CHAPTER 28
Sailor woke up to the sound of plaintive meowing outside her window. She lazily pushed her covers down and lay still, listening. Maybe it’s a catbird, she mused. Catbirds—she’d learned from Birdie—sounded just like cats, hence their very original name. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of her new bed, and as her warm feet brushed the cool floor, looked around—as she’d done every morning since moving—unable to believe her good fortune. She shuffled to the kitchen and peered out the window. Sure enough, there was a cat sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs, sunning himself. But what was that on the ground? She stared at a lifeless brown lump, trying to decide if it had feathers or fur. “You better not have killed one of my birds!” she warned, praying it wasn’t the female grosbeak she’d seen a few evenings earlier, but when she opened the door, she realized it was a mole. The skinny orange tiger cat looked at her with sage green eyes and swished its tail.
“What are you doing here, mister?” she asked, but he just blinked at her. She stepped closer, not wanting to startle him, but he didn’t move, and when she reached out her hand, he gave it a sniff, and then a thoughtful lick. She ran her fingers over his ears and realized one was half missing. “What happened here?” she asked softly, gently stroking his head, which made him purr so loudly it sounded like a truck had turned onto the road. “You certainly are a friendly fellow,” she said softly, feeling for a collar but not finding one. “Are you hungry?” she asked, trying to think of what she had. “How ’bout some milk?” The cat stood up, stretched his long, lanky body, hopped down, and padded after her as if he’d lived there all his life.
Sailor held open the door and he followed her inside, and as she poured some milk into a dish, he sat on his haunches and waited patiently. She set the dish in front of him and he leaned forward and politely lapped it up. When he finished, he licked his paws and wiped them over his ears. Sailor chuckled and shook her head. “You’re quite the gentleman . . . and as much as I’d like to keep you, I bet someone is missing you very much.”
She went to find her phone, tapped the camera icon, made a sound so he would look up, and took his picture. She looked at it. “Maybe we’ll make some lost cat flyers,” she said. Then she frowned. “I mean, found cat flyers”—she tapped through the prompts to e-mail it to herself—“and put them around the neighborhood.”
The cat padded softly into the living room, hopped up on the new soft chair she’d bought, circled around to curl up, and closed his eyes. “And while I do that,” Sailor said, “you go ahead and make yourself at home.” She sighed, filled the kettle with water, reached into the cabinet for the coffee can, measured some grounds into her coffee press, sprinkled a little cinnamon on top, and while she waited for the water to heat, found a scrap of paper. She located her new silver Birdwatcher’s General Store pencil in the drawer and started to jot down a list; at the very top, she wrote cat food. Then she looked out the window at her feeder and wondered how much of a threat the cat would be to her new little flock. “I’ll just have to make sure you have plenty to eat.”
She poured steaming water over her coffee, waited a few minutes for it to steep, pushed the press all the way down, and poured a mug. She reached for her Bible, picked it up, and went out on the deck to read that day’s passage—which happened to be from the book of Job. She read it once and then ran her fingers lightly over the page and read it again.... “But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” She looked up, wondering what message it held for her. Was it possible God wanted her to take in the cat?!
She sighed, and as she continued to watch the birds fluttering back and forth to the feeder, her thoughts drifted to the date she’d had with Josiah the night before. They’d gone to Provincetown for drinks, walked around downtown—which was always an adventure—and then stopped at Arnold’s for ice cream. Josiah had been a perfect gentleman—holding the door open for her at every turn and insisting on paying for everything; she couldn’t imagine why his wife was divorcing him. In the three dates they’d had, he hadn’t talked about his marriage—but she’d shared everything there was to know about Frank. She needed to learn to talk less. She’d always been one to speak her mind—it was one of her biggest faults—and she often left a trail of wreckage behind her. Why was it that she always seemed to say the first thing that popped into her mind without considering how much pain it might cause? How many times, over the years, had she told Birdie to let go of the past—as if it were a balloon she could just release and watch float away? And how many times had she told Remy to stop worrying, even though she herself was probably a bigger worrywart? And how many times over the years had she asked Piper why in the world she wouldn’t marry Nat? Her sisters knew her too well, and loved her anyway, but would someone like Josiah be willing to put up with her constant sarcastic, off-the-cuff remarks? Oh well, she was sixty-three and stuck in her ways. If the wisdom of saying less—or nothing at all—was ever going to sink in, it would’ve by now . . . and if Josiah was meant to be, he’d have to get used to it, too.
She sipped her coffee, making a mental list of the things she wanted to get done that day—finish working on the final sketches for her new children’s book, get going on setting up book signings for the one that was coming out in a couple of weeks, catch up on her correspondence, and most importantly, figure out how she was going to proceed in her working relationship with her publisher without having to deal with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Her newest book was well under way and she had a contract. If she could work exclusively with Leslie, the art director, she wouldn’t have to deal with Frank at all.
She heard a meow and got up to open the door. The orange cat sauntered outside, and without looking back, trotted toward the woods. “Will I see you later?” she called, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She shook her head, gathered up her things, and went inside to shower.
She refilled her mug and carried it to the bathroom, but when she set it on the counter and looked in the mirror, she frowned. What was that bright pink stripe on her cheek? She touched it and realized it was bumpy. “Oh no,” she murmured. “Please don’t tell me . . .” She turned her face and lifted the silver strands of hair that covered her forehead and saw another stripe near her eye. “I don’t believe it!” she said, shaking her head. She turned on the shower, got undressed, and carefully surveyed her brown limbs and her snow-white torso—everything looked okay—but ten minutes later, when she turned off the water and looked at her reflection again, she gasped—there were angry red welts everywhere—it was as if the warm water had activated them. In her mind, she could hear her father’s warning voice: Leaves of three, leave them be! His words had been especially directed at her because she’d proven to be the child most prone to poison ivy. “That’s what I get for working in the garden,” she muttered remorsefully. “No good deed goes unpunished!”