The Cat Sitter's Whiskers (24 page)

All the way to the Bronco, I could still feel his hand on my back, and then I had the strangest feeling I was being watched. Sure enough, as I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed two men crossing the street opposite me. One was pale and thin, in a dark suit, and the other was squat and bald, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and they were headed for the gallery. Mr. Paxton was standing in the doorway, his face framed in the oval window, his expression completely blank, almost like he was sleepwalking.

I think on any other day, under different circumstances, I would probably have mulled it over for the rest of the evening, trying to come up with some scenario that explained the oddness of the whole meeting, starting with Daniela's strange denial that we'd met and ending with Mr. Paxton's odd expression as I drove away.

But thoughts of Mona's awful childhood were still in the back of my mind, and I was starting to feel bad that I hadn't called Ethan back … and not only that, but I didn't think I was going to anytime soon. It was like a quiet panic building in the pit of my stomach.

The only thing keeping me from pulling over to the side of the road and curling up in a fetal position in the back of the Bronco was the thought of Michael and Paco scurrying around in their kitchen preparing dinner. I could see myself taking a seat on the deck our grandfather built, and I could see Paco handing me an ice-cold beer while Michael spooned something yummy onto my plate. I was thinking maybe hushpuppies and fried catfish would fit the bill perfectly.

With that image in my head, I put myself on autopilot. I've crisscrossed this island so many times I could practically do it blindfolded, so all I had to do was keep my hands on the wheel. I barely had to think about where I was going.

Sometimes that's the best way to get where you need to be.

 

28

Sarasota has a slew of assisted-living homes and retirement communities, and Bayfront Village is the grande dame of them all, even though its main building is about the ugliest architectural monstrosity this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. The outside walls are pink brick and the roof is red terra-cotta tile, which look pretty nice together, except there are Art Deco sunburst patterns painted in a garish turquoise all along the roof, and that's topped with rows of Mediterranean arches and faux-gold Gothic spires.

The fake cobblestone driveway rolls up to a Spanish-style covered portico, held aloft by four Greek columns, and standing guard on either side are two fat-cheeked cherubs, each peeing into his own sparkling fountain shaped like a giant clamshell. Let's just say if Dr. Frankenstein had been an architect, Bayfront Village would be his best-known creation.

But its residents don't give a hoot about the architecture or the similarly jumbled interior decor, because the services at Bayfront are top-notch. A uniformed valet whisks your car away to some climate-controlled location, the glass doors whisper open like magic as you approach, and Vickie, the concierge stationed at a little gold-leaf desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby, phones up to announce your arrival.

I think it didn't fully dawn on me what I'd done until the elevator spilled me out onto the sixth floor and I looked down the hall. My autopilot had apparently thought a visit to Cora Mathers was in order.

Normally she's standing in front of her apartment, waving her skinny arms over her head like an air traffic controller. Right before I knocked, there was a volley of laughter like two tinkling bells from inside.

Cora opened the door and beamed at me. “Oh, my goodness, what a wonderful surprise!”

Cora's in her mid-eighties, but she's the youngest person I know, in spirit at least. She's just shy of five feet tall on her tiptoes, her skin is the color of fine talcum powder, and her white hair hovers above her head like a fluffy puff of smoke. She was wearing white cotton clamdiggers and a silk blouse covered with blue and pink parrots on a bright field of green palm fronds.

“Is it a bad time? I was just in the neighborhood and thought—”

“Oh, of course not, Dixie. It's never a bad time. You can meet my friend Kate!” She tilted forward and whispered conspiratorially, “She's dumb as a fruitcake and just as sweet.”

I followed her in, being careful not to rear-end her as she tottered into the apartment like a penguin. I was already wishing I'd called first—I didn't feel like sharing Cora with anybody—but it was too late now.

Cora's apartment always makes me feel like I'm being cradled. It's airy and cheerful, all wicker and ferns and lace, and the floors are pink tile, with walls a slightly deeper shade of coral. To the left is a breakfast bar with shutters to hide the kitchen, and to the right is an arched doorway to Cora's bedroom.

