For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (28 page)

Eric, as property manager for the Rawlings—the most recent owners and neglectors of my new home—had been by earlier to build some impromptu stairs, since the old ones had been torn off to ensure anyone foolish enough to try to climb them wouldn’t fall through, hurt themselves, and sue the Rawlings. Not that even the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the most ardent Avon lady had the dedication to climb those rickety steps.

Just getting to the stairs through the jungle of a front yard was difficult in the twilight. But I didn’t stop for the burrs that were clinging to the hem of my jeans as if I were dressed in Velcro. I’d waited so long. I pulled the key from my pocket—it wouldn’t go on my ring with my ordinary keys, at least not yet.

The lock turned hard. I was worried it would break the key, but finally it yielded—just another thing to have oiled. Eventually. Just like the hinges on the squeaky door that announced my arrival.

Home.

The walls seemed to squeal it. I closed my eyes—probably a good idea, because the place was truly in shambles; even my enthusiasm for the cottage couldn’t hide that fact. But I paused to breathe in the memories. Grandma Mae bustling at the old electric stove. Liv and I sitting at the table on a rainy day with a fresh box of sixty-four Crayolas between us. I could almost still smell them. We’d giggled until one of us had the hiccups and we slid from our chairs to the floor. Grandma chided us, but we could see she didn’t really mean it. The twinkle in her eye gave her away, and her shoulders shook in quiet laughter when she turned back to the stove.

The old stove was still there, and I had a sudden craving for a cup of instant coffee, only that wasn’t going to happen. Not until there was electricity. Along with water. Eric had promised to help with all of that. But not until the morning.

I lit the old lantern while I still had enough light to do so and cleared a spot in the middle of the living room floor for my sleeping bag. The air felt stale and foul, so despite the coolness of the evening, I pushed open the only window that wasn’t stuck or broken and boarded up.

So, with too much energy to sleep but too little light to do anything productive, I climbed into the sleeping bag and planned what I would do with the little cottage. I’d give the outside a new coat of white paint, and maybe an archway in the front dripping with wisteria:
Welcome, fair stranger.
Of course, it would take me weeks just to weed the old garden. Almost easier to start new. But preserving any of Grandma Mae’s plantings was well worth the extra effort.

Nick and a few others had promised to help me move in. I’d bring Chester over last, since I wouldn’t want him to run away from strange surroundings when the doors were open.

He hadn’t been out of that apartment much since I brought him home from the SPCA, except for an occasional excursion to hide under my neighbor’s truck—and the dreaded trip to the vet’s office. He’d whine the whole drive, then hop on the scale and refuse to budge. Yes, he was a bit pudgy. Maybe living in the country would be good for him—all those birds and rabbits to watch from the window.

I was still thinking about Chester, so when I heard the plaintive little meow, I thought I imagined it. Old houses have strange noises—I knew that ahead of time—but when I heard it again, I could tell this was definitely an animal sound. I scooted out of the sleeping bag and grabbed the flashlight.

The little cry sounded again, followed by what cat owners recognize instantly as the sound of claws on the screen.

I swung the flashlight beam to the open window, and there, crawling halfway up the battered screen was a tiny jet-black kitten. It mewed again.

“Where’s your mama?” I asked.

It answered me with the most pitiful series of mews, as if it were pouring out a tale of woe and sadness. My heart melted for the thing.

“I’d let you in, but you need your mother.” The kitten was so tiny and bright-eyed, but with fur matted in spots, that I doubted if it had been fully weaned. Still, I searched in my cooler for an appropriate bit of food and decided to try a smidgen of turkey salad from my sandwich. I grabbed two foam plates and a bottle of water and went outside, half expecting it to run away. But it didn’t.

I poured a bit of the water into one plate and put the turkey on another, setting both on the little temporary porch, then peeled the kitty away from the screen. I winced as the wires popped.

She trembled in my arms but didn’t fight me. I put her by the food and she sniffed it. Then a little pink tongue came out and tried the turkey. She licked it to death, leaving most of it on the plate and then sniffed at the water, but wasn’t even lapping it effectively.

“You’re not even weaned, yet, are you?”

I scanned the flashlight across the yard, looking for the reflection of eyes, hoping to find a mama cat for this little thing. Meanwhile, the kitten started weaving around my legs and purring. I picked her up and cradled her against my shoulders, and she let out a contented sigh.

“All right, kitty. If no one in the neighborhood claims you, you can stay here with me.” I mentally added buying a bottle and kitty formula to my burgeoning to-do list.

“I just hope Chester doesn’t have you for breakfast.”

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