The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club

by Nic Tatano

  “He was still asleep a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ll go peek in on him.” I head to the guest room and crack the door. What I see makes me smile.

  Nick, sleeping peacefully, with Bumper curled up next to him, one paw over his hand.

  I say goodnight to the photographer after the live shot, then head to Nick’s room where he is just waking up. “Hey, sleepyhead. How ya doin’?”

  “Slept a lot today.”

  “You needed it after last night.”

  “Yeah, about that. The dream was so real. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He grabs the pull bar and sits up. The movement wakes up the kitten. “And I see you’ve stolen my cat.”

  “Hey, those of us with challenges stick together.”

  “You ready for dinner?”

  “In a minute.” He pats the side of the bed and I sit on the edge. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “Is this another clever ruse to get a kiss?”

  “Nope. Though I won’t complain if that’s the result.” He turns and leans over to the other side of the bed, then hands me a beautifully wrapped gift. “Happy birthday. Rory told me it was today.”

  “So you went out shopping when I was at work?”

  “Hey, I’ve got a phone and a credit card.” He points at the box. “My C-I told me you might like this.”

  “Your what?”

  “C-I, means confidential informant.”

  “Ah. And I wonder who that could be?” I tear open the wrapping paper and see it’s something from the little shop in town that sells handmade chocolate. “Oh, yeah. Something from Chocolate Heaven. You have discovered the way to my heart.” I open the box and see a dozen huge chocolate dipped strawberries. “Damn, Nick, I love these.” I pick one up and take a bite. “Oh. My. God.”

  “I take it they’re acceptable.”

  “Perfect. You’re amazing, you know that? Recovering from being shot and still getting something for my birthday. But I want something else.” I finish the berry, lean forward and give him a long kiss.

  “And the clever ruse works.”

  “You don’t need to be clever to get a kiss from me. Right now you can’t get well fast enough because there are other things I’d like to do to you.”

  “Ah. Quite the recovery incentive.”

  “Anyway, thank you so much for the strawberries. You want one?”

  “They’re yours. Besides, it will spoil my dinner.”

  “Won’t spoil mine. Let me go get you something to eat and then we can relax a bit.”

  Between the lack of sleep, a very busy day at work, fixing dinner for Nick (okay, so heating up leftovers isn’t terribly strenuous) and spending time playing with Bumper, I’m out of gas by nine o’clock. But Nick looks alert, so I figure I might try a little of that physical therapy the nurse taught me. “You up for a little exercise on those legs?”

  “Sure. I couldn’t get through much this afternoon. Though it’s not like I have to do most of the work. I already got through the upper body stuff pretty easy, but everything below the waist is still hard.”

  “Yeah, you said that after I kissed you.” I flash a wicked grin.

  He blushes a bit. “I meant difficult. And you say I’m the one with the dirty mind.”

  “Are the exercises painful?”

  “Somewhat. But let’s try. Can’t let those muscles atrophy.”

  “Okay.” I pull back the sheets and see he’s wearing sweatpants. I move to the foot of the bed and grab his ankles. “Feel anything?”

  “Unfortunately, not a thing. But go ahead.”

  I go through the routine taught by the nurse, keeping a close eye on his facial expressions while I put each leg through the regimen. After about ten minutes I see him grimace. “Enough?”

  “Yeah. For today. Puts a strain on the core muscles. But you got a lot farther than we did this afternoon. I feel bad that you have to do this.”

  “Hey, it’s a good workout for me too. You’re a big boy. But lucky for you I’m not a ninety pound waif. Besides, it saves me a trip to the gym.”

  “Tell you what, when I’m back to normal we are going out for a real birthday celebration.”

  “Today was fine, Nick. Like I said, just the fact you thought of getting me a present while you’re recovering is amazing in my book. And you actually got something I love.”

  “Well, you deserve a lot more.”

  I stifle a yawn. “It’s been a long day and I’m gonna turn in. Do you, uh, want me to stay here with you?”

