Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs

31

The only sound on the way to Hetty’s house was the swish-swish of the wipers.

When we got there, Jaz pushed out of the car and ran to the front door, her skinny legs churning. Hetty must have heard the car and looked through her peephole, because I heard her whoop of joy before she opened the door. While I stood behind her grinning, Jaz fell into Hetty’s arms and the two swayed in the doorway for a long moment, squeezing each other as if they’d found a long-lost treasure.

Hetty finally pulled Jaz aside so I could pass through, and we all trooped to the kitchen, where Hetty busied herself making hot chocolate for Jaz. Ben ran to Jaz for a hug, and Winston graced her with a slow I love you eye blink.

I doubted Hetty would ever get all the story from Jaz, so I stayed long enough to fill her in on everything that had happened. Still dazed, Jaz didn’t really understand it herself. She was a kid, and all she knew was that bad people had done bad things and had wanted to do more bad things to her, and now she was safe. It might be a decade or more before she understood the full implication of everything she’d been through.

When I left them, Hetty was already talking about the colors they might use for decorating Jaz’s new room. A woman with less imagination might have been talking about transferring Jaz’s school records from L.A. to Sarasota. Hetty knows how to set priorities.

I drove home on autopilot, too happy to do much more than steer the car. At home, I went straight to Michael’s kitchen. He was at the stove enveloped in a cloud of steam, and he turned to me with a smile a mile wide.

He said, “Paco called. He’s on his way home. I’m making bouillabaisse.”

The butcher-block island was set for two, with wineglasses and cloth napkins. I didn’t need to be told that, on this evening, three really would be a crowd.

Michael nodded toward the counter where an insulated hamper sat. “I packed the meatloaf and stuff for you. I put heated bricks in there, so it’ll stay hot until you’re ready for it.”

I said, “Thanks. I love you.”

“Love you too, kid.”

The hamper was surprisingly heavy, but then Michael always gives a lot. I slopped out into the rain to cross the deck and go up my stairs. I left the hamper on my one-person breakfast bar and squished down the hall to my bathroom where I stood a long time under a hot shower. I was extremely alone.

When I was warm and scrubbed clean as new, I pulled on a thick terry robe and went to the kitchen where the insulated hamper sat all by itself on the bar. I opened the lid and inhaled heavenly smells. I took inventory: a metal pan with Michael’s meatloaf, a container of tomato gravy to pour over the meatloaf, a covered Pyrex dish filled with mashed potatoes, and another with skinny green beans and slivered almonds. There was even a square pan with warm blackberry cobbler. The cobbler called for vanilla ice cream which, wonder of wonders, I just happened to have in my refrigerator’s little freezing compartment.

I closed the hamper’s lid. I thought about Michael and Paco downstairs together. I thought about the ways people demonstrate love. I thought about how love lives in small acts as much as heroic ones—a smile, a word of support, a special dish, nice napkins for a dinner for two. I thought about how those small acts are reflections of courage and loyalty and commitment. Most of all, I thought about how love is unavailable to cowards.

I left the hamper on the bar and went to the living room and fished my cellphone from the bag I’d thrown on the sofa. I dialed Guidry’s number.

He answered, which is a good thing because if he hadn’t, I might have lost my nerve and not even left a message.

I said, “I have meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

My heart beat once, twice, three times.

Guidry said, “I like meatloaf.”

“Okay, then.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes is fine.”

I clicked the phone shut and galloped to the hall closet. Breathing hard, I pawed through it until I found a five-pronged brass candelabra and five candles. The candles didn’t match, and the candelabra needed polishing, but they would have to do. Charging to the living room, I set the candelabra on my coffee table, jammed the mismatched candles into it, and lit them. With the lamps turned off and only the kitchen light on, the candles looked just fine. Romantic, even. I found cloth napkins too, which were only slightly rumpled from lying in a drawer so long. I neatly refolded them and laid them next to silverware on the coffee table.

Last, I put on a CD of Regina Carter playing Paganini’s violin, surely the most beautiful music ever made. Then, barefoot and breathless in my terry cloth robe, I opened my french doors to Guidry.