He gave me a sheepish look. “I know. They look at me like they understand what I’m saying, and the first thing I know, I’m having a one-sided conversation with them.”
It didn’t seem like a good time to tell Marcus that in my experience the boys understood way more of what was said to them than you’d expect, and no conversation with them was ever one-sided. The cats had an opinion on everything and they were pretty good at making their thoughts very clear. I tried not to say that out loud. I knew it made me sound like the crazy cat lady.
Owen was in front of Marcus. He made a snippy little “murp.”
“Oh, sorry,” Marcus said, moving so the cat could get past him.
“Are you sure the conversations are one-sided?” I said with a laugh.
I put on my coat and slipped the tiny jet-beaded evening bag Taylor King had loaned me over my shoulder. The teenager had shyly offered the purse after our last tai chi class.
“You know, if you’re going to protect yourself from some wild animal making noise in your kitchen, I think you need something bigger than that,” he said as we passed the broom, still leaning against the wall by the back door.
He knew! I should have guessed he’d figure out why I’d leapt into the kitchen swinging the broom like I was Johnny Depp doing Captain Jack Sparrow.
“Have you ever thought about getting a cat?” I asked, partly to hide my embarrassment as we walked out to Marcus’s SUV parked out on the street. It was clear and cold, the sky an inky canopy overhead.
He nodded as he unlocked my door for me. “I almost took Desmond.”
Desmond was Roma’s cat. Actually he was the clinic cat. He was sleek and black and he had the soul of a jungle cat.
It was because of Desmond that Roma had found out about the feral cat colony at Wisteria Hill, the old Henderson estate that was now Roma’s home.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked as I fastened my seat belt.
“I work a lot of long hours. I didn’t want to leave him alone for all that time.”
“I can’t picture Desmond anywhere but ruling Roma’s clinic,” I said.
“I saw him back Harry Taylor’s dog, Boris, right under a chair,” Marcus said as he pulled out onto Mountain Road.
“That’s because Boris is an old softie. He looks intimidating but he’s not.”
Marcus shot me a sideways look. “So you’re a dog person, too.”
“I like Boris,” I said, smoothing the woolen fabric of my coat down over my knees. “But don’t tell that to Owen next time you two talk.”
“I’ll try not to let that slip,” Marcus said, a smile pulling at his mouth.
We drove down the hill in silence while I ran over a mental list of last-minute things I needed to do when we reached the theater.
“You’ve thought of everything,” Marcus said quietly.
I looked over at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, but he reached over for a moment with his right hand and squeezed both of mine.
“This isn’t the first fundraiser I’ve organized,” I said as he turned on his blinker to pull into the main parking lot at the theater. “But it’s the first time I’ve been so nervous.”
“So what’s different this time?” he asked.
“The kids, I guess.” I shifted in my seat. “I know every one of them—the little ones who are learning to read and the older ones who’re the buddies. I’ve seen the moment when the letters on the page become a word and the word means something.” I stopped to clear my throat. “I have twenty-seven kids on the waiting list. I want this to work.”
Marcus shut off the SUV and looked at me. “It will,” he said. He inclined his head toward the theater door and gave me a smile. “Let’s go.”
The gala was a sellout. By my calculations, even after expenses, we’d already made a little money. What I was hoping for was that the evening would inspire people to make donations to the program. Reality was, I couldn’t go to Everett to fund everything.
Susan and Eric arrived about five minutes after Marcus and I did. Marcus went out to help carry in the desserts from Eric’s van while Susan wiped the snow off her unbelievably high heels.
“Wow!” I said as she took off her coat. She was wearing a formfitting sea green dress with strappy heels that had to be at least four inches high. Her hair was down, curling around her face. Eric couldn’t help smiling at his wife as he passed her while carrying a large covered tray.
“Wow back at you,” she said.
She looked over her shoulder toward the door. “And your detective. Yum!” Her eyes sparkled.
“Susan!” I exclaimed.
She tipped her head to one side and gave me a skeptical look. “Please,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice that he cleans up really well.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me as Marcus came in carrying a large box of something that smelled like cinnamon.
I leaned over so my mouth was next to her ear. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” I whispered.
She laughed and clapped her hands together.
We stowed Susan’s coat in the coatroom and walked through the main auditorium doors together. She took a couple of steps and stopped. “Oh my word!” she said softly.
The stage really did look like a Parisian sidewalk café. I had no idea where Maggie and Ruby had found the wrought-iron chairs and small round tables. The potted trees, branches entwined with twinkling lights, had been rented from a nursery in Minneapolis. I hadn’t even known it was possible to rent trees, let alone do it in December.
The tiny fairy lights continued up the edge of the outside seats on both the right and the left aisles. Curved ramps on both sides led from the floor to the stage. Again, I had no idea how Maggie and Ruby had done it, but they looked like two tiny stone bridges.
“Good Caesar’s ghost,” Susan whispered softly as she stepped onto the stage and got a good look at the backdrop Ruby had painted. The huge canvas curtain covered the back of the stage from side to side and floor to ceiling. Ruby had re-created a Parisian street scene and Maggie had spent hours with the Stratton’s lighting tech, working out the lighting so the huge mural looked its most realistic. I knew what a perfectionist she could be, so I wasn’t surprised it had taken that long.
“What can I do?” Susan asked.
“Mingle. Answer questions if anyone has any,” I said. “Otherwise, just enjoy yourself.”
“That I can do,” she said with a smile. “I’d better go see if Eric needs anything.”
The next hour went by in a blur. Mary arrived looking very elegant in a rose-colored dress and heels that showed off the great legs she’d gotten from being the state kickboxing champion in her age group.
“Bridget is sending someone to interview you,” she said. Mary’s daughter was the publisher of the Mayville Heights Chronicle.
“Thank you,” I said, leaning down to give her a squeeze.
“Kathleen.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mia, our student volunteer. The seventeen-year-old looked ethereal in a cream-colored flapper-style vintage dress with a fringed hem, her grape Kool-Aid hair pulled back behind her ear on one side.
“Mia, you look beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. She ducked her head for a moment as her face flushed a little. Then she looked at me again. “I, uh, wanted you to meet my dad.”
I held out my hand to the man standing beside her. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Janes,” I said. “I’m Kathleen Paulson.”
“Call me Simon, please,” he said.
Simon Janes had a firm handshake and a direct gaze. He was close to six feet tall, rangy with hair buzzed close to his head and he didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be the father of a seventeen-year-old.
“Mia’s doing an excellent job,” I said, shifting my gaze to give the teenager a smile.
“Seriously?” he said. “Or are you just making polite conversation?”
Mia’s face flooded with color.