Nic Tatano - The Wing Girl - A laugh out loud romantic comedy

Most people go to church on Sunday mornings. Since sermons have bored the hell out of me since I was a little girl and I am ruled by Catholic guilt, I donate my Sunday mornings to a good cause. I figure it’s better than sitting in a rock-hard pew like a member of the parish undead.

As mentioned before, I love cats. So I help out at the local cat rescue shelter every weekend for a few hours, play with my furry friends and deal with things like cat food and furballs.

Cats don’t judge me, especially shelter cats. They don’t have homes yet, so they appreciate any attention they can get.

And after last night, I felt the same way.

“Morning Belinda,” said a cheery Diane as I opened the door to the shelter, jingling the little brass bell hanging off the top. She’s the petite blonde middle-aged millionaire animal lover who runs the place, often working weekends since more kitties get adopted on those days.

“Hey, Diane. How’d the week go?”

“Pretty good. Two in, five out. Somebody even took that huge tabby.”

“Great,” I said, heading toward the back of the building where the kitties lived. “Jabba the Cat was eating us out of house and home.”

“Oh, hey, we’ve got a new volunteer who started today. He’s just about to leave so go introduce yourself. Name’s Scott. Cute guy, Belinda.” Her voice went up as she said my name, like a suggestion hanging in the air.

Like I’ve got a shot. I’m wearing old torn jeans, a ratty New York Giants sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, didn’t sleep a lick last night and have a full set of Samsonite under my eyes.

Not that it would make any difference if I were dressed for a ball. I’m unapproachable , remember?

I headed down the long mauve hallway to the back and heard a man’s soothing voice float around the corner.

“Oh, yeah, there it is. That’s the spot. Ooooh, you like it when I rub you like that, don’t you?”

Sounded like some dialogue from a porn movie, but I realized it was a man talking to a cat. If only one would talk to me that way. “Hey, baby, come home with me and I’ll make you purr … ”

I turned the corner into the shelter area and saw a man sprawled on the floor, scratching the belly of a purring Siamese who was obviously in cat nirvana. The man looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hi. I see you’ve made a friend.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweet cat.” He got up off the floor, brushed off the cat hair and extended his hand. “I’m Scott.”

I shook it. “Belinda.”

He didn’t have what I call the look . The one that tells me he recognizes me from television, the one Wing Girl gets when we’re out on the town. The smile looked sincere. He was maybe five-ten, slender with broad shoulders, tousled brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes. Classic anchorman’s jaw with a little cleft in his chin, one day growth of stubble. Maybe thirty-five. More cute than handsome, but he had that boy-next-door thing going along with nice-fitting jeans, a button-down blue oxford and docksides with no socks. An old-money look, like many members of Ariel’s family.

I smiled back. “So, you’re new here.”

“Yeah, I decided it was time to give something back instead of just writing a check.”

“Most men don’t like cats.”

“My mom was a vet. She had a practice that only took cats. You could say it’s in my blood. I just like their independence. And they’re self-cleaning.”

Cute line. Cute guy. This bears investigating.

“To a point. They don’t have hands.”

“Yeah, I already did the cat boxes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, you been volunteering here long?”

“Every Sunday for the last four years. Ten till noon.”

“I signed up for the same hours but I have a wedding to go to today, so I got here at nine and Diane sorta gave me a quick orientation. But I guess we’ll be working together.”

I nodded. “Guess so.”

He glanced at his watch, then fished his car keys out of his pocket. “Well, I gotta run and get cleaned up. See you next week.” He headed for the hallway.

“Yeah. See ya.”

So much for that .

He stopped, turned and looked at me. “Hey, maybe we could go for lunch afterward.”

I said, “That would be nice,” before I even had a chance to think about it.

He pointed at me. “Belinda, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m bad with names. Just wanted to make sure. See ya.”

I’m bad with names too. We had something in common.

But for some reason I wouldn’t forget his.

He disappeared down the hall, obviously having no idea about the superhero known as the Brass Cupcake who prowls the streets of New York making life safe for women and children while repelling the hell out of men.

Meanwhile, I just got asked out to lunch looking like absolute shit.

Now I’m totally confused.

The salon was dimly lit and quiet, as Roxanne had opened it up on Sunday afternoon just for me. (I always thought “Foxy Roxy’s” was kind of a throwback name, with the term “babe” having replaced “fox” sometime back in the eighties. On the other side of the coin, I believe “skank” has serious staying power and could be eternal.) Tomorrow being Memorial Day and a day off since Harry doesn’t waste me on slow news days, I was to be dragged kicking and screaming by Ariel and Serena for shoes, clothes, contacts, makeup and God only knows what else. But I was in a good mood, as a seemingly nice guy who liked cats had asked me to lunch despite the fact I was wearing the spring collection for the homeless. Still, after I related the story to Roxanne, I was confused about what had happened.

“It’s a subconscious effect,” said Roxanne, as she worked the thick conditioner into my hair. I caught a faint whiff of avocado, which Roxanne said made this the perfect conditioner for someone with hair that could be used by someone playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz .

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, my head leaning back in a royal-blue sink. It was kind of odd looking at her from that angle, and gave me a new perspective on her terrific eyes and flawless creamy skin.

“It means that what happened last night sank in to a degree, and you were so tired you didn’t have time to think about it. You were in a situation where you didn’t expect to be asked out, so you didn’t have your force field and death stare at your beck and call.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the death stare really that bad?”

She stopped working the conditioner in for a moment. “Honey, when you use that thing on a man you look so possessed I think I need to call a priest.”

“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes as she resumed the scalp massage.

“Okay,” said Roxanne, “I think that’ll do it. Geez, I got sandpaper burns.”

“Funny.”

She turned on the faucet and began to rinse out the conditioner, as she ran the warm water and her fingers through my hair. “When’s the last time you wore your hair down?”

“Eighth grade, I think.”

She finished the rinse, then wrapped my head in a thick, fluffy red towel and began to dry it. She finished drying it as I sat up, ran her fingers through my hair to fluff it out, stood back and flashed a sinister smile with a gleam in her eye. I knew that look as her being “up to something.”

“What?” I asked, as I looked in the gold-framed mirror behind her and saw a drowned rat.

“I’ve got so much to work with. You’re like a blank canvas. This is gonna be fun.”

“Don’t do anything drastic.”

She waved her hand. “Pffft. Honey, drastic is already in the rear-view mirror.” She led me out of the shampoo room and over to her station, where I took a seat. It wasn’t the typical black-lacquer-everything you see in many salons that resembled a hangout for a coven, but rather a cheery sea foam green cubicle always accented with fragrant fresh roses. The large mirror was bordered with photos of celebrity clients.