Nic Tatano - The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club - A heartwarming, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - not just for cat lovers!

Rory nods. “Really. It’s like spotting a unicorn.”

I start to dish out some food onto my plate. “Oh, leave me alone. Can we just eat?”

Tish brushes her shoulder length blonde hair behind her ears. “Okay girls, we’ve tortured her enough.”

I smile at her, our college roommate who is the smartest of our group and was top of her class in law school. She also has the coolest office I’ve ever seen, as she rents space in the Empire State Building. Alas, her courtroom shark persona and seriously high IQ are often intimidating to men. Tish is another of those girls who would be really pretty if she tried, with huge blue eyes she hides behind thick horn-rimmed glasses and a good five-foot-eight body she keeps under wraps. But she’s all business and doesn’t spend much time on appearances, relying on very conservative outfits and hairstyles for the courtroom. She only seems to let that hair down around us. When I need someone for pure logic, she’s my first call. She’s also an incredibly loyal friend and would drop whatever she was doing if any of us needed help.

She reaches for the pitcher of mimosas and starts to pour everyone a glass. “We do have another topic to discuss besides kittens and Madison’s current aversion to soap.”

I glare at her. “Bite me.”

A.J. furrows her brow. “What topic is that?”

Tish locks eyes with me. “The little matter of Jeremy getting his exit visa. Which deserves a celebration, in my opinion.” She holds up her glass. “Cheers!”

I roll my eyes. “I know, I know, you all didn’t like him.”

A.J. pops an olive in her mouth. “I wouldn’t say that. I hated the sonofabitch and wanted to kick his ass.”

“Fine, he’s gone. Just be happy I didn’t walk down the aisle with him.”

Rory takes a bite of chicken. “You never would have exchanged vows. There would have been a chorus when the priest did that speak now or forever hold your peace thing.”

“Right,” says Tish. “You would have had to take a number.”

A.J. shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have gone that far. I would have had him whacked.” It should be noted that while A.J. does not have family in the Mob (at least I don’t think so), she is fond of using Sicilian stereotypes.

A.J. runs her family’s delicatessen here on Staten Island, which is appropriate since she is obsessed with food. Though amazingly while working in a place where she’s surrounded by stuff loaded with calories, the petite woman never seems to gain an ounce. I met her as a customer and we immediately hit it off as I pointed at her nameplate and asked her what A.J. stood for. She refused to tell me so I asked her brother who also works there. Get this: Antoinette Josephine. Yikes. (You can see why she goes by A.J. as a spunky attitude doesn’t go with a name like Antoinette or her Noo Yawk accent.) She of course threatened to have me whacked should I ever speak her real name in her presence. A.J. is a spunky little thing with zero tolerance for bull, both from her dates and customers. But if you want someone in a foxhole who will take no prisoners, she’s your girl. Behind those dark eyes lies the soul of a gunslinger. But the heart is pure gold.

I take a sip of my mimosa as I consider her offer to wish Jeremy into the cornfield. “Very funny. But there’s nothing to discuss.”

“Sure there is,” says Rory. “We’ve got that bridesmaids dress from hell wedding next weekend and now you need a plus one . Either that or spend the day dancing with the usher you’re paired with.”

The image makes me cringe. “Oh, crap. I forgot all about that. I’m not hanging out with the groom’s fifteen year old nephew.”

Tish smiles at me. “Hence, we must find you a plus one . Lest you do the Bunny Hop with a pubescent kid’s hands on your ass.”

I exhale in disgust. “Well, this will certainly be a quick rebound. I’m not wild about a blind date to a wedding, but considering the alternative I have no choice. So, who’ve you guys got?”

A.J. perks up. “My cousin Joey—”

“No!” Everyone shouts in unison.

Tish shakes her head. “Once and for all, please stop trying to fix up that particular relative. He’s un-fix-up-able. We can do better.”

A.J. folds her arms. “Fine, Miss legal eagle. Who are you bringin’ to the table?”

“There’s a guy who just rented the office next to mine. He seems nice.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s he do?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“You wanna fix her up with someone and you don’t even know his name or what he does?”

“He smiled at me when he moved in and said hello. And he’s got a great ass.”

A.J. rolls her eyes. “Gimme a break.” She turns to Rory. “You got anyone?”

Rory taps her chin with one finger. “Well … there’s this guy from a commercial production house I talk to on the phone a lot but I’ve never met him. He’s funny and seems nice. And I know he’s single.”

“How old is he?” asks A.J.

“Don’t know.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Don’t know that either.”

A.J. slowly nods. “So, let me get this straight … you guys shoot down my cousin and yet all you can come up with is a nameless guy with a great ass and a commercial producer who gives good phone but might be seventy years old, fat and bald.”

Rory pulls out her tablet from her purse, taps it a few times. “Fine, let me go to his company website. Maybe there’s a photo.” She waits a beat, taps the screen a few more times, then smiles. “Ooooh, I think he’ll do.” She turns the tablet around so the rest of us can see.

My eyes widen a bit as I take in the photo of a hot, dark-haired guy who looks about thirty-five. “Uh … yeah.”

“Fuhgeddaboudit. He’s doable all right,” cracks A.J.

Rory smiles as she turns back to her food. “Okay, I’ll make the call.”

I pat Rory on the shoulder. “Thanks.” I start to eat but suddenly it hits me. “Uh-oh. We’ve got one more problem.”

“What?” asks Tish.

“Since we’re all going to the wedding, I need a sitter for the kittens. And speaking of permanent cat sitters—”

“I’ll take a kitten,” says Tish.

“Me too,” says A.J. “Hell, with a deli downstairs, the thing will never starve.”

The teenage girl’s eyes bug out as I open the door wearing a bridesmaid’s dress that was obviously designed during a power failure. “Wow, Miss Shaw. You must be a really good friend to someone to wear that.”

“Kelly, remember this phrase when you start being included in bridal parties. You’ll be able to wear this dress again. Biggest lie you’ll ever hear.” I usher her in to my home, giving her enough room to get by my ridiculously puffy sleeves that look like they’re filled with helium and ready to explode. “I really appreciate you doing this.”

“Hey, I love cats. And we actually had an orphaned kitten years ago. I know the routine.” I point out all the cat supplies on the kitchen table. The tall, skinny seventeen year old brunette is the incredibly normal daughter of a neighbor who lives down the street, a teen who actually speaks instead of having her head buried in a cell phone. But she can’t stop giggling as she looks at my outfit. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude—”

“Oh, you should have heard me while I was putting on this monstrosity.” The orange dress (ghastly color for a redhead, or any woman for that matter) is made of this incredibly itchy fabric with a tight waist that makes my ass look like I’ve had a Kardashian upgrade and an angled hemline that starts at the knee on the right and ends at the ankle on the left. With lovely matching ballet slippers. Then for some bizarre reason there’s a circular thing sewn onto the waist that looks like the hand warmers football players wear during cold games. We’re supposed to keep our hands in there as we go down the aisle. Why, I have no clue. (A.J. says it’s to keep us from flipping the bird at the designer who is a friend of the bride and attending the wedding.) I’ll get to wear it again if a pirate ever asks me to a retro seventies disco when it’s ten below zero outside. Or if Macy’s ever needs an orange float in the Thanksgiving Day parade.