Dr. Firetti was more than careful about regular checkups for the speaking cats, but they always rated A-plus. Who could explain why? Except for John Firetti, the medical profession didn’t know that talking cats existed.
Well, Joe thought, Rock and Snowball felt great on Ryan’s diet; they were sleek, lively, and sassy. Ryan had tried only once to put Joe on the same regimen. He’d raised so much hell that she and Clyde gave him what he wanted—though he knew she was now slipping in a few vegetables. He admitted only to himself that they weren’t bad, a little change of flavor that went down fine.
He wondered if Wilma was preparing similar special fare for Dulcie, to better nourish their babies? How would his lady take to that? Again a thrill of amazement shivered through him, another smile twitched his whiskers as he dropped from desk to floor, galloped down the stairs and into the big family kitchen.
Clyde stood at the stove stirring spicy tomato sauce, his short brown hair neatly trimmed, his tanned face showing only a hint of stubble after a long day at the automotive shop. He was still in his work clothes, pale chinos, Italian loafers, a green polo shirt. He had substituted a navy blue apron for the pretentious white lab coat that he wore at the shop. Clyde catered to expensive foreign models, classic cars, and antiques; he liked to keep an upscale image: medical specialist to your ailing Maserati, the best in tender loving care for your frail old Judkins Brougham. As Joe leaped to the table, Clyde turned from the stove.
“What?” Clyde said, frowning at him. “What’s the silly grin?”
Why was Clyde always so suspicious? “Bad day at the shop?” Joe asked coolly.
“What, Joe? Why are you smiling like that? What have you been up to?”
“Ryan still down at the Bleak job? Why does that woman show up every evening just at quitting time? Doesn’t she know people have lives of their own? Doesn’t she understand the term quitting time?”
“I said, ‘What’s the grin about?’ What gives?”
“Tekla thinks Ryan has nothing better to do than hang around after work to hear her latest complaint.” This remodel, which Ryan had sandwiched in among her larger construction projects, was just four blocks from their own house: a convenient location for Ryan to get to work, handy to run home for lunch. But hard to avoid Tekla Bleak. If Ryan wasn’t right there on that job—among three projects she was currently working on—Tekla would come on down to their house to lay out her complaints.
“Arbitrary, useless complaints,” Joe said angrily. “She makes them up to enrage Ryan.”
“The smile,” Clyde said patiently, stepping to the table, reaching for Joe. “What is the smile about?”
Joe raised extended claws and hissed in Clyde’s face. A few things were none of Clyde’s business; he didn’t need to ask nosy questions.
Clyde looked like he was going to strangle Joe. “What . . . is . . . the . . . smile . . . about? You haven’t stopped grinning since you got home.”
“I am not grinning. The Cheshire cat grins. I do not grin.”
“It’s plastered all over your face. Even when you try to scowl.” Clyde watched him intently. “What? Have you got a line on the mugger?”
“If I had a line on that dirtbag, would I be sitting here on the table listening to your rude hassling? I’d be upstairs on the phone to Max Harper.” Hissing again, he dropped from the table. “I’m going down the street and hurry Ryan along. It’s suppertime and I’m starved.”
“What, hop on her shoulder and tell her dinner’s ready? That should get Tekla’s attention.”
“I don’t need to say anything. My studied glare speaks volumes.” Turning his back he headed upstairs, leaped to the desk, up to the rafter, pushed out through his cat door into his tower. Out its open window onto the roofs and he headed south to the Bleaks’ frame cottage, where, late as it was, he could still hear hammers pounding.
Galloping the four blocks, he leaped onto the roof of the small brown house. White window trim and white picket fence that still needed painting. New, thick roofing shingles under his paws, they smelled new. He crouched above the cracked driveway, looking down at Ryan’s red king cab, parked directly below him.
The truck bed was no longer crowded with new kitchen cabinets; they had been unloaded and would be neatly stored inside the empty rooms. Bellying down on the shingles peering over, he watched Tekla Bleak where she stood on the deep front porch telling Ryan off, her voice loud enough to bring two joggers to a halt, the young men staring as if Ryan might need help, but then moving on, fast.
Tekla was a small, skinny woman, her short brown hair awry, her long, baggy blouse draped over slim black tights. Her black running shoes were sleek and expensive.
“My husband,” Tekla snapped, glancing down at Sam in his wheelchair where he waited patiently at the bottom of the steps, “can hardly maneuver his chair through that narrow gate. And you will have to do something about this ramp, you can see it’s way too flimsy for a wheelchair. If it gives way, if Sam falls . . .” Tekla stepped closer to Ryan, her stance threatening. Ryan looked at her coolly.
Ryan’s dark, short hair was spattered with sawdust, as were her neatly fitting jeans and her white T-shirt. She dangled a Skilsaw from one hand, where she’d been cutting a porch rail. “I have not yet torn out the gate,” she said patiently. “You can see we have only begun on the new rail.” She did not point out that Sam had no trouble at all with the gate, that his wheelchair slid right on through.
“And,” she said, “the new wooden ramp is sturdy enough for an army. Concrete supports in five places. Sam has been up and down it every day and it’s given him no trouble. You wanted wood, Tekla. Not concrete, as I suggested.” Looking over Tekla’s head, Ryan gave Sam a wink. The poor man never got in a word.
His eyes grew bright at Ryan’s smile, though he listened meekly enough to his wife’s haranguing. Joe thought it pointless for Tekla to make a fuss over Sam’s comfort when, inside the house, adaptations for his wheelchair were minimal, at best. One bathroom and a small bedroom had been retrofitted for him, but most of the renovation was concentrated on fancy countertops, fancy basins and faucets. Ego appeal, not efficiency for a challenged resident. Even the bright new kitchen was not being adapted for a wheelchair; the counters were all standard height, not even a low, easy island where Sam might fix himself a snack, as Ryan had forcefully suggested.
How simple it would have been to design the job with prime attention to Sam’s comfort. Whatever complaints Tekla had now were irrelevant to the main purpose of the project, and the woman’s arguments were wearing Ryan thin. Demands that they tear out brand-new work, put in different light fixtures though these had just been installed, replace the new kitchen hardware because Tekla had changed her mind. The arbitrary reversals were at Tekla’s expense, that was in the contract, but the extra time and labor had Ryan and her workmen increasingly frustrated. Even her foreman, big, red-bearded Scott Flannery, who was usually calm and reined in, was about at the end of his temper.
Ryan’s nature was much the same as her uncle’s; it didn’t take much for their Scots-Irish blood to flare up. So far she and Scotty had been circumspect with Tekla, trying not to upset Sam; everyone felt sorry for Sam Bleak. Everyone but his wife.
It was Ryan’s young carpenter, Ben Stonewell, who pointedly stayed away from Tekla, avoiding trouble. Joe could see how much the woman upset him. Now, after Ben’s evasive behavior in the restaurant patio when he didn’t want to be seen by the Hoop couple, Joe had to wonder if there was more about Ben than he was seeing. He hoped not, he liked the shy young man.