Laughing, Roma shook her head. “It’s not. I promise you.” She stretched both legs along the step.
“Did you always want to be a vet?’ I asked.
“Actually, no,” she said. “It was a really good teacher who pointed me in this direction. What about you?”
“I wanted to live in the library from the moment I discovered that’s where they kept the books.”
“Do you miss Boston, Kathleen?”
I pushed my hair back off my sweaty face. “Sometimes I do,” I said. “Especially when I talk to my family, my friends. On the other hand, look at that sky.” There was nothing but endless blue overhead. “Sometimes I’m in my office and the sun is shining through the windows and sparkling on the lake, and I can’t think of a more beautiful place to be working.”
“Wait till January.” She leaned forward then and without shifting her gaze, stretched out an arm and tapped me on the leg. “Look,” she said, “by the door.”
I sat up, leaning left to get a better view. A small calico cat squeezed out through the hole next to the carriage house door.
“Yes!” Roma hissed.
“Is that Lucy?” I asked.
She nodded.
I watched the cat approach the closest cage, taking slow, careful steps and sniffing the air. She was definitely limping.
“C’mon,” Roma whispered. “C’mon.”
Lucy hobbled closer and closer to the cage. Finally she reached the opening. She sniffed the tiny bit of tuna Roma had set there. Then she ate it.
“Good girl,” Roma said, softly.
And then she turned and walked away. Roma groaned. Lucy paused, ears twitching. I held my breath. The little cat looked around, sniffing the air again. She changed direction, toward the other cage.
Roma grabbed the back of her scalp with one hand, resting her forearm on the top of her head. Lucy approached the trap. Again she sniffed the scrap of tuna by the opening, then ate it. Neither Roma nor I moved. Lucy leaned into the cage and ate the next bite of tuna. She stepped inside with one paw and then the other. One more step, I guessed.
I was right. Lucy stepped on the trigger plate and the door snapped down. She howled with anger and threw herself at the door.
Roma headed for the cage, unfolding the blanket and talking softly to the cat. She draped the blanket over the top of the trap, but Lucy continued to yowl and throw her weight against the cage door.
“She’s going to hurt herself,” Roma said. “I’m going to get my bag. I’ll have to give her something.” She headed for the car.
I didn’t know what to do. I crouched down near the cage, out of Lucy’s line of sight, and spoke softly to her, the way I did when I had to take Owen or Hercules to Roma’s clinic. I told her it was going to be okay. I wasn’t sure the cat could even hear me. And then suddenly she stopped.
Stopped yowling. Stopped flinging herself against the cage. I took a chance that I wouldn’t spook her and peeked around the edge of the blanket. She was crouched low, her eyes wide.
“You’re all right,” I said softly. I kept talking as Roma came up behind me. I turned to look at her.
She stared at me, shaking her head. “You’re either Dr. Doolittle or the Cat Whisperer,” she said. “So which is it?”
16
Needle at Sea Bottom
There was a bottle of wine on the counter and Barry Manilow was on the CD player, and my bangs were miraculously staying off my face. All was well, at least for the moment, in my small corner of the universe.
Not so much for Owen. He was hiding under the bed and had been from the moment the first notes of “I Write the Songs” floated up the stairs. Hercules walked to the end of the bed, dipping his head so he could look under the frame.
“Forget it,” I said. “You know how he is. He won’t come out until I take the CD off.” I bent down and picked up Herc, dancing him in a circle while I sang along with the music. A slightly muffled howl came from under the bed.
I danced Hercules over to the closet and set him down. “So, what am I going to wear?” I asked him.
He sneezed at my first choice and yawned at my second. My third choice, a white top and blue skirt, got two paws up. Well, actually, he just looked the outfit up and down and walked away, which either meant “Great choice” or “You’re hopelessly fashion challenged—I give up.”
Violet’s house was downtown, close to the market and the artists’ co-op. It was a big two-story colonial with a beautiful yard and a converted carriage house in the back. White and pink impatiens bloomed on either side of the walkway to the front door. The lawn looked like a green carpet. It had to be Harry who took care of Violet’s yard. No one else would be so meticulous, except maybe Violet herself. And I couldn’t quite picture her trimming the edge of the grass by the walk with a Weedwacker slung over one shoulder.
Rebecca opened the door. “Kathleen, come in,” she said. “Violet’s in the kitchen.”
I stepped into a foyer that was as well cared for as the outside of the house. I guessed the hardwood floors and wide trim were original, but someone had restored and refinished them at some point. Overhead a lavish brass and crystal chandelier shone down on us. “Wow!” I whispered to Rebecca.
She patted my arm and grinned like a little girl. “Isn’t it spectacular?” she said.
“It’s beautiful.” Everything seemed so right, from the framed painting of sunflowers to the small antique table next to the curving staircase that led to the second floor.
“Wait until you see the piano,” Rebecca said conspiratorially, dipping her head close to mine. She led me into a large room to the right of the foyer. A massive grand piano sat by the window.
“How did they get that in here?” I asked.
Rebecca frowned. “I don’t know. It’s been here since Violet was a girl.”
A fireplace dominated the wall beyond the piano. There were two sofas covered in a deep sky blue fabric, and several comfortable-looking chairs.
“Hello, Kathleen,” Violet said behind me.
I turned. “Hello, Violet,” I said. “Your house is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten I promised you a tour.”
“I’m looking forward to that.”
Violet wore a green flowered apron over a yellow blouse and tan skirt. She didn’t look like she’d been anywhere near a kitchen.
Was the woman ever rushed? Did she ever get rumpled or messy like the rest of us?
“How did things go at Wisteria Hill?” Rebecca asked.
“Very well,” I said. “Roma thought one of the cats might have a broken leg. We managed to catch her.”
“Good.”
“Please sit down,” Violet said, gesturing to one of the sofas.
We sat, Rebecca and me on the sofa and Violet in one of the chairs.
“So, was the cat’s leg broken?” Violet asked.
“Roma wasn’t sure,” I said.
“I’m glad she came home,” Rebecca said. “I don’t like to think about what might have happened to those cats without her.”
“They would have frozen to death or been trapped the first winter,” Violet said.
I looked at her. “Trapped?”
She nodded. “More than one person was nosing around out at the old house and had the run put to them by the cats. Next thing you know, there’s a lot of loose talk about trapping the cats and euthanizing them for their own good.”
Rebecca shuddered. “How can killing another living creature be good for it?” she said softly.
The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” Violet said, getting up.