She looked down at my hands. “Did you forget something? You usually have a few goodies for me, don't you? Some yummy soup from that organic shop or maybe a few juicy peaches?”

I sighed. “I know, but I really wasn't planning on stopping by. I was on my way home and then the next thing I knew…”

She shook her head sadly and made a clucking sound.

“What?”

“I just this minute put out a fresh-baked loaf of chocolate bread to cool, but it hardly seems fair to offer any when you're arriving so empty-handed.”

As far as I'm concerned, Chicago has its pizza, New Orleans has its gumbo, and Siesta Key has Cora's chocolate bread. She makes it in a bread machine that's probably as old as I am, and the recipe is top secret. I'm completely addicted to it.

I jutted my jaw forward and raised my hand up in a tight fist under her chin. “Listen, old woman, I ain't leavin' this building without some of that damn bread.”

She giggled. “Oh, dear. Such violence. All right, then, go on in and introduce yourself to Kate. I'll fetch an extra teacup.”

There was a tan elderly woman in a yellow pantsuit perched on the tuxedo sofa at the other side of Cora's glass-topped coffee table. She wore her jet-black hair in a short bob, with a necklace of white beads and two white disk earrings the size of sand dollars. Despite the fact that she looked every bit as old as Cora, when I entered the room she stood up with surprising vigor. Her lips were bright vermilion, her eyelids pale blue, and her arching eyebrows were drawn in with a thin black pencil.

She thrust her hand out and flashed a set of perfectly straight white teeth, and for a second I thought she could probably do a mean impersonation of Liza Minnelli if she put her mind to it. “Charmed to meet you, I'm Kate Spencer.”

She had a firm grip. “Hi, I'm Dixie. Cora always speaks very highly of you.”

She looked me up and down, appraising me like a steer at market. “Well, the ol' girl is right—she always says you're a right pretty one.”

She had a thick Texas drawl. I said, “Aw, that's nice. I actually pay her to say that, but thanks anyway.”

She blinked. “You pay her?”

I waved my hand in the air as I sat down in one of the chintz armchairs opposite her. “No, no! I'm just joking.”

She was holding her mouth open in a half smile, almost like she was waiting for the joke, and then nodded. “Honey, how old do you think I am?”

I pulled a couple of errant hairs that had fallen across my face and tucked them behind my ear. “Oh, gosh, I'm so terrible at guessing ages, I have no idea.”

“Guess! I bet you'll be surprised.”

Cora came shuffling in carrying a tray with a teacup and a fresh loaf of chocolate bread. “Dixie, she's a hundred and ten.”

Kate fluttered her fingers in the air like she was shooing a fly. “Oh, now, shush, Cora, be quiet.”

“Kate, Dixie doesn't want to guess how old you are.”

Kate clapped her hands together and interlaced her fingers. “I'm ninety-three!”

I figured I'd play along and act surprised, which wasn't too hard because the woman looked easily ten years younger. I shook my head, “That's amazing. I would've been way off.”

She grinned from ear to ear. “I know it. Cora's just jealous.”

Cora nodded as she filled my cup. “You're right about that.”

I laughed. “Oh, stop. I say every woman in this room is a total knockout.”

Cora shook her head as she lowered herself down in the chair next to me. “Well, one out of three ain't bad. Dixie, tell Kate about your hunka-hunka.”

“My what?”

She made a
speed-up
motion with her hand. “You know … your man, your hunka-hunka.”

“Cora, please tell me you did not just call Ethan my hunka-hunka.”

“Well, you won't let me call him your boyfriend, and I believe I recall you told me not to refer to him as your beau.”

I said, “Well, that may be, but hunka-hunka is worse!”

She rolled her eyes at Kate. “Oh, Lord, such a preoccupation with labels. What do you want me to call him?”

“I don't know. My…”

I looked down. Suddenly there was an awkward silence and I felt a muscle in my cheek twitch slightly. Cora's smile faded. That's the problem with having a friend like Cora. She sees right through me.

“Dixie, what's the matter?”

I looked down and smoothed the wrinkles out of my shorts. “It's nothing. I've had a rough week, but I'm sure you girls have better things to do than sit around and talk about my dumb problems.”

