The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

And it was. Tom didn’t complete his work until almost one a.m. He’d finished off two pots of coffee and a delivery pizza while he worked. But I was grateful, and he must have known my thanks were sincere, because he gave me a kind and engaging smile when he finally said good night.

After he was gone, I sat in John’s recliner with my laptop. The network was working fine, and I practiced all the skills Tom had taught me—how to do split-screen monitoring, how to check the cat-cam feeds from the half dozen wireless cameras and even get the live picture on my cell phone.

My head was aching from all the new things I’d learned in such a short time. If the house alarm was triggered, it would alert the Mercy police—something Tom would inform them about in the morning. Seemed they needed my information and a code. That worried me a little. I could picture Morris Ebeling rolling his eyes if a call came from my house and then taking his time getting here.

One thing bothered me—the possibility that Syrah might return but be scared away by the motion lights. Cats like their environment to remain unchanged—but things had certainly changed around here in two days. If he came home, maybe it would be in the morning. That would be a dream come true.

After I’d brought up the feeds on the laptop over and over, I still wasn’t the least bit tired. Besides the headache that wouldn’t go away, I’d had too much coffee coupled with too much stress. I closed my computer and leaned back.

Merlot, who’d been asleep at my feet, raised his head, and his amber eyes seemed to ask, “Can we go to bed now where it’s warm?”

Chablis, tucked beside me, didn’t move a whisker. She was happy right where she was.

I ran my hands along the leather arms of John’s chair, realizing how good it felt to sit in the same spot where he had spent so much time talking to me or reading or listening to Bach on the stereo. I’d be across from him on the sofa, hand-quilting a special gift or reading a mystery. Such a dull and wonderful life we’d had together.

Then I noticed with surprise that my eyes didn’t fill with tears as I recalled these simple joys. I felt warm inside. I felt lucky to have known such a special man. I felt wrapped in love in his worn, comfy chair.

It was the best good-night kiss I could have had.

Five

Despite Chablis and Merlot remaining as close to me as possible, I spent another fitful night considering life without Syrah—my playful, agile, brilliant kitty. Even when I went to the kitchen at dawn to feed the other two, I was unable to push away those sad thoughts. As I opened cans of tuna and refilled their food bowl, I hoped I could consider the problem logically rather than with emotion leading the way.

If Syrah had left through the window and had been roaming outside, he would have come home by now. Cats, like birds, have homing devices that use the earth’s magnetic field and the angle of the sun, so he could easily have found his way back. Yes, I know way too much about cats—a hobby of mine. Anyway, since he wasn’t coming home on his own, that meant someone either took him on purpose or invited him in when he landed on their doorstep. With the kind of weather we’d been having, Syrah would have welcomed such an invite.

While Chablis and Merlot chowed down—and I hoped they wouldn’t get used to breakfast at dawn—I took the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and poured a glass. I’d had enough coffee last night to wake up all of Mercy. The first cold swig sent a shiver from my gut to the top of my head. Who else but me would drink sweet tea at six in the morning when we were probably having the first freeze of the season?

“You think this will be the day Syrah comes home?” I said.

Merlot stopped eating and looked up at me, offering a sympathetic meow. Chablis left the dish and rubbed my ankles.

They didn’t seem as upset as the previous two days, so maybe they knew something I didn’t.

With Chablis at my heels, I walked into the living area and grabbed a throw quilt from an antique chest alongside the sofa. After I set my glass on the end table by John’s chair, I wrapped myself in the quilt and again sat in his recliner. It felt just as welcoming as it had last night. Chablis was in my lap in an instant, and as I petted her I looked out at the rising sun bleeding scarlet onto the water. What a breathtaking sunrise. Maybe my two remaining friends were right—this would be the day we would find Syrah.

Revisiting what I had done in my search so far, I felt frustrated. It wasn’t enough. But what else could I do? Friday I’d placed an ad in the Mercy Messenger , the small weekly paper, but that wouldn’t even appear until Wednesday, and with the sign ordinance, how could anything— But wait . What had I learned about this town in the last two days? That everyone knows everything about everyone. The Mercy grapevine was a dynamic force, and that meant someone might know where Syrah was. The Cuddahees said they’d do what they could, but what if I became an active part of the grapevine? I might get a lead.

I sipped my tea and smiled down at Chablis. “Yes, my friend. I’ll stop at Belle’s Beans before I visit the Cotton Company for my fabric. I might learn a lot listening to the locals, don’t you think?”

But Chablis was fast asleep.

The next four hours seemed endless.After a long shower, a litter box clean-fest, and an hour of machine quilting on outstanding orders, I decided that most of Mercy was up and moving by this time on Sunday morning. I set the security alarm as Tom had taught me to do, petted Chablis and Merlot and told them to be careful, then headed into town.

Once I reached Belle’s Beans—an establishment that had the audacity to use the same green color for its awning that Starbucks liked so much—I checked the computer feed on my cell phone and grinned when I saw Merlot sleeping belly up on the window seat and Chablis curled on the sofa. I hadn’t anticipated how much I would love being able to watch them from afar.

Thank you, Tom Stewart .

After last night I was sure I’d feel nauseated when I walked into the little café and smelled the coffee, but I was wrong. I closed my eyes and took in the aroma. What is it about the aroma of coffee that is so soothing and wonderful?

The high round tables were all occupied, but that wasn’t about to stop me. After Belle—there really was a Belle because she wore a name tag pinned to her green canvas apron—made me a low-fat latte, I sat down with a woman reading the Sunday paper.

“Mind if I join you?” I said.

She smiled and said, “ Course I don’t mind, honey. What’s your name?” I guessed she was in her sixties, with misapplied coral lipstick and too-white hair that she’d probably had colored and permed at the Finest Cut or Betty’s Salon, the only two hair places in town.

“I’m Jillian Hart. Kind of new around here,” I said.

“Oh, you’re that young widow. I am so sincerely sorry for your loss. I’ve been a widow for five years now.” She took my left hand and squeezed. Her fingers may have been cold, but hers was a warm touch in a more important way.

Why hadn’t I done this before—put myself out to make new friends? Is that what grief did, froze you up until you were ready to move on? Had Syrah’s disappearance released my emergency brake?

The woman said, “I hear you make cat quilts—which had me thinking you must be an old woman like myself. But here you are, looking like a freckled teenager.” She reached up and touched a loose strand of my hair. “Is this your natural color? Such a lovely shade, sort of like mulling spices.”

“It needs a little help from a bottle these days,” I said with a laugh. “That seems to happen once you pass the big four-oh.”