Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

My brain was so full that I didn’t pay much attention to where my feet were taking me until I was all the way downtown and mired in late summer pedestrian traffic, heavy this weekend because of sidewalk sales.

Instead of being annoyed, however, I found myself smiling at the gamboling children, the sunburned parents, and everyone who was crowding the sidewalks with bulging shopping bags. All would be gone in a month and Chilson would, once again, be a place where you could find a parking spot anywhere you wanted.

“How has your summer been going?”

I stopped and looked around, but the question hadn’t been asked of me; it had been asked of someone behind a rack of vintage linens outside Older Than Dirt. The questioner sounded familiar, though, and I hesitated as I tried to place the name.

“Great,” said a young and very familiar voice. “I’m so glad my parents let me come up here to stay with Aunt Minnie. I’ve been begging them for years, but this is the first year they thought I was old enough.”

“So you’re enjoying the houseboat?”

I almost snapped my fingers. Bianca Sims, now Bianca Koyne. Mitchell’s wife, which was a two-word phrase I still couldn’t wrap my head around.

“You bet. And Eddie is like the best cat ever.” Kate’s hands appeared over the top of the rack as she tidied the goods. “Aunt Minnie talks to me like a real person, you know? Not like I’m a little kid, but like I’m an adult. She asks my opinion on stuff and really wants to know the answers.”

Bianca murmured something I couldn’t hear.

“Let me know where to send the nomination,” Kate said, laughing. “She’s the Best Aunt in the World if you ask me. You know what happened yesterday? She literally saved my life!”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment and I cut across the street, staying out of their view. No way did I want them to know I’d been eavesdropping, but I wasn’t sorry I accidentally had. Now I knew that Kate didn’t hate me and maybe, just maybe, there was hope of an Aunt Frances–type relationship in our future.

“All is not lost,” I said out loud, smiling up at the sun.

* * *

By the time I got to the house, my stomach was telling me that breakfast, while large, had been a long time ago and it was past time to eat something. I hurried up the steps and opened the front door. No food smells or cooking sounds emanated from the dining room or kitchen. I wandered through the rooms and found nothing, and no one. Then a faint noise from up above my head gave a clue as to Rafe’s whereabouts.

“Hey!” I called. “Where’s all that food you promised?”

“Up here!”

I traipsed up the stairs, thinking about the phone call I’d just finished with Kristen, who had been in line to get the Shed Story. With her atrocious restaurant hours, I hadn’t wanted to bother her much before noon. But as it turned out, she’d already heard a large percentage of what I’d told her.

“How did you know all that?” I’d asked.

“You seriously think I’m going to give away my sources?” she’d scoffed.

“It’s not like you’re a reporter, trying for first amendment protection.”

“There are parallels,” she’d said. “But let’s get to the good stuff. Tell me again how you and Kate wriggled your way across the floor. No, wait. Tomorrow during dessert you can demonstrate.”

She’d howled with laughter, then said softly, “I’m really glad you and Kate didn’t get shot.”

Remembering, I was sorry for the catch I’d heard in her voice, sorry for the pain she would have suffered if last night had included a nasty death or two. Which was a weird thing to be sorry about, but there you go.

I reached the second floor hallway and looked around. No food. No Rafe. “Where are you?”

“Keep going!”

Where? I wondered. But his voice was still coming from above my head, so that was a clue. I turned and saw that the small, narrow door at the end of the hall was open. “Are you in the attic?”

“Come on up.”

Huh. I’d been in the attic all of twice—once to note its existence, a second time to reassure myself there was room for the boxes of books that were in the boardinghouse attic, from whence they would eventually be shifted, but not yet, as Rafe and I were still working on bookcase design. I’d considered not moving until said bookcases were installed, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait that long.

I climbed the narrow stairway and peered at the cobwebby gloom. Still no Rafe. But . . . hang on . . .

A window at the end of the gable facing the water was wide open. I walked over, stepping around the broken chairs, tables, and toys, and poked my head outside. “You’re on the roof,” I said.

Rafe reached for my hand and helped me clamber through the window frame and onto the balcony. It was an odd part of the house, because it could only be reached via defenestration, and I hadn’t been sure we would ever use it. But since I’d known Rafe for more than twenty years, I should have known better.

“And why not? It’s a beautiful evening.” He ushered me to one of two low chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

“Um . . .” But he’d already ducked back inside. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. More than nice, really. The view was spectacular. From here I could see every boat in Uncle Chip’s Marina, half of Janay Lake, and over the line of trees and to Lake Michigan. Seagulls wheeled about, ducks scurried, sailboats fluffed. It was late summer in Chilson and all was well with the world.

Rafe came back laden with two of the biggest picnic baskets I’d ever seen.

“How hungry do you think I am?” I asked, laughing.

He plopped both baskets near my feet. “Basket number two contains your favorite meal from your favorite restaurant, and no, I’m not talking about Fat Boys. This is courtesy of a certain chef from a restaurant that is getting almost too popular for its own good.”

“But I just talked to Kristen. She didn’t say anything about this. And it’s lunch hour. They don’t serve that whitefish until evening.”

“If you know the blonde like I do,” he said, “anything is possible.”

The undeniable smells of whitefish stuffed with crabmeat wafted my way. “The blonde can be sneaky.” I smiled. “What’s the occasion?”

“Ah. That calls for basket number one.” He dragged it closer, and I heard a faint “Mrr.”

“Eddie?” I opened the basket and saw the cat carrier. Half of Eddie’s whiskers and his nose were visible through the wire door.

“Mrr.”

I looked at Rafe, who was looking extremely pleased with himself. “Eddie’s fine with heights,” I said, puzzled, “but why on earth did you bring him up here?”

My beloved leaned forward and pulled the cat carrier out of the basket. “Mr. Hamilton,” he said, “I love your Minnie very much and I would like your permission to marry her.”

“You’re asking my cat for my hand in marriage?”

“No interrupting,” he said. “I have this all memorized.”

“You do not.”

“No, but I’m on a roll. Mr. Eddie, yesterday your Minnie told me she wanted a marriage proposal we can tell our kids about. I’m not the most creative guy in the world, but I can’t think of anyone who’s been proposed to on a roof. So what do you think? Will this fit the requirement? And do I have your permission?”

“Mrr!” Eddie said. “Mrr!”

“Double yes.” Rafe patted the carrier. “Thanks, buddy. You’re the best.”

“Rafe,” I said softly. “You don’t—”

“Minnie.” He took my hands in one of his and kissed them. “You are the love of my life, holder of my happiness, and keeper of my dreams. You make the sun shine when clouds are gray. We are better together than we are apart. Though you have horrible taste in music—”