  “I do, but purely for selfish reasons. Seriously though, you won’t get any good rest. If I need anything, I’ll just whistle.”

  “Uh-oh. I may have created a monster with that.” I lie next to him, pull up the covers, turn out the light and rest my head on his shoulder. The moonlight spilling through the window lights up his smile. “As for getting a good rest, this is the best place for me.”

  Most nightmares are scary. Some feature demons or have you facing your worst fear. A popular recurring nightmare among TV people is being on the air totally naked while the teleprompter goes out. I’ve had that one numerous times.

  Nick’s nightmare the night before had him re-living his near death experience of being shot.

  Mine started when I woke up.

  A nightmare doesn’t have to be scary in itself. It can trick you, then make you deal with the demon it has planted in your head after it’s over.

  My dream was an incredibly pleasant one. Living a life of luxury in a gorgeous oceanfront home, sailing on crystal clear blue waters, being treated like a queen with dozens of roses every day.

  Of course the dream had me with Jamison and not Nick.

  Obviously getting the flowers from Jamison and talking to him on the phone got stuck in my subconscious and triggered the dream.

  And when I got up, the dream cued the guilt I have about hurting Jamison.

  Along with a scenario I hadn’t considered.

  When I first made the decision about Nick, my friends wondered if I had painted myself into a romantic corner. Let’s face it, if I suddenly realized the guy was wrong for me, which is not going to happen, how could I break up with him in his current condition?

  But the dream made me think about something else.

  Suppose Nick comes to the realization that I am wrong for him? He couldn’t exactly get up and leave. He’s in a corner that I’ve painted him into.

  Still, I’m one-hundred percent sure about my decision. You may think it’s odd to make such a commitment after three dates, and I would agree if I was twenty-one. But when you’re thirty-six, pretty much tired of the same small talk, and can size up a guy after an hour, you simply know if a guy is right for you.

  So now I wonder … does Nick know?

  Meanwhile, it doesn’t help that Jamison is still in my life, making me feel guilty. And for the immediate future, I have no way to get him out of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On Wednesday I pull into my driveway exhausted from a three-day work week. I know, that sounds ridiculous, but Nick had another rough night, Bumper started howling for no apparent reason and I got little sleep. The days of coming home and turning into a couch potato are now over.

  However, as we say in the news business, it’s a good kind of tired.

  Thankfully, I’ll be in research mode tomorrow at home which isn’t remotely stressful.

  And as I walk toward the door, I see something that perks me up.

  Bumper, waiting for me in the window, meowing through the screen.

  I head inside and immediately pick him up. He greets me with a lick on the nose, then starts to purr.

  And then I see another uplifting sight.

  Nick, sitting in his wheelchair, at the kitchen table which is covered with papers. “Hey, you’re up.”

  He shoots me a smile. “Felt better today. And I need to spend more time out of bed anyway.” He cocks his head toward the kitten. �
�He’s been waiting for you. I think he’s got a clock in his head. He only got up in the window ten minutes ago.”

  I stroke his fur. “Awww, you missed me. I missed you too, kitty.” I toss my purse on a chair and take a seat next to Nick with Bumper in my lap. “What’s all this?”

  “Cold case I was working on. Steve dropped by with this figuring I was bored. He was right. Daytime television isn’t exactly riveting. How the hell does anyone watch that garbage?”

  “Hey, I work in TV and I can’t stand it.” I look at all the files and see a box filled with plastic bags. “So this is how you guys do it. And that’s physical evidence in the box?”

  He nods as he pulls out a bag. “Yep. Everything relating to the case is in these files or that box. Right now it’s a puzzle that doesn’t fit together, but I’ve got nothing but time to work on it.”

  “How old is this case?”

  “Six years. Unsolved murder that got a lot of news coverage. But every lead turned out to be a dead end.”

  “Hmmm. Any way I can help?”