Cora wrinkled her nose. “Dixie, we're two old dames having tea. We've got nothing better to do.”

“Well, it's completely stupid. I wasn't even thinking about it, but since you ask … the topic of children has reared its ugly head.”

I turned to Kate, thinking perhaps I needed to offer some sort of explanation, but she had already pivoted toward the window and was staring intently out at the bay with her teacup poised just inches from her lips. I got the distinct impression Cora had already told her all about my sordid past.

I was waiting for Cora to say something like,
Oh, poppycock!
or
You're thinking too much
, but she didn't. She was just sitting there watching me, her pale blue eyes reflecting the light from the windows. Finally, she nodded slowly and sat back in her chair with a sad sigh.

“I see.”

I gave her a kind of hopeless smile. “Yeah, that's exactly how I feel about it.”

“Tell me what happened.”

I shrugged. “I think I'm actually making a mountain out of a molehill, because really when you get right down to it,
nothing
happened. We were just talking, and I threw a carrot at him—don't ask why, I was just being silly—and he made a joke about kids …
our kids.
He didn't mean anything by it, I don't think, but just … the words
our kids
 … I don't know. It's ridiculous, but it really got to me.”

Cora frowned. “You threw a carrot at him?”

“I told you not to ask why.”

She reached out and tore a piece off the loaf of chocolate bread and laid it on the plate next to me. Immediately the room filled with the luscious scent of melted chocolate and butter.

She said, “All right, first of all. It's not ridiculous. It makes perfect sense. You're protecting yourself, and no one can tell you that's not the right thing to do. Dixie, did I ever tell you about my little Buddy?”

I glanced at Kate. She was still gazing out the window, but now she was slumped a bit, and at the mention of the name Buddy she sighed audibly. I wondered if the burst of energy she'd summoned to meet me had worn her out. I looked back at Cora and shook my head.

“Well, when I was a little girl, all I wanted was a puppy. You know, something to hug and love and take care of. But my daddy said no. He was a strict man. He said it was all he could do to keep the farm going, and he always said we didn't have the money for another mouth to feed that didn't earn its keep.”

I realized my hands had torn a bit of chocolate bread off the piece that Cora had put on my plate. The moment it touched my lips, I felt a wave of warmth wash over my entire body. It was that good.

Cora paused and gave me an expectant look.

I nodded. “I'm listening!”

“Well, one morning my mother took me to town with her. Oh, I must have been about nine or ten years old. We stopped by the hardware store to pick up a case of jelly jars, and they had a basket of guinea eggs sitting by the woodstove—a nickel each! And they came with instructions for hatching, too. Well, lo and behold, my mother bought me one of those eggs, and I kept it cupped in my hot little hands the whole way home.

“For weeks I hovered over that darn egg like its own mama, making sure it didn't get too cold or too hot, keeping the air around it all nice and moist with a little misting bottle, and talking a blue streak to it. I even sang hymns to it on Sunday morning! My daddy just shook his head. He said it would never work and it was a waste of a good nickel, and he said the poor thing would just die in its shell without a real hen to hatch it proper.

“Well, Dixie, guess what? My daddy was dead wrong. That little guinea grew up to be big as a watermelon, and she followed me everywhere, pecking at my shoelaces and hopping up on my shoulder. Oh, my goodness, I loved that little bird. And she ate ticks and fleas in the yard and laid eggs, too, so my daddy couldn't say Buddy didn't earn her keep.”

She slid her cup toward me and I filled it from the teakettle. I looked down at my plate and my piece of chocolate bread was completely gone. There was nothing left but a few crumbs, which I picked up with the tip of my finger like a bird pecking at seed on the ground.

Cora was watching me. I said, “Okay, then what happened?”

“One day I came home from school, and Buddy was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere. She especially liked to roost in one of the apple trees we had out behind the house, but she wasn't there, so finally I found my poor mother upstairs. She was in bed with all her clothes on, taking a nap in the middle of the day, and I can tell you nothing like that had ever happened before. Right off the bat, I knew something was wrong.”