Софи Келли: Faux Paw

I held up one hand and smiled at him. “I love long stories.”

At that moment, behind me, I heard Margo Walsh call my name. At the same time Abigail came around the corner of the circulation desk. She raised a hand. “Kathleen, the reference computers have gone catawampus again.”

I blew out a long breath. I had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

And it was.

The spotlights Larry was proposing to install permanently were small and could be rotated 360 degrees, so I told him to go ahead and put them in, making a mental note to call Lita and tell her what I’d agreed to.

Margo had final (final, final) confirmation that the exhibit would be arriving Friday afternoon, which meant the library would be closed from one o’clock on Thursday until Saturday morning. Mary started making signs so our patrons would know what was going on, while Abigail dealt with a pile of books from the book drop and I tried to persuade the aging reference software on our even older computers to boot up for another day. I found myself thinking longingly of Rebecca’s muffins sitting on my desk.

In the end, one of those muffins and a large cup of coffee were all I had time to grab all day—I gave the other muffin to Larry, who worked through his own lunch—and that wasn’t until after the library board had left, all of them happy with the way the work for the exhibit was shaping up, and charmed by Margo and her genuine praise for the library and the town. She could certainly turn on the charm and tone down the nitpicking when it mattered.

I was very happy that Marcus had offered to cook supper for me. He’d also stopped in at my house to check on Owen and Hercules so I could drive directly out to his house when I left the library.

Micah met me at the door. The small marmalade tabby had appeared one day out at Wisteria Hill, the former Henderson estate that was now Roma’s home. She hadn’t been part of the feral colony of cats that called the old carriage house home. They had all been neutered as part of Roma’s trap-neuter-release program and were cared for by Roma and a group of volunteers that included Marcus and me. Roma’s best guess was that someone had simply dumped the little tabby near Wisteria Hill, maybe believing she could just join the other cats.

For months Roma had put out food for Micah; she had named her for the way the sunlight glinted off her ginger fur. She’d also erroneously said that Micah was a he. Marcus was the one who had first noticed that the very cautious cat was in fact a she, something he’d gently teased Roma about.

Just as Owen and Hercules, who were also from Wisteria Hill, had bonded with me, Micah had bonded with Marcus. Roma was certain she had had a home somewhere before Wisteria Hill. She was happy to let other people stroke her fur or scratch under her chin. If anyone other than me tried that with Owen or Hercules they would go from charming house cats to Tasmanian devils in about a second and a half.

There was no sign of Marcus, but something smelled wonderful. Micah wound around my legs and I bent and picked her up.

“Lasagna?” I asked.

“Merow,” she said.

The cat tipped her head to one side and looked at me, whiskers twitching. Her sense of smell was as good as Owen’s.

“I brought you something,” I said quietly. I pulled a small bag of the same sardine kitty treats I made for my own cats out of my pocket. I took two out and held out my hand.

Micah made a soft thank-you meow before leaning over to eat one of the small crackers.

“You’re spoiling my cat,” Marcus said behind me.

I turned around to face him. “Look who’s talking,” I said with a laugh. Marcus had snuck so many “treats” to Owen and Hercules, Roma had finally given him a stern lecture about what constituted “cat food” and what didn’t.

Micah took the other cracker from my hand and I reached over and stroked the top of her head. “And she’s not spoiled. She’s an angel cat.”

As if she’d understood every word I’d just said, Micah leaned her furry face against my cheek. We both looked up at Marcus.

He laughed and shook his head. Then he leaned down and gave me a quick kiss and ran his hand over the little cat’s fur.

I handed him the bag of fish crackers and put Micah down on the floor. She licked crumbs off her whiskers and looked up at Marcus.

“One,” he said, his voice edged with warning.

The cat bobbed her head as if in agreement. I knew he’d give her more than that and so did she.

Marcus opened the bag and fished out two crackers. He bent down and held them out to the cat, who took them both in her mouth and then set them on the floor.

He brushed his hands on his jeans, straightened up and pulled me into his arms for another, longer kiss. I still felt the same rush of giddiness I’d felt the first time he’d kissed me, standing out in the driveway next to my old truck.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Long,” I said, pulling off my jacket and hanging it and my purse over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Marcus turned to look at the timer on the stove. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

My stomach growled loudly then, as if in answer to his question.

“You skipped lunch again,” he said, reaching for an oversize pair of oven mitts. I noticed that he hadn’t phrased his comment in the form of a question.

“No, I didn’t,” I said, just a little defensively, as I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I had one of Rebecca’s muffins.”

“A muffin is not lunch,” Marcus countered. He opened the oven door, mumbled something and closed it again.

“It was a big muffin.”

He turned to look at me then, and I gave him my best innocent expression. It was the same kind of look Owen gave me, generally when I’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. It worked about as well on Marcus as it did when Owen used it on me.

“Kathleen, this is the third time in the last week and a half that you’ve missed lunch.”

Actually, it was the fourth, but I wasn’t stupid enough to correct him. Micah was at my feet, looking from one to the other of us as though she was following the conversation. For all I knew, maybe she was.

Marcus waved an oven mitt at me. “I’m bringing you lunch tomorrow.”

“Leftover lasagna?” I asked. That was assuming there was any left over by the time I’d finished my supper.

“How did you know I made lasagna?”

“Merow,” Micah said then. She had the same uncanny sense of timing that both Owen and Hercules seemed to possess.

“She told me,” I said, gesturing at the little cat and trying to keep a straight face.

Marcus set a multicolored pottery bowl of salad on the table. “The cat told you that we’re having lasagna?”

I shrugged. “I asked. She confirmed.”

Once again, the “meow” was perfectly timed.

“See?” I said.

He laughed.

I gestured at the little marmalade tabby. “She seems happy here.”

He nodded. “I actually took her over to Roma today. She’s gained a little weight.” He smiled. “I mean the cat, not Roma.” He went back to the refrigerator for the salad dressing, his own secret concoction. I’d been trying for months to wheedle the recipe out of him.

I watched Marcus move around the kitchen for a moment, just enjoying the view, so to speak. “Does she still think that Micah was abandoned?” I asked. The little cat leaned against my leg and I bent forward to pet her, wondering how anyone could have left her out at Wisteria Hill to fend for herself.

“Uh-huh,” Marcus said. “And it makes sense. All the carriage house cats have been neutered. And she’s definitely socialized.” He gestured at Micah, still leaning against my leg, eyes half closed, purring as I stroked her ginger-colored fur.