  “Well, how about I show you what I’ve got and then you share what you’re working on with Senator Collier? Maybe different points of view and a fresh set of eyes might help. And I’m sure your process is a lot different than mine.”

  “Sounds like a plan. You wanna eat first? It’s the last of the leftovers night.”

  “Bring it on.”

  Three hours later I feel like a kid putting together a jigsaw puzzle. The way police work a case is so different than my method of investigating a story, and I’m learning a lot while considering new ways to work on the whole Collier affair. Nick seems fascinated at my approach, and has a gleam in his eye now that he has a different method of looking at the evidence. And being “back to work” in a sense has really lifted his spirits.

  But someone doesn’t find this fascinating and has gotten bored. Bumper lets us know it’s time to quit. He climbs out of my lap and stretches out on top of all my research on the Senator. He meows at me, as if to say, “Enough of this paperwork. Pet me.”

  Nick scratches him under the chin and is rewarded with a lick. “I think he says it’s quitting time.”

  “I apparently will have to divide my time between the two of you.”

  “Cats don’t like to share.”

  “No, apparently not. Anyway, I’m ready to crash but the good news is I don’t have to go in to work tomorrow and we can work on this in the morning.”

  “I’m a little tired myself.”

  “You seem to be doing a lot better today.”

  “Yeah, feel like I’ve turned a corner. The physical therapy didn’t hurt as much, so I’m making progress. And it helps to do something productive.”

  “Still got nightmares, though, huh?”

  “Yeah. Steve says it’s normal to have post-traumatic stress. He got shot years ago and had nightmares for a few weeks. It goes away for some and not others.”

  I lean over and kiss him. “Pleasant dreams, Officer. You need help getting into bed?”

  “Nope, I’ve got that part down. You need help getting into bed?”

  “Not if you leave me enough room.”

  Big smile. “Hey, I love to share. Oh, one more thing on the to-do list for tomorrow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Besides our investigations, I’m gonna teach you how to cook.”

  “Uh, I’ll be busy.”

  “You won’t be that busy.”

  The grandfather clock strikes noon and I realize we’ve been going through Senator Collier’s documents for three hours since we got up. “Wow, lunch time already. Peanut butter okay?”

  Nick leans back and smiles. “You forgot. Cooking lessons begin today.”

  I’m really not in the mood. “I can order a pizza.”

  “Sorry. You want an Italian man in your life, you need to know about food. Though I plan to do most of the stuff in the kitchen, I need your help because I can’t reach the cooktop. However, I do not expect you to wait on me.”

  “Does that mean you plan to wait on me when you get well?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve commissioned a pedestal and will put you up there. Peel you some grapes when you so desire them.”

  “Well, if you put it that way. So what’s on today’s menu?”

  “Fettuccine Alfredo.”

  “Whoa, you’re gonna start me on something exotic?”

  “It’s simple. Five ingredients.”

  “Oh, come on. There’s gotta be more than five.”

  “Nope. Cream, butter, Parmesan cheese, egg yolk and of course, fettuccine.”

  “Seriously, that’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  There’s a way out of this. “Well, fine, but I don’t have all the ingredients.”

  “Yeah you do. I called A.J. yesterday and she brought ‘em over. Fridge, top shelf.”

  Curses, foiled again.

  I open the fridge and see a bag from A.J.’s deli. “That little sneak.”

  “Trust me, you’ll love cooking once you get the hang of it. We’ll need a pot for the pasta and a small saucepan for the Alfredo. And a cheese grater.”

  “I don’t have one of those.”

  “You do now. In the bag.”

  “We have to grate our own cheese? I thought it just came in one of those shaker cans.”

  “Well, before there was processed cheese people actually grated their own. You know, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Trust me, it’s fresher and has more of a kick this way.”

  Ten minutes later I have the water boiling in the pot (Nick said I got an “A” for that) and the saucepan is simmering with the cream, butter and cheese. “Okay, so what’s the deal with the egg yolk?”

