Софи Келли - Final Catcall

“Better,” I said. The pain had settled down to a slight ache in my shoulder.

He pointed to the little gray tabby, still sitting by my feet, clearly checking him out. “That’s Owen, right?”

“Merow,” Owen said, before I had a chance to answer.

“Hey, Owen.” Andrew leaned forward as though he was going to stroke the cat’s fur.

“Don’t do that,” I said, putting out my right hand to stop him.

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why?”

Owen continued to sit in the same spot, the picture of kitty sweetness with his head tipped to one side, no hint of the whirling dervish he would turn into if Andrew tried to pet him.

“He’s feral—at least he was. Hercules, too. I found them both when they were kittens, at an old estate just outside of town. They’ll let me touch them, but pretty much no one else.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Andrew’s skepticism didn’t surprise me. Owen looked harmless, but the last person who had disregarded instructions not to touch him had ended up needing a paramedic. And Marcus had had to vouch for the cat.

Why did everything make me think of Marcus? I shook my head again. “He has claws and he’s not afraid to use them.”

Right on cue Owen held up a paw, almost as though he knew what I’d just said and was trying to plead his innocence.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t get cute,” I muttered.

He flicked his tail at me and went back to the kitchen.

Andrew laughed and straightened up. “So, are you ready for breakfast?”

“As long as you understand it’s just breakfast.”

“I figured you’d say that.” He braced a hand against the doorframe, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His expression grew serious. “Look, Kath, I messed up big-time. Yeah, I was drunk and I was pissed at you, but neither one is any kind of an excuse for marrying someone I didn’t even know.” His mouth moved, as though he were testing the feel of what he wanted to say next. “After I talked to you back in the spring, all I could think about was how badly I’d f— screwed things up. I’m not that person anymore. Have breakfast with me and you’ll see that.”

“Okay,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “Okay? That’s it? You’re not going to argue with me? I have another speech I haven’t even used.”

I shrugged. “Sorry. I’m hungry. But if it will make you feel better you can give me your speech on the way down the hill.”

“You’ve ruined the effect.” He folded his arms across his chest in mock indignation and his lips twitched as he tried—and failed—not to smile.

“I have to get my sweater and my briefcase,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

The cats were sitting by the coat hooks in the kitchen. I got them fresh water and draped my blue sweater over my shoulders while they watched, turning their heads in perfect synchronization to follow me.

“I’ll tell you all about it tonight.” I reached over to scratch Hercules under his chin. “Have a good day,” I said.

Owen leaned sideways and seemed to be looking at the piece of paper stuck to the front of the refrigerator that listed the days Marcus and I fed the feral cat colony out at Wisteria Hill. Was he asking about Marcus or thinking about the sardines that were in the fridge?

I leaned down and stroked the top of his head. “Yes, I’m going to talk to Marcus—or at least try to—and no, you can’t have any sardines.”

He turned his back on me and started washing his tail. Whatever he’d been asking, he hadn’t liked my answer.

Andrew was a contractor who specialized in old houses, and he kept the conversation to his latest restoration project as we drove to the restaurant. “Where are we going?” he asked, as we came to the intersection at the bottom of the hill.

“Turn right,” I said. We were going to Eric’s Place, my favorite spot for breakfast.

Andrew found a parking space on the street and managed to wedge the little red car he was driving into it. We got out and headed for the restaurant. “What’s the food like?” he asked.

“Excellent,” I said, as we stepped inside.

“Oh, good.” His tone told me that he didn’t exactly believe me. He looked around, taking in the space that looked more like a small-town coffee shop than a five-star restaurant.

Claire smiled from behind the counter. She grabbed a menu and came toward us. “Hey, Kathleen. What happened to your arm?” she asked.

“I twisted my shoulder. It’s nothing serious,” I said.

The smile got wider. “I’m glad. Table for two?”

I nodded.

She gave Andrew a quick appraising glance. “Window or wall?”

“Window,” I said before Andrew could suggest we get a slightly more private table along the end wall of the small café.

Claire showed us to the table with the best view of the sidewalk. “Welcome to Eric’s,” she said to Andrew as she handed him a menu.

He gave her the full power of that smile. “Thank you.”

“Claire, this is my friend Andrew from Boston,” I said.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. Her eyes flicked from me to Andrew, but that was the only giveaway that she was curious about who he was and what he was doing in town. She turned to me. “Would you like a couple of minutes for your friend to look through the menu before you order?”

“Actually, no,” I said. I looked across the table at Andrew, who was still checking the place out but trying not to be obvious about it. “How about letting me order for you?”

“Uh . . . okay,” he said slowly.

I knew if Andrew ordered his own breakfast he would go for ham and eggs, and while Eric did a good job with that breakfast basic, I wanted to show off just a little.

“Two breakfast sandwiches,” I told Claire. “The new one.”

She nodded approvingly. “Good choice.” Then she picked up the menu, tucked it under her arm and turned to Andrew. “Coffee?” she asked. She didn’t have to ask me that question.

“Please,” he said.

“I’ll be right back.”

Eric came out of the kitchen then and raised his hand in hello when he caught sight of me. I lifted my good hand in return. I saw him give Andrew a second look and then say something to Claire before she returned with the coffeepot and a little pitcher of cream.

“I heard what happened last night,” she said quietly as she poured my cup.

For a moment I wondered how on earth she could know what had happened between Marcus and me. Then I realized she meant what happened before that, at the tent set up for the food tasting that was scheduled for this afternoon.

The tasting—and an art show—had been planned as part of the town’s presentation to a corporate tour company—before one of the partners in the firm had been killed down near the Riverwalk.

“Did Liam cancel everything?” I asked.

Claire shook her head. “Nope. The tasting is starting an hour later, but otherwise everything is a go. Mary was in about an hour ago. They’re already starting to get the booths ready.” She gave Andrew a curious glance. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled. “I’ll save you a bowl of pudding cake.”

Andrew added sugar to his coffee and took a sip. “Hey, this is good,” he said.

I folded my free arm across my chest and studied him across the table without speaking.

“What?” he said, holding out both hands. “I said it was good.”

I continued to stare silently at him.

His face flushed. “Okay, so I thought I was going to end up with a cup of something closer to paint thinner. How did you know that?”

I gave him my Mr. Spock eyebrow and reached for my own cup. “I know you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, his expression serious.