Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay
Page 35
* * *
Cat let the man hold him close, only because the hands that held Cat didn’t grab too tightly or try to force anything. Cat knew, somehow, that if he changed his mind about accepting help, the man would let him go.
Cat had never been given any other name, though he had been called many different versions of it. As he rode along in the man’s arms—carried toward the building into which he’d seen other cats come and go of their own free will—Cat thought of the many names he’d been called.
Damn Cat. Fucking Cat. Asshole Cat. Go Away Cat.
But this man called him by a new name, one which Cat much preferred because of the tone in which it had been uttered. Stinky Cat. He liked that one. He decided that would be the name by which he would refer to himself, whenever he wanted to think of himself as a cat with a name.
The closer they got to the building, the more tense Stinky Cat felt himself becoming. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be like those other cats who seemed so confident, so unafraid. They even sat with the dogs—napped with them on the building’s wide front porch!—and everyone seemed perfectly content. Even the bad little dog who’d come after him was nice to those other cats. She licked their ears the way mama cats licked their babies.
But Stinky Cat had a bad feeling that the dog he’d heard called Georgia wasn’t going to lick his ears. She might not have used her teeth on him as she’d threatened to do, but she made it clear she didn’t want him around. She had been ready to chase him right back over the fence he had climbed. He had wanted to see more of this strange place in which dogs and cats and people seemed to get along much better than the dogs and cats and people of his previous experience, who were more inclined to try to kill one another.
But now he wasn’t so sure he was up for the challenge. He pushed his front paws against the man’s supporting arm and leaned his head back against the man’s chest.
“Shhh,” the man said, “You’re okay.” Then he stopped walking and stood still, halfway between the metal hill Cat had been stranded on and the building where the dogs and cats came and went whenever they pleased. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Stinky Cat didn’t know what the words meant, and he was too worried about what might happen to understand the man’s thoughts. But the tones of the man’s voice soothed him, just as the man’s fingers stroking his fur soothed him. He felt himself purring again, relaxing against the man’s comforting bulk almost against his better judgment. He knew this human wouldn’t harm him intentionally, as so many others had.
But he wasn’t sure about the people inside that building.
Stinky Cat wanted to see if he could be one of those cats who seemed so happy and unafraid. But he couldn’t bring himself to risk it. He’d been afraid all his whole life—or at least from the moment in early kittenhood when he woke with his siblings to find that their mother was gone. He even slept afraid—and lightly enough to wake completely between one breath and another, his ever-present fear fueling his ability to escape or fight for his life if a predator pounced.
Fear had kept him alive this long.
How could he give it up now?
* * *
Adrian had the damn stinky cat within ten feet of the shelter’s front porch when he heard Heather’s car coming. He knew it was hers, because of the loud rattling sound the old Honda’s hinky motor made. She always brought her kids, and her badly-behaved dog. Knowing there was a high probability of mayhem about to ensue, he petted the cat and took another few, slow steps, hoping to make it inside the building before the car skidded into the parking lot. “What’s up, Stinky Cat,” he sang. “Whoa, whoa, whoaah.”
Tamping down the sense of urgency that kept creeping into his head and infusing his tone, he took a few cautious steps closer to the shelter. Balancing the need to move in sync with the cat’s fluctuating degree of compliance to the plan with the imperative of getting inside before…
Heather’s car careened into the parking lot, scattering gravel. The dog’s head hung out the window, barking as if he had something important to say.
The cat’s claws came out like Wolverine’s knives. Intent on escaping, the frightened feline dug those claws into Adrian’s flesh, slicing effortlessly through his shirt. The back claws gained traction by digging deep into Adrian’s abs, while the front claws latched on to his chest. The determined cat used his claws like grappling hooks to haul himself up to an unsteady perch on Adrian’s shoulder, where with one last, mighty effort, he launched off Adrian’s back and hit the ground running.
Before Adrian could gather the presence of mind to say, “Ow, shit,” the cat had scaled the chain link fence and leaped into the thick underbrush on the other side.
Adrian watched Heather park her rattletrap car under the shade of a live oak whose trailing, fern-covered branches were as thick as a full-grown human body. She clearly had more trust in the universe—or her car insurance—than he did.
Since he no longer held the skittish cat in his arms, he might as well assess the damage to his car, which had lived in the dealership’s lot not more than a month ago. He made it halfway across the lot when Heather’s dog—a speckled gray Aussie with flashy copper and white markings—rushed up to greet him. Adrian reached down to pet the dog’s head. “Hello, Jasper. You don’t even realize that you just ruined everything, do you?”
