Signing the tab, she exchanged small talk with Mr. Jolly. She had, as she'd passed the alley, seen two cats scoffing up some delicacy from a paper plate-not Dulcie or Joe. It amused and pleased her that Mr. Jolly fed the village cats. Not that the cats of Molena Point were exactly on welfare status. But they must enjoy those special treats; she thought of Jolly's alley as a sort of feline social club.
Carrying the hamper back to her van, which was parked in front of the gallery, she placed it safely on the floor, where it wouldn't spill, and headed for Clyde's house. Driving slowly across Ocean beneath the lacy filtered shade, breathing deeply the aromatic scent of eucalyptus, she realized how at home she felt in Molena Point after only a few weeks; as if she had lived all her life in the small village. Molena Point just suited her, it was big enough and had enough well-to-do residents to provide her with the means for a thriving business, but was also cozy and friendly.
Clyde was waiting for her on the porch, wearing faded jeans and a padded red jacket. The gray tomcat was draped across his shoulder. As she slid out and came around the van, the big cat watched her intently, his yellow eyes wise and appraising.
This was a first for her, taking cats on a picnic. As she fetched out the deli basket and started up the walk, the tomcat fixed on the basket, nose twitching, his gaze riveted. She supposed to a cat the scents were overwhelming.
Clyde took the basket, stashed it in the backseat of his big antique Packard. They didn't need to discuss which vehicle to take-no one wanted to share her van among the ladders, mops, buckets, and half-empty paint cans. He settled the basket on the floor of the backseat between some folded blankets, the tomcat edging forward off his shoulder.
"Leave the picnic alone, Joe. It's for later."
The cat cut his eyes at Clyde with sly humor, and kneaded his claws in Clyde's shoulder. And as she swung into the passenger's seat, Clyde tossed Joe in next to her. The cat gave her a wide yellow stare and immediately climbed into her lap.
He turned around three times, getting settled, his hard paws bruising her thighs. She was flattered to be honored with his presence. She'd really expected him to jump in the backseat and tear apart the picnic.
When she stroked him, he smiled and purred like some potentate receiving obeisance from his subjects, his attitude insolent, imperious. This cat, Charlie thought, was very full of himself.
Clyde backed out of the drive, swinging up to Ocean, and turned left. Two blocks farther on he pulled into the ten-minute zone in front of the library. A lacework of light and shadows patterned the sidewalk around them, and painted the library's white stucco walls. When Wilma came hurrying out she was carrying a green book bag from which protruded two tabby ears- these two people were obsessed with their cats.
As Wilma slid into the backseat, Dulcie rose up inside the bag and peered over the top, her green eyes gleaming, her paws clutching the top of the bag, kneading softly as if with excitement.
Watching her, Charlie felt like she'd not only fallen into a delightful place to live, but maybe into Alice's wonderland, into a world of smirking cats and what promised to be a mad hatter picnic.
Heading up Ocean to Highway One and turning south, Clyde's old Packard received interested glances. Both villagers and tourists turned to look at the bright red antique touring car.
They drove down Highway One five miles, looking out at the sea, then headed inland a short distance. Turned right again onto a narrow dirt road that led off through a little woods, a deeply shaded stand of close-set saplings.
Parking in the woods where the road ended, they set off walking, carrying the picnic hamper and blankets. The cats surprised Charlie again by trotting along beside them as obedient as a couple of dogs. On the narrow, leafy path alone in the dim woods, the five of them made a strange little procession. They couldn't see the ocean, but they pressed ahead eagerly toward its thunder.
The woods ended at a flat green pasture spreading away like a green tabletop. And that velvet field ended abruptly a quarter mile ahead. Nothing beyond but sky and sea. And a gigantic rock thrusting up out of the sea. They could hear the waves crashing against it, wild and rhythmic.
The pasture grass was damp, soaking Charlie's tennis shoes. The cats raced away, chasing each other, stopping to sniff at rabbit holes. Neither Clyde nor Wilma seemed concerned that they would run away. Charlie had never seen cats who behaved like this. The three of them walked in companionable silence to the edge of the cliff.
Ten feet below, churning breakers foamed against the chimney rock. Directly below them at the foot of the cliff lay a white sand beach tilting down, falling away to a strip of dark, wet sand. Between that strip of sand and the chimney rock seethed a narrow neck of sea, foaming up, sucking back clear as green glass. They descended the cliff and spread the blankets on the warm sand, and the cats immediately settled down on the smaller blanket, expectantly watching the picnic basket.
Tucked into one side of the basket was a good Pinot Blanc and a tray of goose liver canapes. Wilma poured the wine into plastic cups, laid out the canapes. They toasted the sea and each other as the breakers sucked out, lifted, crashed in again wild and foaming.
No one had hinted to Charlie that this picnic was a celebration, but she got the idea that it was. Some secret celebration, not so much a secret from her, perhaps, as simply a very private matter.
But what a strange thought.
Yet there was some odd little mystery here, clinging around Wilma and Clyde and the two cats.
Maybe when she had lived in Molena Point longer she'd learn to understand what it was that they sheltered so carefully. She felt certain it was nothing that would dismay her, she had more a sense of lightness, almost of whimsy. Something that, if she knew, should delight her. Meantime, their silent celebration was nice. She liked knowing people who had secrets.
But the strange thing was, the cats seemed to share in the secret, their eyes were filled with some keen feline satisfaction. Both cats had an after-the-kill look. The kind of look a cat had when he dragged a dead rabbit into the parlor and left it on the rug, the look of the triumphant hunter bestowing a priceless gift.
Puzzled and amused, she helped Wilma unwrap the feast that George Jolly had prepared. In insulated containers, the French bread was still warm from the oven, the large portion of Jolly's best Puget Sound salmon was admirably chilled. The assorted fruits and the big wedge of Brie were room temperature; and there was a pint of thick fresh cream, with two small plastic bowls.
Wilma fixed the cats' plates first, with a little bit of everything but the fruit, and Charlie poured cream into the bowls. And the cats feasted, each with that smug smile. And what cat could be more charming than these two? Even when they were smug, Dulcie's green eyes were laughing, Joe's yellow eyes gleaming with challenge. What cat could be more mysterious and charming?
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
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