Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

I smiled. “She is that.”

My cell phone rang for the second time today, and I saw Tom Stewart’s caller ID after I dug it out of my pocket. I answered with “Hey there. What’s up?”

“What’s up is that I’m at your front door, but no one’s home. I wanted to talk to you about last night, and I even brought coffee,” he said. “Where the heck are you?”

“I’m home, just didn’t hear the doorbell. I’ll be right there.” I closed the phone and looked at Kara. “A friend of mine is here. Do you mind if we visit?”

She never took her eyes off the cats. “No problem. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here with the kittens.”

I smiled at Kara and went upstairs. A minute later, I let Tom in, and as he handed me a latte from Belle’s Beans, he said, “Whose car is that in your drive?”

“Kara Hart. John’s daughter,” I said.

“Oh. He had kids?” Tom said.

“Just Kara,” I answered. I didn’t talk about John with Tom, didn’t really talk about him or Kara with anyone.

Merlot and Syrah appeared, and they sauntered up to Tom and began sniffing his jeans for traces of Tom’s own cat, Dashiell.

He handed me his coffee and knelt to pet them. “Kara came loaded, that’s for sure.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Her car is packed to the roof with stuff,” he said.

“Really? Maybe Mercy is on the way to wherever she’s headed,” I said.

“Mercy isn’t on the way to anywhere, Jillian. It’s a destination.” He rose and took his coffee. “Let’s talk about last night. I want to hear all about this latest mess you’re involved in straight from the horse’s mouth.”

We went to the living room, but I was still processing that one little sentence.

It’s a destination.

Tom Stewart sat across from me in my living room while I related yet again all that had happened in the past few days. Tom is a great listener. Maybe working in security and doing PI work helped him hone those attentive skills, or maybe it was his former job as a police officer-the job he refused to talk about. I can’t fault him there, since I’m tight-lipped on certain subjects myself.

But I was surprised when I finished telling my story. He didn’t start questioning me about the professor but rather said, “What’s with the daughter?”

“Kara? She lost her job. She’s a reporter, and I guess no one is reading the newspaper anymore,” I said. “But what about the professor and-”

“What newspaper?” he said.

“The Houston Press.”

“How old is she?” he asked.

“Twenty-eight. No, twenty- nine. Seems I lost track of a year there,” I said. Had I even sent Kara a birthday card the year John died?

“You were a stepmother to someone only twelve or thirteen years younger than you? How did that work out?” he said.

No one, not even John, ever asked me that. “Kara was a challenge. I tried. I’m still trying.” But was I a lot like Kara? In protection mode? I had kept Tom at a friendly distance after we’d met last fall. I knew he wanted our relationship to be more than platonic, but I wasn’t ready then. And what about now? I still wasn’t sure.

“So Kara is-”

“Right here. What about me?” Kara said.

I wondered how long she’d been standing behind the breakfast bar that separated the living room and kitchen.

He turned her way. “Tom Stewart. Nice to meet you.”

I thought she was about to smile, but she contained herself. “Hi. You obviously know my name already.” She looked at me. “He’s got great eyes. Nice catch, Jillian.”

“It’s not like that,” I said. Maybe not yet, anyway.

Tom broke the awkward tension by saying, “Jillian was telling me you lost your job. Sorry to hear that.”

Kara’s eyes narrowed, and then she put on that mask I’d seen so often when she was younger, the same one I’d seen when she’d arrived on my doorstep today. No emotion whatsoever. She said, “I’m tired. Think I’ll take a nap.”

“Don’t leave,” Tom said. “Come and talk to us.”

“Like I said, I’m tired.” She walked around the counter and started toward the hallway.

“You’re not interested in a job prospect?” he asked.

Uh-oh. What are you doing, Tom Stewart?

She turned, that expressionless demeanor not giving anything away. “What kind of job?”

“You were a reporter, right? What did you cover?” he asked.

A flush raced up her neck and settled on her pale cheeks. “Most recently? Or do you want the whole resume?”

“Sorry if I’m upsetting you,” Tom said. “I’ll get straight to it. We have a sorry- ass newspaper in this town. One editor and one reporter. But unlike the big city, where everyone gets their news from the Internet, people here still read their paper every day.”

Why did I feel like an interloper in my own home? How had this happened, and why couldn’t I find my voice? But if I spoke now, I was certain I would anger Kara even more. A stranger she could handle, but me? Just as I’d done while John was alive, I avoided any kind of unpleasant confrontation with her and kept my mouth shut. I decided I could slug Tom later for succeeding where I’d failed. Yes, with a Louisville Slugger. Maybe Rufus Bowen could lend me one.

Kara laughed. “You want me to take a job at some Podunk newspaper? And make what? A couple hundred dollars a month?”

“You could bring your big-city knowledge to this small town. And what you write will be read. If it’s money you’re worried about, I can offer you part-time work, too.”

“What?” I blurted, unable to hold back on that one.

“She came to Mercy for your help, Jillian.” Tom looked at Kara. “That’s why you came, right?”

Tom the listener had turned into Tom the Mr. Fix- it. How I wished I could be a Ms. Fix-it for Kara.

She said, “I only came to crash for a few days and then…” Her words trailed off, and she averted her gaze.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You haven’t called Jillian since, when? Since your father died? And then all of a sudden-”

“You told him that?” she said. Clearly she was surprised by the idea that I might talk about her in her absence.

“She didn’t tell me. I’m guessing, and it looks like I’ve touched a nerve,” Tom said.

“The only thing I told Tom was that you lost your job,” I said.

“But you were talking about me. Do you even want me here?” she said.

“Huh?” I shook my head. “Kara, of course I do. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came here. Listen, let’s have some sweet tea and clear up these misunderstandings. Are you two good with that?” I glanced at my untouched coffee on the end table. Sweet tea would be better than coffee for this conversation. Tom’s direct approach didn’t work for me… and the thought of Kara staying longer than a few days-well, I’d never imagined or expected such a thing. I might have wanted that kind of relationship with her once, but she’d rejected me for so long, I’d gotten used to it. I wasn’t quite sure how to start over.

Tom raised his hand to indicate that he wanted tea-tea he didn’t really care for-so I guessed he was attempting to help me get through this little rough spot. Kara, to my astonishment, walked over and sat in her father’s old leather recliner. I guess she’d changed her mind about needing a nap.

She smiled thinly and said, “Sure. Let’s all have something sweet.”

But of course, I’d drunk all the tea I’d made earlier. I walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil and grabbed tea bags and liquid cane sugar from the pantry. Kara and Tom were chatting away, probably about this part-time job he’d conjured from out of nowhere. A nice, quiet conversation that I couldn’t hear. Fine with me, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to listen to how nice she could be to him while all I got was poorly disguised hostility.