways to make a family besides having a baby.”

I nodded without taking my eyes off the road. “I know that, but I don’t think she does.”

Gavin called me early the next morning. I was standing in the kitchen, wild haired, trying to decide between oatmeal with fruit and a scrambled egg. Owen and Hercules had already started on their breakfasts.

“Hey, Kathleen,” he said. “Could I buy you breakfast, or have you already eaten?”

I pushed my hair back off my face. “Is this about the library or are you just looking for company?” One night we had worked late on plans for the exhibit and Gavin had admitted that he didn’t like eating alone, even with a good book for company.

“I like conversation,” he’d said, a bit sheepishly.

“You need a cat,” I’d told him. “Owen and Hercules are great at making mealtime conversation, as long as you consider meows, murps and grumbling conversation.”

He’d laughed. “Where do they stand on the Wild’s playoff chances?”

“Stanley Cup in six,” I’d said, straight-faced.

Gavin laughed now. “I always enjoy your company, Kathleen, but this is about the library, specifically about the Weston piece. I have an idea I want to run by you and it’s a bit too complicated to get into on the phone.”

“And you don’t like eating alone,” I finished.

“You’re right, I don’t. So come join me. I’m at Eric’s Place. The coffee is hot, and I have an idea that might help us figure out who took that drawing.” He paused for a moment and when he spoke again the laughter had gone out of his voice. “And who killed Margo.”

I looked at the clock over the refrigerator. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I went back upstairs, wrestled my hair into a low twist with the help of lots of bobby pins and hairspray, and brushed my teeth. Back downstairs again I pulled on my favorite ankle boots while Hercules watched with curiosity and Owen moved the rest of his breakfast from his dish to the floor so he had more room to sniff each bite.

I leaned down and stroked the top of Hercules’s head. “I’m going to have breakfast with Gavin,” I said. “Have a good day.”

Owen’s gray tabby head shot up and the brothers exchanged a look; then two sets of cat eyes focused on me.

Neither Owen nor Hercules had taken to Gavin, probably because by his own admission he was a dog person. Their eyes stayed locked on me as I checked that I had everything I needed in my bag and reached for my coat, pretending to ignore them the whole time.

Still, it was disconcerting to be stared at. I should have been used to it, given how many times they’d used the technique on me when they were dissatisfied with something I’d done.

I turned and stared back at them, arms folded over my chest. “First of all, dog people are not the Evil Empire.”

That got no reaction, not even a blink.

“You like Harrison,” I continued, “and Harry Junior, and they’re dog people.”

The Taylors—Harry Junior and Senior—had a big German shepherd named Boris. Owen and Boris had had one “unfortunate” encounter that as far as Owen was concerned made them mortal enemies for life. The truth was that Boris was an intelligent and gentle dog. I’d made the mistake of calling him a pussycat once. Owen had been understandably offended.

The cats exchanged another look. Owen wrinkled his nose at me and meowed loudly.

I smiled at him, wrinkling my own nose back at him. “No, that’s not different,” I said firmly.

He dropped his head over his food again. Clearly, as far as he was concerned the discussion was over.

Gavin was sitting at a table by the end wall of the small café when I got to Eric’s. Claire was just refilling his coffee cup. Gavin raised a hand in greeting and when Claire caught sight of me she reached for the other stoneware mug on the table.