Dulcie laughed. "They're a couple of nutcases. They're not planning a honeymoon, they're off on a treasure hunt." But, watching the groom lock the front door and head for the car, looking very nice in his new tan suit, white shirt, and the first tie he'd worn in months, the cats smiled with tolerance for their crazy human friends.
10
WHAT A JOYOUS wedding it had been, with all the friends gathered on the Harpers' bright patio, the sun glinting off the far sea, the smell of spring in the air, and the lilting Irish music reflecting the bride and groom's shy excitement. Joe and Dulcie and Kit had crowded among their human friends at the edge of the makeshift aisle, watching Ryan slowly approach the minister, looking radiant in her soft red suit; the joyous ceremony stirred tears among the guests, and then stirred happy laughter. But now the wedding toasts and good-natured ribbing were over, the bride and groom had long ago departed to drive up the coast in their borrowed chariot, and the bright day was slipping toward evening.
Most of the guests had left, many of Harper's officers reporting to the station for second watch. Dulcie had left with Wilma, and Kit with her elderly couple. By eight o'clock, only Ryan's dad and her two uncles remained with Charlie and Max-and of course Joe Grey and Rock, dozing before the fire, waiting for Mike to take them home.
Joe, full of buffet treats, watched Dallas and Scotty shrug on their jackets, both men quiet and reflective, heavy with fatherly nostalgia. As if each wished, for a moment, that they could go back in time, that Ryan was small again, still their feisty little girl learning all over again to ride, to train the hunting dogs, to cook and keep house and to use properly Scotty's carpenter's tools. As the two men swung out the door, Scotty's red beard catching the light, behind them Mike Flannery, muttering that he'd have to buy a car soon, pulled on his coat and fished out the keys to Clyde's antique yellow roadster, in which Ryan had driven to her wedding, Rock sitting tall and dignified beside her.
Charlie picked up Joe, holding him against her shoulder, and she and Max walked out to the car with Mike, where she set Joe on the front seat. As the silver Weimaraner leaped obediently into the backseat, Mike looked at Joe and then at Charlie. "Where's the cat carrier?"
"Doesn't have one. He'll be all right," Charlie told him.
"A cat can't ride loose like that. This is an open car. I don't-"
"He'll ride just fine," Charlie said, stroking Joe. "He likes cars. He'll mind you just as well as Rock will. Watch," she said, turning a sly green-eyed look on Joe.
"Get in the backseat, Joe," she said, tapping the backseat beside Rock. "Backseat! Now!"
Joe gave her a Just-you-wait, you'll-get-yours look, but hopped obediently into the back.
"Lie down, Joe."
Joe lay down beside Rock's front paws, glaring at Charlie.
"Stay, Joe. Stay until you get home."
Mike stared at Joe and stared at her. He shook his head and had nothing to say. Both cat and dog turned the same expectant expression on him, as if willing their human chauffeur to get a move on, making the tall, sandy-haired Scots Irishman swallow a laugh. "That," Mike said, "is a pretty unusual cat."
Max looked impressed, too-but as much with Charlie's expertise as with the behavior of the gray tomcat. Ever since Charlie had published her book about the journey of a little lost cat, he had seemed almost to hold in reverence his redheaded wife's uncanny knowledge in matters feline-and now that Tattercoat was selling so well, Charlie's e-mail was filled with fan letters saying the same: How did you learn so much about cats? It's almost like you can speak with them and understand them…I've had cats all my life, but there's so much in your book that I've never known…I'm convinced the cat herself wrote this book…
And that, of course, was the case. This was Charlie and Kit's secret, the tortoiseshell was, indeed, Charlie's collaborator. Kit had told Charlie her own story, from the time she was a small kitten-though Max would never know the truth, Charlie thought, smiling to herself.
Joe, curled down between Rock's front paws, glimpsed Charlie's secret amusement in the flash of her green eyes, a quick sharing that neither Max nor Mike would correctly read; then the tomcat turned away, pretending to doze as Mike started the engine and headed the yellow roadster for home.
AT HOME, IN the Damen kitchen, Mike fed Rock and the household cats. He fed Joe, too, reluctantly. "How can you eat again? You'll be sick after all the party food." He stood scowling down at Joe. "Did Clyde mean it when he said you could have anything you want, and as much as you want?"
The tomcat looked back at him, wide eyed and innocent. He loved this, loved when people talked to him not knowing he could have answered them. Such earnest, one-sided conversations were so amusing that he often had to turn away and pretend to wash, so as not to laugh in their faces.
Mike went into the laundry to tuck the other three cats in for the night in their cozy quarters, fluffing their blankets and pillows, and petting and talking to them. Snowball was the needful one; Scrappy and Fluffy were quite content with each other. Mike gave the little white cat a long time of extra attention, moving away only when she dozed off under his stroking hand.
Back in the kitchen, he picked up Rock's leash. As the silver hound pranced and huffed, Mike stood regarding Joe, uncertain whether he should keep the tomcat in for the night, or let him roam as Clyde had instructed.
Clyde said Joe could come and go as he pleased, night or day, that the tomcat was to have free access to both cat doors, 24/7-to the cat door that opened to the front porch, and the one high among the upstairs rafters, which led out to Joe's tower and to the roofs of the village.
Mike didn't approve of cats out at night to wander the streets, unseen by hurrying drivers, but he did as he'd been told. He headed out with Rock, locking the front door and leaving Joe on his own. Telling Rock to heel, he headed through the village and toward the shore.
THE WEIMARANER HEELED nicely on a loose leash. Mike looked back several times, half expecting to see the tomcat following them or see him racing above them across the rooftops-though with the party food that cat had gulped down, he was probably curled up on the couch belching and sleeping it off. He hoped, when he got home, Joe hadn't upchucked all over the living room. He'd never seen any animal eat that amount of food, all of it rich, without coughing his cookies and blowing his liver. But Clyde swore the cat was in perfect health.
The waxing moon brightened the rolling breakers, silvering the skein of wet sand where he and Rock jogged close to the water. Rock wanted to pull, wanted to race to work off steam. Mike ran with him but wouldn't let Rock loose until he knew the dog better. He wished Lindsey were with them, running on the beach with her golden retriever as they used to do, wished she would appear suddenly out of the dark, running beside him-a fanciful dream. He put it aside, and thought instead about his coming years of retirement.
Starting a new life. Not with Lindsey, as he'd once thought, but that was all right. He was free of heavy demands. His time was his own to do with as he pleased. Free of his long and often vexing commitment to the increasingly frustrating workload of the U.S. court.
The fact that he wasn't chained to a desk anymore, that he didn't have to hit the office Monday morning, should have left him feeling like a kid at the beginning of summer vacation.
But already he was beginning to see that retirement might have its downside, already he felt himself missing the security of a set routine-with that steady, longtime support suddenly withdrawn, he felt for a moment as if he had no anchor.