Shirley Murphy - Cat Playing Cupid

But then she thought, trying to steady herself, Tomorrow we'll be married , and that's real. How many women marry, for life, into the family of a talking cat?

C HARLIE FOUND LUCINDAin the kitchen setting out a plate of homemade cookies on one side of the round table that was loaded with party food. The tall, older woman was so thin that when Charlie put her arm around her, she could feel every bone-but bone covered in lean muscle. Even at eighty-some, Lucinda Greenlaw was healthy and strong; she did most of her own housework and walked several miles a day. "I need to talk with you," Charlie said softly.

Lucinda looked at her, startled.

"Nothing bad," Charlie breathed, "only private. Kit will tell it later, but she's-"

Lucinda laughed. "So impetuous you can't get in a word. Come on, Pedric's in the laundry." And Lucinda headed across the kitchen, away from the crowd. Charlie, following her, heard through a tangle of laughter Dallas 's raised and angry voice from the living room and Mike's sharp retort.

What was that about? Mike and Dallas never had words. Glancing across the room, she caught Ryan's eye. Ryan shook her head almost imperceptibly before she turned away.

On the closed laundry door hung a little sign: PLEASE DO NOT OPEN, which Clyde had posted to give the three household cats some semblance of quiet and privacy-none of the three liked loud parties. Two were elderly, and the younger, Snowball, had always been shy. Slipping the door open, they found Pedric sitting hunched on the bottom bunk, his head ducked beneath the upper bunk of the animals' bed, petting the three cats. Snowball lay in his lap, and Scrappy and Fluffy were snuggled in the blankets next to him. The cats had shared the two-bunk bed with the two old dogs until Barney, the golden, and then Rube, the black Lab, had passed away. Snowball was still grieving for Rube.

Against the party noise beyond the closed door, Charlie told the Greenlaws about Willow and Sage, then about John Firetti knowing the cats' secret. Neither of the two tall, thin, eighty-year-olds seemed too surprised; it took a lot to amaze Lucinda and Pedric.

"I always thought," Lucinda said, "that John Firetti acted a bit strange around Kit. When we first took her in for her shots, he looked at her for a long time without saying anything, and then he seemed to expect her to lie still and behave herself. He asked if she'd had her kitten shots, and when I told him we didn't know, that she was a stray, he asked where we'd found her," Lucinda recalled. "When we said Hellhag Hill, there was a sudden light in his eyes, a gleam of excitement, then he quickly looked down."

"But," Pedric said, "mostly it was his assuming Kit would lie still. Why would he think he could just look at her and tell her it would hurt more if she wiggled, and she would hold stone still for him? I thought at the time that it was his tone, that he had a unique understanding of a cat's nature, that his voice and inflection somehow told his patients he expected them to behave.

"But later," Pedric said, "we wondered."

"Apparently he does have a unique understanding," Lucinda said, smiling. "More understanding than I ever guessed. We did think it strange, though, that he never suggested spaying her. He never brought up the subject. And of course we didn't."

"Well," Charlie said, stroking Snowball, "looks like I'm more shaken by this than you two. I never imagined…"

But when she looked at the older couple, who had recently been through a frightening kidnapping that could have cost them their lives, who had escaped unharmed with great resourcefulness, she knew there wasn't much that would shock the Greenlaws-until she mentioned the hidden book.

When she told them more about the battle at the ruins, and described the old volume the ferals had found, Lucinda's eyes brightened with excitement. "Where is it, Charlie? What did they do with it?"

And Pedric was burning with even more excitement. "More tales of speaking cats! Do you think…Are there stories we've never heard?" Charlie could imagine the old man avidly reading those tales, and memorizing every word.

B EYOND THE LAUNDRYroom's closed door, as the three discussed the mysterious volume, Mike Flannery and his daughter had left the crowd, heading up the open stairs to the new second floor, to the construction project that had marked the beginning of Ryan's romance with Clyde. On earlier visits Mike had seen the impressive addition Ryan had built for Clyde when they'd first met; now Ryan wanted to show him how she would add her own studio. Carrying fresh cans of beer, leaving behind the sounds of the party, neither father nor daughter glanced back to see the gray tomcat pad watchfully out of the kitchen to follow them, they didn't see him slink up the stairs behind them to the master suite and into the shadows beneath the king-size bed.

Joe ignored a twinge of guilt at spying on his friends. At breaching father and daughter's privacy. Dulcie would have said, "Can't they have a few minutes alone, the evening before Ryan's to be married? Do you have to be so nosy?"

But of course he was nosy, he was a cat. Cats were driven by nosiness, they were masters of curiosity. The investigative instinct was their finest mark of uniqueness, and who was he to go against basic feline nature? He followed. He hid under the bed. And he listened. And if the stab of guilt continued to accompany the tomcat's eavesdropping on his about-to-be housemate, Joe thought Ryan wouldn't really mind, that he could talk his way around her annoyance.

T HE NEW ADDITIONhad a high ceiling of open rafters, where Ryan had raised the hip roof of the old one-story cottage to form two walls of the new second floor, then added new window walls. Mike admired again the stone fireplace she had built in the master bedroom, the compartmented bath and dressing rooms, and Clyde 's cozy study. When Ryan was little, she'd loved to draw floor plans and elevations. Every minute she wasn't riding or working with the dogs, or going out on construction sites with her uncle Scotty, she was inventing her own house designs. Mike had only smiled when her teachers complained that all her school papers and notebooks had little floor plans or architectural details in the margins, sketches quickly made to record some fleeting idea.

Passion, he thought. The child had had a passion for what she loved, for what she knew she wanted to do with her life.

She had never abandoned that drive; she had learned her carpentry skills from Scotty, had studied structural design, had never wavered from the intensity of her goal. Now, having gotten where she wanted to be, she relished the work she did.

So many kids, Mike thought, didn't seem to feel strongly about anything, didn't have any kind of ongoing passion, any dream to follow and fight for. Did today's schools take it all out of them? Or was it the canned culture they grew up in? He thought sometimes that an entire generation had morphed into mind-numbed spectators, that their passion had so badly turned in on itself that they were able to hunger only for the quick, immediate sensation with no meaning.

Well hell , wasn't he getting jaded. He guessed he'd worked too long among criminal types-maybe it was time to turn his back on law enforcement before he grew really bitter.

Shaking his head, both amused and annoyed with himself, he put his arm around Ryan. "You did a great job with this house," he said, studying the details of the master suite, the deep window seat beside the stone fireplace, the Mexican-tile floor and carved doors. "And it's a perfect arrangement for a couple. Almost," he said, laughing down at her, "as if you expected to move in."