Клэр Донелли - Last Licks

She also noted the paintings on the wall, some apparently done by talented amateurs.

Maybe there’s a painting therapy guy, too, Sunny thought. And maybe a needlepoint therapist, as they passed some framed samples of that craft. Just as she was wondering if she’d end up in a place like this someday, the murmuring calm was shattered by a strident voice crying, “I’ve had enough of this crap!”

“Yep, sounds just like me, say, fifty years from now,” Sunny murmured.

Ollie glanced up at her. “What?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she told him. “Just a passing thought.”

Sunny wheeled Ollie away and back toward the nurses’ station.

“Have you made it to the front parlor?” she asked him.

“I got a glimpse of it while they were wheeling me in on a stretcher,” Ollie told her. “That’s about it.”

“I haven’t really examined it myself,” Sunny admitted, her steps taking them down the long hall that led to the front entrance. The sound of muffled bells came through the paneled wall stretching to their right. “I guess the auditorium or activity room or whatever they call it must be on the other side,” Sunny said. “Sounds as if Luke is rehearsing his bell ringers today.”

“Thank goodness you’re not trying to drag me into that!” Ollie gave a relieved sigh.

At last they reached the parlor, where some of the residents sat with guests, enjoying a visit. Sunny noticed that there was plenty of space around the spindly chairs and overstuffed couches to accommodate walkers and wheelchairs.

It was certainly decorated in eclectic (or more likely, donated) style. They passed a fine-looking grandfather clock in a dark walnut case, tock ing along in stately grandeur—and running about fifteen minutes behind. Several aquariums dotted the side walls, with rainbows of tropical fish swimming around. The far wall had an enormous, medieval-style fireplace with a make-believe fire dwarfed in the space. Ribbons of red, yellow, and orange cloth danced in a forced stream of air from a fan, their fluttering giving the impression of flames. On the mantel stood several very nice-looking figurines, and above them on the wall hung a slightly mangy hunting trophy.

Sunny peered up at it, trying to identify the species. Something African probably. Antelope? Hartebeest? Okapi? The taxidermy specimen stared down with an accusatory look in its glass eyes.

“Let’s go,” Ollie muttered. “That creepy thing is giving me the same look as the stupid deer that put me here.”

Sunny started moving again, taking the turn in the corner slowly to avoid an unoccupied armchair—or so she thought.

But a head popped over the side, masked in ginger and black fur.

Sunny stopped. “Hello, Portia.”

The cat took advantage of the pause to transfer herself from the chair to Ollie’s lap. He sat frozen in the wheelchair, his hands gripping the armrests. “Ah, jeeze.”

“Take it easy,” Sunny advised. “Portia is a friendly cat. You remember how she sat with Gardner.”

“Yeah,” Ollie muttered, “right before he went off to the big battle of the bands in the sky.”

Actually, Portia showed herself to be a pretty smart cat, resting her weight on Ollie’s unhurt leg. Maybe she smelled the surgical wounds on the broken one.

Ollie sat very still, looking down dubiously at the cat in his lap. Portia tipped her head back, staring soulfully at him with her emerald eyes.

Trust a cat to climb all over the person who’s not very sure with them, Sunny thought.

“She wants you to pet her,” she told Ollie. “That’s her and her brother’s job here, to visit with the residents and let themselves be stroked.”

“Don’t say ‘stroke’ to an old person,” Ollie joked. “What do I do?”

“Bring a hand up, don’t stick your fingers out, let her sniff the back. When she’s comfortable with you, she’ll probably make the first move.”

Ollie extended his hand hesitantly. Portia sniffed it, examined it, and then stretched her head forward.

“Just pat her gently.”

Ollie followed her instructions, barely touching Portia’s head. “The fur’s so soft,” he said in almost a whisper.

Portia evidently thought his petting was nice, but she wanted something a bit more vigorous. She thrust her head against Ollie’s palm, and he quickly pulled his hand away.

“She liked what you were doing,” Sunny explained, reaching around the side of the wheelchair. “But she wants some of this.” She began to scratch Portia between the ears.

Ollie, though, stared at her hand, not at her technique. “What happened there? Did your cat do that?”

A bit belatedly, Sunny realized that her gauze pad must have fallen off somewhere along the way while she was wheeling Ollie around.

“It was an accident,” she told him.

He sat looking warily down at the cat. “And this is an accident waiting to happen. Can you get her off me?”

Portia wasn’t eager to leave Ollie’s well-padded lap. It took Sunny’s best cat-handling techniques to lure her away, and even they might not have worked if Portia hadn’t been eager to get a good sniff of her.

Good luck with that, Sunny silently told the cat. Shadow stayed away from me after I took my shower.

In the end, Portia wound up back in her armchair, looking rather disgruntled.

Ollie wasn’t too happy, either. He sat stiffly in his wheelchair, a faint look of pain on his face. Discussion time was over. All he wanted was to get back to his room and stretch out on his bed.

Sunny steered him back to the rehab ward. Just before they reached Room 114, they encountered Camille.

“Do you think you can help get Mr. Barnstable into bed—quietly, so we won’t upset Mr. Vernon?” Sunny asked.

Camille took on the challenge, setting Ollie safely back in bed. Sunny whispered her good-byes and left with the aide.

“He’ll be able to catch a nap until suppertime,” Camille said. “Then maybe he won’t be so tired.”

“Um . . .” Sunny showed the girl her scratched hand. “Do you think I could get a bandage to cover these?”

“Those aren’t from one of our cats, are they?” Camille asked, shocked.

“No, no, I got it at home,” Sunny assured her. “I had a gauze pad on, but I lost it.”

“Let me go and talk to the nurses,” Camille said.

Sunny watched from a distance as the aide walked up to the nurses’ station and started talking to one of the nurses on duty.

“Hey,” a voice said in Sunny’s ear. She turned to find Luke Daconto standing beside her, grinning. “I was just going over to see how Mr. Barnstable is doing.”

“By now, he’s probably asleep,” Sunny told him. “He had a difficult day today, since Portia the cat forced her attentions on him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Luke said. “It’s hard to escape when you’re in a wheelchair.”

Sunny nodded. “Especially when the cat is in the chair with you.”

He laughed. “Maybe it’s mean to say, but I’d have loved to see that.”

“Yeah, when he was trying to pet her . . .” Sunny tried to duplicate his awkward attempt. Luke caught her hand. “What happened here? Looks as though you had a run-in with a feline fiend yourself.”

“My own cat got a little too frisky, I’m afraid.” Sunny pulled her hand back. “Frankly, I blame Portia. My guy was zoning out on her scent.”

“As you say, that can make male cats a little frisky. We used to have a lot of them running around the house when I was growing up.” Suddenly Luke knelt to open his guitar case. “Yeah, I thought I had a little bottle in here.”

“Little bottle” was a perfect description. He held up one of those miniature booze bottles usually found in minibars or on airplanes. With this one, however, the label was long gone, as was the booze. Now the bottle held a thick, yellowish, viscous . . . something.