Cat Playing Cupid

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.

How juvenile was that!

He guessed everyone, when they retired, felt that way for a while. But the fact that he did deeply annoyed him, as if he had no more inner resources than a wind-up mannequin.

He knew he'd miss some of his coworkers, but they'd be in touch, the city wasn't that far away. He'd miss his two favorite judges, but he sure wouldn't miss some of the other federal judges. The deterioration of the judicial system, on all levels, was one thing he was not ambivalent about, he was damn glad to be away from that breakdown.

His only regret was that he hadn't been able to do more to hold the line, to maintain the principles on which the federal courts had traditionally been based. The change in the quality of judges and their misuse of the law, both at local and federal levels, were hard to live with. Very hard, when the results of that disintegration were too many felons walking the streets committing more crimes, robbing and raping and killing law-abiding folk.

Bitter, he thought. Getting old and bitter.

But he hadn't been old when he'd started that battle, he'd fought it for twenty-five years. He had to admit, he was tired. Tired of locking horns with elected officials who didn't have a clue as to the damage they were doing or didn't give a damn.

Around him the night was very still, the only sounds the crashing of the breakers and Rock's excited panting. Where the bright waves rose and fell, a seal surfaced suddenly and it was all he could do to hold Rock, to stop the big silver dog from plunging in and swimming after the animal-when the ninety-pound Weimaraner abandoned his manners and set his mind to something, he was a powerhouse.

A hardheaded powerhouse, Mike thought, the kind of dog, if he's well trained and well directed, will work his heart out for you. The obedience simply had to be on Rock's terms, on terms of mutual respect.

To settle Rock down Mike did a two-mile run with him. Turning back at last, winded, they stopped at the foot of Ocean, where Mike brushed the wet sand off Rock's belly and legs before they headed home.

Now Rock walked easily at heel, just tired enough to wag and laugh up at him, his panting expression filled with happiness.

"You don't miss your mistress and your new master?" Mike asked him. "You don't miss Ryan?"

At the mention of Ryan, Rock came to full attention, tensed to leap away again, and looking all around into the night searching for her, sniffing for her scent.

"She isn't here," Mike said contritely. "I just meant…It's okay, boy," he said, patting Rock's shoulder with a hard and reassuring hand and then rubbing his ears. "It's okay, she'll be home soon."

At his steadying voice and at no further mention of Ryan, and when the silver dog could not pick her scent from the wind, he at last settled down, looking up at Mike as if almost trusting him, as if hoping he could trust his new friend.

"You're a fine fellow," Mike told him as they walked up through the moonlit village and past the open small and charming shops and restaurants, past couples and foursomes leaving the cafés or looking in boutique windows at the elegant wares. Leaving Ocean, turning down Clyde 's street and entering through the back gate into the patio, he toweled the big Weimaraner dry, and then in the kitchen gave him fresh water. As he made himself a cup of coffee, the gray tomcat wandered in, yawning, staring up at him.

"You can't be hungry. It's a wonder you're still alive. I hope Clyde doesn't start feeding Rock like that, sneaking him rich snacks." Strange, he thought, that the tomcat was in such good shape, his sleek silver body muscled and lean. He gave Joe a small snack of cold steak that Clyde had left, watched Joe gobble it, then carried his coffee down the hall to the guest room, the cat and dog crowded at his heels.

Opening his briefcase he flipped through the files and laid the Carson Chappell folder on the night table. As per Clyde 's instructions, he told Joe and Rock they could sleep on the bed-a useless gesture, considering that the two were already tucked up together hogging most of the king-size mattress, Joe Grey stretched out across the big dog's front legs. At Mike's voice, the cat looked up at him with bold yellow eyes, keenly assessing him, then closed his eyes and tucked his head under.

Ready for sleep, Mike thought, watching the tomcat. And he pulled off his shoes and shirt, preparing for bed, looking forward to a cozy evening tucked up by the fire accompanied by the sleeping dog and cat as he went over the Carson Chappell file.