Софи Келли - A Tale Оf Two Kitties

“I like your grandfather,” I said.

“Grandpa’s great, isn’t he?” she said, her face lighting up. “I’m so happy he finally agreed to come here for Thanksgiving. Before, we always went to see him. My dad bugged him and bugged him and then suddenly one day he said yes.”

I smiled. “I’m not surprised. It’s pretty clear he loves you very much.”

“I love him, too,” she said. Her expression grew serious then. “He’s not just here because of me. My uncle Victor—great-uncle, really—he’s here, too.” She picked at a bit of loose skin on one side of her thumb.

She didn’t like the man, I realized. It was written all over her face, in the way her eyebrows knit together and her jaw tightened. “I met him,” I said, “walking back here at lunchtime.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I didn’t really spend enough time with him to be able to say.” It was the most diplomatic answer I could come up with.

“You didn’t like him,” Mia said flatly. She crossed her arms over her chest and studied me.

“Why do you think that?” I asked. I hadn’t really formed an opinion about Victor Janes.

“You only spent a few minutes with my grandfather but you like him.”

I nodded. “I do. But sometimes you need to spend more time with a person before you can make up your mind about them. At least I do.”

“That’s because you’re terminally nice. That’s what Mary says.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I appreciate Mary’s confidence in the way I try to treat people but I don’t think it’s true.” And I wasn’t sure Mary had meant the comment as a compliment. “Sometimes I’m mean and petty.”

Mia shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re nice to people who aren’t nice to anyone else—who aren’t nice to you. I’m not like that.”

I reached over and straightened three books on the shelf next to my shoulder. “Yes, you are,” I said. “You’re thoughtful and kind and yes, nice.” I held out both hands. “Sorry. You just are.”

She didn’t smile. She just shook her head again. “I’m not. Because I don’t like my Uncle Victor. In fact I pretty much hate him. That’s not what a nice person would do.”

I wanted to wrap her in a hug, but I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

Mia pushed a strand of plum-colored hair back off her face. “My uncle Victor had an affair with my dad’s mom. He didn’t care about them. My grandfather says everyone deserves a second chance but I don’t see why I should give Uncle Victor one, even though Grandpa wants me to. You can’t use the word ‘sorry’ like it’s an eraser and it just takes away all the bad stuff you did.” She let out a breath. “You probably don’t get that.”

“I get it better than you think,” I said. “Someone hurt my dad once very, very much.”

“Who?” Mia asked. She’d been reaching for the books she’d set on the cart but she put them down again.

“My mother.”

Her eyes widened. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

“When I was a bit younger than you are now my parents got divorced. My mom went to LA just for a couple of months to do a soap and I stayed with my dad in Boston.” I remembered the anger that had seemed to eat a hole in my stomach because my mother had been the one to file for divorce. “Mia, I hated my mother for a while. Half the time I wouldn’t talk to her when she called. Then, one day after an angry conversation with Mom on the phone in which I said she was selfish and actually knocked the phone onto the floor, my father came into my room and told me that my behavior toward my mother was selfish.”

Mia frowned. “I don’t understand.”

I swiped a hand over my mouth as if I could somehow go back in time and wipe away all the hateful words I’d said to my mother. “Neither did I, but Dad said that the end of their marriage was between the two of them, that he loved me for caring about him but he didn’t like the way I was treating Mom, who he knew loved me more than anyone or anything in the world.” I still remembered his voice. He hadn’t raised it but I’d had no doubt how he felt about the things I’d said to Mom. There had been a hard edge of anger in his tone although he’d spoken quietly. My father saved the dramatics in his life for the stage and the screen.

“He said, ‘What’s between your mother and me is between us. Don’t put it between the two of you.’ Then he called her and they talked for about an hour, I figured about me.” I gave Mia a wry smile. “A few months later they started secretly seeing each other and then suddenly I was going to be a big sister to twins and they were getting married. Again.” I was probably never going to forget my teenage mortification at the undeniable evidence that my parents had been having sex.

“Are you serious?” Mia asked.

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t add that it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing my family had ever done, either.

“Wow,” she said.

I nodded.

“Are you going to tell me that I should give Uncle Victor another chance?”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to tell you that families are messy. As far as anything else goes I know you’ll figure it out.” I put my arm around Mia’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and headed out to walk home.

• • •

After a bowl of turkey-rice soup and crackers—cracked pepper for me and sardine for Owen and Hercules—I grabbed my bag and went to pick up Rebecca for tai chi class. It was Rebecca who had originally invited me to try the class right after I’d moved to town. I sometimes wondered if I would have the circle of friends I had now if I hadn’t said yes to her invitation.

When Everett and Rebecca had gotten married he had moved into her small house just across my backyard and sold Wisteria Hill to Roma. I’d been happy to know that I wasn’t losing Rebecca as a neighbor. I was certain Owen and Hercules felt the same way. She kept them both in cat treats. In Owen’s case that meant a steady supply of yellow Fred the Funky Chickens. For Herc it was little dishes of whitefish and the occasional bit of salmon. Everett had just hired Oren Kenyon to refinish the floors and the trim in the small farmhouse, so their furniture was in storage and they were living in Everett’s downtown apartment—or as Rebecca laughingly liked to call it, their pied-à-terre.

Everett’s former bachelor pad was in a two-story Georgian-style brick house that he owned, close to his downtown office in a neighborhood filled with similar, beautifully restored houses. It had crisp white trim and shutters and a wrought-iron fence around a small flower garden between the house and the sidewalk. The garden was one of Rebecca’s touches, put to bed now for the winter.

I pushed open the wrought-iron gate and went down the narrow walkway between the house and its neighbor to the left of the entrance. At the top of the steps was a set of double six-panel doors painted with a gleaming black finish. They opened into a small entryway with another set of double doors. These were half-frosted glass. To the right were doorbells for the three apartments in the building. To the left were three mailboxes.

Everett and Rebecca had the entire second floor. One of the smaller main-floor units was kept for business associates of Everett’s to stay in when they came to town and for family when they visited. Until recently the other had been rented to a cousin of Everett’s assistant, Lita.

As I stepped into the entryway the second set of doors opened and a woman hurried out, pushing past me with a rushed apology. She was gone before I had a chance to say anything. I didn’t recognize the woman. Her head had been down and she’d been pulling up the hood of her navy jacket over a tie-dyed silk scarf as she brushed past me, but I’d caught enough of her face to realize she wasn’t someone I knew and she didn’t look happy. Her lips were pulled together in a tight, thin line and her cheeks were flushed.