Jasper panted with enthusiasm, wagged his whole back end, and grinned a doggy grin.
A second later, Heather’s son, Josh, ran up to bombard Adrian with the latest news. “I got in trouble at school today. See?” He pointed to a small bruise on his cheekbone. His wheat-blond hair stuck up in clumps, and his navy blue polo shirt was gray from what must have been a sweaty altercation on the school playground.
“Wow, I bet that hurt.” Adrian gave what he hoped was sufficient attention to the almost nonexistent but clearly exciting wound. “Did the teacher punch you?”
“No, silly.” Josh grinned, revealing a gap where he’d recently lost a tooth. “Teachers don’t get to punch kids.”
Precisely why Adrian had never considered becoming a teacher. “What happened, then?”
“I pushed Kevin for calling me a crybaby, and then he punched me. We both got in trouble, and Ms. Mullins—she’s the principal now—said we’ll have to apologize to each other in the morning, but after that, we’re gonna forget all about it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“…As long as it doesn’t happen again,” Heather added with a stern look at Josh. She and Josh’s twin sister, Catrina, walked toward them hand-in-hand.
Adrian couldn’t help noticing how cute Heather looked, even dressed as she was in baggy jeans and a cherry-red tank top that wasn’t tight, but somehow still showed off her amazing curves. What seemed like a deliberate effort to hide her femininity wasn’t working. Had never worked, in fact, at least as far as he was concerned.
The needy kid who now clung to Adrian’s leg in an effort to regain his attention kept him from reaching out to touch the bright blond curl that had escaped Heather’s haphazard ponytail to blow against her cheek. It wasn’t that the little boy was physically in the way, because if Adrian wanted to touch Heather, no one would be able to stop him. What stopped him was the fact that she was a widow with kids.
Magnolia Bay Memories
Available November 2021 from Sourcebooks Casablanca
Acknowledgments
I believe that every book possesses a consciousness of the story it wants to tell. Before a word has been written, the book already exists, both fully formed and formless. The story taps a writer on the shoulder and whispers in their ear. It conspires with the universe to bring together a team capable of bringing it into the physical world. The part where the author applies seat to chair and taps out 100,000 words is only a small part of the process. So many serendipitous events, people, and animals made this book happen, so I have many to thank.
This book would not exist if not for:
Damon Suede, who said, “Talk to Deb.”
Cat Clyne, who said, “Send a proposal.”
Deb Werksman, my wonderful and supportive editor, who said “Yes!” and welcomed me to the Sourcebooks family with a warm smile, open arms, and a believing heart. Her confidence in me and the stories I am called upon to tell inspires me every day.
The incredible Sourcebooks team, who do the fingernail-biting work that makes me nervous just to think about. Georgia (my dog who inspired the character) thanks them too, because their dedication means that I have more time to write while she warms my feet. (Because as we all know, you can’t write a good book if your feet are cold.)
Nicole Resciniti and Lesley Sabga at the Seymour Agency, who remind me that I can sail through the air and grab for the bar without worrying I might fall. Together, they neutralize my fear of heights.
Lisa Miller, whose Story Structure Safari class taught this pantser how to plot, and the Expedition Gang, whose brainstorming power helped me create a coherent plot for the entire series.
The Plotting Wenches, my tribe of fellow writers, plotters, and schemers, who supply advice and encouragement. When any one of y’all says, “this stinks, and here’s why,” I get excited because I know you’ll help me figure out how to make the pile of whatever I wrote come out smelling like a gardenia.
My family, who inspires me and distracts me and loves me and reminds me on a regular basis that we have a pool in our yard, and that sometimes I need to step away from the computer.
My husband, Hans, who keeps my world spinning by taking care of me and this place and the animals who live here so I can write. (No thanks, BTW, to the Life 360 app for reminding him that I haven’t left the property in the last two months. That might be none of his business, just saying.)
My sister (whom I have never called by her actual name but in the way of the south, she is, simply, Sister), who is a retired nurse. If anything I have written about medical subjects is wrong, it is her fault, not mine. (Sister, I’m just kidding. I’ll take partial responsibility at least.)
My team: Jennifer Newell and Katrina Martin, for tackling technology on my behalf.
My tribe: friends who forgive me for writing instead of socializing; fellow animal communicators, students, clients, and animals (including mine!) who continue to teach me daily.
My readers: I wrote this book for each one of you. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey, and maybe even recognized your own gift of animal communication within these pages. If that recognition feels like an invitation to explore and deepen your abilities, it is. Understanding breeds compassion, and that’s something the world needs. Together, we can save the world, one happy ending at a time. Let’s do it.
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