  “First, we need to separate the eggs.”

  I take the two eggs from the bowl and move them to opposite ends of the table.

  Nick wrinkles his nose at me. “Very funny, Madison.” He grabs a small bowl, separates the eggs, and whips the yolks with a whisk. “Now add this to the sauce and blend it fast with the whisk because the yolk will cook instantly and you don’t want any lumps.”

  I follow his directions and can see the sauce beginning to thicken. “Okay, now what?”

  “Put the fresh pasta in the pot. Two minutes.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The fresh stuff cooks up very fast.”

  Five minutes later I shove a forkful into my mouth. “Damn.”

  “You like?”

  “That’s awesome. Who knew something like this was so simple.”

  “So cooking isn’t that hard, huh?”

  “No, not at all. Thank you for teaching me.”

  Bumper walks into the kitchen sniffing the air. He turns to me and meows.

  “Sorry, kitty, I don’t think this rich food would be good for you.” I reach down and lift the kitten into my lap.

  “Maybe he just wants his share of your attention.”

  “Okay, kitty, I’ll have to divide my time for you.”

  “Y’know, that reminds me of something about Senator Collier’s elections.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dividing attention. You ever notice that every time he runs for re-election, the Republicans always have a strong candidate. And then some extreme right-wing whack job gets in the race as an independent and takes enough votes away from the legitimate Republican candidate so Collier wins. The Senator must love it when the Republicans divide their support.”

  I stop eating for a moment to consider it. “You’re right. And every time polls have come out showing the race is close until the third candidate gets on the ballot. And then …” The wheels start turning.

  Nick stops eating and locks eyes with me. “You thinking what I’m thinking? Is that even possible?”

  I start to nod. “It’s possible. Collier bankrolls the third party candidate. Damn, that would be ingenious if it’s true.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “Pffft. It’s politics. Th
ere are no rules. You’d be amazed at the stuff they get away with.”

  “If it were true, how would you prove that?”

  “Just follow the money. But doing that is easier said than done. I need help on the inside. And I know just who to call.”

  I’d heard that cats hate riding in cars.

  Oh. My. God.

  Bumper will not stop howling.

  He was fine for the one block trip to the vet, but taking him to Manhattan to shoot a public service announcement on Friday morning is an assault on the ears. I’m trying to calm him down, sticking my finger through the grate in the pet carrier while keeping one hand on the wheel. (Is there a petting-while-driving law, like the texting one?) But he won’t stop. I knew he had a loud meow, but this is a low, blood curdling wail that sounds like he’s being tortured.

  My cell rings and I hit the hands-free device on the steering column. “This is Madison …”

  “Hey, Madison, Brad Dexter returning your call.”

  Oooooowwwwwww …

  “What the hell is that?” asks the Congressman.

  “My cat.”

  “What are you doing to the poor thing?”

  “Taking him to Manhattan for a commercial shoot. He apparently hates riding in cars.”

  Oooooowwwwwww …

  “So does mine. You’ll get the same reaction if you ever have to bathe him. Of course you’ll need peroxide and a ton of Band-Aids if you do.”

  “You put Band-Aids on a cat?”

  “No, that’s for you when it rips you to shreds while bathing it. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “Can you get me the campaign financial disclosure forms for Collier’s last three elections? I need both the Senator and the independents who ran against him. I could get it myself but I know Collier will slow-walk my request and you’d be faster. Besides, I don’t want him to know I’m digging into this particular element.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll have it for you in a few days. You got something?”

  “Just a hunch about a creative accounting trick. It’s a long shot, but I need to check it out.”

  Finally I come to a stop in the parking garage next to Jamison’s production studio and Bumper calms down.

  Can’t wait for the drive home. Gotta ask the vet if there are such things as kitty tranquilizers. Chauffeuring him around if he’s going to be a long-term spokes-cat will not be much fun.